#Tire Chord and Tire Fabrics

[ghostarii]

arlecchino likes slow kisses -- impassioned, battling, slow kisses, full of twirling tongues and silky moans. she likes to wrap a hand around your neck to crane your head back, nibbling on your lower lip and smiling at your whines. pinning you beneath her and keeping you at her mercy -- heat building between you two with ghostly friction and desperation. arlecchino likes to kiss you slow and build anticipation- to make you want it, to make you crave it, to the point you’ll brim your eyes with tears and try to guide her hand between your legs. you’re your prettiest when you beg and so she makes you do it again and again: huffing out breathlessly in between kisses.

she never gets tired of kissing you -- licking into your mouth, sucking on your tongue and dragging sharp teeth along the muscle, nipping your lips and pressing your mouths together until they swell-- that’s priceless; and more than that, it’s intoxicating. it ignites a carnal, desperate flame inside of arlecchino’s chest to where she teeters on the edge of sanity. she’ll come to needing you so much that her touches burn, singing through the fabric of your clothes until they begin to practically hang on by a thread, perfectly falling off of your frame. she likes you completely bare: kissed by the moon’s illumination and unable to preserve modesty. she can consume you both literally and figuratively: drinking in and committing your bare purity to memory before defiling every inch of your skin in traces of her. bites and scratches and fingerprints and hickeys trail from your neck to the ends of your legs, lighting every part on fire until you burn white hot--and then, only when you’re writhing for some ounce of direct pleasure, she will fuel your fire to an uncontained blaze.

arlecchino likes slow kisses because she can taste more of you. slowly slotting her mouth with the puffy curvature of your pussy, parting the labia as her mouth opens, allowing her tongue to slip through and tangle amongst your folds. agonizing, slow, deliberate kisses have her eyes closed, completely focused and enamored in the taste of you. tonguing through sloppy, syrupy folds and drinking as much of you in as she can. nudging her nose against your clit as she swirls and spins her tongue around--acting as though she was a master player and you were her instrument, being strummed to death and eliciting the most beautiful chords of music. she takes her time in devouring you, ensuring that no inch goes untouched and untasted because when she makes her way to your pulsing, weeping entrance, her performance reaches its climax and you’re along for the song.

arlecchino likes slow kisses because they crescendo into a form of heat unfelt and time melts away between your legs. those kisses are a catalyst for an enlightening, gut-wrenching climax, that makes all the time lost so, so worth it.

[satorusugurugurl]

Toss a Coin

Summary: When your shows up in a full ass Geralt from The Witcher series, you’re dragging him to the nearest bathroom!

Characters: Nanami Kento x AFAB!Reader

Warning: language, cursing, bathroom sex, public sex, unprotected sex, cream pies

Word Count: 1.3K

A/N: Kinktober Day: Thirty— The Witcher! I'm so tired, going off of three hours of sleep and I still have to finish decorating a pumpkin for work. 😩

You hummed, glancing at the clock before returning to the door. Your gaze focused back on the phone in your hand. Your sweet boyfriend told you he would be at the party soon. But there was no sign of him, which was odd, seeing that he was punctual.

Your long Yennifer dress flowed as you paced through the kitchen. The door flung open just before you could panic, and a light was strung. Gojo began strumming the strings, humming as he walked around the room.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher! Oh, Valley of Plenty

Oh, Valley of Plenty, oh, Toss a coin to your Witcher

Oh, Valley of Plenty!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes as you glanced back to the door, and just as you took a sip of your drink, you inhaled it down your windpipe as a tall man wearing a long white wig stepped inside the room. They were dressed in a tight-fitted Witcher costume, rippling pectorals in the tight fabric. While they looked good, that wasn't what caught your eye. No, it was the fact that your husband was in the costume! He never wore costumes!

His honey-brown eyes roamed the doom as his fingers twiddled with the prop sword in his hands before he found you. Nanami thought he would have found you rushing towards him with excitement. But it was a different kind of excitement that swirled in your eyes.

“Hey.” Nanami waved at you with a grin and approached you with a smile.

“You never wear a costume?! " But you're wearing one today! " you asked in disbelief as you ran your hands down his chest.

Nanami chuckled, shaking his head, the long strands of the synthetic hair falling over his shoulder. “I wanted it to be a surprise when I found out you were going as Yennifer. We both enjoyed the books and the television show. So it seemed fitting.”

“Ooh, the only thing I’ll be helping you with fitting is your cock inside of me.”

Even though your voice was low and barely audible, Nanami flushed as he looked around. The metal amulet rested against the leather-clad of his costume. “We just had sex this morning.” You nodded in agreement before your fingertips grazed over the bare skin peeking out from the top of his shirt.

“And?”

“Did I not satisfy your needs?” He was teasing you, but you could, too, if he wanted to play like that.

“No.” You grabbed him by the chord of the amulet he wore. “And there's only one thing that will satisfy my hunger.”

“And what is that specific thing?”

“You.” You reached into your pocket, piling out a coin, slowly tossing it in the air before catching it. “In this costume.”

Nanami looked around with a chuckle before pulling you off to the bathroom. “You're insatiable. But loud, can you promise me you’ll try to stay quiet?”

“F-Fuck!” You gasped, arching your back off the mirror in the bathroom. Kento’s hand quickly reached up, covering your mouth with his free hand while the other gripped your hip.

“Shh,” he removed his hand from your mouth, “you have to be quiet; everyone will know what we're doing.”

“I don't give a flying fuck is they hear” he dug your nails into his shoulders, winning a hiss from him. “Kento, I can’t handle the teasing; please just fuck me before they start looking for us.”

He sighed, pulling out slightly, “You have to promise to be quite tough.”

“Fuck yes, okay!” You whispered harshly, “I promise to be quite okay. Just,” you began rolling your hips, trying to get him to move again, “Please, I need you.”

“I know, Love, I need you too.” He pushed the head of his cock back against your opening and groaned softly, “You always feel so tight and so wet” He went more into you, “God knows I you so much.”

You gasped, grabbing onto his arms and fighting back a whimper as his cock stretched you, “Oh my God,” you cried out. “Kento, you feel so good, God, you look so hot! Made me feral.”

“Oh, is that what drove you mad with lust?”

“Yes!” as if your body decided to add in, it squeezed around his cock.

“Fuck you're so tight,” he growled, pushing himself further into your aching core, “you feel so fucking amazing. Your pussy clamping down on my cock.”

“Kento,” you whimpered out, feeling him continue to bury himself inside of you, “fuck.” You tilted your head back, shutting your eyes tight. You were trying desperately not to cum too fast; you wanted it to last.

He kissed along the side of your neck before sliding in and out of you slowly and gently. His hands ran down the curve of your body before resting on your hips, holding them down as he thrust. He gently took his time, making this last as long as possible.

You moaned as you threw your head back against the mirror with a quiet thud. His hands slid back up, gripping and kneading at your breasts as his cock slid in and out of you, setting a steady pace. He moaned and growled as he kissed and sucked on your sensitive skin, all while you moaned and rocked in time with his thrusts. This was amazing and exciting! Fucking in a bathroom while your friends were outside was so kinky! But, despite it being kinky, it didn't switch off the love you shared for each other.

“Baby,” you gasped out, holding his head to your neck, “fuck me, fuck me.” Grunting, he grabbed the edge of the counter for more leverage.

You closed the small gap between the two of you, shoving your tongue in his mouth. He moaned, wrapping his talented tongue around yours as he thrust in and out of you faster. You wrapped your legs around him, moaning wantonly as he pounded into you, forgetting about the party and focusing on you.

The familiar tightening in your lower abdomen caused you to rock faster against him. You were chasing your orgasm, wanting nothing more than a sweet release. “Kento, I’m close, baby.” You whimpered, nipping at his ear, “ Please baby, I need it, I need to come.”

“Come for me, Love,” he whispered, reaching down between your bodies and rubbing your clit gently in circles, “Come for me, sweetheart. I wanna feel all of you.” He rubbed faster and harder, sending you over the edge.

“Kento!” You moaned into his neck, doing your absolute best to stay quiet. The orgasm spread through your body, setting it on fire as the waves of pleasure rushed through every cell of your body. Kento grunted loudly, his cock twitching inside of you throbbing pussy sending him over the edge.

“Fuck, Darling!” he growled, milking his orgasm out, nearly sending you over the edge into a second orgasm. “Oh God, baby.”He shuddered once more before collapsing on top of you, holding you close.

The two of you remained there in the bathroom, regaining your breath. Kento’s hands lazily ran up and down your back as he peppered kisses along your neck. You chuckled, tracing mindless shapes down his muscular back, humming contently.

“God, I love you,” he sighed against your still-heated skin. You have no idea how much I do.”

“Enough to let me toss a few coins at your ass?” You pressed, flicking your eyes up and down over his body. Your husband pulled away, looking into your eyes with confusion and humor. “What Gojo told me to toss you a coin!”

“You are insatiable,” he whispered with a chuckle, kissing you as sweetly as he needed to help that.

“So, is that a no to the coins?”

He laughed again. This time, it was deep and rich with adoration and warmth. “In the spirit of Halloween, I’ll allow it.” Nanami snorted as you fist-pumped the air before slamming your lips on his.

“Best Halloween Ever!”

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[ginxyy]

Melodies of our heart

My soulmate Jihoon



There’s something utterly entrancing about the way the sun filters through the tall windows of Jihoon’s studio, casting delicate rays upon the myriad of instruments strewn about, each waiting patiently for their moment to sing. It was here, amongst the gentle chaos of keyboards and guitars, that my heart first acknowledged the fluttering, teasing touches of love. Jihoon is not just a composer; he is the very melody that has woven its way into the fabric of my soul.

This day felt particularly magical, as if the universe conspired to create an atmosphere thick with possibility. I had slipped into the studio, my sanctuary, a place where creativity danced in the air, and warmth radiated from the man I adored. Jihoon was hunched over his keyboard, the faintest pout on his lips as he concentrated, his fingers gliding over the keys with an elegance that took my breath away.

“Don’t you ever tire of being this brilliant?” I teased, leaning against the wall, my arms folded, just drinking him in. He looked up, and the corners of his mouth turned upward, illuminating the room in a way that sunlight alone could not.

“Not as long as you’re here to inspire me,” he replied, his voice a low, soothing melody that wrapped around me like a well-worn blanket. In that moment, I realized how deeply he had etched himself into the canvas of my life, and a blush crept across my cheeks.

With an exaggerated sigh, I moved closer, sitting on the plush, oversized rug that dotted the floor. “Is that a compliment or a way to distract me from your never-ending lyricism?” I teased again, though my heart raced at his words. Jihoon had a surprising way of loading every interaction with flirtation and sincerity.

He chuckled, the sound echoing in the room like a gentle breeze through trees. “Why not both? You know, inspiration often strikes when you least expect it.” I could see the spark in his beautiful eyes, a twinkling mischief that made my stomach flutter.

As he shifted back to his work, I watched him, enthralled by the grace of his movements the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he considered a chord change, or how he would occasionally spin his hair with a distracted hand, habitually curling and uncurling the silky strands. I loved every moment in this sanctuary of sound, but I loved just being near him even more.

The days blurred into a sweet cascade of memories. I often sat across from Jihoon at the grand piano while he effortlessly shaped the notes that floated between us like dandelion seeds in the wind. Each session felt both intense and intimate as we dove deeper into the creative process. There was a rhythm to our collaboration, an unsung harmony that tethered us together on a level that felt profound yet wonderfully innocent.

One evening, wrapped in the cozy embrace of dim fairy lights flickering above us, Jihoon paused mid-composition and turned toward me. “I’ve been working on something,” he said, the excitement palpable in his tone. My heart raced. I had heard countless pieces he crafted, each one a glimpse into his brilliant mind, but this time felt different.

“What is it?” I could hardly contain my curiosity.

“It’s a song,” he murmured, his gaze intense, holding mine like a secret shared between two lovers. “And… it’s about you.” His words hung in the air, swirling around us, igniting something deeper within my heart.

“Me?” I gasped, my breath caught somewhere between astonishment and a delightful thrill. “Forget that I can’t sing this is incredible, Jihoon! You’re going to make me cry,” I said, my voice trembling slightly at his confession.

He scoffed, waving me off playfully. “You have a beautiful voice. You just haven’t discovered it yet.” He reached for my hand gently, intertwining our fingers. The warmth of his touch ignited a spark between us, and the room felt charged with an unseen force.

“Will you play it for me?” I asked, leaning closer, my heart drumming an anxious melody of hope as I implored him with my eyes. The camera in my mind clicked, freezing that moment in time as he took a deep breath, exuding a charm that made the air around us shimmer.

Seating himself back at the piano, Jihoon’s fingers danced across the keys, and I was submerged in the music a symphony of notes that felt like poetry woven into sound. There it was, the rhythm of our shared moments the laughter, the unspoken words, the stolen glances that hinted at something profound.

As he played, I closed my eyes and allowed the music to envelop me. His voice was soft, melodic, as he sang the lyrics a confession that fluttered like butterflies in my chest, unveiling the depth of his feelings. Each word resonated as if he poured every ounce of his soul into the song, crafting a heartfelt testimony of how he had fallen in love.

“I never knew how beautiful love could be,

Until I saw the world through your eyes, you see.

Like a melody turning, soft and true,

My heart is a song that finds its way to you.”

My heart soared and plummeted, echoing each poignant lyric. Jihoon finished, and silence filled the room, tainted only by the gentle echo of the final chord that lingered, time suspended around us like a fragile promise. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, the world outside faded away.

“It’s beautiful,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper, filled with emotion. “You’ve poured everything into this.”

“Because you are everything to me,” he replied, his words a soft caress, wiping away all doubts and fears. In that heartbeat of silence, I understood I was not merely a muse for his music; I was the song that danced in his heart, the rhythm that urged him forward. My cheeks flushed with warmth, and I didn’t need to think twice before leaning in, pressing my lips softly against his.

We were a symphony beautifully entwined, two souls captured in a moment that would etch itself into the very fabric of our existence. The studio, our sacred haven filled with endless possibilities, bore witness to our love an extraordinary melody composed by fate, played out in soft whispers and tender moments, forever lingering in my heart.

[slowd1ving]

[FANTASMAS] SNIPPET ゜・BLADE NSFW

clawing the walls

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

“You’re a damn headache, you know that.”

There’s no malice in your eyes, but he can feel you slipping from his fingers; he can hear the cogs in your brain turn with certainty as you look away with resolve. He’s going to move out—Blade realises, and it’s perhaps the second time in his life that he regrets letting his heart seep through his lips with that sort of confession. Suddenly, he’s stepping forward: hand wrapping tightly around your wrist, with less-than-bruising strength. 

Fuck. The back-and-forth from earlier reminds him exactly of the position he’s in: practically caging you against the wooden frame while you’re still warm and damp from the shower. He’s lucky he wore loose trousers out—and you’re too busy glancing at him in surprise to notice him straining against them. 

“Blade—”

“Yingxing.” He’s not quite sure why he interrupts. Like a gaping wound, he’s ripped past the scab and hit tender flesh. 

He can’t define where the firm line between you and him is. 

And maybe he’s your roommate and there’s a messy boundary constructed by both parties, but there’s something pressing his lungs tight against bone.

“—Yingxing,” you taste carefully: sampling the two characters in your poisonous mouth. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

The normally-collected engineering student has abandoned his wits—gazing at you like a man half-starved. 

“Making you stay,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to move out—don’t we work well together?”

I can treat you so right. His thigh cants against your legs, and he hears you inhale sharply. Fuck. 

Bringing your wrist to his face, he presses his lips to the skin—burning, as some would say, so utterly contrasting with his colder image that it brings about an effect of cognitive dissonance. What’s so good about Dan Heng?

“You’re such a prick,” you hiss, and he feels the words pierce right through him. He is. Objectively, he knows he’s a bastard—unapologetically, wholeheartedly—but you don’t make an effort to pull away. 

“I am,” he admits in a tired, low voice. He doesn’t know if it’s the steely look in your eyes, or the firm set of your mouth—yet he thinks you’ve rooted him in place instead of the opposite. 

Why? If he gets involved with his roommate of all people, it would turn blurry boundaries into cacophonous messes—and it’s not like he wants you to leave. It would be far simpler to let you move out; slice away the relationship cleanly before his heart tightens any further. 

“Do you find it fun fucking with people like this?” 

He looks at you. Really, he does. 

Guitarist. Physics student. Capable scholar. Then there’s that—Trailblazer. 

But there’s also that. 

My roommate. 

So many concepts to consider, when that’s only surface level. He’s never had to think so hard about someone before: preferring to not know them at all. 

“Hah.” You sound incredulous. “Are you this fucking indecisive with everyone?”

“No,” he finally replies. “Just you.”

It’s then that he releases your wrist. You’ll walk away. In line with his own predictions, he already knows you’ll barge past him—perhaps knocking a book or two off his shelf. 

But, no—

“Do you ever shut up?”

—you seem to defy his expectations each time. 

His eyes flicker to your mouth, and this time you take notice. 

Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips. How fitting. 

His eyes widen as you roughly grasp the front of his shirt: creasing the smooth fabric in your fist as you yank his face forward. It’s as if you’re about to punch him square in the jaw, yet for some reason his heart pounds faster and his cheeks flush ever so slightly. Delicately, yet he is anything but that. 

“Seriously, you’re so—”

The heat consuming him is sweltering and omnipotent. One that controls his limbs like a marionette; he’s already reaching to grasp your chin with his rough hand. You’re warm: exhaling in surprise as his mouth meets yours. 

“Mmh–” Hands worn from playing chords tonight slip from the front of his shirt and slide around his nape. He can feel your fingers entangle themselves in his inky hair, and for once he closes his eyes. You taste like the sweetest poison: traces of cherry syrup and the faint spice of liqueur. 

He should’ve done this sooner. 

[kyumisyumi]

Duet

It would've probably made more sense for me to write this about Soap but there's tonnes of Soap content and I'm tryna feed the starving.

Warning: Quickly written, barely proof read

Ship: Nikto x Banshee!Reader (F)

Word count: 1k

⊱⊶Taking requests⊷⊰

It was like throwing up pins and needles, using your voice after so long. The sounds clawed against your throat as if begging to never see the light of day. Your own song fighting to return to the darkness of your vocal chords, wishing to never be uttered. But this wasn't your song anymore and that's why it needed to be sung. Needed to be released into the cool air to meet the oracles in the stars. It was an ugly tune; gargles and keening as your emotions morphed into rancid sound. Your bloodline had ended decades ago. You remember the moment the elder, happy without child, closed her eyes for the last time. The final composer of your songs laid for eternal slumber with a smile turned towards your distant figure. Her end marked the beginning of your hibernation. A solemn existence. You lied to yourself that it was a prize for centuries of dutiful work, but loneliness festered inside your core as your wondered for years without purpose.

Then came the sound; timber against timber. The click of a composer's wand. Something you never thought you'd hear ever again. Click click. You were being summoned. Called for by Death to let you know your job was not finished. Like a hound to its name, you followed it. Your apprehension and confusion weighed heavy but no force inside you was stronger than the instincts pumping through your inhuman form. Click click. Like children to a dinner bell, you followed it. The fabrics draped around your greyish body clipping in and out of reality, snagging on branches when it unfortunately caught only to dissolve into mist. Stones and twigs piercing your feet before phasing through your ethereal form. Click click. Like sunflowers to the morning rays, you followed it. Something inside you beating feverously; a life that wasn't your own cradled within your chest. Click click. Like a magazine into a gun, because that's exactly what it was. When the thrumming inside your chest calmed down, you could finally hear the sounds of gunfire whizzing through the air. Hoof beats storming the ground revealed to be the boots of man. Soldiers. They bolted through the concrete and dirt of wrecked structures, firing their weapons into their own kind. None of that mattered to you however, you had seen war plenty of times. All that mattered were the clicks that called for your song and the person holding the gun. Click click.

It alarmed him, naturally, when he began to hear the eerie melody of a woman's song. It first reached him amidst a fitful attempt at rest within his small tent. Nikto wasn't sure what to make of it. Another case of his mind playing tricks on him? That the enemy had released hallucinogens into the air? However, when he'd asked his comrades if they heard it too all he'd received were worried looks in response. It was in his head then. Was this karma? Had all the lives he'd taken conspire in the afterlife to haunt him? If so, this was an odd tactic; to sing him hymns rather than rip his soul from his flesh to drag it down where he belonged. He'd tired himself out clawing at the walls of his mind, trying to find a source within. And so he just listened, all of him. It drove him insane almost as much as it brought him peace. Words he could not decipher being whispered in a tune unknown yet somehow familiar. A song that wasn't in his memory but somewhere deeper, somewhere more him than he could ever conceptualize. No matter how much it unnerved him to hear this mysterious singing, the way it warmed his body and stilled his mind became a drug to him. If this was a new level of madness, he had little complaints.

When he heard it in the midst of battle, the effects were reversed; it riled him up rather than calm him down. Like the being was singing life into him. It diffused into his skin to settle within the nerves and muscles beneath his flesh, pushing him ever forward. It whispered truths he'd always known. That he was a harbinger of death, a machine of violence serving those who wrote his cheques. How he felt about it made no difference to what he was. Nobody. Not a person, just a weapon. It felt almost blasphemous to commit acts of cruelty to music so beautiful but his body called for it. A head he'd bashed into a wall, a spine snapped beneath his feet, this bloodshed was his offering to the being that sang for him. To the unknown creature that had decided to take up residence in his mind.

This felt right, this felt like destiny. Nikto carved his path into the enemy stars like the bullet through his chest. Falling to his knees like a man in prayer before laying to meet the Gods.

It was only then that you went to his side, looking into the confused blue eyes of your composer. They searched yours, forgetting where he was and what he was doing as the shrouds of your body filled his vision.

"женщина[woman], sing for me." His voice was much like the metal instruments he played.

You held his hand in both your own, watching the calm slip into his eyes as he listened to your ugly wails. You'd heard the lyrics he filled in. Oh, how they made your heart bleed. But now, in his final moments, you sing to him in words he could understand. Serenade him with the truth of who he was, cradling him to hide his tears. The thumping in your chest was slowing down as your song mellowed to it's end. The final verse came in the sound of a rattle.

[cheralith]

so tonight that i might see | hobie brown

synopsis: you can't sleep and hobie has just the trick to help you do so.

word count: 1.0k

a/n: mentioned song is based on into dust - mazzy star :)

hobie brown, despite his rowdiness and love for noise, often plays the gentlest of songs during the stars' awakening hours.

he's obviously infamously called spider-punk for a good reason, there's no doubt about that. there's something just so thrilling about drilling out the most intense of power chords amidst gritty and taunting vocals that he savors himself in—but there's also that sweet and honeyed balance of slower songs that will slow his nerves down better than any sedative.

often people think that his acoustic guitar has a hefty layer of dust after not being touched for so long, but what they don't know is that his acoustic is kept tucked away in the shadows all safe and sound. it's his first guitar after all, why would he throw away such a valuable thing like that? but because of its importance to him, hobie is always mindful of who gets to see it because despite the jokes about it being his kryptonite, it might as well be considering its value.

which is why you can't help but feel a blossom of pride embed itself in your chest whenever hobie grants you the silent permission of seeing his acoustic—his only acoustic, at that. you just say the word to him, and he's never one to back down from your song requests because he adores you and would do anything to keep you content (he'll never tell you that, though. hobie brown is not one such foolishness like love confessions.)

you're spending the night in his canal boat per usual, feeling the water gently rock you back and forth like a cradle. it has to be what? around 1am at this point? he lays quietly next to you all sound asleep with occasional snores in the small-ish twin mattress, his body warmth heating the left side of your body while your right succumbs to the soft chill of the night. it's a strange unevenness.

another layer of guilt washes over you when you turn over again to get comfortable before you huff out of frustration at your eyelids' refusal to grow heavy like the rest of your body. unfortunately, it's loud enough to wake your companion resting beside you, and you murmur out an apology when hobie props himself awake as he rubs his eyes.

"you alright, love?" he asks groggily.

you nod despite your certain circumstances. "yeah, yeah... don't mind me. did i wake you? i'm sorry."

"'s alright," hobie mutters, his neck crackling like fireworks as he stretches his muscles. "guessin' ya can't sleep."

a melancholic sigh whispers itself from your lips when you nod almost bashfully. "i don't know why, though. you'd think after today's events, i'd be absolutely drained."

"mmh, could also just be one of those nights, ye?" hobie says with a tired brow.

"you should go back to sleep," you reply soft, your hand going to tuck a bit of the shared blanket over some of his lower bare torso again; he insists on sleeping shirtless—"the heat at night gets a lil dodgy, y'know?"

hobie shakes his head, "can't really sleep if you can't."

crickets chirp softly from the distance with the murmur of the lake just breezing by. what a perfect ambience to dream to, you think, but alas, the sandman has chosen to spare his sand against you tonight. you tuck your knees to your chest and rest your chin between them, obviously exhausted—yet not tired.

"want me to play you that song y've fond of?" hobie suggests. he doesn't even wait for you to answer or elaborate further because he's already out of the shared bed and walking towards his closet to pluck out the fabric casing of his acoustic guitar. it's such a grand contrast to his many collections of its electric counterparts as it lacked the mayhem and destructions some of them had.

its somehow still in pristine condition; its body still amber and sleek with the fingerboards solid and sturdy. hobie settles back down on the side of the bed again with the guitar tucked safely on his lap and you blearily watch him tune it correctly.

"lay back down, darling," he instructs to you, his words not even doing much work before you fall into his command so steadily. his fingers go to softly strum a few chords at first before he asks you, "was that the one?"

"mmh hm," shaking your head you hum out a quiet and familiar tune, one that hobie was testing out a few weeks ago as a prototype that managed to catch your ear. "it was the one that was like... do duh do duh... do duh do duh..." your finger wags in the air up and down, up and down, mimicking the melody of the song.

despite your lyrical nonsense, hobie understands which song you're talking about right away. his plucking goes to match your absurd singing before he turns to you for affirmation.

"yeah, that one," you mutter and tuck yourself under the sheets again to let the song hopefully lull you to slumber.

hobie's usual singing is rather rough and a little jagged, giving his own flair to the traditional punk rock style of singing while still keeping its homage, but he's chosen to hum a wordless harmony rather than sing anything at all. it's a nice blend, you think as your eyelids grow heavier, his voice almost mirroring a cello of sorts.

the guitar riff is repeated ten times over, yet something about it seems to finally let your muscles relax for once. hobie finishes the song with a strayed sort of melodic rhythm; one that seals the knot of the song to indicate its finale. when he looks back, his fingers still a little stinged from the metal strings, the quiet pain of them is subsided when he sees your dozing face cuddled into the pillow.

too unbothered to set his guitar aside properly, hobie settles it on the ground before settling himself back into bed. this time, he oh so carefully tucks an arm under your neck while the other slings to your back to cradle you into him tenderly. to seal the night off, there's the whisper of a kiss given to your forehead by him, the gesture making you unconsciously grin in your sleep.

and suddenly—there's a balance of warmth everywhere on your body, the cold of the night forgotten with good riddance.

[graciegoeskrazy]

Songbird

Ross Macdonald x OFC!young! Maise Macdonald

warnings: a baby lol, she cry a lot, just some fluff (you're welcome) short n sweet, started as a Matty fic but we need some Ross lowk right?

a/n: ...is that???....👀....Gracie????.....Writing somethings that's not...???.... ANGSTY?!?!?!? *GASP*

Rain hammered against the windows as Ross paced the living room, one arm cradling a fussy little Maise, the other holding a bottle she refused to drink. “C’mon, baby girl. Do this one thing for me, then you can sleep.”

Her eyes were closed shut, but she flinched away from the tip of the bottle with all the power she could muster, which wasn’t much but was still enough for Ross to groan again. “It’s milk! You love milk. It’s like your whole personality.” He said, looking down at her.

Her tiny face scrunched up, cries growing louder. She was only eight months old, but she had the lungs of a rock star. Ross groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed, setting the bottle down on the coffee table. “What’s it gonna take, huh? A song? A dance? My soul?”

Masie’s cries wavered for a moment, as if she was considering his offer, before picking back up with renewed energy. Ross collapsed onto the couch, tipping his head back in defeat.

The rain outside was relentless, and the apartment felt like a pressure cooker of noise. Between the storm and his baby girl’s tiny wails, Ross was nearing the edge.

“You’re gonna drive me mad, you know that?” he mumbled, looking down at her, though his tone was more tired than angry.

She squirmed in his arms, her little fists waving in frustration. He adjusted her position, holding her against his chest as he rocked side to side.  

“Alright, Angel,” he said softly. “You win. Let’s try something else.”  

He stood and walked over to the record player in the corner of the room. One hand balanced Masie, the other flipped through a stack of vinyl until he found the one.

“Alright, this is a classic,” he said, sliding the record from its sleeve and placing it on the turntable.  

The needle dropped, and the opening chords of Fleetwood Mac’s “Songbird” filled the room.  

Her cries faltered soon after the intro started. She looked up at him with wide eyes, quietly cooing as she heard the piano grow.

“There we go,” Ross whispered, a smile tugging at his lips. “Knew you had good taste.”  

He swayed gently to the music, his voice low as he hummed along. Masie’s tiny head rested against his chest, her body relaxing bit by bit.  

“To you, I’ll give the world,” He sang softly, his lips brushing the top of her head.  

The room seemed to shift, the chaos melting into something calmer, quieter. The rain still pelted the windows, but it felt distant now, like background noise to their little moment.

She let out a small, hiccupping sigh, her fists uncurling as she settled into him.  

“There’s my girl,” He murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He continued to sway, his feet shuffling across the worn carpet as the song played on. His voice wavered slightly on the high notes, but he didn’t care. This wasn’t about perfection; it was about her.  

By the time the song ended, she was fast asleep, her tiny body limp in his arms. He let out a breath of relief, his shoulders sagging as he made his way back to the couch.

He sat down carefully, cradling her close as he leaned back against the cushions.

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, you know that?” he whispered. “I’m completely screwed.”  

Her only response was a soft snore, her little hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Ross chuckled quietly, his heart full despite his exhaustion.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, but inside, everything was calm. For now, at least.

[alwaysurvalentine]

Three Strikes and You're Out! - pt. 3

this is the final installment (for now?) of Eddie learning about baseball to help teach Steve about D&D!

wc: 1.8k - cw: nothing I can think of!

Need to catch up? pt. 1 pt. 2

Enjoy! 💛

Summer has officially descended onto Hawkins. It’s hot outside so Eddie’s pulled his hair into a bun. His bangs had been resting against his forehead before he tied his bandana around his hair line. He knows they probably look a little goofy resting on top of the fabric instead, but at least he doesn’t feel sticky anymore. A mostly new notebook is front of him, the first few pages with rough scribbles, but finally he has something easier for Steve to follow. A couple sketches still surround the edges: a beholder with a body covered in stitches like a baseball, elementals made of dirt and air, and a silly sketch of a mind-flayer with a baseball jersey on. 

Steve’s supposed to be coming over to go over the notes and maybe even make another character for the Party’s next session. They’d tried looking at them the other night but they’d only half made sense to Eddie’s brain and Steve couldn’t follow the clear spiral of Eddie’s mind when he’d made his connections. Instead they’d spent the night hanging out in Eddie’s room, Steve laying back on Eddie’s bed while he worked on a couple songs. 

~

It’d been nerve-wracking to have someone observing him and it took a little bit before Eddie could fall into his process. Play a few chords, hum an imaginary verse, and then scribble away on his music notebook. He’d gotten so into the rhythm of things that soon he was looking at a song ready to present to the rest of the band. With the song basically finished, Eddie had looked up to see Steve watching him with a small smile. The younger boy looked more relaxed than Eddie had ever seen him, shirt riding up slightly with his hair splayed out on one of Eddie’s pillows. 

“What’s that face for?” The words came out more defensive than he’d meant, but Steve’s smile just grew enough to crinkle the corner of his eyes. 

“I think I might be falling in love with you.” 

Silence filled the room. Eddie blinked at Steve. Neither of them moved until Eddie shifted to set his guitar to the side. Steve had sat up and straightened his shirt, leaning over to grab his shoes where he’d toed them off an hour ago. 

“That was stupid, sorry. I’m going to head out. I’m sorry.” 

Those words finally kicked Eddie into gear and he’d stopped Steve’s movement with his hand. His rings felt like ice compared to the warmth of Steve’s skin. All of the relaxation from before had vanished, Steve’s shoulders in a tense line with his face turned towards his lap. 

“Stevie.” A barely there exhale of his name, but it didn’t stop the brunette from tensing further. “Did you mean it?” As soon as Steve had nodded, Eddie had reached to tilt his face up. Hazel eyes met his and all he could do was smile before leaning in. “I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”

~

Tires rolling on top of gravel brought Eddie’s attention back to the present and the sight of Steve’s BMW pulling up to greet him. There’s a boyish grin on Steve’s face when he parks and he even does a little wave before reaching to his passenger seat for something before joining Eddie outside.

“I brought some snacks, figured you can’t study without something to eat, right?” The bag crinkles when Steve sets it down and Eddie can see the outline of a Coke and his favorite Doritos (cool ranch) through the plastic. He thought he’d gotten bad butterflies before, but his stomach riots when Steve sits down and wraps a gentle hand around his ankle for a squeeze. The touch is fleeting at best, Steve already reaching for the bag to empty it’s contents next to Eddie, but it encourages him to slide down and sit at the bench. Now their legs are lined up next to each other, heat making them practically stick to the other – Eddie thinks it’s worth it for the flush that covers Steve’s cheeks at the motion. 

“So, tell me all about how I’m going to understand your Dungeons and Dragons game.”

Nerves crawl up Eddie’s spine and he clenches his notebook hard enough that the pages crumple slightly.

“Okay, a lot of this information is from Wayne, so if it’s wrong, pretend it isn’t.” And then he open the notebook to reveal his previous scribbling in a neat bulleted list. “Without further ado, I’m going to make your beloved baseball into D&D.”

~

“So, you know these things?” Eddie points to his drawing of the baseball diamond and watches as a softer smile lights up Steve’s face. 

“Yeah, those are the bases.”

“And do you know how far apart those are?” 

“Should be 90 feet.” 

“Exactly! So your character here, has a walking speed of 30 feet.” It’d taken some time to flatten out Steve’s previously crumpled character sheet, but it was worth it now, Steve’s finger pointing to the speed Eddie was referring to. “Which means, for your character to get from one base to another, it would take you three turns.” The flicker of understanding in Steve’s eyes made quizzing Wayne on sports worth it. 

“Speaking of turns, you know how when the bad guys show up I have everyone roll for initiative?” A nod. “It’s like making your lineup for the ones hitting the ball. Wayne said you had to tell the other team that ahead of time, so it’s different in that sense because we just put together the order on the spot.”

~

Steve’s brows are furrowed as he looks at the notes and then the Players Handbook Eddie brought. “Different weapon skills...those would be like different pitches?” There’s confusion coloring the words, and Eddie’s so glad he’s able to tell Steve he’s right. He’s sure if the younger boy got one too many assumptions wrong he’d close up again and probably never give the game another try. 

The sun isn’t quite going down yet, but it’s cooled off at least. Eddie’s coke has left a small ring of condensation on the top of the table and he pokes at the droplets of water gathered there while Steve contemplates over his character sheet. 

“Okay, so what is it called when the weapons are used far away?” It takes a second for the question to register, Eddie more focused on trying to make a lyric work about someone’s hazel honey eyes. 

“Eddie?”

“Oh! Those are called range weapons. Those would be your guns or crossbows.”

“Okay, so,” Steve glances to the notes again and bites at his bottom lip before continuing. “Those would be more like the outfielders, since they sometimes have to throw the balls back from the other side of the field to get someone out. But my character doesn’t have range weapons, so they’re more like a catcher?” 

Eddie would love to tell Steve that he’s right again, but he doesn’t actually remember what a catcher does. His confusion must show on his face because the furrow in Steve’s brow lessens and a tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“A catcher is the person behind the current batter. They squat down behind the current batter and catch anything the batter doesn’t hit. They’re also there to try and tag out someone running to home plate.” It’s weird to hear Steve talk about sports and actually follow it, but Eddie does nod in confirmation which makes Steve small smile turn into a full grin. 

“Seems like you’ve got a hang of things now. Maybe even enough to give another session a try?” Eddie cuts the pressure off of Steve by clasping his hands in front of his chest in a pleading motion and flutters his eyes to seal the deal. The tips of Steve’s ears turn pink and he feels his own grin widen at the sight of Steve ducking his head towards his chest. 

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know if I’m going to be let back at the table though. I didn’t really leave in the best way last time. I know the guys definitely didn’t appreciate it. Not a good first impression I can imagine.” Steve’s right, Gareth had been irritated about him standing mid turn to leave the room, but that doesn’t mean Eddie wants to hear Steve beat himself up over it.

“Hey. Quit that. Everyone makes mistakes. So what if you left the session in the middle of the big fight? It wasn’t like the party was very welcoming either. I know Gareth hasn’t been the nicest, but you’ve won Jeff and Grant over.” 

Won over is putting it simply. As soon as Jeff had found out that Steve had carried Eddie to safety despite injuries of his own, he’d had nothing mean to say about the other boy. When Steve had left the table clearly flustered and Gareth went to say something, there’s been a distinct thump under the table that Eddie’s pretty sure was Jeff kicking the other boy. Mike had gone to complain too, but Will cut that thought off with a simple look. 

“It really is okay. None of us thought about how hard it would be to keep up with a bunch of seasoned players. Dustin said he’d explained the game mechanics to you; I should’ve known that meant talked your ear off and hoped you picked up all the information. I’ve played the game for years now and I still have questions from time to time. Shit, the game itself released a whole beginner set of rules for people to look at just to get into Dungeons & Dragons.”

The sun’s started setting now, casting Steve in an orange light. A couple of eager lightning bugs have already started their dance, blinking off and on as they fly around the park. They’ve been pouring over his notes for the better part of the day so he thinks it’s time for a well deserved break. 

“Enough about DnD, I think it’s time for dinner. Wayne should be getting up soon to get ready for work. Hungry?” A soft growl from Steve’s stomach voices it’s agreement and Eddie laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes. Hope you’re ready for my specialty, Kraft mac and cheese.” Steve chuckles and closes the notebooks in front of him before passing them over. He turns and throws one of his legs over the bench, straddling the seat facing Eddie while he stacks them in an order only he knows the reason behind. 

“Hey, Eddie?” 

“Hm?” He leans over slightly to show he’s listening, but the lack of an answer has Eddie turning towards Steve with an eyebrow raised. He goes to speak but gets cut off with a chaste brush of lips against his. Eddie’s world narrows to the smell of Steve’s cologne, something that smells like rain on freshly cut grass and a hint of vanilla. Just as soon as Steve leaned in, he leans away, the sun painting orange and pink highlights in his hair when he tilts his head grinning.

“Thank you.” 

And thank YOU for being so patient!! Tags for those who wanted to see how these lovebirds figured things out: @dreamercec @yesdangerpls @adverbally . I know it's like a month overdue, just been hit with a lot of new ideas and a little bit of a struggle with knowing when things are at a good ending place!!

[chetchad]

🄱🅁🄾🄺🄴🄽 🄶🅄🄸🅃🄰🅁 🅂🅃🅁🄸🄽🄶🅂

MDNI 18+

(Trent Lane x FEM!reader)

KINKTOBER DAY 2; (student/teacher, mutual masterbation, break up)

WC; 1.3k

CWs; (teacher/student relationship, guitar lessons, mutual masterbation, fingering, slight squirting(?), porn without plot, loosely edited, mentioned trent/monique, light praise)

You were seated on the bed, watching your instructor's skilled fingers strum a simple note. His rings were a nice contrast to the wood of the guitar.

“Okay. You try, yeah?” Trent hummed softly, holding his tuned instrument out to you.

God. This guy was a fucking babe. How were you supposed to concentrate with him around you?

“Alright…” your tone was soft and unsure, not positive you could pull off the very basic and simple G chord.

It had been like this for a couple weeks now. You came over every Wednesday, or whenever Trent would call and ask if you wanted to come over that day for more practice.

His prices weren't horrible.

25 a lesson. (It was coming from daddy's bank account anyway)

Plus, he was fun to be around. Laid back and soft spoken. He wasn't loud and obnoxious like some of the other 21 year old boys you've met in your short 19 years.

With nimble fingers pressed against the strings, you looked up at Trent for validation about your finger placement. Trent's half lidded eyes met yours, reaching forward and shifting your hand a little.

“There. Now, just, strum. Gently.” Trent instructed, giving you a small reassuring nod.

With a small amount of hesitance, you softly strummed the chords, smiling a little when the right note vibrated back to your ears. Trent gave a tiny nod of approval, his eyes dancing across your pretty features.

“Good girl.” He praised softly, giving you a little grin.

Fuck. That made your pussy weep into the gusset of your panties. Making the white fabric almost translucent and cling to your cunt.

“Hm, we can be done with this lesson. I've got rehearsal at five.” Trent sighed, stretching a little.

You furrowed your brow, looking down at the watch around your wrist, “... it's seven-thirty?”

“Damn it.” Trent huffed, before shrugging with an indifferent expression, “...next time.”

God. You never got the term “the bee's knees”, but Trent was definitely the bee's knees…whatever the fuck it meant.

The next lesson the following week, Trent was more tired than his usual sleepy self. So, like the good little girl you were, you asked what was wrong.

“What's going on? You seem a little upset.” Your words were casual while you sat on his bed and raked his body up and down while he laid on the comforter, staring up at the ceiling. His raven hair was messy, even more so than his everyday spikes.

“Me and Monique broke up last night.” Trent answered, sitting up and rubbing his red eyes from lack of sleep(or a high. Hell if you could tell)

“Again?”

You covered your mouth, realizing it was pretty damn rude to out him like that. But he didn't seem upset and just smiled with a little chuckle that ended with a cough into his fist.

“Yeah. Not very surprising?” He coughed out, looking up at you with a small grin.

You leaned over to grab his guitar, the short skirt exposing those cute little pink panties of yours. Trent could see everything. The chubbiness of your pussy, the little wet patch from your swollen inner lips.

Damnit. Trent crossed his legs, hiding the semi in his jeans.

Honestly, you didn't expect your lesson to turn out like this. But here you were, gently palming the twitchy and leaky bulge in Trent's jeans, listening to him sigh softly in pleasure. His noises were absolutely the best thing you've heard from him. Sure, his little humming while he played a simple tune was cute, but you didn't know he was a whiner.

Trent's lips lightly danced over the soft skin of your neck, kissing and nipping at you. He almost convulsed when you undid his belt and fly. A soft little, teasing suck at your neck was what you were met with when you slipped your hand in his boxers.

Oh wow. He felt nice, pretty damn throbby and weepy. Tugging down his boxers, you set them under his nutsack, making the two chubby balls seem larger at the base of his cock.

You subconsciously spread your legs like a whore when his hand slithered under your skirt, teasing the sopping gusset of your little boyshorts.

Skilled boy, yeah? He knew exactly where that sweet little nubbin was, hiding in those folds and fat of your pretty inner lips.

Pushing your skirt up, Trent tugged your panties to the side, eyeing the soaked heat appreciatively. With quick fingers, Trent spread those pretty lips, almost groaning at the velvety insides of your cunt.

You hummed softly, watching his cock with half lidded eyes while you pumped the hot length. A sweet muffled cuss left your lips when he circled your entrance with his middle finger.

“Tight?” Trent's smooth voice rang in your ears.

“... probably.” Your answer was definitely biased due to it being your own cunt.

“Nice.” He nodded approvingly, slipping a digit in your tight heat, grunting when your channel squeezed his intruding finger.

“A-ah…!” You gasped, stilling your hand, before pumping him with great vigor.

The room was hot and stuffy, the sounds of skin on skin, wet squelches, and soft noises of pleasure filled Trent's room that was usually full of music. Well, this was the music of the devil's tango or Satan's mamba. Whichever it is.

“You're such a good girl.” Trent praised cooly in your ear, thrusting his finger in and out of your pussy, his palm hitting your clit with every push. Your cunt had a great suction on it, swallowing and squeezing him greedily. A second finger slipped in while he curled them up to tease your sensitive g-spot.

You whined in response, rubbing your thumb over the drooling slit on the tip of is cock. A soft grin pulled at your lips when Trent gasped, hips stuttering nicely when you went over it a few times. It was agonizing for him. He was so close to finishing, but he didn't even know if you were close to an orgasm.

“‘M close…” Trent warned, dark eyes searching your eyes for any sort of recognition that you were at the edge.

“Me too…” your voice was soft and breathy, your other hand pulling your sweater up and tugging the cups of your bra down, freeing the mounds of fat chub.

Trent let out a low moan, his eyes zeroing in on those bouncing hemispheres and pert nipples that were begging for his attention. It took everything in him not to wrap his lips around one of your cute nips and go to town on it.

Your thighs were trembling, the cool metal of his rings were almost too hot from the heat of your sweet cunt. You knew you were close, the knot in the pit of your stomach was knotted so tight that it hurt, just begging for it to snap.

God. If Trent knew that this is what just touching and feeling was like with you, he would have already gone all the way during that first lesson.

The knot finally snapped when Trent used his other hand to pinch and flick one of your hardened buds. You accidentally grabbed onto his messy hair to keep yourself grounded while you came with a soft cry of his name, your hand desperately trying to keep pumping him while you gushed around his fingers.

Trent's eyes widened, gasping and thrusting up into your fist while he finished. Spurts of pure white dribbling over your knuckles, your hand and wrist limp while you panted in his ear, almost building condensation on the piercings with your hot breath.

After a few moments of gathering your bearings, you pulled back a little, your noses touching while Trent's lips grazed yours.

Trent gripped the back of your head, fisting your hair and clashing your lips against his. You giggled against his lips, his soul patch tickling your chin.

You pulled away after about a long minute of hot kisses, a bit breathless, “Do you do that with all your students?”

“The cute ones, yeah.” Trent replied, watching your heated form with a smug grin.

[self-spaghettification]

Aaravos’s Endless Cold

because of @sthormiiii’s headcanon— I was thinking about how Aaravos has to wear a cloak because he’s cold and. this spawned. Oops

Despite his mastery of both sun and sky, while the powerful archmage could do anything within reason, heating or cool the temperature of the room without a thought, he could not help finding himself freezing regardless. it was the sort of inner chill that soaked you to your bones. that left him shivering and hands trembling with no reason at all, despite the way the fire blazed right in front of him, dancing across his hands, within him. 

he found his body’s involuntary reactions to his solitary confinement an inelegant limitation of his form so he took to wearing a cloak so that as he checked his reflection in the ceaselessly watching mirror, he might not have to look upon the stars that glistened faintly on his skin like the sweat that coated it regardless of his ever constant slight adjustment to temperature. The stars that once shone brightly and winked at him warmly from his skin whispering sweetly of wonders now angrily hummed minor chords and squinted in disdain. It ached in a way more tangible somehow than the constant ache of the inky black tear in the fabric of his ethereal being. He had grown so very, very tired of the pain, and had more important things to attend to. He vaguely wondered what it was like to know temperature, to know love, but with no real commitment to the concept any further. Every time he stretched his mind out to touch the constellations and divine their alignment he was slapped back, his black heartache ate at him and took his stars.

Tears rolled down his face, of no real consequence. He gently touched the black mark making him a mocking example of monstrousness, which he grown used to nonetheless. The days still passed, regardless of the impossibility of knowing. Once, he would have let them take all of him in the darkness, given into the icy cold, the shivering and tears. But withering numb and purposeless into dry tinder,  it was fire he must utilize, dancing across the table, the pit, his hands, burning inside him, and after each bout of those desolate days of darkness—the sun must always rise, mustn’t it—he had grown used to setting fires and burning candles and wearing cloaks to mark his time and burn away his aches. It was enough to believe almost- almost—that the shivers had gone away. So be it, it made no difference if his stars sweat in cold fury or his core shivered in the terrifying icy hunger of a vacuum from the ever open wound. As much as possible, he would cover and neglect them just as the stars taught him—

excommunicated.

[xmissrogersx]

“Video Games” | Joel Miller

tags: Post-Outbreak. Jackson life. Domesticity. Fluff. Ellie being the cutest daughter.

my writing is entirely my own. Any adaptation and/or copy is forbidden.

i hope you are enjoying my stories! U help me a lot if you give me a ♡! All the love.

pris masterlist

A summer day was passing through the small community of Jackson. The trees provided a pleasant breeze that urged the children to play in the streets before going to school; and the flowers in the windows of the houses provided colors that made them forget the darkness of the outside world.

-That's all for today, honey —Maria peeked down the hallway.

-Are you sure you don't need me? I can stay and help you.

-Of course not, you covered a lot of time when I had to take care of my neglectful husband —she exclaimed, making us both laugh.

I grabbed my bag and walked out of the cozy little library and walk to home. Home. After so many years, i have a home to come back. I crossed the only street to see him at the end of the driveway, sitting on the front porch playing his guitar next to Ellie.

-Paris! Look... —she played a few light chords, causing Joel to look up with fatherly pride.

-I knew you'd make it.

-I have to go tell Lily —she got up and walked out as if his life depended on it, but came back to give me a brief but tender hug.

-Thank you for helping me with my literature homework, I wouldn't have understood a shit what the author was saying if it wasn't for you —and before I could answer she ran back to her friend's house.

Excitement was getting the better of me again as I tried to keep my eyes from watering. I turned to see Joel with his gaze locked on me, which was getting darker as his brown orbs swept over me. I bit my lower lip in provocation.

-Come here, angel —he patted his thigh and extended his hand.

Taking refuge in his strong arms, smelling his pine scent mixed with the slight hint of scotch, as I snuggled into his chest was the definition of what I enjoyed most about my day.

-How was work? —he asked, stroking my leg, lifting the fabric of my dress slightly.

-Just me and a stack of books. I love it. I helped a couple of guys look for one...¡oh!, and one girl wanted to read a story about friendship and adventure. Please Joel tell me if I'm talking too fast —I covered my face in embarrassment.

His laughter echoed in my ears, sending a shock through my body. Every time he laughed I recorded his melody in my mind.

-I could never get tired of listening to you, darlin’. And what book did you recommend her?

-Little Women. I remember when I was little I managed to smuggle it out of the QZ zone. It helped me forget about all the crap outside for a while. I'd pretend I was one of the March sisters, and I'd play Pilgrims and decorate the house for the holidays.

-You can do it now —I cocked an eyebrow at her response.-Ellie would like it. She loves everything you do together, and Maria could help you with the costumes.

I reached up to his face to place a kiss on his chin, cheek and forehead, and then our lips met. I wanted him to know that I adored how he protected and adored me day by day. And that I was his, today and always.

-Joel Miller, you old softie —I said, earning a pinch on my thighs.

-Do you want to know what you're doing to this old man by wearing that dress?

My lungs had run out of air in a second, despite the rushing wind. That's what Joel was doing to me. I nodded slightly, playing along. I put my legs on either side of his lap, and rested my hands on his chest.

I unbuttoned his shirt, and caressed the scars that adorned his torso, kissing them one by one, as I lowered my hand to the buckle of his pants.

-You're playing with fire, princess —he moaned softly, making me feel powerful as I saw the effect I was having on him.

The county had gathered in the movie theater, leaving the place empty. What an excellent coincidence.

[writingkitten]

Manuel Teaser

I’ve been writing this for over a year. I’m tired. Have a teaser because it’s not even close to being done.

Warmth.

That’s the first thing you register as you slowly come back to the land of consciousness. It radiates through your body, bringing a sense of peace.

You’ve barely begun to open your eyes when that peace vanishes. There’s an ache in the back of your neck. Using what little strength you seem to have, you try to lift your head.

The area around you is dimly light and darkly colored, though you can make out a bright orange glow somewhere in front of you. As you try to make out what it is, a black mass fills your vision.

Something warm presses against your jaw. It gently pulls your mouth open, and places a smooth, cold object on your lips. A sweet, rich wine pours into your mouth, the slightest chemical undertone being ignored as soon as you register how thirsty you are. You gulp greedily, a drop of wine running from the corner of your mouth.

“That’s it,” a low baritone voice says, “drink from your Master’s chalice.”

The drop runs past your jawline and down your neck. The thing holding the liquid is pulled away. You gasp greedily, not realizing your breath had been held for so long.

Your senses start rapidly coming back to you. You realize the warm thing holding your chin is a hand, the skin soft though you can tell it holds powerful strength. The hand wipes the wet trail from your lips, going down until it reaches the base of your neck. It pulls away, and you watch it as it returns to the side of its owner. Your eyes widen as the black mass that filled your vision quickly clears into a tall, husky man. His features are exquisite, and you briefly wonder what master sculptor created this beauty.

Briefly — as your mind quickly sparks into a panic when you feel your wrists and ankles are bound to the chair you sit in.

You look down at your bindings, your eyes growing wide at what you see. You wear a thin, white silk nightgown, with spaghetti straps loosely perched on your shoulders and the peaks of your nipples easily visible through the fabric. It’s with this that you become uncomfortably aware that the gown is the only thing you’re wearing. Your wrists and ankles are tied down by crimson rope that seems to have glints of gold thread woven into it.

The man you were previously admiring sits in a velvet crimson chair across from you. Despite the burning sensation filling your eyes as you begin to take in what’s happening, you’re able to note that he’s some sort of man of God. If you remember correctly, his attire is that of a bishop.

He stares at you for a moment, his dark gaze taking you in. You feel like a bug under a microscope, but the knowledge of being watched so closely doesn’t stop the tears from running down your cheeks or the grimace of fear that washes over your face. You open your mouth to speak, to say *something* to break through the blood rushing past your eardrums, but anything you would say gets caught in your throat. All you manage is a choked sob, so pathetic sounding that you choose to grit your teeth so nothing else slips past your lips.

The bishop looks almost bored, though, if you were in any state to pay attention, you’d notice a hint of intrigue peaking through his gaze.

“You are not what I expected,” he finally speaks. The moment you hear his voice again, a light heat sparks under your skin, and you feel as if a shallow gasp was pulled back into your lungs by some unknown force. He quirks his eyebrow just enough for you to know that he noticed the shift.

“Do you know your name?”

It takes every ounce of strength you have to break through whatever was blocking your vocal chords, but you reply, your voice hoarse, “Y/n…”

“F/n L/n.”

Your eyes widen, unable to rip themselves away from his own. He grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I know quite a bit about you, Y/n. Perhaps…” he tilts his head, his eyes dragging across your body, “…even more than you know.”

You swallow, a thick lump in your throat. The bishop stands, unhurried. He steadily walks over to an ornate desk, moving with such elegance that he truly seems holy. You can’t help but watch him as he moves, and you notice a warm, salty spit starting to gather in the corners of your mouth.

“For example,” the bishop says, picking up a stack of papers from the desk, thumbing through them, “you don’t know where you currently are. I do.”

The act of talking still isn’t easy, but now it seems as though the thing stopping you is more so fear of misspeaking. The bishop looks over his shoulder at you.

“You’re in The Vatican,” he says simply, relishing in how your face pales, “thousands of miles from home. Deep within the walls of this sacred place, a maze of hallways to greet you just outside of this room.”

The bishop takes one page from the stack, placing the rest down and turning to face you. He slowly approaches, the tendons in his hand flexing as he grips the paper.

“Guards roam those hallways, waiting for some uninitiated fool to get lost in them. A foreign city, a labyrinth of twists and turns…”

He stops right in front of you, the tips of his shoes grazing your bare feet. He leans down, making you feel like a mouse caught by a python. The depth of his rich brown eyes offers an almost hypnotic intoxication that makes it impossible to look away.

“There is no escape,” he says gently, almost as if cooing you, “and if you do try to run, it will only make this much more difficult for me, and much more dangerous for you.”

The threatening edge to his words was cold, yet sent a searing heat along your spine.

“Do you know why you’re here, sweet little lamb?” he asked, stroking your cheek.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to bite his hand. You wanted to do anything you could to get out of this nightmare.

Instead, your body listened to instinct, and you nuzzled closer to the warmth of his palm.

“You’re a very special girl, Y/n,” the bishop continued, “wars have been fought to protect your bloodline. People have died to keep you safe.”

Your eyes widen as you look up at the bishop. It’s feeble, weak, but you’re barely able to mutter, “No-“

The hand on your cheek quickly grabs your chin, the strength of his grip surprising you.

“Look at you,” he cooed, like a man looking at a frightened kitten, “so innocent, so scared…”

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear.

“I didn’t expect the blood of Christ to be so tempting, yet here you are.”

[mamichigo]

(musician au)

--

Cyno hated the formalities of these reward events. He'd never admit as much for two important reasons. First, because he had quickly learned reporters were vultures and would find a way to twist his words beyond repair. Second—and this is the most important point—Alhaitham would use it as an excuse to leave the moment Cyno opened his mouth. He doubted their respective agents would be too thrilled if an incident like that were to happen a fifth time.

So no, he didn't like any bit of it. Not the prying eyes or the gossip or the plastic smiles. For the long, long hours of waiting for the announcements, Cyno would stick close to Alhaitham, nod at the people who looked their way, and sip on champagne flutes.

By the time they finally make their way home, they are both just a little past tipsy. Alhaitham quickly finds his customary spot at the recliner, his eyes vacant as he stares into space. Cyno watches him with concern.

"Did you drink too much?" He whispers, as to not break the late night lull soothing their frayed nerves.

"No, I'm just tired," Alhaitham replies. His lips thin into a tense line. "Not just for tonight. In general, I suppose."

Cyno lets his bag and his jacket fall to the floor as he hurries to Alhaitham's side. Even as he peers up at him, Cyno can't see a clear sign of his mood. He's just… blank. More than usual, that is.

"Did something happen…?"

"No, not really." He thinks for another moment, then adds: "I don't make music for any of this. Playing dolls with a room full of adults, except instead of toys we're all just puppeteering our own bodies around. It's petty, and meaningless."

"The same as always, then," Cyno asserts, though not unkindly. They share a knowing smile as Alhaitham nods.

“Same as always.” Alhaitham raises an eyebrow at him. "Get off the floor, you'll hurt your knees."

He pats his thigh in invitation, and Cyno doesn't waste any time in climbing onto Alhaitham's lap. His head falls comfortably on a firm shoulder, the position familiar. Alhaitham's hands find his waist, and Cyno studies the fingers hooked into the fabric of his shirt.

They're a pianist's fingers alright. Long and elegant, easily encircling his waist. It's funny how, even though they both play with their hands, there's such a huge disparity in appearance. Cyno's hands are small, roughed by the chords of his guitar, covered in calluses that Alhaitham would never have to experience.

In the silence, it's almost like Alhaitham can read Cyno's thoughts. His gaze is heavy, analytical. After a moment, he bumps his forehead against Cyno's.

"Touch me," he says, guiding a hand to his own cheek. "It's grounding when you touch me like that."

It's only then that Cyno realizes the effects of the alcohol and the exhaustion on Alhaitham. His words are so sincere it twists his insides. Cyno fights off a blush as he sets his thumb in motion to caress Alhaitham's cheek.

"We should work on a piece together tomorrow," Cyno suggests. "Just the two of us."

"Hm." Alhaitham pushes his face into Cyno's palm and closes his eyes. "Sounds like a plan."

And just like that, he's out like a light. Cyno chuckles.

"Good night, I love you."

[slowd1ving]

[✦III. OH, HOW TRAGIC IS HE] SNIPPET • . DR RATIO

honestly I'm so used to writing comedic scenes this is just bittersweet man :-(

warning: death but also not really, injury

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In retrospect, it was practically expected that your tired life would beget yet another tired cliché. 

There was something completely unoriginal in the series of misfortunes that befell the proletariat salaryman (read: you). In novels, movies, and the occasional game, the most ordinary of souls stumbled across a situation that chose them. For once, someone in their weary lives had need of them; not as a pushover, nor a lackey, but someone courageous and brave who became a hero. Forums and comments oft scorned these overused plotlines—and you agreed, of course—but it was an interesting premise to think about. 

“There’s a survivor on the third floor—”

Still, no matter how intriguing the promise of escape from the mundane was, it was pointless. It wouldn’t happen. 

“Hey— can you get up? Blink if you can hear me, alright? 

The accident in the lab was almost poetic. Of course, when a protagonist encountered an explosion in their place of work, there was always an accompanying montage that indicated something was wrong. Whether it be the change in key in the background chords, or a close up of cracking machinery, the audience got some sort of closure as to why. Was it fate? Was it the cruel machinations of man? Was it just an unfortunate accident?

“We need oxygen here—he’s going into shock! Help—you—get a gurney immediately!”

But actually, there was none of that fanfare for you. Just a sluggish warmth that crawled from your limbs and back into your heart, from limbs far too cold to move. No, not cold. You simply couldn’t feel them—much like when a body part suddenly fell asleep on you. 

If you scrunched your face a bit, you could smell the acrid wisps of rubble: paint chips and stone all congealing into an antiquated scent. You couldn’t exactly see, but maybe that was for the better. 

“What’s happen—” Your tongue felt leaden in your mouth: heavy and contorted as you awkwardly sounded out your question. An explosion? A gas leak? A mine that somehow went off? There was something wet dribbling from your mouth; tasting like white hot iron, seeping past your aching lips. A hero would know. A hero would have that information playing out panel by panel while they bled out, farewells and anguish for their loved ones already melding into the fabric of existence. 

Ow. 

“Shh, don’t talk, okay? We’ll get you out of here, alright?” There weren’t any reassurances for your state. No ‘you’ll be okay’, no ‘stay with me, alright?’. You weren’t stupid. You weren’t, but it was in that moment when you wished you were—dropping out before doing your degree and doctorate, keeping far from the lab, and holding on to your life with blissful ignorance on your side. 

You opened your mouth. 

“No, you don’t need to say anything, alright?” The voice was kind, you noted drowsily. If not a little clumsy, swaddling you in a foil blanket like some overgrown child. Well. You couldn’t see it, and neither could you feel it, but you could feel your limbs lolling this way and that way at the movements—like some grotesque, decommissioned marionette. 

At least it didn’t hurt.  

“Thank you,” you whispered. There was nothing outrageous about your last words. Like the rest of your life, the syllables were as ordinary as they came. A quiet beginning. A quiet end. There was nobody to say goodbye to, nobody to wait for past the veil. 

It was an accident. 

“I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I’ll stay with you, alright?” 

Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end. 

The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above. 

[bitterkarmaa]

Ok so sorry! Its my first time on Tumblr!

13: Eclipse is a part of the Kill Code from Moon and Idk how you see it, but the influence from this and also the pressure from the Star could become quite difficult sometimes. Moon should know the problem of keeping the balance or upper hand.

No worries!! It took me a while to figure it all out too :) welcome to hell!!

“When is this going to get easier?”

-Moon & Eclipse-

Eclipse told himself many lies. He knew some of the deceptions he fed himself were merely made for comfort, considered a coping mechanism to those more emotionally intelligent than he was. Lunar mentioned it offhand a few times, and Sun gave him looks that suggested his own agreement, but he never truly took those words into serious consideration. It felt burdening, to mull over the extent of his life and all that he’s done over the course of it. It reminded him of things he tires himself trying to avoid.

But sometimes, he gets caught up in those thoughts. Those aching reminders that float from one side of his head to another, always able to find the right spot to take all his focus at the worst time possible. Certain days, those sometimes become all times, constantly battling against him as he struggles to keep his composure against the incessant plague that haunts his mind. It’s utterly exhausting.

On those days, Moon always manages to find him somehow. May it be by chance or badly hidden worried intent, Moon always finds him.

Today is a bad day. A day filled with memories and reminders that sting at every wound he’s ever had, the ache in his chest becoming worse the more he lays, his own mind threatening to consume him.

Blood Moon isn’t here, currently, having gotten Eclipse’s word that he would still be there when they returned from their hunt. At first, he thought nothing of it- Blood Moon had their own things to do, he understood that. Respected it, even. However, once his head managed to get it’s grubby hands on whatever coherence he had, he instantly regretted letting them go.

And now, here he lays: under the blankets, trembling so much that the mere thought of standing makes him dizzy and nauseous. Despite his inherent weakness, his claws clutch vainly at the bed sheets, grasping so hard that they run holes into the fabric.

Oh, how his mind drags him on, teaching him the steps to a dance he already knows, but loathes all the same.

“KC!”

Eclipse stiffens for the hundredth time today, eyes growing wider the deeper he falls into the memory.

“KC! YOU CAN’T LET THEM DO THIS!!”

His systems begin to overheat, vents coming in quick, short intervals that do nothing to prevent his impending panic.

“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!”

He doesn’t hear the door click softly open, doesn’t hear the footsteps that approach him.

“Let him go.”

A hand reaches out to him, hesitating to touch his shaking shoulder.

“LET HIM GO!”

Eclipse jolts backwards, his hand flying up to grasp Moon’s wrist even so. The tips of his claws dig into the soft sleeves of Moon’s outfit, cutting holes into the pristine fabric.

“Eclipse! It’s just me!” Moon shouts, taking a step back after Eclipse registers who it is and that he doesn’t intend to bring any harm, thusly releasing Moon in the process. He shifts further out of Moon’s reach, pressing his back to the wall his bed sits against as Moon gives him a cautious glare.

“What’s your problem?” He snaps after a moment of pause, earning a tired look from Eclipse that almost makes Moon pity him.

“Nothing. Leave.” Eclipse retorts almost immediately, his gaze sharpening into a glare as he forces the exhaustion out of his expression. Moon looks dubious.

“You…can talk to me, you know. I won’t think any less of you, or whatever.”

Moon’s words strike a chord within Eclipse that seems to steal all the words from his mouth, since, for the next few moments, all he can do is stare. It makes no sense. How could he be so careless with his concern? Hasn’t Eclipse hurt him enough?

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?” He says instead, forcing down the nicer reply that festers in his voice box like an open wound. He can tell that his reaction only makes Moon more interested, red eyes focused on Eclipse’s own expression, waiting for the slightest shift or change, like a predator seeking weakness from it’s prey. Eclipse loathed that look. Especially when it was directed at him.

“Yes. And I’m choosing not to listen.” Moon responds in the most curt, sly way possible. Eclipse opens his mouth to change his demand into a threat, but he freezes as Moon steps further into the room, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed.

Eclipse grits his teeth. Why does Moon insist upon testing his patience like this? Doesn’t he understand how hard it is for Eclipse to control his temper? He’s not making his whole ‘redemption’ any easier.

“You have that thinking look on your face.”

Eclipse lifts his gaze, narrowing his eyes at Moon’s statement.

“Maybe because I’m thinking.” He snaps back, shifting further away from the other animatronic. Moon tilts his head the slightest bit.

“About?” He prompts, earning a snarl from Eclipse.

“What is it with you and getting into my business?”

Moon doesn’t seem as intimidated as Eclipse hoped he would be by the former-villains biting tone. Instead, Moon moves closer, agitating Eclipse the moment be begins to stir.

“Get out! Leave me alone! Don’t you know that-“

Eclipse’s words fall short, dying in his voice box with a soft crackle. Moon’s hand rests softly on top of Eclipse’s own- a gentle touch that, for some reason, breaks some of Eclipse’s walls down. He finds himself struggling to find another demand amongst the rubble his anger leaves behind.

“I may not be all that great with emotions and such, but I can tell you’re distressed. I have been told I play a good therapist, so…lay it on me, if you wish.”

Eclipse stares dumbly at him, at a complete loss for words as he analyses Moon’s expression, looking for any hint of mockery. When he sees nothing but sympathy, he finds himself beginning to tear up, of all things, in front of Moon.

“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” He croaks, reminiscent of a time when he’d been in denial that Moon decided to save him. When the younger animatronic let him lean into the warmth his body no longer produced- when he felt that flicker of safety in the arms of someone he used to consider an enemy.

“It’s alright, Eclipse. It’s okay. I won’t let them hurt you again.”

He breaks down. Before Moon can supply an answer, Eclipse grabs him and pulls him into a hug, sobbing openly into his shoulder as Moon sits in stunned silence, wondering how to comfort him- if he should comfort him, or if he needed these tears to heal something much deeper than he ever could with his words alone.

The words stick like glue to Eclipse’s psyche, the comforting tone of the beast playing on repeat in his head.

But Moon would never know that tone. He only knows the sinister, devilish grin painted on the face of a murderer he thinks has only been seen in his head. What would he do if he knew that KC had a body of its own?

Would he go after it?

The thought only makes him cry harder, gritting his teeth together in an effort to stifle his sobs.

“When is this going to get easier?” Eclipse finds himself asking, shaking hands curling into the fabric of Moon’s shirt. The other animatronic stays silent for a moment, still stunned by Eclipse’s display of vulnerability, though he finds his voice before the situation can further escalate.

“When is what going to get easier?” Moon asks, voice quiet- subdued.

“This! All of this! The emotions, the self-hatred, the constant contradictions that bite back at me for every thought I have- just…just all of it!” Eclipse finds himself saying, words spilling from his mouth before he can even think to stop them. His despair morphs into a familiar type of anger that forces his hands to release Moon, pulling away in favor of vigorously wiping the tears from his face.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…he must think so lowly of you now- all these tears, this sadness, a useless venture in front of others! The judgement will be well earned!

“…..I’ve found that it doesn’t really get easier, Eclipse.”

Moon’s reply lacks the disgust that Eclipse expected to hear behind his words, slowly lifting his gaze to focus back on the night-themed jester at his side. His expression is conflicted- not with disdain or frustration, but with empathy and respect. It’s as if this show of emotion from Eclipse offered Moon a different perspective on the other that he hadn’t quite considered before.

The thought brings a slight bit of confusion to Eclipse’s face.

“But…all these changes since you first started to work towards being better…it shows that you’re trying. Personally, I think you’ve really improved since then. Those contradictions and self-hatred show that you regret what you did before. Which means you’re better. Being emotional comes with change, and this is a big change for you. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m…” Moon pauses at that, carefully contemplating before carrying on; “I’m sorry that your mind is retaliating in a way that hurts you. You don’t deserve that. But…you aren’t alone. I find myself lost in the same concepts that you’re struggling with- maybe even for the same reasons, as well. I used to have the same sort of ideals that you did, and it was a long and hard process of breaking those habits. Some of them are still there to this day. Even so, I’ve found that the one true consolation that I have changed is that…people love me. The others listen- they care about what I have to say. Just like I’m sitting here listening to you. You have changed, Eclipse. Your mind may tell you differently, but…it knows you in a different way than I do. You view yourself differently than everyone else does. I’m not saying that you should try and change the way you see yourself, I’m just saying that…it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Eclipse listens in silence, his entire body stiff as a statue. He keeps thinking that Moon will stop and shrug off what he’s saying- make some crude remark to lighten the mood in the darkest way possible, but…he doesn’t. Instead, he just keeps going. With each added word, the tension in his chest eases more.

By the end of Moon’s speech, Eclipse finds himself almost smiling again. The slightest upturn to his mouth, carrying a whisper of hope that doesn’t quite play in his voice box, but touches his core nonetheless.

And, for the first time all day, his mind is at ease. No stretch of gratitude that he could offer would truly encompass the relief he feels at that realization.

“You know…I’d almost assume you think fondly of me after all that.” Eclipse jests, earning a soft, sarcastic sounding chuckle from Moon. But Eclipse can tell it isn’t quite fake- the amusement in Moon’s eyes proves that so.

“Don’t push your luck.” Moon drawls.

When Blood Moon does return later in the day, apologizing profusely for taking as long as they did, they find both Moon and their dad curled up against one another, sleeping soundly in the comfortable silence of the room. The twins can’t help the small, fond smile that rises onto their face as they clamber up onto the bed themselves, snuggling up against Eclipse, stirring their father the slightest bit in doing so.

It doesn’t take long for him to fall back asleep, however, one arm draped over his sons while the other is held captive by Moon’s grip.

[im-writing-again]

For John Lennon

Did you walk this same path, Beneath this same thundering wrath? At five to two, when the world stopped turning, And your blind eyes wouldn't stop burning. Were you watching for the tide along this concrete beach, Wondering why the world was out of reach? Stretched across the bay of high flying birds, Enough to inspire your guitar and your words. Were you parting the clouds for the stars you adored, The stars you could join if you struck the right chord? The clouds that wept with each tired strum, Crying in the knowledge of who you would become. Were you carving empty promises into the stage you owned, When Mother knew best for the knife you loaned? She took it away and you left her with The time of your life struck by a monolith. So, frozen in time on the coffee club floor, With rips in the fabric you used to adore, Now abandoned in the hands of an unknowing crowd, Silencing the ticking that once rang so loud. For all the trials that overcame you, After your world stopped turning at five to two, This is for the man that boy became, And the city that will forever scream your name.