#ambiguous relationships

[mac-draws]

My fill for the @mutualrapport event. My prompt was to explore Murderbot & ART’s relationship in terms of quantum entanglement. My notes on this piece below the cut.

Mutual Rapport AO3 Collection

When two particles experience quantum entanglement, they are linked, no matter the distance between them. From the moment Murderbot steps onto Perihelion’s bridge, their lives become inextricably linked.

For “I hold you in my bones”, I connected the moment in which Murderbot stands in the geodome in Rogue Protocol, in awe of the storm, to its understanding of ART’s powerful and all encompassing presence.

For “Your metal bones hold me”, I show MB floating in space, gazing up at ART’s ship body, as ART releases its pathfinders to encircle MB.

Perihelion is the point of a planet’s orbit in which it is closest to its star, and in different moments, Murderbot and Perihelion are one another’s sun, but they are always close (no matter how far).

[mutualrapport]

teaser for And how does that make you feel?

a G-rated fanfiction created by Anonymous for Mutual Rapport 2026

“Can you give an example?” PERI: It assumes many things about constructs that are outright wrong, with its own existence disproving those theories. It continues to believe it is constantly on the precipice of great violence. It’s not. It is gentle by nature. “How is it gentle? I believe you, I just want to dig into that.” PERI: This interview is confidential, correct? “Yes, I won’t release anything to the public from this interview without your consent.” PERI: It holds me when I’m afraid.

The full work, which explores an ambiguous / romantic take on the ARTMB relationship, will be revealed along with the rest of our AO3 collection on July 10.

[akemi2003]

Fic prompt #6

Dpxdc

Danny Phantom was slowly come to realizes that he became practically invincible

When he first became a ghost, he had no control over his powers, he didn’t understand them and made a lot an error, some terribly embarrassing.

But the more ghosts he fought the more simple it became.

Even then there were the ghosts tech of his parents, the blood blossoms and other things that could easily be used against him.

Three years after his death, he realized that it wasn’t the case anymore.

He had full control of his powers, he learned way to neutralize every sort of weapons that his parents, the GIW or even Vlad could create, and after a lot of study about magic and occult even the blood blossoms weren’t a problem anymore.

Plus the title of ghost king, that grant him political protection (ghost law were no joke), he couldn’t think of anything with the powers to hurt him.

Not that he wanted to be ended, or use his powers or position for evil, but still it wasn’t something to take lightly.

Nowadays Amity Park was peaceful, his parents and the GIW weren’t capable of doing him any more harm, and he had make peace with mostly of his rougue, so to said that he was surprised when the justice league arrived at his haunt was an understatement.

They also seem to think he was a villain that kept the town hidden to the world (it was the GIW’s fault)

They wanted to exorcise him

Which was absolutely ridiculous, he couldn’t literally be exorcised because he was half alive .

He tried many time explaining that they were being exploited and manipulated by the real villains (nowadays there wasn’t anyone that believed that ghosts were all evil)

There are been a lot of people who tried explaining that too, but that just add brainwashing the city to his crime

He was at his wits end with them, he literally could kill them with a single shot of ectoblast , but he wasn’t an assassin.

Truth to be told he was starting to think that become one wasn’t a bad thing.

In a month of their bullshit, the city was starting to take a toll . He never even attacked them, he just dodged and take the civilians out of the way.

They couldn’t hurt him, but there was always the possibility that they come to realize that he doesn’t wanted any harm on the citizens, and use them as hostages, the only reason the GIW haven’t done that was because they truly thought he couldn’t careless if they died (even if the proves say otherwise).

He tried searching for magical solutions because all the human one failed

He could make them his slave

In this way they would have to leave him alone, he didn’t even need to make anything ominous.

He would just convince their mind that the city was safe and to never disturb him again!!

It was perfect!!!

[mike-wheeler-is-in-the-closet]

how does one even do this

flambae x hero!ftm!reader… what if they were in the gym… reader is in a hoodie.. yes… self-loathing… yes… but poor form… terrible really… someone has to fix this

flambae will fixer him upper in no time he’s a real hero

is that sufficient

you'd be good to me, i’d be man enough

You exhaled sharply through gritted teeth with every punch, each breath leaving your body like steam from an overheated engine. The old punching bag rattled on its chain beneath the force of your hits, swaying violently before snapping back toward you like it wanted another round. Your knuckles burned raw, wrists aching from the repeated impact, but you barely felt it anymore. Pain was simple. Pain was clean. Pain drowned everything else out.

The gym smelled like sweat, rubber mats, and rusted metal. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too harsh, reflecting off the sheen of sweat coating your skin beneath the heavy grey hoodie clinging to your frame. The fabric was soaked through at the collar and sleeves, sticking to your back in damp patches. Somewhere along the line, your knuckles had split open, tiny smears of blood staining the canvas bag where your fists landed over and over and over.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

You hit harder.

Your shoulders screamed in protest. Your lungs burned. Your body begged for a break, but your brain refused to allow.

Because if you stopped moving, you’d think.

And if you thought too hard, you’d spiral again.

Work had already been hell this week—deadlines stacked on top of meetings stacked on top of people talking over you in that careful, patronising tone that made your skin crawl. But yesterday had been the final insult. Your period had hit out of nowhere, cruel and mocking, like your own body was laughing at you.

Just fantastic.

You slammed your fist into the bag hard enough to make the chain creak overhead.

“Attagirl,” the ugly voice in your head sneered immediately after, dripping venom. “Punch it harder. Maybe if you hit something enough times, you’ll finally beat the girl out of yourself.”

Your jaw clenched.

Another hit.

“You’ll never be a real guy.”

Another.

“Doesn’t matter how low your voice gets, missy. Doesn’t matter how many hoodies you wear.”

Another.

“They can all tell.”

You sucked in a shaky breath through your nose, fury boiling beneath your ribs.

“Cute little faker,” the voice continued mockingly. “Playing dress-up like one of the boys. Bet they all humour you out of pity.”

The next punch landed crooked. Pain shot through your hand.

Good.

Maybe you deserved it.

“Keep going, tough guy,” the voice taunted. “Break your hands. Maybe then people will stop pretending.”

“If you keep swinging like that, you’re gonna shred your knuckles, pretty boy.”

The real voice cut clean through the noise.

You ignored it instantly.

Chad—Flambae, according to the ridiculous SDN tag clipped to his gym bag—leaned against the nearby rack with his arms crossed. Sleeveless crop top. Rings on his fingers. Sharp eyeliner is somehow still perfect despite the heat. His black hair was tied back messily, and there was that same infuriatingly smug expression on his face that always made you want to either punch him or avoid eye contact entirely.

“You can’t just rawdog a punching bag barehanded, sweetheart,” he added dramatically. “That is not how we preserve the merchandise.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to hurt and cranked your headphones louder.

Music flooded your ears.

Not enough.

“You look stupid,” the voice in your head hissed. “Look at you. Sweaty, bleeding, emotional. Such a girl.”

Your breathing became uneven.

The bag swung again beneath another vicious punch.

“You think he sees you as a guy?” the voice mocked cruelly. “Please. He’s just humouring you because you’re pathetic.”

Your vision blurred for half a second.

Another punch.

“You’re soft.”

Another.

“You’re weak.”

Another.

“You’ll always be—”

Suddenly, hands grabbed your shoulders.

“What the—HEY—”

Before you could react properly, Chad spun you around with alarming ease and scooped you clean off the floor into a bridal carry.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly over your startled swearing. “You are one mental breakdown away from exploding your wrists, bro. We’re done.”

“Put me DOWN—”

“No, angel.”

“Chad—”

“Incorrect. Right now, I’m your court-appointed emotional support hunk.”

You squirmed furiously in his arms while he carried you toward the benches like you weighed nothing. Heat flooded your face instantly, humiliation and anger tangling together into something sharp and unbearable.

“People are staring,” you muttered through clenched teeth.

“Good. Maybe shame will teach you self-preservation.”

“I hate you.”

“Mhm. Drink water.”

He planted you onto the bench despite your continued resistance and tossed his water bottle directly into your lap. The plastic smacked your stomach lightly.

You glared at it.

Then at him.

Chad crouched slightly, one perfectly groomed eyebrow arching upward.

“Drink, puppy.”

Your stomach twisted stupidly at the nickname.

Annoying. So annoying.

You unscrewed the bottle and took a reluctant sip. The cold water soothed the raw dryness in your throat immediately, and only then did you realise how badly you’d been panting.

“Again,” Chad ordered.

You drank more this time.

“There we go. Good boy.”

Heat climbed straight up your neck.

You quickly looked away before he could notice.

Too late.

The smug bastard definitely noticed.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered softly as he reached for your hands. “Baby, you really tore yourself up.”

You flinched automatically when he touched you, not because it hurt, but because his grip was careful. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you thought you deserved right now.

Your knuckles looked awful up close—split skin, reddened bruises already forming across your fingers.

Chad clicked his tongue.

“What’d the bag do to you, champ?”

You shrugged stiffly.

“Nothing.”

“Mhm.”

He dug through his gym bag and pulled out a roll of black hand wraps, kneeling in front of you between your knees without another word. The position alone made your brain short-circuit a little.

His fingers worked slowly around your hands, wrapping the fabric securely over your knuckles and wrists.

“You know,” he said casually, eyes focused downward, “for someone who acts caring to others, you are genuinely awful at taking care of yourself.”

You huffed quietly.

“Didn’t ask.”

“No, but unfortunately for you, I’m deciding to care anyway.”

The words landed harder than any punch had.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

The voice in your head tried again immediately.

“He’ll get tired of you eventually.”

Chad adjusted the wrap gently around your wrist.

“You’ve gotta stop trying to punish yourself every time your dysphoria spikes,” he said quietly, like he could somehow hear the thoughts clawing around inside your skull. “You’re not proving anything by hurting yourself, dude.”

You swallowed hard.

Silence stretched between you, except for the muffled music from the gym speakers and the soft sound of fabric pulling tight.

Finally, Chad looked up at you.

His expression had softened completely.

“There,” he murmured. “Much better, handsome.”

Your breath caught embarrassingly fast.

You looked away again, cheeks burning.

“Shut up.”

He grinned immediately. “Aww. There’s my tough guy.”

Once he finished wrapping both hands, he stood and slung his bag over one shoulder before offering you his hand.

You stared at it for a second.

Then took it.

His grip tightened warmly around yours.

“C’mon, puppy,” he said lightly, tugging you toward the exit. “I’m getting you food before you decide to fistfight another inanimate object.”

[whumpderella]

Thundercloud Rainstorm (Episode 01)

[captaincreative]

Hello hello!

Your local annon here but could I very politely request an 007n7 or John doe ( whomever you think deserves more love ) with a reader who's the shopkeeper ( like they make the costumes for the survivors ) maybe something chill out of round with the reader worrying for them?

- Fruit/Dragon anon

omg a Forsaken request, mee when one of my brainrots holy <3. Also, a named anon?? In these trying times???? Actually amazing tbh. Welcome to the shipwreck bro, my organization skills are shit. A headcanon of mine is that the killers and survivors have the same lobby area, they just can't fucking see or interact with each other in the lobby area. So. Reader gets to see both parties. I feel like JD is underloved, we should give him some more attention bc he's cool.

Last Forsaken request I have. This kinda sucks lol, I don't like it.

Perfect Fit

You're the one they all go to when that thing gives them outfits (one of the few pieces of entertainment for the unwilling participants of this hell). Someone quite enjoys the outfits you give him.

Notes: ambiguous relationship, they are close tho so it's okay.

~~~

You had the pleasure of observing both groups of people in separate but the same place(s). Killers and survivors, those who lived and those who didn't. They didn't much interact with you, not unless you had outfits to sell them. Some of them, mostly the survivors, had most if not all of the outfit you had to offer for them, and always jumped at the chance to buy more from you whenever you had any for them in stock. The killers, most of the time, didn't pay you much mind. Maybe one or two of them wanting one or another thing before going back to not interacting with you.

One killer in particular was. Definitely something. You probably watched him the most when he was in the main cabin, though he never payed much mind to you. John Doe, usually not there much if at all. Red and black overtook half of his body, his mouth a smile he didn't seem to be holding himself. Only one eye blinked, the other coved by that same red and black.

He didn't come to you on his own. Usually dragged along by c00lkidd, who couldn't get anyone else to come to you with him. He never interacted with you, only watching as c00lkidd excitedly asked about any new cool costumes you might have for him.

It took a long time for him to be dragged over by 1x1x1x1, who demanded he buy at least one outfit for himself. John didn't respond, though. Only stared at 1x with that smile you fully believe to be frozen onto his face. It took even longer for him to come to you on his own. With his only usable hand, he had plopped down enough 'player points' to buy an outfit. He never wore it, but he bought it. And that was progress.

It was only when Noli came around that John bought another outfit. He still didn't wear it. Then he got another. And then another. And by now, you don't have anything for him because he had a ton of 'player points' saved up and had the ability to buy all of his outfits. You didn't enjoy how he had to go to someone else to get more outfits. But, for some reason, he'd leave the points equivalent on your counter after buying the outfits from someone else.

All of the survivors complained a lot about John. You had once even heard Elliot refer to him as 'The Trapper'. You never understood it, but it's whatever. He wasn't so bad to you. That's all you really cared about.

~~~

I AM NOT CURRENTLY TAKING ANY MORE FORSAKEN REQUESTS; THIS IS AN OLD ONE I WANTED TO FINISH

[persephatta-crescent]

Canon has never stopped me shipping a pair and it is not about to start now

[iluffyouxo]

𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬

. . . .╰┈➤ 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐞

“I will do anything, I’ll be anything—to expose the world to the caprice of my heart—I am willing to do what it takes.”

A hum rumbles from deep within his chest, and reverberates off the sullen walls. “And why should I ever ask you of that?”

“Because,” the air about her was confident, her face grew smug, “There is no one more transparent to be on your side than I. We built an alliance, did we not, Snape? Your wants are my needs.”

He leaned over his legs, his words spoken almost gravely, “Are you saying that for my every desire, you will take it on as your own…?”

She blinked, her voice pauses on her lips. He had caught on rather quickly. “…That’s what I intend, yes.”

“And what if I desired you, Lerofey?” He sits back against the chair across from her.

Her inhale was sharp, and his ears did not miss the way her breath hitched at his words. He watched as her posture straightened, as that falsely complacent smile fell into a hardened frown. That face he knew quite well. A smirk slowly played at his lips.

“Well then…would you allow it? For me to become your desire?”

However, she said nothing. She only continued to stare. How could she speak a truth so well hidden in her heart when, any time he so much as glanced her way, his dark eyes glared with such disdain—no matter how subtle—even if he graced her name with a smile.

In her remained silence he stood. His long strides stalked toward her and in his face she was certain he already knew of her thoughts. “So, Lerofey, are you still willing?”

He spoke her name with such tenderness she found herself laughing at its absurdity. How could this man lie so incredibly as to speak her name with such kindness in his address?

She was so inured to his contempt that he’d attempt pleasantries never reciprocated by him before (even when they shared a bed in the most intimate hours of the night).

As her laughter continued on his stare grew heavy as he towered over her. He was clearly growing tired of her smiles—even if their roots weren’t buried in mirth. “Oh, Snape, how much you entertain. Must I always spell it out for you? Your every want, need, desire—however wretched they may be—I will shoulder those burdens in your stead.”

The veilon in her eyes colored her irises with feelings of which she’d long forbidden herself from putting into words. Except for the few that she allowed to slip past her lips, “I am yours to be used, so allow me to use you in return.”

He sneers, his lean figure bending down just enough for their faces to be near inches from each other’s. His cool breath tickles her cheek. “You wish to use me?” His eyebrows furrow together into a scornful leer.

Her frown slowly upturns into a soft smile. “Of course. This is an alliance, after all. You must benefit me as well, for this arrangement to work.”

“And was it not you who said you’re the only one on my side just moments ago? Indeed, what use am I to you that you seem so wanting to catch a bullet for me?”

There, in her eye, was a spark, something mischievous and misleading about the way her lips curled even higher. “Oh, it’s nothing too worrisome, I promise you that.” A stray hand runs up his torso, intentionally and so painfully slow, before her fist is balled around his collar.

She tugs him downward, forcing their lips into a harsh collide. He only stood there stiff, eyes cut in displeasure. She moved her lips against his own in a one-sided dance, her eyes were also open and glittered with amusement.

He hummed against the kiss. So, she was capable of showing her heart on her sleeve. Another provision to torment him further.

Just as she was to pull away, he grabbed her by the back of her neck and leaned in further. He bit at her bottom lip, rewarding him a hoarse groan. “Is this the means of which you’ll exploit me?”

His voice was rough as he spoke, and he backed away just enough to look her in the eye. And, just as before, there was no expression that would grant him the clarity of her thoughts. How she toyed with him so.

She began to lean back against the couch she sat upon and, while wrapping her arms around his neck, she dragged him down on top of her. “You shouldn’t be so surprised, Snape. You’re the one who started it.”

He kissed at her neck as her hands busied themselves with unbuttoning his jacket. “Damn, how I loathe you,” he whispered in her ear.

She says nothing, only graced him with that same guise that led them to this fate—an alliance, as she so puts it. Severus gritted his teeth. “I’ll let you play your games for now Lerofey. Enjoy this time you have in torturing me.”

Lerofey pauses, and her grin becomes impossibly larger. Almost scarily taking up the lower half of her face. “Why, Snape, the only way for me to torture you is for you to feel something toward me, even in contempt.”

But even that, even hatred, was something he could not give her. Or, rather, their hushed insults tangled in each other’s arms was something he wished to lock away. A precious thing he could never reveal.

His usual scowl softens so subtly she almost missed the way the creases in his forehead ease away. “Lerofey, if I thought you in the same manner that I do everyone else, then I would never hold you as I do now.”

Maybe that softness wasn’t false, maybe hatred had never been there. But who was she to try to unveil those butterflies? It was best kept an unspoken truth between them.

A truth that would bound them together until the end of their plight or till either of them took their last breath.