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cdragons · 3 months

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Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

Next Part

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Felix is delulu, Reader is stressed and homesick and kinda crazy but she a baddie, Michael is Michael, Farleigh is Farleigh, Oliver will be Oliver (a creep), and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic

Author's Note: This fic is a follow-up to this post and I would like to thank grammarly for catching all my grammatical errors 🥲, @ethereal-athalia for enabling my crazy ideas 🥰, and @valeskafics for providing me Saltburn smut when I catch myself thirsting 😇

“FUCK!” you yelled at the top of your lungs just before your nose slammed down on the dewy grass.

Groaning in pain before the mortification of realizing what had just happened kicked in.

You didn’t know what was worse: the fact you had a full front view of the giant’s junk or that he body-slammed you onto the ground and caused you to land on top of the painting worth 30% of your final grade.

You wanted to scream your head off. The paint had finally dried, and you could finally leave the studio at two in the morning. It was close to finals, and pretty much anyone on campus who didn’t get accepted because of their daddy’s bank account was in their dorms. You had hoped that this fact would mean that the paths were empty and, therefore, safe to transport your 30” x 40” canvas.

“SORRY!”

You shot your head up to locate the person who just apologized. Lo’ and behold, it was the same plastered, pasty cunt with a bird’s nest disaster of a haircut drunken idiot who decided it was a good idea to go streaking across campus. His only other distinguishable features were that he was at least 6’3” and that he had a small steel piece pierced on his face.

After the “apology,” he and his friend continued running off to God’s knows where in the dead of night—leaving you behind on the lawn with a bleeding nose, bruised knees and palms, and an oil painting that was torn and caked in mud three days before its deadline.

There was no way to redo it. The project was assigned at the beginning of October. It took 5 hours to set up the models with the motifs and lights, 3 hours to take pictures, and 10 hours to underdraw the preliminary sketch. You didn’t even want to think about the sheer number of sleepless nights you spent in the studio mixing colors and layering. On top of that, you also had your other finals in other courses to study for.

You had practically been living in that studio for the past month. All of the custodians and security guards knew you by name. You got first dibs every day when they refilled the vending machines. It was a true godsend when you didn’t have time to visit the dining halls. Everyone had been so kind and sweet to you. It was a warm welcome compared to the snark and snobbery you experienced from most of your classmates.

Crying from the devastation of the loss of your situation, your shaking legs carried your body and what remained of your work into the building. You knew that your professor stayed in her office late for grading. You could only hope that she would sympathize with your pitiful appearance.

“Wait, so did you get the extension?”

Lifting your head from the sticky library table at Bodleian’s, you stared at your best only friend, Michael Gavey, with a blank stare. You didn’t react to his wince after he took in your haggard appearance. You didn’t need a mirror to know that you looked terrible.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot red with dark mulberry bags underneath them. You had paled since coming to dreary England, but now you looked straight-up sickly. And if that wasn’t enough, your eyes had less life than a dead fish rotting at a Sunday Market.

Your voice was so meek that you were sure he had to strain to hear you.

“Yeah…I got it.”

You knew you had no choice but to beg your Studio Arts professor for an extension. But it killed you doing it. Professor Daria Martin was your favorite teacher and the only faculty member who actually liked you. Her support toward you meant everything to you; the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her, let alone be the reason why she lost her job.

Your usually so snarky four-eyed friend perked up at the news.

“So, is everything okay?” he asked with hope.

Your head fell on neon-yellow ink-stained pages that filled the paperweight your ethics professor called a textbook. A bitter laugh fell from as your lips lifted to a wry, dry grin.

“Oof, not that simple, is it?” he asked.

“Is it ever?”

“So what do you have to do now?”

“Well-,” you lifted your head to take a deep breath as you started to explain, “- I still have the photos and copies of the sketch. But because the canvas was so large, it was special-ordered. That means I need to wait until another one can be delivered, and since all the works need to be completed in the studio, I can’t leave the campus.”

As you finished your explanation, Michael nodded his head in understanding before he paused, and a look of devastation painted his features.

“Wait, so does that mean-”

“I won’t be able to fly back home for the holidays.”

Fuck, you were about to cry again. You had been so excited to see your old friends and family. You remembered how absolutely homesick you were at the beginning of the term. Because you were a scholarship student from America, your parents encouraged you to settle on campus by moving to your dorm earlier than everyone else. It was bad enough that you missed Thanksgiving, but you had really set your heart on coming home for Christmas and New Year’s. What made it worse was that your parents had told you all about the dinner they had planned for your homecoming. It was going to be a feast of all your favorites.

English food sucked balls.

Your only saving grace was the Crunchie bars Michael got for you when you studied together or when you had to rewrite edit his essays.

You really DID cry after first reading his essay for Introductory English class at the beginning of the year.

“Did you try to report it?”

“Report what? ‘Hey, there’s a wasted asshole running naked across campus, and he body-slammed me to the ground and tore my fucking massive campus that blocked my view of the jackass. He’s probably richer than the goddamn Queen, given how he’s wasted right before finals.’”

“Do you have any description of him?”

“He’s a giant with a small eyebrow piercing, and his fat ass looked like it had never seen the sun.”

Without lifting your head, you heard the scrape of Michael’s chair before he walked across the table to sit in the chair next to you.

“Hey,” he began, bringing you into a warm arm hug, “it’ll be okay. You called your parents about it, right?”

“Yeah -” you sighed before continuing, “- they told me they understood and would Skype me daily.”

“See! Everything’s going to be – wait, did you say that this guy was tall?”

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you looked at your friend at the change in his tone from light and supportive to sharp and interrogative.

“Yeah?”

“How tall?”

“Umm,” you had to think about that, “I’d say he was about 6’3” or above? He was really fucking tall.”

“And he had an eyebrow piercing?”

Ok, now you were really confused. “Yes? Michael, where are you going with this?”

“I think the guy who ran you over was Felix Catton.”

You shot your favorite idiot with a deadpan glare.

“Felix Catton? The same Felix Catton who just so happens to be the same Felix Catton you hate?”

Michael solemnly nodded. “It’s him. It has to be. The only person on campus as tall as him is his cousin, and he doesn’t have piercings.”

“And he’s black.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You were skeptical, and it showed. You didn’t want to callously dismiss your friend, but you knew more than anyone how much his hatred for Oxford’s Golden Boy could impair his judgment. You were by no means a fan of the guy, but accusing someone of anything they didn’t do just because your friend thought so went against your principles.

He grabbed your arm and dragged you to the bookshelf in front of the table where Felix and his groupies sat. Both of your books and bags were in your chairs, but you managed to keep your spiral notebook with you. It wasn’t hard to find them – they were the loudest table in the entire library. They also reeked of cigarettes and booze.

“See?” Michael hissed. “Giant, pale, and eyebrow piercing. It’s him!”

“Michael,” you softly groaned, “just because you hate Felix Catton doesn’t mean you can –”

An extremely shrill voice interrupted you.

“I can’t believe you and Farleigh actually ran around campus naked!”

A petite girl with full pink lips and dull red hair latched on the arm of the man of the hour. “It was so hot to watch!”

This girl has weird-ass tastes in guys.

“And then how you crashed into that dunce at Ruskin! Brilliant!”

Your blood ran cold while another one of Catton’s faceless droning puppets chimed in.

“God, what an idiot! It’s their own fault, anyway. Who the fuck walks in the middle of the walk path with a fucking big canvas in front of them?”

One of the lessons hammered into your skull young was never to move before you think. That lesson had saved you ten ways from Sunday. But this was not one of those times.

You’re pretty sure that you hear Michael calling out your name as you walk away from the shelf and towards the overcrowded table. Tunnel vision took over you as you made your way to the overgrown idiot who almost cost you your entire future.

Grabbing the back of his shirt collar, you dragged the 6’5” towering fool on his ass all the way outside. You finally let go when the two of you reached the back of the building that had no windows.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, did you relish the crunch that immediately followed your swing.

Fuck, was his head killing him.

Felix should have known better than to have gotten cross-faded last night, but Farleigh had practically goaded him to do it. It’s not like his cousin ever had to worry about his grades for any of his courses during finals – the little shit-starter had always been so fucking academically gifted.

He skipped pretty much all of his morning classes and barely made it to his afternoon schedule on time while completely zoning out the entire time.

If he bombs on all his finals, his dad was going to absolutely murder him. But chances were he and his mum were going to be too busy entertaining whichever new friend his mum brought in for shelter.

“You alright there, champ?”

Felix swiveled his head too quickly and immediately groaned in pain. The motion made his hangover even worse. Rubbing his eyes to try to soothe the pounding in his head, he slowly opened them to look at his cousin.

The slag didn’t have the decency to look even a little bit affected from last night’s event – the fucker. No, he was sitting there with all Cheshire grins and gleaming eyes while Felix was two seconds from heaving his guts out.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate.” He replied in a tired groan.

“Must have been quite the night. Wonder if it had anything to do with that little cocktail you took from our sweet Annabel’s belly button?”

Disgust was clear on Felix’s face as he recalled the body shot he had taken from his ex-FWB’s navel. He truly must have been off his rocker last night – he thought he was over with body shots since graduating secondary, but apparently not.

If he somehow got an STD from doing it, V was going to kill him.

But even with all of his horrible actions that caused the raging war inside his skull, that wasn’t the main cause of his misery.

Farleigh’s grin dropped as judgment painted his features.

“Oh,” he moaned, “please tell me this isn’t about ‘your angel’ from last night.”

He didn’t just take the dare of streaking across the grounds just for the hell of it. He needed an excuse to pass through the art building – all for the chance of seeing you.

You. His angel of paints and books who lived in the empty studio rooms of Oxford University’s Ruskin School of Art and whose presence harangued him every hour of every day. Everywhere Felix went, he would unconsciously look for you.

It was his soul calling out for yours – he knew it.

Felix had never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire existence. He’d never seen you outside of the libraries, art building, and maybe the dining hall if he was lucky. You never went to any parties or even had a drink at the pub at King’s Arms. He didn’t even have classes with you, but he knew Farleigh did. Word was that you and his cousin had shared a few classes – what’s more was that you were likely the only person who could go head-to-head with him in academics.

And to make it worse, the prat refused to tell him anything about you – not even your fucking name.

“Believe me,” he told him after Felix had been begging his cousin for hours to share anything about you, “she is way above your league.”

Which really hurt his feelings, by the way – sure, you were probably way above in book smarts, but there wasn’t a girl that remained indifferent to his charms after a good talking fucking.

“I still can’t believe you won’t at least tell me her name,” Felix complained once more, “or even just give me her number!”

“She’s an American here on scholarship and a bore,” he quipped back, “what’s there to tell? And can you please shut up? I want to get some reading done before tonight. You do remember the in-class essay we have tomorrow, right?”

Bloody hell, he did not. Pushing down the bitter feeling in his chest, he and his cousin made their way to meet everyone at the back. As soon as he sat down, Annabel clung on to his arm. Thank fuck he had been wearing one of his thicker jumpers – otherwise, her claws that she called nails would have ripped open the fabric.

“Hey, Felix!” she made sure to offer a very generous sight of her cleavage, “are you ready for tonight?”

Felix chuckled lowly before responding. “Aren’t I always?”

And just like that – he completely zoned out the rest of the conversation.

Annabel was probably saying something to get him to notice her, and Farleigh was likely responding so he wouldn’t have to – but Felix couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care.

He was lost in the living daydream that was his angel that haunted the art studios of Ruskin School of Art.

He was desperate to learn everything about you.

If he asked you to talk about your favorite books, would your eyes sparkle in delight, or would your smile widen in glee?

If he grabbed your hand, would your palms feel marred by his rough skin, or would you press your callouses to his?

If he pressed his mouth on yours, would your lips feel as soft and plump as they look? Or was their luster forever damaged by your teeth biting them whenever you were in deep concentration?

If he breathed in your scent at the crook of your neck, would your skin smell like the paints forever on your brushes or the musky pages of heavy ancient books you always carried in your arms?

If he planted kisses from your throat to your breasts, would you mewl in pleasure or whimper in anticipation?

If he touched your cunt, would you arch your back in ecstasy? Or would your legs crumble, and you would have no choice but to sink into his arms?

Felix’s thoughts were rudely interrupted when Farleigh jammed his bony elbow into his ribcage and hurriedly whispered.

“Look alive, Golden Boy.”

Looking forward, it was better than any of his wet dreams combined. It was you.

Your hair was loose, and your fists were clenched. You reminded him of a ferocious lion goddess with how focused your gaze was on him.

But before Felix would prepare himself to make a good impression, you walked behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt collar before fucking dragging his ass out of his seat and outside.

Bloody hell, for someone so much shorter than him, you were fucking strong.

When you finally released your grip, he fell on the ground like an idiot before he tried to stand and steady himself as quickly as he could.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, you might have actually broken his nose.

After staggering back, you started using the spiral notebook in your other hand to land blow after painful blow on his body.

“YOU. STUPID. FUCKING. INGRATE –” Each word that left your mouth was emphasized with another hit from your notebook “– I. HATE. YOU. YOU. RUINED. MY. PAINTING. I. SPENT. SO. MUCH. TIME. ON. IT. AND. NOW. I. CAN’T. GO. HOME. FOR. BREAK. BECAUSE. OF. YOUR. STUPID. SELF!”

Felix was confident you had more to say, but you were pulled off him by your friend – he’s pretty sure it’s Mitchell – by the waist with you kicking and screaming out profanities to him as your friend called out your name to try to calm you down.

He wondered what it said about him if he told anyone how much you looked like an angry cat. His parents would send him to a shrink if he told them how adorable he found you right now.

If you were this wild while fighting, he could only imagine how riled up you would get in bed.

Fuck, you might have just unlocked a new kink in him.

Catching his breath as he watched your friend drag you away into the distance, he heard a slow clap to his left.

Farleigh was leaning on the corner – his smug expression making it clear that he had seen the whole thing – as he looked at his cousin with a bemused expression before walking toward him and giving a sympathetic pat on his back.

“Well,” he started to break the tension, “at least you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, “I know her name.”

And he knew that you smelled more like the paints on your brushes than the books you carried with subtle notes of gardenias.

Tagging: @aemondsbabe, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @barbiedragon, @valeskafics, @lexyysworld, @punkiwiki, @saltburnedme, @arcielee

Let me know if you want to be tagged for future Saltburn fics!

#saltburn x reader #saltburn #saltburn crack #saltburn au #felix catton x reader #farleigh catton #farleigh start #venetia catton #oliver quick #michael gavey #saltburn 2023 #saltburn movie #michael gavey x reader

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distort-opia · 2 years

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God, obsessed with the idea of the Wayne Manor being haunted. Being placed under a curse, and everyone in the house being able to feel it, except Bruce.

Jason hears cruel laughter and Sheila’s voice, following him down the corridors. Dick keeps seeing movement out the corner of his eye; the room is suddenly cold and he swears he can hear the cheering of a crowd, the thud of bodies hitting the ground. Both Ace and Titus whine and cower, bark and then retreat at an unseen presence; all of Damian’s pets are unsettled, scared, and Damian dreams of dying, dreams of being dead, wakes up one night with a sword in his hand in front of Bruce’s bedroom door. Tim keeps seeing his father’s face in the mirror, stained with blood, mouth moving soundlessly and forming words he’s only ever heard in a phone call.

Death, death, death. It bites at their heels, taunts them with ghosts of the people they lost, the people they used to be, the people they fear of becoming. They’ve all been drenched in it; some have been dead themselves and spat back out, and now the house has become a gaping maw that feeds on it... but the worst of it is Bruce.

They bring it up to him, but he dismisses all the signs, as if he’s blind to it all. He keeps going on patrol, keeps being Batman, but every time the Family goes down to the Cave the Batsuits are black twisting monsters within their glass cases. It’s so cold they can see their own breaths. Bruce has dark circles under his eyes, looks pallid and exhausted, feels so very far away. There’s a swarm of bats following him around, screeching and red-eyed, and the first time he sees it Dick’s heart jumps out of his chest.

They’re always behind Bruce, faces empty and devoid of emotion. Bruce seems utterly unable to see them. Thomas and Martha Wayne, blood staining their clothes, dripping down. Wherever Bruce goes, they flicker into view as well, sometimes as horrid rotten corpses and sometimes smiling and loving, ghostly arms wrapped around him from behind; and Damian’s the one to shout when the image of Alfred, neck twisted and broken and eyes wide open, peers over Bruce’s shoulder.

The Wayne family portraits keep changing from day to day, moving within their frames. Thomas and Martha Wayne look more and more full of despair, and the child Bruce in the painting keeps getting greyer, torn, skin rotting away as if he’s being devoured from the inside. It doesn’t take long for them to realize it’s all coming from Bruce. The Manor is turning into the nightmares that plague his head, becomes a nest of fear and loss and grief that never healed. They need to undo it, save Bruce before he becomes the haunted house and the ghost that haunts it, before he turns into his own grave.

After all, how much death can you take, how much grief can you fill yourself with, before you become it? How many ghosts can you preserve and chain to yourself before you join them?

#hnnng basically who do I have to pay to write me a 'Haunting of Hill House' and 'Portrait of Dorian Gray' psychological horror crossover #but called 'The Haunting of Wayne Manor'#and it's Bruce losing himself and not even realizing #I'm sorry. I fully blame the anons with the Wayne Manor stuff for this brainrot #rants.txt #batman #bruce wayne #batfam #wayne manor

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bigassmoonchild · 5 months

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Nothing

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Simon claims nothing would've taken him away from you, but it's clearly a lie. You feel nothing, nothing at all, until you are filled with the worst pain of your life.

Content Tags: Hurt/Minimal Comfort, Abandonment, Original Characters (no name, no gender, just a person), Pregnancy, Slight shit-talk of Simon, Even more Hurt/Minimal to No Comfort (more tags will spoil this, but if anything is triggering please let me know and I'll add tags), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, Omega! Reader, No Use of Y/N

A/N: surprise!

Part 1 | Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist

There's nothing. Nothing in your room- yours and Simons- when you return back to it. Rephrasing it a little better, a majority of his stuff is gone when you finally drag yourself back to the room after spending hours crying. Some paperwork between rounds of crying, but mostly crying.

There's nothing there. His scent is slightly fading, but when you look around you can see the drawers of the dresser left open, clothes half dragged out. The closet is left alone, your nest sitting there all pretty and proper. Maybe a few things shifted from pulling something out.

There is nothing of Simon's left in your room and you are panicking. The room is partially destroyed and you are adding to the damage, throwing other drawers open and tossing blankets around, trying to find something to reason through what's happening.

You feel nothing. Sure, you can feel your heart pounding in your chest and your head, you can feel the cold prickle of fear riding through your body but you truly can't feel anything. Your vision is tunneled and suddenly you can't feel anything.

Dropping to your knees, you can feel the hot tears pouring down your face but you can't feel anything. Nothing feels real. You can feel the pup, kicking angrily, but can you really feel it? Sure, the sensation is there but you aren't able to fully process it.

Your vision is blurry and there is really nothing that you can see but your blinking aggressively. The tears are still pouring but they aren't clouding your vision as much when you're blinking, and now you're seeing the little speck of white buried under a few blankets in the nest you'd destroyed.

Struggling up, you stumble to the nest and drop yourself in. There's a paper there, crinkling under your knees before you're pulling it out and looking at it. It's folded and wrinkly, slightly torn in one place but your opening it up and looking at it.

Mission called. I would have come seen you, but it's an emergency. I shouldn't be going, the pups due far too soon but they won't be able to do much without me.

I love you. I truly, truly do. I'm sorry I can't be all that you need, but I will try and be back as quick as possible.

The paper is suddenly in your face, the scent of him is just barely washing over you. It's faint, but it's there and it's all you need. It's there until it isn't, and suddenly you can't smell anything on the paper anymore.

There's nothing left of Simon, and you are sitting in your nest, weeks, maybe a month from giving birth to his pup. Alone. Alpha has left you alone and now you're so, so scared.

But you feel nothing. There is nothing there and you are suddenly back to yourself, staring at the wall. Thoughts aren't processing, it's all empty but there's so much in your head that you are completely unsure of everything.

A knock is what brings you out of your stupor. Your head turns slowly to look at the door, blinking carefully as you stand. One foot in front of the other and now you're opening the door.

John's Omega.

They smile, eyes crinkling just a little from it, but there's worry in their eyes. "Hi, honey," they whisper, pressing you back into your room and closing the door behind them. "John told me they left suddenly, wanted me to check in on you," and they wipe your tears from your cheeks.

You give a weak smile, trying to push out a short thanks but they're pushing you into your nest and you can feel the exhaustion settling over your body. Your eyes are blinking shut, and suddenly there's nothing.

They hadn't seen anything like this in a while. Sure, John had mentioned how destroyed your relationship with Simon was, but seeing how destroyed the room was? It scared them. Horribly.

Maybe Simon was hurting you, but they couldn't really tell. There weren't marks, but you were so destroyed over something like this that they were so, so worried. Had it been emotional abuse this whole time? Simon hadn't ever seen like the type of person to do that, but maybe they'd read him wrong.

Maybe it was all a ruse. Just make him look good until you gave birth and he could kick you to the curb, pull the 'baby trapping' bullshit a lot of other Alphas often did. They hoped, for the sake of John and their relationship, that Simon didn't do that. That he wasn't that type of person because John would be getting hurt if he knew.

They decide to clean up the room. There's clothes hanging out of the dresser drawers, the blankets are tossed from the bed and the blinds are shut tightly. The first thing they do is go to open the blinds, but glance down at you sleeping.

It could wait, so they decided to go on and start cleaning up the clothes laying about. Folding them, figuring out if something was actually dirty and tossing them into the hamper, putting them away.

They drag the hamper to the laundry room, tossing everything in and going back to your room. It looks a little better, it's a little dusty but there's enough stuff there that it would make sense. They could tell what was mostly yours, and what was Simons contributions. Your stuff might not have been overly large or colorful, but just from interacting with you a few times they could sense your style.

It was alright, John wasn't too dissimilar to Simon in that way. He didn't like having things to clutter everything up, he was more of a person that found use in the items he kept around. He didn't want something pretty to look at, or something that just brought happiness.

Christ, you needed all the happiness that these little items could offer. The room was dark and dingy, rather small considering you were a mated pair. Maybe they should mention it to John when he returns.

Get you a better room, especially once the pup is around. But maybe there was an apartment, a home where yourself and Simon lived that held the things you needed. Gave you the room that you would need with a pup.

Everything was cleaned up, all they were waiting for was the laundry to finish. Sitting on the freshly made bed felt wrong, but it was that or the desk.

The desk. It had a paper on it, and they felt bad but they grabbed the paper anyways. And they blinked. And blinked. And blinked once more as they read through it, seeing the bland words and shit handwriting.

Simon was a shell, they decided. A shell of a person, nothing inside of him. Truly, a person who mated an Omega needed to care for them, did they not? That was what they grew up knowing, grew up understanding. There is little else that was needed for a mated pair, other than the love of the other half.

That's what mated pairs were. Two halves of a whole, trying to become closer and, hopefully, become one. Maybe their mating to John was lucky, maybe it was something that very few were lucky to get.

And over the next few days, they had time to investigate a little further. Speaking with you was interesting, something they hadn't had much time to be able to do during the few times they were with you. You're personality was slowly coming through, your humor finally being unveiled.

You cracked little jokes here and there, humoring both them and yourself while sitting in your little office filling out more paperwork. You had to hand off the duties, you'd explained.

"Once I'm out, they don't really have a 'doctor' on duty left," they nodded with your words. "They need me to sign off somebody to have the same abilities I have, someone I trust to be able to run this place in my absence," it was interesting. A job where there wasn't just somebody available to fill your spot in place of emergencies.

How had they been able to fill your role when you'd gotten hurt? John had come home short with everyone and they'd been able to get it out that Simon was sulking about you getting hurt.

Boo-fucking-hoo, they thought. Simon was an adult, and so were you. You could make your own decisions. He seemed more and more like a controlling freak with everything they'd learned.

"I love him so much," you whispered during dinner once.

"Huh?"

"This whole... thing," you started, pushing food around on your plate, "was entirely an accident. I don't know how much Price has told you, but it was a huge accident," they nodded with you. "I was assigned with them on a mission, trying to find an extremely dangerous aphrodisiac. It sounds like one of those weird fanfictions, but I mean it genuinely," they snorted at your comment.

"We all have to enjoy the occasional fanfiction," you laughed, head tossed back and mouth open. A little grunt stopped your laugh, hand clasping over your belly.

Clearing your throat, brows still furrowed, you continued. "It was Soap and Gaz, I think, who were clearing the way. Simon was supposed to guide me, body guard me so I'd be able to get a safe enough sample of it, but shit went downhill. We were getting shot at, Simon took a tranq to the shoulder so I just... jumped into action," your eyes were glazed over with tears, looking off into nowhere.

"Jumped into the hall and got a tranq myself, woke up somewhere hot. Everything was so hot and my mouth tasted sweet. They dosed me and Simon, we'd have died if we didn't fuck. He marked me, and now we're here," you whispered. They looked at you, eyes wide and shock filling their features.

Christ, you really were in a shitty situation. Everything seemed to be getting worse and worse the more they learned. "Are you serious?" You nodded, hand grasping at your stomach once more.

They looked down to your belly. "I'm fine, pups just been moving a lot more," you looked away, eyes once more cast over with a glaze and seemingly just gone from the world.

It was quiet, for some time, and in that moment they wanted nothing more than to beat Johns ass for not telling them the whole truth. Lies are shitty, but half-truths are even worse. For some time after that, when they laid in bed, all they could do was think.

Were you happy? Were you just stuck in a shitty situation that became shittier each day? Maybe it was nothing, but with the way your eyes glazed over when you spoke on stories about Simon, they doubted there was much wrong.

Just two people, stuck in a situation that was made worse and worse but the two of you were trying to make everything better.

It's late, very fucking late and you are exhausted. Laying in bed had been incredibly uncomfortable, but laying in your nest was worse. Your back was spasming, you assumed from bending over to pick something up a few hours ago, but you could feel the pup settling down for what felt like the first time in ages.

The pain from the pup moving was now coated in the general pain of your stomach. You thought everything was just fine, even if you were even more tired and you just wanted to curl up in your nest.

You had a few more things to do before going on maternity leave, and god be damned you were going to get it done. Even if you didn't sleep all night, even if you were in your office at 6 in the morning.

And you were. Signing a few more documents, just confirming everything. The pain wasn't all consuming, but it was getting there. The pup wasn't moving at all, and maybe that should be worrying you. Maybe it was nothing, but the knock on your door brought your attention from staring at the same document you signed some twenty odd minutes ago.

Johns Omega was back, and they were smiling widely at you. Their phone was held to their chest, covering the microphone and shuffling over to you.

Your name came over the speaker, Simon.

"Hi, Si," you whispered, staring down at the phone screen. It was quiet, for some time.

"I don't know when I'll be back," he whispered, gunshots echoing around him. "We've got some leads, but a lot of the people we've got aren't working with us. We're in Mexico, but that's all I can tell you," he whispered.

"Mexico?" He hummed. "Is it someone you're looking for?"

"You know I can't really tell you much more," and you winced, a little groan falling from your lips. "What was that?"

"Nothing, 'm alright," you whispered, eyes falling shut as you rubbed at your belly. "I just miss you," you added.

He hums, a few more gunshots echoing around him. "I miss you too, lovie, but I should be returning within two or three weeks," you made no noise.

"That's about the time I'm due," you whispered and he sighed audibly. The gunshots sounded louder, much closer, and you could feel the hairs on the back of your neck rising. You could feel the innate fear that came with these situations.

"I've got to go. I love you, Omega, through and through," and you returned it, feeling tears pricking at your waterline. Handing the phone back, you winced once more. A little groan fell from your lips, the pain wracking up before slowly drifting off.

John's Omega disappeared, looking at you carefully as they walked out of the office. You needed to get one more document signed, and you could go back to your room and sleep for a week.

The pen felt heavier and your hands felt shakier. The signature was a little off from what you were normally able to do, but if it was what got everything done, you were more than happy.

Dropping the papers into the slots outside of your office, you shut and locked the door. The walk back to your room was horrible, you had to stop every few moments to breathe. Just breathing was a little painful.

You want to crawl into your nest as soon as the door shuts behind you, but the bathroom door that's cracked open calls to you. A hot bath is all you want, and your shed your clothes as you nearly stumble to the tub.

Carefully settling yourself down into the tub, you shift around to get comfortable enough to and plug the drain. The water that starts isn't the warmest, but it seems to quickly heat up.

You aren't entirely sure where the time has gone and suddenly the tub is just a few inches short of the top and you're struggling to turn the water off.

You're in so much pain and all you can do is rock yourself in the water. You can feel your eyes shut tight, the pain just a little bother compared to what you're feeling.

Time is incomprehensible. One moment, you're alone and crying out in pain what feels like every few seconds, and the next you have John's Omega and a few doctors surrounding you.

Things are stuck against you, something is stuffed inside of you and you nearly bite the person.

"...looks good..." you're only grasping little bits and pieces. "...little early... looks safe..." and you can feel a hand slip into yours before your ears are ringing and Christ is that you screaming?

It burns. You can feel your body lunge forward nearly over the side of the tub as you shout, fingers digging into skin and tub. It seems to be lasting forever, but your head is a little fuzzy and all you can see are little dots littering your vision.

There are voices, now, filtering into your mind as the cool of the tiles underneath you bring your focus back. You're still naked, but you can't feel most of the parts under your waist. There's a weight on your chest, and you can hear someone shouting about 'getting that god damned Alpha back now, his pup is here' but your head is a little fuzzy.

With a dry mouth, you lift your head up a little and look down, seeing something laying on your chest before your hands rise and cup it. Oh. The pup.

But you can still feel cramping pains stabbing through your stomach and the pain of your head dropping onto the tile does nothing to you. Your vision is suddenly black, when had your eyes squeezed shut? Your body is cramping down and all you can do is scream.

Once more, your vision is a little hazy but you've been moved again. You can feel soft things underneath you, and when you looked down you've got two pups lying across your chest.

They're wrapped tight in blankets and all you can do is just blink down at them. Little, tiny creatures. Things that were once nothing are now something.

You can faintly feel some stabbing pains in your lower body, but you're blinking blearily at the pups. They're so beautiful, and you think you can feel tears falling from your eyes but there's no way you are moving your arms when they're sleeping so cozily in them.

Suddenly, you can hear Simons voice and it's crackling and breaking but you still feel adrift. Like you're floating, nothing left in your body as you watch from a distance. John's Omega is holding a phone close to you but you're just blinking, maybe you were looking over your own body at one point.

And suddenly the weight over your arms are disappearing and you can feel your mouth pull back in a snarl. The sound comes from low in your chest, something you'd never heard from yourself, and it's what brings you out.

They're standing there, pulling the pup from you. "I'm just going to go clean the pups up, they're still gross from the labor," they whisper and press a hand against you, the phone dropping into your lap.

"Lovie, please, are you there? What's happened?"

"Simon," you giggle, head falling back. "Simon, Simon, Simon," you whisper. "Pretty name, what should we name them?" He's whispering something, maybe actually saying something but the pup is wailing suddenly and your first instinct is to press them against your breast.

There's more voices coming from the phone but the wailing is no longer there, and you can faintly feel the pup latch. "What's happened? Is that a pup? Please, lovie, did you have the pup?"

You giggled again. "Had two of them, popped them both out but I don't remember it. Can't feel half my body, lil things are feisty," and you can hear a few other voices from Simons end of the phone.

"Two?" You can almost hear a whine in his voice, some more jeering from the background but suddenly John's Omega is there and you have no idea how long it's even been until they're pulling the pup from your chest and plop the one they'd been cleaning onto the other breast.

It feels like hours before you finally have both pups back on you, watching as they sleep quietly. You'd love to sleep like a baby. Just like them. Not a care in the world, but Simons talking again and you can't really understand what he's saying for a few moments.

Things seems to come back to you, feeling the other Omega curl up beside you in your nest. "What're their names?" You shrug, looking down at the pretty little pups.

"I dunno," and you're giggling again. Whatever the hell they gave you, it was amazing. It's quiet for some time, you're just watching the pups. Maybe it was only a few minutes, maybe it was a few hours, but you can slowly feel yourself coming back. It is a slow realization, and you can feel the tears filling your eyes. "You weren't here," you whispered, and now there's another whine coming from him.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to be there with you, but I can't," and you can almost hear a sob or two come from him but you're trying not to wake the pups.

Nothing. You almost feel nothing, but there's the little prickle of love filling you as one of the pups shift in your hold and you're brought back to the present. With your little family. Alone.

Taglist: (Please send an ask/DM to be added)

@sae1kie @shinebright2000 @zechie-spams @itsmadamehydra @smiley-roos @enrapturedbythemoon @stargatenovus @cowboydisaster @josieguts @the-queen-of-england183 @littlelovebug98 @cringeycookies @averytiredfanfictionwriter @kariiiel @http-paprika @snorklingfae @lukneetoonz @wise-owl @waves-against-a-cliff @megkviss @ducks118 @404lunar @zoom-zoom77 @hollowmasque @bootabo2000 @ducks118 @bunnyvs @perfectus-in-morte @itsmytimetoodream @the-occasional-artist1125 @lunamoonbby @ghostslittlegf @teddywebby

To my favorite people: This is not the end. I want to clarify, if you'd like to finish reading here, that is perfectly fine. I have not intended this to be the end, I may have one or two more chapters left, but there will not be much more. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to a general tag, or if you'd like to be fully removed from my future taglists.

If I have missed you and you wish to be added, I apologize. Please send me another request, and I can add you!

Thank you for your patience. I can go in depth with my disappearance, but I will leave this here.

Much love :)

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ghost-bxrd · 1 month

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Hi! I was wondering how Talon! Dick would react to Jason getting hurt during patrol or maybe getting sick and leaving him unable to talk, or when he does it's super raspy and quiet, and he can barely make his own noises too? 🦉

Okidoki let’s go with him being sick! (Cuz, you know, him being hurt and unable to talk… at all, is gonna happen in about… oh! Thirty days!) If it’s the first time it happens, Dick absolutely assumes Jason is dying and panics accordingly.

You know that stupid cold where you wake up one morning after feeling completely fine the day before but suddenly your throat feels like you swallows razors and any sound you try to make is like a crow on crack? Yeah. Like that.

Dick absolutely loses it and starts going straight into hardcore survival mode. Jason gets squirreled away into the most remote place in the manor with dozens of blankets and pillows. Food and water vanishes from the kitchens, along with whatever kind of first aid meds and utensils he can scrounge from the cave before Bruce comes back.

When Alfred and Bruce return from a gala… the manor is quiet. Too quiet. And Bruce immediately heads to Dick and Jason’s rooms only to find them both empty. Cue: Bruce and Alfred start panicking because the place looks like a tornado blew through it. The nests are gone, everything is in disarray, and the boys are nowhere in sight.

Conclusion: a kidnapping must have occurred.

So while Batman inspires the fear of god in every small time criminal and rogue on the streets by being MUCH MORE violent than usual (by the end of the night everyone knows to stay indoors if you’re crooked cuz the Bat’s gone crazy looking for his birds) and some of the more sensible rogues band together to find out who took Talon and Robin (nobody), Dick is still freaking out because he’s sure Jason is dying (he’s not, calm down Dickiebird).

Jason just lays back and allows the smothering (and is very happy when he finally manages to get Dick to bring him a pen and notepad for communication), Dick calms down considerably once they’ve established Jason is just a little sick (“Yes, cuddles actually help. No I’m not shitting you, they do! Btw get me some ibuprofen pls”) and not, in fact, dying. (Dick doesn’t fully believe it but Jason is still snarky so it can’t be too bad quite yet right?)

Alfred ends up finding them while Dick is down in the kitchens searching for the ibuprofen and very nearly starts yelling before thinking better of it (he was very worried okay cut him some slack).

Thirty minutes later Bruce is also back at the manor (after nearly causing several head on collisions) and hovering anxiously, torn between lecturing his kids and just— holding them and never letting go.

#Bruce has that perpetual fear that the court of owls will come back #and take dick #and Jason #poor batdad #he loves his strange kids so much #riddler and Harvey totally looked for Robin and talon in a joint effort #their current plans depend on the bat being less of a ‘vengeance’ stick ok?#it’s totally not because Robin shared a cupcake with riddler once #or because Talon allowed Harvey to keep his coin when they arrested him #no way now get out #owl song #talon dick grayson #dick grayson #jason todd #batfamily #batfam #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth

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darkdemeter · 4 months

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— PREVIEW — THE CONVICT WOLF

Material is featured as a preview/loose prelude for the upcoming project and is subject to potential alterations for narrative purposes.

A/N: just as a word of warning (this will be mentioned in the reader discretion as well) that this series as a whole is intended for 18+ readers due to very strong and sensitive content that will be featured in it, as it takes a more gritty, angsty and darker approach. This preview serves a little more as an introduction to reader and a little bit of a loose prelude before the actual first and “official” column of the series.

Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader

— READER DISCRETION —

Depictions of death and gore/violence (description of consumption of human flesh by werewolf) — depictions of graveyard/deceased desecration (grave digging) — dark!reader — strong narrative (adult) language — overall this preview and the series as a whole is intended for 18+ readers!

Enjoy the preview!

—- not my gifs, credit to original posters! -—

𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟖𝟖𝟖 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤

Muddy cobbles slosh beneath the heel of your boots, scuffed from their long and working age. New York, the prize-to-be-metropolis, was no better than Boston - in your professionally critical opinion. For talk of progressive schemes, New York remained the shithole it had always been. The only thing they did only pissed you off: more law.

But muddy puddles and a law infested nest of humans were the least of your troubles.

Silently, amidst the shroud of fog, you slide one last bullet into the cylinder of your revolver. The fog parts as you step through it to continue tailing your target. The barking of stray dogs fills the dark and empty streets of New York, a fine indicator that you may have a moment of peace in your hunt. If there was something on this green earth to top the greater nuisance than civilian intervention whilst you worked, you were unconvinced of its existence to prove you wrong.

Nothing made your fuse burn out faster than folk who didn’t know to not scramble into the way of your path.

Your eyes take in the shadowed alley you pass through, a hidden filter for scum to flush out into the streets and become inconspicuous with the crowd. That was during the day, however, not at night. That trick of aversion may have worked with petty criminals and the law, but not with you.

With you, nothing got away.

Something clatters in the distance up ahead and you turn your sights to it. Your bounty was sloppy, not very good at covering his tracks to ensure his survival. It took you no longer than three days to track him down. Of course, your handler had a knack for picking up leads fairly quickly, resources and old debts of favours went a long way when in your time of need.

You pick up your pace, your bounty well aware they were being followed, your jacket kicked up when a winter breeze breathed down the throat of the dimly lit street.

The bottom of your long, dark coat kicks up as you surge forward with purpose, hand bearing one of your firearms as the other pulls the second twin from its holster. You have him cornered now.

You come to slow down at the end of the short strip next to the occupying building. Some wealthy man’s brick estate no doubt. Sheets of white obscure most of the way, hanging from the wash lines above, but you could make out his silhouette. A large, towering and muscular physique covered in coarse fur. His tail sits in the mud to only further his savage and beastly appearance, ears folded back as his maw ripped into whatever meal he found. A maid.

Blood covered her from chin to chest. Her throat torn out but she remains on the cusp of life with shredded vocal cords whimpering in her demise.

She is beyond saving. You’d learnt that much long ago.

Through her lidded eyes she sees you and her blood covered hand stretches out. Your eyes move down the wet crimson fingers to her pleading, fading eyes in the dark before they land on the beast engrossed in his meal to know the danger behind him. At first.

With a final plea for help, she tries to scream for you until she grows quiet completely in his arms. He becomes still and the fur along his back and shoulders bristle, ears perked up in awareness. Now he knows. Slowly he turns his large head to stare at you with blaring, amber eyes that intend to scorn you for your intrusion. You match his stare with as much disdain as he.

“I smell your past sins, vânător de rude.” He points at you with an accusing, claw tipped finger. “You have no jurisdiction to judge me.”

Your shoulders move up in a shrugging motion. “If only those words actually meant something to me.”

Your arms swiftly have risen up as the hammers flick to unlock the safe fire. The barrels of your twin revolvers blink white as you take the shot. The cracking of bullets meeting muscle and flesh is enough evidence to prove you hit him, blood splatters bleeding into the murky puddles and onto the street.

With a grunt you push yourself up from the dirt and pursue him over steel enforced fences and more white sheets left to air out. They only serve as canvases to a blood smeared trail of your quarry.

New York had made its progression into the modern world. From landscape and brick buildings, the city excelled more than a few schematics; onward and upward they always say. To this day that same nuisance stuck with you. Civilians and a plethora of them swarmed the streets alongside the line up of traffic. Busy.

New York is constantly busy. And it tends to make your work harder to conceal when your targets flee into the open. Finding them within the crowd is never really the problem, but it’s the excessive bodies that don’t know to stay out of your way.

Your bounty is simple, dare you say it, cliché it feels. You’ve played this narrative time and time again. This dance of execution one they try to escape by treading on your toes and running only to have you loop them back into the waltz of the hunt.

Countless times you’ve seen the eyes of your prey widen when they realise there is no escape.

You don’t get yourselves involved in the sob stories of the client or intended quarry, you were after the money that keeps you in that safe spot. All you dug up on your target is that they’re an ex-Hydra agent gone down the path of righteousness and betterment. Someone who finds peace in the work they’re involved in, cares for the people around them. A real advocate for being a humble hero.

‘Alright.’

They venture down the stairs into the subways below. Oh, this is going to be a treat, you’re sure of it. A tight spot. Many witnesses. Hands clenching at your sides as you swagger after them, people knew to avoid bumping into you. Hidden beneath the thick layer of your coat, the one you’ve worn all this time, were your holstered twins. New York is unaware for the time being.

Give it time, they would know. Your eyes of scarlet red would be plastered all over and your visage identified as the nightmare parchment and ink always captured you to be. Give it some time and it would be all over the news: The Convict Wolf strikes again.

“Six bodies,” you grunt with a heave of the shovel. Your handler is quick to duck out of the way, a gas lantern in her grasp illuminating you several feet in the resting place of a half eaten merchant. Not even three days cold in his grave and the fiend had taken to him like flies on shit.

Your handler’s other hand presses a clean, bright yellow handkerchief to her nose. But the smell filtered through given the glassy fog in her eyes. The smell of death rendered her weak in the gut and in constant battle with the bile that climbed her throat for release.

“Wh-what does th-this mean?” She coughs into her handkerchief, bile and spittle at the edge of her tongue, you were sure of it. You shake your head rigorously akin to a dog shaking off water. Dirt falls from your hair in small forms of clouds. Your eyes find your handler’s uncertain gaze as she stares down at you; unnerved by the calmness you exude whilst standing in a grave.

Any passers-by would suspect nefarious acts against the dead. Grave robbers and worse.

“It means, my dear handler, that he is probably desperate for food and is too shy to make a move on living humans.” You hoist yourself up with a deep grunt, your handler bows down to loop a hand around the crook in your arm to pull. “Will he…”

You hear your handler gulp the remainder of her sentence. You raise your brows in a knowing fashion. “It’s only a matter of time. Dead flesh doesn’t satisfy the shy for long.”

“Then we must hurry,” she says with great urgency to rid the city of this parasite. You pull something from a pouch on your belt. You hold the small box up in offering to your handler who only shakes her head fervently in horror. You shrug with a huff. “Suit yourself.”

You and your handler glance down at the corpse as you raise the flame-tipped match to burn the end of your cigarette. A father of two and husband to a meek, gentle tailor. The same one who’d fixed up the patches in your coat just a day ago.

If only he could have afforded to be buried in the mausoleum.

The lighting is shoddy at best down below in the subway, the mechanic hissing and howl of the train fast approaching indicates that you have maybe a minute at most to locate them. With a shallow breath you inhale their scent.

Kin.

It seems your nature as a hunter of your own never outgrew you.

‘Is this a nasty habit?’

You don’t let it eat away at your conscience. You have a job to do and a client to satisfy. They’re waiting on the platform, hands tucked into the pockets of their jacket and chin forced down. You knew that scent that rolled along the back of your tongue with another inhale.

Fear.

Their heart rate picks up as you make to move after them just as the train rolls to a stop and the doors open. Your shoulders move in tandem with the power of your strut. Focus on your target leaves little regard to the rest of the world around you. Oftentimes you have shoved others aside, stopped traffic to downright mauling interlopers who had no right to involve themselves in your affairs; but thought themselves the hero.

How well that turned out for them, their next of kin and nosey investigators could ask the medical records or the tombstones.

They board the train in a hurry with the crowd around them. They won’t lose you that quickly. As you head for one of the doors down the train cart to avoid giving away your position, you bump into something.

“Watch it,” you growl lowly as your arm sweeps around her waist to catch her against you before she is knocked off balance.

She’s smaller than you. Dressed in a baggy, tan coloured zip up jacket and dark blue skinny jeans. Her hair is brushed back and her eyes take a moment to look at you from under the black cap.

“Sorry, I–” You’ve already let her go. You don’t give her the chance to memorise your features to use as a testimony against you when your next killing goes public. You dare to peek over your shoulder at her, catching her eyes as she stares at you. The doors close behind you just in time as you board the train.

With a roll of your eyes, you discard the clumsy girl to the back of your mind. Your eyes wander down the narrow path of the train cart. There they were. Your target. Another wolf. You always charge extra for these bounties.

Their nervous eyes meet yours and the corner of your lips quirk up. The scent of their fear pollutes the train, it masks over the humans. Unaware, unsuspecting humans. You reach a hand to unholster one of your revolvers, thumb caressing the hammer as you calculate the right moment.

Mother Nature had always been just as cruel as she was kind. Even to her finest killers. It was the beauty of her, really.

In the world your kind lives in, a chain of command exists. Even if it will further taint your already sullied name, all will know it. That clumsy girl with the bright green eyes whose smaller body you held pinned against your solid front. She will know your sullied name.

The Convict Wolf strikes again.

You think about that girl again and you see eyes once filled with fear turn to anger. They glow a bright scarlet, just as yours do. As they always do. There was no use hiding what you really were.

Because in the world werewolves live in, there is a hierarchy; and you’ve always preferred to be on top.

(◕ ᴥ x)

TREEHOUSE TAGLIST —

@alexawynters

#wanda x werewolf! reader series #wanda x werewolf! reader #female reader #gn reader #male reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #werewolf reader #marvel #werewolves #werewolf #dark!reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff #wanda #treehouse taglist #dem’s updates

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laurellerual · 4 months

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ASoIaF: Arya’s change of clothes

AGOT

Arya III: His claws raked at the front of her leather jerkin. (...) Arya whirled, felt leather catch and tear as a huge fang nipped at her jerkin, and then she was running.

Arya V: Some of them stared at her boots or her cloak (heavy woolen cloak) (...) The silver bracelet she'd hoped to sell had been stolen her first night out of the castle, along with her bundle of good clothes (a velvet skirt, a silk tunic, some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her, a satin gown) , snatched while she slept in a burnt-out house off Pig Alley. All they left her was the cloak she had been huddled in, the leathers on her back, her wooden practice sword … and Needle.

ACOK

Arya VI: "That hair is a fright and a nest for lice as well. We'll have it off, and then you're for the kitchens." (...) Goodwife Harra slapped her so hard that her swollen lip broke open all over again (...) They gave her a shift of grey roughspun wool and a pair of ill-fitting shoes, and sent her off. (...) On the road Arya had felt like a sheep, but Harrenhal turned her into a mouse. She was grey as a mouse in her scratchy wool shift,

Arya X: They required dressing like a page and washing more than she liked. (...) In her cell, she stripped to the skin and dressed herself carefully, in two layers of smallclothes, warm stockings, and her cleanest tunic. It was Lord Bolton's livery. On the breast was sewn his sigil, the flayed man of the Dreadfort. She tied her shoes, threw a wool cloak over her skinny shoulders, and knotted it under her throat.

ASOS

Arya I: She was still dressed in her page's garb, and on the breast over her heart was sewn Lord Bolton's sigil, the flayed man of the Dreadfort. (...) "Who dressed the poor child in those Bolton rags?"

Arya IV: They insisted she dress herself in girl's things, brown woolen stockings and a light linen shift, and over that a light green gown with acorns embroidered all over the bodice in brown thread, and more acorns bordering the hem. (...) Lady Smallwood said as the women laced the gown up Arya's back. (...) one sleeve was torn on her stupid acorn dress.

Arya IV: The dress she put her in this time was sort of lilac-colored, and decorated with little baby pearls. The only good thing about it was that it was so delicate that no one could expect her to ride in it.

Arya IV: So the next morning as they broke their fast, Lady Smallwood gave her breeches, belt, and tunic to wear, and a brown doeskin jerkin dotted with iron studs. "They were my son's things".

Arya V: Then they stole all the clothes that Lady Smallwood had given her and dressed her up like one of Sansa's dolls in linen and lace.

AFFC

Arya III: In the black of night she rose again, donned the clothes she'd worn from Westeros, and buckled on her swordbelt. Needle hung from one hip, her dagger from the other. With her floppy (woolen hat patched with leather) hat on her head, her fingerless gloves tucked into her belt, and her silver fork in one hand, she went stealing up the steps. (...) She emptied her pouch into her palm; five silver stags, nine copper stars, some pennies and halfpennies and groats. She scattered them across the water. Next her boots. They made the loudest splashes. Her dagger followed, the one she'd gotten off the archer who had begged the Hound for mercy. Her swordbelt went into the canal. Her cloak, tunic, breeches, smallclothes, all of it. All but Needle.

ADWD

The Blind Girl: The blind girl tied a strip of rag around her head to hide her useless eyes (...) The waif had shaved her head for her when they took her eyes; a mummer's cut (...) she gave her pox scars and a mummer's mole on one cheek with a dark hair growing from it. (...) The clothes she wore were rags, faded and fraying, but warm clean rags for all that. Under them she hid three knives—one in a boot, one up a sleeve, one sheathed at the small of her back. (...) A cracked wooden begging bowl and belt of hempen rope completed her garb.

The Ugly Little Girl: An ugly girl should dress in ugly clothing, she decided, so she chose a stained brown cloak fraying at the hem, a musty green tunic smelling of fish, and a pair of heavy boots. Last of all she palmed her finger knife.

The Ugly Little Girl: They brought a robe for her as well, the soft thick robe of an acolyte, black upon one side and white upon the other.

TWOW

Mercy: She shaved, donned her smallclothes, and slipped a shapeless brown wool dress down over her head. One of her stockings needed mending, she saw as she pulled it up. (...) Her boots were lumps of old brown leather mottled with saltstains and cracked from long wear, her belt a length of hempen rope dyed blue. She knotted it about her waist, and hung a knife on her right hip and a coin pouch on her left. Last of all she threw her cloak across her shoulders. It was a real mummer's cloak, purple wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the rain off, and three secret pockets too. She'd hid some coins in one of those, an iron key in another, a blade in the last. A real blade, not a fruit knife like the one on her hip, but it did not belong to Mercy, no more than her other treasures did.

#arya stark #asoiaf #house stark

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puppetmaster13u · 3 months

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Howdy, who wants a WIP of my dark-ish dragon batfam that I mentioned and rambled about? I am also open to answering questions and doing even more rambles lol.

Warnings for some gore and such :] Also Tim's lacking self confidence and general unreliable narrator-ness when it comes to everyone.

“Shh… it’s alright Timmy… you’re okay…”

Tim shuddered at the familiar voice, now tilted by a growling croon as fingers- claws- ran through his hair. He hiccuped slightly, the grip on him tightening and tucking him closer to a scaled form.

“You’re okay,” Dick crooned again, continuing to run fingers through his hair. “Dad will be back soon, won’t that be nice, Timmy?”

Scales scraped against his clothes as the older vigilante nuzzled against him, grip gentle but oh so possessive. He couldn’t tear free if he tried- and oh he had, he’d tried to run a few different times even with his broken leg, until he was no longer left alone.

Tim blinked back tears, trying to stop his heart from pounding against his chest as a thumb rubbed against his wrist. He’d never thought that his life would end up like this, cradled in the nest of things no longer pretending to be human. Trapped with no way out.

“Shh…” the shushing was more like a hiss, Dick’s cheek rubbing against his cheek as he failed to keep the tears from falling. “It’s alright Timmy, you’re going to be okay, alright? Sh, you’re just a little baby, it’s alright to feel overwhelmed…”

He shook his head, unable to make his tongue work or his throat form words, only able to get out a whimper. Tim wanted to go home, to the Drake home, even if it was empty and cold compared to the boiling heat of the Wayne manor. He wanted to pretend he had never become Robin, had never done such a stupid thing without realizing the consequences.

Dragons were possessive creatures. He’d known this even before he found out what the Bats were. He knew how violent they could be, even before seeing Nightwing and Batman rip Joker apart. If he wasn’t careful he could still taste blood and feel the viscera spatter across his face and into his hair.

Dick hummed, shifting his hold. Claws continued to gently tug tangles from his hair, even if there weren’t any left. “Everything is going to be fine, ‘kay Timmy? Look,” he knew the older boy was motioning to the batcomputer in front of them even if everything was blurry. “Dad is on his way home now, isn’t that nice?”

No, because he couldn’t even escape when it was just Dick, nevermind if there was both him and Bruce. Bruce, who could tear open a man’s rib cage like it was a ziplock bag. He didn’t think he could ever forget the sound of it, nor the sight of organs being violently torn free from where they should be.

He’d become Robin to stop the violence, but it seemed like he’d made it worse. All it took was one stupid mistake, one stupid slip up that resulted in him being caught, and now people were dead.

He couldn’t stop the tears from dripping down his face, even if they were wiped away by sharp claws. He had only wanted to help, he hadn’t meant to make everything worse.

#dragon batfam #batman au #batman #dc #dcu #cryptid batman #cryptid batfam #dark batfam #cryptid batfamily #tim drake #dick grayson #my writing #writing wip #Fuck Ur Bullshit (Found Familys Ur Monsters) Project #let me know if you wanna know more lol #or if you wanna be tagged #also just feel free to lemme know what you think lol

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m1d-45 · 1 year

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the wind knows

summary: a series of haikus to ‘imposter’ reader, wherein kazuha knows the truth

word count: ~600

-> warnings: spoilers for inazuma archon quest / kazuha lore? implied violence? imposter au things- it’s implied reader dies, so……

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yum1x

< masterlist >

many letters were scrapped, left to sit in the trash. when pen finally meets proper page, the sun has long since set. still, the motions are careful and sure, as if it hadn’t taken hours of preparation to bear fruit.

the world has waited

for the brightest star to fall

i have waited too

the faint scent of the sea stains the poem, the wax seal dusted with salt. contained within the envelope is the product of boredom at the docks, impatience vented onto paper.

an ocean between

the trip is bound by man’s speed

you are worth the wait

the high point of the crow’s nest allows for far sight, land appearing on the horizon a precious few moments before anybody below notices. words seem to appear in the mind, bandages staining with ink in the hasty retrieval of paper. once down, it would be transferred to something neater, but that is not the priority.

the geo-filled spires

meet together with crashing water

i hope we meet soon.

words are heard, names are called. even after a day of searching, of following the wind that has never led astray, nothing is found. nobody is found. the captain of the fleet makes a comment that goes unheard, thoughts caught up in new lines. a hand traces them out, even if there’s only air below; it’s never meant to be sent, after all.

liyue is empty

of nothing but what’s needed

where could you have gone?

the next day is just as fruitless, nobody at the docks reporting anything new. the wind brings him a small cluster of torn up pages, the familiar writing of lady ningguang scrawled across them. he can’t catch full phrases, the paper scraps too small, but the very fact that the shredded snow had fallen scares him in a way it shouldn’t. the wind warns, but of what?

rumors cross the streets

the air is taught with tension

please let it rest soon

the harbor bustles with more life than normal. people shout and cry, everybody slowly moving away from the docks and deeper into the city. sailors are confused, having only barely returned, but a flyer hastily shoved into their hands by a vendor makes everything clear. the sharp, commanding voice of the captain reads it out, the letter of execution snatched from her hands as red eyes hope and pray it’s fake.

i hope it’s not you

even as i know it is

how could this happen?

white hair shoves through a crowd, his mind blurred with both the aura of the divine and panic from the jeering people around. bodies press in around him but he forces his way though, managing to catch glimpses of the stage. the tianquan, lazily flipping the pages of her catalyst. the funeral director, star-filled eyes now blank and empty with hatred. and him, him, the one who bears an impossible amount of geo, him who stains the air with ancient names and archaic rituals, him with a spear that shines like pure gold in the sun.

kazuha finally bursts through the crowd, the eyes of the millelith snapping to him as he stumbles on the bricks below. it doesn’t matter. he’s too late.

for the second time, somebody he loved dies at the hands of an unfeeling god.

heretical sin

the world itself cries in pain

how could you leave me?

#genshin impact sagau #sagau #genshin sagau #sagau impostor au #genshin imposter au #sagau kazuha #kazuha x you #sagau x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you #kazuha #kazuha x reader #angst #sagau angst #kazuha angst #man this was so much fun to write. wholeheartedly enjoyed myself during this one lads #mmm being cryptic on a friday night (it’s monday)#gonna be so embarrassed if i find out i miscounted syllables on one of these. it’s supposed to be 5-7-5 and i’m only 83% confident i did it

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and-stir-the-stars · 8 months

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Lore dump for the kids' futures in mbmw:

Mike ends up taking over Fredbear Entertainment and trying to recapture the spark that made him and his siblings love the company before william Ruined Everything

Mike builds a Roxanne Wolf animatronic based on his and Liz's adoptive mum, Roxy. He ups his mum's punk nature in the Roxy animatronic. He makes the Roxy animatronic act punk and tough to appeal to kids like him: kids with anger issues and trauma, kids who have been hurt by authority and have been labelled off as "problem kids" that are "beyond or unworthy of help." Also just like his adoptive mum, Mike designs the Roxy animatronic to help these kinds of kids. Give them someone to relate to, and someone to subtly assure them that who they are is okay. And ofc Mike can't resist an animatronic that encourages kids to flaunt authority

If Mike makes a Monty animatronic, he also designs the Monty animatronic with a similar goal to the Roxy animatronic design

Mike redesigns Fredbear and uses Evan’s dad Freddy as the inspiration behind the new animatronic

Mike renames Fredbear Entertainment to 'Fazbear Entertainment.' He says he named the company after his and Liz's mum, but Evan and Greg and Ness tease Mike; Roxy (human) and Freddy (human) have the same last name, so Ev and Greg and Ness tease Mike by saying that Mike actually named the company after THEIR dad, not Mike's mum

Henry doesn't approve of Mike taking over the company; he'd prefer that the company and all the memories it carries was left to die. But Henry knows that it's up to Mike, not him, so Henry tries to be supportive. He offers to give Mike advice and support, and leaves it up to Mike to either accept or deny Henry's attempts

Mike makes an animatronic based on Liz. He knows that Liz used to lie to herself and say Will based Circus Baby off of her bc she wanted to believe her dad cared about her. So, Mike based an animatronic off of her

The animatronic he makes is the clown animatronic I've been drawing and posting. It's based on an octopus Liz likes (Mimic octopus), Liz's old raggedy Anne dolls, and ofc off of Liz herself.

Like the mimic octopus, the clown animatronic is very good at hiding. The clown animatronic (whether by accident or on purpose) often jumps out and scares people bc her hiding skills are so good

When Evan first visits whatever location has this clown animatronic, Mike forgot to warn Ev about the clown's hiding skills. She (the clown) jumped out and scared Evan. Michael FREAKED, terrified that the experience would traumatize/hurt/anger Evan, but after the initial shock, Evan laughed it off. Mike still felt guilty about it, but Ev gets even by relentlessly teasing Mike about it. Greg and Ness and Liz tease Mike about it, too; Cassie would join in on the teasing but she didn't know Evan when he was that terrified of animatronics, so Mike at least doesn't have Cassie relentlessly teasing him

Evan becomes a nasa scientist. I think his physical injuries would prevent him from being able to actually go into space, but he might have gone into low orbit and such on research missions

There was definitely at least once when a school reached out to him, and asked him if it would be possible for him to go into low orbit and answer school kids' questions about space via a video call (evan said said yes and immediately cried)

Liz, Greg, Ness, and Cassie's futures are still undecided

#mbmw #A nest torn empty #fnaf au #michael afton #evan afton

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moiteneia · 5 months

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A Headcanon: The Bloody Raven

Yesterday, in the minigame, q!Philza taught q!Cellbit how to fly. CC hasn't played Minecraft for about 10 years, so he's learning a lot of things about the game from scratch or relearning. But this might make a good headcanon. Although I don't dislike the cat hybrid headcanon, seeing as we have a lot of birds in qsmp, I always wanted to know which one would fit for q!Cellbit and now we see some naming what it could be. The Raven. Imagine, at thirteen we could consider that q!Cellbit wasn't ready to leave the nest, his parents didn't even allow him to stay too far away, just playing with his sister and pretending to investigate some "mysteries". He always loved mysteries. He always loved the idea of flying, daring, he tried to fly by flapping his wings a few times just to feel his feet leaving the ground and the long black wings opening, feeling the air touching his feathers and blowing from pair to pair. But he respected his parents' rules, he didn't dare go beyond that, and, well, he wanted to be part of the little traditions they still tried to maintain on that island. However he didn't have time and before he could, while playing at investigating what he shouldn't have, he was taken away from his nest and thrown into a field of fire and blood.

It didn't take long for his wings to be torn painfully by an opponent who felt no pity for the little child who desperately tried to escape. He could never learn to fly. And little by little, he kept this pain to himself with a single thought... He had no nest, he didn't have his family, he was and would always be a monster. Even if he found his home, how would they accept him like that? A useless, weak and purposeless aberration. He became increasingly quiet, more mysterious, more bloody. His wings, he purposely tore off what was left, realizing that that memory was meaningless. He was no longer a raven. He was nothing but that battlefield, and later a prisoner. So, imagine on the island... Him meeting someone similar to him. q!Philza did not have his wings, a wise crow who had already been through something similar to what he went through. The young raven wanted to get closer, but he still didn't see himself worthy, he had never touched the skies and felt the taste of the wind.

But he observed closely that strange and curious creature, so sweet and gentle, he never spoke of his pain and what had been taken away from him. Little by little he approached, seeing Q!Philza as a respectful crow, someone he could trust, with his sins, his pains and his secrets. The two saw each other like that. Arriving in Purgatory, he had no doubt who would be the perfect leader if not the wise crow. But he didn't know that he would get so close, how much he would learn to see q!Philza as more than a leader and he found himself little by little saying that "he would soon return to the nest". Their nest, of the red ones, of that strange group that little by little they learned to trust with their lives and what was left of their bodies. So, yesterday, it was very significant, getting prosthetic wings for another game of that Cursed Eye, q!Cellbit admitted for the first time to the old crow that he had never learned to fly. And as always, gracefully and lovingly, Q!Philza taught him and he could feel the air for the first time. xXx

An additional - Guapoduo/Spiderbit: q!Roier never dared to ask about the large injuries on his husband's back. He knew that q!Cellbit would tell, but he was aware that certain scars don't need to have their story told. He just knew that when his husband watched the sunrise and closed his eyes, he was imagining himself far away. q!Roier smiled sadly and hugged him, so that when q!Cellbit opened his eyes, seeing himself still with his feet on the ground, he wouldn't feel so alone and empty. They would always have each other.

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frogchiro · 1 year

Note

no thoughts today just simon and his happy trail

You're goddamn right

edit: JESUS IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A QUICK THIRST AND INSTEAD TURNED INTO THIS

warnings: fem!reader, no outright smut but slightly suggestive, both the reader and ghost are naked but it's for warmth (more or less), probably ooc ghost, but hey! it's monster! simon!, feral behavior, possessive ghost

No thoughts head empty, only feral monster!Simon who will let out a rumbling growl that makes his broad chest visibly vibrate to call put to you when he feels like you're not giving him his well deserved attention.

You're both currently nestled inside the abruptly thrown together nest of old blankets and some flat pillows you found in the safehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere after you had to quickly retreat after an ambush from enemy forces.

Your Lieutenant, Ghost, moved through the thick dark forest surrounding the safehouse like a shadow, navigating effortlessly but you pinned it up to his....well, monstrous nature.

After you finally arrived you tried to even out your breath while doing your best at keeping it as quiet as possible while you observed the massive chest of Ghost expand as he inhaled and scented the air looking out for any potential danger. Luckily after just a few very tense seconds that felt like hours, Ghost let out a huffing sound and let you know that you were safe and that you'll have to stay here until the next day before regrouping with the rest of 141.

While Ghost got busy with gathering some old scattered parts of destroyed furniture to make a fire in the small fireplace after deeming it safe and that your enemies are far enough to not make you betray your position, you decided to look around the building for some spare blankets and towels that you could use as makeshift bedding.

After checking the only two room of the upper level of the old building you make your way downstairs with the few blankets which weren't wet and covered with mud and mold; just the short memory of them and the smell made you gag as you descended the stairs and noticed that Ghost already started the fire, its orange flames shyly raising up and dancing in the fireplace.

You made eye contact with the burly man and noticed that he stripped himself of the heavy bulletproof vest and various pouches and remained only in his black cargo pants, heavy boots and black uniform, but what made you stop in your tracks and almost gasp out was the sight of his face without the skull mask and balaclava. Of course you saw his naked face without the covering before, but those moments were very few and far in-between so you would be lying if you said that you weren't blushing at the sight of Simon's scarred masculine face. The black paint smudged around his black bottomless eyes which seemed to glow with a strange light-or was it just the flames reflecting inside them?

You were torn out of your thoughts when you heard Ghost letting out short bellowing sounds from deep within his chest, not nearly loud enough to be heard outside but enough to make you focus on him again- just for what the noise is for, to call the attention of his pack.

Flushing with embarrassment at being caught staring in an attempt at saving face you lifted the bunched up materials slightly and explained that you found these to make a quick bed on the floor unless he wants to sleep in a mold-ridden bed.

You smiled slightly at the displeased sarcastic huff he let out and made your way closer to the burly man and started to arrange the materials on the floor close enough to the fireplace to be kept nice and warm but far enough to avoid possibly catch fire.

While placing the blankets and pillows on the ground you heard the thunderous footsteps of your Lieutenant coming closer to you, a few quiet rumbling noises escaping him as he helped you arrange them into a circle before deeming it enough and with another rumble he fell into the bed while pulling you forcefully down with him.

And so you found yourself in this...situation; your naked chest expanding with a sigh at the clinginess of the monster before you. Well, he's your monster after all, your Lieutenant, your Simon and a member of his, well, pack.

Ghost would deny it to Hell and back, but deep down Simon was terribly touch starved and needy for attention, at least from certain, selected by him people, namely you and Johnny. Unfortunately the scottsman wasn't here so you were the one to take the brunt of his...affection.

You knew already that when Simon got into his monstrous headspace he was running on animalistic primal instincts and you were sure that right now they were telling him to 'keep her close, keep mate close. It's cold and dangerous, need to keep mate safe, here' as you could basically hear the cogs in his mind turning, especially when his initially quiet growls became much more insistent and he rose up from his spot, muscles bulging and tensing with barely contained strength, scarred chest vibrating with every bellow.

Since you knew that teasing Simon while in this headspace wasn't the best option, especially considering the situation you were both in, you decided on complying with him and returning quietly to the nest of blankets, keeping your head and eyes low to not anger him further.

When you finally settled again against the big male you smiled gently at the huff Ghost let out, relaxing a bit after feeling your bare breasts against his naked chest and the rest of your soft body plastered against his.

You still didn't fully understand what kind of entity Simon was, no one really did, not even Soap, but apparently even primordial entities liked to be touched and petted when in the right mood as ridiculous as it may sound.

Although slightly more relaxed you noticed that Simon was still tense, the heavy muscles still tensing on his bare stomach so you decided on attempting to calm him down even a little since you knew that tomorrow you had a long trek before you and the both of you needed as much rest as possible.

You raised yourself slightly on your elbow before slowly trailing a soft hand over his chest, massaging it slowly in a relaxing manner and smiling at the slow and steady vibrations before making your way lower to his tense stomach and trailing your fingers over each nook and cranny, the broad expanse tightly corded with muscle slowly relaxing before making your way even lower below his bellybutton and rested your hand on Simon's happy trail.

The appreciative growl from your lover was enough of a message that told you that you were doing a good thing, the feeling of his muscles flex slightly under your hand and his strong hips bucking slightly up into your warm touch. You knew it was a sensitive spot of his, Soap's too and Price was going feral when you caressed his toned stomach slowly, but with someone like Simon you felt as if you were caressing a wild beast.

You knew it was probably making him horny but it wasn't the time nor place for sex, that would come with the remote comfort of your own rooms back at the base where you know is safe.

For now you'll just stick to this, this slow, syrupy sweet affection of caressing your mate's lower belly, the coarse hair on his stomach scratching slightly against your hand but you don't mind; instead you rest yawn and rest your head on the man's strong shoulder and feel his muscled arm wrap tightly around you to bring you closer, nosing against your cheek before giving it a tiny affectionate nip.

You both doze off into sleep, warm and safe in each others embrace, the fire crackling quietly and the sound of rain outside the building. You can't wait for your return to the base~

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #oh jesus this was a ride #i hope you enjoyed it ;;#and yes #you're living the life and you're fucking the entire 141 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley

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002yb · 7 months

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A lightning round of ask replies below the cut:

The moment Dick straddles Jason’s lap, Jason is (⁄ ⁄•⁄Д⁄•⁄ ⁄), hands slapping over his own face even as he turns to look away – so flustered he flushes everywhere and he just. Slips right out of the chair, between Dick’s legs, and onto the floor before scrambling up and looking scandalized and Dick barks out the most beautiful laugh because Jason’s so damn cute.

Bonus points if it’s Superman.

Bonus points if Superman and Dick have the same Superman lunchbox, so it happens on occasion that they get mixed up (the lunchbox was a gift from Lois – she uses it whenever she makes lunch for him to tease him; Dick is just Dick).

But anyway, Superman forgets he didn’t bring a lunch, so he ends up taking Jason’s on accident. So when Jason goes to grab it, it’s missing and he’s ʰᵘʰ (ꐦ○_○)✧

Then he storms around and finds Superman eating the lunch Dick made for him and it’s so devastating. Of course this is how heroes truly are. Jason shouldn’t have expected different. This is Batman’s bullying all over again. ;A;

Meanwhile Superman realizes what’s gone wrong and is panicked and so guilty. And he apologizes profusely and offers to take Jason anywhere/bring Jason anything to make up for it but Jason is forever petulant.

And when Dick finds out Superman is just devastated because this boy who has loved and revered him since childhood ices him out; it’s a travesty.

Bruce patting Clark’s back because he’s been there. And Clark just groans because their crimes are completely different, don’t even.

Okay but Jason being like those cats that hunt things and bring back kills to their loved ones in a show of affection ahahaha. Dick having that similar reaction of ‘please don’t–’ but also ‘you love me so much🥹?’

Jason being the sole omega of the pack is one of my favorite omegaverse story details. So is him being estranged and the toll that takes on him. And where the family doesn’t realize until something drastic happens and they all freak out and step up and ahhhhh.

The visual of Jason starting out with a bleak safe house and having a nest that’s all scraps. Everything ripped and torn because it’s not right no matter how he tries to fit anything together and he shreds everything in his frustration. Jason sleeping just outside of his nest’s broken borders.

The family sneaking things with their scent onto him, or leaving them at his window. Until Jason has a warm nest that feels begrudgingly safe. Only now it’s wrong because it’s empty.

Just lots of nest things. Where Jason runs away with a wounded Robin and sequesters them in his nest. And when an alpha comes calling – Jason snaps his teeth at them for trying to take his pup and said alpha is surprised, but not upset in the least. They’re downright smitten, in fact. Because omega? So strong and protective and nurturing and ferocious? Hot.

It’s so over-the-top smitten, but you’re not wrong anon hahaha. Something about Jason seeing Dick as this persistent beacon in any darkness (be that in a reverent or begrudging way) is something that appeals so much.

Yes. Do I know what to write for this? No. Would I read it in a heartbeat? Yep.

Jason’s crew absolutely wingman for him once they figure out that their boss has the hots for the wingding bastard. They’re weird about it, too. Simultaneously helpful and threatening in the same exchange – the same sentence, even!

And they keep it on the down low because their boss has got a maiden heart and would get embarrassed (and kick their asses), so they’re always luring Nightwing to sketchy af locations to like they’re conducting a sketchy af deal/exchange.

At first Dick is confused, but for as subtle as Jason’s men keep these interactions, they’re pretty straightforward in what their expectation of Dick is. It makes Dick feel a little fond despite the theatrics of these exchanges because Jason has a lot of people supporting him and want him happy and that’s nice to know.

Dick taking these people up on their advice and Jason getting seemingly irritated about it each time, bristling but relenting without putting up too much of a fight. At which point Dick realizes that oh, maybe these people that work with Jason are for real? Little wing has a crush on him? What? The realization hitting him right as he’s taking Jason out and Jason grimacing because wth is with that creepy smile? And Dick is surprised at himself because he’s smiling? Oh, he is. Huh.

Just Dick being happy about Jason’s crush and developing a bit of a crush himself over the course of being set up with him by Jason’s crew.

The crew being real smug about how they’ve successfully hooked their boss up. Only to revolt once they realize this means their boss’s ass is gonna get tapped.

The crisis is that it makes Red Hood all the more appealing. 👀 Which of course Dick feels alarmed by, so he pulls away. Which causes a misunderstanding of cataclysmic proportions because Jason isn’t aware of Dick’s moral struggles – just that Dick finds out Red Hood is Jason and all at once Jason’s been iced out and it hurts. There’s no way Jason doesn’t take that personally.

While Red Hood had been unwittingly settling down, soothed by Dick’s affections – having Dick pull back on him reignites the wrathful fury and vengeance.

Jason taking Dick and Slade at the same time and while Jason is a breathless, dazed mess, scrambling for purchase - anything to hold onto (I like to think Dick’s shoulders, though Slade is pressed up right along Jason’s back; he’s not going anywhere), Slade and Dick are just taunting and bitching at one another like Jason isn’t there at all. 👀

A kinky take on a round robin tournament where Jason seduces everyone with his contradictory vixen and maiden-like ways (bonus points if it’s not even intentional) and ascertains his position as ultimate bottom.

Awwww, thank you so much! It always makes me so happy to hear that someone enjoys my writing (though I know it's been more rambles than writing lately; so sorry - persisting struggles). Thank you for that. <3

Personal headcanon for this is that they never actually say it with words. Because there’s something about plausible deniability that these two cling to when it comes to each other. Too tentative to push too far, too scared to take too much.

The love is there though. It’s in the way they relentlessly taunt and tease and challenge one another. It’s the lingering looks, the quiet considerations. It’s the trust and hope and faith that they chose to have in one another, even if they’re left disappointed or frustrated or scared. It comes about when surges of protectiveness overcome them and in quiet moments of vulnerability they never talk about later.

Basically shameless self-rec because it’s this series I wrote; this is my take on it, hahaha.

#dickjay #jaydick #for the most part #bulk ask replies #because some of these have been waiting for replies waaaay too long so sorry about that #if you don't see yours and it's been a while i've still got individual asks queued up as well #thank you everyone ~ <3

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rebeccathenaturalist · 9 months

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Why Have All the Birds Stopped Singing?

Originally posted on my website at https://rebeccalexa.com/why-have-all-the-birds-stopped-singing/

Summer is nearly halfway through, and while the days are still long there are already changes hinting at fall’s arrival. The heat causes some of the leaves on trees and shrubs to begin to turn just a little, and the sunset is a bit earlier each evening. One phenomenon that often startles people is when they realize that–seemingly overnight–the birds stopped singing.

Now, it’s not unusual for them to quiet down when a predator passes by (that includes us big, scary humans, by the way.) After all, they don’t want to be noticed by something that would happily turn them into a snack. But with each passing week there are fewer birdsongs in the daily chorus, and by the end of August pretty much all the birds stopped singing. Why is that?

Well, first we need to look at why birds sing in the first place. I start noticing songs late in winter, and then the diversity and frequency build up throughout spring. This is correlated with nesting season. Both male and female birds sing, though male songs have historically been given more attention.

Songs serve to establish and protect territory in which mated pairs of birds build their nests; birds of the same species know that this spot is taken, move along, please–or else. And they also help birds to attract their mate for the year; male songs in particular have been studied in this regard. So what sounds like lovely music to us is serious business for birds, meaning either “Hey, baby, check ME out!” or “GET OFF MY LAWN!” (Birdsong is also more surprisingly complex than we had assumed!)

The singing continues throughout nesting season. Some species of bird only raise one clutch of young a year, especially those whose young may take several weeks to fledge. Others, especially many songbirds, can raise two or even three clutches a year, seeing their young fledge and leave the nest within two weeks of hatching. As long as the nest is active, the parent birds work actively to protect it, to include re-establishing residency through song.

There is, of course, a risk associated with singing. Birds aren’t the only animals noticing the singer; predators also use these songs to home in on a potential meal. Singing does increase the likelihood of becoming prey, but it’s effective enough in helping spread one’s genes that it’s worth the risk from an evolutionary perspective. A bird that gets nabbed while singing near a nest is more likely to have passed its genes through at least one clutch of eggs, and if the surviving parent can get some of the young to fledgling age, then they have a good chance of surviving to spread the singing genes on to the next generation.

As soon as the nest is empty for the year, and the last batch of young have successfully fledged, the birds stopped singing. Why keep bringing attention to yourself when you no longer need to? It’s time to transition to non-breeding behavior patterns, whether that means a solitary existence, or a social group for winter.

But there’s another reason birds quiet down this time of year. By this point, their feathers are pretty beat up from their spring migration (even many resident species still engage in local migrations), and then defending their nests and literally running themselves ragged getting food for demanding, hungry young. They have to prepare for the fall migration, which for many species is a marathon thousands of miles long to their wintering grounds.

If you’re a bird whose flight feathers in your wings and tail are torn and even broken, you aren’t going to be a very efficient flier. Each wingbeat is going to cost you more energy, and on a long journey that inefficiency can be fatal. So July and the first part of August are prime times for North American birds to molt, shedding out old feathers and growing fresh new ones. By the time they’re ready for liftoff for the fall migration–or simply surviving winter’s cold right here–those shiny, undamaged feathers are going to be the perfect tools for energy-efficient flight. By saving valuable calories, they increase the likelihood that they’ll survive to see another breeding season next year.

This northern mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos) looks a little sad with a bare head–but don’t worry, those feathers will grow back soon!

But while they’re molting, they’re going to be additionally hindered in flight. That makes them even more vulnerable to predation. So this is another great reason for birds to quiet down as summer winds on. (They also may look a little silly, and while they probably don’t feel embarrassed about losing all the feathers on their head, I wouldn’t blame them if they were, in fact, a little self-conscious about it.)

Never fear, though–once late winter arrives next year, we’ll get to start hearing our birds warming up their syrinxes again, and soon the mornings will be full of the dawn chorus, fresh and new.

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