#cw tooth damage

[monster-every-day]

day 46 - 2/15/24 - teeth missiles

ft. its target, Littol Boggy

i wanted to give it some particularly shiny scales in some spots, but i couldn't figure out how to mane it look good. you can still see remnants of it on the tail though

honestly even the regular patches of scales don't look all that good that's gonna be something i have to work on. i'm still very happy with this guy though. look at those smoke trails on the missiles! so cool! i figured that out by myself! who needs art tutorials!

#teeth missiles #february 2024 #february #2024 #2/15 #monster every day #daily drawing #cw tooth trauma #cw tooth damage #cw teeth trauma #cw teeth damage #<- just in case #type: dragon #type: weapon

[keeksandgigz]

my guy

eddie munson x fem!reader

Eddie being your personal handyman and stupidly in love.

cw: 2k words. no warnings just two kids being absolutely smitten for each other. tooth rotting fluff. teeny allusion to smut. Eddie being a flustered mess bless him. 18+ mdni

AN: this is literally the most low stakes thing i've ever written i just started cheesing at the idea of eddie cheesing at being called your guy

The sputtering of the washing machine startles you.

Huffing, you put your book down on the couch, rising from the depth of the cushions in which you had settled yourself into after finishing your chores and go assess the issue.

"Shit," the floor is wet and you shudder at the feeling of the cold soapy water getting into the bottoms of your socks as you slowly make your way to the washing machine to unplug it.

You try your best to dry the floor, wincing at the feeling of wet socks on the linoleum floor, cursing under your breath at the cold feel of the fabric against your skin.

Despite the floor being dry, your washing machine was broken, and you couldn't afford to buy a new one. Fortunately, your neighbor, Eddie had been your own personal handyman ever since you mentioned in passing that your sink was leaking a bit after moving into your place a couple months ago. The day after he was at your door, toolbox in hand. Your sink was fixed in less than a couple hours.

You knock at his front door, three precise, well timed knocks. Your mind cannot help but start counting just to see how long it will take him to open his door.

One, two, three, four, five, si--

The rattling of the door handle distracts you from your counting. Eddie's eyes are wide as they stare at you. His hair is tied in a low bun and he's fidgeting with a guitar pick in his hand. He must have been playing.

He's really quiet for a second, then clears his throat. "Oh, um. Hey, what's up?"

"Hey, nothing much? just wondering if you're busy right now" your tone always softens up with him around.

He looks around his apartment, almost as if he needed to remember if there was anything he should've been doing.

"Nope, don't think so. Why?" He leans against his doorframe, and he's cute in the way his pitch perks up, his smile expands just a bit to let a few crinkles form around his eyes.

"Well um... my washing machine broke and I can't afford to buy another one. I have a really important interview tomorrow morning and I need a clean dress shirt to wear. I thought I could get my guy to take a look at it and assess the damage?" you lightly punch your fist across his chest and he blushes a bit. You can tell by the way he starts blinking a bit faster that he's flustered.

"Your- your guy?" he stutters, almost as if he heard nothing else aside from that.

"Yeah, silly. My guy, like, my handyman" you smile at him, and if someone could get even more nervous, you're sure that Eddie just did, because he lets out a breathy laugh.

"Right. Your handyman guy, of course" and he shakes his head, smiling to himself a bit.

"So... can you do it?" you ask, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, no of course, sweetheart. Gimme a couple minutes and I'll be right over to you" he says smiling.

You head back to your apartment, leaving the door open for him to follow you with his toolbox, and Eddie feels like he’s lost every sense of reason when he enters and becomes surrounded by your scent.

The fabric softener you use has taken over every corner of your house, but he’s not complaining. Taking one last sniff for courage, he steps into the kitchen, where you’re sitting at, waiting for him.

“Alright, can I take a look at your washing machine?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah, it’s right this way” you lead him to the laundry room, and Eddie’s suffocating. You’re everywhere.

He kneels in front of the machine and opens its door.

"What's this interview for anyway if it's got you actin' so nervous?" He says from inside the washing machine. He's fidgeting with the rubber at the opening, the hose.

"It's for this job at the school. I applied to teach at the middle school, but I'm not sure if they'll give it to me" you say, panic settling in. He's taking too long, you're done for. No clean shirt, no job.

"Nah, sweetheart, there's no reason why they shouldn't. You're incredibly smart, from all the books I've seen you read, your apartment is all books, you nerd" he starts laughing, and then stops.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to call you a nerd." He takes his head out of the washing machine. "I just- I know you're gonna do great. And if you don't maybe you can become my apprentice, would you mind passing me my flashlight?" he gives you a half smile.

Reaching for his toolbox you pass it to him.

"See? You're already perfect for the job, you're hired" he says, making you laugh. He smiles proudly to himself, and he's happy that you can't see him from inside the washing machine, because he's sure he's bursting with joy at the sound of your laughter.

"Thanks, Ed. I'll consider it." you say, and immediately after you hear a oh shit! coming from inside the machine. Concern washes over your face.

"Ed? What's wrong?" you say, as you carefully step closer towards him.

“I know what the problem is." He takes his head out again The rubber thingy that helps you close the thingy is broken” he says, like you understood what he meant.

“For a handyman you sure have your way with words” you laugh, and he doesn’t even care that he’s made a fool of himself by forgetting what the rubber gasket was called. Because he’s made you laugh.

"So how do I get this rubber thingy fixed, mr handyman?" you ask, voice still amused at how flustered he is.

"Well, I'd need to go down the hardware store and get a replacement, but it's 8PM, so I can't do anything about it now, sweetheart. Sorry" he says, and it breaks his heart to have to say no to you.

"Oh, okay." your voice sounds sad, it hurts him. "Thanks anyway, Eddie. I'll stop by the hardware store tomorrow morning before my interview if you wanna stop by in the afternoon and finish this?"

He thinks about it, about the interview. About how much you said you want the job.

"Wait, I have an idea. What if you wash your clothes in my washing machine for tonight? So you can have your shirt ready for your interview, then tomorrow I can go and get the gaskets to fix it. It's called a gasket, not rubber thingy" he says, playing with his hair.

"Ed it's fine, I can go get it" you say, trying not to blush at how gentle and kind he is "I'll take you up on your offer of using your machine, though. Thanks, Ed. You're too nice" you say, reaching for the basket of wet clothes on top of the dishwasher.

"Anytime, sweetheart. Y'know I take good care of my clientele" he says, smug smile on his lips. You giggle and fake a gasp.

"Are you cheating on me? Are you being someone else's guy?!" he laughs and goes along with it.

"Well, Mrs. Davis did ask me to fix her bathtub, after learning from someone that I fixed their sink" he said, a fake accusatory stare at you.

"You should get paid for this, Ed. You've already fixed my sink, my door hinges, helped me change my lock and now my washing machine. Soon the whole complex is gonna ask you to do their maintenance" you laugh.

"I do it out of the kindness of my heart" he says, taking a dramatic bow , then rises and leans against the washing machine. "Really, though, I don't mind doing it. I enjoy being helpful. I don't want your money, sweetheart"

"No, Eddie, I insist. I need to pay you, especially after you said you're getting the rubber thingy for me, what was it called again? A gusset?"

"Gasket" he says smiling, pointing a cheeky finger at you. Then the air becomes a bit tense, he stiffens up. You see him takes a deep breath, he's suddenly nervous which puts you on edge. Did you say something wrong? Then he speaks up again. "Tell you what, as a payment for my services, I pick you up Friday night at 7 and we have dinner. What do you say?"

Shit. You would not have pegged him for the type to be that smooth, but he had you. He liked you and he was sweet to you and he wanted to take you out to dinner. It helped that he was cute. There was no hesitation when you nodded your head yes.

"I say that's a great idea, Ed. I'll let you know how the interview goes. Should we go to your apartment?" you say. You notice the quizzical, borderline alarmed, look on his face.

"So I can wash my stuff, I mean" an awkward laugh escapes you as he motions for you to lead the way.

His apartment is the same layout as yours, but rather than books, his walls are filled with painted figurines, guitars, notebooks and DnD game sets. A true nerdy den.

"Um, the washing machine is down the hall. We have the same one, let me know if you need anything, okay?" he says, heading over to the couch, setting his toolbox down and picking up his guitar.

His laundry detergent is strong. The thought of this load of washing smelling like him makes your head spin.

After you've started the load, you head out of the laundry room and head over to the couch, where Eddie is. You swear his eyes glint a little when he sees you.

"Hey mr. handyman." you say, plopping down next to him "Keep playing, I'm just gonna watch you." You smile at him.

His face is concentrated, tongue darting out of his lips every once in a while. Cute, you think, a silly quirk that makes your mind travel to places that it should not even dare to go, you haven't even had your first date yet. God, you wanna kiss him.

He plays some aggressive guitar chords, one after the other, music sheets scattered on his knee, balancing precariously as he taps the rhythm with his head, his hair falling out of its confinements with each bob of his head.

"I hear you play sometimes." You interrupt. He raises his head, his hair has all fallen out of the bun and lays on his shoulders.

"What?" he says weakly.

"Sometimes, in the afternoon, because you're so respectful, I hear you play. And I- I just stop whatever I'm doing and listen to you and- and it's so cool. Your playing is so cool" you stop your ramble, because now he's staring at you and he's making you nervous. He's closer, and closer, and closer. And he's kissing you.

His lips are soft, albeit a bit too wet from all the times he's licked his lips to focus. His hand is on your cheek and it's big and warm and his breath is on you and you just melt into him. Soft kisses, quick kisses.

After what feels like hours, your mouth is open and you're reaching for his shirt, but he stops you, a puzzled look on your face. "Let's save this for another time, sweetheart." He says, and you can tell he's struggling to say no to you "I wanna take my time with you. Maybe after our date?" he gives you a sly smile and you think you have melted into the cushions.

"Can we cuddle, then?" you say shyly and he opens his arms for you to fall in, you take a deep breath. He's warm and smells nice.

"For a handyman you kiss really well" you say, laughing a bit. He jerks his head and quirks an eyebrow.

"How many handymen have you kissed?" his tone is dramatic and you know he's joking.

"None that I am aware of, but y'know, it could be a side job" You giggle.

"I thought I was your guy!" He says with a whine, and he makes you laugh like no man has ever made you laugh before.

“Maybe you can be my guy for real then” you say, smiling, finally holding eye contact with him.

“Yeah, I can be your guy, sweetheart.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut

[lees-chaotic-brain]

if the world was ending you'd come over right?

summary: you're not at home when the earthquake happens, but your ex doesn't know that and sees that your apartment building has collapsed on the news...loosely based off this song

cw: ex! osamu, mentions of blood, earthquake, angst, a little bit of comfort, not as fluffy as i promised sorry

wc: 923

note: this was a sponsored fic for @ficsforgaza's fundraiser!! check out how to send in a request here, or sponsor a wip here! i initially had a different idea for the fic, but it ended up like this. however i may write the other version i originally planned at some point in the future!!!

haikyuu masterlist | blog navigation

You were returning to your apartment from getting your morning coffee when the earthquake hit. One second you were walking along, the next the ground was bouncing and you were thrown to the ground. You slammed your head hard against the pavement, and instinctually curled up into a ball, wrapping your arms around your head to protect it from further harm. 

After what felt like an eternity, it stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving you laying dazedly on the cracked pavement. You knew something was wrong with your head, that you were likely concussed and couldn’t fall asleep, but your body was battered and aching and you couldn’t bring yourself to stand.

Time was moving weirdly, so you didn’t know how long you laid there, but by the time you managed to stagger to your feet the blood dripping from your head had crusted in your hair and on your face. It took you a bit to find your footing, but once you were upright you began walking unsteadily towards your apartment, distantly realizing that you should go check on it.

“Maam! Hey! Are you okay? Do you need help?” A middle aged man you vaguely recognized as owning the grocery store you frequented approached you, concern evident on his face. “You don’t look too good. Where are you trying to go? I can help.”

It takes you a few tries to speak, your mouth sticky and dry from inhaling dust and a lack of use. “My apartment. It’s right around the corner. The one across the street from the park.” As you speak, the pounding in your head only increases and a wave of nausea washes over you, causing you to stagger.

Pity crosses over the man’s face as he reaches out to steady you. “Ah, well, I saw on the news that the buildings in that complex collapsed, so I don’t know if there will be much to see. It might be best if we try to get you some medical attention for your head…”

“I’m fine.” You attempt to keep walking, but he has to catch you as your legs give out. “Whoa. Take it easy. It looks like you hit your head pretty hard.”

“I need to go home.” You know it’s not logical, but you want to see the extent of the damage and try to salvage what you can despite knowing it was very unlikely anything remained.

The shop owner sighed, slinging your arm over his shoulder to support you better as he helped you limp along. “Fine. You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you. We’ll go to your building, but we’re going to find someone to look at your head after that.”

You don’t have the energy to reply, focusing on putting one foot ahead of the other, not the throbbing in your skull. After what felt like hours, but was probably only around five minutes in reality, you got back to your building, and were immediately greeted by chaos.

EMT’s raced stretchers with people covered in dust and blood on them to waiting ambulances, new helicopters whirred overhead, neighbors and other onlookers gathered to the side in shock, a man fighting tooth and nail to get into the building screaming at the men holding him back-wait.

“Hey, that’s your boyfriend, right?” The shop owner pointed at the man thrashing against his captors. “I’ve seen you two together in the store before. We should probably get you over to him, he looks worried sick.”

And sure enough, upon closer inspection it’s Osamu who’s raging against Kita and Atsumu as they each hold one of his arms to stop him from charging into the unstable building. 

“Uh, well he’s my ex. I don’t really know why he’s here. We broke up months ago.” You’re too tired to try and puzzle out what was going on, overwhelmed by everything that had happened so far. Then you heard your name.

“LET ME GO! SHE’S STILL IN THERE! GET OFF ME YOU MOTHERFU-”

“She’s over here! YN is over here!”

Somehow Osamu manages to hear the shopkeeper over all the noise, and instantly stops raging against Atsumu and Kita, whipping his head so fast in your direction you’re surprised he didn't break his neck. Seeing you, his brother and friend release him, knowing that there’s no danger of him charging in now that he knows where you are. 

He makes his way across the courtyard and is in front of you, frantically checking you for injuries in three seconds flat as the shopkeeper pats you on the arm and walks off.

“Yer here. Oh my god. The news- I thought, I thought ya were still in there. Ya can’t do that to me.” His eyes zero in on the blood caking your head. “Yer head! Yer bleeding. C’mon we need to get you to the hospital-”

He begins dragging you off towards an ambulance but you’re still unstable and your legs give out. Crumpling to the pavement you look up at him, your mind still foggy.

“Samu…? Why are you here? We broke up…” You can hear your words beginning to slur, and the last thing you see before your eyes close is his stricken face, his eyes fearful as he frantically pats your face and yells at you to stay awake.

Slipping into the soothing darkness, you think about how much you’ve missed him the past few months, and can’t help but be grateful he’s here.

Even if took an earthquake, he came. That was all that mattered.

taglist: @arlerts-angel @ponderingmoonlight @hotvinimon

please lmk if you want to be added to/removed from any of my taglists!!!

#lee's brain writes #osamu miya x reader #osamu x reader #osamu miya #miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x yn #osamu miya x you #osamu miya x y/n #osamu miya fanfiction #osamu miya angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x yn #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu angst #osamu miya fanfic

[angelgarden-posts]

I read your Yan Leona with fem reader, i love it so can I request something similar like yandere Floyd who went to her dorm to surprise her as she didn't come school. While she was kinda have fever so she didn't take her gender changing potion and just went to sleep... In deep sleep.

Yandere Floyd Finding Out Reader is Female (Birthday Special!)

A/N: I was trying to find motivation to write for his birthday event in game (I reinstalled and restarted the game on a new account), so thank you for your request! I hope you enjoy!

TW/CW: Obsessive/Possessive behavior, mentions of blackmail and manipulation, slight suggestiveness

Floyd was slightly irked that you didn’t come to school today, especially since it was his special day, but at least he had an excuse to squeeze you now!

As soon as the last class of the day ended, he immediately headed over to Ramshackle dorm, the crowds of people who parted to let him pass annoying him rather than amusing him today.

As he approached the door to your living quarters, he decided that it would be a nice surprise to spook you. After all, it wouldn’t be a birthday without any surprises!

Twisting the knob open gently, he slipped into the rundown house and crept towards the room that radiated your scent most strongly, as being part eel enhanced his sense of smell.

However, your aroma didn’t smell the same, and his priorities immediately shifted to checking to see if anything had happened to you.

Floyd strode over to your room and kicked down the door, half-surprised that the damage and noise didn’t wake you up.

Then, as his traveling eyes met your miserable, scrunched up face, the mystery of why you smelled weird was solved: you were red with fever.

And the blanket you were tightly hugging around yourself wasn’t going to help either—frail humans like you could die if something as little as temperature fluctuated, so he was going to cool you down.

Floyd threw off your covers, his eyes widening and face dropping immediately into a disbelieving expression (Floyd.exe has stopped working).

The sight of your chest, now adorned with two mounds and one slightly protruding bump on each side where your pecs would usually be, greeted him and he felt his cheeks heating up and turning red like yours were.

He covered his mouth with his hand as his sharp-toothed smile slowly made its appearance and widened widened widened—

This piece of information was the best birthday gift you could’ve ever given him.

Oh, the deals and contracts he could make in order to get you to do what he wanted! Of course, he’d never reveal the information to anyone, as you were his and his alone, but having you dancing in the palm of his hand sent a rush of euphoria through his veins.

First things first though, he had to make sure you were receiving the care you needed. And he was the only one who could give you that care.

Slipping onto the mattress with you, he pulled your limp body towards him so that you were nestled comfortably between his legs and your back was touching his chest.

Wrapping his arms around your stomach carefully, he squeezed you gently and bit his lip to stifle a grunt at your breathy whimper.

He couldn’t let anyone else hear you, see you, touch you like this. Vulnerable and pliant, only he could exercise the privilege of being in your proximity like this.

And Floyd would do anything to prove it.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere floyd leech #yandere floyd x reader #yandere imagines #not beta read #yandere oneshot

[nectardaddy]

Tuesdays At Three - Choso Kamo

pairing: baker choso x reader, non-curse au, gender neutral

synopsis: an ask from anonymous, link here, kinda took it and ran with it if that's ok? I just started writing and ended up here.

cw(?), notes: language, tooth achingly sweet, parallelism and repetitive statements are done purposefully, anxiety ish (repetitive statements hint at this), I'm deadass proud of this fic right here

The man simply couldn't help as his eyes flickered to the clock for the umpteenth time; checking the time as if he really had anywhere else to be. And he truly couldn't help the dread that created a pit in his stomach as the minute hand crept closer and closer to the time he was supposed to leave. A departure that would surely leave him in shambles, a wreck for the rest of the week, if he wasn't able to see you.

You were here every Tuesday, and every Tuesday at three you would bring about various fruits and produce to the bakery he so happened to work at. Every Tuesday at three, never late and never early - until today. It was now Tuesday at three thirty, and he was set to leave at four.

He used to ask himself 'why' to his racing heart, sweaty palms, and flushed cheeks even at the very mention of your name - god forbid how he felt when you actually spoke to him. But his brother quickly, a mere five minute conversation, chalked it up to be infatuation. "Jesus, dude, you've got it bad," Yuuji would say to him every Tuesday. "Just ask them out already."

But he couldn't do that. Wouldn't dream of doing that. How does one even go about doing that? The sting of rejection was all too great in his mind. What if you said no? Then he'd be damned to see you every Tuesday at three, and have to pretend you didn't yank his heart right out of his body. He wouldn't bear to see your smile, a smile that made his heart ache in his chest. He wouldn't bear to hear your laugh, a joyous sound that made his lips turn up at the thought; god forbid you made him laugh as well, he often thought he would simply lose his life every time you did. And, god, he wouldn't bear to feel your touch, accidental or not, that made his lungs heave and his mouth dry.

Choso wasn't shy by any means, greeting you with a gentle smile every Tuesday, but he played his part deceivingly well. Shoving his emotions down to the very pits of his stomach, as if to try and deny them, but more likely to not act a fool. So when you were late, oh god when you were late, he felt his already frazzled mind continue to fray. Fraying at seams already damaged, losing himself in his thoughts as he stood before an oven.

He felt silly and weak, how on earth could someone, anyone, have such a sickening effect on him? A sickening effect that he longed for, craving so desperately it was nearly an addiction. So enthralled in his thoughts, the gentle chime of the bell on the front door fell on deaf ears. Footsteps that neared the kitchen completely unaware to him, his thoughts taking a mind of their own. Thoughts that only revolved around where you were. Were you alright? Why were you late? You're never late. Did you know he left at four? Would you come after four as to not see him?

"Choso?" A voice asked, ripping him harshly from his thoughts and taking a step back.

"Fuck," he breathed out rather loudly, finding himself gripping the counter adjacent to him. His adrenaline spiked, and he turned quickly to see who startled him so easily. But he felt his heart jump to his throat upon seeing the familiar face, the familiar face he was certain wouldn't show up while he still occupied the building.

"Hey," you mused, "are you alright?" Your voice was laced with a twinge of worry, but the same smile you always wore still appeared on your features. Greeting him like a slap in the face and making his cheeks flush.

Lord above, he felt stupid. Stupid to think you wouldn't show, stupid to let his mind wander to such things, and stupid that he had the wits scared out of him by you, of all people.

"Yeah," he reassured, plastering a gentle smile on his lips in faux contentment. "I just- wasn't expecting you. It's past three." He spoke as he motioned towards the clock, the clock his eyes couldn't seem to leave the past thirty minutes.

Hearing a chuckle bubble past your lips made his already racing heart skip, "yeah, sorry about that. I woke up late this morning, so it threw my whole day off by thirty minutes." You spoke nonchalantly, now placing a box down you had in your arms. "Did you miss me?" You probed with a teasing tone.

He felt a nervous chuckle leave his mouth, praying to whatever god was out there that he didn't look like a fool. "Maybe just a little," he admitted, albeit sounding a lot more confident than he felt. "It felt wrong not seeing you at three, I thought something had happened."

"How sweet," you mused. "But you don't need to worry about me not showing up at all, you're the highlight of my day on Tuesdays."

Breath hitching in his throat, he completely paused for a moment. As if trying to find a rest button for his brain, your words scratched an itch that he'd been longing to rid himself of. "Really?" He choked out as he swallowed hard. He felt like he looked ridiculous, sputtering and choking at words he wanted to say, but not finding a time until now.

"Well, duh," you spoke with a laugh. He felt the need to breathe again, holding his breath in anticipation and nerves. But he simply couldn't find the air to do so, lungs being restricted by the saccharine sound that left your lips. "I thought I made that pretty obvious," you spoke. Pretty obvious? Wonderful, now he felt even more dimwitted. "I don't just like you for the free pastries you give me. If that's what you thought."

It was almost endearing, sickly sweet, how far off your thoughts were from his own. Free pastries? He dreamed his mind only went as far as free pastries. Instead his mind always seemed to linger on minute details: how tired you looked as you always, without a doubt, greeted him happily, the callouses on your hands when your fingers would brush his own to hand him a box, or a smile, coated with gratitude and joy, that made him a puddle of a man whenever your eyes locked with his. He wished it was only free pastries, maybe then he wouldn't feel so sickly and senseless.

"That means there's more to share about liking me?" he mused. "What is it more than just free sweets?" His smile faltered as he felt his stomach drop and mouth run dry, what was he doing? Did he dare have the sheer confidence to take his brother's advice? God no. But he had to confidence to teeter the line of it, not letting it slip unless your words continued him on. "And I don't give those out to just anyone, by the way." He felt the corners of his lips begin to shift to a smirk, swallowing his pride and completely giving into himself. "I only give them to people I like."

"Ah- so you finally admit you like me," you countered. A playful glint in your eyes that all but made him drop to his knees, "and come on. Have you met yourself? You're a dream, Choso." His mind raced within his head at your statement. Does this mean he's not the only one to feel so infatuated? Did your heart flutter and plummet at every word that left his lips the same as he? Does he dare ask or cater to the connotation of your words? Fuck, does this mean his brother was right?

Finally? Did you know this whole time? And a dream? Oh dear god, his brother was right. His smirk didn't hold for much longer after this conclusion, genuinely more bamboozled than any other. Was he truly that readable? Did he really have no self restraint when it came to you, that you would so easily pick up on his emotions? Even he had to ask his brother, of all people, what in the hell he was feeling.

But, oh my, did he show his feelings - unbeknownst to himself. The small acts you saw of the man, intentional or not, had your heart reeling. Every Tuesday at three he turned to a love doomed man. A man too beside himself to realize his gaze softening, smile widening, and gentle touches lingering a bit longer than normal. Every Tuesday at three any singular response given to you was with rosy tinted cheeks or a nervous laugh that made your knees buckle. You were obsessed with it.

The feeling the man gave to you from such simple, silly actions, had you yearning. Giving you a pastry? You felt like a child again, a love sick puppy, eagerly awaiting for Tuesday to cross your path all over again. His, usually bored, eyes brightening at the sight of you? You were left in shambles and only dreamed he would put the pieces back together for you.

Dark eyes glanced at the clock once more, watching the second hand gingerly sweep by as it neared four. Every Tuesday at three you would tell him you ended your day at four, and every Tuesday at three he was all too afraid to admit he did as well. But this Tuesday at three forty five was unusually different, a special kind of different where he found himself taking Yuuji's advice. Advice he truly never thought he would see himself taking so eagerly as he did in the very moment.

"Are you doing anything after four?"

#dodger answers #choso kamo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #kamo choso #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x reader #jjk choso #non curse au #fluff #jjk fluff #choso kamo x reader

[officialdaydreamer00]

Nui shenanigans

in which you have a tiny nui version of your fire-headed significant bother

character: idia shroud

content: cw for suggestive things (i spoil you too much gd), an unhealthy amount of tooth rotting materials, the brainworms are worming so please excuse the rotting ^-^, reader is not yuu, gender neutral reader (mainly leaning to afab/fem aligned readers)

pausing the event to whip up a birthday present for @identity-theft-101! happy spawn date you biteable fucking gremlin <3

this feels so much like im working on PR lmao

first of all, the idia nui is sentient, let's get that over with. idia nui is an exact copy of the real idia, just in tiny doll form.

he's only 10cm tall (or about 3.9 inches) so he can fit snuggly in your palm or your shirt pocket.

very, i mean very, affectionate. touch starved too, he craves and will soak up any physical contacts from you like a sponge. just like idia lmao

also very squishy and biteable, since he doesn't take any physical damage. use that information to your likings :)

now that's out of the way, we gonna talk about the interesting stuffs.

when i tell you he's a carbon copy of idia in doll form, i mean rook hunt level accuracy. the resemblance is concerning.

from the mannerisms to the actions, idia nui acts just like our local fire hair ipad kid. except that it looks even cuter, somehow.

idia nui can be carried to places. just place him on your shoulder, in your shirt pocket or hoodie hood. for fem aligned folks, you can even let him vibe in your bra pocket.

idia nui, of course, has quite a case of social anxiety. he doesn't do well with people, so hide his existence when you're in the presense of other human beings, please.

you can always share your love and interests with idia nui. he will listen to your ramblings with rapt attention and encourages you with his adorably shy smiles.

as expected, idia is seething with jealousy, seeing how idia nui can do things that he can't. social anxiety fucks with his brain so badly.

ans now you have two blue fire wet cats fighting for your attention and affections. let the war begin

all he can do is watching over you through his floating ipad and silently seething. he would gritted his teeth whenever idia nui notices the ipad and gives you affections, and will explode in flames if the nui sends him a mocking grin, which is more likely than you think.

one time, idia finally manned up and actually smooched you, he had a blue screen moment and then he dipped.

you've never seen idia ran tf away so fast lmao.

spoilers: in the end you rewarded them both with cuddles and kisses so all was good ^-^

remember to reblog if you enjoy my works! ^-^

#irene's writings ♡ #twst #twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twst headcanons #twst fluff #idia shroud #twst idia #twisted wonderland idia #idia shroud x reader #twst idia x reader #idia x reader #idia shroud fluff

[tropes-and-tales]

Shadow and Light: Chapter One

The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x F!Reader

WC:  2258

Other Pieces:  This is part of a larger miniseries that can be found here.

CW:  Slow-burn; plot-building.

The Mandalorian knew every square inch of the Razor Crest.  The old gunship wasn’t the fastest, but she was sturdy, and the Mandalorian was aware of every creak and groan it made.  He knew that one warning light – the one for leaking coolant – was faulty.  He knew the one landing ski took a second longer to engage than the other.

He knew that the door between the cockpit and the rest of the ship made a rusty little squeal on its track before it opened.  He had meant to oil it but kept forgetting, and it was the only thing that gave you away now.

He had just set the course for Arvala-7 and was swiveled in his pilot’s chair to rest a bit before landing.  There was no sound in the rest of the ship that he wasn’t familiar with, but when the door made that little squeal….well, he wasn’t the one who had set it off.  Someone was on the other side.

When the door finally slid open to reveal you, that annoying kid from Nevarro, the Mandalorian was ready for you.  You were wrapped in that same dun-colored cloak, everything hidden but your eyes, but he wasn’t focused on that.  He was focused on the bo-rifle in your hands, the end sparking and crackling with a blue electric current.

It happened so fast:  your eyes widened a fraction to see the Mandalorian charging at you in such tight quarters, and he kicked the weapon from your hands so that it turned off and clattered uselessly to the floor.  Then, like in Nevarro, he grabbed your wrist and twisted it behind you until you were pressed against the wall of the ship, and though he wasn’t exactly gentle before, he was less so now.

The same question as before though.  “Who sent you?” he asked, his voice tight with anger even through the modulator in his helmet.  You shook your head, replied “no one,” and the Mandalorian responded by clamping both of your hands in magnetic cuffs behind your back.  He spun you around and scanned you.

Gods, you were loaded with weapons.  Other than the bo-rifle that lay on the floor of his cockpit, through the scanner in his visor, he counted at least five other weapons:  two blasters holstered low on each hip, two knives tucked away in each boot, and a mean-looking knife, toothed and serrated for maximum damage sheathed on your belt. 

He sighed and started searching you more thoroughly.  He removed your cloak first, and it revealed that you weren’t a kid after all – even in the dusty black pants and grey shirt and vest, the Mandalorian could make out your curves.  Your hair was braided and pinned up, but a few strands had worked themselves loose, framing your face. 

The Mandalorian pushed aside all the questions of who you were and why you were on his ship, and he focused on the more pressing question:  why weren’t you talking now?  Most people – bounties, enemy combatants – pleaded for their lives when he had them dead to rights.  Babbled out promises of riches, begged for mercy, tried to explain their convoluted reasons….you only gazed at him as he removed each weapon from you.  Silent.  Completely calm too.  He didn’t sense any trembling or increased heart rate.

In fact, when he reached down to pull the knives out of your boots, you shifted your weight and twisted each leg a little to make it easier for him.

When he was done and your weapons were in a neat pile on one of the co-pilot’s seats, he pushed you into the other seat and towered over you.

“Who are you?” he asked.  “And what are you doing on my ship?”

When you hesitated a moment to long in answering him, he added, “I can always shoot you out an airlock if you don’t feel like talking.”

“I wanted to go to Arvala-7 with you for this job,” you replied simply.

“Why?  You’re not in the Guild.”

You shook your head at this, and the Mandalorian took a guess.  “But you want to join the Guild?  You need reputation credits.”

“Y-yes.  I, uh, overheard the Guild Master at the cantina talking about this job.  I thought if I helped with this one, single job, it’d be enough to get me in.”

The Mandalorian huffed at this.  “I told you no on Nevarro.  I work alone.”

“I can help.”

He looked you over pointedly, from the top of your head all the way down to your feet.  Without the cloak covering you, he would admit that maybe you weren’t a complete novice.  Your arms and legs were toned from work, and you had been armed to the teeth.  And the bo-rifle was a sophisticated weapon from a race of elite warriors, though he wasn’t sure if you were any good with it.

You took his silence as an opportunity to continue.  “I know I don’t look like much, but I can help.  I can fight, and I’m a good shot from a distance.  I’m very good at blending in and sneaking around.”  You mouth twisted into a half-smile.  “If you maintained your ship properly, I would have had you.  That cockpit door shouldn’t squeak like that.”

“You want to partner up, but you were going to electrocute me first,” he replied sarcastically. 

“I wasn’t.  That was just to…encourage you to listen to me.”  He fixed you with a glare, which you couldn’t see, but most people found a silent Mandalorian just as intimidating.  You just kept talking.

“I won’t take up any space or get in your way, and I listen to whatever you say.  And I’m good with ships.  I know that this is a pre-Empire gunship.  I could tear it down and rebuild it for you, and it’d run as good as new.  Better, even.”

“I don’t need the Razor Crest torn down and rebuilt.”

You nodded, and for the first time, you looked a little uncertain.  He could see you swallow hard.  “Sure, but if it breaks down, I can fix it.  And I don’t need any cut of the credits.  I just want the, uh, reputation credits.”

He only stared at you, and you squirmed a little under the force of the glare through his visor.

Finally, you added, “I know that they kept sending people to Arvala-7.  Stormtroopers, at first, then mercenaries and bounty hunters.  None of them ever come back.  Whatever that asset is, it’s dangerous.”

“So I’d be facing danger in front of me, and have you behind me with a rifle pointed at my back?”

You shook your head.  “No, not at all.  Like I said, I’d do whatever you say.  I could be a lookout, or cover you with my rifle.  I promise I’m a good shot.  And if I have to, I can fight.”

The Mandalorian considered your offer.  He had worked alone since his falling out with the crew of mercenaries he used to run with, and it was better that way.  No personal ties, no entanglements.  Nothing but him and his Mandalorian Creed. 

He’d never concede that it was lonely.  He’d never admit that sometimes he let his retrieved bounties stay out of carbonite for the part of the return trip just to hear another’s voice, even if it was pleading for its life. 

More immediately, he admitted that you had a point.  This job felt wrong from the start – off the books, an immense payoff, no chain code – so your intel about it being dangerous felt accurate.  He tilted his head and studied you a little closer as you gazed back at him.  Maybe you were all the things you claimed to be.  A good shot, a good fighter, a good mechanic.  You certainly were good at blending in, as he’d found out twice now.

Maybe a partner would be okay.  Just for one job, enough to get you those reputation credits, then dump you off on Nevarro and never see you again.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and the expression on your face was indiscernible.

“Lyra San,” you muttered, and he huffed in irritation.

“Your real name,” he demanded.  “Lira San is a legend.  Make believe.”

You sighed, and a blush broke out across your cheeks.  You looked away from him as you answered.  “I don’t know my name,” you said.  “My real one, anyway.  I was named for their legendary homeworld when the Lasats found me.  I was a child when the spacecraft I was on crashed on Lasan.  I was…am…an orphan.  A foundling.  But they raised me.”

The Mandalorian would never concede that it was your admission of being a foundling that made him decide not to shoot you out of an airlock after all.  Deep down, though, past the armor and the Way and his own hurt and trauma – he already felt a connection to you. 

*****

It was partially luck that saved you – this Mandalorian seemed a bit more willing to listen before acting.  You knew there were others of that sect that would have happily put a hole in your head before letting you get a single word out. 

You’d been on Nevarro long enough to learn of the covert there, and you were sympathetic to the Mandalorians.  Your own adopted people, the Lasats, had suffered the same under the Empire.  You understood why only one Mandalorian was ever out at one time, but you didn’t know why it worked – even in their anonymous armor, you were able to tell one from another.  One was heavier, one was shorter.  One walked with a clomping gait, another walked with steps light as air.  Maybe people were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice that an entire group of people lived underneath them.

If the job had gone to any other member of that covert, you would have come up with another strategy.  But you’d observed this particular Mandalorian to get a sense of him.  Some might call it intuition or second sight.  Your foster mother called it a gift from Ashla, the personification of good in the universe.  Either way, you were good at reading people, and this Mandalorian seemed…different from the rest.  He had the same dark thread that all warrior species did, but there was a bit of light too.

It all ended up fine.  A little humiliating, being disarmed so quickly and then receiving a thorough pat-down as he took all your guns and knives from you (though he missed a few, you thought with an inward smirk).  Humiliating too to have him retrieve your pack and then go through it in front of you – your extra clothes, your small toolkit, your store of extra rations and medicines.  Your small bound leather book that you filled page by page with your observations from your travels.  The Mandalorian rifled through those pages, and your blush deepened that he might be reading your innermost thoughts.  He didn’t comment on them, though. 

Then he laid down the rules.

“You tend to your own needs,” he said.  “I won’t spend a credit to feed or clothe you.”

“That’s fair.”

“You do exactly what I say without complaint or question.”

You paused.  “Also fair.”

“We retrieve the asset and return to Nevarro.  I get paid, you get the credits, and we go our separate ways.”

“Obviously.”  You flexed your hands, still cuffed.  “Can I get these off?”

He tilted his head at you, then gave a single nod and removed them.

“Thanks,” you said.  You clenched your hands into fists, released them, shook the feeling back into your numb fingers.  “Can I get my weapons back?”

“You get those back when I can trust you.”

That made you laugh, and he tilted his head at you again.  “Aren’t Mandalorians famously distrustful?”

“Then you’ll get your weapons back on Nevarro.”

“What if we run into trouble on Arvala-7?”

He didn’t answer.  He just turned and sat in the pilot’s chair, and a moment later, you sat in the co-pilot’s seat.  No matter how much you traveled, you never got tired of the sight of space – the stars streaking past you, the distant nebulas of stellar explosions.  It made your heart ache in the best way to think of the vastness of the universe, all the different planets and people, all the things to explore.  You leaned back and rested your head against the seat, and you felt the past few tense hours grow heavy on you.  You tucked your legs up – he hadn’t returned your cloak to you either – and let sleep start to draw you in.

“The guild master calls you ‘Mando,’” you said tiredly.  “Is it okay for me to call you that too?”

The Mandalorian turned a little in his seat then gave you a nod.  You nodded back and started to reply but was overtaken by a giant yawn.

“Don’t worry about the weapons,” you told him.  Your voice was thick with sleep, and you could barely hold your eyes open any longer.  “If I can’t fight, I can just disarm the enemy with my charming personality.”

You didn’t hear his response because you drifted off, and besides, it sounded different through the modulator of his helmet…but the Mandalorian laughed.

You also didn’t see him turn in his seat to watch you sleep, and you wouldn’t realize until morning that he shook out your cloak and settled it over your sleeping form so that you wouldn’t get cold before he retired to his own quarters.

#din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #tropes and tales

[mpregjohnwinchester]

qu'est-ce que c'est

i wanted to share a little something i've been working on... and by working on i mean dipping in and out of for months... here's a rough 4k-ish excerpt from the serial killer john AU i promised like last december lol. if you like it please let me know, i need all the motivation i can get to actually get this finished 😘

cw: see tags pls. johndean, accidental incest.

There’s a boy John has been watching for a few nights now. A boy who must be new in town, or at least to the more offensive parts of it; a boy of about 25, give or take, although it's hard to tell under all those neon lights. They don't do much to obscure his delicate, fawn-like prettiness; a boy with a face like that would be hard pressed not to stand out anywhere. A face that would suit both the cover of a teen magazine and a career in extreme pornography, a face that's a recipe all in itself for wet panties and sexuality crises - but good looks alone have never been enough to hold John's interest for that long. Luckily for him, there seems to be a lot more to this boy than that.

There would need to be, for such a boy to seek out the kind of bar no regular kid his age would go to; the kind of bar where the rotten keg smell can make you delirious and the jukebox is a relic from 1972, the kind of bar where you leave at the end of the night with your lungs tarred from all the smoke and a hangover already forming from whatever cheap crap is actually served out of all those brand name optics, the kind of bar where the true dregs of society drink their welfare money and at least keep the breath they waste to a confined space.

And such a boy sits up at such a bar, all alone in worn layered shirts and jeans degraded at the knees, the soles of his scuffed up boots held in place by duct tape. A closer look reveals scar tissue on his knuckles, a slight but palpable crookedness to his nose, like it's been broken more than once. There are these deep lines on his face even at rest, at odds with his obvious youth, and the skin around his eyes cracks like broken porcelain when he licks the residue of his whisky on ice off of cherry plump lips that pout and quirk in flirtatious grins to the chubby leather-skirted bartender, to the double-denimed smooth-brained admirers who orbit him all night like fruit flies, buying his drinks and putting their dirty hands on the small of his back, getting so close to his face that he must be able to smell their stale tobacco tooth decaying breath; but this boy, he doesn't seem to mind that at all. He minds it so little that around midnight, four free drinks down and keen to get what he so clearly came for, he'll let one lucky redneck take him to the boudoir of the bathroom stall, the romantic open air setting of the alleyway behind the building, or maybe a fast food-crusted backseat, if he's really lucky. Not that the boy seems particularly fussy; which might just be the thing that completes the entire sorry picture.

Yeah - beauty really isn't that interesting at all, without damage. It's an irresistible combination; it's fascinated people since time began. John's not immune to that fascination. Curiosity, about this boy, and what the hell happened to him to fuck him up so badly. John likes to get close to things like that, a little closer than most people. He likes to study it; break it down. See what he can make out of it. And with the right opportunity - the perfect opportunity - John's sure this boy, with his scars and his cracks and his indiscriminate promiscuity, could be something really, really special.

By the fifth night, John has everything ready for the boy. All that's left is to create that perfect opportunity.

He leaves his usual booth abandoned. He stands up at the bar, nursing an increasingly warm beer, and waits.

The boy comes in on the cusp of eleven, hands in his jacket pockets, all hard rock swagger and high shoulders. He walks past John and settles into his usual stool. He coyly compliments that trashy pig of a bartender on something or other, the way he always does, and she turns away from him with this flattered smirk as she goes to get his drink, the way she always does.

John sees his window. His heart starts to hammer in his chest. Hand on his wallet, he sidles over.

"I got this." He makes a point of not looking directly at the boy; instead, he offers a tight-lipped smile to the bartender, who looks a little startled, but John's used to that. She always seems a little uncomfortable around him, the way people often do, but John doesn't really think that's his problem.

This boy doesn't seem to think so either. In John's periphery, he's grinning. "Well. I’d been wonderin’ when you were gonna crawl out of the shadows."

John feigns a slight tremor in his hand as he passes over his change; notes how the bartender is a little tense in taking it, but again, he's used to that sort of thing. “Excuse me?" he says.

The boy blinks at him through long, dramatic eyelashes. “Come on, man. You really think I haven't noticed you staring at me like a fucking creep all this time?"

The boy props his chin up on his hands and looks at John like he’s pleased, or maybe a little smug. That’s the thing about damaged boys like him. Attention that would unsettle most people flatters them. 

"So what's up with you?" the boy adds. "You don't like making the first move, or -"

Rhetorical or, drags on. He has a deeper voice than expected. It doesn't match that face of his at all.

John confesses, “I guess I am a little shy."

That grin hasn’t left the boy’s mouth. "Well, I don't bite. Unless you want me to, of course."

The boy holds John's gaze; sips his drink, puffy pink lips melding around his glass in a way that seems very practised. That kind of thing doesn't work on John. But he humors the boy anyway. Gives him the admiring, up-down glance he's perfected from watching other people flirt.

The boy notices. In return he treats John to the same glittering "use-me" eyes he's been dishing out like cookies the last few nights. Doesn't John feel special.

"So," the boy says. "Are you a regular at this dump, Shy Guy?"

"I come in and out." It's true. Truck stops and street corners sometimes keep John away. "But hey, sometimes even a craphole like this is better than being stuck at home alone, right?" He shrugs.

"I feel that," says the boy, with this ironic smile. "So you're not married or nothing?"

"Not anymore."

The kid snickers. "Well, that's refreshing. Most guys who hit on me don't even bother taking off their wedding bands."

"Not me." John shrugs again, slow, heavy. "My - my wife died last year."

The boy starts to look uncomfortable. "Wow. That's, uh, rough, man. I'm sorry."

He really is. John can hear it in his voice, see it in those twinkly doe eyes. "Yeah," John sighs. "It was… it’s been pretty hard, you know."

The boy nods into his glass, swirling his ice. "I get it. My mom - I was four. Leaves a hole, doesn't it?"

How interesting. "Yeah," John replies. "It really does."

Neither of them says anything after that. Drinks are sipped; optics are idly glanced at. John watches the boy's face; and just for a moment, this split second thing, he can see that loss there, as raw as when it first happened. The hole this loving mother who baked cookies and gave the best goodnight kisses left behind, idolized and martyred, the memory of her smile lost to time. And if the boy's penchant for men twice his age is anything to go by - which it usually is - John's willing to bet the father never stuck around afterwards. There's quite often the ghost of a cruel or neglectful one hanging around his boys, stinking of booze, acrid rage.

Despite it, John can see the boy's posture softening just a little; a sign that he's starting to relax. His kind usually do, when they're led to believe that John is a kindred spirit. Someone with more pain than love in his life, just like them.

"Anyway," says the boy, after a moment. That cocky grin comes back. "Now we're done with the little therapy session, maybe you wanna tell me your name?"

John forces a chuckle. "My name's Henry." Yeah, fathers linger. "And yours?"

“Dean,” says the boy. He looks a little confused, like he's not used to being asked.

John slaps on a sitcom-warm smile. "It’s nice to meet you, Dean."

"Likewise,” Dean says. He leans against the bar, elbow cocked, those pretty green eyes sparkling. "So. What does Henry do when he's not staring at the back of boy's heads in bars?"

I'm usually staring into the back of their mouths while I wrench out their teeth. "Nothing right now. I used to be a mechanic." He hasn't worked in years, actually, but Dean doesn't need to know that.

Dean's eyes light up. "Me too." He pauses for a moment, like he's embarrassed by his enthusiasm. "Uh - I mean, not like a professional one, or anything. But I know my way around an engine, you know."

"That so? I could probably get you some work around here, if you want a real shot at it." John promises his boys this often, regardless of what field they express interest in.

Dean shakes his head. "Thanks, but it's cool. I'm just passing through town for work. My day job keeps me pretty busy anyways."

"Which is?" John probes.

"Oh." Dean's forehead creases. "Like, extermination. Pest control. That sort of thing."

John nods. "Oh." A miserable job for a miserable boy.

Silence lands again; John doesn't break it. Some awkwardness is natural in these sorts of situations, after all. He watches as Dean touches this pendant hanging off a raggedy black chain around his neck, twiddle it between his fingers. It's some weird occult looking thing; probably some mass produced crap he thought was cool. John logs this information quietly, as he watches Dean watching the optics again; looks over Dean's side profile. There's this dusting of stubble over his jaw, a jaw romance novels would describe as "chiselled," a desperate statement of toughness on a man who’s too pretty for his own good. Despite his relaxation, those shoulders are still kind of rounded, see: toughness. 

“You have a really pretty neck,” John tells him.

"You like my neck?" Dean throws him a glance, then smirks. “Weird fucking compliment, but I’ll take it.” 

He raises his hand to his neck all the same, looking a little giddy. John thinks about all the little tendons and bones in that neck, ripe and tender beneath Dean's fingers. He represses a shudder.

“Was just listening out,” Dean says. “I like this song.”

The music’s a little low under all the chatter, but John can vaguely make it out. “Aren’t you a little young to know Jefferson Starship?”

“I’m a little young to know most of what I listen to.” Dean smirks, like this is impressive. “More of an Airplane man myself. But Red Octopus is a damn good album.”

“I guess you know your music.” That album came out the year he and Mary got married.

“You’d be surprised,” Dean says. “Besides, Grace Slick is a babe. What’s not to like?”

“I don’t think she’s a babe anymore.”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t care. For badassery alone I’d still hit it.”

John pauses, considers this, as Dean downs the last of his drink. “You like women too, then.”

The boy shrugs again. "I like anyone who's willing, you know? It's all the same to me."

For a moment, he almost looks sheepish. Loneliness, John thinks, does have a very specific stench. Up close, this boy fucking reeks.

Dean moves a little closer to John on his stool. John feels the whisper-light brush of Dean's knees against his own. “Alright," he says, "I'm done with the small talk. We getting down to business or what?"

John does his best to make sure his gulp is visible. "Business," he echoes. "Uh - okay."

Dean laughs a little. It's not unkind. "You ever been with a man before, Shy Guy?”

Shy Guy shakes his head. Avoids the boy’s eyes slightly, in a further show of patheticness.

“Just wanna know what it’s like, huh?" Dean says, kinda softly. "You're curious?"

“I - yeah. I guess - I think so."

Shy Guy stumbles over his words. Hopes he's getting the boy to pity him a bit.

“You’re nervous," Dean says.

Shy Guy nods.

“It’s new.”

Another nod.

“I can help you out."

Dean’s hand comes down on John’s wrist. Gentle fingertips walk up his forearm, press against the leather of his jacket. John’s skin feels too tight, fuck, he hates being touched. Makes him want to rip off the kid's face.

He forces himself to lean into Dean's hand, regardless. To look nervous and wanting all at once, as he glances at Dean's lips again. He comforts himself with thinking just how beautiful they're going to look stretched around silicone, pressed against steel, smeared with blood, come, puke. How pretty those girlish lashes are going to come up all dewy with tears, how that deep voice is going to crack and squeal as he begs for his life, sobbing out pleas to gods that have never so much glanced his way before. John's getting all tingly just thinking about it.

“It’s hot as hell, Henry,” the boy promises. Palm on the crook of John’s elbow now. “Fucking another guy. You’ll never want to go back.”

John makes a show of sucking in a breath. He meets Dean’s eyes, finally. They’ve gone a little dark. John’s willing to bet the little slut is already leaking in his dollar store briefs.

"Tell me, Dean," he says, matching the boy's quiet register, "What on earth could a pretty young thing like you want with an old man like me?”

Dean bites his lip. “I like 'em older.”

Well, no shit.

“Besides,” Dean glances him up and down, with this gaze that makes him feel stripped, “You really got that whole Daddy thing going on.”

The cliches keep on dropping. John does his best to look a little startled; he's practised that one. “Daddy thing?” he splutters.

“Yeah.” Dean winks, making it worse. "I can show you, Henry. Show you what a good little boy I can be."

Those finger presses get a little more insistent, up John's bicep, like acid; John sees the amusement in Dean’s eyes as he feigns another little gulp. Pulls at the collar of his shirt. 

Dean pouts those pretty lips, looking John up and down. “Honestly? I want you to fuck me until I can't walk."

John moves past gulping; this time, he chokes on his own spit. Dean laughs, loud, raw mirth. Something a little sadistic in it now, like he's enjoying pursuing this innocent, naive prey. Maybe he and Dean have more in common that John thought.

“O-okay," John stutters out, eventually, again.

“Okay,” Dean repeats. That cocky, irrepressible grin comes back, as he nods to John’s now-warm beer. “So, why don’t you get yourself something a little stronger for those nerves? Then we’ll see about making those sad eyes roll all the way to the back of your head.”

“You’re - forward, huh?” John thinks he does a good job of keeping the disgust out of his voice.

Dean shrugs. "Well, life is short.”

It feels like an ironic comment.

John holds Dean’s gaze. “And you’re not married yourself?" he asks, carefully. "You got no one to take care of you?”

Dean laughs. Genuine amusement. “Sounds like someone’s life, man. Doesn’t sound like mine.”

John was 99.9% certain on that. Because beauty and damage, for most people, is a combination, a concept, to be enjoyed from afar. The simple minded might think Dean is oblivious to his good looks, with the way he'll apparently fuck anybody; they'll bleat on about low self-esteem or some shit like that. They'll say that Dean must think he can't do any better. John, though; John's a little more enlightened than that. John knows that this boy really can't do any better. Your average person would run a mile from someone like Dean, someone with that desperate stench, that damage so clear in his face if you squint just the slightest bit. And this boy - bless his heart - he knows it too. He won't be missed.

“Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t be alone," John tells him.

“Yeah, well.” Dean snorts, like he's heard this a thousand times befoer. “Looks ain’t everything.”

John feigns a quiver in his hand as he reaches out to touch Dean’s stubbled cheek. Dean’s teeth graze his lower lip, he gives this gentle sigh; John catches it on his lips as he leans in for a chaste, gentle kiss. John's never seen Dean get a kiss off of any of his nightly lays; isn't surprised, because men like that aren't smart enough to understand that gentle attentions make boys like Dean so putty they’re almost liquid. And the boy shivers, full body, as John pulls away.

“You’re sweet.” John tells him, in the softest register he can. "Thank you, Dean. For - you know. For being so nice to me."

The boy snorts. “Oh, come on. Don’t make it weird.” But John can see the joy that only praise can bring lighting up the back of his eyes. Yep. Putty, alright.

John smiles. Tender, like he's seen in movies. “Same again?”

"Sure," Dean says, with all the entitled air of someone who never pays for his own drinks; and John flags down the bartender, while Dean sits there beside him, quiet, relaxed. So sweet, so trusting. Oh, he's asking for this. He's fucking begging for it.

The music cranks up suddenly, like it always does around this time. Dean jumps, the way boys like Dean always jump at sudden noises; disco and drivel, go on now go, walk out the door, the exact kind of vacuous crap that passes for great art in places like these.

Dean, to his credit, looks genuinely angry. “What kind of terrorist put this on the jukebox?” he shouts above the noise.

John reaches for his wallet again. There’s window number two.

He fishes out a quarter, reaches for Dean's hand; prises open Dean's dry-skinned fingers and deliberately presses the coin into his palm. John touches his face too; holds his jaw, tilts up his head. 

"You're gonna look so fucking pretty screaming for that dead Mommy of yours to come and save you,” he tells Dean.

Dean squints, because he can’t hear a thing above the music. 

John raises his voice. “I said, go put on something you like."

“With pleasure,” Dean shouts back, but looks at the quarter in his hand like it’s the greatest gift he’s ever received. How cute. He even lets John ruffle his hair before he slides off the stool and goes on his way.

On his way, leaving John alone with his drink, and with the other essential item he keeps in his wallet. The pill bubbles and fizzes in Dean’s whisky as it dissolves, while around John, the majority of the bar’s unwashed patrons are in various states of emotion, bleating along to I Will Survive with hands on chests, arms around the same friends they’ve had since they were fifteen. They’ll wake up tomorrow with no memory of the event and go back to their lives, lives so boring and worthless that this is their definition of euphoria. It’s sad, John thinks. It’s really, really sad.

He watches Dean at the jukebox. Dean, the beauty in all of this, shining so bright and special. The light in all of the pollution. It moves John to see it, the way nothing else ever moves him; stirs up the gentle beginnings of all those emotions that have always been just out of his reach, excitement, joy, fulfilment. Soon. He'll have all of them, everything he needs, soon.

Sure, the drugs aren't ideal - but John’s long since learned his lesson about taking his boys out to his car fully conscious. They always lose their nerve when it dawns on them they've been driving for way too long, and it's an unnecessary hazard when they start panicking and crying as the trees get thicker, as the roads narrow out until they’re nothing more than dirt trails; just plain dangerous, when they grab for the steering wheel, and annoying as hell when they leave marks all over the interior of John's Impala with their frantic, kicking feet. There have been times when John has had to stop the fun before it’s even started because of that shit. He makes sure the last thing those boys see before the light goes out of their eyes is the disappointment in John's face.

Anyway; that shouldn't be the case for Dean. It's so much easier this way. So much easier to haul Dean out of the bar on liquid legs, to laugh with the group of middle-aged women smoking outside about “my wasted son," how he just can’t hold his liquor; and “have a good night,” says the one with the shortest skirt, and “you too, sweetheart,” John replies, even though it repulses him to interact with a stain like that; no, so much more fun to enjoy Dean’s dazed, confused face, to dodge the clumsy, off-kilter swings that come from fists that can’t even clench right as John eases him into the backseat of his Impala, fresh and newly cleaned for the occasion.

"You're alright," he tells his agitated boy, in lieu of returning those swings; that wouldn't do with witnesses around. "Just relax, Dean, okay? You're gonna need your rest."

Dean's eyes are everywhere, lashes fluttering like he’s seizing. "Th'fuck you doin'?"

The confusion in Dean's face is delicious. Not to mention the way his limbs are starting to falter, the way his body is failing him. Falling into that seat without resistance.

“Don’t worry about it.” John takes Dean's ankles, tucks his legs into the car. They jerk, but only a little his last attempt at fighting as his eyes start to close. “Just doing a little pest control of my own.”

When John is sure Dean is out cold, he takes the opportunity to reach into the boy's pocket. The kid has two phones, which doesn’t surprise him much - implies shady shit, and his boys are usually into some kind of shady shit - he can dump them both on the way.

It doesn't surprise John how cute Dean looks like this, either. He strokes his boy’s unresponsive face, as his own, equally unresponsive face, quivers into a genuine smile. What a find Dean is. What a find.

#my writing #johndean #fic #serial killer john #cw accidental incest #cw violence #cw gore #cw nonconsensual drug use #psycho john's horrible opinions are his own

[inquisimer]

sometimes it feels like teeth

chippin away at @febuwhump with day 12: semi-conscious. A reunion in the alienage for Ariya & Cyrion, where she must face the fact that she cannot save them all.

read it on ao3 here

Female Tabris & Cyrion Tabris | Rated T | 1629 words | CW: mercy killing, blood & injury, illness, slave trade

-

No sooner had the slaver’s corpse hit the floor than Ariya was at the cage, shaking hands picking open the lock. The metal door sprang open and she pulled each of her captured family from the brink of despair. Some did look ill; before she could even speak, Alistair pulled poultices from their packs and set to work.

Thank you, she mouthed.

“Amore.” Zevran gestured to the back of the cage with his chin. A few figures remained and the bottom of Ariya’s stomach dropped out as she recognized the familiar dips and planes of her father’s silhouette. He was staring directly at her, mouth parted in disbelief.

“Papa,” she breathed, and then she was at his side, running battered hands over him, checking for injuries, praying incoherently that she had not arrived too late. His arms came around her and squeezed.

“I’m fine, da’len, I’m fine,” her murmured. Tears choked his voice, but when she pulled back they were tears of joy that matched the bittersweet smile on his face. “You came back for us. My darling girl.”

“Of course I did. I’m sorry I—“ her guilt swallowed her apology, surrounded as she was by the echoes of those already gone. Was that Valendrian’s blood on the wall? Leah’s tooth in the corner? “I should have gotten here sooner.”

“That you came at all is a miracle.”

A noise behind him drew Cyrion from the bubble of reunion. He grimaced and held out a hand when Ariya looked beyond him.

“You probably shouldn’t—“

“It’s okay, papa,” she said softly. “Whatever it is, I’ve…seen worse.”

Cyrion’s face fell. He shifted aside so Ariya could see the reason he’d remained in the cage. One of the younger elves was propped in the corner, skin ashen and sallow. Her hair was brushed away from her face from gentle caresses to soothe her suffering.

“Oh, Gwen,” Ariya whispered. She knelt beside her father and took a clammy hand. Gwen’s hazy eyes slid in and out of focus, but her head lolled in the direction of Ariya’s voice.

“Ari?” she mumbled. “issat you?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Gwendollyn was one of the first taken,” Cyrion said grimly. “I doubt she’d still be here if not for how sick she is.”

“Why is she so much sicker? The rest of you seem fine?” No sooner had she voiced the thought than the chilling realization that they might not actually be fine came to Ariya. But her father shook his head and gripped her leg reassuringly.

“We’re alright. Relatively. Gwen was—well—“ Cyrion drew aside Gwen’s dirty tunic, revealing a bandage that covered most of her abdomen. The blood that soaked it was dark—darker than it should be, even wounded like this, and the Blight in Ariya’s veins called out to this distant cousin of disease.

“Jumped in front of Mara’s little boy,” Gwen muttered, fingers fluttering vaguely over the wound. “Made a bad cough already worse and now we’re here.”

Ariya squeezed her hand. “For Tommy, of course. Oh, falon.”

“Just following your example.” Her lips twitched like they were trying to smile. “Since you were gone, someone else had to be the hero.”

“I don’t feel much like a hero today.”

Gwen’s brow dipped. “Of course you are. All these” —a cough wracked her wasting frame— “all of our family. You saved them—again.”

“I’m not so sure I did,” Ariya sighed. “The damage to the alienage…”

Cyrion winced.

“It will heal,” said Gwen, a faraway smile painted on her face. “Doesn’t it always?”

“Speaking of healing—“

“Amore—“ Zevran knocked against the cage, rattling the bars so they echoed in the now empty chamber. The last of the freed elves had left with Alistair and Morrigan as their guards back to safety. Piles of Tevinter corpses had been shoved aside and scraped of any valuable loot— including a beautiful dagger with snakes wrapped about the hilt, which glinted where Zevran spun it between his fingers.

“We need to be going,” he said, not unkindly. They’d traveled together enough that he recognized what Ariya had not yet acknowledged and there was sympathy in the smile he gave her. “The arl awaits our counsel and” —he tapped the documents tucked safely in his belt— “we have information that should be shared.”

“Of course.” To Ariya’s surprise, Cyrion stood readily, dusting his hands. Her confusion was only momentary, though, as he said, “Between the two of us we can probably move Gwen, I’d have done it myself if not for the condition of my knees.”

“Papa…” Ariya did not look at her father. Her eyes stuck on Gwen’s sallow face, tracing the bony edges of her weakened body, looking for something that defied what she knew to be true. But there was nothing. Ariya knew it, Zevran knew it, and, judging by the resignation in Gwen’s eyes, she did too. Only Cyrion still deluded himself.

Now Ariya had the unenviable task of giving words to dread and despair.

“She’s not just ill, papa,” Ariya said. “She’s…it’s a Blight sickness. Even if we took her back to the alienage, it would only be so she could die a painful death in lacking comfort.”

“What—but—we cannot leave her here! The cots in the alienage are rough, I know, but they are better than a cold floor and a cage. And if you intend to depart—well, I will not leave her to die alone.”

“Of course not.” Ariya’s hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed dagger, waiting. She still wasn’t looking at her father, but instead watching every half-conscious twitch of Gwen’s face. It seemed that she was slipping farther with every passing second, her eyes glazed and drifting, unseeing.

“How do you know for sure?” Cyrion demanded. “It could just be a rare disease—not that these Tevinters knew anything, but Alarith might have some potion, or know something!”

His fervor made Ariya wonder—Gwen had been a good friend, yes, though never so beloved by her father. But there had been a gap when Duncan took Ariya from the alienage; it seemed her father had filled it with another. She could not begrudge him that, but it still made her heart ache up into her throat.

“No.” She shook her head and finally met her father’s sputtering directly. “It is the Blight. I can sense it, now.”

I am not the daughter you remember went unspoken. There are things I can do now that you never wanted for me.

But this is how it is.

“I see. What do you propose, then?”

Ariya’s hand clenched around her dagger “It is unpleasant but…” she glanced down. “I’m sorry, Gwen, I’m so sorry. But a quick death is kinder, in the end.”

A long sigh deflated what little tension Gwen still held. Her head jerked in the semblance of a nod.

“Would you believe me if I said it was a relief?” she asked weakly. “I have felt it coming for days now. And—“

Her voice trailed off, eyes drifting around the room aimlessly before snapping back to Ariya. She blinked rapidly.

“If it is to be this way, I am glad it is you, falon.”

“I understand.” And she did, though she could not share the sentiment. Ariya pulled her dagger free. “You might not want to watch this,” she told her father.

“It’s okay, da’len,” Cyrion echoed. “Whatever you do…I’ve seen much worse, now.”

A pause, then Ariya nodded. She grasped the back of Gwen’s head, her fingers tangling a grip in the greasy strands of her short hair. In the depths of her foggy eyes, Ariya saw a world long lost: afternoons scampering about the alienage, swiping meat pies from window sills and climbing things that ought not be climbed. It hurt, so she squeezed her eyes tight, hot tears spilling over her cheeks.

One of Gwen’s clammy hands brushed over her knuckles, too weak for a proper grip.

“It’s alright,” she slurred, her awareness fading with every passing second. “See Deidre again. And rest. I want to rest.”

“You deserve to rest,” Ariya whispered, a steel to her heart as much as a pleading for her friend. She opened her eyes and brought the dagger to Gwen’s throat. It shook and steadying her hand was a useless endeavor.

“I am sorry, my friend,” she said. It was not as unfamiliar a pose as she would have hoped. But even after all this time—well, perhaps she should only start to worry if it did get easier. “May the Maker guide you safely in the Beyond.”

A smile spread across Gwen’s face just as Ariya slashed the dagger down. Blight-tinged blood sprayed from the mortal wound, but Ariya did not flinch. In a cold sort of horror, she realized she’d already offered the rag she carried to her father before any sort of anguish clenched her heart.

But such was the nature of war. It hardened even the softest soldiers—and Ariya had never been one of those.

She reached out and closed Gwen’s eyes. At her side, Cyrion sniffled, wiping his nose on her bloody, mucked up rag.

“We should go,” she said, a soft, gentleness to the request that she hadn’t bothered with for months.

“My little girl,” Cyrion said, so quietly she almost missed it. It wasn’t really for her anyway. “What happened to my little girl?”

Her heart clenched. I told you not to watch, she thought. I said you didn’t want to know.

But now he did. She tucked the bloody cloth into her pack and gestured for her father to go before her, so he would not have to look at her as they went.

There could be no turning back.

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday12 #my writing #oc: ariya tabris #tabris #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #dragon age origins #dao #cyrion tabris #ws: nothing but my aching soul

[callistosystems]

Severe tooth decay, Call for help.

Over the past several years I've had to deal with steadily worsening tooth decay and tooth damage. I live and grew up in poverty and haven't had dental insurance for as long as I can remember, so I could never afford to get any of the problems fixed and they've piled up to the point where now I have no choice but to go for emergency dental work. The only thing that has stopped me up to this point was that I wasn't in pain. That's changed. Two of my more damaged teeth have become abscessed, and others are at risk. I'll go into more detail below but I would recommend avoiding that segment if you're squeamish about dental issues. I've been prescribed antibiotics and painkillers, and I'm going to have emergency dental work done. I'm looking at at least 3 pulled, more likely 4. I will stress: I DO NOT HAVE DENTAL INSURANCE. I will be forced to take this on as medical debt, while I'm unemployed and between concrete homes. I'm making the decision to ask for help if anyone is able to provide it. I'll be accepting donations to help put a dent in the bill, my paypal email is "[email protected]". Any amount helps, everything I receive will be used exclusively to reduce the bill I'll be forced to pay. If you have the time I would appreciate if you could reblog this to help get the word out. (CW: Tooth decay and Damage described in detail. Don't read past this point if that bothers you.) The full extent of the damage to my teeth is much more severe than a couple of infected ones, but for the most part it can be put off. Right now I'm worried about the ones that have broken or split open deeper than the enamel, exposing the inside of the tooth itself. I have three, possibly four teeth that are damaged to this extent. My upper right canine and upper right back molar are two of them. These two are the infected ones, and the ones causing me pain. My bottom back left molar is split open with half of the cap missing and the inside exposed, this one was broken by my wisdom tooth, both of which have fully grown in. It's probably at the greatest risk of infection out of the rest of my teeth. My upper back left molar is in a similar state, but not as damaged. Aside from those most of my front teeth are severely crooked and many of them have extreme enamel damage, one of them has lost it's entire front facing surface, and the inside of these teeth under the enamel has turned completely black. These will probably all either need to be pulled or require root canals for the ones I intend to keep, but that can wait just a bit longer until I'm in a better living situation. My upper canines, including the infected one, have been shunted up into and are sticking out of the front of my gums. Both are going to wind up being removed eventually, as well as my lower right canine which is severely decayed. My lower left is in decent shape and I'll probably be able to keep it. If there's any doubt or skepticism that this is as bad as it sounds, I would be more than happy to provide images if they're requested of me. I would ask that those stay private, I'm extremely self-conscious about this issue. TL;DR I need thousands of dollars worth of dental surgery. Some of it is severe enough to be threatening to my health or even life and I need help to pay for the medical bills.

#furry #protogen #moth #call for help #signal boost #medical bills #dental health #I don't really know what else to type here.

[sailxrmxrs]

shoutout to my three friends who are equally unwell over trigun and infinite blue. this one's for u. it's so so incredibly niche but the ones who get it, get it. taking some inspiration from the current obsession and throwing some faves in to spice it up. tobias, rory and dear reader just out in some post apocalyptic western landscape fighting for their lives against a notorious gang of gunmen. very very loosely inspired by the vash, wolfwood, and meryl dynamic. insert blood and thunder from 98 trigun soundtrack here. anyway enjoy the result of my late night brainrot and screaming over tasty fanart. cw for guns and some mild violence !

The sun sat high over the rolling dunes of sand, bearing down heavily on the unfortunate souls traversing the uneven ground. This time of year made that unforgiving heat feel all the more powerful as it threatened to burn the exposed arms leaning atop the side of the oversized car. Tobias had one arm resting where the window had once been and the other lazily sitting on the steering wheel, barely moving it as the car sped across the dunes. The car wasn't all that old, but it had seen its fair share of gun fights and fast escapes. There had once been a time when all of humanity wasn't on the brink of extinction, not fighting tooth and nail just to keep its cities from falling to ruin. But those times were no longer. Now, bands of desperate individuals were wreaking havoc and robbing innocents for all they were worth. Wanted posters were plastered over tavern walls, countless bounties out for whoever could drag their bodies back—dead or alive. Tobias' face had long been drawn to perfect likeness over the browned parchment. The bounty he'd amassed for himself, however, was not for pillaging and stealing from the bar owners who housed him on long journeys nor did he use his gun for unjust means. Rather, Tobias had garnered himself somewhat of a Robin Hood-esque reputation; he stole what had already been stolen and gave it back to the people. But when those who had stolen not only money, but also power, found themselves reaping the benefits of their greed, their first course of action was to bring down the man responsible for their shortcomings in whatever way possible. For anyone else it might have damaged their spirit, but Tobias cared too much for his cause to let a bounty on his head sway him. Especially now that he no longer travelled alone.

Months ago he'd been a lone soul going from town to town with little but the clothes on his back for company. Until he'd met you. A city native confined by circumstance who saw his freedom as a symbol of hope. All it had taken was one quiet conversation under the moonlight, aided by Tobias' slight inebriation, for you to be taken under his wing and brought along for the ride. His way of living brought uncertainty and risk; danger and threat becoming a constant friend looming over your shoulder. But you wouldn't change anything for the world. Not when it took you to the most remote corners of the planet. Even if that meant driving across the desert in the middle of summer with a broken cooling system. Tobias had tried to fix it once, but somehow made it worse. Since then, you'd taken the executive decision to ban Tobias from any kind of technical repair work. It was for the best. So long as the car held up long enough to get to the next town over, that was all you cared about.

"It's too hot," Tobias whined, leaning his head to rest atop your shoulder. You could feel the car jolt with his movements, hitting a slight bump in the sand. If it weren't for the fact there was no one around for miles you might have panicked a little more. Tobias' driving was a little less than careful out in the middle of nowhere.

"Hey, eyes on the road. Sand. You know what I mean," you said with a playful push against his head. Tobias sluggishly dragged himself back up, a sulking pout on his face as he scowled at you.

"If you let me fix the fans maybe I wouldn't be almost collapsing in the car. I don't see you volunteering to drive in my stead." His tone was light and teasing, not really meaning the words he said. He just knew it'd spark a reaction.

A bemused laugh left your lips, watching Tobias reach for his sunglasses. "First off, collapsing? Sure thing, bud. Secondly, the last time I offered to drive you told me off and made me sit in the back seat. Only got yourself to blame there."

"Because you had just gotten shot! You were bleeding out and insisting on driving! What did you expect me to do?"

"You said no driving then so I'm just doing as I was told," you said, folding your arms across your chest and closing your eyes. Tobias sighed, admitting his defeat. He might like to push back sometimes, but he really he was rather soft at heart. He liked your company more than he cared to admit, even if that meant being the one to drive uneven terrain in the scorching heat.

An hour later and your destination was finally in sight. The town stood like an oasis under the afternoon sun, the promise of food and, hopefully, fresh water an irresistible temptation luring you in. By the time Tobias had parked up under a shaded canopy and got out to make a point of stretching his legs, you were eager to see exactly where he'd taken you to. The town was another new venture to add to your list, its buildings and architecture looking similar enough to everywhere else you'd travelled that it felt familiar. Though it certainly seemed livelier than the previous destination had been. It wasn't quite a thriving city, but there was still life here. Still the teeming buzz of humanity clinging on to its home. Curious eyes followed you walking side-by-side with Tobias, some going wide in recognition and others scrutinising you both for intruding on this peaceful little town. There was no telling how situations like this would go. Either you'd leave unscathed with no one looking to take Tobias' bounty for themselves, or there'd be guns shooting from all over as you made a run for the car and made your escape. The last few escapades had been mostly uneventful, but there was no room to let one's guard down. Especially not when there was a stranger shrouded in a cloud of smoke leaning against the wall of a busy sounding bar. Dark sunglasses rested atop his nose, and his hair was a bright shade of red despite being muted in the shade. You could feel his gaze even as you looked away, as if he perhaps knew something you didn't. It wasn't a nice feeling.

"Hey, Tobias. Don't be obvious about it, but there's a guy over there looking our way. You think he's trouble?"

Tobias spared a glance, the concern in his face turning to a grimace. "Yes. But not the kind of trouble you're thinking of. Come on." Tobias reached for your wrist, pulling you in the direction of the mysterious stranger. Your attempts to ask for any semblance of clarity were ignored, Tobias' grasp warm and unmoving.

Up close, the stranger looked even more displeased. Someone had clearly pissed in his cereal this morning—if the deadpan look of repugnance was anything to go by. "Brave of you to show your face here," he drawled, the toothpick between his teeth moving with each word he spoke.

"Why? You looking to try and break it?" Tobias asked, an easy grin stretching his face as he leaned against an old and rusting motorbike.

"Not at all. Looks like you want to break my bike though. Move your ass." Whatever relationship Tobias held with this man it was certainly not friendship.

"You sure it's worth caring that much about this thing? Looks one wrong move away from falling apart."

The stranger looked almost bored as he uttered, voice completely toneless, "You're right. And I'm looking right at the wrong move in question."

You watched as Tobias' face dropped its lazy smile and jumped to hold an arm over his chest. "Settle down, boys. I'd prefer to not have to coddle Tobias for getting his ass kicked five minutes after arriving."

The stranger scoffed, raising an eyebrow as his eyes fell to yours. "Good luck with that. You know what kind of bounty your friend has over his head, right? And that the man who's hellbent on having him killed lives in this very town?"

Your eyes went wide, head snapping to see Tobias looking meek. He'd kept that one quiet. Before you could get any kind of explanation, the stranger looked elsewhere, tutting as he gestured for the two of you to follow him. Wariness stayed your steps until you felt a reassuring hand at your shoulder. Tobias might not have a gleaming friendship with this stranger but he clearly trusted him. And that was enough for you. For now, at least.

He'd sat the three of you in the corner of the bar, tucked away to preserve whatever privacy you could garner. There was enough bustle and energy to hide your voices under, with no obvious lingering looks from particular patrons. It seemed you and Tobias were going to have to play it safer here than you'd first thought. From what the stranger, whose name you now knew to be Rory, had said, Tobias' reputation here was notorious. The common people of the town knew him for his true intentions, having been first aided by him long ago. But equally there were many out for the bounty—not to mention the personal vendetta a local leader had for him after Tobias had not only stolen a good portion of his fortune from him, but also played a hand in making a public scene mocking him. Needless to say, those who disliked Tobias, really despised him. And would do almost anything to see his head in their hands. Such an outcome wouldn't exactly be ideal, so you could only hope it wouldn't come down to that. Stealing glances around the bar didn't offer much insight as to whether the wrong individuals had recognised Tobias. The revelry all seemed normal enough. But there was no telling how the day might turn. It was, after all, still bright and busy enough outside that he would be easily recognisable in the daylight—even if the crowds might help conceal him.

"Look, if I were you I'd get yourself out of here as soon as possible. Before you draw any more attention to yourself. News travels fast here," Rory warned, fingers playing with the glass at his hand. He hadn't taken a sip of the misty water. It was probably for the best.

"You worry too much, Rory. That's all in the past, I'm sure no one remembers or cares for something so trivial." Tobias laughed, waving off Rory's apparent concern. Rory scoffed, readying to quip back at Tobias' easiness when a piercing shout brought all chatter in the bar to a close. If it weren't for the remnants of Tobias' laugh, you could've heard a pin drop with the stunned silence that fell. Another shout sounded—a command to fight. The peace had well and truly shattered as your eyes landed on the group of men weaving through the bar tables.

"Tobias," you uttered, moving to rise from your seat. "Time to move."

He raised a brow, nonchalance smoothing his features. "Don't act guilty and they won't come for you." As soon as the words left his lips, a call of his name set Tobias' eyes wide. "On second thought, I think I've had enough to drink here."

Rory scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Look at that, I was right."

"I don't care who was right or wrong, I care about not getting my head blown off," you grumbled, eyeing up the best possible escape route as your pursuers came ever closer. Gaze landing on the window, you saw Tobias already running to jump through the small gap, his legs getting caught on the window frame and sending him tumbling onto the dusty sand below. For a wanted man, he wasn't exactly the dastardly delinquent that the rumours might have painted him out to be. He wasn't quite so talented on his feet as he was with a gun and it didn't exactly help with making a swift escape. In a split second, you and Rory shared a look of exasperation with your companion before following suit and climbing through the open window, landing on your feet in a manner much more becoming than Tobias had. It was then, as Tobias finished dusting off his shirt that the first gunshot sounded, glass shattering along with it. You needed to find cover, and fast.

Rory called for you and Tobias to follow him, leading you both through the backroads of town. Gunshots and shouting could be heard coming from the bar, but there was telling where others might by lying in wait. Your hand was resting at the hilt of your gun, ready to pull it out at a moment's notice. It had taken some getting used to, wielding a gun and shooting to defend yourself, but with Tobias at your side it became less and less scary each time. He never shot to kill. Only to deter pursuers or injure them at most, but only as a last minute resort. A gunshot fired, deflecting off a broken lamp post. One quick glance was enough to see that you had company. You readied your gun to aim, delayed only by the sight of Tobias already sending a bullet in their direction, knocking your pursuer's gun out of his hand.

"Got a plan, Rory?" He shouted, the three of you picking up the pace.

"I don't know, get out of here alive, maybe?!" An excellent plan, really. One you hoped to follow. Even if it was easier said than done. Rory slowed his pace, crouching behind the wall of a worn-down house. He'd avoided the busy clearing and managed to buy a few moments to plan the best route of escape.

"On the count of three, I want you to charge out there and shoot. Keep their focus on you. But don't die. Or get injured. I don't want any of you bleeding out on my bike."

"I'm sorry, did I hear that right? Your bike? You really think all three of us will fight on that thing?" You asked, incredulous. Rory's motorbike had looked like it'd seen better days. It barely looked like it could support one person let alone three.

"It's all just a means to an end. I start up the bike, we find whatever rundown motor you drove to town on and we get out of here."

Tobias shrugged. "Works for me. Do first, think later." He reached a hand out for your wrist and bolted with no hesitation. The gunmen shouted Tobias' name, calling for reinforcements as they aimed. The crowds had since dissipated and the townsfolk all seemed to have hidden away in their homes or in the shadows out of harm's way. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to get caught up in this unnecessarily. Your back was at Tobias', taking aim to disarm anyone in Tobias' blind spots as he did the same for you. You were a force of nature, an unstoppable duo completely honed in on the task at hand. Soon, the revving of a motorbike echoed from across the way, Rory's bright red hair gleaming under the sun as he tried to get it started.

"Don't tell me it's given up on you now!" Tobias called out, laughing under his breath as he leaned closer to you. "Hey, you got this. We can take these guys easy." Before you could eke out a response, Rory's motorbike surged forward and he soon reached you and Tobias. Bullets reflected off the rusting metal, Rory only stopping for a quick moment to reach an arm around you and haul you up onto the back of his bike. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he pulled away.

"Uh, I think you're forgetting someone."

Rory shook his head, flinching as a bullet scraped by his cheek. "Shit. That hurt. But he'll be fine. The man never misses. And he's not about to get himself killed today. I'm just getting you to the car so we can all get out of here safe and sound."

"You'll be pleased to know our car isn't rusting and falling apart. Unlike this bike of yours."

"Don't complain, it's gotten us this far," Rory quipped. Although, as if on cue, a bullet struck the rear tyre and created a nasty puncture that had Rory swerving to try and regain control. The pair of you skidded across the ground, quick to draw out your weapons and recover from the mild throbbing of pain. The car was so painfully close. There was just a few feet between you and the promise of freedom. Tobias shouted for you to run, his feet moving so fast yet so gracefully it was almost like a choreographed dance. Heeding his command, you made for the car, leaping into the driver's seat and pulling forward as fast as it would let you.

"Get ready to fish for a Tobias," you instructed, eyebrows knitted with focus. It was almost cartoonish the way you slowed the car for Rory to open the door and reach out to grab Tobias, yanking him backwards and with a force you hadn't expected from his appearance. Tobias let out a yelp as he tried, and failed, to regain his footing, landing atop Rory's lap in the passenger seat. Rory closed the door and yelled for you to hit the accelerator. If it weren't for Tobias' near maniacal laughter, you'd be teeming with stress as more bullets came flying at the back of the car, the rear windscreen cracking as you escaped.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever witnessed," Rory announced, voice as expressionless as his outward appearance until the realisation set in that Tobias was still sprawled over his lap, one leg hanging out of the broken window. "Get off of me. Now."

"Would love to. But unless you want me to kick them in the head trying to climb onto the backseat, we're stuck like this," Tobias sang, leaning his head to rest on Rory who looked like he was half tempted to throw Tobias back out of the car.

"Get used to it, Rory," you called out. "He's like this 24/7."

"Can't wait." Tobias only smiled brighter up at Rory while your eyes flickered between them and the sand dunes ahead. All danger was long gone in the distance, already becoming a fading memory. With how content Tobias seemed to be, it looked like whatever business he'd had in town was either not important enough to risk being caught again or had already been seen to. A small part of you suspected he'd only wanted to return in the first place to find Rory. You didn't know exactly what kind of past they shared, but the two were clearly important to each other in some way—even if Rory looked like he might eat a fistful of sand before he admitted it. Still, the new addition felt right. Even if it'd come with no small degree of danger, this all just felt like the perfect beginning to another new adventure.

#infinite blue #infinite blue x reader #infinite blue fanfic #infinite blue rory #infinite blue tobias #because the trigun brainrot is so strong it bleeds into other fandoms heeheehoohoo #anyway the crossover is fairly loose and requires like zero understanding on trigun lore #mostly just an excuse to go apocalyptic guns pew pew but with rory and tobias #WE LOVE BEING SELF INDULGENT AWOOOO #anna writes

[lonelydusknoir]

Glittering Gold

AO3 Requested by: Nobody! I just decided to do this

This is a Brassius x Reader fic!! Mildly self indulgent even though I don’t really simp for this guy

CW - Near death experience but everything’s fine, no angst here!! Hope you guys love ghost types as much as I do

Paintings of various sizes were placed against the wall, stacked (somewhat) neatly, or hanging proudly for guests to see. Each artwork was given careful examination by Brassius. No detail went left unadmired. Even your amateur work was given praise. But paintings weren’t the only things you worked on. You had a couple of sketches lying about, along with a few clay crafts and Pokémon-shaped sculptures. 

As Brassius praised you for your work, you mumbled your thanks and yawned. It was too early for you to be up. You wanted to sleep in until it became the afternoon. Or maybe until the sun was ready to set in the horizon. Either way, you didn’t want to be awake. But besides that, the thought of food had your mind occupied. You were barely listening to what Brassius had to say about your art, but you don’t think he has noticed yet. 

He strolled around the room once more, getting one final look of everything before joining you for breakfast, but something caught his eye. His gaze turned to a golden coffin which seemed to shimmer from the morning light. When Brassius got closer, he was quick to realize how tall it was. It seemed to be around his height. A life-sized coffin! You’ve talked about your creations before, but he doesn’t remember you bringing up anything about a coffin. It was truly impressive.

“Avant-garde!” Brassius exclaimed, fingertips gliding over the surface of the coffin. “My beloved, how long did it take you to create this piece? It appears as though you used real gold!”

You hummed, having no idea which one of your artworks he was talking about. “Let’s see.. Uh… several months or somethin’. Maybe more than that, I don’t know. It’s hard to keep track, art can be pretty time consuming. But… you know that already.”

He grinned at your words and muttered “Fascinating!”

The mask that sat atop of the coffin gave him an odd feeling. An emotion akin to intense mourning and despair. The energy practically radiated off it, surrounding his entire being in the sad sensation. And he absolutely loved it. Brassius wondered just how you were able to put such feelings in a simple design. He had to ask you about it. Reaching up, the pads of his fingertips brushed against the mask’s cheek before he was met with a startling face. 

Red, glowing eyes revealed themselves, then a sharp-toothed grin. The coffin rattled before multiple shadowy hands emerged from the sides. The coffin lifted itself up to tower over Brassius. The man blinked, frozen from shock. 

“...Truly fascinating indeed.” Were the only words he could say. 

The coffin let out a low groan, which transformed into a cackle. Its teeth began to part, only to slam shut. Either it was a form of intimidation, or it was letting Brassius know that he was going to become its meal. The air around him suddenly felt cold as beads of sweat formed on his skin. He didn’t have any of his Pokemon to protect him, and his vine whip would probably do little damage. Even if it could deter it, he’ll only risk angering it or damaging its precious golden body. Brassius exhaled quietly before calling out your name.

“My beloved! It seems as though.. One of your masterpieces came to life!”

You blinked, brain slowly processing the words your boyfriend said. Did one of your ghost types decide to pull a prank on him? You couldn’t think of which one would try doing that. Your Dusknoir was far too stoic to be playful and your Gengar wasn’t too active during mornings. The only ghost type of yours who would decide to pull a prank this early would be Banette, but last time you checked, it was snuggled comfortably under the blankets. You scratched your cheek as you pondered a little more. Once the realization hits, anxiety instantly forms into a knot as you run into the other room. 

“Cofagrigus! Hands to yourself!” You shouted. The coffin’s eyes met yours, then retracted its arms. It let out a happy cry before settling itself against the wall once more. A sigh left your lips as your shoulders slumped. “Oh, Arceus mio… Do you have any idea how close you were to becoming a mummy?” 

Brassius took another look at your Pokemon. “Hm, seems like I have mistaken your Cofagrigus as one of your beautiful artworks. But even with a single glance at its design, you could tell that it’s truly marvelous!”

Your Cofagrigus let out a purr-like grumble, its shadowy limbs reappearing to wave its hands in the air. A smile appeared on Brassius’ face at the ghost’s joyous reaction. He took a few steps forward and placed a hand near its face. Right where its cheek would be without touching its shadowy face.

You really didn’t have much to say. “Uh. Yeah, sure,” you said before pointing to the mask on the coffin’s forehead. “By the way, don’t touch that. Basically, that little mask has a connection to its past life or whatever so, Cofagrigus gets really fussy if you touch it. And.. a bit aggressive if you’re a stranger. Sorry for not introducing the two of you.”

“Is that so?” Brassius turned his head to look back at you before focusing on your Pokemon. “I see. I feel a bit embarrassed for making that mistake.. But I am not familiar with the majority of Pokemon outside of Paldea, so do accept my apologies.”

You feel as though he meant the last part to your Cofagrigus, but you smile anyways. Despite the near-death experience he had with your beloved coffin Pokémon, they seem to be getting along just fine. You start to wonder if you’ll see Brassius work on a painting of it.. Perhaps almost getting turned into a mummy can give someone a bit of inspiration.

#brassius #brassius x reader #pokemon x reader #pokemon brassius #gym leader brassius #fanfic #pokémon x reader #pokemon fanfiction #pokemon brassius x reader

[obsessedwithegos]

Tiny Whumper Giant Whumpee Ideas

CWs: Mouth/tooth whump, nail whump, drugging, eye/eyelash whump

-One would think popcorn kernels stuck in one's teeth is bad, but whumper prefers to stick metal things between whumpee's teeth at any given chance. Maybe it's metal framing, just strong enough that if kept there it can force whumpee's teeth to start moving away from each other

-Shoving toothpicks under whumpee's fingernails!

-Restraining whumpee with thorny vines, any movement hurts and causes the vines to dig in even deeper!

-It's hard to take care of whumpee's hair with so much of it, so it'd likely get painfully matted!

-If whumper wants to take extra precautions to make sure whumpee is less likely to lash out and cause some damage, keeping whumpee constantly drugged! Just barely enough to be conscious sometimes! Or maybe keep them pumped full of paralytics!

-Plucking out whumpee's eyelashes one at a time! Maybe they could be turned into useful things like brooms, though they could also be put right back into whumpee's eye!

-Possibly a bit more of a creative restraint but more risky and time consuming! Building a house/building around whumpee! Forcing their head inside and their body exposed to the elements or vise versa! Risky if whumpee does manage to move as they can send the whole thing crumbling, easily!

-Maybe giant whumpee is used for resources! Like eyelashes for brooms as mentioned above! Soft locks of hair could be cut and used for pillows! Eyebrow hair for paint brushes! Layers of peeled lip skin can be dried and used almost like leather! Teeth could be removed to carve into sculptures! If giant blood is compatible with tiny blood, well they'll likely be set for blood transfusions then! Or maybe a tiny vampire is well set for life!

-Whumpee being covered in stone and cement to be turned into a living statue! Hopefully they won't need to breathe, eat, or drink!

-Whumpee being turned into a photo opportunity! Make it look like you and your friends are just about to be crushed by the giant! Just make sure to photoshop out the chains or other restraints!

-Also! Imagine how stiff and sore whumpee would get from being forced to constantly stay low to the ground! Ouch!

general: @emmettnet @blackberry-nightingale

#whump #whump prompt #whump tag #i'm thinking about devil on the fairy's shoulder again <3 #tiny whump #giant whump #tiny whumper #giant whumpee #mouth whump #tooth whump #nail whump #eye whump #ask to tag #drugging

[spicyraeman]

ᴏᴄ ᴀꜱ ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ

Tagged by @pinkydude, @pozerjacket, @ne0n-rust & @katsigian to do this quiz, thank yall! (cw for slight body horror in the quiz)

tagging: @jaymber, @valrez, @wraithsoutlaws, @drunkchasind, @breezypunk, @noirapocalypto, @rindemption (sry if you've been tagged already!)

---

The Final Girl

you're very tired, aren't you? thrashing and fighting and trying to survive– it has taken its toll, but that has not stopped you. you'll continue to gnaw and scream and bare teeth until you can free yourself from this mess, even if it means being the last one left. there is rest at the end of this hard battle, i promise you. there is a time when the fight will be over– but fighting is all you know, isn't it?

I ended up doing this quiz 3 different times and got 3 different answers for her. All of them fit her to a T, each one fitting her in a different part of her life. This one though, just felt most fitting to her now, in her present timeline.

Von's been fighting all her life, from her poverty-stricken childhood to her time under the Tyger Claws, then finally her induction into Maelstrom. From one horrid situation to the next. Fighting tooth and nail all the way, refusing to be put down, refusing to let it all end for nothing. To have it all be meaningless.

When she breaks free from Maelstrom's grip on her leash there's blood seeped in her chrome hands and her lips are stained black with lace. She tries to live a normal life, or something close to it. A roof over her head. A stable job. Enough eddies to eat for the week. Even then its all so hard when every hand moved too quickly is a knife to the guts and every raised voice is ice down her spine. She bites every hand that means to feed her because she can't tell the difference.

She tried to get rid of every piece of rusted scrap Maelstrom built her with, undo all the damage, tend to all the scars. Even then-

If she replaces every part they touched will it even still be her?

#cyberpunk 2077 #tag game #oc: vrmn #vrmn lore #once again going a little more ape shit than I should #woops lol #I just have a lot of feelings about her #she needs a ten year long nap and a hug

[writernopal]

I dunno how ur writeblr prompts work cuz I don't go here but I have a question that may be fun for you to share on.

What drugs exist in Oepus? Tell us about the fantasy zaza pls LOL

MY BROTHER HELLO! Despite not going here, you picked the perfect day to ask this question because, around these parts, it's Worldbuilding Wednesday, so this is on brand 😎

There are a few that are mentioned in AASOAF, like starshoot, tobacco, chewing leaves, and opium but for this one, I'll talk about a few that haven't been mentioned!

CW: drugs, drug use

Bricklespine and Lily Of The Valley

These are both poisons (the first fictional, the second real) which doesn't suit the question...for anyone other than Elves. AASOAF's Elves have innate poison resistance to plants, so consuming, smoking, or otherwise ingesting/using said poisons does not have the effect it would on a Human or any other race. Instead, they use them as recreational stimulants, particularly these two. Both must be eaten to obtain any sort of high and are usually used as additives or toppings to different foods. Because of this, it takes a while for them to hit, but when they do, they are quite strong and long-lasting. Users of these two, in particular, report a high similar to that of cocaine or heroin.

Shine

A syrup-like extract derived from the rovos plant, an invasive species similar to dandelions and other types of weeds. They have beautiful white flowers that have a light, sweet smell and tend to branch out in propagation growth style. These plants can be found all over Oepus, with the exception of very dry areas, and it's not the flowers or pollen that the drug is derived from; it's the unopened buds. When crushed, they secrete a type of oil/essence that can be fermented with sugar and a bit of vinegar to form a kind of paste. This paste has a luster similar to egg whites, hence the name, and is wiped on the underside of the user's tongue. It's considered a "downer" type and can cause nerve damage/death with repeated use. Heavy addicts will usually lose their tongues and teeth, often becoming mute, and may experience other dental/oral issues as a result.

Ptham

A particular 'favorite' of The Pale Kings, this is actually a type of pain medication. It is widely used by the Humans of Oepus when performing medical procedures like bloodletting or tooth extraction and also to relieve menstrual cramps. It has a natural stimulant quality, similar to adrenaline, which helps the body absorb the pain-relieving qualities of it pretty quickly. And the reason for this being a favorite is a rather gruesome one. You see, they are known to be very violent and lovers of torture, so they force-feed it to their prisoners so that they remain conscious during even the most grotesque procedures and withhold it during their recovery period.

#thanks for the ask! #nopal answers #aasoaf #aasoaf lore #oepus #the pale kings #i hope this isnt too dark T_T #wbw #cw: drugs #cw: drug use

[pigeonwhumps]

Stabbed

Finding Safety masterlist

Stabmas special!

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch

Cass is stabbed.

775 words

CWs: BBU, pet whump, stabbing, dehumanisation, forced to fight, mentioned suicidal ideation (of an unnamed character), implied death

Cass circles the arena, knife clutched in his hand. He doesn't want to stab anyone, but he's becoming increasingly worried that he might have to, to get out of this match alive. It's not supposed to be a fight to the death, but he recognises the desperation in the other pet's eyes. He's seen it before. She's planning to die today, and if he's not careful he'll go with her.

The woman narrows her eyes at his hesitation and charges, dagger held high. He dodges the first hit, but barely manages to nudge aside her second try as he attempts to reach her hand. He just wants to stop her stabbing him. But all he manages to do is move her aim slightly, so she hits near his shoulder instead of somewhere vital.

Cass' shoulder explodes with fire as she buries the dagger inside him up to the hilt. He crumples to his knees, barely noticing the thud, his own screams, the cheers and boos and announcement of the winner, over the throbbing pain.

As his vision fades, though, he does hear Tyrone, whose voice he's been trained through time and pain to always listen to, barking orders. His voice is slurred but he sounds urgent. Cass isn't sure why, and doesn't have time to work it out before he slumps against the sawdust, unconscious.

_

Cass groans as he's pulled out of the darkness, the pain and tingling coming with him. He wishes he could pass out again.

"Ah, the mutt finally awakes. Come on, open your eyes."

Cass forces his eyelids apart, peering blearily up at the textured plaster. Maybe he is still unconscious, and this is just a dream. It doesn't make sense. He seems to be... indoors? The floor's warmer than the garage, but going by the ceiling, it has to be Tyrone's house. He can feel a cuff on his ankle, but there's no muzzle, and only one mitt's on. His chest and upper arm are swathed in clean white bandages. What's going on?

"Aaliyah, help him sit up so I can talk to him."

Cass feels a warm arm snake behind his back and he gasps as he's helped upright, a small cry of pain escaping him. He seems to be seated on the floor of the kitchen, and Tyrone's in a chair at the table. He gives Cass a shark-toothed grin.

"You're awake and aware. Good. We thought you were done for for a moment there. Aaliyah even cried. Don't worry, she's been suitably punished for it." Sure enough, as Cass looks closely at Aaliyah he sees the tear-tracks on her cheeks, the awkward way she's holding her left arm. "Still. I didn't lose my fighter to a selfish mutt. And she won't be troubling us any longer."

Cass swallows. He's usually the selfish mutt. At least the girl got her escape though. He doesn't want to ask what happened to her, even though Tyrone is clearly expecting him to, just in case she didn't. In the case that her punishment is worse than that, he doesn't want to know.

"I see you're learning what acceptable behaviour is in this house. Good. So long as you behave, you can keep your muzzle off for now. We had to call a vet for you, to stop you from dying, and he said you're to stay somewhere warmer than the kennel for at least a week. So you can stay in the kitchen until you're well enough to go back outside. If you make any sound that I can hear then you know what happens. Just stay still and quiet in that corner like a good mutt. And your mitt's off because of the risk of nerve damage, I'm not removing it every time you need to do your exercises. They're on that piece of paper beside you, I know you can read, follow them. Or don't, if you want to be punished for losing even more fights. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," growls Cass roughly, deciding not to get his muzzle put back on immediately. Tyrone nods.

"Good boy. I need to sort something out, I'll be back in a minute."

He saunters out, and Aaliyah rushes over to him, crouching down. She wouldn't normally approach him without Tyrone's express permission, he must've really worried her. He gives her a quick hug, careful not to strain his arm too much.

"I'm okay. I am."

She nods. Cass isn't sure what else to say. He knows he scared her, but there's nothing he can do about it.

It won't be long until he has to go in there again, after all.

#whump #whump writing #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #box babe #pet whump #forced to fight #stabbing #dehumanisation #mentioned suicidal ideation #implied death #sanctuary pigeonwhumps #cass oc #aaliyah oc #tyrone oc