#wren; trapped in you

[kits-ships]

besides holly, i think wren is my most tragic si/oc

not just because she's traumatized by her home life but like.

her fiancé just straight-up canonically dies. even in my au he dies. yeah i could ignore canon and let them live happily but

🔥🤟😈😈😈 the angst 😈😈😈🤟🔥

[taylachan]

Only the freshest memes for MY boneheads  Harrow and Gideon dying in a glue trap (they are cuddling)

[brittlebutch]

catching up on the children's adventure and Eursolon's story is eating away at my insides

[azsazz]

Lips of an Angel (Part 4)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the song ‘Lips of an Angel’ by Hinder. Azriel left you for Elain. After finding out that he has a child he didn’t know about, he’s furious.

**Daddy!Az AU**

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1,805

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

_________________________________________

The glass in his hand is empty again, the bottle next to it too. 

Azriel sits at his desk, thinking about everything that has led up to this very moment: nursing the wounds he’d amassed from Rhysand as well as the full liquor bottle that he kept hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk in a secret compartment where Elain would never notice.

His left eye is swollen shut and throbbing. Bruises and cuts litter his body from the brawl he’d had with his High Lord in his office only an hour ago, over his ex and the fact that she’d had a child and never told him about.

The High Lord still packs a pretty good punch, he thinks as he shifts to pull open another drawer. His entire body aches with each movement but the alcohol has made it a touch easier. He’s burned through most of the bottle with his anger, but he could’ve sworn he had shoved another bottle in there somewhere.

Elain hasn’t arrived yet and he hopes that she doesn’t. Hopes that she doesn’t walk into his home with her striking smile and eager aura. Right now what he needs is to be alone. Alone with his thoughts, in the dark, silent and nurturing like they were when he was a child and his father trapped him in the dungeons.

The age his child is now. Wren. His chest aches an insurmountable amount when he thinks of the child, so much like him despite having never met. Eyes so strikingly similar to his own that Azriel knows you think about him everytime you look at your son. With tiny wings to match and the most stoic face he’s ever seen on a child, there was no doubting that Wren was his.

But you hadn’t even denied it when he asked, couldn’t, and that made him all the more angry at himself. That he had pushed you so far away from him, had hurt you so badly that you didn’t even tell him he had a child? That you had gone so far as to tell the High Lord and the rest of his family but not him?

“I deserved to know about my child,” he screamed into Rhysands face. The bellow was followed by a blow to his jaw, his bones reverberating beneath his skin from the force of it. It had been a long time since they’d come to blows like this, not training, but actually fighting. Azriel thinks the last time they’d had a real argument that had led to injuring each other like this was when they were still learning in the camps and Cassian and Rhysand had teased him, pushed him to his brink before accepting him into their found family.

“And you could have,” Rhys spits back, the utter fury in his voice shaking the paintings on the walls. The High Lord’s power had unleashed then, slamming Azriel back into the wall. His head crashed into the plaster with a harsh thunk and when he blinked the spots from his vision Rhysand was already pouncing towards him, ringed-fist raised. “We all put it together before you ever made a move on Elain. The signs were right there! Think about it! They were right in front of your fucking face and you didn’t even care.”

“Gods,” Azriel groans. He’s been leaning over his chair for far too long and the broken rib his brother had given him makes it hard to breathe.

But Rhysand had been right, all of the signs were there, he was just too infatuated with finding a mate that he overlooked them.

When you’d started having dizzy spells and he’d passed it off as you not drinking enough water, or when you’d told him you missed your cycle, he remembers that like it was yesterday and curses himself for being so dimwitted. 

All of the times you’d tried to cuddle up to him or kissed him just the way he liked but he still pushed you away because it had felt wrong to kiss you back when Elain was standing right over there. He was so busy chasing after Feyre’s middle sister that he didn’t notice your scent shifting, thinking you were coming down with a sickness that would keep you in bed for a day or two so he could have some time with Elain and didn’t have to worry about you finding out.

It was all right fucking there, and he hadn’t been able to see it.

Even when he’d come home to find you sitting in the guest room one night. The door had been cracked open and you’d been sitting on the edge of the bed looking around the room with a look on your face he hadn’t even cared to decipher, but he remembers it now. It was awe, excitement as you clutched your belly, probably thinking to yourself how exciting it was going to be to decorate a room for the babe growing in your belly. But all Azriel had done was pass it off as you starting to realize the distance he was forcing between the both of you and maybe you had decided to sleep in there that night instead of the room you shared.

There is no denying that he’s fucked up. Fucked up to the point of never finding love again. He realizes in this moment how badly he’s treated you, treated the little boy that dons his face and doesn’t even know him. Wren already thinks that Malik is his father, and with the way that the fae male looks Azriel can’t blame him. While you clearly had a type, your current boyfriend doesn’t seem to be as broody or cruel to you as he’d been.

Azriel sighs, saddened by the lack of alcohol he’s hidden in his desk, and sits in self-pity instead.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Azriel wipes his hands on his pants because truly, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

Sitting across the table from you, Malik, and Rhysand was not something he’d ever thought he’d be doing. Let alone being in the same room as you again.

And fuck, you’re as gorgeous as he remembers, even with the guarded way you’re sitting, arms crossed over your chest and your mouth set into a firm line as you stare him down like it’s not fucking burning you up to see him as much as it is for him to see you. 

Rhysand looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. They’ve both healed up due to the nature of their fae healing, but his brother’s glare makes Azriel want to allow the shadows curling around his ankles to shroud him behind their blackness.

And Malik. Malik is here, with his arm around the back of your chair. He’s slid his own closer to yours for comfort, and even the cheerful male he’d seen with his son doesn’t seem so joyful right now. His straight brows are drawn and he keeps glancing over at you in concern. 

Azriel can’t even find it in himself to hate the male. The one who’s taken care of you, of his son all of these years he’d been so oblivious. He wants to hate him with the fires of a thousand autumn fires, but, after the way that he’s treated you, he can’t help but to feel a little bit grateful for the male.

Wren hadn’t joined you, of course not. Feyre had taken him and Nyx down into the Rainbow for an afternoon art class followed by the most ice cream they could even imagine. Normally, you wouldn’t allow Wren so many sweets, but he’s been more than stressed lately with the information of seeing his birth father, and you’ve been trying to help him work through his own feelings on the matter.

Feyre even helped place Wren into an art therapy course with one of her good friends. Everett owns the studio next door and you’ve heard nothing but the best about the therapist. She’s been a light in Wren’s life as of late, and he seems to be responding well to the therapy. So well that he’s mentioned he might be open to meeting Azriel one day.

Today is not that day.

He doesn’t know what to say. His throat is clogged with years worth of emotions. Azriel prides himself on his cool, calm exterior, but right now, there’s none of that front on display. His palms are slick with sweat, leg jerking up and down to try and dispel some of the anxiety wracking his body. It’s no use at all.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he starts, and it’s more than a little awkward. He watches you and Rhysand share a glance and deflates in his chair. He’s more than a fucking prick.

“I’m not doing it for you,” you start, and he’s never heard your voice so cold. “I’m doing this for Wren.”

Azriel looks up at the sound of his son’s voice. There’s a hopeful note in his golden eyes that you don’t want to diminish, even if there’s still a sting as you’re reminded when his eyes had lit up like that at the sight of you. Your hands fall from where they’re crossed across your chest as the dread settles in, and you can’t seem to fight the tingling of your sinuses. You don’t love him anymore, but seeing him so often after years spent apart brings the feelings of everything he had done right back. 

Sensing your shifting emotions, Malik drops his hand from the back of your chair to your lap, threading his fingers through yours. Azriel’s shadows relay the way that you cling to his hand tightly, and he shifts in his seat.

He watches the way that your eyes go glossy, unfocusing from his and he knows that Rhysand is speaking to you, mind-to-mind. Azriel is sure that his brother is doing his best to reassure you, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. It should have been him reassuring you. It should have been him by your side all of this time.

Just the thought of Elain pains him. Everything that he has fucking done to you because he thought that he wanted her plays over and over and over again in his head. He will never forgive himself for any of this, but the road to making things up to you, up to his son, starts now.

Rhysand takes the reins of the conversation, and Azriel doesn’t like the way that he’s looking at him like any one of his courtiers, hands folded together as they sit on the table. 

He’s even wearing his crown.

“Wren has decided that he wants to meet you. Properly, this time.”

The floor falls out from under Azriel’s chair.

[luveline]

Hi babe! Not sure how you feel about writing ab parents so feel free to ignore, but had an idea for kbd au if Steve’s parents tried to contact him/get into their lives and he’s all like stay away from my kids

kisses before dinner —steve has a tense relationship with his parents. mom!reader, 1.5k

The girls haven't seen their grandparents for… a while. 

Steve's dad always has something to say about his life. How he's thrown everything away being a stay at home dad, or how idiotic it was to stay with you. The latter was enough for Steve to want to cut contact initially, but you convinced him not to do it on your behalf. 

Steve, pretty much everyone we knew thought I was baby trapping you, you'd said. 

Well, he'd said, attempting to lighten the mood, little do they know I baby trapped you. 

Damn. Wanna do it again?

So it was funny. His parents didn't like you but they hardly liked him, he didn't mind —he was so fucking angry because who the fuck did they think they were, how could they look at you and not love you, you, in what world was it possible?— and he put up with their passive aggressive Christmas cards and their sparing visits, but then his mom took it too far. 

He can remember it word for word. “Beth, honey,” his mom had said, her nose stuck in its permanent wrinkle, “why are you eating it like that? What do your friends at school think?” 

“Mom, don't,” Steve had butt in. Beth didn't even go to school at that point. 

“She's such a weird kid,” she said, shaking her head. 

Some could argue it was fond or that she didn't mean anything by it, Bethie is very unique sometimes, but Beth turned her face to her dad with crestfallen eyes, as heartbroken as Steve had ever seen her before, and asked, “I'm weird?” 

Steve doesn't remember the last time he spoke to his mom. A year ago at least. 

He does miss her. But he doesn't really know her, never has, and he'd choose Beth over her without a thought. It would take a hundredth of a millisecond to decide. 

That's why seeing her is a shock. He's going to see her, they live in the same town —you bumped into her a few weeks ago and had to give her the rundown. Everyone's okay. Yeah, we had another baby, she's doing great. 

Steve had blown up at her. The girls had never seen him that angry in their lives and they haven't seen it since, and the gap is impassable. 

Or so he thinks. 

“Steve!” He tenses up. “Steve, honey!” 

He can't decide what to do. He can't exactly run away; Bethie and Dove sit knee to knee in the shopping cart, Avery has her hand in his pocket, and Wren is strapped to his chest. Running would leave at least one girl behind, and where would he go? The frozen food aisle?

“Oh, it's grandma,” Avery says. “She looks… old.” 

“She is old,” he says, turning reluctantly on the spot to watch his mother rush past a stack of cans of carrots. “She's ancient.” 

“Steve, baby.” His mom stops in front of him, more flustered than he knew she could get back, struggling to maintain a sense of casualness. “How are you? Girls? It's been so long.” 

Steve doesn't have an inkling of an idea of what to say. He's not mad anymore, but he knows she'll never change, and he knows that your family is a hundred times happier without worrying what grandma and grandpa think of you. “We're perfect,” he says. 

“And this is baby Wren?” 

Steve grimaces. “Yeah, this is Wren.” 

She's only three months old but she has a good weight to her, and she's brilliantly healthy. She blinks at the woman in front of her without recognition, her dark lashes a thick hedging. She's a beautiful baby. 

“She looks like you again, Steve.” 

“Yeah, my girl's good at having babies, but she hasn't mastered the mixing process,” he jokes without thinking. Love for you falls off the tongue. 

His mother has the sense to make herself laugh. “Where is Y/N?” she asks. 

“Mom went back to get milk!” Avery says. 

“Yeah? And how are you, sweetie?” 

Steve clears his throat. He understands what she's trying to do, but he remembers Beth's crushed face and he can't abide this shit again. I believed you when you said I wasn't good enough, he'd said, he'd shouted, his voice hoarse with it as you’d wrapped a hand around his wrist arm, but I will not let you do it to them. It's not happening, mom, I won't let it. You don’t get to say that to her.

“Steven…” 

“Mom, we have to get going.” 

“I said I was sorry,” she says. 

“But you weren't.”

“Steve–” She doesn't look a thing like her son beside the similar way they begin to cry, that frown, “Please, I know I'm not perfect, we don't have to pretend I've– I'll hold my tongue. I just want to see my grandkids. I've never even held her.” 

Steve covers the back of Wren's head with his hand, her baby hair soft as down. The girls are being remarkably quiet, beside Dove, who's whispering, “Who is that?” to Bethie in her clumsy toddler drawl. 

“That's gran'ma,” she whispers back. 

Steve's mom is, at the end of the day, their grandma. And she sucks and she doesn't deserve anymore chances, and the girls are better off without her for the majority, but… 

Steve screws his eyes shut. Don't make me regret this, he thinks. 

“I just want to speak to them,” she says. 

“Alright,” he says quietly, covering Wren's ear. “Alright, mom, fine, but this is it. This is your chance. If you ever upset or insult one of my kids again, we're done. We will never, ever speak again. You won't see them, and you won't see me. I'm serious.” 

“I'm sorry,” she says again. 

“Fine.” He pulls the strap off of Wren's harness and shushes her gently as she protests, lifting her out of his arms into his mom's. She doesn't have time to decide if she's ready. This is how it's going to be. “Her head.” 

“I know how to hold a baby,” she says. 

You come around the aisle slowly, a little wince to your step, some residual tightness in your hips as you recover postpartum, but the frown you wear slips into surprise. “Terri?” 

You save Steve and take the reins, suffering a conversation on your pregnancy, birth, and Wren's first weeks of life as Steve takes a breath. His heart races, adrenaline and a sticky, icky feeling in his chest as he watches his mom. He doesn't know if he's doing the right thing. His arms ache to steal Wren back. 

It ends in an invitation for dinner. Whenever you're free, whatever you want, Steve's mom offers. 

He's glad to see the back of her. 

You put the milk carton in the cart and touch his elbow. “You okay?” He hums. Your hand moves up to his face, cupping his cheek. “She makes you so mad, babe. Do you need a second?” 

“I think I'm pissed because…” He glances down at Wren, who's happier now she's in familiar hands. “I didn't realise she was a shitty mom. I knew we didn't get along, the same with my dad, but I didn't know…” He sighs. 

“It's okay,” you say, giving him a gentle squeeze before Dove demands you pick her up. You do it unthinkingly, and that's why he's mad. 

“I know what a good mother looks like,” he says. “I know how hard it is. And I know she didn't even try.” 

You're all sympathy, looking like you wanna wrap him up in a cuddle in the middle of the grocery store. “You deserved better. It makes me angry too.” 

“Are we going to dinner?” Beth asks. 

“What, with grandma?” Avery asks. 

“Not right now,” Steve says. 

“Good,” Dove says decidedly, wrapping her arms around your neck to hug you, squishing your cheeks together. “Cocoa?” 

“Cocoa? You want hot cocoa?” you ask, pleased. 

It breaks his heart thinking about himself as a kid. He knows there weren't any moments like this, no soft touches or sweet treats that weren't begged for. You don't even think about saying no. 

“And marshmallows,” you croon, rubbing the little space between her shoulders. “And we'll have to get a cinnamon roll too, for your sister. How does that sound, Beth?” 

Beth doesn't like hot cocoa but she loves cinnamon rolls these days, and she nods her head exuberantly. As quick as that, the girls forget their grandma's interruption, and Steve tries his best to put it out of his mind. Family is messy, and it's harder now he has to make decisions for all of them, but he has you. His support beam, his sweetheart, you put Dove on your hip and sew your arm loosely through his. Tonight he'll talk your ear off about things you know already. You'll listen without complaint, stroking his hair back from his forehead if you have a free hand. His family growing up wasn't worth calling a family half the time, just three people connected by blood and a shared house, but the family he has today takes the cake. There's no competition. 

[shygirl4991]

Mini Arc

wow alright here we are never thought i be sitting here writing my thoughts on the mini arc in public but i feel it needs to be talked about. The mini arc was bad and mess along with being so rushed. We have a lot of build up on how scary mr puzzle is, there was a whole mystery i felt the build up was amazing but after the movie puzzle vision we sank hard. He isnt scary and every time they go oooo its gonna be a spooky one well its not its just super goofy and nothing like they advertise These are just my thoughts personally on how this mini arc went your all free to enjoy the arc and such im not here to tell you what to like.

ONE HE RETURNED TO SOON while there was hints that mr puzzle wasn't defeated at the end of the movie let it cook, they hinted on twitter he be back way to soon. Not to mention no build up for his return just hey mario found him, but like shouldn't Mario be aware of what Puzzle head looks like? Shouldn't we have characters get over what just happen with the movie, we move past that so fast. TWO WHAT IS THE PLOT? There was nothing done with Puzzle the whole time he showed up and vanish till for some weird reason smg4 made the meme factory. Which why the hell does he need that? He is a youtuber and doesn't need people to come visit the grounds. Are we also not gonna talk how SMG4 just used Meggy when she got turned into Leggy ALL THEY HAD TO DO TO FIX HER WAS A MUSHROOM?!?!

With all the questions we already have i feel we should focus on those mystery's or have mr puzzle pretend to be the good guy then back stab them for the comedy zone. It just felt all to sudden and random that i have no idea what the hell just happen? At least i guessed that you can turn views into stars with shadow vision (when you guess things in the series by writing fan fiction lol weird)

THREE QUESTIONS WE HAVE IN THE AIR

how did pv get a eldritch keyboard when he cant do powerful things without five stars?

how did he get the VR stuff to trap the crew for weeks in this world for wren?

Is there a reason PV wanted smg4 to buy the showgrounds?

whats the deal with that sealed up door?

will the second floor ever be done?

what is the point of clench?

What happen to his motivation of being an entertainer? ( like it just changed to rule the world? or maybe get revenge on mario?)

What is channel 999?

what is the tv world and the hell is pv powers?!

why do the leggys multiply?

why is mr puzzle being force to have a change of heart so soon because of leggy?

mr puzzle could have a change of heart but again it felt to rush.

idk i just feel the writers didnt know where to take this mini arc since we already have so much build. Hell we dont even talk that Peach is a eldritch monster, we just ignore the pit for now i guess? Any who that was my ted talk thank you for ready <3

[villainofmyownstory]

Three copies and some signatures

Simon/Reader/(Johnny)

I don't know I don't have an idea for a title, so I wrote anything. I know some people are waiting for the next part of Day Zero, I'm slowly writing the next chapter but need more time, but don't worry I didn't abandon it! I was motivated to write this thing by anon's shitty ask to @/rememberwren about “too many fics about Ghoap” lmao . So I also wrote something about Ghoap. Because WHY NOT? Aaaaand if you don't know Wren's wonderful work leave everything and go and read it -> HERE <3

I would like to write the next parts, but I can't promise anything.

tags: angst, hurt no comfort

don't know how to tag :< let me know what to add

______________________________________________________________

Of course it had to end this way.

It was more than certain that you would end up in this place eventually. With sweaty hands and a heart that was beating too fast and heavy. Your heart rate increased and your breathing quickened. Drops of sweat appeared every now and then on your heated forehead and you tried again and again to wipe them off. To dry your shiny skin at least for a while. At least look a little presentable.

The crumpled white shirt no longer looked like the one you had ironed for over an hour. Now crumpled and stained, it carelessly hugged your curvy body.

The chair creaked with your every move. Nervously every now and then you change positions as if at least the comfort of sitting would improve your situation.

More minutes pass and the door in front of you is still closed. The paint on them is coming off in some places, revealing the banal light-colored plywood. The entire anturage of this building cries out for renovation.

Despite the well-paid work of the people who work here, the base looks as if its glory years are long behind it and there are no funds to even refresh the walls. It's as if for at least 20 years no one has noticed the cracked walls, the paint falling off or the crooked fine wooden chairs.

Maybe it's just appearances.

You shift in your seat again. The creak of the wooden chair echoes through the empty and cold corridor. Despite the early hour of the day and the sun outside the windows, everything inside seems harsh and unfriendly. To your relief there are not many windows so the prevailing semi-darkness makes you feel marginally more at ease. At least a little anonymity. Maybe the small number of people who passed you walking through the corridor with a quick step won't remember you and when you leave these walls after all, no one will ever shout after you on the street. They won't associate you with this place. With him.

Only when that happens. When this hell will finally come to an end. How long will it be when you are free again? Because every doorbell ringing, every unfamiliar number on screen or finally an unfamiliar customer at work looking at you for too long. It won't all cause that nervousness, that cursed lump in your throat and more gray hairs on your head. Every fucking minute spent in fear.

Someone will finally find out.

Reasons.

Everyone has some. Everyone has a story, some problems, something that makes them look for solutions. The question is whether it was worth it to risk so much. Whether committing a crime was worth it to choose to live here. To continue living in this country.

To be alive.

In the distance you can hear someone's conversation, laughter interspersed with words. Empty corridors carry sounds that ring in your ears, but everything blends into an incomprehensible cacophony of sounds. Into one piece.

You know that resounding, hearty laughter well.

You have heard it many times.

The melody, once heard, is forever imprinted in your memory.

Rhythmically approaching footsteps, voices are getting louder. Two people.

They are close.

The danger makes you feel trapped. Like an injured prey caught in a trap on a hunt.

You nervously look around looking for any way to escape. However, the only way to get out of this place is through this damn corridor, the direction from which you hear the approaching voices.

Panic grips your body and mind, many thoughts appear one second not allowing you to focus and remain rational.

He is about to be right here.

As you involuntarily bite your lower lip and try not to sob, the door finally opens.

A tall and muscular man stands in the doorway, illuminated by the light from the room, like a knight on a white horse with a friendly and affable smile. He greets you and says your name. His name. 

Finally, he invites you inside. This time you managed to escape.

Captain Price. This much you know crossing the threshold of this room. In the morning when two sad gentlemen knocked on your door. You expected to be handcuffed, or something else entirely. Something you were being prepared for.  It could always happen. KIA.

And now, sitting in a more comfortable chair than the ones in the corridor, you look at his Captain. A person you knew a lot about, as well as the entire Task Force 141.

After all, you are a good student. You diligently applied yourself to your lessons. You memorized every word.

Every truth and every prepared lie.

Your made-up life.

The captain leans back in his chair still looking at you, despite the stress of the situation a calmness beats from the man.

You expected accusations, shouting, nervousness and humiliation.

Nothing of the sort happens.

“It's good to finally meet you.”

He says, tilting his head gently to the side and grinning at you.

“When Laswell called me and informed me of the situation. Well. It was quite a shock to me. A positive one. But still... it's quite surprising.”

He doesn't finish the sentence because his words are interrupted by a rhythmic and loud knocking.

Damn.

***

Several hours have passed since those events at the base. Despite the fact that there are a few hours left until nightfall, you decide to spend the night in a nearby hotel and return on the next day, in the early morning.

You didn't even wait for the two gentlemen who brought you here.

You rent a car and return on your own.

You borrowed cash from the captain. The meeting at the base was supposed to be a secret, between you and him. No sign of your presence near the base. You couldn't use your credit card.

Another fucking lie in your life.

Or maybe everything else was untrue and what was happening now was reality. The truth you couldn't quite believe.

It wasn't just the frayed nerves of the situation that made you not want to drive today.

There was something else.

Today is Thursday. A day when when he had the opportunity, he called. He was close by, at a nearby training ground with recruiters. So you can certainly expect weekly contact.

The very thought turns your stomach. It was so ridiculous, infantile.

Unnecessary.

When 9pm strikes, as usual, evenly, punctually the familiar ringtone echoes.

You wait.

One-

Two-

Three.

“Hi”

You sit upright on the edge of the hotel bed, squeezing your thighs tightly together. You straighten your back unnaturally pulling your shoulder blades as close together as possible.

Finally, you hear his low voice.

“Hi love”

Love? Huh, that's something new.

“Hi”

You repeat the greeting in a trembling voice. Does he already know about your unannounced visit to the base. Does he know that his captain has finally found out. What if-

“I miss you, so bad.”

At these words you close your eyes.

There's nothing to worry about. A standard fake conversation between two spouses. In case of eavesdropping, in any doubt. At the risk of someone continuing to check up on you.

“I miss you, too.”

you answer with a learned line. As you do every time.

“I'm counting down the days until I see you again, love”.

You hate it. You hate hearing his words. You shiver. Swallowing the incoming tears.

You're unable to utter another theatrical phrase.

When a lie repeated so many times has become the truth for you. When pretending became a natural behavior. How it happened, that something inside you changed.

So pathetic, weak creature.

For the first time, you can't follow the script.

“ 'r you still there?”

The question hangs in the void. It reaches your ears. Further learned words, however, are blocked inside you.

You open your eyes and your gaze drifts to the floor, to the hotel's dirty carpet. Seconds pass slowly. Each moment makes you feel more and more miserable. You want to throw up.

“I miss you so much, Simon.”

Shit, you're such an idiot.

You quickly hang up, throwing the phone in the sheets and running to the bathroom.

Falling in love wasn't part of the contract.

***

He shouldn't smoke.

He quit exactly when he met you. That September night.

Now, standing behind one of the barracks leaning against a cold wall, he looks up at the same sky. Looking for what you were looking for then.

The sky is dark and cloudy.

“LT?”

He is pulled from his musings by a whisper. Such a familiar voice.

“Where are ya? Come back here, I'll freeze my balls off, if- ”

“I'm comin' , Johnny.”

Crushing the cigarette butt under his military boot, Ghost takes one last look at the sky.

No star. That night he sees none. There's nothing special.

As he enters the room, the small light of the nightstand illuminates the familiar room. When the door slams behind him, in this safe space, he pulls off his mask and walks over to the bed.

Shaking slightly, Johnny sits down on his bed, rubbing his bare shoulders in an effort to warm himself.

“You quit smokin'. ”

A dry statement, Johnny says the words and looks reproachfully at the man standing over him.

Ghost smirks, reaching out his hand to smooth the sergeant's messy hair. Like a tame wild animal. To calm him down. Meticulously styled mohawk was forgotten an hour or two ago.

His hand travels lower to finally stop on the man's jaw and with little force Ghost squeezes his chin, raising it to look him in the eye.

“Behave, Johnny boy.”

“Or what?”

With a cocky grin Johnny asks. He lifts one hand and sticks his fingers in the belt loop of his pants, pulling Ghost closer, so that he's standing between Johnny's legs.

“I don't think you're ready for a second round.”

Finally Ghost pulls away and heads toward the bathroom.

Johnny grunts back.

“I saw her today.”

Ghost stops in mid-step. He stiffens, but doesn't turn toward the man who already regrets his words. There's no going back.

“I want to finally meet her.”

Saying this, he gets up and walks closer. He puts his hand on Ghost's shoulder trying to calm him down. He knows it's too much. Not after what he heard during their weekly conversation.

But a life of lies was destroying him from the inside. He could feel the rot. The stinking evil he felt at every turn. While waking up and falling asleep. It was constantly accompanying him.

No one deserved such cruelty. If he even had to pay for it with his happiness. He would agree without a second thought.

It had gone too far.

“I want to meet your wife, Simon. She needs to know the truth. About all this.”

About us.

______________________________________________________________

English is not my first language, so probably many things are poorly described and the vocabulary is very simple. If you see any mistakes - let me know!

[inkyquince]

Degrees of Lewdity Masterlist

Avery The Businessperson

Revenge (Getting Revenge against Avery for dumping you)

Clingy (Avery becoming clingy)

New Stepdad- (Avery as a stepdad)

Avery's Bitch (Picking out his new dog!reader; Hijacked Post)

Welcome to Avery's Hunt For His Next Sugar Baby (Picking out his sugar baby; Hijacked Post)

Bailey The Caretaker

Simmering- (Lazy Sex with Bailey)

Bailey Black and Blues (Blood play with Bailey)

Things That Go Bump In The Night (Somnophilia with Bailey)

Daddy Dearest (Bailey somnophilia and incest)

Briar The Brothel Owner

Briar, You Dick (PC gets assaulted and Briar fixes their makeup)

His Rings (Briar Hand Kink)

Eden The Hunter

Trapped- (PC caught in Eden’s Snare)

Withered White Roses In The Attic (Classmate! Eden being worse than usual)

Innocent Crush (Eden struggling with a crush on male!reader)

Bitching an Alpha (Eden the alpha bitches a fellow alpha)

Harper The Doctor

Doctor, Doctor, I... I forgot what I'm here for. (Harper hypnotizing and conditioning PC)

The Nasty Next Door (Harper as the Town Yandere)

The Doctor's Needs (Harper being a worse doctor more than ever)

Horny Harper the Hypnotist (Hijacked Post)

New Year's Kiss With Harper

Harper creeping on Hermaphrodite Reader Letter

Kylar The Loner

Peeking Pervert- (Kylar tries to rescue his notebook, just to get an eyeful of his worst nightmare, featuring Whitney.)

Chemist Kylar

Kylar's New Job (Kylar the masseuse)

Kylar Sexting

Kylar Stalker Letter- (Kylar being a nasty)

Kylar Creepy Omegaverse Letter- (Thirsting after Beta Reader)

Landry The Criminal

The Backrooms- (Landry x F!PC)

Leighton The Headteacher

Leighton’s Favourite Videos- (What he loves to watch)

Leighton Thoughts- (Headcannons for Boy toy Leighton)

Dilf Leighton Saga: (The Nanny, Breeding The Nanny)

Maid Service (Leighton finds his new favourite service)

Leighton Sexting

Head boy Leighton (the beginning)

Head boy Leighton and his pet

Introducing Head boy Leighton to your Parents(and the consequences)

Mason The Swim Teacher

The Itch- (Mason Chikan)

Scumbag Mason Thoughts

Prison Guards

Prison Guard Punishment- (Short thing about guards using you)

Method's Weakness (Get Caught riding methodical guard)

Quinn The Mayor

... Quinn tho (THANKS BESTOAN, NOW THAT'S A LAD I'D CLIMB)

Quinn thought- (Based off of bestoan's picture!)

General Quinn Thirst

Remy The Farmer

Liberties- (Remy taking liberties with Wren’s Partner)

Dearest Step-Daddy (Remy adopting PC as revenge)

Remy's Journal (Remy x Cowboy!PC)

River the Maths Teacher

The Pup's Revenge (Dog boy! Reader revenge on River)

Whitney The Bully

Whitney’s Oral Fixation (General Thoughts)

Whitney’s Punishment (Whitney punishing the reader for working at the brothel) 

Tattoo Artist Whitney

Sloppy Sunday (Whitney wakes up with you in his bed)

Jock Whitney- (Jock Whitney thoughts with outcast/cheerleader reader)

You are what you smoke… Fag (Whitney struggling with gay feelings)

Wren The Smuggler

Wren the Terrible Roommate

Wren’s Unionizing Perks (Wren getting to fuck the boss' spouse)

[seraphimcollections]

| gentle giant masterlist |[completed]

Warnings: MDNI NO MINORS -- eventual smut. Mentions of use of guns, violence, blood, torture, kidnapping, angst.

Other tags: fluff, angst, dark fic.

Summary: Wren (reader) tangled herself deep into the webs of General Shepherd's deals, putting not only herself, but her entire team at risk. Her life completely turned upside down, she now must flee in order to survive. Flee into the unsuspected and somehow gentle arms of a certain Austrian colonel.

Other facts: reader is mentioned in second person (you, you're, your's) but callsign is Wren. Reader uses she/her pronouns.

a/n: a big thank you to all who stuck with this series until the very end <333

| Chapter one |

w/c: 2.5 Summary: Captain Price and his Task Force are forced into hiding, becoming unlikely acquaintances with mercenary group known as KORTAC. Through this odd truce between the two teams, an agreement is reached. Protect the asset at all costs.

| Chapter two |

w/c: 3.3 Summary: Your predicament is slowly coming to light and the noose begins to tighten. There isn't much time, but it all seems to slow when you're with him.

| Chapter three |

w/c: 2.3 summary: you weren't always one to open up, especially to a perfect stranger. Even so, it's all out in the open now, and there's no putting it back in its box.

| Chapter four |

w/c: 1.5 summary: Konig and you enjoy each other's company, with as much time you have left.

| Chapter five |

w/c: 2.1 summary: little bird is trapped in the cat's jaws with only one way out - into the belly of the beast.

| Chapter six |

w/c: 4.2 summary: there’s no waiting for when the reaper calls, and Konig’s come to collect.

| Chapter seven |

w/c: 5.2 summary: you had barely made it out alive, but you were somehow alive and miles away from your old life. Miles away from him. It's time to start your life anew, but there was one thing still holding you. And now he was standing in your front yard. Late. [WARNING: MDNI, NSFW]

[dumpster-fire-sapphic-failgirl]

Okay, big spoilers for WBN: WWWO : Ep 33 : The Witness ahead. Only click past the cut if you want spoilers and wild theorizing

There were a lot of big bombshells dropped this episode but I think one of the biggest is that the Stranger is the defacto ruler of Rhuv.

All of the Chalices are sworn to him, through his various guises

The monarchy is “negotiable” according to his lover talking to Ame, at very least implying that it existed only as long as it served him

That same lover stated the mission was “to bring humanity to heel” not just the Citadel or the Empire

Three of the Witches of the Elder Coven have sworn to serve him, we’ll see if that lasts only until the Citadel is uprooted

Wren has long stood in the way of the coven serving The Stranger.

these are all facts from the episode.

Now for some historical facts:

• Eioghorain was at least part of the leadership for a revolution in Gaothmai

• Both Grandmother Wren and Soft and Stone took measures against MiB specifically

• Soft and Stone hunted the League of Whispers

• Stone was loyal to “magic itself”

• Soft freed wrongly imprisoned spirits

• No one has memory of the attack on Suvi’s parents, except maybe Eioghorain

• The Stranger has been “moving upon the world” since the 1650s

• the summer of 1656 was when Suvi’s parents died

• Eioghorain is half spirit

• The curse on Ame smelled of Eioghorain

• The curse on Wren came about from an attack by the Stranger

Now for Wild Speculation™️

Eioghorain has been forcefully possessed by the Stranger since he, along with Soft and Stone, were ambushed in a trap with the purpose of guaranteeing the necessity of destroying the Citadel through war and uniting the world under The Stranger

why do I think that?

Wren has long been the holdout, the thorn in the side of unanimity for the Elder Coven swearing allegiance to the Stranger, believing that a peaceful solution was possible. Soft and Stone were her best chance at having this come to pass. Powerful/loved leaders that respected spirits and magic itself.

Civil war is inconvenient for outside wars. The leadership of Gaothmai wanted Eioghorain out of the way.

The League of Whispers were supposedly working to destroy the Citadel. It is just as likely that they served The Stranger, considering the sad state of the Antivolists as described by Tefmet

My theory is that Eioghorain’s half spirit nature made him the ideal vessel for The Stranger to walk the world (which started in a window of time that covered that summer) and that Rhuv offered to help the Gaothmai leadership remove the largest internal threat to them, and allowed so many factions to take out the two biggest obstacles to a peaceful resolution (or revolution) for the Citadel

That’s why the curse smelled of Eioghorain. His body cast it, if not his will.

Soft and Stone, dead. Maybe at his hands, maybe not (i’ve got a different essay about geas and modify memory and Steel) But the blame on him. Drives another wedge between the Citadel and the world. Gives Steel a reason to never stop the war. And gives the Stranger a body to work his will on the world.

And maybe, to take it over

[kits-ships]

wren's profile

wren's s/i tag: #wren; trapped in you wren's ship tag:#🌙✂️ ; arent you supposed to burn if youre a star?

Name: Wren Devereaux Age: 21 years old Birthday: December 21st, Sagittarius Source: OC Gender: Demigirl (They/She/Xe/It)

Physical Appearance Height: 5'2 Hair Color/Style: Black, long, and messy. Bangs typically parted at the side, but her hair does as it pleases Eye Color: Hazel Other Features: Scars on her face and body. Septum ring, labret, bridge piercings

Background Place of Birth: Oban, Scotland Currently in: Oban, Scotland Family: Father, mother, older brother, older sister Education: High School diploma Occupation: N/A

Personality Strengths: Good sense of humor, adaptable, resilient, observant, resourceful Weaknesses: Pushover, anxious, withdrawn, klutz, hedonistic Fears: Beetles, yelling, wasting her life, confrontation, the future

Interests/Hobbies Activities she Enjoys: Writing stories and journaling, embroidery, knitting Skills or talents: Writing, excels in most academics, swindling her parents Favorite Pastimes: Drinking wine, visiting the lake, playing with her pet snake

Internal Conflict Internal struggles or dilemmas: Mental health, morality, trying not to be like her parents/siblings, has no sense of who they are as a person, eternally lost

External Conflict Obstacles they face: Her family is absolutely awful in most regards, tensions are high everywhere, her fiance dies, she eventually dies too Societal Pressures or Expectations: Arranged marriage, letting her family down, not being allowed to be a child, having their autonomy taken away, everyone assumes she's a prick

Style of Dress Clothing Preferences: All black, turtlenecks, skinny jeans, long skirts, halter + a-line dresses, combat boots Accessories and/or Jewelry: Silver snake ring with white sapphire, random silver and gold bands, black, drawstring backpack

Symbolism/Themes Things Associated with the Character: Silver, lakes, wine, snakes, all black outfits, diaries, dark academia Themes Explored Through the Character's Story: Familial issues, loss of a lover, MDD, lack of autonomy

Picrew Credit: [x] -> [x]

[forwhump]

a/n; I’m sorry I keep posting 😭😭😭 remember when I hated it more than anything ?? now I can’t stop

I actually have a list of requests now (!!!!! 🥹 !!!!!!) & I swear I cross my heart I pinky promise if you asked me for something I WILL post for you !!! if you were kind enough to request smth from me I’ll actually write & post anything you want forever just not chronologically in any form at all, that’s all LOL

I found this first when I was perusing the wren folder so that’s why this one is up but NEXT TIME, next time it will be softer & there will be caretaking I promise

just a little bit of wren’s first night in the district first, that’s all <3 (spoilers : it’s horrible) @ doughnut this one’s for you 😚

tw/cw: kidnapping, captivity, rape, noncon, humiliation, psychological torture, sexual torture, misgendering, transphobia

sexual servant whumpee, creepy whumper

There are a glorious few moments, when Wren first opens his eyes, that he isn’t scared.

He’s in pain — the pain starts before consciousness does. But he isn’t scared. It’s a small mercy.

Instead, he wakes to that pain. Groggy, it’s hard to tell exactly what hurts, a sort of fog much the same as trying to wake from unconsciousness. As he wakes, as the fog of sleep clears, the pain settles and Wren couldn’t tell exactly what was hurting because everything hurts. He groans, and even his jaw hurts. He tries to groan, anyway, but the sound is muffled because he’s gagged, a strip of cloth pulled tight and knotted at the back of his head.

For a second, for a split second, Wren doesn’t really think about it. Still barely conscious, he barely considers the gag, and thinks, instead, of the knot at the back of his head. He can feel where it’s tangled in his hair, tugging at his scalp with each exhale. He’s face down, and as he blinks his eyes open, he doesn’t really notice the concrete, but the sheet of his hair.

Wren doesn’t wear his hair down. Wren hasn’t worn his hair down since he was a very small child, a child beauty pageant queen, and his mother would spend hours brushing and oiling and meticulously braiding it for him. He doesn’t think he’s had a haircut since only a few years after that. By the time he was old enough to decide for himself what to do with his hair, he was proud of it. He has great hair. But he also has really long hair, and it’s a pain in the ass. Really impractical, at times.

This is what Wren thinks about. He doesn’t wear his hair down. Why is his hair down? It’s pooling on the concrete around him, and why would he have —

The concrete?

Everything hurts.

Wren’s gagged.

That’s when he gets scared.

It’s the most scared he’s ever been in his life.

Wren’s been scared before. He would be lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t. He’s never been scared like this. He’s never felt anything like this.

It’s an infection, a parasite that burrows deep into his chest, into his core, and it spreads through him quickly, churning through his bloodstream, just under his skin. He’s shivering, and he doesn’t notice, not right away, that it isn’t only because he’s scared. It’s only when he rolls onto his back that he realizes just how cold it is, so cold his breath clouds the air above him. His hands are tied behind his back, and he traps them against the ground beneath him as he rolls over. It’s why his arms, his wrists, his hands, his shoulders ache — his hands are tied so tightly at his back his fingertips are buzzing with static.

There’s only a single light in the ceiling above him, something fluorescent. Its glow is orange and its flicker, irregular, buzzing with shorted electricity. Something starts to burn low in Wren’s stomach, and the contrast to the cold in here and in his bloodstream is enough to make him gag.

The room is empty, except for him and that fluorescent bulb. It’s concrete on all sides, an empty concrete cell, and the only door is an iron slat carved out of one wall, the bolted, armed doors of a military hanger.

Wren can taste his heartbeat. His hair is down. What the fuck is —

And he can still barely keep his eyes open. Blinking slowly, he braces his hands behind himself and manages to push himself up from the floor, not far but far enough that he can lean heavily against the wall across from that door. His skirt is flouncy, red and white gingham layered with tulle, and it settles in a fan across his lap as he sits up. His eyes close on their own, too heavy to be —

They fly open again just as quickly. His skirt?

No, it’s —

No, he’s not wearing a skirt. It’s a dress, and only then just barely. It’s short, and it’s so tight around Wren’s waist that it hurts, and it hurts a little worse each time he breathes. It’s a child’s dress, and something about that makes Wren more uneasy than anything else. He tries to swallow, and it makes him sob.

He’s wearing cowboy boots. They aren’t his boots.

What the fuck is going on?

It’s so fucking cold.

Wren tries to stand, leaning his weight against the wall, but his legs are shaking too badly and they give out from under him. He falls hard. This time, it has nothing to do with the cold.

He tries to take a deep breath and it catches on something in his throat, something that makes him sob. He isn’t sure when he started crying, but his tears are cool on his face.

What the fuck is going on?

He isn’t so fortunate that he has to wonder for long. Huddled against the wall, shaking so hard he might be pulling himself apart at the seams, Wren cries. He tries to stand, to pull his hands free, to make any sense of his surroundings, and he can’t, and he cries. For a time, the only sounds are the hoarse, panicked hitching of his sobs and the constant, droning hum of the fluorescent bulb above him.

It starts with a chirp, with a weird, technical sort of beep. Wren doesn’t even get the illusion of relief, of somebody coming to his rescue — something is really, really wrong. What’s going on? There’s another beep, then a series of more beeps, and then a sound, through the door, like muffled thunder.

Wren’s heart beats at the back of his throat.

When the door opens, it opens slowly. A man fills the doorway, and he makes Wren’s blood run cold. He looks like something from a nightmare, something so horrible Wren can’t even really fathom him. He doesn’t look real. He can’t be. All black, a monster, the shadow of a monster, except for the cowboy hat, perched low on his head.

For a second, for a naive, blissful second, Wren doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t recognize the dreadful black uniform or the macabre silhouette. He doesn’t remember how limp Robin had been.

Beneath his cowboy hat, he’s wearing a mask. It’s just as dreadful as the rest of his uniform, but when he pulls it down, it’s so much worse.

He knocks the wide brim of his hat up, out of the way, grinning down at Wren. Looking up at him, into his face, at his eyes, it’s like looking into the eyes of a violent animal. There’s nothing human in his eyes. Wren recognizes those eyes.

He lurches without meaning to, pressing himself a little harder into the wall.

There’s an intensity in the way he watches Wren that makes Wren’s stomach bubble, acidic. He grins a little wider, and something in the way it pulls at his face is grotesque. Unnatural. He doesn’t have a human smile, either. “Why, good mornin’, sugar,” he says, and he says it with an equally unnatural twang. Is he mocking him? The dress, and the hat, it’s — “I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

So, this —

This can’t really be happening, right? It isn’t. This is — what is this? What’s — who is this? What is he — gingham. This is — gingham. Why is Wren wearing gingham? What the fuck is happening? This can’t be happening.

The train of thought must show on his face and the soldier doesn’t try to hide how much he loves it. His grin stretches. The way he angles his head is predatory. Something in Wren’s chest gets very, very tight. “Why, shucks,” he mocks. “You’re awful pretty when you’re scared, girl.”

Heat spreads beneath Wren’s face and trickles down the back of his neck. When the soldier takes a step closer, he flinches back against the wall again. He doesn’t mean to. His hands are shaking at his back, trapped against concrete so cold his fingers are starting to numb with it.

There’s an even colder, unfiltered terror in the way his grin is fixed to his face, in the way he isn’t looking at Wren, not really, but at the hemline of the dress. Gingham. He stalks towards him like a predator, and he crouches down in front of him, too close.

He’s big. He’s massive, in fact. Wren’s never been a particularly big guy, but this guy would tower over even Robin, all six feet and three some odd inches of him. His shoulders are probably double the width of Wren’s own. When he crouches in front of Wren, he blocks the light with the bulk of him, and tears blur his silhouette.

When he speaks again, he speaks without twang, but with a smug, probably militant sort of confidence that makes Wren shiver, try as he might to help it, try as he might not to let this man see. “My men call me Point,” he says, and there’s something almost condescending in how he says it. “You will not. You will not speak unless you’re spoken to. If you must refer to me, you will refer to me as daddy. If you disobey, you’ll be punished, cowgirl, and I won’t take it easy on you. I don’t care how purty you are,” and he puts the accent back on. “Y’understand?”

Wren can’t breathe. His chest is too tight. The lump in his throat is too big. The soldier — Point? — looks like he’s expecting an answer, and Wren doesn’t have one. He can’t breathe. Against the wall, he shakes his head.

“No?” Point asks, sickly sweet.

For such a big guy, he’s fast. He grabs Wren by the face, so fast Wren can’t do anything to stop it. He cracks his head back against the wall behind him so hard that for a moment, Wren loses consciousness again.

It’s a glorious moment, but it’s only a moment. When he blinks his eyes open again, Point is leaning in, leaning too close, and the back of Wren’s head is wet. Warm.

“You will behave,” Point warns, and the accent is gone, replaced by something lethal, unamused. “You will do exactly as I tell you, cowgirl, or I will hurt you very, very badly.” Wren makes a soft, involuntary sound, and that grin flickers back to life on Point’s face, a thousand watts. “I took a big risk taking you out of there, girl. You were supposed to be put down. You owe your life to me, and I’m not about to let you get away without paying your debt.” He lifts the cowboy hat from his head, placing it on Wren’s. Wren shivers, trying to shake it off, and the soldier moves again, that same sort of movement, too quick for the human eye. He grabs Wren by the throat and pins him back against the wall. “Behave.” He thumbs slowly along the underside of Wren’s jaw as he holds him there, and the way Wren’s skin crawls almost aches. His fingertip catches on the gag. “Now I’m going to take this out,” he explains, “because I want to hear you beg. But if you wanna scream, cowgirl, you can go right ahead. Y’know why?”

Wren doesn’t want to know. He tries to sob, and it gets stuck beneath Point’s hand.

Point, who angles his head and whistles.

The door swings open again barely a full second later, and it’s still more than enough time for the fear to build, and build, and build, and burst into something that Wren shudders with, so hard his ribs rattles against each other. Another soldier fills the doorframe, another macabre silhouette. Another follows it, then another still, shadows that crowd the dim concrete cell, an army that filters into the room, blocking out the light.

Point grins at him. “Because the only men that will hear you,” he explains, for good measure, “are my men, and they want to hear you scream. The only men that will hear you are my men, and they’re just waiting for me to be done so they can have their turn with you. I’m not usually much for sharing,” he adds, finally sliding the cloth from Wren’s mouth, “but we’ve never been allowed a plaything down here. It would be cruel not to let them have my sloppy seconds.”

Cold seeps through Wren’s skin and forms crystal in his bloodstream, a cold that aches from the inside. “Please,” he blurts, and it’s weird the way the words come, not from his brain but from the festering, infected panic in his chest. “Please, don’t, don’t —”

But Point only grins, leaning in so close Wren can feel his breath. “I knew it,” he says, sickly sweet, laying the accent on thick. “You’re prettiest when you beg, cowgirl.”

“What?” Wren breathes, and he’s dizzy. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with hitting his head. “Please, I —”

He’s interrupted by a groan so low Wren can feel the rumble of it in his bones. His mouth tastes like bile and his own heartbeat. “That’s it,” Point coos softly. “There’s a good girl.”

Wren’s breath hitches, caught somewhere high in his chest. He doesn’t mean to, but he whimpers around it and Point makes another, lower sound, so low the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stands up. He leans away, only far enough to peel off one of his gloves with his teeth. Bared, he flexes his fingers, and something serpentine beats around the inside of Wren’s stomach. “Please,” he breathes, and one of the other men audibly snorts. Wren isn’t even sure why, but it makes him sob. His hands are curled into fists so tight the bones in knuckles are grinding together. “Please,” he whispers, and Point slides a hand beneath his skirt, warm against the inside of his thigh.

Wren reacts with his entire body. He jerks away so hard he knocks his own head, still bleeding, back into the wall. Point, for such a big guy, is fast, he’s too fast, and he has his other hand curled around Wren’s thigh before Wren sees him move. He makes this embarrassing, hiccuping sort of sound, trying to shake him off, to push him away, but Point, without sweat or struggle, pulls him away from the wall by his leg, onto his back on the concrete. As he pushes Wren’s thigh up towards his chest, he coos softly. “Good girl.”

Wren doesn’t even get the chance to plead again. Point leans in close, too close, cheek to Wren’s cheek, and forces three of his fingers inside him with a groan like a man dying.

Wren doesn’t scream. Wren doesn’t do anything, actually. He freezes, so tense he can feel the ache in every one of his bones. His mind blanks, a whiteness, a sort of emptiness he’s never experienced before. It’s like everything stops, all at once, narrows to Point’s fingers and the pain he pushes inside Wren and the rumble of his approval against his chest.

“Stop,” he hears himself say, from somewhere outside himself, from somewhere really far away. “Please.”

Point coos at him again. “Oh, cowgirl,” he says. “We’re just getting started.”

When he does ease out his fingers, it’s to push up his dress, the gingham and the tulle, shoving it up and around Wren’s waist. Panic surges and it tastes like bile. He doesn’t think, not really, not coherently, he only panics, and he tries to kick and Point catches him with a vice grip around his ankle. He hauls Wren closer and the concrete is so cold against his bare skin.

“No,” Wren says, and his voice isn’t his own, too breathless, too loud, too high. “No, please, please, don’t —”

Wren would dare say he’s a strong guy — he’s a lot stronger than he thinks he looks like he would be, at least. He’s no match for Point. Not at all.

And it’s strange, almost, or it would be, anyway, if Wren had the capacity to ponder the strangeness of it. He was already scared, a suffocating, delirious sort of scared, a kind of scared he didn’t think would be possible. And still, somehow, Point forces his thighs apart, and Wren can’t stop him, he can’t fight him, he can’t struggle, he can’t do anything Point doesn’t want him to do, helpless, and it’s like Wren hadn’t been scared at all. It’s like Wren, until that moment, didn’t know what it meant to be scared.

Something new rises, crests, and crushes him. He can’t breathe under its weight. He does scream, then, and he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

Point grins widely. He isn’t looking at Wren’s face. He holds his thighs apart and kneels between them.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. How is this happening?

“Please,” Wren gasps, this hitching, horrible thing, “please.”

Point shifts, pinning Wren to the ground with his weight. Whatever his uniform is made out of, it feels like gravel against his skin. He moves slowly, taunting, as he pulls his belt loose, as he pulls himself free from his pants.

Wren isn’t breathing, not even hyperventilating, just making these hitching, gasping sort of sounds he can’t control. There are so many men in here with him, crowding this concrete cell, and none of them help him. There are so many men in here with him and they all just watch him beg. There are so many men in here with him and Wren has never been so alone, not once in his life.

He wants his big brother. He wants his mom. He wants to go home.

“Please,” he cries, desperate, frantic, almost a wail, most of a scream. “Please, pleasepleasepleaseple—”

Wren, in the end, screams himself hoarse.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

[oftenlyshitposting]

i know some of us think vampire shin is great, but have we considered outcast, unwillingly-turned vampire sabine who hated what she had become?

plus! with shin's whole wolf imagery, i raise you recently-turned, power hungry not because she's a megalomaniac but because she's powerless her whole life werewolf shin.

vampire sabine who came from a long, powerful, and legendary line of a vampire clan. vampire sabine who was born a human, which cemented her outcast's image because her mother married her human dad and she was conceived before his dad was turned in an attempt to save him from his genetic illness.

sabine, who was turned unwillingly to a vampire because her mother wants to save her from the illness that already began manifesting in her from such a young age. sabine, who unlike her vampire-born half-brother tristan, is always disregarded by her whole clan since she was a child.

sabine wren, who grew up hating who and what she is because she didn't ask to be born human and turned vampire. meeting a rogue, recently-turned werewolf shin hati.

shin, who was found by a rogue werewolf baylan in a cold forest, bleeding out to near death in a wolf trap. shin, who was willingly turned by baylan's werewolf bite and was powerful enough to survive the transformation; immediately adopted by baylan and trained to master her new power.

werewolf shin who quickly grew to be as powerful as baylan, a rogue werewolf alpha, and had to watch him die at the hands of human hunters because she was too late to save him. shin, who slowly grew to be so vengeful of everyone and the world; humans, vampires, and even other werewolves.

shin and sabine met purely out of luck, starting out as powerful supernaturals who are seething with so much hate and anger, to reluctant partners because they are both outcasts, to shin teaching and showing sabine that she is more than what she is.

to sabine slowly loving herself, while shin falls in love with sabine without her even realising it.

[artistsfuneral]

part 18

"What really happened to me?" Geralt asks, his voice so deliberately neutral it makes Jaskier sick. Black dots dance across his field of vision. It's getting harder to breathe.

"You asked me to do it. And I didn't want to, of course I didn't want to,” he gasps, “but you told me you'd be fine- You promised- Geralt, you promi-” Jaskier's head falls to the side and hits the ground.

You see, the bard muses, the funny thing about time traveling is that it is very similar to passing out. Jumping through time is as easy as falling unconscious – you don't really have to think about it to do so and the more often it happens the better you get at not hitting your head. The catch though – because even if you're not literally caught there's always a catch, isn't it – is that no matter how many times it happens to you, waking up is always incredibly disorienting. So Jaskier can't really be blamed when he wakes up with his head in Geralt's lap and for a moment thinks that everything is alright again, that they're on the Path, camping somewhere out in the woods waiting for Ciri to join them.

Reality has never been that forgiving, so when the familiar wooziness leaves him it takes Jaskier's wishes and dreams with it. He gratefully accepts the waterskin that Geralt hands him after helping him sit up again and drains it in one go, before solemnly apologizing for passing out on the witcher mid conversation. Geralt doesn't say much at first, but Jaskier can see that there's a lot on the witcher's mind.

The silence between them is uncomfortably heavy and Jaskier can't stand it. Just as he's about to open his mouth Geralt finds his voice again. “It was blood magic.”

Their eyes meet. Geralt's golden orbs dark, almost angry and Jaskier's blue full of surprise. He remembered more. “It was a trap,” Jaskier fills the space in Geralt's thoughts. “The sorcerer was already dead, but Ciri wanted us to look for an artifact she needed. We- We thought it was safe. Good riddance, the place was already dusted over!”

“It made us careless,” Geralt adds, looking lost in his thoughts.

“It was my fault,” Jaskier says, full of anger. “I activated the curse, because I wasn't paying attention, but you-” His eyes met Geralt's again and he shook of anger and despair. “You told me not to worry! You told me you knew what you were doing, that I just had to trust you! And I did, I bloody fucking did because the walls were caving in around us and I was so fucking scared we wouldn't make it this time and I thought I would be fine with it, I thought if I died by your side it would be alright, but I just couldn't stop thinking about Ciri, about Yennefer, about your brothers, our family waiting for us to come home just to be frightened more and more every day we didn't show and I-” He gasps, ringing for breath as his body continues to shake uncontrollably.

“I stabbed you, Geralt. I put a knife through your chest, because you promised me it'd be fine. And I believed you, because you are the love of my life and I trust you to keep us safe.”

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Only two more parts 👀

Sooooo for the next story I was thinking you will have to navigate Jaskier through the wilderness to find Kaer Morhen? Eat the berries, Jaskier, it will be fiiiine, Jaskier. (possibly with someone in tow? Ciri, or Aiden? Or maybe a witcher turned into a child? 🤔🤔)

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[sheep-doll]

A bunch of thoughts about possible scenarios in dol.

A sort of continuation post from my Robin thoughts but let us go on a robbing spree with Robin. I don't care if we're stealing food for the orphans or money to pay our rent, let Robin be a thief.

Thieving with Robin can be something beneficial too; they could teach us how to pick locks, spot valuable targets, etc. that can help raise the Skulduggery and Love stats since those scenes help the both of you bond together. Hell, maybe throw in more crumbs of Wren in the process if both you and Robin find the smugglers' den during one of your nights out thieving and looking for ways to earn money.

-

Whitney actually bullying you on the rooftop. I'm surprised we don't have them beating the shit out of us or stealing our stuff there even at Low Love.

I'd find it interesting if we could also get parallels on the shopping and hair styling event from Whitney. The cutesy dates are only available at High Love with Whitney selected as a Love Interest, but if you have Low/No Love with Whitney, they instead ruin your clothes and cut your hair that would increase Pain, Stress and Trauma.

-

Let Kylar accidentally stab someone. Kylar already was ballsy enough to want to stab Whitney in that one(1) cafeteria scene, let this little yandere make erratic decisions that might actually hurt someone within the vicinity.

If you get kidnapped by Kylar and are trapped in the basement, let them have more flavour text that may or may not have them actually cutting you up a bit. Let them threaten you that if you don't love them, they'll start hurting Robin and the other orphans, let them still sound desperate and pathetic too.

-

You know that tools shed in Alex's farm? That appeared once in a cutscene and was never brought up again. Let us have access to it some time, especially during the times where Remy raids the farm. Let us and Alex have a fight rather than stealth throwing rocks, let us whack them with a shovel or scare them into submission with the chainsaw!

[echo-goes-mmm]

Silas and Wren #3

Masterpost

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Warnings: briefly mentioned past non-con, implied future non-con

After the tour, Master still wanted to play a game. Wren braced himself for something painful, or at least embarrassing, but to his surprise Master led him to the sitting room and got out a box of dominoes. 

Oh. That kind of game.

Wren didn’t know the rules, but Master seemed excited to teach him. It was kind of fun playing games. Wren would never have been allowed to, in another Master’s house. 

It was thrilling to play like he was a person instead of a slave.

At first he wasn’t sure if he should lose on purpose, but Silas kept showing him the winning pieces he could play so he figured it must be okay to win. 

They played a couple of times before Wren’s stomach began complaining. He wasn’t going to say anything, but one of Master’s pointed ears twitched. Silas glanced at the clock. 

“I suppose it’s dinner time for you, isn’t it?”

“I can keep playing if you want me to, Master.”

“No, no. You should go eat.” 

Wren helped Silas gather up the game pieces. Master led him back to the east wing, thank goodness. Wren wasn’t sure how to get back.

Master Silas ordered him to return to the sitting room after he ate. Well, he did say “please” and it was more of a question, but Wren knew better. He could spot a trap. 

Was Master going to drink from him after he ate? He seemed friendly so far, and it was a considerate gesture. It didn't hurt either. Dealing with Master’s vampiric diet might be the easiest job he’d ever had.

He opened the pantry. He’d never been assigned cooking before, but he had a little experience. Lots of Masters wanted a bite to eat after sex, and sometimes their cooks weren’t up at that time.

Hmm. What should he have for dinner? There was a coldbox too, with butter, eggs, cheese, fresh meat, and lots of veggies and fruit. 

There was no way he could eat so much before it went bad. He would have to tell Master carefully. He was pretty sure Master Silas had no humans before him.

He found a small package of what looked and smelled like ground sausage. There was spinach in the coldbox as well, and a jar of tomato sauce and dried pasta in the pantry.

That sounded pretty good all put together.

The box of pasta had a lot written on it, but ‘8-10’ caught his eye. Experience told him that meant ‘cook for eight to ten minutes’. Perk of making friends with servants.

There was a bottle of oil in the cupboards. He drizzled a little in a deep pan and began browning the sausage. After it looked done, he opened the sauce jar and poured it in. He added a handful of spinach. Yum.

The pasta did take eight minutes, and he smothered it in the sauce. Could he really pick his meals every day? 

He considered doing the dishes, but Silas was expecting him. He’d do them later.

He got turned around a little, but eventually he found the sitting room again.

Master was sitting in an armchair, a book in his hands. He knelt at his feet and waited for instruction. 

“You don’t need to do that. These chairs need someone to sit in them besides me, after all,” said Master, closing his book. Oh, that was nice. Wren sat on the adjacent couch.

“Do you like to read, Wren?” 

“I can’t, Master.” Silas set the book on an end table.

“You never learned? I thought humans had schools for their children.”

“Slaves aren’t sent to school. There’s no use for it, and a waste of time when we could be working.” Master frowned.

“I suppose that makes sense. But aren’t there tasks that you need literacy for?”

Wren shrugged. “There’s servants for that.”

___________________

Silas made a note to teach Wren how to read. Books were one of life’s greatest pleasures. He couldn’t imagine not being able to read his novels. And it would be easier to make conversation if they could talk about books.

“Master, may I ask a question?”

“Of course. Please, always feel free to speak your mind,” he said. Thank goodness, it was hard to start every conversation.

“Thank you, Master. I was just wondering, aren’t you hungry? You haven’t eaten all evening.” It hadn’t occurred to him that Wren might know as much about vampires as he knew about humans.

“Vampires eat once a day. I ate this morning.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t drink from you often, I promise,” he reassured Wren. That was probably what he was getting at, in his own roundabout way.

“I, um, I don’t mind that much. But won’t you need to drink from me every day?”

“Nope. Vampires buy blood. It would make you sick if I drank from you that much,” he explained. 

Wren thought it over. He looked like he had more questions.

“You can ask me anything, if you want. I don’t mind.”

“It’s nothing, Master.”

___________________

Well that answered one question. And now he had permission to speak, which was new.

But he still wondered when Master Silas would expect to bed him. Asking would be rude, no matter what privileges Silas gave him.

He was handsome, at least. Tall, dark black hair, gray eyes. Wren couldn’t deny how attractive he was. Even the sharp teeth were... something.

He wanted to believe that would make his duty easier, but experience had almost always proved him wrong in that department.

It was never easy, it could only be not as bad. 

Master would be in the latter category. He didn’t need to numb Wren’s neck that afternoon, but he did. And his lips were so soft. Silas didn’t need to provide him a bedroom, but he did. And his eyes were so pretty.

Master Silas wouldn’t need to be gentle either. But maybe he would.

Hopefully he would.

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