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miasmaghoul · 6 months

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miasma what r ur swiss tummy thoughts 🎤

syringe how DARE u make me consider the swummy when i have SO MANY KINKTOBER PROMPTS LEFT >:(

sigh.

anyway. i think swiss gains a little weight between tours and as such two ghouls in particular are even more obsessed with him than usual.

(contains: body worship, marking, tit sucking, some light scent kink, sloppy kissing, drool, teasing, and swiss being the desperate one for a change. at least a little)

His rusty purr echoes off his bedroom walls, his fingers drag through two heads of soft hair, and Swiss thinks this is as close to bliss as a guy can get.

Aeon had slithered up to Swiss' side right after lunch and hooked their elbows together, wrangling him back to the dorms with warm lips pressed to Swiss' ear. He hadn't complained; there were a few empty hours to spare until evening practice, he could allow their new addition to distract him for a bit.

Finding Dew waiting for them in the center of his bed, joint already lit, had been a surprise of the loveliest variety.

Swiss doesn't know how long it's been since they finished it off, but it's been long enough for Dew and Aeon to get wonderfully handsy. They'd fallen back against the headboard on Dew's last exhale, the little ghoul pinned to Swiss' right side and Aeon attached to his left. Heavy arms slung around their shoulders while Dew nuzzled his chest and Aeon shoved his nose into Swiss' throat.

This isn't the first time they've captured him like this over the past couple of weeks, and Swiss is sure it won't be the last. There are still nine days until the next tour picks up, and at this point it's harder to keep them off of him than on him.

It always starts with them touching over his shirt, long fingers dimpling the places where the fabric has gone taut. Drawn tighter after months of indulging in food, drink, and abject laziness when permitted. It happens to all of them, a few pounds added when they aren't able to sweating it off on stage. Even Dew has the most delightful little belly roll and love handles now, along with a bit more touchable puffiness in his chest. It'll all burn off once things pick up again, so none of the ghouls find themselves bothered when they all go a little soft(er) around the edges.

Least of all Swiss. He owns the tightest shirts for a reason.

Not that his shirts last very long when they do this. This afternoon was no different, Swiss' tee tossed to the floor the moment Aeon started to drool onto it. Their hands were on him immediately then; Dew grabbed a handful of his now-softer chest while he buried his face in Swiss' armpit, and Aeon had been quick to to sink his fingers into his stomach while he latched on to Swiss' collarbone. Both of then making the happiest little trilling sounds at the feel of his pudge giving beneath their skilled hands, sounds that made Swiss feel just a little higher.

Now, a truly unknown amount of time later, they've both migrated south. Dew's still pressed close, a skinny leg wrapped around Swiss' knee. He can feel the little ghoul's warmth through both of their pants, and there's sure to be a wet spot in Dew's jeans whenever he chooses to shred them. Dew's mouth is warmer, though, busy sucking the latest of many marks just below his navel. They overlap with the last round of still-healing bruises spotting Swiss' torso, a purpled mosaic of adoration.

Swiss sighs, rakes his claws over the little ghoul's scalp, and Dew looks up at him with the glassiest eyes. His lips swollen, flushed from so long spent worshipping every inch of Swiss he could reach. Spit slick as Swiss' own skin.

"Your eyes are red," he purrs, grinning with barely-open eyes. He cups Dew's cheek, no longer quite so hollow, and drags his thumb over his lower lip. "Almost as red as this pretty mouth."

Those lovely lips curl into the laziest smile when Swiss slips his thumb between them. The little ghoul gives it a lazy suck that has Swiss groaning, throbbing in his too-tight jeans. A pulse so intense that he's sure Aeon must feel it too, and the little whimper that floats up from his chest only confirms his suspicions.

Aeon's been straddling his other leg for a while now, making an absolute mess of his bare chest. Mouthing at his tits wet and sloppy, saliva catching in his thatch of chest hair with every pass of his tongue. Aeon's paid special attention to his nipples too, of course. Gotten them all puffed up and so dark with sharp but gentle teeth. He has one hand stuck up Dew's shirt, the other firmly planted on the side of Swiss' belly that Dew can't quite reach. Kneading away with abandon and entirely lost in his own little world.

Swiss drags his claws down the curved length of Aeon's spine, and the sound he makes has Swiss' eyelids drooping even further.

The other ghoul's lithe body is bent in a way that has his thigh slotted right up against Swiss' bulge. Not with enough pressure for him to get anything out of it, but it means they're close enough that Swiss can feel Aeon twitch against his hip too. Aeon gasps against his skin when Swiss grabs a handful of his ass, but flat out growls when he encourages Aeon to rut against him. Swiss chuckles, raises an eyebrow.

"Wazzat for, kitten?" He's can't keep the humor from his voice, impossible when Aeon sounds about as threatening as your average bowl of oatmeal. "Y'think I can look and not wanna touch?"

Swiss flexes his thigh, pushes it up into Aeon's obvious arousal, and earns a much more appropriate whine for his trouble. Aeon looks up at him, mouth hanging open, cheeks darkened and eyes barely focused. There's a string of saliva connecting his plush power lip with Swiss' nipple, and Swiss would break it with his tongue if he could reach.

"Didn't say that," Aeon slurs, pushing himself upright and pulling his hand from Dew's warm little tummy. The smaller ghoul makes a displeased sound around Swiss' thumb, but it's quashed quickly when Aeon scratches at the space between his horns. "Jus' not in a rush, is all. You're not gonna squishy forever. Wanna enjoy it."

Swiss tips his head and watches him for a long moment. Watches Aeon stretch both arms over his head, exposing a delicious stripe of his own flat stomach. He and Aurora haven't been around long enough to be affected by The Gluttony, but Swiss knows it'll happen soon enough. A few months touring and they'll come back with all sorts of new, voracious appetites in dire need of sating.

Swiss can't fucking wait.

He hisses when fangs sink into his thumb, pulling it from Dew's mouth with a soft pop. He frowns down at the little ghoul, but can't keep up the scowl for long. Not when Dew's scooting down to nose at his happy trail.

"You went away," he admonishes, kissing the button of Swiss' jeans. Chin hovering over straining denim. Dew's heavy eyes flash with something playful. "Jus' 'cause we're takin' our time," he murmurs, grinding slow against Swiss' leg, "doesn't mean you get t' think about other shit."

Swiss huffs through his nose, but offers a slightly sheepish smile. He reaches down, traces the shell of Dew's pointed ear with one fingers. The little ghoul chirrups, leans into the touch, and Swiss' other hand lands on Aeon's thigh. Strokes lean muscle, wishing it was skin beneath his palm. But hey, if they're in no rush then neither is he.

"Sorry Sparky, jus' got distracted for a second," he says with a wink. "'M all yours, I promise."

A bony hand sinks into his curls, and Swiss finds his gaze being redirected. Finds Aeon looking down at him with his head tilted, black and white waves falling over his forehead. There's something fascinating in his swirling lavender eyes, something Swiss knows he should recognize, but can't quite place. Something so similar to the brazen need in Dew's eyes, yet entirely different.

"Ours," Aeon corrects, voice firm. "You're ours."

Oh, that's what it is.

Possession.

Swiss' tongue feels suddenly too thick, too cumbersome. Impossible to form an intelligent response when his mouth is so dry. When had it gotten so dry? He has no idea. Still, he tries. Manages to make a dull gurgling sound while he soaks a stain into his boxers. Fuck he's so hard.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the darkness in Aeon's eyes vanishes. He's loose once more, hazy, rolling his hips just enough for Swiss to feel the swollen ridge of his cock against his thigh. Then he's leaning down, and Swiss finds himself being kissed with the sort of slowness usually reserved for third dates and drive-in movies. Deep and with what most would consider too much tongue, but they both know that's just how Swiss likes it.

Warm hands squeeze his stomach, and Swiss manages to crack one eye open. Angles his head so he can peer down at Dew. Swiss smiles into the kiss at the sight of him, wide-eyed with his lips caught between his fangs. Groping his stomach like it's his job and not so subtly humping Swiss' leg while he devours the sight before him. A delicious sight, one made all the better when he sees Dew's hand creep up his thigh. Over his hip.

Swiss groans deep and pained when Dew finally, blessedly, cups the dull ache between his legs. Molds his fingers to the obvious swell of Swiss' cock and gives it a nice little rub. It's hardly anything, but it sends his head spinning anyway.

Or maybe that's Aeon stealing the air from his lungs. Hard to say.

Either way, Swiss is beyond dizzy when Aeon chooses to relent. Gulps for breath, licks his lips to drink down every sweet drop of saliva coating them. Aeon huffs out a soft laugh, rubbing their noses together and bumping horns.

Aeon licks a stripe up his cheek, Swiss moans, and Dew purrs when his cock kicks hard.

"Gonna let us play again now?"

Swiss is pretty sure he'd give up nuclear launch codes if it meant they would keep touching him like this. The fervent nod he offers Aeon only supports that.

"S'much as you want, baby," he sighs, hands roving restlessly over Aeon's shirt. Swiss' eyewhen Dew pops his button and starts to tug down his zipper. "Fuck, much as you both want."

Aeon kisses his temple, hums against thin skin, and then he's slinking his way down Swiss' body. Dragging his hands from Swiss' broad shoulders, over his pecs, down his tummy. Poking and prodding at his softest spots with the worst kind of smile on his face. He joins Dew in short order, bumps their horns together, and then they're kissing each other all slow and gross and unholy fuck does Swiss ache.

Aeon's hand joins Dew's at his zipper, both of their free hands occupied with massaging his stomach. Dew's the one to reach into his boxers once the last tooth separates, and Swiss doesn't even try to hide his groan of relief when the little ghoul pulls him out at last.

"Fuuuuuuck," he breathes, pure relief and red-hot tension threaded into the word in equal measure. It feels like he could cum in half a second, and yet somehow like his orgasm is a million miles away at the same time. A confusing ball of tangled need stuck low in his pelvis.

Then Aeon reaches in to cup his balls, and Swiss sees pretty purple spots.

"Heavy," Aeon coos, palming his sack and breaking the kiss just to flash Swiss a little fang. Dew takes it upon himself to nuzzle the base of his cock, to breathe in deep, and Swiss swears he feels the little ghoul get even wetter.

"Full," he rumbles, reaching out to rest a hand on the backs of each of their necks. Just to hold, a little something to keep him grounded. "Gonna empty 'em for me?"

Both ghouls snicker - never a good sign - and Dew lets his cock slide from his loose grip. Lets it fall against Swiss' pudge with a slap that's much louder than it should be, all things considered. Swiss shivers when he watches it spit fluid into his belly hair, and shudders when the pair of them dip down to lick up every drop. His dick jumps, hits Dew's cheek, and Aeon licks that spot up too.

Then they're kissing again, swapping spit that must carry the salty tang of his pre, and Swiss can only think of one thing.

"Will you...kiss it?" He swallows hard, warmth blooming through his pelvis when they part. When they gaze at him with lazy deviance. "Together?"

The noisy purrs Swiss gets in response make his toes curl.

#miasma's work #the band ghost fic #swiss ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #aeon ghoul #phantom ghoul #swiss/aeon/dew #swiss x aeon x dew #ALL HAIL THE SWUMMY #not reading before posting so if you see mistakes #no you dont #enjoy syringe u heathen

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iri-2 · 4 months

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Rating: Mature

Category: F/F

Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)

Relationship: Mother Miranda/Reader

Characters: Mother Miranda, Reader, Original Female Character

When you place your hand on your friend's bicep and gently massage it, Miranda's voice rings out, "Do you find that amusing?"

You see your friend losing consciousness on the ground while Miranda approaches, her ten wings spreading fiercely behind her, a noble demeanor constantly reminding you of who rules here.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mother Miranda." You stand frozen, feeling tension throughout your body, your heart pounding in the small chest compartment on your left.

"How dare you defy me!" Miranda says menacingly. Her wings morph, resembling less of crow's wings, now jointed and more like giant spider legs. They reach forward, pointed towards you like daggers.

This is the last image you see before the world turns black and white.

After adjusting to the dim environment, you feel a hand squeezing your neck, pinning you against a wall.

"How dare you do such things in front of me!" the owner of the hand roars. Your skin senses the golden claw patterns and coldness she still carries.

"I haven't done anything, Miranda." Your trachea is under her pressure, only a faint breath supporting your words. Your hands grip her forearms but make no attempt to resist her grasp.

" 'Haven't done anything?' So, you didn't flirt with that commoner, no physical contact whatsoever, hmm?" Miranda's "wings" form a cage around you.

"I was just having a friendly conversation with her." You brazenly argue with her.

"Is that how you 'friendly converse' with others? Why didn't I notice it before?" Her claw on the thumb slides over your major artery.

"Exactly. Why do you care so much?" The color in your lips fades, but your eyes stare defiantly at Miranda's dangerous blue eyes beneath the golden mask shadow, further infuriating her.

"You little..." She grits her teeth, her hand still tightly gripping your neck, lifting you off the ground. The back of your head hits the hard wall, the friction making it ache. "You know those who betray me never have a good ending."

"I don't care." You're nearing shock, but still refuse to plead.

"To let you die would be far too humane to you, don't you think?" Miranda's claws loosen a bit, but you're still suspended.

"What do you want, then?" With a bit of regained air, your voice is squeaking.

"You're busy, aren't you? Why take the time to deal with me?" You know that your reckless behavior has worked.

"Thanks to your helpful assistance, I've managed to finish my tasks these days. Now it's time to deal with you." Miranda releases her grip, letting you fall to the ground with a muffled groan, sitting there gasping for breath.

"Where am I?" You're still trapped in Miranda's cage, her surroundings still lacking color.

"You don't need to know. Whatever I do to you here, no one will know." Amusement creeps into Miranda's voice.

"Even if others find out you killed me, what's the harm, Mother Miranda?"

"Oh, you're aware of my title now?" Miranda looks down at you, making it clear you're just one of her subjects.

"Do what you want now. Kill me." You sit on the ground, legs bent, hands supporting your upper body.

"You know you don't want death, right? And you know I won't let you die, don't you?" Miranda leans down, her eyes behind the mask not completely friendly.

You know the risk of your behavior. But you've desired her for a long time, and you understand that getting what you want won't be easy. You're willing to take the risk. "Since you know what I want, why not just resolve it? My desires are inconsequential to you, even a bother."

"Do you think a mere human like you can bother me?" Miranda snorts.

"If you're not bothered, why were you watching me anywhere I went, appearing in my house, knocking out my friend, and trapping me in this nowhere?" Fearlessly, you lock eyes with Miranda above you.

Her lips twitch noticeably. You're sure she cares. Struggling to stand, your face boldly approaches the masked one, asking, "If I'm not a bother, why are you jealous?"

You hear Miranda inhale sharply, a squeezing sensation appearing on your body. "I feel ordinary punishment isn't enough for your audacity." Her wings, like a cocoon, ensnare you with her.

She lifts your chin with her index finger and says, "Since it is so, you need to pay the price for my jealousy."

"If I'm worth paying the price." You lift your right hand and gently lift Miranda's bird mask.

"Oh, you're done for." Her sparkling blue eyes don't match her sharp words, they gaze at you tenderly. But her pink lips remain tightly closed, seemingly unaccustomed to her face being so exposed in the air. Usually, only the dying can finally see her face that transcends everything, and you are one of the few who has seen her face and survived.

"Miranda, you are truly beautiful." You stare at her, eyes scanning every inch of her skin, looking at the black floral decoration on her collarbone.

"Little bird, your compliment isn't enough to lessen your faults." Miranda raises her hand to touch your face. Your face burns under her cold talons.

"So what do you want to do?" You wrap your arms around her waist, the fabric of her gown feeling so soft.

Her hand glides over your cheek, her wings opening gorgeously, rendering your view in various colors.

You recognize this place. It's her laboratory.

"So, this is your laboratory after all, and you were secretive about it," you point out her feigned mystery.

"Oh, did I disappoint you, little bird? Perhaps my bedroom would excite you more?" Miranda pulls you into a door you swear you've never seen in these past few years.

It's her bedroom. Quite ordinary, just like your own bedroom, except as many bookshelves.

Without letting you spend time admiring her bedroom, Miranda pushes you onto her bed. You remove her mask from your hand, and she also takes off her claws.

"Trying to provoke me by flirting with others, hmm? It's quite an offense." Miranda lifts your hands over your head with one hand.

Her other hand slides over your collarbone, the icy fingertips dancing in the hollow of your neck, and then she gently blows air there. Your breathing becomes heavy, "I know this is prohibited, Mother Miranda."

She lifts her head, and light blonde hair slides over your neck, tickling, just like your heart. You seek her lips, and then you find them approaching you willingly. Her lips are incredibly soft, and you effortlessly slide into them. Slowly opening her teeth, you insert your tongue, entwining it with hers. The faint coffee flavor reaches your tongue, a taste you're familiar with – the coffee you brew for both of you every morning. And it's the first time you've tasted it in her mouth.

Her hand slides down your collarbone, fumbling for your buttons and unbuttons them one by one, your shirt haphazardly covering your chest, and the exposed skin yearned for her touch.

Her lips temporarily detach from communication with you, sliding down your chin, your neck, and center of your collarbone, kissing every piece she reaches.The warm feeling follows the movement of her lips and slowly descends, before she rushes towards your legs.

She releases your hand, giving you the right to touch her. Your hand is inserted into her hair, gently scratching it, like caressing the head of a bird.

Miranda unties your bra. She spins her tongue around your breast peak, occasionally sucking, causing you to burst out a few moans, and the wetness between your legs becomes even stronger.

Her hand probes and removes the clothes from your lower body, immediately feeling your desire. "You're a little excited about my punishment, aren't you?" Miranda lifts her head between your legs, her eyes flickering with cunning.

"Mother Miranda, please..." You plead with her to continue teasing you.

"Now you're pleading, little bird? You'll get what you deserve." She brushes past the inside of your thighs intermittently, the fitful coldness making your core twitch. "Now, be patient."

Her hand gently scrapes against your waistline, and a tingling sensation spreads throughout your entire body, making your toes curling. Her lips slowly approach where you need her, then she extends her tongue, and lick the crumpled slit there. Now it's even wetter in your area. She grabs your thigh, with her tongue sliding on your clitoris, sucking on it like sucking on your nipple. The sound escaping from your mouth is louder. When she finds the most sensitive spot on your clit and sucks on it, you're grateful that she has told you no one would know what would happen between you two in this place.

She extends two fingers and lets them easily slide into your body, exploring your sensitive points inside. You provide more moisture for her to explore smoothly. "Little bird, are you too proactive?"

You don't want Miranda to stop her tongue movement just because she's talking. You use your hands to press Miranda's head towards your core. Her fingers touch inside your body and reach a special spot, making it impossible to control your moans even if you bite your lips, making you shout out her name. You worship your Mother Miranda in your way.

"Your voice is so pleasant, my songbird." Miranda manages to speak, her fingers twitching under you, sometimes slightly curve, scraping against your inner body.

She ravages your sensitive position arbitrarily, how can you not succumb to her recklessness. Your buttocks are tight, in a wave of dizziness, you reach orgasm.

"You're the only person I've been taking so long to deal with, little bird." Miranda kisses your lips again, gently.

"I have to say, your punishment has exhausted me. But I still want more." You hold Miranda and search for possible buttons or zippers on her priestly robe.

"Hmm? This isn't punishment for me, little bird," Miranda says, but she doesn't stop you from trying to take off her sacred clothes.

"You hurt me before." You touch your neck, thinking there are still her fingerprints there.

"Okay, then I'll give you a tit for tat? Is that enough for you, my little bird?"

---

"Pretending to flirt with you?... Won't she kill me?" your friend asks you anxiously.

"Don't worry, she won't. I just want to see how she will react to this. I've been in her laboratory for so long, and I know she won't kill anyone casually," you have enough confidence to say these words. "Besides, even if she really has a murderous heart, she will come towards me. You don't do anything wrong, she can only let you sleep for a few hours at most." You apologetically suggest this possibility to your friend.

"Well, if it weren't for me owing you a huge favor, I won't do such a risky thing. Good luck to you," your friend says.

#resident evil 8 #re8 village #re8 #resident evil village #mother miranda #resident evil #mother miranda x reader #fem! reader

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mlmxreader · 11 months

Text

Actually Home | John Soap MacTavish x m!reader

@satan-incarnate-666 asked: Airport reunions - soap x m!jtf2!reader

summary: he’s glad more than he can say, but there is one thing that needs to be talked about.

tws: swearing

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

A distant rumble of music, growing louder the closer it became, caught Soap’s attention more than anything; listening closely, he smiled when he realised what song it was. ‘Saboteurs’, by Sabaton. He started to grin when the sounds of men singing along began to flood through; they were all home. They were back, they were safe; his worst nightmare had not come true just yet. He was relieved, but more than anything, he was fucking happy; the boys from Joint Task Force Two were home at last, and they were safe. He took a headcount as they came flooding into the airport terminal, all of them were there.

One was holding a speaker, and he laughed as he made his way over; waiting for you to put it down by your feet before he smashed into you, holding you tightly and catching you off-guard for a split second before you actually hugged him back. A sigh left you as you swallowed thickly and turned the music down. You sniffled, clearing your throat as you let out a soft laugh, pushing Soap to arm’s length as you grinned and struggled to come up with the words that you had wanted to say ever since you had left.

“You’re home,” he breathed out, hands on your face as he stared into your eyes, licking his lips. “You’re actually home.”

You nodded, clearing your throat again as your hands went to his waist, you could feel a sort of burning sensation in your throat as the words started to get caught and snagged amongst the delicate flesh. “I’m home, baby.”

Soap licked his lips, his thumbs soft against your skin as he gently wiped your cheeks, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t dreaming. “Don’t leave me again.”

“No can do,” you shook your head. “I gotta get coffee.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said, picking up the speaker and grabbing your bags. “I don’t mind.”

You smiled, shaking your head fondly as you headed over to the cafe near the duty free shop; you ordered yourself and Soap one, and as you waited, you turned to him. “You don’t have to shadow me, Johnny.”

“I definitely do,” Soap told you with a curt nod. “I don’t wanna risk losing you again, not now.”

“You didn’t lose me the first time,” you pointed out. “You’ll never lose me.”

“I dinnae about that,” he shrugged. “What if you’d have got shot down?”

“Won’t happen,” you reassured, shaking your head. “And anyway, I’m home now, ain’t I?”

Soap grumbled as he put the speaker down to scratch at the underside of his jaw; his stubble was getting thicker, he hadn’t trimmed the coarse black hairs since you had left, just as he hadn’t really done any washing. Or sorted the dishwasher out. Or done anything around the house, really. He looked after the dog, that beloved greyhound that you had insisted on getting, and most of the time, it had eaten better than he did. But when it came to himself, and the house itself, he hadn’t been able to do anything; he knew that you always did everything when he was deployed, but it was different.

Soap never liked to be without you, not at home, and he always waited with his phone on-hand just in case; he would panic and worry every time it rang, fearing the worst. He rarely slept, knowing that the nightmares would creep into his mind and would dig their claws into his skull so deeply that he couldn’t get rid of them. He never stopped watching the news, always worried that the headlines would suddenly be about the death of the Task Force. It was different if you were on training exercises, or if you were on holidays with friends.

“C’mon,” you hummed, holding the coffees as you gestured to the few tables. “I know I’ve been sat on my backside for a good few hours, but I gotta sit down for a bit longer.”

Soap nodded, sitting down with you and letting the speaker rest on your bag as he cleared his throat. “I am glad that you’re home, y’know.”

“I know,” you nodded back, daring to smile. “But I also know that you’re worried sick.”

“Aye, that’s true,” he dared to laugh softly. “Always knew me so well, eh?”

“Better than you think,” you laughed along with him for a brief moment. “How’s my dog been?”

“She’s good,” Soap told you. “Still steals my seat every time I fuckin’ move, and barks at me when she wants to go out… dafty dog, she always nicks food off my plate.”

“Sounds about right,” you grinned. “She probably only does it to make you laugh - she’s trying to look after you because she knows you’re worried.”

He glared at you. “Or, she’s a daft mutt… but she’s a good dog, I’ll give her that. She missed you - couldn’t open the curtains, every car that drove past, she thought it was you.”

“Johnny…” you sighed, shaking your head as you cleared your throat. “I’m gonna ask you something, and I want your honest opinion.”

“Yeah?”

“If I were to go to the Mosque,” you started, “and ask if I could get a nikah… would you sign it?”

Soap thought about it for a moment, chewing at the inside of his lip as he furrowed his brows. “You wanna get married?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Would you?”

He pouted for a second, and then laughed as he nodded. “Of course I would, ya fuckin’ weapon.”

You laughed as you took a long swig of your coffee. “Yeah?”

“Yeah!” He scoffed. “One condition, though.”

“What’s that?”

“We do it soon,” Soap started, “before you get deployed again - I don’t wanna be twat arsing about all on my ones.”

You nodded, daring to reach for his hand as you held it tightly. “I think we can do that. We’ll go down to the Mosque to talk about it tomorrow, yeah?”

“Alright,” he agreed, daring to smile brightly. “We can do that... it’s about time you were my husband and not my boyfriend, anyway.”

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ratinayellowbandana · 1 year

Text

imodna prompt fill

from @hellsbells-emptynight: “Imogen didn't work things out with Laudna between the rock and Otahan. Like got friendlier but Laudna just construed it as keeping the team together. Right before she was stabbed she said, ‘I'm no one's favorite.’ Imogen is even more desperate to bring her back.”

Thank you for your reply! This was perfect for dusting off some old skills. I don’t think this is exactly the angst you were looking for, but I had fun with it, so I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Word Count: 1106

CW: canon-typical blood and violence

~~~

The moment Laudna falls, the world erupts in a sheet of white.

A scream rips from Imogen’s throat, raw and ragged, and the earth shatters.

I’m no one’s favorite.

The last thought to escape Laudna’s panicked mind before–

The ground races up to meet Imogen faster than she is prepared to catch herself. Sand bites into her palm, her elbow, and she hisses.

Blood pounds in her ears, a steady drum against whipping wind and the howl of her heart wrenched open.

Buildings crumble, boulders shake, and stone grinds against stone. Bricks tumble from high walls, and clay shingles clatter in a cacophony of percussion that forces Imogen to clamp her hands over her ears.

She screams again, and then–

Silence.

Red dust envelopes her like a storm cloud, settling over the landscape like a blanket. Through the haze, ruined homes jut from the sand like skeletal fingers reaching from the grave. Heaps of rubble settle, small chunks of rock tumbling, tumbling, to lie motionless in the sand. The earth calms with a groan like a mountain disturbed from slumber.

Imogen pants, breathless. Her lungs burn like ash, and she chokes weakly, coughing into the dry air.

Otohan is nowhere to be seen.

Laudna? She reaches out with her mind.

Silence.

She senses the familiar presence of Letters, Chetney, though only barely.

Laud? She tries again, heart rising to her throat, desperate, searching for a sign. A whisper. Anything.

Unstable feet prop Imogen upright as she blinks the white spots from her vision.

A piece of a demolished wall lies in the spot Laudna once stood, impaled by–

Imogen is running, stumbling, heaving across the remains of the road. Her knees smart as they make contact with the stone. Scarred hands move frantically, digging, clawing at the rubble. A fragment of broken glass embeds itself in her thumb.

“Laudna?” She is shouting, murmuring, wailing all at once. The name echoes, resonates in the hollow space of her joints, driving her onward.

“Please, Laud, please,” she mutters fiercely, “Hold on. Just hold on.”

Blood from a gash she did not know she had drips onto her forehead.

Vaguely, she registers another set of hands helping her dig.

Ashton?

A scrap of black cloth peeks between two hunks of stone.

“There,” she gasps, “There.”

She is frantic, she knows. Out of control. Dangerous.

And yet, she cannot bring herself to care. Not now, at least. Not when Laudna–

The ashen skin of a bony wrist is revealed, and Imogen sobs. Ashton works quickly, removing more and more bits of dried clay and rock until the dust uncovers her face, bruised and trickling with congealed ichor.

At best, Laudna is haunting in sleep. Eyes closed, lips opened slightly to reveal teeth just a bit too sharp. At worst, she rests with eyes open, glazed over in slumber, twin voids against pale gray. This is different. This is far, far worse.

Her neck is crooked at a terrible angle. Black eyes are closed, lashes coated in a layer of dust and grime. The tension in her brow has vanished, leaving behind smooth skin marred only by a cut along her hairline. She is still.

Imogen lunges, gingerly placing lighting-marked, unsteady hands against cool cheeks. She leans in, lowering her ear until she hovers just over Laudna’s parted lips.

“Please,” Imogen whispers, “C’mon, Laud.”

She waits. Long enough that even her friend’s sluggish lungs should have moved. Her chest should have risen, even incrementally. A hicough catches in Imogen’s ribs.

“Letters,” she shouts, “Letters! Over here!” Then, to Ashton, “Help me… help me move her.”

They comply wordlessly, delicately removing the remaining material.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Imogen murmurs into Laudna’s shoulder, “You’re gonna be okay.”

She has to be. Too much was left unsaid for her not to be.

Too many things Imogen had been too afraid to say for fear of upsetting the delicate balance that seemed to be struck between them.

She was foolish. She pulled away. The rush of frigid fury that overtook her when Laudna opened her fist aboard the Silver Sun overwhelmed her, blinded her from reason, and she had turned away. Turned her back on the woman she considered more of a home than Gelvaan ever was.

She lay alone in their cabin that night, curled on her side as tears rocked her. The frustration and grief and vitriol shook the bedposts, rattling against the wall as she wept.

The cruel words–the simple truth, so Imogen believed–she had let fall at Laudna’s feet like feathers. Like shards of a broken gem. An accusation that seems utterly meaningless now, with Laudna limp in Ashton’s arms.

Now, excavated from the ruin, Imogen can see the details of Laudna’s blouse. The embroidery she had done by hand on the road is stained, nearly hidden beneath the tatters of a hole in the fabric. Her chest is a dark mess of blood-like ichor, and Imogen has to look away.

“Is she your favorite?”

Imogen doubles over, landing on already bloodied hands and knees. She hardly registers the sting.

Your favorite.

Imogen had yielded. Conceded in with a cry, a broken plea.

Anything to keep Laudna safe, even as Imogen felt the flare of confusion rise from Laudna’s position near the wall.

Go, Laudna.

Then–

A blink. A sword. A scream.

Imogen’s fault. All of it. Not strong enough, not quick enough, not clever enough, not enough.

Her fault for being a coward without the bravery to confess her regret. For pulling away. For withholding.

For making Laudna think she was unwanted, unfavored, unloved.

For making Laudna die thinking she was unwanted, unfavored, unloved.

Imogen’s body feels as if her bones have turned to straw, and she buckles to her elbows.

“Shit, Imogen–look, she’s not gone. Grass’s gotta have something. Just–come on,” he nudges Imogen with the toe of his boot.

“She can’t die, Ashton,” Imogen manages. She can’t die; she can’t.

“Fuck, okay. Okay.”

Imogen takes a shaky breath as Ashton tenderly lays Laudna’s body in the sand.

“Fearne and Orym are down, too. We gotta–fuck. We’re gonna save them all. Okay? No one’s getting left behind,” they grit out. “Letters?”

Distantly, a conversation is held, but Imogen’s sole focus is the agonizingly still form beside her.

Her hands shake, and she tries to still them as she tenderly maneuvers Laudna’s wrists to rest neatly at her sides. Restless fingertips sweep clumped black strands behind gilded ears. Trembling lips press a kiss to an alabaster forehead.

“You’re gonna be alright, Laud,” Imogen whispers, “We’re gonna get you back. We need you.”

I need you.

Don’t leave me.

Please.

133 notes · View notes

rebel-walnut · 8 months

Text

Let's Do The Time Warp Again

Steddie Season 3 time travel fic, Part 8

Ao3, Pt. 1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4, Pt.5, Pt.6, Pt.7

Eddie doesn't know if he's breathing or not. He doesn't think he is. Doesn't matter anyways, seeing as he's dead.

The super-kid's words are ringing through his ears and all he can hear is not supposed to be alive, not supposed to be alive, not supposed to be alive. He doesn't know what that means for getting back to '86, if he'll go through and die anyways, if they'll come back earlier, later, maybe they'll die in the process. As far as he's concerned, Supergirl just marked his time of death and stamped his forehead 'deceased.'

His breaths are short and shallow, a constant influx of oxygen he shouldn't be allowed to breathe. Taking up someone else's air, someone else's space- what even happened to this version of Eddie? Is Eddie from '85 back where he's currently supposed to be, drowning in a pool of his own blood that isn't really his? Does he just not exist anymore? If Eddie thinks much longer about the implications of interdimensional time travel and clone duplicates he's gonna throw up.

There's pressure on his wrist and the whirling of Eddie's vision subsides enough for him to see everyone staring at him expectantly. Steve has Eddie's right hand clasped between both of his own, and he's rubbing circles across the joint of Eddie's thumb while another finger rests across his pulse. He idly wishes Steve was holding his hand for a reason other than making sure Eddie isn't dead.

Eddie's laugh is cruel around the edges, sharp in a way that it only ever is when he's putting effort into it. The sound hurts his ears. "So this thing- Vecna, or the upside down, whatever- is trying to kill me. Correction- has killed me. Wants to do it again, but sooner," The smile on his face is foreign and forced, he recognizes it as a shadow of his father's own malicious sneer that only ever wreaked havoc. Eddie wants to claw it out of his skin.

Steve presses a touch harder into his pulse point and Eddie wants to scream along with his heart beat. "And! We don't even know if we can get back. Say we can. We get back to '86 where we left off. Then Stevie here," Eddie claps Steve on the chest with his free hand and ignores the vice grip that's somehow still gentle around his wrist, "gets to drag my lifeless, chew-toyed body back out of hell, because it turns out I'm dead anyway! Oh well, c'est la vie, at least I get to live out my last days trapped in a different timeline waiting for imminent death; likely in the form of crushing killer vines that'll pop the eyes out of my skull, creepy mind wizard torture, or more bats ripping tiny chunks of flesh out of my sides until I'm nothing but bone and eccentric fashion choices."

The collective noises from the group could best be described, Eddie would say, as strangled, horrified, and wildly disgusted. Perhaps his monologuing skills leave much to be desired, but sue him. He just found out about his sealed fate, he's allowed to make it slightly funny despite the general aura of horror.

Steve has given up on being gentle it seems, his nails dig in slightly to Eddie's skin and his fingers are wrapped tight enough to block circulation. He's stopped tracing over Eddie's knuckles, opting instead to just hold Eddie's hand still in the tightest grip known to man. The various children keep staring at him with ranged looks of devastation; Supergirl looking concerned but still with the tight set to her jaw that tells him the next words out of her mouth will be a solution to his problem, Red with mostly shock stricken through her eyes but with an undertone of disinterest that he knows she wears for show, and Henderson doing nothing to hide his reaction of absolute guttural horror. Eddie feels a twinge of guilt for subjecting him to his monologue.

"Eddie-" Steve starts but cuts himself off just as fast. He gapes for a second as his eyes burrow into Eddie's, the shock still settling in the air. "We'll find a way. We always do, we're not gonna-"

"No, Harrington!" Eddie wrenches his hand out of Steve's suffocating grip and ignores the way his expression falls. "I know your band of misfits has been at this for a while, but face it. You've lost people. I know you have. None of you should have the far-away look of a veteran when you're all just kids. You've lost people, and I'm gonna be one of them, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. I'm already gone."

Eddie pointedly pushes back the hot prickling in his eyes and forces his way out of the living room, keeping his gaze turned to the floor. He hears deafening murmurs as he leaves, passing by the kitchen on the way to the sliding glass door at the back. He lets it glide shut behind him with a click, wishing Harrington didn't have those fancy spring loaded door stoppers so he could actually slam it. The pool is glinting in front of him, cover half off and folded at the deep end. There's a small collection of leaves circling the surface of the water, catching the glint of the setting sun on their waxy coating. Eddie throws a rock from the edge of the pool at one just to watch it sink.

He shuffles through the pockets of his sweats for a second before finding a crushed half empty pack of Pall Malls and a bic with a melted corner. He's grateful he remembered to grab them from his vest when he changed and managed to salvage what cigarettes he could from the water damage, but he grimaces at Eddie from July of '85's brand choice anyways. He knows he only bought it cause it's cheap, and lights up regardless of his brand prejudice. The cherry glows orange and he takes in almost a third of the cig in one drag, only sputtering a little on the way out. He finishes it in two more drags and lights up another after smashing the butt into the concrete pool lip to snuff it. He's halfway through the second one when he hears the smooth glide of the door open and click shut softly. Eddie doesn't bother looking to see who it is, he already knows it's Steve.

Steve pads up behind Eddie, giving him enough space that Steve's still out of sight. Steve clears his throat but Eddie doesn't turn, just flops down by the edge of the pool and watches the smoke curl around his fingers. The ash falls into the edge of the pool as Eddie flicks it, taking the last drag and letting the acrid buzz wash over him. It stings as it burns down to his fingertips around the filter, but he just watches as the flame trickles out.

The gravel crunches under Steve's shoes as he moves to gingerly sit next to Eddie, his gaze burning a hole into Eddie's cheek. Eddie watches him out of his periphery, Steve glancing between Eddie and the darkening sky with unhidden interest. Eddie fishes out another cigarette and lights it, wordlessly offering it to Steve after the first puff. Their fingers brush as Steve takes it and Eddie can't help but stare at Steve's relaxed posture betrayed by the tension in his shoulders as he takes a pull to rival Eddie's own first drag. He hands it back without looking, slowly releasing the smoke and letting it drift into the wind. Eddie can't help but think it's the sort of thing people write songs and make paintings about. They finish the dart in silence, stealing glances at each other and letting cheap nicotine steady their nerves. Steve clears his throat again quietly while Eddie stubbs the filter against the ground.

"I hate this pool," Eddie glances at him, but Steve's got a mile long stare trained on the surface of the water. "Back in '83-" He cuts himself off as he seems to so often do lately and drops his chin to his chest with a sharp exhale. Eddie brushes his fingers against the back of Steve's hand but doesn't break his silence when Steve meets his eyes. "Barbara Holland went missing from this pool. Died in the upside down because of it- because of me,"

"Steve-"

"No. It's true," Steve presses his hand against Eddie's fingers and he can feel it tremble as Steve looks back out to the water. "I was too preoccupied with trying to impress Nance, impress my friends, my parents. Which, not worth it. At all. Anyway, I was too focused on myself and we lost her, and I just- I didn't fucking care. I don't know if it was a defense mechanism or what, but I just tried not to think about it. Distracted myself with Nance, school, parties, anything to stay away from it. I just didn't want to admit it was my fault she died."

Steve's eyes are glistening a hazel gold in the sunset, a sheen of unshed tears catching the light. It's a melancholy stare, the look of grief and guilt and regret wrapped in one sun kissed gaze. Eddie doesn't know what to do except bump his shoulder against Steve's and hope the contact comforts him.

"And I'm trying to be better. Be the person who would never let that happen, or at least never let it be forgotten. But sometimes I just catch the water out of the window of my room and…" Steve slumps into the comfort of Eddie's arm, his hair tickling Eddie's cheek. His expression is the most broken Eddie's ever seen it, every piece of it shattered and irreplaceable. Each exhale sends a tremor through Steve's body, and Eddie slides the fingers still pressed against Steve's skin around his hand before wrapping his other hand around their tangled fingers and squeezing. Steve gives a half hearted squeeze back, and Eddie pulls Steve's hand to his chest and holds it tenderly between his own.

"All we can do is try," Eddie whispers against their hands, tracing circles across Steve's knuckles just as Steve had done for him. "You can't change your past. And yes, I realize the irony of that statement seeing as we're currently in the past, but," He halts his movements against Steve's hand to face him, Steve already staring when he goes to look. "As much as I hated to admit it before, and as much as it still surprises me now, you're good, Steve Harrington," A wounded noise breaks out of Steve and he leans a fraction closer towards Eddie as if trying to live off his words. "You're good. You're kind, and gentle, and you care about those kids more than anyone I've ever met. You couldn't have known what would happen with Barb. And you're living for her now, which is what matters," The tears brimming in Steve's eyes finally break free at the mention of Barb's name. Eddie lets his composure shatter at the sight, and presses a light kiss to Steve's knuckles.

"You live for her everyday through those kids, through everyone you're so desperate to protect from the things you've witnessed, the people you've lost. What happens- happened to me, it's not your fault. And it won't be again," Steve's shaking his head in little jerking motions that send waves of hair falling in front of his eyes. His hand squeezes between Eddie's and when Steve stops to look at him, the shattered expression is still there but this time it's sewed together with determination.

"You can't," Steve chokes, his grip strong with calloused grief. "We can't lose again, it can't happen. We can't lose you- it can't happen. Promise me it won't," Steve's pleading, their faces inches from each other and Steve's tears are catching on the ridges of his nose and the divot above his quivering lip. Eddie's own cheeks are wet with trails of salt water, and he can't help but clutch Steve's hand to his chest.

"Stevie," He starts, and instantly regrets his next words. "I can't. You know I can't, my fate is practically sealed," His words are hoarse as Steve falls somehow closer to him, their skin buzzing with the proximity and the mourning in Eddie's words. Steve chokes.

"Lie to me."

Eddie chokes. Grips Steve harder and squeezes his eyes shut.

"I promise."

It wrenches a sob from both of them, their foreheads falling together and their hands clutched between them as they suffocate on grief. It's strange to be mourning his own death with a man he didn't talk to a mere week ago, yet their lives have become so intertwined that Eddie can't imagine going through this with anyone else. It's a broken sort of bond that comes with loss, and it's a little surreal to have someone other than his Uncle or Hellfire care this much. Grieve this much.

They're clutching pieces of each other, Steve's hand still wrapped in Eddie's, Steve's other hand tangling in the hair at the nape of Eddie's neck, Eddie's other hand pulling at the collar of Steve's soft blue tee. Their tears cling to their jaws and fall in droplets of the worst kind of rain on the concrete, a few dropping over the edge to mix with the chlorine. Eddie feels the tremor of Steve's sobs all the way up his spine and into his skull, buzzing in his forehead where they're still connected. The ache in their lungs lasts both an eternity and a minute as the tremors and initial grief settles into something worse yet also softer in their bones. It's almost acceptance. But Eddie knows it isn't.

Eddie blinks a few times and waits for his vision to stop swimming, Steve's breath tickling his cheek on every exhale just as Eddie's sure he's doing the same to Steve. Their grasp on each other is heavy in a way that would take years to undo, and Eddie can't stop staring at the way Steve's cheeks are flushed from crying. They're tinged pink across the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and his lips are slick from tears. Another stray tear falls from Steve's eyelashes and Eddie gently raises the hand from his shirt to brush the tear away. Steve leans into the touch and blinks his eyes open, his gaze jumping between Eddie's eyes and back down.

Eddie wills his heart to slow. The edge of mourning is not an opportune time to notice the smoothness of Steve's skin or the flecks of green at the center of his eyes or the way his lips hang open just enough.

But.

Steve is staring at him like he's an answer to something. He's flitting his gaze across Eddie's face, bouncing from eye to eye and landing on his lips, and he's leaning into Eddie's hand still touching his cheek, his skin warm under the movement of Eddie's thumb. He's swaying into Eddie's space, all warmth and softness and presence, and when Steve tilts his head up just a little their noses brush. His lips are parted in a way that would fit the apple from the garden of Eden, ripe and red and tempting. And Eddie is starving.

"Steve," Eddie whispers, more air than voice. Steve doesn't look up from his lips, just tilts his head farther into Eddie's hand. He noses up the ridge of Eddie's nose, Steve's eyelashes brushing against his cheek as he leans a breath closer. Eddie wants to scream.

He thumbs Steve's cheek and pulls just soft enough to guide Steve closer, both basking in the warmth of the other's skin and touch. Steve puffs a breath over Eddie's lips, close enough to feel the sparks between their skin. It's electricity and kindness and grief, and Eddie wants nothing more than to take a bite out of the apple.

What was left of the space between them dissipates as Eddie leans in just enough to brush their lips together, their tear stained skin sticking to each other. It's more of a touch than a kiss; just enough to test the waters, to get a taste of temptation. It's featherlight and golden, a gentle brush of just their top lips. Just to feel. Enough to know that Eddie needs to swallow him whole.

Eddie slides the hand that was cupping Steve's cheek around to the back of neck and runs his fingers through the hair curling there, pulling ever so slightly closer. He's about to bridge the gap between an almost kiss and a real kiss -capture Steve's golden light and sinful lips- when Eddie's vision whites out with a crack of lightning and a shock that rips through his skin.

He lets out a cry and pulls away from Steve to claw at his forehead, frantically scratching and pulling at his skin. There's hornets stinging behind his eyes and biting at his skull, and all he can feel is pain and bright sharpness. It sends a ringing scream through his body that Eddie can barely hear over the pain, sucked into the shards of glass running up his veins and the feeling of acid biting at his skin. It's a sucking, endless feeling, like every bit of energy is being pulled from him and replaced with screeching tones and hot sand that's dissolving him bit by bit.

There's a pressure on his arm and through his staticky tunneled vision he sees Max pulling him up. He can't tell what she's saying, nor can he really see her face, can just make out the shape of fiery red hair. She pulls him up to a half-sitting-half-fetal position. She says something, but it may as well be in a different language. Eddie's being simultaneously cut open and burned from the inside out, his head is switched to ten different radio stations that just play static interluded with guest appearances from the depths of hell, and every inch of his skin is on fire.

Well, Eddie thinks, so much for that kiss. Which is honestly a ridiculous thing to think about when he's on the verge of death, but well, he's a little resigned to his fate. He doesn't want to go through another week or month or year of waiting for something to strike, having episodes of seizures brought on by dark dimensional wizards and whatever the fuck is happening right now. But still. It would've been nice.

His mind swims in an attempt to distract from the blades slicing through his brain, and Eddie thinks he's either become accustomed to it or he's actually dying this time. Again. His body is trembling from the pain and with the way his throat feels raw he thinks he's been screaming this whole time, and he just wants it to be over. Sorry Steve, he thinks. And then.

Fuck. Steve. Steve who is tied to the same freaky upside down shit Eddie is, who is probably about a foot away from him right now and going through something very similar if not the exact same thing.

Eddie pries his eyes a fraction of an inch open which forces out a guttural shriek at the burn raging in his skull, but can once again make out the vague shape of Max still holding him to her chest. There's two other figures of what Eddie assumes Steve and Dustin huddled together in front of him, someone's hand flexing and shaking over Eddie's leg. Another figure is crouched in front of them with one hand facing the pool and one hand towards all four of them. Supergirl.

Through shaking screams and burning skin, Eddie's eyes manage to clear a little despite the constant influx of tears overflowing to soothe the burn that doesn't seem to exist to anyone else. Supergirl is whipping her head between the group of them huddled on the ground and the edge of the pool, and with a scream she plunges one hand into the water and slaps the other on top of Steve's hand that's covering Eddie's shin.

Her fingers dig into Eddie's shin and imprint Steve's palm into Eddie's skin where his sweats have ridden up, and the sensation shocks a cold into his skin that pulses up his body like menthol and chili, the sensation enough to make him convulse inward. The striking cold scrapes along his skull, and suddenly Eddie can see again. The vague figures of traumatized teenagers snap into view and the water in his eyes clears after a second, and Eddie can see the moment it happens for Steve too. The agony on Steve's face smoothes into concern as Dustin keeps yelling likely non-urgent questions at him and shakes at his shoulder. The pain under Eddie's skin is still there, but the burning fires of hell have extinguished into a more manageable stove top fire mishap. His head is fogged and achy, but the ringing and sharpened static in his ears has faded to a manageable level where he can make out at least fifty percent of the noise around him.

Max must notice the difference since she removes her vice grip from his shoulders and leans over to scan across his face. He can see her getting ready to ask if he's okay when Supergirl lets out a howling shriek and throws her head back, crumpling in on herself yet keeping her arms strong against their skin and the water. Steve scrambles up first to Supergirl's side, casting a quick glance into the pool before muttering a string of expletives under his breath and turning to Eddie.

"I need your lighter," He says, and Eddie guesses his voice is in the same commanding urgency he uses everytime the world ends. Eddie shakily reaches a hand across the concrete and fumbles with the lighter a little, giving it a trembling toss over to Steve. Eddie notices the shaking in Steve's hands too, the residual coals left burning under their skin. Steve wastes no time getting to his feet, his balance slightly off kilter but putting no damper on the speed at which he rushes to the door and throws it open, careening to the right and into the kitchen.

Supergirl lets out another cry that pulls Max away from Eddie's side, Dustin already there with her by the edge of the pool. Eddie's pulse is jumping again as he notices the tinge of black around her fingertips, the way it courses ever so slightly up her veins. Steve appears again through the glass doorway with a can of cooking spray in one hand, Eddie's melted lighter in the other. Steve throws out an arm to shove the kids away from the edge of the pool as he crumples to his knees, slamming the cap of the spray on the ground to knock it off and flicking the spark wheel before spraying directly into the flame and emitting a giant fireball that flushes Eddie's face with heat.

Steve aims another fireball into the pool as Eddie struggles to get himself fully upright, clawing his way over to the edge with the rest of them. Supergirl is still letting out shrieks here and there, both her palms flexed towards the water with Max and Dustin holding her steady on either side. Eddie gets to the lip of the pool and peers over the edge to see some sort of bubbling sludge that he loathes to recognize. It's forming from what looks like three points, the dark matter forming tendrils that climb towards the surface, towards them. Steve shoots another stream of fire across the water and Eddie watches as the tendrils recoil and hiss from the sensation.

Steve shoves the can and lighter into Eddie's hands and fixes him with an urgent stare. "Keep spraying," is all he says before disappearing back into the house with his usual grace of a reformed jock. Eddie spots other tendrils rising from the depths of the water to join the surface, and aims his half empty bottle of cooking spray at the largest section, frantically flicking the wheel to spark it. The lighter sputters with a small spark, but no flame.

He strikes the wheel again. Spark. Sputter. Nothing.

Strike. Spark. Nothing.

Strike-

"What the fuck is taking so long, Munson?" Max hollers from beside him, her arms wrapped protectively around Supergirl's shoulders. Supergirl shrieks and the sludge hisses, shrinking a little.

"I'm fucking trying, okay?! It's finicky-" Eddie sparks the lighter two more times still with no luck before Max reaches over and snatches both the lighter and the cooking spray out of his hand. She strikes it twice, the lighter coming to life with a bright orange flame and fanning over the pool with a whoosh as she lets out a stream of cooking spray. She doesn't stop after one stream of fire, instead endlessly holding down the nozzle of the spray and effectively flambéing the matter bubbling on the surface of the water.

"Useless goddamn-" Max mutters as a tendril shrinks in on itself and melts in tandem Supergirl's yell. "-Everything myself," Max drops to her knees and sprays directly at the lip of the pool, burning off a trail of sludge that was trying to slither over. Eddie is terrified of her.

Steve bolts back out of the door with what looks like 2 cans of women's hairspray and another lighter. He barely spares a confused glance between Max and Eddie, but shoves a can at him anyways and flicks the lighter to life between them. Supergirl and Dustin are still slightly farther back in the middle of the group, Dustin practically holding her up as she slowly shrinks back the growing mass of tendrils. Max has worked her way to the edge on the left now, maniacal and determined in a way that makes Eddie think maybe she should talk to somebody about it.

Eddie and Steve stay on the right, Steve holding the lighter between them as he shoots a stream of fire into the middle. Eddie decides to shoot at the edges by the lip of the pool, the sludge still creeping out despite its mandatory near constant regeneration from the combination of the fire and whatever the fuck sort of telekinesis Supergirl is pulling off.

"Is this even gonna work?" Eddie yells, struggling to spray his hairspray through the flame instead of beside it due to their shared custody of the lighter.

"Fire's their biggest weakness, it's all we got," Steve's voice is crackly but still carries the urgency from before as he shoots out towards a tendril rising out of the water, effectively burning it in half as it crumples back to the surface.

There's a clinking noise to his left, and then, "Fuck!" As Max chucks her can to the side and lets it rattle against the ground. "I'm empty," She says, her face fear stricken with only a small facade over it as she glances between Supergirl still shaking against Dustin and Eddie across from her. Eddie hucks his can over to her and hears the almost empty rattle of the can in the wind.

"I'm almost out, but there's still a bit left," Eddie says as he stares into the pool, the mass of sludge smaller than when they started, but not small enough to take out with two half-empty cans of hairspray. Steve's can starts to sputter a moment later, Max's new can likely soon to follow. Steve curses under his breath and aims the last consistent spurt of hairspray at the middle of the mass, left only to shoot small bursts of fire until the can's empty.

"Shit, this one's running low too," Max has given up her tactic of one steady stream of fire in favor of small bursts similar to Steve, both of them shaking the can in between sprays. Eddie hears Dustin gasp to his left and turns just in time to see Supergirl lurch away from him and plunge her hands into the slime. Her fingertips flex at the edge of the sludge and it lets out a withering hiss at the contact, Supergirl seeming to feel the same painful connection as her shoulders seize up and she tosses her neck back.

"El!" Dustin calls and grips onto her shoulders to keep her from tipping into the pool, Supergirl clawing her hands in farther anyways. It rips a scream from her and it rattles in Eddie's ears, echoing off his skull. Her shriek cuts off with a gasp as her head drops forward and her arms go limp, the rest of the fire being sucked from the cans and into the mass of tendrils the second she drops. The suction makes Eddie's ears pop and he watches as the rest of the tendrils collapse in on themselves in a matter of seconds, endlessly folding together in a sick slide of black and blue until nothing remains in the pool. The last thing to disappear is three heavy black drops of slime closest to the edge of the pool, the droplets imploding and ceasing to exist.

The moment it's over both Steve and Max collapse at Supergirl's feet, Steve doing the primary flitting and worrying. There's a stream of blood trailing from her nose down to her chin and it's left spattered drops on the pavement. Her eyes are closed and she's panting against the embrace of Dustin and Max, Steve staying in front of her and tilting her head side to side, checking her fingernails and her pulse. Eddie stays awkwardly off to the side, opting instead to sit a couple feet away and attempt to compartmentalize the past ten or so minutes.

His skin feels fuzzy again, but moreso in a familiar anxiety way than an interdimensional way. He feels lost in the staticy feeling running through his body, letting his vision cloud a little and get lost in the now normal ripples of the water. He thinks he's breathing again.

Steve enters his field of vision, hands up like he's approaching a wild animal and pace slow and intentional. "You feeling okay?" He asks and all Eddie can muster is a nod in return. He looks over at Supergirl.

"She gonna be okay?" Eddie asks and lets himself relax a little at Steve's contented nod.

"Exhausted, definitely, but El'll be fine. We should get her somewhere safe though, who knows what else is tied to this place," Eddie's previous stare into the pool is echoed in Steve's face, both of their expressions a blank sort of anxious.

Steve tears his gaze away from the pool and towards Eddie, extending a hand to help him up. Steve's hand is warm in Eddie's when he takes it and lets himself be pulled up and into Steve's space, relishing in the closeness for only a second before stepping away. Now is most certainly not the time. Not that it would've been before, either. Steve coughs as Eddie steps back and gestures behind him, returning to El who's looking slightly more alert in Dustin and Max's arms, eyelids still heavy though and head lolling onto Max's shoulder. Steve says something to the three of them in a gentle and hushed tone that Eddie doesn't quite catch before scooping El up and tucking her into his chest to bring her inside.

Max and Dustin watch them go, Max getting up first and turning to look at Eddie. She sees the concern on his face before Eddie even realizes it's there, fixing him with a glare and stuffing her shaky hands into the pockets of her shorts.

"I'm fine," She says with a sneer and Eddie puts his hands up in surrender, watching her turn heel to follow Steve and El inside. Dustin does less to hide the fact that he's shaken up, getting up slowly from the ground and shaking out his arms. His breaths are trembling at the end of his exhales, and Eddie just wants to whisk each of these kids away from a seemingly endless childhood of Eldritch trauma.

Eddie gently wraps an arm around Dustin's shoulder, simply quietly giving him support as he lets the kid breathe. Dustin melts into his side, Eddie in turn just melting in general, and rubs circles into his back.

"Wanna go sit inside?" Eddie asks as hushed as possible, leaning in just for Dustin to hear. Dustin heaves another breath with a weak nod of his head and pulls away from Eddie but not out of arm's reach. Eddie offers a weak smile and a squeeze on the shoulder as they join the other's in the living room.

El is laid out on the couch with Max sitting on the floor next to her and dabbing at the blood drying around her nose, both with easy fragile smiles and gentle touches. Eddie does not let Max see him looking. Dustin joins them at the foot of the couch and Eddie stands awkwardly in between for a second before spotting Steve around the corner at the phone.

"...For the most part, yeah. I just don't want anyone staying here… Yeah of course… And I know that we're- well, thank you… Yeah. In about ten. Thank you so much," Steve hangs up with a click as he puts the handheld back down, wringing out his hands and then running them through his hair. He scrubs his hands down his face and takes a moment to breathe a heavy sigh before Eddie sneaks out a bit more from behind the corner to make himself known. Steve catches Eddie out of the corner of his eye and startles anyway with a small jump and a hand to his throat like he's a '50's housewife clutching his pearls. The gesture is both endearing and oddly fitting.

"Fuckin' scared me, man," Steve says and swaps his startled expression for an easy smile that makes Eddie's heart jump. "Just got off the phone with Robin, she's very nicely gonna let us stay at her's for the night despite not really knowing me here. Said her parents are out for dinner with friends and will likely end up crashing at a friend's house," Steve laughs and cards his fingers through his hair again. "She says they're more like teenagers than she is," Eddie gives a half-hearted smile that he tries to pass off as normal, but Steve's brow furrows at it. "You okay?"

Eddie worries his lip between his teeth and pointedly does not notice Steve glance down for a second. "It's just- do you think it'll follow us there? Like, it's tied to this house and probably mine, but also us, right? Is switching locations gonna be enough?" Eddie's voice comes out raw and full of worry despite his best efforts to keep it even, Steve grimacing at him.

"I don't know. But what I do know is we can't get back without El, and she needs rest. Our best bet is getting away from any sort of previous gate or tie to the upside down, and I think Robin is it. She didn't get involved until this year, and it was only ever at Starcourt, nothing happened at her home. Plus, she's far enough from any of the gates that I think it's probably our safest choice," Steve shudders and stares at his feet for a second, then turning an intense gaze to Eddie. "I can't guarantee any sort of total safety. But anything will be better than here for them."

Eddie nods and breaks the eye contact, Steve still staring for a second before dropping his eyes. He fiddles with the drawstring of his sweatpants and toes at the panels of hardwood before narrowing a determined gaze back on Eddie.

"Also I-" Steve swallows and makes an aborted movement towards Eddie, Eddie still just stuck staring and praying he isn't about to have the conversation he thinks they're about to have. He's about to get rejected for his weird almost-kiss and have to play it off like it was just end of the world jitters.

What? Why would you think I wanted to kiss you, Harrington? That was just an accident. You know, how you accidentally share tender and gentle kisses with people you've known for about a week and then have to save the world with?

"I just wanted to- uh…" Steve starts again with no more luck finishing his sentence than last time, just looking semi-awkwardly into Eddie's eyes. Eddie shuffles his feet a little and waits in awkward straight-dude agony for this to be over.

"You just wanted to…?" Eddie tries to help, rip off the bandaid if he must, but Steve just shakes his head and hums.

"Just- wanted to tell you to grab any stuff you need for the night, I'll go tell the kids and I'll meet you at the car," Steve doesn't look at him as he finishes the sentence, practically bolts past Eddie with a clap on the shoulder and rounds the doorway into the living room. Eddie tries not to let it sting too much as he trudges upstairs to retrieve his still sopping clothes. Fucking awesome. He managed to make Armageddon awkward.

_______

This fic is almost done! If i write something this long again I won't be uploading chapters to tumblr, but I will post the Ao3 links so keep an eye out for that.

TAG LIST (reply to be added): @estrellami-1 @melodymeddler @songbird-garden @gregre369 @croatoan-like-its-hot @messrs-weasley @bestwifehaver @mediguro @goodolefashionedloverboi @huniiibee @rhyswritesreadsandcries @i-have-three-feelings @mightbeasleep @grtwdsmwhr @hirikka @starlight-archer @clumsiluni @celestialrebel1 @quarble @woolley-socks

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie #shovel writes

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wall-legion · 4 months

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Winter's End

Garrus had been waiting for a moment like this to come up. It had been too long since he had last been up here, taking in the arctic air. The Eye of the North was well built, but the Shiverpeaks made their presence known by sending gusts of wind and snow against its walls hard enough to keep everyone close to the bonfires that burned day and night. Now two years later he had finally returned, striding past the various merchants and soldiers, nodding in response to the voices calling out "Commander" to him to acknowledge that he'd heard them all.

Another time he would stop and catch up and see how they were all faring. Today he had business.

He continued down the hallway to the antechamber where Aurene had held her court, so to speak. Nowadays it was mostly empty, save for him.

Bangar had been returned to the cell since he was released from Jormag's magic and fully healed. The legions had wanted nothing to do with him, for the moment at least, but Garrus was sure that they would be dragging his sorry ass to the Citadel soon to jail him there instead for the rest of his natural days. Not if I have anything to say about that, Garrus thought with a grim smile as he entered the chamber.

"Well, well." Bangar lifted his head, but didn't stand up. "The wonderful Commander Firstblood takes time from his busy schedule to grace me with his presence. What did I do to deserve a visit?"

"Wrapping something up." Garrus rolled his shoulders back, fighting the urge to wince as a joint popped in one of them. "Get up."

"Is that an order?"

Burn me, how did anyone ever take him seriously as an imperator when all he ever did was talk down to everyone he ever interacted with? Garrus bared his teeth. "I said, get up!"

Bangar staggered to his feet, but managed to regain his smug expression after a moment. "Yes sir," he rasped.

Garrus started circling the cage. "Sounds like the throat is still damaged."

"Yes, well, your precious dragon couldn't be bothered to heal me. Only the special few get her magic touch apparent-LECH-!"

Bangar's taunting was cut off by Garrus's hand shooting out between the bars to wrap around his throat, thumb pressed tight against the former leader of the Blood Legion's windpipe. The older charr desperately tried to dig his claws into Garrus's arm, but couldn't pierce through the leather and metal of his glove. "What a coincidence," Garrus growled, staring into Bangar's eyes as he spoke, "that you bring up Aurene's healing magic right now."

"Are you really... going to beat me... for shooting you?" Bangar wheezed.

"No, because that would be foolish." He watched as Bangar relaxed ever so slightly. "I'm going to beat you for what you did to Qirri. Then I'll shoot you for shooting me."

"This is about that rat?!" Bangar somehow managed to raise his voice.

"This is about my guildmate-" Garrus paused to drag Bangar forward, off-balance, to slam his head into the bars of the cage- "and about a member of my warband." He slammed him into the bars again, harder. "This is about a challenge to me as Aurene's champion." A third slam, resulting in blood starting to dribble from Bangar's nose. "This is about you being a coward, and a failure as a leader!" A fourth and final slam that rattled the cage, and split the browridge above Bangar's left eye, dropped the older charr to the floor of the cage when Garrus let go of his throat and stepped back.

"You didn't do half of what I did to that weakling..." Bangar froze when he looked at Garrus- or more at the bow he was drawing back.

"Look familiar?" Garrus asked. "The boy's got more draw strength than I thought he did. You were right to be afraid of him." Deep breath. Find your stance. Find your target. You'll only get one shot. "I hope you find something like peace in the Mists, Ruinbringer."

The bowstring sang out as he released the arrow, and a soft wet sound followed as it buried itself in Bangar's throat. Garrus walked back over to yank it free, staring back down at the former imperator until the light left his eyes.

He teleported himself home.

#gw2 short story #garrus firstblood #gw2 bangar ruinbringer

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hanasnx · 7 months

Text

"scuffling."

MINORS DNI 18+

WC: 0.8k | CHARACTERS: carmy berzatto x gn!reader NOTES: for @mcondance i do not write for carmy, pls do not talk to me about him. i just felt generous enough for a gift and ive seen the first season of the bear and a bit of the second. WARNINGS: sexual content | severe impact play | violence | not proofread | not 100% confident on carmy's characterization | no y/n

CARMY BERZATTO knows he's got a lot of shit going on in his head. Too much to keep track of, stray thoughts that can't be pinned down. When he's overwhelmed, everything's heightened. Like an attack dog, a ringing in his ears calls him back to his trainer. Except he's got no trainer, he's got no one. He's got him. It's not that that ringing makes him aggressive, it's not a Pavlov, that ringing reminds him of how he gets when he's angry. Exasperation layering over itself, building the tsunami. He's been told he's a dick, that he's a real asshole when he gets like this. But no one else is inside his head.

Not like you, anyway. You're about as close as they come, and you don't even know it. He doesn't know how you do it. You absorb that wrath— and you may come out swinging— but you never leave the kitchen. Miraculously, you don't quit. Even when he thinks you should. Even after he's thrown your experimental crème fraîche onto the floor. You hounded after him, but you still got your ass back to work.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, one more time. Just to be sure. Even though he's boiling over, arms pulsing as he forms fists and shakes them out.

You don't give him an answer. Behind the Beef it's dark out, but you've waited all day to give him a piece of your mind. Well, a piece of you at least. The entire power of your body is put behind a punch, but he jerks out of the way. The knuckle of your thumb grazes the skin of his cheek, and now he's in your space. Rough hands shove at your chest, slamming your back into the concrete wall. The bones of your spine rattle against it, and you reorient too late. He grabs your shoulders, bringing you in to connect his knee to your stomach. You double over, clutching it.

Through strain, you manage a chuffed, "Fuck you, Carmy,"

"Fuck me? Fuck me? C'mon," That roar in his ears is unbearable, driving his actions, taunting you with beckoning hands. In his distraction, you throw another punch that he, again, dodges. "Haven't learned—" His own grunt interrupts him as the point of your elbow sling-shots into the back of his head. Falling forward, his eyes squeeze shut, but he runs into you. So his arms wrap around your torso as he goes down, his shoulder sinking into your chest as you land underneath him on the ground. It's cold, it's hard. Your head aches.

He picks himself up, straddling you. Adrenaline imbued within your beings, blood rushing to fill out everything. Every vein itching to be stretched and used. You weakly claw at him that, for the most part, he redirects by slapping your wrists away. When you get a hold of the straps of his apron, you yank him down, and he catches himself over you. The heels of his hands dig into grovel, scratching up his skin. In a last ditch effort, you jerk your head up, forehead-to-forehead, both of you suffer after impact. A joint groan of pain sounds between the two of you, and in his haze you roll him over. You see red, pressing your lips into a thin line, blowing hot air through flared nostrils. A pink mark blooms on his skin where your heads connected, and your fists bang against his chest.

It becomes a game of rolling around in the fucking dirt and grime, filthying yourselves in the scuffle. Until in between hitting each other, you're tearing at clothes. Prying open buckles and buttons. Fingers brace onto your hips, restricting your movements, burning you from his grip as you take it upon yourself to mount him. In the middle of this fucking alley, you're sinking down onto his cock. And when he tells you to quit fucking around, you grace him with a resounding slap.

His large hand plants on your face, shoving you backwards unceremoniously. "Watch it!" he tells you. His teeth bite into the skin past his lower lip as he throws his head back.

"Shut the fuck up." you chide, resuming the rhythm of your hips. Acting like you fucking needed this as you double over, fisting his shirt for purchase, winding your fingers in it tight as you ride him. He palms your tailbone, slamming you down deep onto him.

"I should fucking kill you—" Your hand claps against his mouth to quiet him.

"I don't wanna fucking hear your voice right now, just take it."

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adriartts · 9 months

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I don't have a good explanation for this. Nightling anatomy.

The last two pictures are really messy with labels but I like being able to see where everything is in the body with the skeleton and all so. Do with that what you will

Nightlings evolved from something closer to a griffon than a mammalian humanoid, but are more reptilian than most modern griffons (they kept a lot of basal traits that other griffons evolved away from).

Their skulls have way more fenestrae than your typical humanoid's as a result of that reptilian ancestor, kept through evolutionary time as either vestigal traits or weight reduction. As a result, their skulls are more fragile. Win some, lose some.

Their jaw is like a reptile's, not a mammal's, with multiple bones of the mandible and a different hinge structure.

A fused collarbone gives more structural support for the wings, but less flexibility.

They have two sets of shoulderblades: one for arms, one for wings. These two blades articulate against each other very slightly, but are mostly immobile. Enough strain on the wing can dislocate this joint, but it is more likely for the point between the wing's arm and the blade to dislocate.

They have a number of attachment points on other bones for wing optimization (process on shoulderblade, fossa in some vertebrae, fossae and eminences on ribs and sternum)

Most humanoids have 10 pairs of complete ribs (meaning connecting to the sternum) and two incomplete pairs. (Fauns have 9: the 10th is reduced due to lack of space, but still present, just incomplete). Nightlings have 6 complete pairs and one incomplete. They are spaced broader, but ultimately account for a smaller structure and lighter weight.

Nightlings' hands are convergent to other humanoids', not analogous. They're derived from the bones of raptorial ancestors rather than from walking legs, and so look different skeletally.

Nightling claws are also not analogous to humanoid nails- they are attached to bone like a cat's (or a raptor's).

Their pelvis is significantly different than a mammalian humanoid's as well: derived from therapod ancestors, they are better built for bipedalism, and don't need to worry about childbirth.

They have no true tail, but do have longer tail feathers. They do not aid in flight at all, and as a result, nightlings are not optimized for maneuverability, but lift. (They are also not really capable of soaring like most birds of prey are).

They have three-toed feet, the smallest of the ancestral 5 has been lost and another- analogous to the thumb- has been reduced into a vestigal dewclaw.

Hands and feet are not feathered: they avoid getting too cold in the absence of insulation via countercurrent exchange.

Their eyes lack any iris structure: instead of a pigmented, muscular ring, they have only a very thin, white membrane of tissue over the pupil, which is very large in the absence of an iris. This lets in lots of light- ideal in a natural, dark environment, but outside of this, they cannot adjust their eye to limit how much light enters. Bright light is debilitating, but they can see in near-pitch darkness.

They are all hyperpigmented (see the ayam cemani) (oops i wrote hypermelanized in the pictures- those are two different things). The only exception is their eyes, which suppress that gene: having heavily selected against pigmentation, as it would blind them. This means even bones and organs are pigmented, resulting in blueish-black insides.

They have the least sexual dimorphism of any humanoid- only small differences in plumage and a very slight alteration of feather density on the rest of the body. Most non-nightlings cannot tell the difference betwen a hen and a crow.

If you've read all of these bullets, I commend you. A gold star for you.

#worldbuilding #speculative biology #nightlings #creature design #character design

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jayjaymorgan · 6 months

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RexWalker Week - Day 6, Nightmares

Author’s Note : Speedrunning my last entries, part 2! Please remember that English isn't my native language, so there might be some mistakes and stuff. I hope you all like it, have a great day/night!

Taglist : @rexwalker-week

TW : mention of nightmares and torture (Anakin's past as a slave is brought up)

Anakin sat at the kitchen island, slumped over the counter, with a thin, plush blanket thrown haphazardly over his shoulders. Staring down at his mechanical arm, he couldn’t help but to fidget nervously with his fingers, twisting and turning them in various directions. The apartment was silent, the only sound being the storm raging outside, with raindrops tracing intricate pattern on the glass. The man sighed deeply, his breath hitching slightly as he closed his eyes, his shoulders dropping.

He was exhausted.

His eyes were dry and itchy from the lack of sleep, his body heavy and aching, his arm, or rather, what was left of it, sending waves of pain up his shoulder. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting eerie shadow on the walls. A clap of thunder followed, rolling across the skies with a loud bang. Anakin clenched his mechanical fist, the metal joints groaning under the pressure. Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to stare at the artificial limb, that now felt more like a chunk of dead flesh he was forced to drag around rather than an arm. His eyes lingered on the spot where the prosthetic connected with his body, his stomach churning at the sight of the layers upon layers of scar tissue around its socket. Some from surgery, other from him clawing at the skin in frustration and pain. His mind drifted back to the moment he had received his prosthetic, the feeling of the cold metal being attached to his body, the unfamiliar weight pulling him down. The doctors’ assurances that it was state-of-the-art technology, designed to work and feel like a real arm. Yet, it felt foreign, alien, making the man feel like… he wasn’t whole. Anakin’s fingertips grazed the cold surface of his cybernetic arm, tracing the lines and curves with a mix of awe and resentment. It was a marvel of engineering, an amazing piece of innovation made to help and serve those in need, but also a constant reminder of his own vulnerability. A gust of wind rattled the windows, startling the man. He glanced outside, watching the lashing rain with a somber expression on his face. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice Rex standing in the doorway, until he spoke. “Hey.” his voice was soft and quiet as he approached, yet it still made Anakin flinch in surprise. The Jedi turned to face his partner, a pang of guilt piercing his heart when he caught a glimpse of the dark bruise on Rex’s face. He looked away, to try and hide the look of guilt and shame. “…hey.” he answered hoarsely. The clone moved closer, concern etched on his face upon seeing the tired look on the senator’s face. He reached out and put his hand on the man’s healthy shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You okay?” he asked. It made Anakin half scoff, half laugh. “I should be the one asking you that.” he humored with a tired smirk. “I can handle a bruise.” the soldier replied, his thumb lazily rubbing circles on Skywalker’s shoulder. Anakin sighed, leaning into the touch, his own hand reaching out to grab Rex’s. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the raging storm. “I… I’m sorry.” Anakin broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Rex.” “Don’t be.” the blond man interrupted. “You didn’t mean to. You had a nightmare, you were scared and I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” The senator glanced at their intertwined hands, his heart heavy with guilt. “No, Rex, you were just trying to help. I lost control, I…” he paused, like he couldn’t quite remember the words. “…I hit you.” His voice was strained and shaky, like he was about to cry, as he once again glanced at the shiner on the clone’s face. He felt ashamed, stupid even. He woke up, screaming in terror, after a nightmare, and, in a blind panic, hit his partner square in the face when he tried to grab him.

The image of Rex, nursing his cheek and staring at him with confusion, hurt and betrayal was burned into his mind.

All of that, because he had a stupid nightmare. The one where he was reliving his day as a slave, the one where they cut of his arm off for trying to defend a kid from being whipped by his owner. “I don’t deserve you, Rex.” “Ani.” the man voice was still soft and quiet, but with a hint of firmness in his tone. He cupped Anakin’s face with his free hand, prompting him to look up. “Don’t you dare say that, Skywalker. It’s not your fault. I love you through the galaxy and back and I will not listen to that bullshit.” Before the senator could try to argue, Rex kissed him deeply, shushing him instantly. Anakin soon melted into the touch, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck, pulling him closer. “…now, let’s go back bed.” the soldier said once they parted, helping Anakin up to his feet. “You need to rest.” Skywalker just hummed, leaning into the man and hugging him tightly. “…I love you too.” he whispered, as the storm outside slowly quieted down, the rain no longer hammering against the glass.

#rexwalker #the clone wars #my writing #rexwalkerweek23

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kindestegg · 1 year

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Platinum Bones Week - 03/04 - Day 4: Feast

Day 4!! WHAT!! And that means we are so close to WAD too!! This one is WAY sillier, still with my teen/future King and Collector in mind.

Premise for this one is King is very hungry after going out hiking with Colly and they decide to hit up the local fast food joint. Shenanigans ensue.

King's paws scraped the earth underneath them, giving way as he slid down the hill and jumped off at its foot, ready to take the road back.

He puffed, quite tired, paws on his knees. At least, the water still dripping off his fur helped him cool off.

Collector was not too far behind.

"That was fun!" They exclaimed as they landed next to King, grabbing each of their pigtails and wringing them dry. "I'm glad Luz was right, and that trail did lead to a waterfall with normal water."

"Yeah, but now I'm tireeeed." King whined. His stomach grumbled, and he put a paw over it. "And hungry."

"You want me to carry you? Again?" Collector put their hands on their hips and raised an eyebrow.

King shook his head. "Nah. I do still want to get food, though."

"Okay, just say the word!" Collector began swirling his finger in the air, sparkles stirring around it, ready to conjure up anything.

"I was actually craving some Beast Killer's. Their burn-gers are the best around and we haven't had some in a while." King told him.

"Aw, okay." Collector removed their finger from the air, wagging it to dissipate the magic. "You wanna go to the Bonesborough place? That went pretty well last time."

King giggled. "Yeah, if you can call that well."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Collector was already playing with some fake snails he had made appeared, throwing them and shuffling them around their hands.

"So what are we paying with this time? Snails? Tears? Screams?" They grinned devilishly at him.

King laughed. "Maybe this time we don't scare the staff half to death just to steal some fast food?"

"Boo. I know you had fun." Collector crossed their arms and pouted. "Besides, they don't even need the money, they're a megacorp, they're super wealthy!"

"I know, but scaring the poor overworked employees doesn't really add anything to that. We can steal ethically." King raised a claw.

Collector laughed. "You're such a weirdo. But okay, hmmm... how about we kidnap the employees later and give them lots of money for it afterwards? Then their bosses won't even get a cut and can't get mad at them!"

King laughed even louder. "What?! And I'm the weirdo?!"

"What! It's a good plan! I'm being nice I'm compromising!" Collector protested.

King tried to calm himself and finish laughing. "Fine, fine. That does sound kind of fun."

They walked some more until they reached the town, and looked for the restaurant.

Finally, they walked into the busy fast food joint, swinging open the doors and nearly knocking over the cardboard cutout of the restaurant's mascot, a grinning grey skinned demon dressed in leather garb and giving a thumbs up while holding up a skewer with a stabbed boar on its end.

"Hello, everyone! Good afternoon!" Collector announced, already holding up a star spinning around his fingers.

The entire restaurant turned to look at them, staff and costumers alike, trembling in place, not daring to move a muscle.

"Huh. They're already pretty antsy." King whispered to Collector.

"U-uhm, hello! Would you l-like a table?" A waiter finally showed up in front of them.

"How kind of you! Yes, please." Collector nodded happily.

They were walked to a pretty comfortable looking one, close to the window and with cushioned seats by the wall.

"And what would you like to e-eat?" The waiter asked.

King had glanced at the menu briefly, but already knew what he wanted: "The full roaring killer pack combo, please. Oh, and fairy acid, big bucket sized."

"Woah! That's a pretty big order, King." Collector commented raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, I told you I was hungry, dude." He side eyed them, then patted his belly. "I'm a growing titan, I need my nutrients."

"Alright, alright." Collector smiled and then turned to the waiter, holding the glowing star close to his face: "My friend here is pretty hungry, so please consider prioritizing his order."

"A-alright." The waiter gulped, backing away from the star that was held too close for comfort.

He turned to Collector: "Anything for you?"

"Hmmm. I don't need to eat but..." He took a look at the menu. "Could I get the swirling blood meteor shower ice cream dessert? It's so pretty!"

"You're not gonna pocket that to just freeze it and look at it forever like last time, right?" King asked him.

"Nah, I actually wanna eat this time. Wanna know what it tastes like. Consume it so the prettiness stays in me forever." Collector assured him.

"Is that why you're always trying to bite me?" King mumbled.

"What?" Collector asked.

"What?" King repeated.

"Anyway." Collector turned back to the waiter. "You don't have to rush mine, so worry about King's first, please."

"A-alright, right away!" The waiter nodded and soon rushed to tell the kitchen.

"And now we wait." Collector stretched their arms over the table and drummed on it a bit. "Hope yours doesn't take too long, big guy."

"Eh, it's fine." King wagged his tail at the term. "I don't think they're gonna dare take too long."

"Oh no, I should've told them to take care with your order..." Collector covered their mouth. "Then it won't be perfect!"

"Collector, it's a fast food joint. It's not supposed to be perfect, just good to fill your belly." King leaned back on the seat, arms tucked back.

"Hmm, alright, if you say so." Collector leaned back too.

A pause, King drummed his claws on the table making a clacking sound.

"Man, I smell like wet titan." Collector commented after a while.

"Oh, you smell like wet titan?" King repeated, huffing playfully.

"Yes, me." Collector responded. "You jumped right on top of me like five times! I remember your big titan butt pushing me down to the bottom."

"You were fiiiine. Besides, you were giggling the whole time!" King pointed out.

Collector broke out a small grin. "Never said I didn't like it. But I do smell like wet titan."

"And so do I. Or maybe I smell like wet collector." King smiled back.

"Okay, h-here's your roaring killer pack combo, and the fairy acid, sir." The waiter returned, barely being able to hold everything, relying on magic to keep the rest in the air.

"Ohhh." Collector clapped. "Look, King! It's all for you!"

King didn't respond, instead licking his fangs as an embarrassingly loud growl escaped his stomach and soon his own throat was making the noise, eyeing the food ferociously.

The waiter let out a shriek of fear seeing the huge titan react like that, and set the plates down and ran off.

Without much delay, King dug in, growling happily as he pushed it into his maw, taking pauses to delicately drink from the straw of his beverage.

Collector simply stared happily, getting splattered by some of the sauce flying in the titan's attack.

"Thith ith weally good!" King munched on a bone fragment, then stretched out a beast leg at him. "You want some?"

Collector shook his head, still smiling warmly. "Nah, I got my own order coming up."

"Suit yourfelff." King shrugged as he continued to chow down.

Collector watched for a bit longer, and eventually his order came to the table as well, the waiter as usual rather nervously setting it down.

"Ooooh! So pretty!" Collector had stars in his eyes, jumping up and down in his seat. "Almost looks too good to eat!"

"Collector." King scolded him. "You said you'd eat it."

"I am! Just admiring it, sheesh." Collector rolled his eyes and grabbed the spoon.

"Hey, wait." Collector called before the waiter left. "Could you get us the latest promotional toys, please? I want the Slobbering Dragon."

"Oh!" King stopped and wiped his mouth. "Can I get the Vampire Moth? I don't have that one yet."

"Ah, those only come with the kids meal promotion, sirs." The waiter tried to inform.

"Oh!" Collector grinned and snapped his fingers, summoning the star projectile again at his hand. "I think you misunderstood! We just want the toys, please."

"No, no, I understand! I'll get you those!" The waiter waved his hand in the air and then summoned the two toys as asked, and set them down on the table as well.

"Aw! He's so sleepy and drooly..." Collector grabbed his toy and squeezed it, the rubbery plastic dragon bulging the bubble that came out of its mouth at the pressure.

"Hey, Colly, check this out." King paused to try out his toy as well, putting his claws on top of the plastic moth and pressing.

The motion revealed pointy plastic fangs that erupted under its maw, while its eyes lit up red. "Raaaaagh!" It cried.

"Oh my stars, I love it!" Collector fawned over it too. "I'll have to get it next time."

"Can't you just make any you want, though?" King asked.

"Yeah, but it's not the same! I like getting these to collect properly." Collector explained, and finally popped a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

"I swear that toy shelf you have just keeps getting bigger." King shook his head and smiled, going back to finish his meal.

"Collector magic, baby! You should expect that." Collector grinned while digging around to catch more star sprinkles in his spoon.

After getting another spoonful in, he added: "Next time you come over, check out some of my duplicates. I could let you have some!"

"Hmm, do you have any plush ones?" King scratched his chin.

"Yeah, I got a few." Collector licked the spoon.

They fell silent again, until they finished their meals.

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

The Beast Killer's employees woke up, remembering having only been at their shift while that terrifying star child that had once ripped up the Isles and the last living titan were at the restaurant.

They soon realized they had all been tied up and dropped at the back alley behind the establishment, struggling to get up and look around.

Soon, their kidnappers revealed themselves, stepping out of the shadows.

Oh... great. So those two finished eating.

"Hey, everyone! Great job!" Collector declared happily. "We were very satisfied with your service!"

"Uh, sorry about this, we'll let you go in a minute." King lifted up a paw in the air awkwardly.

"To thank you, and make sure your pesky bosses don't take your cut, we've decided to give you some prize money ourselves!" Collector continued, and winked. "That way, you got kidnapped, and whatever happened is not your fault."

They snapped their fingers and a mountain of snails rained on the staff, making them cry out in surprise and try to duck from the impact.

"Uhm, Colly, maybe it'd be better if they were in bags? Y'know, easier to carry?" King tugged on their coat.

"Ah. Good point." Collector snapped their fingers again, and the snails disappeared and then reappeared in small purple bags with stars on them, each in front of an employee.

"Well, you're free to go everyone! Bye, bye!" They clapped their hands, and the ropes binding the staff disappeared.

Immediately, they scrambled for their bags and ran off.

"Heh, what nice young witches." Collector put their hands on their hips, smiling and rolling their eyes.

"Well, are you heading home now?" King asked.

"Hm, yeah, probably. Need a lift to your place too?" Collector smiled and summoned their star board, now bigger to accommodate their larger teen selves.

"OK, but go slow, or that roaring beast will come back to haunt you." King told him.

They looked at each other and both laughed, then got on the star and started on their way home.

#the owl house #the collector #king clawthorne #toh collector #platinum bones #toh fanfic #Commander's orders #art

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happybird16 · 2 years

Text

Escape VI

Levi Ackerman / Fem Reader

Mermaid AU

Escape Masterlist Link

Chapter Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 2.2k

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39039084/chapters/97836711#workskin

Last Chapter | Next Chapter

Growing more and more comfortable in his presence, it wasn’t long before you shortened the distance between you. Boldy pressing yourself against his side. His skin is always warm, a veritable furnace even when the waters seem frigid. Surprisingly, he hadn’t stiffened up at the contact, instead jostling you lightly to lean against you in turn.

Once you’d opened yourself up to the contact, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself. The pads of his fingers running along your smooth skin, much more fragile and delicate than his own.

He’d briefly been interested in your feet, the odd appendages completely out of his realm of experience. Pulling the odd appendage into his lap to inspect the unfamiliar joints, still wet from resting beneath the salty shallows. Curiously twisting the ankle to and from, pinching your toes between two of his fingers to bend them back and forth.

“They’re wrinkly?”

“It’s from being in the water,” you explain watching his eyes light up as he continues to thumb the digits.

Despite the hot stand and hard stones having strengthened the bottom of your feet, you're still incredibly ticklish. Levi had found the fact deeply entertaining, enjoying watching you wriggle around in the sand at the gentle touch along the underside of your foot. Payback, you suppose, for your treatment of his ear.

The interest had immediately faded when you’d accidentally kicked him, a sharp jolt to his stomach quickly putting an end to his teasing. You’d apologized profusely, but he’d seemed mostly entertained and completely unharmed by the incident.

Your hands fascinate him, so unlike his own tinted digits, completely absent of claws or fins. He often plays with them, almost thoughtlessly pulling your hand into his lap and tugging at the digits between his own. Sometimes it feels like he could spend hours inspecting your little differences and never once get bored.

He lets you touch him in turn, trailing your fingers along the rough scales of his tail. They’re smoother along his front, the darker ones along his back and flanks large and grating against your fingers. The ones under his belly are much smaller, almost like baby-scales, soft to the touch.

You know for a fact that he can wrap it around larger prey, strangling the poor creature to death beneath his coiled grasp. He’d told you as much, making you wonder just how much muscle was in the appendage.

“Do you shed scales? I’ve heard of fish doing that.”

He nods. “They get itchy when they get loose, so I just tug them out immediately.”

You think of losing your baby teeth, the odd painful, uncomfortable feeling that they’d had once they’d become loose in your gums. “That sounds painful.”

He warbles in response, shrugging his shoulders. It must not be that big of a deal then, or maybe he just has a high pain tolerance. He hadn’t really reacted to the piercing, despite the obvious sensitivity in the appendages.

Running your fingers along the appendages again, it only becomes more obvious how sensitive the light stretches of skin along his ears are. The light blue cartilage is soft and against the pads of your fingers, the darker lines of muscle a bit rougher, coated in tiny scales. He can’t help but flick them away from your attention, a light blush dusting across his cheeks. His ear-fins tint a bit too, you notice, the dark blue portion at the top tingeing an even darker shade.

His hands are surprising. The nails look intimidating and sharp, the scales dusting his fingers rough like the ones along his backside, but neither of those facts are true. The scales are small and soft like the ones along his belly, his nails surprisingly malleable despite their intimidating points.

“It’s because I’m above water,” he explains, amused to see you playing with his fingers. He does it often enough with yours, you deserve a turn. “They’re more firm when they’re wet.”

“Do you dry out?”

“Not really, as long as I keep my tail in the water I’m generally fine.” He shrugs, his ears bobbing and ear loop jingling with the movement.

The webbing connecting the digits is surprisingly thick, lacking a lot of sensitivity according to him. They help him swim faster, pulling himself through the water.

“I have to pull myself up onto shores and rock ledges often enough that it’d be annoying if they were too sensitive.” Levi digs them into the rough rocky sand by his hip, as if to prove his point. “My fingers are probably more similar to yours, though.”

He trills lightly, a soft musical sound, when you smooth your hands along the ruffling fins on his back. They’re soft to the touch, clearly sensitive just like his ear fins. The cartilage is surprisingly light beneath your grasp, almost airy despite the thin lines of spider webbing along the folds. The sound brings a warm fondness to your heart, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. It’s almost like a purr, a soft and soothing rumble of his chest.

This is your home away from home. This small stretch of sand that almost no one else knows about. A place to escape your unhappy home life. The too loud quiet of your empty bedroom. The constant unending buzz of loud electronics and babble of humanity. Your mother. It’s all too much sometimes, but seeing Levi is always a relief. An escape.

You often stay long enough to watch the sunset with him, cuddled up side to side with your head resting against his chest. The firm, steady, beat of his heart drumming right against your ear.

The ocean sky brightening with vivid splashes of reds and oranges as the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon of roaring waves. The sparse clouds tinge almost a dark purple hue as the stars begin to dot along the darkening sky.

The soft reds and oranges shadow across his face in a beautiful sight, the light no longer bright enough to glint off the scales framing the sides of his face. He’s looking at you, he’s always looking at you. Sharp black pupils against a bright pale blue, his gaze has rarely strayed since that first day on the beach.

The atmosphere, combined with the simmering heat swelling in his silvery gaze, makes you feel antsy. It makes you feel bold, excited goose bumps forming along your back, baby hairs raising along the nape of your neck.

Heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears, you can’t help yourself. Raising a hand to cup the nape of his neck, the shorn hairs of his undercut are rough against the pads of your fingers. Your thumb smooths along the soft scales peppering his cheek bones, odd bumps against his otherwise soft skin.

His breath catches at the fond touch, you can feel it where he's pressed against your side and through the palm of your hand. Mimicking your actions, he raises his own hand to twine his fingers into the hair on the back of your head. The other slides along the curve of your back, nails dragging against the small band of skin there. Hot glittering gaze boring into your own, before quickly darting down to your lips.

You don’t know who made the first move, maybe both of you did, but your mouths inevitably meet in a hesitant; fumbling kiss.

It’s not perfect- a bit messy even- his lips are a bit too high; his nose bumping into yours. You snort a bit at the near-miss, an imperfect but otherwise sweet first kiss.

Nose puffing a small gust of air against your cheeks, Levi quickly tilts his head to correct the mistake. Many more follow, each more skilled than the last. You’d sort of expected his lips to be rough, chapped from the sea water he often resides in. Instead they’re soft, surprisingly plush against your own.

The kisses are shallow, merely a meeting of lips, slick skin against slick skin. A pleasurable hum fills your mind, buzzing along the back of your head and up to your ears. You can’t help the satisfied hum that escapes your throat, vibrating through your lips and against his own.

Eyes closed from the urgent press of his lips against yours, you can hear him slap his tail against the foamy coast. He releases a long resonating chirrup from deep in his throat, an uneven collection of three notes that is all too familiar. You hear it almost on a daily basis, both in greeting and in farewell. He often uses it to get your attention, like the very first time you met. You think it means your name, or something like that in Mer. Some noise he uses to refer to you.

Breaking the kiss with a wet snack, hand still cupping his face, you repeat it back at him. It’s not exactly the same sound, you can’t quite reach the same notes; the sing-songy undertone that all of his Mer-noises have.

He snorts, sending a puff of hot air against your face. “You sound like a hatchling.” His tone is light, amused at your attempt, though his voice is a bit husky from the kiss.

You repeat it again, humming a bit as you try harder to reach the notes. This yields you a full on laugh. A shocking sound you don’t think you’ve heard from the man before. It’s deep, rumbling from low in his belly, shaking his shoulders with the strength of it. His tail kicks into the water again at his mirth, sending salty droplets high into the air.

”Is that my name in Mer?” There’s no doubt a tint of embarrassment tingeing along your face, but you're happy to see him entertained despite your rough pronunciation.

”Ah. No. It’s sort of a nickname I came up with for you.” There’s a sparkling, dancing glint of joy in his eyes. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen it, but it’s never been so bright, so pronounced along his often story orbs. His face is so open, expression more relaxed than you’ve ever seen before.

“What does it mean?”

He looks sort of embarrassed now, ears hanging low along the sides of his head. Levi raises a hand to scratch at his undercut, a rare nervous gesture from the usually stern man. “It means… pretty thing.”

“That’s so cute!” You laugh, a loud peal breaking into the air. ”You’ve been saying that the whole time! From the very first day!”

The chiming notes had grabbed your attention even through the loud ringing buzzing in your ears, breaking through the panic attack resulting from your rough first meeting. The nickname tinges a new light upon his initial wary curiosity. He’d liked you even back then, despite the bumpy meeting.

You have to laugh, you can’t stop the giggles bubbling up in your chest. Helpless and gleeful, if only to help reign in your own embarrassment. To quell the hot, liquid bubble of joy that fills your chest at the cute, openly fond moniker. You can feel your cheeks heat up, ears almost burning, no doubt bright red in your excitement.

You laugh and laugh, hard enough that tears build up in the corners of your eyes to bead down along your cheeks. Levi’s cheeks are dark pink, the tint dusting along his face and down his neck. His ears are even tipped dark blue, tilted back and tucked up tight to his head.

“Shut up!” He splashes you with a firm swoop of his tail, the large fan sending a wave of salty water onto the beach.

Clothes soaked, you continue to giggle helplessly, flopping your back hard onto the sand, eyes pinched closed to keep more tears from dripping down the sides of your face. Kicking excitedly, your feet splash the seawater, soaking your clothes even further. Your abs hurt a bit; you can’t remember the last time you laughed so hard. Years, probably.

You hear the familiar crunch of his tail dragging along the sand. The orange tinge of sunlight filtering through your eyelids is suddenly blotted out by pitch darkness. Opening your eyes, Levi’s now leaning over you, one hand pressed into the sand behind your head. The other digging into the sand at your hip.

The setting sun glows behind his head like a halo, gold-ish orange against dark black hair. In this moment, Levi looks as though he should have large feathery wings instead of a tail. Dark hair hangs down from his face to dangle above you, the ends of his bangs just long enough to tickle against your forehead. You raise a hand to cup the side of his cheek, once again sweeping your thumb along the small scales there.

“You're a pretty thing, too.” The words make his face darken even further, ears bobbing a bit to dip low on the sides of his head. His gaze is hot again, almost scorching you with its intensity.

He trills the odd triple beat again, sharp eyes boring into your own. Pretty thing. The hand at your hip trails up to curl along the back of your head, long nails digging into your hair. Cradling the back of your head, silver eyes bore into you as he repeats the notes. Pulling you into another kiss, his lips urgent against your own; this one is far deeper than the last.

#Mer!Levi #mermay #myfics #mermay 2022 #Escape #levi/reader #levi ackerman #attack on Titan

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joz-yyh · 2 years

Text

Love Host - Chapter 3

SUMMARY: A prequel to my fic, “Good Boy.” Takes place during the final scene of the game and the journey home afterwards. Miles becomes the host and the Walrider intends to consummate their bond. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: E (for graphic depictions of violence / gore / character death+rebirth / psychological torture / xenophilia / masturbation / handjobs / anal fingering / tentacle sex)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 3,349

Read on Ao3: Here

A/N: I swear this fanfic has a plot, we just haven't gotten there yet because we need to cover a lot of smut first (I am almost joking).

Also, if you haven’t seen it yet, you can check out the progress of My Wamiles Art, but be warned, it's NSFW!!

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–——

It's early afternoon by the time Miles wakes up. The sun is shining through the blinds, bathing the messy geometric contours of his modest, modern-esque flat in a golden glow.

Miles rubs the sleep from his eyes, yawning loud and wide despite having slept half the day away. He's stretching out the cricks in his limbs when the Walrider exits sleep mode and powers on, attune to it's host's internal clock.

The man recoils at first, startled by the dark, imposing figure, somehow forgetting the human-sized nanobot was still there despite having shared a bed with it, ensnared in the possessive hold of claws and tentacles.

The dissociation only lasts a heartbeat, his body remembering even if his jumbled mind took a moment to catch up, becoming calm again.

The brunette suppresses a chuckle as he turns towards his companion. This evil bio-weapon looks so out of place in the daylight, in the domestic setting of his bedroom, holding him like he's something precious.

Such a stark contrast to the Walrider that stalked under the cover of darkness, illuminated by neon emergency beacons and cold laboratory testing facilities. The same fearsome weapon that hunted patients, ripped out spines and spattered blood across narrow halls looked almost cute, charming in photographic filter of a beautiful autumn day.

Miles tilts his head, eyes catching the odd reflection of colors skittering over the obsidian skin, giving it the appearance of labradorite. He runs a finger over it, seeking the brilliance hidden underneath, his inquisitive tendencies getting the better of him.

He traces the jut of the Walrider collar bone to the curve of it's shoulder, rolling his palm over the joint there, the vibrant streaks of bio-luminescence shining like the trails of shooting stars.

The Walrider is more than happy to let Miles explore, an excitement decorating it's features as it's host dedicates himself to the task.

The brunette continues down the line of the monster's arm, sliding his hand over well-defined muscle, the same teal patterns spread throughout it's bizarre anatomy. Miles is in awe over it, of how it could change consistency, function and appearance, wondering if this iteration of it's skin meant it was left open, unarmored.

The Walrider was developed as a weapon after all and Miles could certainly see the advantages of a thick, abrasive exterior, but if his partner chose to convey it's trust by lowering it's defenses to show him this secret, well, Miles' heart twinges just a bit at the possibility.

The reporter guides his hand back up to stroke at the sharp angles of the entities' cheek, gazing into it's striking eyes situated behind the exoskeleton. The gentle caress of Miles' thumb along its jaw is lulling it's eyes closed, and soon the demon is leaning into it's host's bandaged palm, a chitter of contentment escaping through it's jaws.

Faced with such unabashed adoration, Miles dares to steal a kiss, the compulsion to do so proving too strong to resist. Pink lips purse against the side of it's mouth in not quite a chaste peck, but a firm lingering indulgence. The dark skin is warm under his lips, but it feels rubbery and plastic, an imitation of something inadvertently human.

"Thanks for staying with me," Miles says, a gentle smile on his face as he pulls away, blue eyes staring fondly at his handiwork.

His choice of his words is absurd really, ridiculous. The Walrider couldn’t leave him even if it wanted to. They’re both viscerally connected, permanent implants to each other’s existence, unable stray too far apart from each other without the consequence of death. Not that Miles had any concrete evidence to back this intrinsic theory up, it was really more of a hunch, and while his inheritance of the Walrider failed to come with a disclaimer or a user’s manual (he wouldn’t have read it even if it did), Miles wasn’t about to test the physical range of their limitations any time soon.

The machine is frozen and Miles swears he hears a cursed dial-up noise as it processes the kiss he had just given it and the man hopes the machine won't try to bite his face off in a misinterpretation.

Thankfully, it doesn't. Instead, it mimics Miles actions, claws outstretched to clasp the human's cheek in return. It leans forward, but without any lips of its own, all it can manage is a brush of teeth. The sharp points of it's canines sting only a little as they graze over his skin, sometimes chipping open a superficial mark.

A purr reverberates from inside it's throat as it rubs the softer sides of it's misshapen face all over Miles, a little too roughly in it's exuberance, the man's brunette locks of hair in total disarray.

"You're in a good mood, huh," Miles says with an amused chuckle, trying to push the Walrider's face away from his to gain some reprieve, although halfheartedly because he can't say he's had too many pleasant "morning afters" like this one.

The man doesn't know what prompts him to ask, or why he's hit with the sudden spike of anxiety, but the words are leaving his mouth before he can swallow them back.

"Did you enjoy last night, too," he asks in small, quiet voice that is entirely unlike him.

There’s an infinitesimal, but rapidly becoming larger part of him that wants the Walrider to have a choice in the matter even if Miles didn’t have one when it came to becoming the host. He wants to be a better master than Wernickle was, to honor Billy by being magnanimous in his mission, one that allowed the Walrider some semblance of free will and independence as unfathomable and ludicrous as that may be.

The Walrider squeaks with indisputable affirmation, pressing closer, smothering the human with the dense mass of it’s bulk. Their legs are tangled together, claws wrapping around his clothed back to bring them as close as they possibly could be and that should be enough of an indication to set Miles scattered mind at ease.

"Hey, hey, easy now, tiger! We can't stay in bed all day! We're on the run from an evil corporation remember," Miles exasperates, prying the entity off before they spend another few hours engaged in some awkward rendition of coitus that involves a number of tentacles.

"No offense," Miles tacks on for good measure. Murkoff was it's creator and he didn't know if the Walrider had any lingering attachments to the private group that designed it however doubtful the probability seemed.

"We have a lot to do today and the clock is ticking."

We? Did he just say we? When did it become we? He chews on the word in his mind and it doesn't taste entirely unsavory, just different. Miles leaves the thought alone for now because he can always return to it later if he really needs to, but he has more pressing matters that don’t involve an existential crisis.

The Walrider seems to understand the situation all too well as it's lanky form deflates into the mattress, whining in annoyance as it mopes and pouts like a neglected pet. Miles gives his companion's slumped behavior an inquisitive brow, reaching over to pat the sulking dip of it's cranium in consolation.

"Hey, I'll try to be quick. A few hours tops. Just be ready if someone comes knocking," Miles tells it with an air of impending dread and the Walrider snorts at him dejectedly, not nearly as concerned with the threat of assassins as it was with the denial of cuddle time.

Miles sighs, dismissive, getting out of bed to go about his routine. He stops by the bathroom to brush his teeth and raid the medicine cabinet for some aspirin. His hangover isn't quite as bad as he anticipated it would be, but he could still feel it's lingering effects the moment he started walking around.

He cups his hand under the faucet, bringing the water to his lips as he swallows down the chalky white pills. That done, he decides to take a quick shower, thinking It might be the last opportunity he gets for awhile.

He leaves the bathroom door open and it's not long before he notices the Walrider curiously peeping in on him, it's dark outline huddled around the door frame as Miles stands behind the clear liner of the shower curtain.

Every now and then the reporter flicks his eyes over to it, watchful, wondering if it would try something to distract him, but to his surprise, the entity remains a respectable distance away, simply observing. By the time he steps out of the shower, the Walrider has disappeared, probably so Miles wouldn't catch him outright for voyeurism.

The brunette dries off, wrapping the towel around his waist as he heads in the direction of his dresser for a change of clothes. He fits his arms through the sleeves of a white collared shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles and yanking it into place.

A gasp escapes Miles as a rugged masculine form sidles up to his back, spooning him before he can finish fastening the first button closed. Claws glide over his hips, dropping the fuzzy towel down his thighs to fall to the floor.

The beginnings of arousal stir in his belly and Miles internally chastises himself for it, knowing he can't afford to get carried away again.

"We can't do this right now," Miles reasons, "I promise I'll show you more later, but we have more important things to take care of first."

The Walrider extracts itself by a few centimeters, digesting this information, but as it wrestles with the concepts of self-restraint and carnal desire, the newly awakened heat the human had perpetuated eventually wins out.

Miles finds himself pinned to the wooden dresser he's standing in front of, the machine roughly keeping him in place with the superhuman strength of it's body. Miles hisses, the metal pull handles of his dresser drawers digging grooves into his flesh. He cranes his neck around, glaring at the machine from over his shoulder for it's excessive use of force.

"Didn't you hear me? I said we have to go. There's no time."

The Walrider seems to think there is.

Instant and wild sensation, molten and all-consuming as a pair of clawed hands trap the reporter's half-hard dick by the hilt. Miles jumps, involuntarily bucking his hips into it's firm grip and he cries out in a broken moan, the machine squeezing around him just the right amount, stroking him to fullness in rampant succession. Miles' resolve is diminishing faster by the second, growing less and less important the more those gruesome claws slide over his shaft again and again.

This probably wasn't a good lesson for the Walrider to learn, that Miles would eventually give in with enough prodding and persuasion, but he can school the machine on the importance of boundaries and mutual consent later because by comparison, this shouldn't take nearly as long as a discussion on complicated human relationship dynamics would.

Tentacles are wriggling against his entrance now, pushing in, caustic and raw, about to tear him open.

"Wait," He begs, his legs shaking, "Fuck -- just wait -- you --you need to wet them first. It makes things easier, more enjoyable."

The tentacles in his ass cease their advances, retreating backwards. One fully withdraws, soothing around the abused muscle with alleviating touches while the other remains a few inches inside, biding it's time.

Another set of tendrils travel up to Miles lips, recalling what the man did with his fingers the previous night, seeking the wet crevice of his mouth.

Miles shudders, accepting one of them in, licking over the surreal, jelly-like appendage, studying the taste and feel with his tongue. He sucks on it, wanton, the round tip lashing against the the roof of his mouth then tickling the back of his throat. His jaw is pushed to open wider as the second tentacle sneaks inside, and he can't help the strings of saliva that drip down from his chin, practically drooling over the two phallic-like limbs.

Having been sufficiently lathered, the tentacles leave the warm sanctity of the man's mouth and Miles misses them almost immediately, his jaw feeling stretched and empty without their residency. As if reading his mind, more come to replace his supply, delving past his lips, dancing along his tongue and Miles is hooked on the sensation.

The spit-slicked tentacles return to Miles' ass, allowing the smaller one keeping him loose, acting as a plug, to slip out first. The reporter moans around the tentacles in his mouth, trying to still his trembling body as he's filled to the brim, his insides now slackened and offering little resistance to the bigger girth.

Thick roots come to wrap around his weak, buckling knees, sturdy and more fortifying then the others and Miles can't do much besides hang on for the ride, his hands clinging onto the tall wooden dresser for support.

The Walrider's claws abandon his erection in favor of toying with the pert nipples obscured by the open flaps of his shirt and Miles can't even spare a complaint because the tentacles in his mouth slither out to coil around his dick, shrinking and expanding in sleek, velvety transitions.

"Ahh aha aah, fuck," His voice is raspy, strained so, he swallows, wetting his throat.

"There! theretherethere -- ahhh, fuck yesss."

Miles' howls of ecstasy spur the Walrider on, fueling it, accelerating it's movements, driving harder, pumping faster, matching Miles voice with a guttural thrum of it's own.

The demons makeshift tongue licks Miles' ear, his cheek, stroking down the side of his neck until it' jagged circle of teeth sink into the juncture of the man's shoulder, ruining a perfectly good shirt. Miles screams, feeling the rivulets of blood pour out from the love bite.

The man let's himself go, somehow finding the sense to warn the Walrider of his release.

"I am -- I am coming," he groans, muffling his words into the cuff of his wrist as he convulses, splattering the tentacles and the dresser in hot, sticky fluid.

Miles is attempting to catch his breath as a cum-smeared tentacle bumps the curve of his bottom lip and the man can't say he’s keen on the taste of himself very much.

"Eck! You can clean them yourself, you know," he grouses, batting the soiled tentacles away.

The Walrider applies this recommendation, tasting it's host's seed and Miles can't deny the blush that dusts his cheeks as he ogles the machine drinking up what's left of the milky white on it's tentacles.

The brunette shakes his head, clearing it, remembering what he was doing before he was so rudely interrupted.

"Fuck, now I have to change and clean up again."

------------------------------

It takes him about another few hours to pack, to condense his entire existence into four black duffel bags, the lot of them placed conveniently near the front door.

He'd sent out about a dozen encrypted emails to what reliable connections he had, shared all the notes he'd kept of his experience at Mount Massive, about Murkoff's dirty little secrets. He made copies of what he could salvage from his glitchy camera footage, plans to drop the snuff film in the mailbox of every local news station and then some.

As a final hurrah, a eulogy for what was once a normal life, Miles is having a smoke, leaning his elbows on the pane of his open window. He takes in the details of the neighborhood, the concrete jungle of domestication and cramped run-down buildings that he had never really cared to appreciate before. The only reason he finds himself doing so now is because he doubts he will ever lay eyes on this city street again after today.

The Walrider was tame, well-behaved and non-invasive while he worked to sort though his files, the baggage both figuratively and literally so Miles doesn't mind when it approaches him from behind with claws wrapped around his waist, teeth nuzzling the back of his neck.

"I made copies of everything. I going to tell everyone," he tells it solemnly, "I don't know what's going to happen after that. I don't know what's going to happen to us."

The Walrider growls low, showing it understood, offering encouragement to it's host.

Miles makes a sardonic smiles at that.

"Yeah, I hope we'll be alright too," he says, reaching an arm up to curl around the demon's neck, giving it a small peck on the cheek.

There's only trace remnants of tobacco left in the filter of his cigarette, but he takes a long, lame drag on it anyway. Most of it had been wasted, burned off in tiny clumps of ash because he had been too busy being lost inside his own head, but he still liked the feeling of it in-between his fingers, the comfort the familiarity brought.

He snuffs out his cigarette on the window sill, dragging black streaks across cracked paint before flicking the butt down onto the sidewalk below.

He shuts the creaky window, latches it closed.

“Hey, when we’re outside in public, please try to be discrete. The last thing we needs is someone calling in a cryptid sighting,” Miles remarks, turning around, beholding the ominous form of the Walrider.

Obliging, the Walrider dissolves into a mist, thinning out until it becomes nothing at all.

Miles takes one last tour around his apartment, trying to take a mental picture of the memories he'd made over the past few years. He's leaving so much behind, but he can start over again if it means giving the world a better future by bringing Murkoff down.

Locking the door behind him, Miles descends the blocky stairs with two heavy bags on each shoulder. He takes one final look up at the building that he called home, focusing on his third story window before he rips his gaze away and faces forward again.

It's then that he recognizes the suspicious silver Audi parked in his spot, right out front on the sidewalk.

Holy Shit. Was he an idiot? How did he not notice it here before?

This was Trager’s car. It had to be.

Miles tries the door handle. It's unlocked. He tosses his bags into the back seat and then slides into the driver's side, looking for the car keys. Nothing in the ignition, but he keeps searching, a distinctive metallic clack resounding in the interior when he opens the fold-out mirror and they fall to the mat by the break pedal.

Fucking. Score.

Just for the hell of it, Miles takes the keys and bounds around to the back of the car. He opens up the trunk and just like he knew there would be, an expensive set of golf clubs and caddy are laying there to greet him, neat leather toppers, no doubt painstakingly chosen for each one of the ritzy driver clubs. Miles is going to use those later, but whether it's to pawn them, use them in an act of vandalism or put them to recreational use, he has yet to decide.

He slams the trunk closed and he can't believe his eyes when he sees the word, "BUDDY," inscribed on the rear goddamn license plate. He offers a chuff of disgust, rolling his eyes on his return trip to the drivers seat.

He turns the key, revs the engine and just takes a moment to breathe it all in, hands gripping the steering wheel to reiterate the fact that he had jacked Trager's motherfucking car and had brought it home with him, thinking that it must've been during one of his many mental blackouts. He doesn't know if those catatonic episodes are going to be an ongoing, reoccurring thing, but he hopes the answer is less and not more. Either way, Miles is not the type to kick a gift horse in the mouth.

Forget any thoughts he had about bittersweet departures. They're all replaced by giddy spouts of laughter because this feels like revenge, like he's pissing on Trager's grave and it's motivation enough to lay on the gas and do a burn-out, speeding straight towards the nearest news station.

{End Chapter 3}

#walmiles #walrider #miles upshur #walrider x miles #outlast #outlast fanfiction #walmiles fanfiction #my writing #love host #my walmiles fanfiction

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flecks-of-stardust · 2 years

Text

[image description: a half page of pencil drawings of grubs, also known as the Zelseqi Neotenic Beetle. The top left shows a juvenile grub looking up at an adult grub. The juvenile grub has six body segments in addition to its round head. It has three pairs of limbs, two of which are braced against the floor. The last pair is raised off the floor. The adult grub has, as stated by the notes next to it, two pairs of wings, with the larger forewings being a result of two wings fusing into one; the forewings have a divot along the edge of the wing. It has four body segments and two short but functional antennae growing out of its head. A note pointing to its legs notes that they have more developed digits, and are able to grasp things. Both grubs are lightly shaded in a way that gives them a striated look, and the adult grub is noticeably darker than the juvenile; another note between the two mentions that they are darker after metamorphosis (shortened to 'metamorph'). There are spiracles near the base of each segment on both grubs, though the juvenile grub does not have a spiracle on its last body segment.

In the top right is another juvenile grub. It has raised itself to balance only on its hindmost limbs, and its middle pair of limbs are stretched out to either side at a soft angle. It is looking slightly off to the left. The belly of the grub is much lighter than its back. As it is larger than the other juvenile grub, its mouthparts are more easily identifiable. On top is a soft, rounded, w shaped labrum, and underneath are its mandibles, clicked together. Somewhat visible below the mandibles is the labium. Around each mandible is a maxillary palp, which is a short, stalked structure that curves gently around the mandibles and ends in a rounded nub. Only the left labial palp is visible, and the maxillae are not identifiable. There is a small heart doodled next to its face.

Below this is a threat posturing juvenile grub; the threat posturing is indicated to be a type of bluffing. The drawing intersects slightly with the paw of the previous grub. It is turned to one side, displaying most of its body, and is standing low to the ground. Its tail is twitching as a warning, and its mandibles are spread wide, revealing the labium. The paws on this grub are more clearly drawn and labeled: the first pair has three jointed claws, the innermost pair, which are noted to be partially opposable, pointing inward like thumbs; the second pair has two jointed claws; and the third pair has two non-jointed claws that are much longer than those on the other paws. More clearly shown on this grub are the small hairs that grow all over its body, particularly at the edge of where each body segment meets the belly.

The bottom left shows the wing shape and venation of the forewing and hindwing. The forewing is roughly three times as broad and almost twice as long as the hindwing is. Along the outside edge of the forewing is a divot, marked as the fuse point. There are six thick, dark veins running the length of the forewing, and from left to right, they are labeled MP1, CuA1, CuA2, AA2, AAP2, and AP2; all numbers are subscripts. A note pointing to CuA1 mentions that there are some vestigial hamuli that run along the vein's dorsal side. The veins on the hindwing are not labeled, but there is another note pointing to the leading edge of the hindwing that indicates the presence of hamuli to hold the wings together. More annotations pointing to the wing joints note that the forewing has a divot in the node, while the hindwing does not. Below the wings are two extra notes that say the wings do not fold, and that the hindwing is tucked under the forewing at rest.

The bottom right drawing is the dorsal view of an adult grub at rest. The mouthparts protrude from the front of the head, but most of the mandibles and parts of the palps are hidden underneath the labrum. The antennae are swept back slightly. The wings are folded parallel to the grub's body, and the hindwings are not visible underneath the forewings; a note next to the grub reinforces this. Below the grub is another note that says that wing overlap is dependent on grub preference, and there is a 50/50 split on this. The limbs of the grub are not visible. end image description]

one of my more ambitious projects for this au so far tbfh

i present to you, a massive chunk of worldbuilding for dreamless: making the grubs an actual Thing TM instead of whatever the fuck goes on with them in canon. some of this is extrapolated from what they do in canon, but a good chunk is me taking a thing from canon and running the hell away with it. as you do, yknow.

their ‘official’ name is the Zelseqi Neotenic Beetle (Zelseqi because their natural range is mostly in upper Zelseq, which is Unn’s domain, and Neotenic because. they’re neotenic.), but really everyone calls them grubs. they’re this strange beetle species that never quite evolved to be bipedal like most other beetles, but they’re also not ‘non-sapient’ like most hexapedal(?) beetles. they’re mainly herbivorous, often foraging in the leafier parts of Zelseq for roots and leaves and the occasional fruit if they’re lucky, but they’re also detritivores to an extent. they’re fairly shy in the wild, seeing as they’re neotenic; the adult forms have a slightly tougher exoskeleton, but their exocuticles are still not nearly as rigid as most beetles’ are. they prefer hiding and running away from potential predators, and do not generally approach other things.

they also don’t often threat posture, since they’re not very good at fighting either, but for smaller predators/threats where they feel cornered, they will do so in hopes of deterring the predator. it works a fair amount of the time, and they then run away once the threat turns away from them, but when it doesn’t, they screech. they’re capable of producing really shrill vocalizations that almost always throw their attackers off long enough for them to run away and/or burrow into the ground. if that still doesn’t work, then they’ll likely start fighting, but this is unlikely and doesn’t usually end well for the grub. their mandibles still do hurt though.

they’re shy around other creatures, but with other grubs they’re fairly social, often forming small colonies of less than 10 grubs where they share a burrow or burrow system. they don’t generally exhibit much parental care, since even the smallest of larvae are able to scoot outside and nibble on the nearby moss, but social behaviors like grooming aren’t uncommon.

most importantly though is that hallownest has domesticated grubs, and many of them work as service animals for the bugs of hallownest. their high sociability makes them great companions, and they’re also very intelligent and can understand a lot of speech. they’re most often trained to be medical alert grubs, so stuff like warning for panic attacks or an oncoming seizure, but many can also be trained to fetch things for their handlers, and some can be trained to be seeing eye grubs. it really depends on what the handler needs, but there’s generally something for them, and if not, it’s not too difficult for them to establish a new training category.

domesticated grubs are also generally louder than wild grubs as a result of the domestication, but this is mostly true of pet grubs, who do not have constraints on when they can shriek. in public, a grub call is most likely a distress alert for their handler. they’re not sturdy enough to do much intervention work, so if something happens to their handlers and no one is around, grubs will scream to attract the attention of bugs nearby. domesticated grubs are also much more likely to threat posture than their wild counterparts, though this is generally either a service grub protecting its handler from someone who is crossing their boundaries, or a pet grub who simply does not like what it has been presented with.

as a side effect of their domestication, grubs are generally more susceptible to desiccation, and are worse at staying warm than their wild counterparts, especially since hallownest, particularly the City, is typically cooler than Zelseq. care on this front isn’t difficult but does need to be regular, especially keeping the grubs from getting too dried out. as for ensuring that they stay warm, there are a lot of grub sweaters available in the markets, but actually getting it to stay on the grub is another story.

idk explaining my worldbuilding in this post has been kind of clumsy but i think the gist of it got across. basically,, i love the it. i made them better than canon <3

#... really tho #the canon stuff is kind of weird #hollow knight #my art #dreamless au #other stuff i could mention but wasn't sure how to add #they're sort of an intermediate point between going from 'non sapient' (which i need a better name for...) to 'sapient'#so they have the ability to vocalize. most beetle larva are able to talk #grubs don't typically need to but they can be trained to talk if you're dedicated #but that's almost identical to teaching a parrot to talk. and everything else that comes with the package #they also don't fare well in fog canyon because it's gaseous acid everywhere #and they're much more sensitive to that than most bugs are because of their neoteny #so they have to get little grub hazmat suits if they ever have to go to fog canyon for whatever reason #99% of the time it's because they're working and have to stay with their handler though so it's not hard to get your hands on that stuff #i hope this all made sense LMAO most of this is just vibes in my head #asta <3 i love the her #oh and did i mention that a lot of grubs are little shits? because a lot of them are little shits #100% will stare you down and push something off the table

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