#will certain to draw her more in the future

[avifaunaa]

i tasted ash and knew [ it was you ] [ r.v. ] [ pt. 7 ]

Authors Note: all I can say is that I’m sorry? Life gets busy and hard sometimes but you’ve all been very patient and I’m super grateful. Also — we get some of Rio’s POV in this!

Masterlist

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX | PART EIGHT

Summary: The Familiar Bond has saved your life and your mental status — but Rio knows it’s only a matter of time before the magic that comes with creating such a Bond with you starts manifesting itself. Meanwhile, in the future, Wanda Maximoff once again crashes through the perfectly curated reality Rio has attempted to keep you entrapped in.

Content Warnings: Reminder that this story is dark in nature so please remember that; otherwise here’s this chapters’ warnings: period typical fifties views, internalized homophobia [ brief, worked through ], fluff and smut, knee grinding [ r!receiving ], fingering [ r!receiving ], slight dumbification [ r!receiving ], subspace-ish, praise kink [ r!receiving ], manipulation [ Rio ], misuse of magical abilities [ Rio ], Stockholm Syndrome, Fluffy!Rio, there is some Agatha bashing HOWEVER it comes from a biased, filtered POV wherein R doesn't have Agatha's side of the events of AAA and WV, pregnancy and symptoms that come with it, Wanda planning Wanda-like-shit

Word Count: TBA

1955

A featherlight caress surrounded you as the whisper-quiet lifting of your nightshirt drifted along your skin followed by lips pressing along the skin of your spine.

You shifted on the mattress with each new sensation tugging you from pleasant sleep. The lips continued to leave carefully placed marks along your lower back and as your awareness returned, you felt a weight down on your hips.

“Hmm, I know you’re awake,” the familiar, low voice husked into your skin, teeth drawing out sensitive shivers that exposed you even more.

You breathed into the pillow as you turned your head so you could cast a look backward, opening bleary eyes to look at your lover.

Rio was a vision when she was in your shared bed like this — where neither of you had to pretend to be something else and wear skins of carefully crafted lies for society in order to live.

Here, in this moment, as the early pink and orange light spilled through the curtains and casted Rio in a bright glow, she was so unfairly ethereal.

Her hands moved down the shape of your body, placing extra attention at certain points she knew got noises she liked from you and working her lips back up your spine until you felt her warm breath against your ear and her body lay flat against your back.

“So sleepy, my Angel is,” Rio murmurs. Delicate kisses follow the statement behind the shell of your ear — a spot she found months ago when you’d explored your body with her in ways you never got to with your husband.

Sex was an activity you were starting to become more and more open about the longer you remained with Rio — who remained ever-so patient with you as you took time to process your emotions and the way she made you feel. Especially after sex occurred.

Rio had worked hard to undo the mess that you’d become in regard to sexual activity; lying down, taking it, and assuming your need for the pleasure was no longer necessary.

The guilt that engulfed you after your first time with Rio — after every time you continued to do it — started appearing less and less. After your head injury, you stopped caring all together.

Society was not ready for this tender, forbidden thing you and Rio shared. But that was fine with you — you didn’t think you could share this part of her with anyone else anyways.

Fingers danced around the curve of your ass teasingly, the featherlight touches grabbing your focus and forcefully returning it to your lover.

“Rio,” you hummed, tilting your body slightly under her. She let you readjust, her hips lifting until you were on your back. She settled back down atop you, hips notched against yours, one knee dipping into the mattress while the other found home between your lifted legs.

“Hi,” she greeted, leaning down for a kiss that you eagerly returned. “Sorry for waking you, but I simply couldn’t help myself. I needed to have you.”

The words spoken so aloud and without shame sent a rush of heat through your core. You resisted the urge to clench your legs together — her knee would block the movement, thus catching onto your arousal if she hasn’t already.

You lifted a hand to run your fingers along her left arm, which held her up with her elbow buried in the mattress close to your head.

“So soon, already?” you asked, faking disinterest. “You just had me. Last night.”

Rio’s eyes were sharp and her lips twitched at the corners; whether she picked up on the beginning of your teasing or saw your response as a challenge was unclear. Either way you were getting a reaction you sought out.

“I want you again,” she purred, leaning down to place well-aimed kisses along the hollow points of your throat. “As many times as I can before something absolutely ridiculous forces us out of this bed.”

Your eyes flutter and your hand drifts up from her arm to tangle in the strands of her dark hair, encouraging her to stay where she was.

“Mm . . .” Not a reply, but it was hard to produce anything of substance when she nibbled so sweetly and began to run a hand up and down your thigh.

“Please?” A kiss, a squeeze on your ankle as she drew it along her waist and pushes herself closer against you — into you — with nowhere left to go. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

You pretend to contemplate her request even when you knew your answer, soaking in the increasingly needy kisses along your skin, hot breath sinking into every pore and claiming you.

The smallest twitch was caught under her worship and her lips curved at the junction between your collarbone and throat.

“Please, please, please,” she continued in a husky whisper with teeth dragging along your skin. A shudder rippled through you, cracking apart your play and easily exposing your desire.

Her need for you was overwhelming and still so shocking, how she begged for you even as she claimed you like you were her most prized possession sent you into a headspace you believed didn’t exist.

A sharper nip, closer to your pulse. “Please.”

You had nothing left to play — no faking outs for teasing, no indifference. All you could give her now was your desperation.

A breathy “yes” was all she needed in the end. Your tongue was heavy and she had cleverly led you into that foggy state of arousal wherein she knew that your eventual amusement in teasing Rio would break and give way to your newfound pleasure she gave.

The pharmacist gave you one last squeeze along your ankle, eyes locked on yours. There was no smug triumph in them, nothing indicating that she won a battle. Only pure need for something only you could provide her.

You kept your leg where she had wrapped it around her waist while watching her shift above you slightly, adjusting her position and sliding her fingers down until they found you exactly as she hoped you’d be: soaking wet.

“God,” she breathed, an expression that could have been awe crossing her features. They brushed along the outside of your entrance just so slightly that your hips jerked on instinct.

You bit the inside of your cheek when your clit hit her knee, breathing in sharply and growing still. But Rio saw it: the way you reacted and the color that grew aggressively more red along your cheeks as you burned.

She watched you intently and then moved just so — digging her knee into your bundle of nerves as if seeking a reaction.

“Rio,” you whined, head dropping briefly backwards at the shudder you felt course down your spine. “Rio’mere.”

“What is it, my sweet angel?” your lover crooned, leaning down to meet you halfway. You lifted your head and scratched your fingers through her hair, tugging, asking, begging.

She allowed it. She kissed you with passion like you see in movies, but you don’t think those could ever compare to the real thing. This was . . . This was deeper than just two lovers struck in the throes of emotion.

What this was — it was deeply more human than movies could ever hope to replicate especially with the way Rio claimed how taboo romance in society was.

Or illegal, in your case. You weren’t sure you’d ever see romance like yours and Rio’s in the theater. It was something you barely understood until Rio — you doubted the rest of the world would understand unless they were in your place.

“Ngh—“ an unintentional yelp rose from you as Rio started rocking her knee against you deeper, breaking the kiss and leaving the both of you breathing heavily against one another.

Her gaze on you was demanding and fierce as her hand, barely slick from where she touched you, danced upward from your pussy and brushed along your cheekbones.

“Am I somewhere sensitive?” Rio asked in a way that both irritated and aroused you. She had her knee pressed to your cunt, grinding it into you with achingly intentional precision.

You tried to say something, attempted to respond, but then her knee moved upward and jabbed with just slightly more pressure indicated that she seemed to exactly know what would empty your brain.

Garbled nonsense is your articulated reply to her, trying to keep your eyes from closing and losing yourself to the sensations she was drowning you in.

Rio’s gaze darkened to something a touch more predatory, and then her fingers were back against your wet pussy again.

“You’re so pretty like this,” your lover murmured, mostly to herself. She paused her grinding and kept her knee firmly still on your clit as she moved above you, adjusting.

“So mindless, so open.” You hear her and the words land — but as quickly as they do, they take off again. They’re lost in the haze you’ve sunken into.

In that time, the straps of your night shift fell down your shoulders and hung limply on your arms. The shift threatened to fall further and expose your breasts but you did not try to fix it.

Instead you curled your fingers deeper into Rio’s scalp and tried to pull her closer. You needed her contact, her touch, the burning sensation she left along your skin.

“Fuck — I wish I could just — photograph this for a frame on the wall,” the raven-haired woman hissed, leaning down again and nuzzling into your neck.

You squeaked when she brushed against your hardened nipples — too sensitive with the shift covering them and bordering on painful. Thankfully, she left those alone for now and increased her grinding.

“Do you want me inside, Angel? Want to cum all over my fingers while you ride my knee?” She worded it as though it were a question, but whether or not you answered you knew it was happening.

The intensity of your pleasure would be astronomical once she got her fingers inside of you. You would be undone in a matter of minutes and perfectly put back together and locked up with a key only Rio had to your entire state of being.

“Pl-please,” you managed when she didn’t insert them. “Rio, please. Need them.”

Rio grinned in such a way that you could not help but believe that she looked like a piece of art come to life just for you alone. It was a selfish thought, but it was a thought you indulged nonetheless.

“Good girl.” Those words were -- in and of themselves -- a permission of their own as you reeled into her body. Your lover crooned above you as she felt her fingers squeezing her, ironclad, and making it difficult to thrust. That did not mean she was a woman who gave up. Not one bit. Her eyes grazed along your body and she could not believe you were all hers.

Her lips curled around one of your nipples as her pace increased, letting out a guttural noise when her fingertips brushed along the spongy wall inside of you.

You felt it when she did, of course you did, and a sharp shudder rippled through you underneath Rio. Her knee shifted, she lifted her hand just so --

You locked up underneath the woman, a wail cutting off before it truly had a chance to escape you as her effort finally was rewarded in full. The orgasm that rushed over you fed Rio life in the world wherein all she knew was death.

She pulled off of your breast, adding teeth very lightly to draw out the pleasure, and smashed her lips against yours. She needed to be against you, inside of you more than she already was. She needed you so deeply and so animalistically that her ears rang.

The only thing that mattered right now was this moment and what she could give you.

But eventually you started sliding down the slope that she led you upward to -- your body relaxing and loosening beneath her and the grip your walls had on her fingers going with it.

Your movements and hers both slowed until all that was left was heavy breathing and sticky skin and emotions that Rio felt so strongly that she could no longer deny was from the Bond she had created and used upon you.

Her nose brushed across your cheekbone as your chest and hers came to lay upon one another in the aftermath. She had yet to remove her fingers and you did not ask her to remove them like you usually did after lovemaking.

You usually took some time to recover after sex but this was something else. You were overwhelmed but you couldn't place the exact cause in order to address it.

The best way you could describe it was a buzzing, full feeling that weighed your veins down and somehow made you feel like your blood was thicker than it should be inside of your body.

"Are you . . ." Rio broke the silence, causing you to open your heavy eyes to peer up at her. She paused, gaze shuttering in a way you're unfamiliar with.

"Am I what?" you whisper back, adjusting your body slightly. Her fingers scraped inside of you and both of you stopped. Stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped existing. Like it would spark a fire of a nature that could not be doused.

"Never mind," she snarled, suddenly encasing you in another hard kiss as she once more started up, throwing you back deep into oblivion of pleasure.

2025

You kneeled along the sidewalk that led to your front door, sifting through mulch and soil as you planted hydrangeas into the ground from their pot.

Tommy was laying in the grassy expanse under the large oak tree, ever the watchful companion even in an upper-class neighborhood where your biggest concern was nosy neighbors.

All to familiar. Some things would never change over the years.

Rio had been on edge, however, believing that there was a constant danger hovering just above your head. The source was one Wanda Maximoff -- the Scarlet Witch, the downfall of RIo's ex-girlfriend.

You sort of think you really like Wanda just for that alone. As you had come to know Rio, so did you realize who Agatha was and the way she had used Rio.

Wanda Maximoff had brought Rio's greatest regret to her knees and still Rio returned to save her, revive her power. And Agatha throws it back in her face again.

So when you notice Tommy's long legs moving and standing to block your body with his, head low and eyes staring hard and unblinking, you look up and aren't disappointed to find the witch crossing the street toward you.

"Wanda," you greet first, sitting up and dusting your gloves off over the flowerbed without getting up from where you sat on your knees. "Hey."

She stopped just at the edge of your property line and returned the greeting with a surprised smile, "Hello. I remember you from a few weeks ago — you're Rio's . . . wife?"

She was insinuating an entirely different meaning with her carefully worded inquiry, approaching the topic cautiously as though she expected it to summon Rio from the shadows.

"It’s okay to call me her Familiar,” you replied, more of a confirmation to the underlying, unasked question than what she had worded verbally.

You noticed the slightest of head tilts and your lips quirked. You realized very quickly that unlike Rio, Wanda was more expressive. She showed her reactions in just a few moments of interaction.

It was refreshing in a sense, even after so many years of knowing Rio’s little tells that helped you figure out what she was trying to tell you or what she was feeling.

“You’re not married?” the redhead wondered.

You stuck the garden towel head first into the dirt, deciding that you could use a break from the gardening anyways. “No, not in the legal sense. Rio and I never really . . . got there?”

The shrug of your shoulders had her brows furrowing.

“Why not?”

A pause because you did have to think about it. Why.

You could give this woman who you barely knew a lie, a watered down answer, something to please her but the little magic you obtained from Rio through the Bond didn’t thrum like it does when there’s a threat.

“I met Rio a long time ago,” you finally say, disrupting the birdsong and breeze that had started up in your silence. “A long time ago meant that people like Rio and I were persecuted, but not for witchcraft.”

Green eyes met yours and what you saw was a pain that echoed inside of you, familiar and old and deep. A pain you had buried with no headstone so that it couldn’t be identified ever again.

The witch wasn’t using magic on you or Rio would be back and on her like a bat out of hell. This was your own doing, your own resurfacing and she was identifying with it in her own way.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda replied. She didn’t ask you to delve deeper or reopen the wound for her. “I know what . . . What persecution is like.”

“Do you?”

It hadn’t meant to be accusatory, but you couldn’t help your sharp tongue and the clench of your jaw. Tommy reacted to your tone and growled low at Wanda — his one and only warning.

“Before Thanos,” Wanda started, nearly choking on the beginning of her sentence, “some of the Avengers were on the run. I’m sure you saw some of that on the news.”

“A little.” You kept a glance between her and Tommy, who was still staring hard.

Wanda brought a ringed hand up to her mouth and brushed a knuckle against her lips, completely ignoring your canine protector and gaze going distant.

“I was among those on the run — and . . . He came with me. Ran with me, for me. Vision,” she trailed off and the name in which she spoke was barely whispered into the air, drowned out in grief, “He and I were . . . So in love that I think I could’ve been content to stay on the run and settle somewhere deep in the country and never be found. Marry him.”

A breath slowly shifted out of your lungs and you made slow work to peel off your gloves, sprinkling dirt into your lap.

You worked to, at the same time, wrangle your emotions into a controlled environment as Wanda spoke so freely to you. The Scarlet Witch was telling you her life story and you couldn’t ascertain if there was an underlying motive, which made you nervous and if you felt it too strongly, Rio would come storming through.

You flexed your fingers, pretending to stretch them out after removing your gloves. You tested the energy in the air but your magic remained sleepy inside of your veins, unbothered.

Wanda hadn’t even so much as activated her magic since being over here. You would have felt the remnants — a gift thanks to your Familiar Bond.

Your eyes returned to find green engulfing you, no longer as readable as they were before. For a moment the two of you simply stared at each other. Then:

"Why didn't you? Run away with him, get married, be lost?"

You felt it was a fair question — she had asked you something personal and you had answered honestly.

A gleam in her eyes lit for only the briefest of moments, then disappeared again. She looked away entirely as though to hide in plain sight.

"I could give you the multiple excuses I’ve been telling myself all these years,” she said bitterness heavy in her throat, “We weren’t ready. We never had time between hopping from safehouse to safehouse. We were young and stupid.” Her lips grazed one of the rings on her finger as a sour smile tilted her lips, “But I’ll give you the truth. I was a coward and so was he. We lived in such a suffocating fear that any attempt at happiness would be our undoing.”

You were quiet and watchful in her presence, letting her know you were listening. But you also did not know what to say to her. That you resonated with her? Because sure — in a way, you did. But while it was similar in how it made you live life, made you exist in a lonely pocket . . . The persecutions themselves were entirely different and made your experience unique from Wanda’s.

She didn’t seem to notice your internal battle, her eyes gazing off down the street to some neighborhood kids chasing each other down the sides of two houses. She lowered her hand, twisting one ring aggressively before tucking the hand into the pocket of her jeans.

“I was a coward,” she eventually managed to get out, strained, “and because of that, it led me to do things I regret. It introduced me to the Scarlet Witch, and now I have to learn how to live with her in my head and try to come to terms with the damage I’ve done and the consequences I can’t escape.”

And for some unknown reason, what she said to you somehow safeguarded a sense of trust that was difficult to place. You swallowed and your throat was dryer than sand paper, and you wanted to cool down.

Wanda Maximoff needed a friend, and maybe some lemonade.

You gripped your loves and breathed out, "Tommy, down."

Wanda's eyes flashed toward the dog as he returned to your side in a snap, body flopping down and his attention no longer targeted on Wanda.

"The cowardice you speak of is not concept that is unique to you," you told her as you started to get to your feet with some struggle and gesturing to your home, "In traumatic events, I found that we do what we need to do to survive and . . ."

You trailed off as Wanda approached, following you and Tommy toward the door. You let out a breath, ". . . and sometimes when those traumatic events affect us so greatly and yet those around us seem to not notice it, and we go without what we need to manage it, our mind does what it can to fix itself. Even if that means making mistakes we wish we could take back."

You held the door open for the redhead to come in, an invitation to your space that Rio had denied her previously. She entered and waited for you to shut the door, taking in the surroundings with undisguised interest.

Her eyes then returned to you and narrowed just so.

"I don't think what you did at Westview makes you a villain, Wanda," you told her — for if anyone could help define a villain, why not you? Why not you after Rio? — "I think it was a response to everything that’s happened to you, and it was your way of coping with it when nobody else seemed to see or hear your pain."

Wanda’s lips thinned, her face expressing in a way that reminded you of someone who’d been punched at close-range. Still, she didn’t refute your claim.

Instead she decided to keep following you into the kitchen; where you were going to make some lemonade and sit down with a lonely woman who had lost everything twice over and was alone in a world that despised her.

She was Rio's mirror in an a heartachingly broken way that drew you to her, to befriend her. Rio refused to discuss Wanda but if she could sit down with the redhead she would understand what you saw:

Two sides of the same coin, dealt hands so terrible that their choices led them into destroying what it means to live in reality and what feeling the pain that came with it.

Rio noticed the flowerbed half done when she appeared on the end of the property. The darkened sky gave way to the yard lights that neatly decorated the sidewalk up to the front porch and drive way.

Her hands tucked themselves away within her pockets, her suspenders, neatly dry-cleaned dress-shirt, and slacks mostly for show.

To their neighbors and other mortals they entertained in their domestic life, she was a forensic pathologist — newest career disguise and a long shot from the pharmacist she used to mask herself as.

Rio had juggled multiple different ideas for what to play her career as this go round; she had done pharmaceuticals and a detective, both of which were ironically connected to her true line of work.

If reaping souls and taking them to the afterlife could be considered work when thats what one was created for.

Rio was borne with a singular purpose and the older she got, the more curious — or rebellious, perhaps — she got about what she could do that she wasn’t made to do.

Either way it gave her a sense of humanity in the sort of similar to when she first met you and had the urge to play pretend.

Despite your current knowledge on who she is — what she is — it still allows Rio to feel normal.

As if Death could ever be anything than what It truly was at Its’ very barest bones. Rio couldn’t truly lie about herself or her nature, but she gave herself this small piece of something that was hers.

The deity paused, still as can be, inside of the entryway when laughter that didn’t belong to you was heard from where she was, door still ajar and handle wrapped around her fingers.

If she had a heart, the racing would have eased upon hearing your laughter follow soon after followed by you saying something that caused a discussion to break out between you and whoever was in the home.

Rio swallowed hard as she shut the door, as silent as Death, makes her way down the hallway of the home that she had so meticulously prepared and curated for you and your comfort.

What greeted her sent a course of fear and rage mixed together through her entire being, coiling together like two angry vipers pledged to strike at the same time.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the handcrafted archway, eyes locked onto the way you bit into a store-bought peanut butter cookie while Wanda Fucking Maximoff leaned against the island diagonal to you, grinning.

“Nearly burned the house down,” you said, covering your mouth so as not to laugh and spit crumbs everywhere. Your cheeks were flushed. “I’m terrible at baking. I can cook everything else, but Gods — ask me to do something with baked goods and I just can’t.”

Wanda’s laugh was genuine enough that the fear leaked out of Rio, instead replacing it with a jealousy that the rage fueled tenfold as she tapped her fingertips across her elbow as the scene played out.

Your eyes glanced to the side, as though sensing Rio, and you only froze for a moment before you grinned. “Hi, Rio. How was work?”

“Mm, busy.” Rio’s dark eyes searched yours, looking for any sign that you were distressed. She took a handle of the Bond between you and tugged it, demanding a response.

You pushed off the counter and move her direction. She wraps her arms around your slightly-protruding waist as she engulfs you, nosing into your hair. You still smelled earthy and like soil, with some of that peanut butter like touch from the cookies you’d been snacking on.

“Having fun?” Are you okay? is what was really asked.

You pulled back from her protective embrace just enough to look up at her, smiling so sweetly that she hoped to wonder if it was all genuine.

“Yeah,” you murmured, leaning up on your feet just to kiss her cheek, lips soft and warm against her cold skin. A brush of life against hard Death. “Wanda and I got to talking — I invited her in for a lemonade and time escaped us.”

Rio carded one hand through your hair, humming as you spoke and keeping one arm around your waist still. “I’m glad you had a good day, Angel. And that Wanda is being a good friend.”

You bit your lip in a recognizable way — the way that told Rio you were holding something back. Perhaps until Wanda left.

Your magic was steady, stable, undisturbed. It eased some of her concerns but her eyes still rose away from you to Maximoff.

Wanda held her half-empty glass to her lips, elbows leaning along the countertops and eyes following Rio and you like she was trying to decrypt an ancient, unreadable text.

Reader, Rio, and Wanda will return in Part Eight

PART EIGHT

Tag List: @dandelions4us , @flow33didontsmoke , @girlsgotissues , @crescentcrush , @6stolenangel9 , -- if I forgot anyone, please let me know!

[lullamiine]

Ramshackle dorm got a new member‼️‼️‼️

Bonus:

[kinokoshoujoart]

oops all rock (springtime edition)

i’ll be able to draw digitally again soon! ;w; in the meantime i’ve been scribbling a lot on paper…

could not wait for Soon, so i resorted to coloring it using the markup tool in default iphone photos app (don’t do that ever again)

[katfreaks-hidyhole]

Busted out Pokemon X again recently and got the urge to draw her and the crew again

[highdramas]

ok but first or second year resident flirting with jack’s wife knowingly or unknowingly that she’s jack’s wife and jack is losing it over the whole thing and keeps giving the newbie death stares from across the room whenever the newbie is near is wife and dana sees this all go down from the nurses station and just prepares for jack to go ape if the newbie crosses a line

rookie mistake | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!attending!wife!reader

warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), jack defends you because you are his lovely wife <3

word count: 1.8k

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. ANON THANK YOUUUU FOR THIS REQUEST <3 i adored this one <3 this is a continuation of ring of fire set in the future, but it's not necessary to read to understand this fic. if you would like to, though, you can find that here <3 not proofread so apologies for any errors!

on monday, you resign yourself to cut the newbie some slack. i mean, alex doesn't know, and if he did, you're almost certain that he would knock that shit off immediately. but... there's a small part of you that finds it a little bit amusing. and maybe you should be good and hold your hand up and say the words that would make any wise man run far, far away: "sorry, kid. you know your attending? yeah, that's my husband."

but that would just be too easy.

tuesday, you're ultimately surprised by the gumption that he has to continue to flirt with you. he says your name like he's purring it, and you can't help but scrunch your nose up slightly, looking up at the board to see where your skills are most needed. the amusement has mostly dissipated, being followed by a certain brand of annoyance that only a twenty five year old boy can draw out of you.

you roll your head to look at your forty nine year old man, coming out of the trauma that had come in thirty minutes ago, only to find that his gaze is already on you. his cheeks are slightly red, hands on his hips, eyebrows screwed up in that way that indicate to you that he's weighing his options about what the best course of action is, here. you wave at him with your fingers, and the new resident, alex, follows your gaze. he gives a big toothy grin to your attending and it takes everything within you to keep your face as neutral as possible. "man, abbot's a cool fuckin' dude," he says under his breath with a truly earnest reverence, and it almost makes you feel bad. almost.

"he's the best of us," you say, and it's entirely truthful. you can tell that jack is still cued in on your conversation. you slide your glance back over to him and wink before you look back to alex.

"yeah." he doesn't take a beat to look back at you with that unbridled hunger that he had been throwing your way through both of the shifts you'd worked together. "so. what're you doing after all of this?"

with raised eyebrows, you shrug your shoulders. "i have an idea or two." he looks just a hair too excited, and your face drops. "not like that. you know, if you want to be a doctor, you do need to actually have an attention for detail." you raise your left hand, revealing the gold band that you wear when you're working. “less flirting. more charting. go.”

when you look over at abbot with a slight exasperation, he just raises one eyebrow at you, and offers a tentative thumbs up– almost a question.

you give him a thumbs up back.

–

the next day, alex was going around to every person that you both worked with, attempting to get intel on you, and your love life.

dana scoffs when she hears the words come out of his mouth. “i mean, he can’t be all that. there’s no way he’s better than me. i was a diver at duke! i had a full ride!” the words are said with such true arrogance that even dana has to laugh.

“oh, kid, if only you knew.” she claps him on the shoulder and points her finger at him. “i’m only gonna tell you this once, alright– after that, you’re on your own. and don’t say i didn’t warn you.” she looks at him down the bridge of his nose– a remarkable feat, considering alex is nearing 6’1. “you don’t want to try your luck. you feel me?”

“but–”

“ah– what did i just say? you don’t want to try your luck. believe me.” she claps that same shoulder again. “and if you do, i knew nothing, and had nothing to do with it.”

you lean against the counter, very obviously eavesdropping, not like you really care– when abbot slides up beside you. he looks over his shoulder at alex, who is, of course, already looking at you. when he meets abbot’s gaze, his eyes go wide and he turns right around, going back to north-11 to finish up with the norovirus patient that jack had put him on. following jack’s line of sight, you can’t help but smirk as you watch alex take in a big gulp of air, slap a mask on, and step into what you’re sure is a hell made entirely of shit and vomit.

“you know,” you say lowly, your elbow brushing jack’s. “that is just mean.”

“all interns get a noro case when they come in,” he says seamlessly, looking between the board and the patient notes that he’s trying to wrap up. “it’s textbook.”

“his first day was three days ago. you usually give it at least a couple of weeks before you start sticking them on noro or food poisoning.”

“not all interns flirt with my wife, relentlessly, in front of me.” jack puts his undivided attention on you.

“oh my god.” you’re smirking. you’re smirking, wide, at your computer. when you look over at jack, you say, “you’re not seriously jealous of the kid?”

“it’s about respect.”

“i don’t think he’s even picked up on us yet. which is hilarious, in and of itself.” you finish up with your chart and put a hand on your hip. “no one’s telling him.”

“he keeps this shit up, he’ll be hearing it from me.”

you hum and pat your hand on his chest. he catches it, his thumb rubbing at the ring you wear. “you’re sexy when you’re jealous,” you say under your breath, close enough to him that you can get away with a little workplace flirting.

“i’m not jealous.”

–

he is jealous.

he’s jealous when he watches this kid– yeah, you may only be five years older than him, but he doesn’t linger on that fact too long– blatantly flirt with you. he gets jealous when alex leans in slightly towards you during shift, just a little too close than is friendly while you review patient notes and ongoing care. but then, he watches you do your little semi-awkward shuffle to the left, and he can’t even help his smirk. and then you look over your shoulder, make this face that says, can you believe this guy? and suddenly, it’s not that he’s jealous. it’s just that he loves you.

but then, on that thursday, alex touches you.

at first, you don’t even notice what he’s done. a little piece of hair has fallen into your eyes out of the tortoiseshell clip that you love so much– the one that jack picked up for you at a cvs because he knows how much you love tortoiseshell. and it’s so faint that you barely even register it. but it doesn’t matter. because you may not have realize, but jack certainly has.

alex’s hand hasn’t even dropped from where he’s tucking that loose piece of hair behind your ear when jack surges up, dana hot on his heels. “woah, woah, woah, let’s all cool it–” dana starts, but it’s no use.

jack puts a firm hand on alex’s shoulder, squeezing tighter than necessary. certainly firm enough to drive home his point. “hey, buddy,” jack says lowly, just enough so that alex can hear him loud and clear, without causing a scene that draws the attention of the entire emergency department. he has that sort of simmering intensity that always makes something swirl in your belly. “look, i’ve tried to be cool, man. i really have. but i’m only going to tell you this one time before i pull in a favor with gloria so that you complete your residency somewhere else. keep those grubby fucking hands off of my wife.”

mortification is an understatement for what you assume alex must be feeling. his face is beet red, eyes darting between you and abbot so fast you’d want to get him in for a head CT if he kept it up any longer. “i– holy shit– i did not know.”

“i know you didn’t,” jack says with a resolute nod. “but now you do. so keep your hands to yourself and we won’t have a problem.” he pats alex’s back once, and you cover your mouth with one hand and peer over at dana with wide eyes. she, can only shrug, roll her eyes, put her readers back on, and turn back to the charge desk. “go get a sandwich from the bin and take ten minutes. go.” 

alex looks at you and you feel bad, almost. you smile at him and say, “next time, if a woman says she’s not interested… take it at face value, before jack abbot has to get involved.”

“yes, ma’am. it will not happen again.” alex gives one last nod to jack, like a nervous teenage boy, before he’s off running towards the staff lounge with his tail between his legs.

jack rubs a hand over his face. you bite down on your lip, look at him, and you start to chuckle. soon, jack’s laugh begins to mix with yours, coalescing until you’re leaning against the charge desk with tears clouding your vision, his dimples fully out and on display.

“man,” he says, shaking his head. “i feel a little bad.” he says, his laughter still holding him by the sleeve, begging to tug him back under.

“you should be. you’re scary,” you say while his thumb catches one of the stray tears on your cheek.

he snorts. “i’m about as scary as a kitten.”

“i dunno. i think our friend would beg to differ.” you lean into him and squeeze his arm before you force yourself to pull away– you like to exude some semblance of professionalism at work. even if the thing you want to do is drag your husband to the on-call room and ravage him for defending your honor.

“yeah, well. guess i reserve it for special circumstances.” he crosses his broad arms over his chest and looks you, up and down. they land on your face and soften. “i love you, kid.” the way he calls you kid, versus alex, makes your chest squeeze. an old habit from your residency, a reminder of where you were and how far you've come now.

the fondness that you feel for him never gets smaller. the longer you've been with him, from that time where you were his resident, smoking weed on his living room floor and wondering if there was a world where this could all work... the thing that always remained true and steady was how much you liked jack. right down to his bones, you liked him.

how can you capture that all in a sentence?

you don't know. but you settle on, "i love you," emphasis on the most important word there is.

[deception-united]

Let's talk about misdirection.

(Requested by @voiceless9000. Hope this is helpful!)

Misdirection in storytelling, through foreshadowing and other techniques, is a powerful tool that can enhance suspense, surprise, and engagement in your narrative and make plot twists more unexpected.

Remember to maintain coherence and avoid contrivances that may undermine the integrity of your storytelling.

Here are some techniques you can use to effectively misdirect readers:

Red herrings: Introduce elements or clues that suggest a certain outcome or plot direction, only to later reveal that they were misleading. These false leads can divert readers' attention away from the true resolution.

Selective detailing: Highlight certain details or events in a way that implies their significance, while downplaying or omitting others that might be more relevant to the actual outcome. By controlling what information readers focus on, you can steer their expectations.

Character misdirection: Use characterisation to mislead readers about characters' true intentions, motivations, or identities. Create multi-dimensional characters who may behave ambiguously or inconsistently, leaving readers unsure of their true allegiances, motivations, or goals.

Foreshadowing: Employ foreshadowing to hint at future events or outcomes, but do so in a way that misleads interpretation. Provide clues that could be interpreted in multiple ways or that lead readers to expect one outcome while delivering another. (See my previous post about foreshadowing for more!)

Misleading narration: Utilise an unreliable narrator or perspective to present events in a biased or distorted manner. Readers may trust the narrator's account implicitly, only to discover later that their perceptions were flawed or intentionally deceptive.

Subverting tropes: Set up situations or scenarios that seem to follow familiar narrative tropes or conventions, only to subvert them in unexpected ways. This can keep readers guessing and prevent them from accurately predicting the story's trajectory.

Parallel storylines: Introduce secondary storylines or subplots that appear unrelated to the main narrative but eventually intersect or influence the primary plot in unexpected ways. This can distract readers from anticipating the main storyline's developments.

Setting: Manipulate the setting or environment to create false impressions about the direction of the plot. For example, presenting a seemingly idyllic setting that harbors dark secrets or dangers.

Timing and pacing: Control the pacing of your story to strategically reveal information or developments at opportune moments, leading readers to draw premature conclusions or overlook important details. (See my post on pacing for more tips!)

Twists and reversals: Incorporate sudden plot twists or reversals that upend readers' expectations and challenge their assumptions about the story's direction. Ensure that these twists are logically consistent but sufficiently surprising to catch readers off guard.

Happy writing!

Previous | Next

[lavottino]

Self-indulgent but mandatory "What if the strawhats were Italian" because it has been plaguing my mind for months.

I'm putting some context (and also some headcanons) for each drawing under the cut for anyone interested in better understanding what is going on, so expect a lot of yapping 😭

I think I will draw more Italian strawhats shenanigans in the future (I'm sorry for sidelining you like that Jinbe...), we'll see...

1. Italy is divided into 20 regions, and I associated the 10 strawhats to 10 of those regions. The regions I chose have been mainly picked on instinct based on whatever felt right to me, so I wouldn't look too hard into it 😭

2. Tortellini are a type of stuffed pasta specifically from the Emilia-Romagna region (where I see Robin coming from) and even more specifically from the Bologna and Modena provinces; while fiorentina is typically from Florence (Tuscany) and Luffy would eat at least 10 of them a day if he could

3. Alberto Angela is a paleontologist and history and science communicator, and he runs some TV programs that mainly focus on history and science. He's well-spoken, he's educated, developing a little crush for him is basically a canon event, he's the IT Italian man if you ask me. Robin is watching Ulisse - Il piacere della scoperta, which is also the TV program that introduced me to him when I was like 9 😌

4. Table football is quite common in Italy (all my life I've called it biliardino, but apparently its name is calciobalilla? whatever 😭). I don't really have a lot to say about this one, actually. I just think that a Zoro and Sanji team up would be unmatched (just like in animanga). Like 10-1 (AT BEST) kind of unmatched. If they receive a goal (which was definitely a fluke) they're going to mercilessly trash talk each other into scoring the most diabolically aggressive goal ever witnessed in the history of mankind (Chopper is scared of them) (Luffy thinks it's kinda funny) (Nami decided they won't play at the same time until they learn to chill out).

5. Paolo Fox is a famous astrologer in Italy and basically there used to be this Sunday TV program (Mezzogiorno in famiglia, they discontinued it some years ago but it's the show that Nami and Zoro are watching), where he was called in every week as a guest to rank the signs from 12th to 1st based on the luck, love, money etc. they were going to get during the following week. And whether you believed in astrology or not, you were still going to eat that shit up regardless because you just wanted to know where your sign was going to be placed.

6. Easter eggs in Italy are this big chocolate egg that contains a "surprise", which can be toys or various trinkets (bracelets, keychains, that kind of stuff). When Easter is coming, the supermarkets have full aisles of Easter eggs because there are multiple brands and multiple themes (for example, the ones specifically targeted towards children could be One Piece/Pokemon/Winx etc. themed, containing a surprise that is related to them). I like to think that Chopper would be so excited about the chocolate that he would eat it all without even looking at the surprise 😭 (it's lying somewhere on the ground, a forgotten soldier amidst the raging battle)

7. Neapolitan songs can go pretty hard when you don't have someone in your ear telling you how corny and cringe they are. Franky has a whole arsenal. If during a conversation he hears a word that reminds him of one of his songs, he will start singing it. Brook joins him whenever he hears him, and if he doesn't know the actual words to the song, he will still string together some notes with his guitar. Luffy and Usopp will join at a certain point, while the other strawhats enjoy the little show. If Franky is singing and Robin appears in his line of sight, he will switch to a romantic song and start serenading her. When this happens, Sanji joins too (not because he's trying to woo Robin, but because he will never miss a chance to serenade a woman 😌).

8. I just know Brook has en entire repertoire of love songs that he sings whenever Zoro and Sanji are fighting. In this case he is singing "Bello e impossibile" by Gianna Nannini, whose chorus goes something like "handsome, handsome and impossibile, with black eyes and your Middle Eastern taste" and then again "handsome, handsome and invincible, with black eyes and a kissable mouth/a mouth to be kissed" (it sounds more poetic in Italian I'm sorry 😭). They get mad and flustered every time. It doesn't matter if they are still dancing around each other or are already together. Brook has the time of his life.

[kamiraaah]

TWST PARENTS! Trappola, Hunt and Ashengrotto!!

⚠️⚠️First of all, I must warn you that these designs may change in the future, either because the game presented us with the official designs, or just because I really wanted to change... Or I could reuse these designs for these characters!⚠️⚠️ Given that warning...

Guys, gals, and non-binary pals. I present to you, the Trappola, Hunt, and Ashengrotto families!

The Trappolas it's a very common family, compared to others. Of course, Ace Trappola and his brother get into a lot of trouble and face their mother's anger very often... But hey! It's good that they have their father to calm things down when things escalate, right? It may not seem like it, but Mrs. Trappola in her youth was just like Ace, always getting into trouble and facing authorities without thinking twice… Which led to many fights with Ace's grandmother. Mr. Trappola, on the other hand, rarely started fights, at least physical ones. Since he has a sharp tongue, always with some offense or something to irritate the other person. Both Ace and his brother inherited these traits from their parents… Although the older one is a little more responsible and is sometimes the one who talks sense into Ace's head. Ace and his brother have always been close, even though they fight or torment each other, they both have great respect for each other, even now that they don't see each other as much…

The Hunt family is a mystery to many.

The members of this family are… Lively, for lack of a better description, and Rook is the best known among them, and yet he is a guy who hides many secrets.

Although they are unknown, they are apparently a family with a certain wealth, many stories surround their members about how the Hunts managed to get so much money and influence in Twisted Wonderland...

But of course none that came close to the truth.I still wonder what kind of people they are.

Mama, Papa and Grandma Ashengrotto! A very loving family that loves young Azul more than he can imagine. Miss Ashengrotto goes to great lengths to demonstrate her love for her son, even though she is a busy woman, always does everything possible and impossible to be present in her son's life. She is a great friend of the Leech family, and always gets in touch to talk or update each other on how the children are doing. Mr. Ashengrotto, Azul's stepfather, is a kind man who has great respect for his wife. At the beginning of his relationship with his current wife, he was afraid that it would end up affecting the relationship between mother and son… The last thing he wanted was to make the young man hate him, but time passed and Azul and him ended up getting very close ( and catching his stepfather off guard when he called him "papa"… who ended up crying with happiness). Unfortunately, he carries the guilt of not having noticed the bullying that Azul went through in his childhood, and whenever he can (or when Azul allows him) he helps him with whatever he can… Always trying to talk and advise the youngest. Grandmother Ashengrotto, like her daughter, is a kind but strict woman. Always wanting the best for her grandson and being one of his biggest supporters in any projects her grandson starts. Always demands that he visits her more often... And preferably with friends! She wants to make sure her precious grandson is being well taken care of!!

AND MORE FAMILIES DONE!! And I'm still going to draw pictures of other members of the TWST families, so please bear with me a little… I'm going as fast as I can!🫠

I'm not 100% satisfied with their designs... They have a big chance of being changed, but I hope you like them! 😚

[downbad4sylus]

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

synopsis: You and Sylus visit a coffee shop and unexpectedly run into Doctor Zayne.

content: sylus x afab!reader; reader is MC; use of Y/N; pre-relationship; zayne cameo; just, so much fluff; mostly proofread

word count: ~2k

a/n: see guys, i’m capable of writing not-angst. also can you tell i have a headcanon about them holding hands while linked or what lol. anyway, i love exploring the dynamics of sylus with the other LIs, i have another one brewing ft. our resident doctor (NOT ANGST) and i’ll probably do some with the others in the future. if anyone has anything they want me try and write for them, please feel free to ask, im happy to do so :)

Dragging Sylus out in Linkon City during the day was never easy, but when a certain energy linkage was keeping you locked to each other’s sides and you just had to have your morning coffee, Sylus was a bit more agreeable.

So there you both stood, waiting in line to order. You’d developed a bit of a habit of holding hands as you’d long since grown used to the linkage binding your wrists. Sylus’s hand dwarfed yours, something that took time to get accustomed to, but now the feeling of his fingers laced with yours was a comfort, and admittedly something you often craved without the linkage.

“Will you let me pay for you this time?” you asked Sylus, peering up at him.

He breathed a low chuckle. “Don’t think so, sweetie,” he replied.

“You never let me pay for anything,” you grumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

You tugged Sylus along as you stepped up to the cashier. After placing both your orders (and begrudgingly allowing Sylus to pay), you waited off to the side for your names to be called.

“I’d like to go for a walk after this, if that’s okay,” you said to Sylus. It was overcast today, weather Sylus was more comfortable to be in during the day, you’d noticed.

“That’s fine,” Sylus said. “Where would you like to go?”

You beamed at him. “Actually, there’s a park not far from here, and since the leaves are starting to turn the scenery should be perfect for a—”

“Y/N?”

You whirled around at the sound of your name, spoken by an all too familiar voice.

“Zayne?”

Sure enough, there was your primary care physician, standing with his brow slightly furrowed and his gaze locked on yours and Sylus’s intertwined hands.

“I wasn’t expecting to run into you here,” you commented, drawing his attention from your hand to your eyes.

“This coffee shop isn’t far from the hospital, I stop here in the mornings quite often,” Zayne said. His hazel eyes flicked to Sylus. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Oh!” you exclaimed. “Right, Doctor Zayne this is Sy—uh, Skye, he’s…” you trailed off, panic seizing your mind as you fumbled for any explanation as to why you were here with Sylus, holding his hand, that wasn’t the actual truth.

“Her boyfriend,” Sylus lied smoothly, sticking out his unoccupied hand at Zayne. “It’s nice to finally meet you, doctor, Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

You missed the nearly imperceptible flare of Zayne’s eyes at Sylus’s answer, too busy short circuiting over the fact that Sylus had just introduced himself as your boyfriend. When had you gone from “besties” to “boyfriend?”

“Nice to meet you too,” Zayne said politely, shaking Sylus’s hand. “Y/N, you never told me you were seeing someone.”

Sylus laughed. “We only just became official.”

You finally managed to regain your composure. “Right, and I haven’t been by for an appointment since then, otherwise I would’ve told you,” you said, bolstering the lie.

Zayne nodded, as if satisfied by your answers. “Well, then I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Oh, Zayne please, that’s not necessary,” you insisted. A barista called for your orders, which Sylus grabbed and handed to you before taking his own. “Zayne, why don’t you come sit with us? Unless you have important doctor business to take care of.”

Zayne’s lips tilted ever so slightly at your teasing remark. “Sure, I have some time before I have to get back.”

Once Zayne received his coffee, the three of you found an unoccupied table and sat, with you and Sylus on one side, hands still clasped, and Zayne on the other.

“So, how long have you two been seeing each other?” Zayne asked with clinical precision, his stare just as sharp.

“Quite a few months now,” Sylus said. His bright red eyes focused on you. “Y/N practically fell on my doorstep, and I guess you could say the rest is history.”

You snorted, though your cheeks were as red as Sylus’s eyes. “That’s one way to describe it,” you muttered.

“What, sweetie? Would you explain it differently?” Sylus asked, raising a brow.

You shook your head. “No, yours was fine,” you quipped.

“How kind,” Sylus drawled.

You glanced at Zayne and found him watching the two of you with his head tilted. Mirth danced in his hazel eyes, as if observing the “happy couple” was amusing.

“How’s work been, Doctor Zayne?” you asked.

“Fine, the usual,” he answered. “And you? Any injuries you haven’t told me about either?”

“No,” you said firmly. “I’ve been very careful.”

Zayne’s lips curled. “I have a hard time believing that. Skye, has our Hunter been careful lately?”

Sylus’s fingers twitched around yours but his expression didn’t falter. “To everyone’s surprise, she has. No secret injuries to report.”

Zayne made a satisfied hum. “What do you do for work Skye?”

You stiffened. Nothing caused you more anxiety than when someone asked Sylus too many questions. He was a practiced smooth talker, able to craft a believable lie without a second thought, but you still couldn’t help worrying. The last thing you wanted was for him to be recognized, for him to be taken away from you.

Sylus rubbed his thumb along yours soothingly. “I own a few small businesses here and there,” he told the doctor.

“He runs a fruit stall!” you chimed in excitedly.

“That’s one of the few,” Sylus chuckled.

“I had some of his watermelon once at a work function he happened to be catering,” you continued. The very same work function Sylus had called you “besties.” Sylus really was your best friend though, you realized so suddenly your heart practically skipped a beat.

“Well, I’m glad that business is good then,” Zayne said.

You and Zayne then slipped into a casual conversation, catching up on the recent happenings in each other’s lives, while Sylus remained more of a quiet observer.

Actually, Sylus was debating on whether or not to kill (or seriously maim) your primary care physician.

Sylus would never admit to being jealous, but his chest tightened watching you speak to the doctor, hearing the way you laughed at his eerily similar dry humor. He knew you’d been childhood friends and had a long history, but it certainly didn’t help that the way Zayne looked at you was the exact same way Sylus looked at you. And he hadn’t missed the flash of longing in Zayne’s eyes when he’d first spotted your clasped hands at the counter. It was why Sylus had gone out of his way to introduce himself as your boyfriend, even if it meant speeding up his timeline with you a little.

However, Sylus couldn’t deny that Zayne’s role as your primary care physician was an important one, crucial even. He was a renowned cardiac surgeon and an expert in Protocore Syndrome, making him perhaps the only person equipped to help with your heart condition. So Sylus would let him live, because you would be upset with him if he didn’t, and because he was a valuable asset.

Finishing the last of his coffee, Zayne flipped his wrist, checking the time on his watch. “I’m afraid I have to get going now, my break is almost over,” he declared, rising from his seat. “It was nice meeting you Skye, and I’ll see you for your next check up soon, Y/N. No getting hurt in the meantime, okay?”

“Hey! I told you I was being careful!” you exclaimed.

Zayne gave Sylus a withering look. “It’s good to know there’s someone else who understands Y/N’s penchant for danger.”

Sylus recognized the comment for what it was, a white flag thrown at his feet.

Brow cocked and mouth tilted, Sylus picked it up. “Her recklessness knows no bounds.”

“Since when did this become a gang-up-on-Y/N session?” you questioned.

Both Zayne and Sylus chuckled.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Zayne said. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

“I’m sure,” Sylus replied.

“It was nice seeing you Doctor Zayne!” you called after him as he swiftly took his leave.

You and Sylus left shortly thereafter, going to the park you had mentioned to walk amongst the multicolored trees. The linkage dissipated on the way over, but Sylus never let go of your hand.

And now alone with him, your thoughts spiraled.

You couldn’t deny that you had feelings for him, you had for quite a while. You two had been spending a lot of time together recently, whether it was you frequenting Onychinus’s base and ruining your sleep schedule, or him staying over at your apartment and ruining his sleep schedule. But even so, you weren’t sure if Sylus felt the same about you, and now that he’d so casually introduced himself as your boyfriend, you didn’t know what to think.

“I think I see steam coming out of your ears, sweetie.”

You whipped your head toward him. “Why would you say that?”

He smirked. “You’re thinking very loudly. Tell me, what is it?”

It was hard to deny him when he spoke so softly, something he reserved for you and you alone.

“Why did you say you were my boyfriend?” you asked quietly, averting your gaze.

“Because it was easier than explaining our actual relationship,” Sylus said simply.

“And what, exactly, is our actual relationship?”

His brow quirked. “I was under the impression we were something far more than just boyfriend and girlfriend, unless I’ve misread the situation.”

You pulled him to a stop, gaping at him. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Of course I’m being serious, when have I ever not been?” Sylus tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Have I misread the situation, sweetie?”

It was rare to see Sylus nervous, if that was what you could call it.

You shook your head. “No, I just—I had no idea you felt that way.”

Sylus huffed. “Y/N, I told you that I adore you, that there is no love purer than mine, what else could I have meant by that?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured.

He brought your entwined hands up to his lips, kissing the back of yours. “Talk to me, kitten.”

“Are you saying you love me?” you blurted.

Sylus grinned. “I am,” he said.

“Then say it,” you demanded.

He tugged your hand and you fell into his chest. His free hand threaded into your hair and tilted your head up to look at him, into those mesmerizing red eyes.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said, his deep voice so tender it made your heart flutter.

“Sylus,” you breathed. You reached up and cupped his cheek, tears welling in your eyes. “I love you too.”

He huffed a disbelieving chuckle before pressing the most gentle kiss to your forehead. “We should’ve run into your doctor sooner,” he murmured against your skin.

You reared back, slapping his chest. “Don’t ruin our moment!”

Sylus only laughed in response.

Finally letting go of your hand, he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you impossibly closer. Your own arms twined around his neck, stretching on your tip toes to better maintain eye contact.

“So where does this leave us?” you asked.

Sylus shrugged a shoulder. “Where do you want it to leave us?”

You smiled. “Well, I guess you’re my boyfriend now, even though you never formally asked me to be your girlfriend.”

His lips twitched. “Would you like me to perform a grand gesture?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“All right, kitten, then I hope you look forward to it.”

[wol-fica]

-In Charge-

summary - after watching how well you are with kids, Tara gets a funny feeling in her stomach…

warnings - smut, p in v, talk of pregnancy, riding, tara’s a freak

an - the people ask, and i deliver. hope this satisfies the masses!

—————————

“Which color do you want?” You questioned, peering down at the toddler in your lap, “Do you want the red?”

The small girl, named Emma, nodded shyly and made grabby hands for the crayon you picked up, giggling when you handed it to her. It was a required part of your Education class to spend time with kids and observe their behaviors so you could become more prepared for teaching in the future, so your professor invited some kids in the foster care program to come hang out with you and your classmates.

The on-campus coffee shop offered to host the event, reserving half of the tables for it. Currently, you were seated at a small circular table with a couple kids and another one of your classmates, doodling on a drawing pad and passing a few drawings around for the kids to color in. They were super engaging toddlers, with one boy even cracking a few dad jokes that made you chuckle from time to time, but Emma was the one who connected with you the quickest. She had clung to you as soon as she got there, and had been adding color to almost every single one of your drawings for the past hour.

“I’m kind thirsty Emma, wanna come with me to get a drink?” You asked, setting your pen down.

“Ya!” The girl replied, tossing her crayon onto the table.

You smiled, picking her up and setting her on your hip before heading towards the front counter. The cashier greeted you and happily waited to take your order, giving a little wave to the toddler on your side, but your attention had been captured by a certain brunette.

It was Tara, your girlfriend of almost two years, was eyeing you with a gentle smile from the back corner booth. She was wrapped up in one of your hoodies, the article seeming to swallow her tiny frame whole as your clothes were always oversized on her. Her brown eyes were tracking you precisely, and they immediately lit up when you met her gaze. She gave you a little wave, holding up a second drink from her own that you recognized as your favorite.

“Actually, I won’t need anything.” You said to the worker before heading over to Tara’s booth.

Emma babbled in your ear, playing with a little toy unicorn you had brought for her. You set her down on the booth seat, before sliding in next to her and facing Tara with a big smile.

“So are you stalking me now?” You asking, leaning into your palm.

“I have your location at all times, so yes.” She teased back, pushing the drink towards you, “And I knew you’d be thirsty.”

You smiled wider, taking the beverage and sipping it with a sigh, “It’s perfect Tar, thank you.”

“Perfect!” Emma squealed from your side, standing up and placing the unicorn on top of your head.

You chuckled, wrapping your arm around the toddler to make sure that she didn’t fall, “You having fun Em?”

Tara watched from across the table, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth from the sight before her. She always knew you had a soft spot for children, being that you were majoring in education and you were always taking up babysitting jobs, but she had never experienced your skill set firsthand. You pulled Emma into your lap and began to tickle her, the small girl laughing sweetly, and that’s when Tara knew she had to get you home immediately.

A certain feeling was bubbling in her stomach, and watching you be a mother figure made her want nothing more than for you to get her pregnant.

——Time Skip——

“Mmph.” You groaned softly, muffled by Tara’s lips against your own.

After your coffee shop play date with the kids, Tara had insisted on you coming back to her single dorm to spend time together, though you knew she had other plans when a familiar glint flickered across her brown iris’.

Hence why you were now here, your hands firmly placed on the fat of her ass while she rode you fiercely. Her hips ground into yours with vigor as she threw her head back, a guttural moan falling from her lips when she finally sat back fully onto your length.

“Fuck babe, stretching me out so good.” She moaned, placing her hands behind her and rolling her hips up.

You whined, your eyes rolling from the stimulation. Tara had been at this for awhile now, unrelenting and determined to make you cum over and over again until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Her words, not yours.

“Think you can be a good girl and give me another?” She asked breathlessly, biting her lip while rocking her hips a little faster, “I know the answer…but I want to hear it.”

You moaned in response, gasping when she clenched down hard and pushed herself down. Her torso bent over you, hands reaching to grab your face and force you to look at her.

“Use your words.” She stated, subtly grinding her hips against yours.

You gulped, fighting back another moan, “Y-yeah, I can.”

Tara smiled, pressing a sweet kiss to your nose before returning to sitting upright. She carefully raised herself up before slamming back down, the wet noises of her soaked cunt enveloping your cock filling the room. Your orgasm approached fast, the knot in your lower stomach tightening quite quickly with how Tara was manhandling you.

“That’s it.” She mumbled when you cried out her name, her hands running across your breasts with each roll of her hips, “Good girl, just let it out.”

You whimpered pathetically, eyes rolling back and toes curling when you finally came. Your seed pumped deep inside of her, and she soon followed you through when she felt the warm liquid coat her walls.

“Fuck.” You muttered, letting your arm fall over Tara’s waist when she snuggled into your chest.

“Always fill me up perfectly.” She whispered against your collarbone, leaving little kisses there, “So perfect.”

She locked her legs around your waist, trapping you inside of her, and rolled you both over until she was on her back and you were hovering over her. She looped her arms around your neck, giggling when you sucked in a breath at the movement.

“I just did sooooo much heavy lifting.” She whined playfully, pushing you closer to her by her heels, “And after seeing how good you handle kids, well…”

She bit her lip, playing with the hairs on the back of your neck, “How about you do some of the work now, hm?”

You stared at her a moment, weighing your options before pushing your hips forward gently. Carefully, you worked yourself back into her, eliciting small huffs and whines from the both of you. She was tight, very very tight, yet her walls caved and opened for your thickness, and before you knew it you were fully sheathed in her warmth again.

“Shit…Tara!” You moaned, your head falling to her shoulder from the feeling of her.

“Poor baby, all flustered.” She cooed, running her nails across your muscular back, “I know it feels good, but I’m expecting you to do what I told you to.”

You nodded weakly, drawing your hips back before thrusting them forward again, soon settling into a smooth rhythm. Your pants were muffled against her skin, your hands holding her ass tightly as you pumped into her. She would sigh in your ear from time to time, mumbling little praises and sweet things, but other than that she was silent. It was a test, to see if you could please her in the way she needed you to.

“I’m…close.” Tara murmured after a while, purring when you moaned back to her, “Bring me to it baby…that’s it…mMM!”

She came with a tight lipped squeal, her eyes fluttering shut as her orgasm washed through her. You gritted your teeth, giving a couple few thrusts before following her through, promptly collapsing on top of her when you finished.

Her hands wound into your hair, massaging your scalp gently whilst turning you both to the side. You were still inside her, dimly aware of that fact, but you knew Tara had a thing for falling asleep while being stuffed with your cock, so you didn’t mind in the slightest.

“You did such a good job beautiful.” She praised to you, pressing little kisses to your forehead, “Always so obedient.”

You grumbled an incoherent sentence, nipping her skin lightly before burying yourself into her neck. She giggled at you, hugging you close and pulling your hips even closer with her legs.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” She said, noting your tired body, “Can’t promise that I won’t be sucking you off though.”

You chuckled, patting her butt as a way to say that you didn’t care, and soon fell asleep tucked against her.

Thank god Tara was on birth control.

————————

:D told ya i’d have it out today

[niccolites]

sentinel species - i. canary

victorian, zombie apocalypse au, kyle garrick x fem!reader. read on ao3 here or masterlist here

You have a half-rotted candle, but you leave it in your bedroom so that you are unseen as you creep across the landing towards the stairs.

It is a week before the world ends; you sit on your parent’s stairs and listen to them reject your betrothal. 

This is your third courting season, which has had more success than the first two so far. A few gentlemen have shown interest in you, and your mother has had her hands full managing expectations and courtships on your behalf.

One man shines far above the rest, a distant relative of the Duke, Mr Evans. Distant enough that you don’t think anyone else is aware of the relation, but your mother reminds you every tea time, as if to keep you aware of the benefits that lie down the road of this specific courtship.

This is not the man being discussed in the drawing room of your home, for once.

You recognise the voice in your living room, as he asks to formally court you, as he has every intention to be your husband.

Mr Kyle Garrick is the very picture of a gentleman. Kind and attentive, you remember when he had taken notice of you on your first courting season. Your mother had tried to catch the attention of some of the men, to get them to sign their name on your dance card, but there had been no biters. Left alone for a moment, the picture of pathetic, and Mr Garrick had been there. He led you in a waltz and complimented your dress, your hair, how sweetly you spoke. You had nervously pulled most of your hair out of its updo, but it felt rude to contradict his compliments.

He had been enlisted, you remember, and you hadn’t seen him since that first courting season. You did see his older sister sometimes. You remember asking about him a few times, feeling some kind of obligation towards the man who had been kind to you when he didn’t have to be.

And here he is, back in your living room, speaking with your parents about your nuptials.

You listen to him, outlining his intentions for you. He has saved up his money from his service, and he is prepared to buy a home for the two of you, and start a life together.

You cannot comprehend it, certain that he must have mistaken you for someone else. He must think that there is another girl up here. The hush of his voice, drifting up to meet you. You want to catch it in your palm, cradle it there like a newborn lamb.

He had been kind to you, but you didn’t know each other. Hadn’t seen each other in years at this point, not that you would know with how certain his voice sounds. Vowing to be a dutiful husband to you. Your name spilling out, thudding up the stairs to reach your ears. Any doubt has fled, but has left behind the certainty of insecurity in its wake.

You didn’t know when he had gotten back, some moonsick dream that he came straight here from the train. You shake it off, the thought just a little bit too fanciful.

You know that your mother is going to decline, moments before she starts to. You hear her excuse this given your attachment to the Duke’s cousin - your attachment being that he is taking you for a walk tomorrow - but you know this isn’t the real reason. Mr Garrick may be a decorated officer, a kind enough man. But he barely has any standing in society. His father was a boxer, and you know that his entire family fit into a small house despite the fact that they are not a small family.

Your mother has high sights set for you, and you do not think she has any intention of lowering them. Even if that requires not consulting you in the matter of your future and who you will be spending it with. Your father had passed a few years ago now, and you knew that your mother needed to match you with someone that could sustain the two of you. Your home wasn’t your own, legally owned by some cousin of your father’s, who hadn’t taken an interest, yet.

You shift on the stairs, bare feet on wood, as you listen to the beginning of a protest from Mr Garrick before he swallows it down and thanks your mother for her time.

It’s dark upstairs, you have only found your way to the steps with familiarity. You can see the door of the drawing room open further as Mr Garrick picks up his hat and makes to leave. At the front door, he turns his head, and you swear he can see you. He can’t, you know he can’t, it’s pitch black up here. Your candle is abandoned on your dresser, the white of your nightgown is drowned in the darkness of the landing.

He hesitates for a moment, gaze darting all around you as if to find you before he exhales and turns to leave.

A week later, you can see Mr Garrick on the opposite wall to you, and you think about the defeated slump of his shoulders that night. You think you may be flattering yourself, but you think it’s still there, hidden under the shoulder of his coat. It’s likely improper for him to initiate conversation with you, beyond the level of politeness if you were to bump into each other.

Your fingers twitch underneath your gloves, feel the stitching of the seam scratch against your skin. Mr Evans is somewhere around here, and you know that you will have to put a face on, spin around for a few dances with him. Ask him about his travels around Europe, even though you surely have heard all of the stories already.

For now, you are happy to lean against the far wall and flutter your fan as if to sweep everyone else away. Your mother is speaking with a few of the other mothers, so you only have a few moments to slouch before you are caught and reprimanded.

The band starts playing, and there is a spin of skirts as the first dance starts up. You’ll likely get in trouble for dodging Mr Evans, given he had you booked for the first dance. However, you could always plead that you had attempted to find him, and the two of you had always just missed each other.

You suppose there is nothing terrible about Mr Evans, he is a perfectly polite, even kind man. He is just not interesting, and your mother had to ask most of the questions once when he had come over for tea. Something that had gotten you into trouble later that night.

You can see the mop of blonde hair that could be Mr Evans and you stand up straight, starting an idle, if quick, stroll around the opposite side of the room. There’s a door to the patio off to the side, and you duck through the door and inhale a lungful of fresh air.

It’s quiet out here, the music following you out but it’s caught in the open space, drifting up into the sky, insignificant. It’s the late evening, and the sky burns red, the sun catching on the edge of the landscape, flaming the distant fields.

This is the Oakwood estate, and they usually host the best parties of the season. A large mansion, white and pristine, surrounded by flattened grass. Perfect for playing cricket on, if one wishes. And they often did.

You smooth your hand over the wood of the railing, white paint giving the effect of marble. On the underside, you chip away at it to expose the brown wood. Out of sight, a pathetic rebellion but you take what you can get.

You know that in a few minutes you will have to return to the dance, find Mr Evans and do your usual verbal dance. Apologise for missing him, let him take him for a dance. Perhaps ask him his day was, if he lets you get a word in. You know that this is your lot in life, the idea of truly rebelling and shaming your parents is enough to curtail you, just before you can get too many ideas.

Not that it doesn’t leave you bitter, but you’ve gotten used to chewing on your words. There is a sickly feeling at the back of your throat, and it has just gotten more poisonous over the years. You’re too young to be so bitter, so you resolve to give yourself another minute of fresh air before you return to reality.

At the forest line, you can see a man in a suit shifting, and you squint, trying to make out the shape of him. A dot, with arms and legs, sprinting from what must be a mile away. You stare, unsure of what you are seeing. Inappropriate, you think, to approach this party on foot rather than via carriage, but you couldn’t see who it was to surely throw any judgement.

A call of your name behind you has you spinning around. Mr Garrick stands in the doorway, slowly shutting the door behind him as he takes you in. “Hello,” he greets, bowing his head to you slightly.

“Mr Garrick,” you start, giving an aborted attempt at a curtsy. You falter, unsure as to whether to bring up the proposal that you saw the previous night. You decide not to, settling on something more polite. “How are you?”

Mr Garrick smiles at you, impossibly handsome. You are struck for a moment, about someone so beautiful, wondering for a moment if you have imagined the entire scene from the prior night had even happened at all. “I am well, thank you,” he replies, clasping his hands behind his back. He’s broad in the shoulders, a faint strain in the fabric of his coat that draws your eye for a moment. “Just wondering why you were out here instead of inside.”

You shuffle, unladylike, for a moment. You turn back to the railing, facing the open field again. Easier, you think, to speak directly to the sun if faced a little away from it. “I just needed a moment, it’s a little close in there.” You hadn’t spoken much, before he left, but at the burr of his voice, you slip into memory. Pulled forward before you stop yourself, remembering how easily he pulls conversation from you, a loose string that unravels.

He hums, steps to the railing himself. There is a gap of space between you, the amount that is appropriate, but you still glance behind you uneasily. He had left the door open behind him, the door slanted at an angle so the sounds inside are slightly muffled, but still present. It cuts through the space between you, the constant reminder of the rules of your lives behind you. “I understand the feeling, myself,” Mr Garrick confesses, forearms braced on the railing. His head is tilted towards you, eyes dark and pretty.

“Yes?” you ask, blinking at him in surprise. You hadn’t seen Mr Garrick at many dances like this, granted given he had been so recently away, but for a man whose back was so unbent, you didn’t imagine he was someone to be intimidated in a crowd.

Mr Garrick hums again, giving you a small smile. It’s affectionate, in a way that has you flushing. “Indeed. It’s strange, in France, my garrison had 3-score more men than there are in that ballroom, and yet it felt easier to move through.” He gives you a self-deprecating smile. “I must sound very silly.”

“Not at all,” you rush to say, rocking forward before reeling yourself back in. He watches you for a moment, an amused uptick on the corner of his mouth. Your fingers flex beneath the cotton of your gloves. Count the stitches that rub against your skin. “It’s nice to find companionship in an isolating feeling,” you add, shy at how forward your words sound.

He doesn’t move for a moment, eyes darting around your face. Your name comes out of his mouth, soft, like it’s still sitting on his tongue. You turn towards the field again, see the figure of that man in the distance. He’s closer now, more than a dot now, the faint image of a person.

“I should find my mother,” you say, wanting to hunch in yourself, but forcing yourself to turn back to the doors. Light filters out, caught in the dark of outside and disappearing, swallowed up.

Mr Garrick takes a step closer to you and you inhale, feel the catch of it on your ribcage. You forget how much taller he is than you, until he is this close. The light from inside catches on one side of his face, relieving it into clarity. There is the faintest scar in his eyebrow, a slight blemish in his otherwise perfect face. His hand, bare, slides across the railing, thumb where you think you have picked at the paint.

“Mr Garrick,” you start, eyes caught on his hand, before darting back to his face. 

“I believe I asked you to call me Kyle, once,” he says, giving you an amused smile.

You don’t frown but it’s a close thing. “I don’t think that would be - appropriate,” you manage. The same response you had given him back then as well, you think.

He frowns instead, and you feel guilt curdle like lukewarm tea in your belly. You shuffle, taking note of how he leans back. You want him back in your space, want the heat of his attention.

“I’m sorry,” you add, desperate for him to not look sad again. You think about his face, searching in the dark of your stairway. It’s impossible to reconcile that he had proposed to spend his life with you. And you cannot even extend the kindness of his name towards him. “Kyle,” you add, before you can stop yourself.

His head turns back to your, full lips tilting in a soft smile. Your name exhales again, catches in the air around you and warms you. His hand flexes and he reaches up, a flicker of uncertainty on his face that lingers for a moment before it dissipates. His hand drops. You imagine how it would have felt against your skin. You’re certain that he boxes just like his father, you wonder if his hand would be calloused against your skin, or if it would be soft and deliberate.

Another voice calls out your name, and it ruptures through the slight breeze around you. Once again, you are reminded of the propriety of your situation, and you take a step back, even though you hadn’t been doing anything wrong. You recognise the voice, the uptilt at the end. Mr Evans, and you didn’t want to find out if he reported to your mother that he couldn’t find you.

“I should go,” you murmur, shuffling uncertainly for a moment before you turn around. Mr Garrick doesn’t try to stop you, which makes you feel rotten.

You turn your head just before you step back inside. A painting in candlelight that throws Mr Garrick’s face into real life, like he has stepped out of a painting. The furrow of his brow and the slightest downturn of his full mouth. The stranger out in the field, closer now, the swing of his arm as he runs. You bow your head and turn around.

-

Mr Evans is the dullest man that you have ever met. You try not to think too uncharitably about him, but as he spins you around again and reminisces about another business man who owes him some money, you wonder if it would be better if you were to fall and hit your head. Or maybe if he did. Nothing too serious, but enough blood to scare off any further attempt at conversation.

He isn’t terrible to look at, a strong jawline, his smooth blonde hair. Charming enough that your mother coos at everything he says. It didn’t have the same effect on you, unfortunately.

“Your mother is a very handsome lady,” Mr Evans informs you, something that has you blinking to focus. Your palm pressed against his as you step away and then step back into him. “She has graciously invited me over for afternoon tea with yourselves tomorrow.”

You give him a stiff smile. You had been there when it had been arranged. “Yes, our cook makes the best pastries, and my mother does enjoy letting people experience them.”

“I look forward to it,” Mr Evans tells you. You smile again and let him turn you.

The smooth slide of the violin soothes through the hall, catching on the floor and bouncing back up. You let it wash over you, until individual voices quieten, smoothing together into a mistakable blur that you cannot distinguish.

It is hot in here, a heat that catches in your throat, crawls like a bug over your skin. You imagine walking back out to the veranda, wondering if Mr Garrick is still out there. It’s cool out there, you are parched for the bite of wind in your lungs.

You decide to give yourself one more dance, and then you will go out there again. A reward, for doing your duty.

The bow of the violin screeches, a horrid twang that has you flinching, the entire room stuttering. There is a crash outside, something wooden snapping.

You turn, stumbling in your slippers as everyone looks towards the balcony. You cannot see at first, trying to peek over everyone’s shoulders. Pushing yourself onto your toes, very unladylike, before there is another smash and then someone is shrieking.

What once was a still crowd that you were a part of seems to turn on you, a tidal wave that breathes in before it suffocates you. Everyone scrambles, and you get shoved back, momentarily affronted before the screaming gets worse, more and more voices joining the chorus.

Your foot gets trampled on and you whimper, shoved back until your back hits a wall. Pulled along for a few moments, before the crowd starts to thin and you can see the moment of clarity by the large windows. 

There is a man on the floor, Mr Casings, you think. It is like your mind cannot make sense of the scene before you. There is another man, knelt over Mr Casings, and there is the red of his guts over the floor, red caught in the broken doorway. Thick and malleable looking, you watch as a stranger rifles through the torso of another man and guides his hands to his mouth.

There is a catch in your mind, the click of a door stuck in a jam. The moment before you saw this and now, your mind is syrupy slow, half still trying to remember your next dance move. You cannot make sense of what you are seeing, so you feel stuck in the run up to it, half parsing through recent memory to try and decipher it.

There is the rumble of a keening noise and it takes a tickle in your throat for you to realise that it is coming from you. You lift a hand to your mouth, try to suffocate it.

The creature kneeling over Mr Casings must hear you, its head yanks up in your direction. You think it may have once been a man, but anything human must be gone from it, leaving behind pallid skin, gore in its mouth as it makes a groaning, snapping noise at you.

Quicker than you think it should, it darts up and starts to charge at you, leaving you crying out as you start to sob, scrambling as you try to get away.

You think about lying on the ground like Mr Casings, the useless silk of your dress ripped open until the warmth kept within you went cold in the open air.

You hear the snap of teeth and you scream, an animal sound tearing out of your throat before there is a grunt and another thud.

You’ve hit the wall again, and you can’t stop yourself from looking. Whatever was charging at you is pinned to the ground, and you sob as you watch Mr Garrick grab the creature by its head and smash it into the floor.

You flinch with each thud, unable to look away. Watch as it continues to buck and twitch until it finally stills, blood on the floor where its head used to be. Where before you had felt slow, five steps behind what was happening before you, now you feel stuck, finally caught up. Door no longer caught on a jam, now thrown open, hinges loose and rattling.

You can’t look away from the image of Mr Garrick, sitting on the back of this man-shaped creature that now had a blood splatter for a brain.

Your name comes out hushed, barely able to comprehend that Mr Garrick is crouched in front of you. “Can you hear me?” he asks, and you blink at him, uncomprehending. “We have to go, alrigh’?”

You don’t move, eyes still stuck over his shoulders, the gush of blood. You can see it seeping in through the gaps of the floorboards. Mr Garrick’s head lowers before he murmurs that he’s got you, and then you feel yourself getting lifted up.

Slung over his shoulder, you have enough presence of mind to cling to his back before he takes off. Sound filters through the front of the hall, screaming and yelling. Mr Garrick darts off to the left, towards the balcony with Mr Casings.

Mr Garrick neatly steps over the carnage, shoes grinding in the broken glass. You whimper as you catch sight of his empty eyes staring upwards. Mr Garrick shushes you, smooths a hand over the back of your thigh even as he doesn’t falter.

Outside now, the cool air hits your face. The sun is still setting, the sky red and you squeeze your eyes shut at the colour. The death that you’ve seen in the hall is closed off, and if you don’t breathe in too deeply, then you won’t taste the bitter tang of blood, and maybe it’s all gone.

Mr Garrick curses sharply and you get pulled forward until you're on your feet, and tugged into his chest. He yanks you into the wall and steps in front of you, shushing you again before you can make a sound. Not that you were going to, shaking and clinging to the lapels of his jacket. You peek over the broad of his shoulder, and see why you have both stopped.

Gravel is getting kicked up from under the feet of guests as they run out from the estate. Others are running towards them, across the field and you choke on your breath when they collide. It must be more of those creatures, some type of sickness. You didn’t understand, they had the silhouette of men, but you hear the yowling when they brought a woman down and tore into her.

“Christ,” Mr Garrick mutters, cradling you in his front. “Shit, we need to get a horse.”

The stables were around the front, even though you are several feet away, you imagine you could smell the blood being spilled from here. You whimper again, shaking. “My mother,” you manage, unable to find the words for what you really want to say. My mother must be with that group of people, and we can hear them all dying. There aren't words designed to sit in the mouth like that.

Mr Garrick considers you, mouth pressed in a tight line. “Alright, wait here, do not come out unless I come back, ok?” You nod, but when he steps away, you find your hands still fisted in the lapels of his coat, like you cannot let go. He steps back, smooths his hand over your wrist, just beneath your glove. You jolt at the feeling of his bare skin, some old propriety from a lifetime ago are enough to startle you into relinquishing your grip. “I’ll be right back, keep hidden,” he tells you, pushing you further into the slight alcove.

And then he’s gone. You stare out across the grass. They play cricket out here in the summer. You remember, suddenly, the man running out in the field, wondering if that was the man that killed Mr Casings. His blood stains the edge of your dress, guilty. You want to cry, feel like a sick animal out in this open air.

Your father had a hunting dog once, and you remember how it had looked when he put it down. Mad, he’d called it, saliva foaming in its jowls. Wild eyes that had looked around, uncomprehending and yet piercing. You inhale, shaking, wonder if you look the same.

You refuse to make a sound though, lean against the brick behind you. Shake as you listen to screaming and growling that travel through the open field to reach you. You fist your hands in the skirts of your dress, try to breathe steadily. You don’t know what you will do if Mr Garrick doesn’t come back. You hope he comes back with a carriage, your mother inside to pull you inside. What you wouldn’t give to be scolded for crying and ruining the delicate rouge that she had spent precious time delicately smoothing on your cheeks.

Time is elongated and unbearable until it returns to you with a crack at the sound of a horse. You peek out, and you make out Mr Garrick astride what must be a horse detached from a carriage. No saddle, but reins around its face.

It’s only Mr Garrick who thuds down in front of you, who gathers you up and ushers you towards the horse. “My mother, where is -” you start, pliant beneath the ushering of Mr Garricks hands.

“I couldn’t see her, there’s a chance she got away, like we have to, right now,” he tells you, his voice strained as he steadies the horse, looking over your shoulder.

“I don’t -” you say, but Mr Garrick has had enough talking, and lifts you onto the horse, side straddle, before smoothly pulling himself up behind you.

He kicks the horse into motion, and you set off, quick enough that you still don’t understand.

You feel half your mind is still back on the balcony, trying to decide if you were going to go back inside. You look over Mr Garrick’s shoulder, and imagine you can see her, staring out at you. Seeing you but not understanding.

The band between the two of you pulls until it snaps. You jolt, a wounded noise high in your throat, but hidden in Mr Garrick’s broad chest.

Your father had shot your sick dog, barrel of the gun against the back of its head. Mr Garrick’s hand on the back of your skull, fingers in your hair, holding you steady. Right there, the press of his last finger on the give at the start of your neck. Saliva pools in your mouth, but you swallow it down and choke on it.

[wholemeallbread]

... TOXIC BOYFRIENDS AND EXES / ꩜

with ... nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, isagi yoichi x gn!reader

warnings ... cheating (rin), fem love interest (rin), lying (rin, isagi), parental issues-ish (isagi), nagi is just a bum (nagi), tiny emotional manipulation (isagi)

part one reo, sae, oliver

"SHE'S JUST A FRIEND" ꩜ ITOSHI RIN

you've known for quite a while that rin has had a... worrying childhood, to say the least. you're also aware that someone else has been his guiding light through his early teens, but is now long gone in the past. or that's what you thought. rin has been silent after hearing the news that his childhood "friend" recently moved back into town, but it's obvious that something else is going on.

especially when he's been visiting a certain house multiple times per week without telling you.

you've been aware of it for longer than he thinks. the moment you texted him "where are you?" instead of asking him to come home, he switched off sharing his location for good. he'll tell you he's just on a jog, but he's said it himself that he doesn't like bringing his phone because its too heavy. it becomes obvious when she starts coming to his games, waving and catching all of his attention while wearing one of his jerseys. you would know, because you accidentally stained one of them when you wore it.

even worse when his own brother that was miles away texted you, asking if you and rin were together. how did he even get your number? and why did rin not tell him you were already years deep into a relationship? oh, rin said he's stuck between the person he loves and the person he trusts? well, that shouldn't really be a question, should it? he should love and trust you, why is there somebody else that he could "pick"?

the break up was mutual. you could tell he was upset about it, but not as much as you, and you wonder why... maybe it's because he ended up in a relationship with said childhood friend only days later. you don't mean to pry in their business, but it's hard not to when you realise everywhere they go together, you've been with him before. this time, he's holding her hand, he's not hiding from the camera, he's smiling. rin has never smiled for you before. it hurts, it really hurts, but you're glad he didn't let things drag on. at least there's something left for you in his heart.

if he didn't love you in the first place, he should've just let you know from the beginning. it seems like you were some sort of test subject for his future.

BABY SYNDROME ꩜ NAGI SEISHIRO

nagi always puts in the bare minimum. you figured "maybe he puts in more effort for things he's passionate about?". well, one certainly is football; all of a sudden he has enough stamina to run a marathon and actually use his strength. since you're dating, he's passionate about you too, right?

keep lying to yourself. it's always you reaching out first, it's always you having to go to his house, it's always you waiting outside of his classrooms. on more than one occasion have you called him, been ignored under the thesis of "i'm too tired to talk, maybe tomorrow." and then being left on delivered for the next twenty four hours. and the cycle repeats over, and over, and over again. the last thing you wanted to end up being was a second reo (sorry to him, he's a lost cause) but when you're having to put his socks on for him like a toddler, unwillingly after he begs for help, that's where you draw the line. he's not a grandpa, and he's not sore. why would he need help?

it was unsurprisingly easy to break up with him. he let you go with ease, and it's not like he was going to argue to make him stay. one less person makes one less hassle, right? afterwards, it's inconvenience after inconvenience for him. now nobody wakes him up in the morning, or helps him with his missing homework, or does all of the work on group assignments so he can go "train". who's going to cook for him now? because it's not you or reo, and ordering takeaway is too much work.

nagi texted you to ask to get back together. you asked why. he said "it makes both of our lives easier". hell no.

MAMA'S BOY ꩜ ISAGI YOICHI

isagi is such a good boyfriend. honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if he was the one you ended up marrying. he's sweet, his parents are sweet, everything was perfect. was perfect.

you don't know where or when you messed up, but isagi's mom doesn't seem to like you that much anymore. was it how you got awkward and didn't know how to respond? no, usually his dad helps you through conversations. were you a bad influence? no, surely not. isagi knows his own standards, and sometimes his attitude is worse than yours.

nowadays, isagi looks a bit nervous when you ask to come over. your usual routine together was completely disrupted. you can tell he's subtly avoiding you or keeping conversations brief. he doesn't even hold your hand when you're walking around school anymore. this man willingly used to sprint from your period to the other side of the school just to make sure you got to your class safely, and now, nothing. and why is he wiping his hands with disgust when he's the one sweating buckets? he would've apologised if it was his fault, so it's something to do with you.

"hey, so... my mom doesn't want us together..." well, excuse you? he's stuttering, trying to come up with excuses, but you don't even want to hear them. having your healthy relationship broken up by his mom? and what if you married him hypothetically? would he willingly divorce if his mom said to do it? you know he still loves you, judging from his longing glances and half smiles in your direction. you know it wasn't completely his decision. but if he really loved you, then creating a barrier between the two of you when she wasn't even around didn't make sense at all. he would risk his life for you, but not disobey her loose commands.

on some random important day, valentines or whatever, he tries to ask you out. he wants to "start over". can you even be angry when he looks so remorseful? coupled with flowers, your favourite sweet treats and everything... oh, you swear you can see tears in his eyes. maybe you'll think about it.

[bruhstories]

Muse I

p.2 && p.3

summary: after futile attempts of producing paintings for the councillors of piltover, you finally find your muse. pairing: viktor x painter!reader warnings: suggestive content, strangers to friends-ish, angst, some swearing, afab!reader with she/her pronouns who wears skirts and dresses, somewhat canon divergent, particularly in part 2 w/c: 4k

a/n: this might be my magnum opus lol. it will come with a part 2. likes and reblogs are much appreciated and encouraged!

Paint dripped on the marble floor of your atelier — an unfortunate safety hazard that you were used to by now. You couldn't fill in the blank canvas with anything other than still life, despite being commissioned to paint portraits of every councillor, as well as a landscape of Piltover. But you lacked inspiration. Motivation. You had no muse, and councillor Salo definitely wasn't one, not with his snobbish attitude. 

"I'm afraid we'll have to postpone your portrait, Councillor." You excused yourself and left the room, armed with nothing but a sketchbook and a dull pencil.

Piltover was a beautiful city, and you knew you could paint it if you just found a nice spot to view it from. Somewhere high above, where you could see it in its entirety. But until you found that perfect place, you roamed the streets, closely observing the architecture, the flora, the fauna. You walked on grass — you weren't sure it was allowed — and found a fountain, clear water trickling down the granite curves and slopes. Whoever sculpted it did a brilliant job, despite the water eroding the stone. In fact, the erosion added a certain charm to it.

You took your sandals off and sat down on a patch of grass to sketch the fountain, steady, so as to not mess up your drawing, even if it was just a guideline for your future painting. It was then when you saw him — the most beautiful creature you ever laid eyes on. His unkempt chestnut brown hair framed his face in a way that made your heart flutter, but his striking amber eyes had you hooked. Even from such a distance you could see the yellow and orange hues mixing in his irises. 

Quickly flipping the page of your sketchbook, you began to draw him. Graphite slid up and down the parchment as your hand moved naturally, like it had a mind of its own. You sketched and shaded, not stopping until he did. Until another man joined him, effectively blocking your vision. No matter, your visual memory aided you in finishing the drawing, but you didn't stop there. You found your muse, and you needed to paint him.

Your nights grew restless as you juggled between painting Piltover, the councillors, and him. But he inspired you somehow, leaving only Councillor Medarda, half of the landscape, and his portrait unfinished. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get the colour of his eyes right, and it drove you mad. You couldn't remember exactly how much yellow you needed, or how much red. Was there a hint of green? Did you need to add a drop of blue? 

A soft knock on the door of your atelier startled you, and you opened it, greeting Councillor Medarda. You forgot she was due for her portrait, and invited her into your messy chamber.

"My apologies, Councillor, I didn't have the time to tidy up." 

"It's quite alright. I prefer this — the raw, unfiltered creativity. Besides, I've never met an artist that's organised." She smiled. "May I?"

"Of course." You nodded, bringing her more canvases and sketches to look at.

"You truly are gifted. The colours, the highlights, you must be a prodigy." The councillor nodded. "Is that-"

You snatched the paper from her hand, clutching it at your chest.

"Sorry, that one's... personal." 

"Funny. I thought I recognised that man." She pondered, and the gears in your head rotated. 

"If you do know him, could you introduce us?" You chewed on your lower lip, then left to show her another one of your paintings. "I just can't get his eyes right."

"Viktor." Councillor Medarda gasped at the sheer hard work you put into the portrait. "You weren't commissioned to do this."

"Like I said, it's personal. Practice." You swiftly corrected yourself. "Yes, good practice."

"I suppose I could take you to his lab. A fair warning — you might have to bring your supplies there, because he will never leave his work to pose for a painting." She scoffed. 

"I can figure something out."

Mel Medarda kept her promise after what seemed to be an eternity. Although you hadn't finished her portrait, you managed to paint a good chunk of it, laying down all the base colours and shapes. She would have to come back another day, however. You walked with her, closely trailing behind with a box full of paints, brushes and thick paper. You didn't bring his portrait with you yet, because you needed to assess him first, and you couldn’t paint anywhere else but your atelier. Sketching was different — that you could do anywhere, at any time. But painting was intimate. However, you were considering making an exception for him.

"Goor afternoon, Jayce." Councillor Medarda greeted a very cheerful, very lovestruck scientist. 

You could clearly see that he was doting on her, and she tried to hide her own excitement while maintaining a professional persona. It was cute to see a respectable scientist and a reputable councillor behave like teenagers — her hitched breath, his voice cracking, the quiver of her lip, the twinkle in his eyes — they were adorable. But you were here for someone else, not to witness their blooming love in a cold lab.

"Ahem." You cleared your throat inconspicuously, feigning a cough, and she remembered her promise.

"Jayce, this is Y/N. She's been commissioned to paint portraits of the councillors. Y/N, this is Jayce Talis, scholar, scientist, politician." Mel said, and you reached out your hand to shake Jayce's while propping the box in your hand with your knee.

"Nice to meet you, miss." His grip was firm around your fingers and palm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The councillor stifled a chuckle, her thin, delicate fingers covering her mouth. As always, Jayce thought himself to be the centre of attention. He was the centre of her attention, that much was certain.

"She's here for Viktor. Have you seen him?"

"Viktor, yes." Jayce awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, then looked at the crate in your arms. "Do you need a hand?"

"Thank you, Mr. Talis, but these materials are quite precious to me. I'd rather hold them myself, if you don't mind." You gripped the box tighter. 

Jayce found it amusing how fond you were of your paintings supplies, something you had in common with Viktor. He, too, was possessive of his work, in an incredibly stubborn, annoying way.

"Very well. Follow me." The scientist said, and you and councillor Medarda walked down a corridor of marble and limestone.

In classic Piltover architecture, golden columns decorated the tall walls, with blue spheres embedded in them, contrasting the polished white floor. Whoever designed it had a keen eye for details, you thought. Jayce and Mel partook in small talk, but you didn't intrude. You much preferred memorising the way to the laboratory, the number of stairs, and the motifs on the walls.

Two wooden doors stood in front of you, intimidatingly tall. Jayce opened one of them, inviting you and councillor Medarda in first, like the gentleman he was. You were taken aback by the materials on the worktops, the tools, the lights, the runes. It was a lot to take in, and you wouldn't understand what you were taking in exactly. But behind the tables full of hammers, screwdrivers and wrenches was your muse. He was focused on something, brows furrowed and lips pursed. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down his temple, slowly reaching his jawline, and you instinctively licked your chapped lips. 

"Vik!" Jayce called out, but the man offered no response, still concentrating on whatever he was doing. "You'll have to excuse him. When he's working, he seems unable to hear."

You smiled — it was a trait you both shared. Whenever you immersed yourself in painting, you couldn't pay attention to your surroundings. 

"Viktor!" Jayce moved closer to the table, snapping his fingers in Viktor's face, until the man scoffed.

"Yes?" Voice laced with irritation, he finally looked up at Jayce, then behind him. "Oh."

"Viktor, this is Y/N. She's an artist." Mel's hand reached out, and with a nod, you stepped forward, placing the heavy crate on an empty chair.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I... well, how shall I put it?" You rummaged through the box and pulled out your first sketch of Viktor. "I would like to paint you."

He took the paper from your hand, amber eyes wide at the beauty of it. Viktor scanned the sketch and every detail that went into it, pale cheeks tinted pink.

"I understand if you find this awkward, or if you don't agree." You carried on, but there wasn't an ounce of emotion on his face.

"When did you do this?" Viktor asked, still staring at himself. It was like looking into a mirror, yet he couldn't recognise himself.

"A few days ago, by the fountain." You tried to guess his feelings, but he didn't let you see them. "Again, I understand you probably consider me strange for doing this, but I must paint you, sir."

"I'm flattered, miss. But perhaps Jayce would be a better candidate? You'll find he is much more appealing to the eye." He handed you back the sketch.

You glanced at Jayce, a look of disgust on your face that you tried to hide. Sure, he was objectively attractive, that you could agree on, but you didn't want that. You wanted him. You wanted your muse.

"I think it would be a great idea, Vik!" Jayce beamed at his partner. "You need a break."

"That is precisely what I don't need." Viktor rolled his eyes. "Besides, I don't want to leave my lab."

"I could do it here." You offered. "I won't talk, I won't disturb you, you won't even know I'm here."

"It's already crammed."

"Please." You leaned forward, palms slammed on his table, trying to get a better look at his eyes. You probably looked insane like that, but you didn't care — you were desperate. "If you don't like it, you can hide it, break it, burn it. It will be yours to do as you please."

Viktor was past the point of being irked. He was downright furious, but he had to shut you up somehow. And Jayce, who really needed to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face.

"Fine." He mentally scolded himself for agreeing to do something so stupid. Posing for a painting? Ridiculous. 

"Thank you so much. This means the world to me!" You picked up the crate to find an unused spot in the lab. 

Viktor didn't mind your presence. You were true to your word — quiet. You didn't ask questions, didn't walk around the lab, didn't make him sit in some egregious position. In fact, he was surprised to see just how focused you were on your paintings. The fact that he didn't pose made it difficult for you to do a portrait — the whole point of it was for your model to sit still. And he did, just with his back at you, slouched and avoidant.

And you weren't always there. Bouncing between your atelier and the lab, between sleepless nights and painting, your schedule had become hectic. The bags under your eyes and poorly buttoned shirts, the strands of hair that stuck out from your updo, or the lines of green and blue on your cheeks were a dead giveaway. 

But Viktor was the exact same, missing only the paint on his face and the skirt. You were like two peas in a pod, so much so that it drove Jayce up the walls to practically have two Viktors in the lab. Stubborn, hard-working, irritable, he found it ridiculous that you didn't become friends yet, or at least something more than strangers, considering how similar you were.

But you weren't strangers.

The act of transcribing one's mind, body and soul onto canvas, without losing any tiny detail in translation, was intimate in itself. You had to study Viktor, to memorise his gestures, his quirks — the way his forehead creased when he focused, how he found comfort in gripping the handle of his cane, the twinkle in his eyes when he had a brilliant idea. You didn't need words to understand him.

At first, he found it odd. Having an intruder in his lab, in the only place that brought him comfort, joy and privacy, felt violating. It definitely didn't help that you kept a close eye on him. He understood why — you needed to look at him to be able to paint him. But it was, naturally, strange. Then, he became used to you, to your shadow, your scent — of roses, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla. Viktor never grew tired of the smell of copper and smoke, but whenever you walked past him in the afternoon to set up your easel and paints and brushes, he took a very deep breath in, just to oxygenate his brain with your scent.

The utter silence in the laboratory frustrated Jayce. Since you trespassed with their consent, his partner became quieter, and you barely uttered a good morning or goodbye. He really hoped you being there would help Viktor socialise, but it did the opposite. The sound of graphite scraping on paper, or bristles on canvas was the only thing he heard in days. It was too much.

"I need a break." Jayce slammed a screwdriver on the table, startling you, but Viktor was unmoved by the sudden rattle. "Viktor?"

"I'm fine." His partner waved his hand dismissively. 

"Y/N?" 

You set the brush aside, then cracked your knuckles. It had been hours since you had a drink or food.

"I'll take a break. I can't be efficient if I burn out, and I still need to finish the landscape." You got up from the wooden stool to stretch.

Behind the cogs and tools, Viktor glanced at you, amber eyes fixated on your neck, trailing down your collarbone, and your half-exposed chest. He didn't know when you unbuttoned your collar, or when you bunched up your skirt, but the clothes looked like an uncomfortable confinement on you. Like they stopped your body from flowing naturally. He wondered — an intrusive, improper, shameful thought — if you sometimes painted naked. If you were more creative when not clothed. But he shook the thought away when you walked around his table to the small stove behind him.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Scientist?"

Viktor had forgotten how sweet your voice was, like a siren lulling sailors to their demise. He nodded, back facing you. He didn't dare to look at you after picturing you nude.

"Where did you study?" Jayce asked, and you really wanted Viktor to make that sort of small talk with you.

"Ionia, the Academy of Arts." You stirred the honey in Viktor's cup of tea.

"Mel tells me you're quite talented." Jayce complimented you, and you should've thanked him. 

"Talent is nothing without hard work, Mr. Talis, as I'm sure you already knew, given your career."

Viktor smiled, even if you couldn't see him. He wholeheartedly agreed with you — even if both him and Jayce were geniuses in their fields, they wouldn't have accomplished anything without sheer hard work and dedication. 

"You need to stop calling us Mr. Talis and Mr. Scientist." Jayce chuckled. "You've been in our lab for weeks now. You're part of the team."

"I wouldn't say part of the team, but I do appreciate the company. I can be quite lonely in my atelier." You placed the Viktor's tea on his table.

He couldn't help but feel a slight jab from your words. He, too, was lonely when Jayce left. But he didn't make an effort not to be. Work was more important, and he hadn't yet found anything to prioritise more than that. Jayce pulled out his pocket watch, and froze.

"Shit, I must go. I'm late to my date- my meeting. Sorry, Vik. Be right back! "

"Eeh, we both know these meetings take some time." Viktor grinned.

It wasn't the first time the two of you were alone in the laboratory, but it always happened when you were both working. You, however, were taking a break, and you needed it before returning to your portrait. Sitting in complete silence, you sipped on your tea, brainstorming ideas for the title of your painting. Viktor's Portrait didn't have a nice ring to it.

"You never asked to see it." You spoke, fingers wrapped around the warm mug, interrupting him for the first time.

He didn't, because he only agreed to it to shut you and Jayce up. He was never curious to see it finished, let alone in progress. But after spending weeks in your presence, and after you said that, he couldn't deny the curiosity that bubbled in his chest. Still, by this point, he could wait a few more weeks.

"I don't have any inclinations towards the arts, Miss Painter." Viktor playfully mocked the way you called him Mr. Scientist for so long. "I doubt any feedback I give will be useful."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Why were there two wrenches on his table? And two cogs? Two cups of tea? No, he was seeing double, his head was pounding, ears ringing. Viktor reached out for his cane, but when he took one step, his legs wobbled, refusing to support him. You caught him, a firm grasp around his forearm, and pulled the nearest chair for him to sit down after setting aside your mug.

"I suppose I am in need of a break, too." The scientist sighed.

Lately he had been looking paler, thinner. His clothes didn't fit him like they used too, trousers loose around his waist, held only by a leather belt. You brought his cane before he even asked you for it, and dug into your bag for food. Unwrapping the muslin cloth, you offered him your lunch — bread, cheese and a few dried fruits. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. 

"Eat, please." You encouraged him, breaking the bread in small bites. 

"No, it's your food."

"And I'm giving it to you." The stern tone of your voice had him oblige. 

"I've wondered, Miss Painter-"

"Y/N." You corrected him.

"Right, Y/N. I've wondered why did you want to paint me?" He asked after swallowing the food. "I'm a broken scientist, surely you could do better with your models."

"I am doing better." You pulled a chair for yourself. "I haven't had any inspiration in a very long time, despite being commissioned to paint fairly simple things. But then I saw you, and everything changed. Like it or not, Viktor, you became my muse that day."

"Well, I'm flattered. Truly." He winced at the weight of his brace around his calf. "I need to take this off. Too tight." Viktor bent over but his vision blurred, forcing him to lean back in the chair.

"I'll do it."

"Please, I don't need pity. Just to rest." He scoffed.

"It's not pity, it's help."

"Help because you pity me." 

"Help because I want to help. Have you never experienced honesty from people?" You kneeled down between his legs to get a better look at his brace.

His jaw clenched at the sight of you like that. It has been too long since he touched someone, and although your intentions were pure, he could not block his sinful thoughts from tainting his mind. You were beautiful, clever, and you shouldn't waste your time with someone like him. Yet there you were, nimble fingers working the leather straps of his brace. You pulled it off, resting it against the table behind you.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" You looked up at him, and he drowned in your doe eyes.

Oh, there were plenty of things you could do for him, he just couldn't utter them, only imagine them.

"No, I'll just rest here if that's alright with you." Viktor nodded.

"Very well. I shall get back to my painting, but please, if you need any help, tell me."

When Jayce returned, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You were meticulously combining colours, eyeballing the necessary amount you needed to create the shades you desired. Viktor was back at his table, brace around his leg and a chair closer to him. And it was quiet, normal.

Days of hard work proved fulfilling — you had finished the landscape of Piltover, handed the portraits to each councillor, and got paid. There were other requests that you received, but they could be postponed. You were so close to finishing Viktor's portrait, and you didn't need to do it in his lab anymore, only adding minor details.

But you couldn't just gift it unframed, and so you bought a simple wooden frame that you painted yourself to match the portrait. Purple and golden. You signed it and added something only the Academy of Arts in Ionia taught — a magical rune. Focusing your intentions in it, visualising the magic in the painting, you wrapped the canvas and took it to the laboratory. 

Jayce wasn't there, and you were so grateful for that, because you wanted Viktor to see it privately. You wanted to cherish that moment, just the two of you. Opening the tall wooden doors that you were so familiar with, you walked into the lab, portrait in your hands. Viktor was shocked to see you look so well put together — a dark green dress and heels that clicked with each step on the cold stone floor. He had seen you at your worst, face covered in paint and fingertips darkened by coal and graphite. But now he had the privilege to see you at your best, he thought. 

"It is done." The smile on your lips was contagious. 

His long fingers touched the twine knot around the canvas, almost afraid to untie it and look at the portrait, but your encouraging, eager eyes stopped him from hesitating. Viktor pulled on the string and unwrapped the paper, looking at himself. But he was different. His hair was longer, silver mixed in his brown locks. A purple cloak was wrapped around him, with golden adornments, and his cane was a staff, the handle circular and matching the golden in his outfit. The dark background was lightened by pale yellow shapes and lines, and his eyes were identical, the same amber hues he saw when he looked in a mirror.

"Have you thought of a name?" Viktor asked, still shook by how beautiful he was in that portrait.

"The Herald." You nodded.

The painting belonged in a museum, not in his bedroom to collect dust. He examined every detail, even the frame that was in harmony with him. Was that how you saw him? Like a god?

"I honestly don't know what to say. It's beautiful." Viktor's eyes narrowed down on the small rune in the corner of the canvas. "What is that?"

"Magic." You grinned. "At the Academy they taught us to weave magic into our art."

"Magic? What for?"

"Hopefully to help you get better."

"I'm afraid that is impossible, Miss Painter. But I do appreciate the thought." Viktor offered you a bittersweet smile. "How may I repay you?"

"By doing me the honour of modelling for me." You folded your arms across your chest.

"Didn't I just do that?" He snorted.

"No, you worked. I would like to study you more. Your features are unique, Viktor."

"That one I have never been called. Weak, broken, handicapped, but unique is a new one." Viktor sighed. "I think you've had enough fun, Miss Painter. I won't be an object of mockery."

You were stunned. Did he honestly think you were making fun of him? That you spent countless days and nights painting him just to ridicule him? That you lost sleep and hurt your fingers just to insult him? No. He was insulting you.

"Very well." You straightened your posture. He was not about to wound your pride. "Good luck with your work, Mr. Scientist."

[duckdotimg]

Said I would post them eventually, and here they are... my for-fun redesigns of the main Replikas with see in game, Elster and Ariane being the primary focus of course

If you are curious about my general thoughts and on why I did this fun little thing, and my personal criteria doing it, feel free to read below!

Let me just say that I love Signalis to bits. It has a beautiful, heart-wrenching story. But - and this is just my personal opinion, and without any animosity truly - the style of the cutscenes (not the 3D in-game style or the models) is not my cup of tea. It's just my taste. My personal style just cannot accomodate that kind of stylization anymore, and even if I tried I couldn't draw the replikas as they are in game for the life of me. That said it's still a beautiful game. So if I draw more fanart (which is likely), I will probably use these designs.

Analyzing the approach I took when doing these redesigns:

I wanted the Replikas to have a clear correlation between each other, while still being unique in small ways besides hair, body and armor. This resulted in trying to instill diversity in their faces by making their noses reminisce the beaks of the birds they are named after.

All of the replikas, as you may notice, have much more practical hair. No bangs in front of the face anymore. Personally I think Elster, Starling, and Ara units especially should not have bangs - because of the kind of tasks they are committed to by design. It could hinder their efficiency in carrying out their work - so, no bangs for anyone.

I have given them all top surgery (joke). No faux-boobs except the Eule. The reasoning is the same as above: they are simply not practical! The only exception are the Eule, because...

...I am bad at wording things but to me it's because Eule in concept are supposed to evoke also, besides other things, a 'feminine' gender normativity with them being the main workforce of the Nation but also cooks, teachers, etc (jobs that in our real world, for many years, were relegated to 'only women'). This also reflects to how I have given Eule shinier lips, a fuck-ass bob (middle part to evoke the shape owls have) and (optional) eye make-up.

On a cosmetic note, Stars have white hair tips as a way to more directly pay homage to their avian namesake. And it looks cooler (imo).

Storches and Kolibri have eye make-up/"war paint" and they're meant both to evoke a further feeling of authoritarianism and to intimidate other replikas or gestalts into complying with their orders. For Storches I was inspired particularly by the face make-up used in a certain scene in Suspiria (the 2018 Guadagnino reimagining), and not just for cosmetic reasons! Kolibri's are more generally inspired by the hummingbird's actual appearance.

Ara's grease marks are reminiscent of the pattern usually found on macaws' faces! Not all of the Ara's dirt looks this precise, but well, I thought it would be a fun touch.

Noted before in my previous fanart posts but Ariane is decidedly more sickly-looking but with an extra step. While Elster loves Ariane very much no matter how she looks, I think before the ending of the game she still has an 'idealized' version of her in her mind, albeit still a sick-looking one: long haired Ariane. In my idea the further you get to the end of the game, the more Ariane in the flashback flashes looks how she actually is - hairless, with missing teeth, and extremely irradiated.

Are these like, headcanons I think everyone should adopt when drawing replika and/or ariane...Honestly no idgaf... Just do what you want... I just liked coming up with these and wanted to explain my thoughts. Again I love Signalis and regardless what I think or not of the official style of it, love is love. What else is there to say about it. You should draw these fucked up lesbians however the hell you want which includes meeee and I'm exercising the right to do so

Maybe I'll also draw Adler, Falke and Mynah in the future but they're not here because by principle there is not much I would change about their designs. I have a vision for Falke which is not as drastic as these I drew for now. For sure I'll eventually draw my own ideas for the other gestalts in the story, but I'm gonna take a break and go back to OC stuff now 👍

If you read till here you are nuts and I love you. Let's all get ice cream together

[psuedofolio]

I've been continuing my quest to draw 100 different characters, once a day every weekday and a couple weeks ago was like... "Girls and Mecha" week. And I tried each time to have like... a different take on the theme but would still have certain similar aesthetics. With the exception of the "school girl" the other machines were inspired more with industrial or construction machines.

So like... here's a power loader type mech. And a power armor type design. Then there was like... a mecha pilot but all she got was a roomba. Then there was the "pilot" and there was the girl that is actually the mech for a tiny robot. Was fun!

I had this whole lore where it was some corporation fighting some future union rebels on some space planet. Maybe I'll expand more on that someday.

EDIT: It occurs to me I should probably include the flavor text from when I tweeted these out. I'll put them in the same order as the images here:

"You know Kimmie, from the loading docks? Yeah she took to the Pile Bunker like a champ. You should see her tear open the corpo APCs."

2. "The off world colony workers repurposed the excavator suits into mobile armor frames. Corporate needs you to shut this down, now."

3. "The workers at the BIG PLANT found a little creative solution for taking their work with them while moving through and monitoring the factory floor. They've taken to personalizing their "Desk-bas" thinking of them like their own little mecha."

4. "The Cortex Walker, inspired by some particularly cruel science fiction, was Corporate's latest attempt to demoralize the rebel factions. While impractical from a mechanical perspective, the psychological impact of firing on captured allies could not be understated."

5. "My Best Friend is An Alien (and Unfortunately That's my Type!)"

[wanderingsoul6261]

Credit for gif goes to galactic-marvelettes

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Synopsis: Reader works at the Hard Deck and is married to a mister Seresin. She likes keeping their relationship under wraps, only a certain few people knowing. Jake talks her into meeting the rest of the squad.

warning: swear words. about it.

its my first time writing for the bunch, so let me know how I did! I want to do more for Hangman and even some for Rooster in the coming future.

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"Wife." Y/N turned her head, lifting her eyes from the glasses she was currently wiping down. Her movements faltered, seeing Jake leaning against the bar, forearms resting on the countertop with that trademark smirk of his on his face.

"Husband." She tilted her face back towards the cup, putting it down and reaching for another. Her eyes moved back to his, unable to stop the weak feeling she got in her knees from seeing his face. The confident look on his face, his smile, the twinkle in his eyes as he stared at her. A man smitten.

"If it isn't lover boy." Both Jake and Y/N turned their attention to Penny. She held a knowing smirk on her face, one that was tossed back over her shoulder as she refilled Maverick's glass.

"You have him smitten." Mav pointed at the two, a teasing smile on his face as Jake rolled his eyes, turning his attention from the three of them and back to the rest of the Daggers. They had pretended to keep themselves busy with a game of pool, but he had known better. They were watching and waiting, to see what Jake would do and what the outcome of why he came over here would be.

Y/N turned her attention from the older couple, and back to Jake, who once again had his perfect brown eyes on her. A knowing smile settled on her face, an eyebrow raised.

"Talk about me at work?"

"Just to Mav. He caught me staring at a photo of you that I keep in my flight vest." He shrugged, tapping his fingers against the counter. "He pestered me until I said something. But I'm sure he knew about you before that." Jake looked pointedly at Penny, who pretended to look guilty as she filled drinks for more customers.

"May or may not have." She spoke. Y/N only rolled her eyes before she turned back to Jake, who was still staring at her as if she hung the stars in the sky and pulled the sun and moon into position each night,

"Hey." He spoke softly. A sound so soft and quiet that she could barely hear him over the chatter and music filling the bar.

"Hey." Her voice came back just as soft. "What are you doing over here? Need a drink for you and the squad?" Y/N asked, already moving to grab some glasses.

"I still have a full glass over at the table sweetheart. I'm over here before the squad, particularly because the Chicken and Baby on Board saw me looking at you." A soft hum escaped her lips.

"Rooster, I understand. But Bob?" Jake talked about the squad enough that she was still able to learn decent amount of the group. Their ups and downs, their ticks, personality, the rivalry between Rooster and Jake that seemed a little bit more laxed after Jake saved him and Maverick in their most recent mission.

Jake nodded, letting out a huff of a laugh.

"Exactly!"

"Damn. You are smitten." She teased him. "Bob is slow on the draw sometimes. But if he noticed." A low whistle filled his ears.

"When I got you to look at doll, I can't help it." To provide emphasis, his eyes rolled over her body, stopping for a long minute on the slight bump of her stomach, his expression proud and adoring. The twinkle was present in his eyes again, a hum of appreciation for her filling his throat as he took in the sight before him.

"Hey casa nova." His eyes moved back to her face, a smirk present as he flashed her a cheeky smile. Shrugging, he leaned further against the counter.

"Yes, doll?" he asked, his eyelashes fluttering innocently.

"They're watching us." Jake turned around, not so subtly, in a way that had Y/N mentally slapping her forehead. The couple watched as his squad scrambled to get to their game of pool, making it seem as if they weren't paying any mind to the two. "Made a bet with me to get to your number."

"Can't have it. Already taken." A small smile pulled at her lips.

"Damn. He must be one lucky guy." He teased, playing along, turning to look back at her.

"No." She shook her head. "She's the lucky one." His smile grew to match hers as the two stared in silence at each other for several moments.

Y/N watched as his fingers tapped against the bar, knowing the cogs were turning in his head as he glanced back briefly again to watch his friends. When he finally turned back around, she was waiting. She knew that he had something that he wanted to ask.

"Lay it on me."

"Meet them."

"Jake-"

"Sweetheart." He cut her off, hands on the edge of the counter as he peered across the counter at her. Jake took in her expression, knowing that they have had this conversation one too many times and he always knew where it ended up. "We've been together for almost as long as I've known them, and you still haven't met them." he reasoned gently. Y/N knew he was right. He knew all of her friends, but she had yet to spend the time to meet his.

"I like the idea of it being just us." She said quietly, the wedding band hanging around her neck suddenly cold against her warm skin.

"It won't just be us soon." his fingers motioned subtly to her stomach and the slowly growing bump. "And I want them to know both you and the little bun in the oven." She grimaced.

"Why call the baby that?" Y/N asked, a giggle escaping her lips.

"First thing that popped in my head." Jake shrugged, his attention solely on her. Not even when another slightly buzzed patron bumped into him. His attention never wavered, even as said patron apologized before they ambled away. "I want them to meet you before the baby comes. And then I want them to meet the baby. I want them to know what has me all happy and giddy even as a long day of physical and mental activity awaits us." Y/N bit her lip, eyes moving across his face, taking in the tiny blemishes that dotted his skin. The way his brow furrowed slightly as he waited for a response, eyes slightly hopeful that maybe her hesitance was a way of telling him that she was thinking about it, and she was. Y/N knew that at the very least, she had owed him this.

"I'll think about it." She spoke, her hands settling on the counter not too far from his own. It was a yes, and she told herself so, she just wanted to keep Jake on his toes.

"Thank you, sweetheart." Jake's voice was filled with hope as his fingers moved to softly brush against her own. He seemed hesitant himself to move from his spot, but eventually pulled away, moving to go back to his squad mates. Y/N watched him go, knowing that the squad was watching her. They spoke a few words to Jake, pointing not so subtly at her, and she watched as he turned around, catching her staring. He winked at her, and she gave a sheepish grin, her cheeks growing hot as she turned around to see Penny and Mav looking at her.

"Going to finally meet them?" Penny asked. Y/N nodded.

"Don't worry. They're a good bunch." And despite all that she has heard, with rivalries and competition amongst the group, she knew that Maverick was telling the truth.

----

Pheonix was the first to notice Y/N advancing towards them. Her elbow bumped into Coyote's ribs, motioning to her as Y/N's expression focused on Jake. Rooster, who was waiting patiently for Jake to take his next shot, glanced briefly over at Pheonix and Coyote, who had their attention focused on the other end of the pool table. His eyes followed, lips attaching to his pint of lager, homing in on the woman from the bar, the very same one they all made a bet with Jake too get her number. He seen her and choked, the lager going down the wrong side and he slammed the pint down, startling Jake and causing him to screw up his shot.

"Fuck. Seriously?" Jake threw a hand up, his pool stick resting against him as he turned to Rooster. When he realized that everyone was focused on something else, he moved his gaze to follow, lighting up almost instantly when he saw his wife standing and staring at him from the other side of the pool table. His smile grew across his face as he leaned his pool stick against the table, before walking around towards her.

Their eyes followed each other, knowing that the Dagger Squad were indeed watching them both intently.

"Hey."

"Hey." They spoke softly, almost falling into a fit of giggles as Jake pulled her into him, arms wrapping around her waist, hands settling on the small of her back as his lips found hers. The kiss was soft and gentle, everything the two felt crumbling into the kiss. A chair fell over behind Jake and a collective "holy shit" could be heard, while a "What the fuck." could be heard from Rooster.

Y/N laughed against his lips as Jake covered her body from prying eyes, his lips moving to her cheek, down her jaw, and pressing against the shell of her ear.

"Ready to meet them?" He asked, pulling away from her slightly, giving her one last chance to change her mind.

"I should have met them a while ago." She responded with a soft smile, earning several chaste kisses from Jake, laughing in response before he moved to stand next to her, arms moving to pull her against his chest, allowing her to lean back comfortably.

Everyone was staring at them expectantly.

"Dagger Squad. Meet my wife. Wife, meet Dagger Squad."

"What the fuck!" Rooster exclaimed. "Bagman, you have a wife? Where's the rings?" He motioned to their ring fingers, and the lack of said accessory.

"Going on how long doll?" Jake asked, tilting his head slightly to see her face, his hands grasping the chain around his neck, pulling it up and out from his uniform, revealing his wedding ring, his eyes moving as he watched Y/N follow his same movements.

"8 years?" She looked deep in thought. "No,nine." she confirmed, her hands rubbing his own settled on her growing stomach. The group broke into hysterics, mostly amongst themselves, trying to figure out who all could have known or why they never caught on to it.

"Rowdy bunch they are." She said quietly, watching them all. Jake let out a hum and Y/N felt his chest rumble against her back.

"But they are a good one. How was work?"

"It was great. I got to look at this handsome guy all night."

"Should I be worried?" Jake asked, a grin on his face.

"Nah, he's married. He thinks he is the lucky one, but honestly, she is." Y/N said, hinting at their earlier conversation. Jake laughed, burying his face into her neck as his chest rumbled with laughter.

"Wait! Is she fucking pregnant!" Rooster could be heard again.

"I thought he wasn't the observant one?" she asked, a large grin on her face as she continued to watch the group. Jake could only smile as he pressed his lips to her temple, before he focused his attention back on Dagger Squad.

"Rooster. Phoenix." The two turned their attention to the couple.

"How do you feel about being god parents?" he asked.

"Rooster don't cry."

"I'm not!"