#[ we can turn this into a thread if you want! ]

[dreamscapeee222]

Could you write Arcane characters and reader fight. Who is the one to apologize first.

A/n: This took a while. I think I liked writing this one. I hope you like it too !!

Vi, Jinx, Caitlyn, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

Masterlist

Vi

You’re pacing the apartment, arms crossed as Vi throws her jacket onto the couch, fresh bruises blooming across her knuckles.

"You promised, Vi," you say, voice trembling, though it’s unclear if it’s from anger or worry. "You said you’d stop throwing yourself into danger."

Vi exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. "What do you want me to do? Sit back and let everyone fend for themselves?" Her tone is defensive, her walls already going up. "No, I want you to consider how I feel when you walk out that door like you’re invincible!" you shout, tears brimming. She flinches at your words but doesn’t respond, instead turning toward the door. "I need some air," she mutters, leaving before you can say another word.

Hours pass, and the apartment feels impossibly quiet without her. You’re curled on the couch when the door creaks open, Vi stepping in hesitantly. Her face softens when she sees you, guilt written all over her. "I shouldn’t have walked out," she starts, voice low. "And I shouldn’t have made you feel like you don’t matter. You do. More than anything." She sits beside you, her hand brushing yours. "I’ll try to be better—safer—for you. Just… don’t give up on me."

Jinx

The argument starts with something small—a misunderstanding spiraling into chaos, as things with Jinx often do. You’re frustrated, arms crossed as you say, "You can’t just act like nothing matters. You keep running off, leaving me to pick up the pieces." Jinx’s eyes narrow, her voice defensive. "Oh, so now I’m the problem? Maybe if you stopped trying to control me, I wouldn’t have to." Her words cut deeper than you’d like to admit. You shake your head, hurt threading through your voice. "That’s not what I’m doing, Jinx. I just want you to let me in." She scoffs, brushing past you with a muttered, "Whatever." The slam of the door leaves the room eerily silent.

Later, you find her sitting on the floor of her workshop, surrounded by half-finished projects. She’s fidgeting with a small gadget, but her movements are jittery, unfocused. When she looks up, there’s a flicker of guilt in her wide eyes. "I’m not good at this, okay?" she says suddenly, her voice soft but frantic. "I mess things up. I don’t mean to, but I do." You step closer, kneeling in front of her. "You didn’t mess up, Jinx. I just—" She cuts you off, shoving a tiny, lopsided trinket into your hands. It’s a crude carving of you two, rough but undeniably heartfelt. "I made this. I was mad, but I kept thinking about how much I hate when we fight." Her gaze drops. "I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you away. You mean too much to me." You wrap your arms around her, and she clings to you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. Her whispered, "Don’t hate me, okay?" is a quiet plea that you’ll never stop reassuring her about.

Caitlyn

The fight begins when Caitlyn forgets to show up for dinner, something you planned weeks ago. You’re sitting at the table, the candles burned low, food cold on the plates when the door finally opens. She looks exhausted, her uniform slightly disheveled.

"Caitlyn," you start, your tone sharper than you intended. "You didn’t even send a message." Her brow furrows. "It was work—there was an emergency. You know I can’t just drop everything." You stand, crossing your arms tightly. "I get that your work is important, but do you ever think about us? About me?" Her expression falters, but instead of conceding, she doubles down. "This isn’t fair. I’m doing everything I can to keep things safe—for all of us." The tension snaps, and you turn away, muttering, "Maybe you’re better off with someone who doesn’t need you to show up."

The silence that follows is deafening. Caitlyn doesn’t respond but leaves quietly, and for the rest of the evening, the apartment feels colder without her presence.

Hours later, the door creaks open again. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending not to notice her until she speaks softly. "I thought about what you said," she begins, sitting on the edge of the couch beside you. "And you’re right. I haven’t been showing you how much you mean to me." You glance at her, catching the guilt in her tired eyes. She reaches for your hand. "I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll do better. For us." Her sincerity melts away your hurt, and as you lean into her touch, she adds with a small smile, "And next time, I’ll at least bring dessert as an apology."

Ekko

The argument begins when Ekko overworks himself again, pushing past limits you’ve warned him about. He’s been up for hours, fixing up a broken clockwork mechanism, his hands trembling with exhaustion.

"You promised you’d take breaks," you say, stepping into the workshop, frustration clear in your voice. "You’re going to burn out, Ekko." He doesn’t look up, his jaw tightening. "I don’t have time to stop. The Undercity needs this, needs me." You cross your arms. "And what about me? Do I even matter in your world of never-ending responsibility?" His head snaps up at that, brows furrowed. "That’s not fair. You know I’m doing this for a reason." The hurt spills out before you can stop it. "Sometimes it feels like I’m just waiting on the sidelines for scraps of your time." You leave before he can respond, your heart heavy.

Hours later, you’re in bed, staring at the ceiling, when there’s a soft knock on your door. Ekko steps in hesitantly, holding a small gadget you’ve seen him working on before—a music box. "I made this for you," he says quietly, setting it down beside you. The melody that plays is soft and familiar, something that always calms you. His voice cracks as he speaks. "I messed up. You’re not on the sidelines—you’re the reason I keep going. I just… don’t know how to balance it all sometimes." You look at him, the sincerity in his eyes cutting through your lingering anger. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing yours. "I’ll do better. For you. I swear." The fight doesn’t disappear instantly, but as you lean into him, you know you’ll figure it out together.

Jayce

The fight begins when Jayce cancels plans at the last minute—again. This time, it was supposed to be a rare, quiet evening together, but his work at the Council dragged him away.

You stand in the kitchen, arms crossed, as he walks in late that night. He looks tired, but you’re too frustrated to care. "Did you even think to tell me you weren’t coming?" Jayce sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was swamped. Things ran over—what do you want me to say?" "I want you to say you actually care," you snap, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. His expression shifts, hurt flickering across his face.

"That’s not fair," he counters, his tone defensive. "You know I care about you. But this work—it’s not something I can just walk away from." You shake your head, stepping back. "Sometimes it feels like your work is the only thing that matters to you." You leave him standing in the kitchen, retreating to your room and shutting the door behind you.

When you wake the next morning, there’s a soft knock on the door. Jayce steps in, holding a small tray with coffee and your favorite breakfast. His sheepish smile doesn’t quite mask the regret in his eyes. "You’re right," he says, setting the tray down. "I’ve been letting work take over, and that’s not fair to you. To us." He hesitates before sitting beside you. "I hate fighting with you. Please let me make it up to you." You sigh, leaning into his warmth. "You have to actually try, Jayce." His arms wrap around you, his voice soft. "I will. You’re more important to me than anything else. I’ll show you that."

Viktor

The argument starts after you notice Viktor pushing himself too hard again. His lab is dimly lit, a cluttered mess of papers and prototypes, and he’s leaning heavily on his cane while adjusting a mechanism.

"Viktor, you need to rest," you say firmly, stepping into the room. "This isn’t sustainable." He glances at you briefly but doesn’t stop. "There’s too much at stake to rest," he replies, his tone clipped. "You know that." You cross your arms. "I also know what happens when you push yourself past your limits. You can’t keep doing this to yourself." Viktor stiffens, his frustration bubbling over. "And what would you have me do? Sit idle while everything crumbles around me?" The sharpness in his voice stings, and you take a step back. "I just want you to take care of yourself for once," you say quietly before turning and leaving the lab.

Later that evening, you hear a knock on your door. When you open it, Viktor is standing there, looking apologetic, a faint tremor in his hands. "You’re right," he says, his voice softer now. "I’ve been careless with myself, and that’s not fair to you. Or to us." He hesitates, as though searching for the right words. "I never want you to feel like I don’t hear you. I just… get lost sometimes." You step aside to let him in, and he takes your hand gently. "I’ll try to be better—for you. For both of us." His sincerity melts the tension, and as you sit together in the quiet, you know he means it.

Mel

The argument begins with Mel’s tendency to keep her emotions guarded, leaving you feeling shut out again. It happens during dinner, her silence heavy as she focuses on her work instead of you.

"Do you even care about this relationship?" you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them. Mel’s head lifts sharply, her calm demeanor cracking slightly. "What kind of question is that?" she replies, her tone cool but defensive. You press on, frustrated. "You never let me in, Mel. It’s like you’ve already decided you don’t need me." She sets her utensils down with precision, her voice clipped. "And you’ve decided to make this about you. I have responsibilities that extend beyond personal feelings." The words sting, and you shake your head. "Maybe I should stop trying if you’re not willing to meet me halfway." You leave the room before your voice can break.

The next morning, Mel finds you sitting by the window, your face turned toward the city. She approaches quietly, holding a small, beautifully wrapped box. Without a word, she sets it down beside you. Inside is a delicate bracelet, the design intricate and unmistakably hers. "You’re not wrong," she admits softly, sitting beside you. "I’ve built walls to protect myself, but they’ve shut you out. That wasn’t my intention." Her hand reaches for yours, her touch tentative. "I care for you more than I’m able to show sometimes. Please, don’t doubt that." You turn to her, the vulnerability in her expression easing the ache in your chest. "I don’t need grand gestures, Mel. I just need you." She nods, her voice firm but warm. "And you’ll have me—every piece, no matter how long it takes."

See pinned.

[tareqayad]

We die in every possible way.

We die from the cruelty of the cold that seeps into our bones, and the harshness of winter that shows no mercy to our weary bodies.

We die under the rubble of bombings that erase every trace of life, and we die searching for a piece of bread to ease our children’s hunger.

Everything around us turns into a tool of death.

Even the land that once carried us now weighs down our souls with despair.

I write these words with a heart consumed by fear.

I want to leave… to escape Gaza.

I want to save my children, my wife, my family from this hell.

But every dream of escape feels like a fragile thread, torn by pain every day.

We wait...

We wait for salvation, for departure, for a miracle to stop this ever-growing pain.

But until when?

My brother @mohammadayyad1 was injured in this crowded place due to the stampede, and his hand was hurt. 💔

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[felassan]

David Gaider on Cassandra (the last of these retrospective character threads), under a cut for length:

"This is the last of the (major) characters I wrote during my time on Dragon Age. I could go into others, and considered moving onto Stray Gods... but I feel like fewer would be interested, and I honestly can't keep up the pace. So let's make this the last, for now. So, yeah. Cassandra. We knew early on that Cassandra would come into DAI as a companion, along with Varric, that this was part of what DA2 set up for the sequel. Now, I'd written Cassandra's short scenes in DA2, yes, but I wasn't her writer for DAI. Initially, she was Jennifer Hepler's character. By mid-project, in fact, Cassandra was more or less fully written. Jennifer did a great job - solid character, solid quest. The sticking point, it turned out, was her romance. Now, to be fair, Jennifer told me straight up when we began that writing romance wasn't her forte, but she'd give it a go. The problem with the romance as she wrote it wasn't in its execution but more a clash between the character as Jennifer envisioned her and the requirements of her being a romance. See, I mentioned previously that a romance arc inherently limits the kinds of stories you can tell with a companion. Many responses I got can be summed up as "lol skill issue", but consider this: a companion romance isn't a fic you can just throw up on AO3. It's an investment of a lot of resources. If a companion has one, most of their resources need to be devoted to it - it's not "now let's ALSO add a romance"."

"That means it needs to take priority in who they are as a character and their arc. What's more, they need to be *appealing* to a big chunk of the player base - or at least someone we can imagine being broadly appealing, anyway. Thankfully, there are still many many stories this can accommodate. 😊 This, however, wasn't one of those. Was Cassandra a fascinating character? Absolutely. Her romance, though... Well, Jennifer DID warn me. She'd written Cassandra as a serious, self-righteous, pious woman who put the Inquisitor on a messianic pedestal. Romancing her meant changing her view of you. You did this by being... pushy. Jennifer didn't mean it to, I'm sure, but sometimes it came off as, at best, negging. At worst, a bit harassy. And Jennifer would have fixed it. This was a 1st draft, and the issues - while serious - were something a skilled writer like her could handle. No problem. Thing is, Jennifer left. You may not remember, but this was around the time a bunch of GamerGate dudes decided Jennifer was somehow responsible for ALL of BioWare's faults. Oh, the power she wielded! She, a writer, could even command the combat Bio made! The result was a LOT of ugly harassment. 😞 Is this why she left? You'd have to ask her, but it undoubtedly didn't help. The important thing is, she left - and there was nobody as senior nor as superhumanly fast as her to take over any unfinished work. This is where Patrick Weekes comes in: a solid, senior writer who could fill her shoes."

"It was great timing - not only did Cassandra need a writer, I'd slowly fallen more and more behind. It was clear by that point that I'd never be able to write Dorian AND Cole AND Solas as planned. They needed to pick up two. And I let them choose the ones who interested them, like all my writers. Patrick taking Solas was no surprise, and while I had Big Plans for Solas in the future I knew at least he'd be in good hands. I was reeeeaaaally hoping Patrick would then pick Cassandra... but they wanted Cole. My baby. Who I created in Asunder. I grumped, but Patrick clearly loved the character. They had ideas for Cole which... yeah yeah, sounded cool. Fiiine. 😅 Now I had to figure out what *I* was going to do with Cassandra. We couldn't move the romance to someone else, all the other female characters were well underway, and I didn't know the character well enough to fix her with tweaks. That meant a re-write. I didn't WANT to erase all that good work, but I needed to start from scratch. Yet how? A pious, self-righteous character was already a risk in terms of romantic appeal. There are only a small number of traits sorta considered universally unappealing but they're on that list. In this instance, Cassandra already being a known character helped. I came across a webcomic (by aimo, I think? AHH I wish I could find it now) that made a joke about Cassandra reading Varric's books. Off-hand, no basis for it, but funny. 😆 And I thought: YES. THAT'S IT. THAT'S WHAT I'M MISSING."

"I sat down and wrote the "fangirl" scene, just to test it out. Everyone loved it, and it served to change my image of who Cassandra was - a view of the inside, at the idealistic and awkward passion she felt, for so many things... AND the Maker. "Yes," I thought. "I could fall in love with this." Who knew Cassandra could be funny? Not anyone, coming out of DA2, yet here we were. It worked so well and her voice came so easily. Miranda Raison was game ofc, and amazing. Though Caroline did gripe that, if we ever met more Nevarrans THAT accent meant we'd have the Tali Problem all over again. 😅 Cassandra's romance is burned into my brain as the time when we THE most awkward conversation with the animators ever. See, that moment during the sex scene on the picnic blanket when she leans back and... there were suddenly these strategically-placed candles, juuuust covering the Sordid Bits. Thing is, they were so obviously placed just to do that. Plus, we'd already decided to do full nudity in DAI, hadn't we? WHY WERE THEY EVEN THERE? Turns out, the nudity thing was still pretty new to the team. They'd forgotten and put the candles there almost as a reflex. So prudish. So Canadian. 😂 I do find it kind of funny that, these days, what I mostly hear about Cassandra is from female fans upset at me because she wasn't a lesbian option. I mean, right? Who wouldn't want that? Technically not my decision, but I guess I WAS behind the companions having set preferences so... fair enough?"

"Some of them do take it to an entitled place, though, like Cassandra *should* have been a lesbian. Why? Because she looks like one, apparently, and that that's a bit of stereotyping which feels... odd? But it's not as if lesbian players are spoiled for choice left and right, so again: fair enough. It did lead to the best end credits VO perhaps ever, and overall I'm pretty happy with how Cassandra panned out. Things never end up like you expect, right? But such is game dev lyfe. 🥸🖖 Did you know Cassandra was THE most-romanced DAI character, by a good margin? Least, by a good margin? Dorian."

[source thread]

User: "Did you have any hand in her writing for Dawn of the Seeker?" David Gaider: "No, none. Nobody at BioWare had any hand in Dawn of the Seeker, outside of maybe Mike approving the script or direction? Only he could say for sure." [source]

User: "Was Miranda a specific casting choice by anyone on the team (similar to your picks for Merrill/Fenris/Solas), or was she simply a lucky find? I loved Miranda on the BBC series "Spooks", so I was very pleasantly surprised to learn she voiced one of my favourite DA characters" David Gaider: "I don’t remember how Miranda was cast. Auditioned, I expect, and she had a good “steely warrior voice” which is surprisingly uncommon among actresses. The accent she made up was all her, as well." [source]

User: "What's the Tali Problem?" David Gaider: "When Tali was the only Quarian, the actress doing a made-up accent was fine. Once there were others… do we get them all to mimic her? That’s a tall order!" [source]

User: "I'd say Solas is the most popular nowaday, but you need to be such a specific race/gender combo + most straight guys wouldn't go for him, i get hes not on top of the list, but I'd have expected Josephine over Cass." David Gaider: "You can’t go by how fans online talk about playing the game. There is almost zero correlation between the playstyles of the vocal hardcore and the masses." [source]

User: "I was a Dorianmancer. The cut content in Trespasser DLC was sad to read, it definitely felt short/abrupt for Dorianmancers. Anyway to share what was cut at all?" David Gaider: "I don’t know what was cut out of the conversation, as I never played it. I just heard about it after the fact." [source]

User: "Those end credits are truly incredible. Do you remember who wrote them? I'm guessing a combination of Mary Kirby & you?" David Gaider: "I wrote them, but I recall the entire team kind of took part in brainstorming the pieces of it." [source]

User: "I’m very curious- Do you know what direction you would have taken Cole and his story if you’d kept him?" David Gaider: "It's hypothetical at this point, but I suspect I would have been less willing to lose the serial killer aspect... or, at least, would have made that transition occur as part of his arc in DAI. Yet that's easy to say from this side of the divide. Who knows, really?" [source]

User: "With Cassandra you created one of the best characters in DA history." David Gaider: "Personally, my favorite response of hers is where she gets mocked for loving romance and she comes back with a retort about how it's a strength - how loving something and striving for the ideal takes courage. To me, that's central to her core." [source]

User: "inquiry: did you not write any of the Awakening characters?" David Gaider: "I wrote Anders, Justice, and Nathaniel in Awakening - but it was such a hurried project, my memories of it are pretty much a blur. "Yes, I worked on that" is almost all I can say about it, I'm afraid." [source]

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Glocking Out

Friday night should mean a cozy night in with a TV show and a bowl of ice cream. But instead, here I am, working late in the office, trying to finish a project to deliver to my boss by Monday morning. There’s no one else in the office, and when I finally finish up nearing midnight, the entire corporate building is empty, lights long dimmed.

I drag myself out of the building, ready to get home and collapse into bed to sleep for the entire weekend. The click of my heels is the only sound that rings through the night as I exit the elevator into the parking garage and let out a tired sigh into the quiet air.

I click my car fob and open my trunk as I approach the car, tossing my purse into the back and digging around to look for a pair of slippers to change into. I’m absolutely too tired to make the drive home in heels and the idea of fuzzy slippers around my feet is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

While I’m still bent over, buried head-first in my trunk, I suddenly feel a presence behind me. Before I can react, I feel the cold, hard press of metal against my back and the ominous click of a gun’s safety coming off. I freeze in terror and my throat pushes out a pathetic whimper of fear.

I hear a deep laugh echo around me and a man’s voice, “Stay still, princess. I’d hate to paint the inside of your trunk with your blood.” A big, warm hand presses against my spine, pushing me even further into the trunk while the gun digs uncomfortably against me.

I let out a choked gasp, “What do you want? Take my purse! I have cash, take whatever you want, please don’t hurt me!” My voice is shaky and I can feel tremors of fear wrack my body.

He laughs again. “Oh, princess, I don’t want money. But I will be taking whatever I want from you,” he purrs, the innuendo clear in his voice. His hand leaves my back to run down my body and he grips my ass hard before landing a harsh spank against me. I whine out a plea, “No! Please! Please, just let me go!”

“No can do, princess. A pretty little thing like you, all alone, in the middle of the night with no one around. It’s like you’re beckoning to me,” he growls as his hand continues to knead my ass over the skirt I’m wearing. Tears are in my eyes now as I stare blankly into my trunk, my face pressed against the rough car trunk mat.

Moments later, he threads a hand through my hair and grips me hard, pulling me out of the trunk and onto my feet. He spins me around and for the first time, I get a good look at him.

He’s huge, in both size and height, his massive frame towering over me. Even without the gun, he could probably break me easily, and that thought sends more fear slithering down my spine. His eyes are filled with a sadistic gleam that makes me want to curl up and hide. A harsh yank from his hand in my hair makes me cry out in pain and he leads me to the passenger side of the car.

“Get in the car and don’t do anything stupid. I’d hate to have to kill you before we have any real fun,” he says menacingly. I slide into the car on shaky legs and he slams the door shut. He makes his way to the driver side and without another word, he peels out of the parking garage.

A little while later, he pulls the car off the main road onto a tiny trail that I’d never even noticed before. Several minutes of random turns and paths in the pitch black forest that I would never be able to remember or identify bring us to a tiny little cabin. It would be quaint if it weren’t inhabited by the psychopath holding me at gunpoint.

He drags me out of the car, the gun never leaving my side and we step into the cabin. He herds me into the bedroom and the door clicks shut behind us. The room is awash in a soft yellow light and decorated in soft fall tones that, in any other circumstance, would be incredibly romantic.

He smiles with a sparkle in his terrifyingly sadistic eyes and a shiver runs down my spine. “Strip for me,” he says as he steps back to sit at the edge of the bed, gun still leveled at me.

I shake my head desperately, “No, please! Please, anything but that, please!”

He laughs at me, “Come on, pretty princess, I’m not a patient man. Either you strip for me or it gets ugly.”

Tears well up in my eyes and I blink them back. I glance towards the door, I’m closer to it than he is, maybe if I can surprise him, I can get out of the room before he gets a chance to stop me.

He sees my line of thinking and chuckles again. “You might outrun me but you can’t outrun a bullet, princess.”

His words land like a punch to my stomach and I look back at him with defeat. My shaky hands move to the buttons of my blouse as I comply with his initial request. He smiles.

I pull off my top and slide it off my shoulders before going to unzip my skirt and stand before him in my bra, panties, and stockings.

“Bra off, leave the rest on,” he says, his voice deep with desire. “Come here,” he commands, gesturing towards the floor between his legs with the gun.

I unclasp the bra and let it drop to the floor, where I fix my gaze. I pad towards him and stand in front of him for a moment before I lower myself down to my knees, my form fitting into his spread legs.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, princess. Such a good girl,” his deep voice sends shivers down my spine. I keep my gaze on the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with him. He doesn’t like that.

I feel the cold metal of the gun slide beneath my chin and I gasp as he raises my head with his gun. My wide eyes meet his and I see the satisfaction in his gaze as it locks onto mine. He leaves the gun against me as he jerks his chin downwards. “Take my cock out, princess.”

I glance down and see the outline of his hardness pressing against his pants. He looks huge. He sucks his teeth at me, “Come on, don’t keep me waiting now.”

My fingers shake as I undo his belt and the fastening on his pants before I reach in and pull his hard cock out. I let out a quiet whine when I see it. He is huge, tip already leaking precum and an angry shade of red that looks so mean. I shouldn’t be turned on by my attacker’s cock but I absentmindedly lick my lips and I catch the leer on his face that makes my thighs clench.

“You know what to do, princess,” he purrs, tangling his free hand into my hair. I give in and lean down to run my tongue gently along the vein that runs through his cock. He tastes divine, the clean smell of his skin combined with the warmth and weight of his cock in my mouth making my brain go fuzzy. I hear him groan above me, “That’s it, suck my cock, princess.”

I give him a few more kitten licks before I wrap my lips fully around the crown of his cock and suck. “Fuck,” his groan is guttural and his grip tightens on my hair. I moan softly around his cock and I feel him twitch in my mouth. I breathe in through my nose as I swallow more of his cock down my throat.

“Fuck, that’s it, good girl. Take my cock down your throat,” he groans and his fingers dig harshly into my scalp. I slowly work my way back up his cock and set a smooth rhythm, bobbing my head up and down and wrapping my hand around what doesn’t fit into my mouth. There’s a pleasant haze that surrounds me right now, his cock in my mouth and his fingers in my hair. I squirm a little on my knees, my pussy clenching as warmth settles into my core.

Suddenly, he yanks me off his cock without warning. I gasp and look up at him. “I want you to ride me,” he says, smirking at me and gesturing toward the bed with his gun. The gun that I’d almost forgotten about. Seeing it now sends another shock of fear through my body, pushing away some of the arousal from earlier.

He lays back onto the bed, sprawled out like a king, hard cock jutting out from between his legs. I absentmindedly clench my thighs together and I know he noticed because he laughs. “Come on, princess. I know you want to.”

I stand and slide my panties off before slipping onto the bed, slinging a leg over him to get situated. He stays still, watching me with a predatory look in his eye, gun now retrained on me. “That’s it, princess,” he purrs as I settle myself over him.

“Is your pretty pussy wet for me?” He asks. I want to lie and say no but it’s no use, I’m so wet I’m dripping all over him. I whimper and nod and he laughs again. “Better put that pussy to use then, come on, ride me, princess.”

I brace my hands against his chest and lower myself onto his cock. The delicious stretch of him filling me makes me whine and I dig my fingers into his chest. He moans at the feeling of my wet heat surrounding him and his hips come up to meet mine, forcing the last bit of his cock into me.

He feels so fucking good inside of me and every single cell of my body wants more. I let out a low moan as my hips start to move, every single movement making his cock rub up against my g-spot. “That’s it, ride my cock, princess.”

I let out a broken moan as my hips keep up their movements. My back arches and I let my eyes flutter closed as I lose myself in the sensations. Suddenly, I feel cold, hard metal brush against my clit and my eyes fly open with a cry.

I look down and my blood freezes when I see him, running the tip of the gun against my clit. He grins up at him, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. “Don’t stop now, princess. You’re doing so well, I’m gonna help you and play with this little clitty.”

I whimper as he pushes the gun harder against my sensitive, swollen nub, the friction making delicious shivers run up and down my spine.

“Come on, princess. You’re going to cum all over my cock while I rub your clit with my gun,” he says, each pass of the gun over my clit pushing me closer and closer to an orgasm.

The fear and pleasure mix into a dark combination that forces my body higher and higher. I can feel the cold metal of the gun warming against the burning heat of my cunt and every nerve in my body seems to be coiled tight as a spring. My hips are jerkily moving on top of him as I chase my own release.

Suddenly, he moves underneath me and slams him cock deeper into me while holding me down. I shatter with a wail as my pussy clenches around him. I hear his curse as his release quickly follows, his hips never stopping their relentless assault on me and the gun never moving off my clit as he fucks me through my orgasm.

Eventually, he pulls the gun away and I collapse down onto his chest, boneless and limp. I feel his fingers thread through my hair gently and his arm comes up to wrap around my body, keeping me pressed against his chest.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs into my hair as he presses soft kisses into the crown of my head. I make a soft noise back at him and I hear him laugh softly and affectionately.

I stay in his arms a little longer before I raise my head to look at him. “Thank you, honey,” I say before pressing a sweet kiss onto his chest.

He hugs me tighter, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I will say, you were in the office for so long, I was soooo bored waiting for you.”

I giggle at him, “If I’d known you were waiting, I would’ve finished faster.” He huffs and rolls his eyes, “Well I think I did a pretty good job helping you “glock” out.” He waggles his eyebrows at me and I choke out a laugh.

“Shut up and sleep.”

—

pls appreciate the title because i thought of it and just had to write something to fit it teehee

[delliebre]

how to not make color variation look ass i have color jitter on a lot of my brushes but if i turn it up too much it just looks ununified and bad - your colors look so good!! and like i keep the values but ig it just looks off? like ive noticed a lot of nice green-kind-of spots in ur art among other colors and like its there but it's all really harmonious and stuff

it is hard to explain further than me saying "use a light touch". I am light with my strokes. I build up the work with lots of layered, quick, and short brushing. The color jitter then is way more subtle as I build it. I have more control.

I think it is important to compare the first block-in to the final so we can see the foundational colors. Here is an isolation. I start in a closer value range most times and expand both ways on the value scale as I progress. The colors expand also. For this I did not have a plan for the final, as at the start I chose cooler light but decided on warmth later. I choose muted tones with muted value. My main render brushes do not have color dynamics because control is increasingly important with progression.

here are my settings for the block-in brush. I recommend keeping brightness jitter low for subtlety.

If the values are close, but the colors are still seeming off, to harmonize, if we are talking about skin, (but applies generally) I would take the average skin tone and glaze the problem areas with it. Can be done in normal layer or color blend mode. I like normal layer. Be light with this. In being light, we keep our textures built up from all the layering and the subtle color variation.

So, first image is the value range I start with, second is sometimes what I end with. Minus pure black and pure white. This is planned. However, it can be irritating working in values you know are not final, the ugly stage stays longer, but I still prefer this.

You can also try adding a new digital layer and brush what colors you want and then lowering the opacity or erasing. Perks of digital.

Also, the color spots, of greens and whatever, are not blankets. They are blotched, the main color when you squint is an acceptable, not too wild color for skin. The little color pops and changes do not overpower. I could make the whole cheek a bit more green, in the same values, but it would feel off because it is blanketing when it should be just thread among the main average. I want to go in and out with the colors for vibration. The acceptable colors have the liberty to blanket, not the additions. But this depends one what is required of the work/what the artist wants to see.

before: sort of filtered look as I keep a close range of value and color, planning to add variation later..(patience is hard)

after: added variation and expanded value range built up slowly

hope this helps you. Sorry it is hard to explain what is intuitive to me I do not think about this stuff in words.. when I make mistakes painting I just call myself stupid and try to correct it. A lot of "why would you do that?" and "WTF?"

but still it is fun keep experimenting! Thank you!

I actually would like to edit the colors, but better to go onto the next one instead of berating my past decisions.

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-Rated, 4.7k words]

He pulls you so close there's a mere thread of air between the tips of your noses. You look up and see a man lost in the midst of his demons, drowning under a pain so core-deep there's no hope of excavation – and in the reflection of those coffee eyes, you see yourself, the angel, the life ring, the last hope that keeps him tethered to the world. "No." The word punctuates with unyielding command. "No. I would never, ever let them hurt you. I swear it to god." "I don't care about God," you whisper. "Swear it to me."

The truth comes out as you sew Sebastian's wounds.

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: alcoholism, coarse language, blood/ injury, surgical stitching, explicit smut MDNI (dirty talk, table sex, porn with feelings, semi-public sex, very slight breeding kink).

5. living and surviving

Sebastian comes to when you hold smelling salts under his nose.

Between last breath and now, you were a mile out in the centre of town, a minute's walk from the pub, maybe more, depending on how far astray you were led by Harlow's men. You have no idea how you ended up in some cramped one-bed flat overlooking a dim, dingy street near the docks – and until you noticed the empty bottles strewn on a damp, sticky floor and smelt a musk of sweat and leather infused with the bedsheets, you didn't know where you were either. The garret converted from a servant's quarters feels like its own world, not quite tangled with reality.

But Sebastian's bloodied body is no dream. Everything that's happened – waking up in the middle of the night, Harlow attacking, Sebastian interfering, then transporting to his lodging in the blink of an eye... you can barely process it.

His eyes flutter open at the smell, and you place the salts aside to wipe the sweat from his brow. Now is not the time to panic; Sebastian needs you. You can't let it get to you while he's on the brink of seeing his parents again.

"Easy. You blacked out."

"Fuck." He winces. "I..."

He tries to reach for his pocket – you stop him. "I told you to take it easy."

"Need... drink..."

"No you don't. I got some bandage from your bathroom and cleaned and wrapped the wounds, but the one on your chest is too deep. It needs sewing. Have you got a needle?"

His gaze drifts to the empty whisky bottle on his bedside drawer.

"Don't tell me you used the good stuff?"

"You won't get to appreciate the good stuff if you die." You sink down onto the chair, staring at the dried blood on your hands. "My parents, Sebastian. What if Harlow—"

"He won't," he says gently, making you look at him. "He'll want to go lick his wounds and whinge about losing to a child." Fresh blood blooms into the bandage when he sits up. "There's an emergency kit in my bathroom, under the sink. Can you grab it?"

The kit turns out to be a canvas basket of unmarked phials of an oozing grass-green liquid.

"What the hell is this?" you ask, when you hand one to him.

Instead of applying it to cloth, like you expect, he places the phial to his lips. Half of it bobs down his throat before you slap it away, smashing it against the wall.

"What the—!"

"For God's sake, are you insane? Taking some potion like that? No herbal nonsense is going to clear a wound. That's not a natural colour!"

His head cocks, like he's thinking of some joke.

"Potion, you say?"

"It's not funny." You snatch an old shirt and press it to the wound – he lets out a yelp. "I told you, it needs sewing. You must have a needle somewhere."

"I don't." Already he sounds better, and colour returns to his cheeks. "You've got one at the pub?"

"Obviously."

"Then we'll go back."

"You're in no state—"

"We can check on your parents."

The retort vanishes. Realistically you can't say no. You had every intention of making sure he was okay before going yourself, but Sebastian's method of transport, whatever that entails, is a lot faster. You take his outstretched hand and shut your eyes, and as quick as it takes to adjust to the pleasant fizzing his grip brings do you return to the pub's main hall like you never left.

Sebastian barely teeters. For someone badly injured not ten minutes ago, his recovery is remarkable, and he prowls along the surroundings with molten grace. Every shadow seems sentient and beastly, every corner a secret, and when the darkness is both the cloak and the dagger, turning from friend to foe at whatever whim it designs, the potential for danger flares panic in your belly. You were a fool to follow the noises. A fool to fall for the trap. Harlow plucked you up like you were nothing. If not for Sebastian, you'd be dead. Or wishing you were.

Sebastian's presence is the only thing keeping those thoughts at bay, and when you check your parents upstairs – fast asleep and undisturbed – relief douses some of those flames.

After a cursory perimeter patrol, Sebastian lumbers back into the hall and sits on the edge of a table. You fetch an emergency kit from under the bar and light a candle, exposing how much worse the wound has become. Some sort of gungy discharge weeps through the bandage, a worrying shade of yellow.

"I can clean the infection." You scooch closer, ignoring the way the smell of his sweat makes your mouth dry. "It— it should be okay."

"Hope so. Can't imagine dying in your pub would be convenient."

"Don't you realise that could have happened?" you snap, letting out the tiniest vent of emotion. "Fuck, you got off light, Sebastian! You could've been left with a hundred stab wounds or beaten so hard you were unrecognisable or killed in a bloody alleyway—"

He intertwines his fingers with yours suddenly, curbing the tremors.

"I'm all right, bar girl. I will live."

It's an invitation of calm in calamity. He's okay. He'll live. You repeat it over and over again, trying to absorb the words and focus on his grip. It anchors you, devours you, makes your heart soar into the vast endlessness of the night sky. Is it the anxiety of Harlow's attack that makes your knees weak, or is it him, an embodiment of light on the wings of darkness?

You pull away, flustered. For fuck's sake. He's covered in blood, bruises, sweat and dried alcohol. He's confusing and contradictory and crass. He's an illusion of perfection, an enigma no close to being solved. He should not be an option – ever. But your body tingles with desire as you singe a needle beneath the kettle's boil.

What would it be like to taste him? What would it be like for him to taste me?

"You know," he says, "I could've just drank the potion and saved you the hassle."

You sit opposite him to thread it, aware of his penetrating gaze. "Yeah, and then I'd be reviving your arse from bloody cardiac arrest."

"Might be worth it for a kiss."

You look up at him, stunned.

"The kiss of life, bar girl." That insufferable smirk. "Keep up."

You finally stick the thread through the eye, and when he removes the bandage, sodden with blood, you get a proper look at the damage. It's a clean slice down his chest, not long but deep. Strangely, it seems smaller than it was before.

"Shirt off, I need full access to sew it shut."

His mouth crooks upwards – handsome and charming and utterly vexing.

"First a kiss, now my shirt? There are easier ways to get me in bed, bar girl."

But he obeys, peeling off the soiled linen.

And by God do you stare.

It's hard not to. Sebastian Sallow is built like fucking Adonis. Chiselled, hard abs, perfectly moulded shoulders, tufts of hair that run a course down his chest, hinting at the V-shape below the trouser line, and freckles – so many freckles it could fill a night sky.

And tattoos.

There's more than the runes and the 706 – his body is a monument to ink. Black and gold snakes coil around his arms. Lilies bloom across the waist. There are bones, cracked and whole, compasses that point north, faux claw marks and barren oaks struck by lightning. When you inspect his back, the eyes of a white fox peer at you, the pillar of a dark building bisects crashing waves, a strange clock chimes with six differently-sized faces and a silver globe glows, suspended in air and intricately filigreed. Other symbols decorate him too, most you don't recognise, and there are dates on his wrist, XXVIII-III-MCMI, and another, III-II-MCMI.

He is terrifying – and beautiful. He's not the canvas, but the piece in itself, an accumulated expression of ideas, love, joy, sorrow and pain, engraved on his surface like the epitaph on a tomb.

ᚺᚲ706

"This one," you mumble, reaching out, hesitating before your fingers graze the fine bristles of hair. "The runes, and the number 706... what does it mean?"

"This," he says, "is my identification number."

"For what?"

"Sew me up and I'll tell you."

Maybe you won't need to. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone might be branded this way.

After a brief swish of acid-dipped cloth, the needle goes through his skin. His jaw sets and he lets out a low rumble of a groan, a noise that sets your blood pumping. You close the suture as fast as you can, hoping not to extend the moment of pain, but it seems to go on forever, his ember gaze burning firelight into your soul.

"I went to prison," he says quietly, when you're almost done. "Ten years."

You go rigid. "For?"

Petty theft, fraud, anything but the worst ones.

But he looks away.

"Murder."

Fuck. It hits you like a punch – his hands around some faceless victim's neck, or a knife in hand, glistening red. He ended another life. The air parches, hot and heady.

"I swear I would never do anything to hurt you," he says, reading your horror. "I didn't—" His face contorts, like he knows better than to finish that sentence. "I learnt my lesson."

"What, that killing is bad?" You give him a sad smile. "I learnt that when I was five."

He lets out a derisive snort. "I was... a difficult child." For the first time ever, Sebastian seems sheepish, bashful. "Our parents died when I was young and the only relative who could take us in was our uncle. He didn't give a shit about us. Anne was dying and he hated that I was trying to help her, and I... I just snapped.

"Kath was there. It's why she resents me. We were close, me and her, but then she was implicated – and she never forgave the choice I made."

The last thread knots evenly. You cut it clean. With one final wipe of carbolic acid, all that's left is a long, wicked seam, slashing diagonally through his final tattoo, a skull.

Some wounds, it seems, can never be mended.

"Your sister... she had cancer?" you ask hoarsely.

Sebastian inhales deeply. "Something like that."

"I'm sorry."

"No. Fuck." He laughs and rakes a hand through his hair – the movement tugs you along like a helpless skein of thread. "She didn't die from it. She lived with it. Then everything happened with my uncle and every day in that shithole prison I thought of her and hoped she was all right. She forgave me, you know, for it all. Took her eight years, but she did. Finally wrote me a letter on our birthday. I was so happy I'd get to see her again. But prison – the prison I went to... it changes you, makes you lash out and do things to protect yourself. I made enemies there."

"Like Harlow," you whisper.

"During school he made Kath's life hell, so in prison I made hell for him. He took that personally. When I got out, I finally reunited with Anne... and when he got out, he thought he'd get me back after all those years."

It hits you again, a soundless but fatal strike. What he means, what he's suggesting, is so awful it leaves you breathless.

"Sebastian, you... you can't let him get away with it."

"What else can I do? Anne is dead. She was the light of my life and he just winked her out like she was nothing."

The almighty fist, and the weak little grape.

"If you do nothing," you say firmly, "he wins."

"He's already won. He took my twin sister."

"And who's to say he won't take a shot at Ominis? Or Garreth? Or... or me? He already has and I was a fool to fall for it—"

He pulls you so close there's a mere thread of air between the tips of your noses. You look up and see a man lost in the midst of his demons, drowning under a pain so core-deep there's no hope of excavation – and in the reflection of those coffee eyes, you see yourself, the angel, the life ring, the last hope that keeps him tethered to the world.

"No." The word punctuates with unyielding command. "No. I would never, ever let them hurt you. I swear it to god."

"I don't care about God," you whisper. "Swear it to me."

These coffee eyes grind you up and spit you out anew. His lids lower, his attentions wandering down your face, down the slope of your nose to the peak of your lips. They fixate there, lit with a whetted appetite.

"I swear it to you," he breathes.

Your gaze goes to his lips too, and his tongue moistens the curve.

"Prove it."

Sebastian hesitates.

It's the last time he does.

His thumb finds the column of your throat and wanders upwards until the pad grazes your lips, starving for a morsel of a taste. His mouth parts again, and you breath his air, every atom like divine nectar. You would beg for a taste. Sensing the hunger, his lips tug into an insufferable, delicious, affectionate smirk, and his other hand brings your chin closer to finally seal the gap.

Sebastian kisses like you're the last breath he'll take before falling to the ocean deep, never again to resurface. It isn't tender but consuming, taking, greedy. He wants. For the longest time he forgot what that meant to a body broken by grief and seduced by dependency. Now he takes it back. This is the rawest form of seizing control.

You dig your nails into his scalp, and his curls coil around your fingers like snakes on a vine. You want too. To give, to take, to stake your claim in a way no one else can. Sebastian is spontaneity and release and desire and imperfection. The storm and the eye, at once unpredictable and comforting. Your days are mapped, aligned and ordered for years to come, as a corpse that breathes and moves and survives, but he guides you to that last missing piece – the spirit of the human soul.

He grips your hips, swapping you around so you're pressed to the table, and kisses again fiercely, taking ownership of your mouth like no one has before. Pressed down, your back hits the table in an arc, and Sebastian sucks on your lips greedily, he the alcoholic, you his last pint of beer.

"I want you," he breathes into your ear. "Fuck, I've wanted you for so long."

You gasp when his teeth bite down on your throat, marking you for himself. The pain is welcome and ingratiating and your sex throbs, begging for attention. His hands greedily unbutton the top of your ruined nightdress, yanking the panels apart to give him access to your breasts.

"Sebastian," you cry, as his tongue licks the sore spot on your neck, and his hand finds the nipple, erect and waiting. He thumbs it in taunting swirls. "W-We can't."

"Why not?"

"My pub... people use these tables..."

He winks. "'Bout time we broke it in, don't you think?"

Somehow it heightens every sensation. The hardness of the table, the wrongness of the act. Tomorrow people will drink and dine here and you do not care. Sebastian knows it. He grasps your face, slipping his hot tongue into your mouth and claiming it for his own, and you whimper, drawn so entirely into him that all you can think, taste, feel, is him.

Your lips smack when he breaks off. His hands run through your hair until the strands spill over the edge, and his lips find other pursuits – your jaw, your throat, the other side of your neck.

"I'm not a good person," he whispers as his hands rip the top of the dress clean off, exposing your breasts again. "I've lied, I've hurt, I've killed.... and I've paid the price. I gave up pretending to be someone I'm not. But you make me want to try."

His tongue slithers over the arc of your breast.

"You are good, Sebastian," you stammer out. "You are—"

His teeth clamp on the nipple – pleasure bursts up your chest. He sucks, pulling upwards as he does, and your sex pulses so badly you close your legs and hope the friction will suffice.

"Sebastian— fuck—"

He lets go, panting, kissing the sore nipple before moving onto the other, and you cry out again. Bite, suck, pull. The cycle tortures you. When he bastes the nipple with his tongue, a soothing gesture, you try to catch your breath before his kisses trail to the junction below your navel.

"You make me want to fight. You make me want to be better. You make me want to start again. Before you I was surviving... you've taught me how to live."

You're delirious with emotions, pleasure yes, but joy too, threatening to make you burst. How can he say that when he's the one giving you this celestial high? Sebastian litters kisses all over your skin, some gentle, some with teeth, uncaring of how ungroomed you deem yourself when he parts your legs. The first stroke on your clit is fire, his fingers a firmness in the wet slickness of your folds.

"Sebastian—"

"I make you this solemn vow." He probes more firmly over the nub, sending wave after wave of pleasure. "I would hunt everyone down if it meant I could keep you safe."

He rubs until you're swollen and desperate and rabid for more than his touch. You want him inside you. Now. Yet some part of you not mad with pleasure manages to raise your head to look him in the eye.

"You... you'd create hell for me?"

Those coffee eyes flicker to meet yours – and they glimmer in a kaleidoscope of lust.

"I wouldn't create hell for you, bar girl." He grins. "I'd raze it."

The finger slips in so easily, like you were made to fit him. Your head hits the table and a cry rips almost involuntarily from your throat. Sebastian gives you little time to adjust before he pulls out and thrusts back in, the intrusion a mercy of pleasure. You clench around him, desperate to be stretched more.

"How badly do you want this?" he finally asks, bringing attention to the dirtiness of his act. "You feel like you like it."

You bite your lip as he rolls in and out. "God..."

"Do you like it?" he demands. "Say it for me."

"Yes," you say – whine. "Yes, I like it."

"You like what?"

"W-When you fuck me with your fingers."

He scoffs, propelling so fast you feel pleasure quickly coalescing. "So impatient, love. I'm only using one."

Love. The term of endearment sends a shudder up your spine. A second finger slides into your warmth, turning that shudder into a quiver, and a third turns it into a quake. Then he curls upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes your vision dizzy. It doesn't take him long to find it, when your breath catches and your eyes shut, and he thrusts in and out with breathless pace, determined to undo you. You give in to the pressure like ice to fire. You're so close. Fuck, it's frustrating and powerful and pure ecstasy. You rock your hips in time to him, chasing your orgasm.

"Not yet."

"W-What?"

He slows suddenly, maddeningly, and then slips out, leaving you cold and empty. "Not yet."

"Sebastian," you bark, "you better finish me off or I swear—"

His low chuckle cuts you off. He goes back to gently thumbing the pearl, ebbing your pleasure back to an insufferable ache. You hiss when he stands upright – his own pleasure evident by the bulge in his breeches.

"You're going to cum," he murmurs, "when I let you."

His hand comes away, and you let out a needy, pathetic wail that ignites the fervour in his eyes. He stares at you unflinching as he discards his bottom half and allows full view of his cock. It's big, far bigger than any you've ever taken before, proudly erect and forked with a prominent vein. The tip is already beading, and he gives it a few pumps with the hand wet with your juices before running his fingers up and down your thighs.

"You gave me a head start," you say, ravenous to try him.

"Oh, don't worry about that, bar girl," he says, leaning closer, grazing the tip against you. His face betrays a flicker of pleasure. "I'll make sure we're even."

Sliding along your entrance makes a sinfully loud, wet schlick, but he rubs at a leisurely pace, building you back up again until you're clawing the table's edge.

"If you keep doing that—"

But he continues to grind himself lazily through the slick folds, getting slicker by the moment. You open and close in time with each thrust, stimulating yourself, hips rocking, rhythm quickening until you're on the verge of letting go again.

He grips your hips with one hand, and the other finds your clit – the perfect time. "Cum for me, love."

It's too much. The orgasm implodes – the pleasure pulses through every fibre of your body as you dig your nails into the table's edge so hard you graze the polish. That dam of frustration crumbles to relief, to reaching the second celestial high of the night. Sebastian rides along with the aftershocks, each thrust slow but demanding, coating the base of his cock with the sticky release until his skin shines with it.

"Not bad," he murmurs, as he runs his tongue over his thumb, eyes glimmering with satisfaction. "But I think we can do better, bar girl. How badly do you want me inside you?"

You pant, barely conscious. "Sebastian—"

"Say it," he trills. "Or..." He pulls back, leaving you cold and aching for his touch.

You grunt loudly. "Just fuck me already!"

With that shit-eating grin you adore, he takes his cock and lines it up. The tip kisses your entrance; you can feel him, hot and sticky and wide, encouraging you to open for him, each sensation honed tenfold with anticipation. The push inwards stretches you gaping, and you widen yourself as far as you'll go to pull him inside, accommodating each inch until his hip is flush with your thighs. God, it feels amazing. He was always meant to fit, always meant to fill you completely.

"Fuck," he mutters, "you are tight."

You clench down, and his eyes flicker to yours, wild with lust.

"Minx."

He lets out a strained breath, that smirk finally giving way to a pleasure that knits his brow together. He's so warm, and... safe. As he repositions, curling his arms around your legs, you suddenly, dizzily, experience a completely new sensation – you want to take all of him, to let him use you for his own pleasure. To be pumped full of his seed, every drop until it fills the cracks and drips down your thighs, and even more after that. You want him to claim you, to fuck you so hard the rest of the shitty day fades into oblivion. Nothing else matters, only him and this perfect moment.

Being with him is truly freeing. It is truly living.

He flicks curls out of his eyes. "I have no intention of going slow."

You match his smirk.

"Good."

He withdraws – then slams back inside. The friction makes you cry out. Sweat beads his brow, but he does it again, and again, not once taking his eyes off you, coffee as dark and deeply seducing as hell itself. He keeps your thighs in a vice grip as he thrusts into you with a ruthless pace. His, the motions say. You are his. His rhythm starts to speed up, his balls slap noisily against your arse.

"You have— no idea— how long I've wanted this," he growls, each thrust punctuating his words. "No idea— how much— I've wanted to fuck you."

He releases your legs and braces his hands at your sides, finding a new angle to pound.

"You're taking me so well," he groans. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours." It comes out ragged and emotional.

His pace quickens. You drink in the scent of his sweat, his love-making. Fire gathers in your core. It's painful to hold it off until he's closer. It kills.

His breath shudders.

"I'm yours too."

It's too much. Tipped over the edge, the second orgasm sends pulses a pleasure so cosmic you black out for a moment. Each thrust is a mark of possession – your possession. He belongs to me. Only me. You clench around him as he plunges frantically into you in the chase for his own pleasure. With one final groan, he pulls out, thrusting madly into his hand until he doubles over, bleating a beautiful sound, brows knitted together and head craned as the thick ribbons of cum spill over your belly. His mark, left on you. I belong to him. Only him. He pumps until he's spent, leaving the residue hanging off his fingers like spun sugar.

"Sebastian..." you mumble.

He finds his way to your lips in a daze. This kiss is tender, full of love and appreciation, wanting, but in the small ways, too. Too exhausted to return the affections for long, you part from him and marvel at the way he smiles – like a sunrise on the highest mountain peak, so hopeful and full of life.

"I could get used to that," he pants out, tracing the cum on your stomach. "Vigorous shagging."

"Jesus Christ." He laughs and you eye his wound; red and sore but miraculously intact, despite his best efforts. "You shouldn't have exerted yourself so much."

"Oh, you care now that you've used me?" he teases, sitting you up to place kisses on your bare shoulder. "I never thought you'd look twice at me, you know."

It's an endearingly sad thought. Your head lolls to allow him better access. "Definitely not when you first walked in here."

"That Sebastian couldn't get his dick up."

"That Sebastian couldn't get himself up."

A finger sweeps across your forehead, tucking back a stray hair – the tenderness makes your bones melt. "You didn't have to help me, but I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're in my life. It's better with you in it."

"I wouldn't be here if you weren't a good person at heart, Sebastian Sallow."

A bashful sweep of crimson makes every freckle glow. His eyes lower to half-lids.

"I know addiction is a curse," he whispers, "but if there's one thing I'm willing to crave, it's the way your smile takes my breath away."

You seize him for another kiss, this time with all the fumbling, giggling and yearning of a first. His broad hands, branched with a river network of veins, cups the back of your neck as he kisses with as much ferocity as he does tenderness. He wants, you want. Separate you survive, but together, with your bodies intertwined and your souls connected, you live.

In a perfect world, this is all there is. You, your life and the man who loves you. But though you wish you could snuggle closer and shut your eyes to what lays beyond the walls, the high must wane eventually. It's a satisfying, but unnerving feeling to have when you pull away.

"What do we do now?"

"Already keen, bar girl?" Sebastian smirks, thumbing your waist. "Didn't think you had anything left."

"I meant," you say gently, "about Harlow."

"Please can we not talk about him when my cock's poking your thigh?" At your deadpan stare, he scrubs a hand down his face. "Look, I don't know right now, but I'll think of something." He draws you close, kisses your forehead. "That's a promise. Don't worry."

"You know I'll worry anyway." You go to stand. "Now I need to clean up. You've made a terrible mess."

But Sebastian scoops you into his arms, and in the darkness, his grin is sinful and wicked.

"Your mistake, bar girl," he growls, heading towards the stairs, "was thinking we were done."

Please like, share or reblog if you enjoyed <3

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@cordidy

[Gorgeous art by FlamboyantJelly] [Divider credit]

[userautumn]

Tommy stares down at his phone. If he were a better man he would delete the message and pretend he didn't see it, for both their sakes.

No. That's not right.

If he were a better man, a message like this wouldn't even be necessary. They would be spending the holiday together like they planned, curled up on the sofa like two parentheses watching movies before heading over to the Grant-Nashes for dinner. It's the kind of perfect world fantasy that always used to give him hope when he was a child, lonely and bruised and high off a concoction of drugs he almost hoped would kill him. But he's older now, and that fantasy is still just a fantasy.

He starts to type:

Thank you for teaching me what it felt like to be loved. I'm sorry I wasn't enough.

I miss you and I'm sorry.

Happy Thanksgiving.

He deletes them all and turns his phone off for a handful of seconds before impulsively turning it back on again. He brings up his and Buck's text thread and, before he can think better of it, texts back:

❤️

He doesn't know what it means. Doesn't even know what he wants it to mean, but the thought of not sending anything in response makes him sicker than thought of just sending a stupid fucking emoji.

He waits for a response, nauseous like he was the day after their first failed date, and then decides he's being kind of a teenager about the whole thing. But before he can turn his phone off again, it vibrates in his hand. He hesitates before unlocking his screen, unsure if he even wants to read the message. Is he playing with Buck's feelings by sending him a heart? Is he playing with his own feelings? Buck was just trying to be nice, he might have already moved on (and doesn't that make him dizzy to contemplate), and here Tommy is sending him hearts out of the fucking blue —

He opens the message... and laughs.

🦃❤️🦃😭 🍽️👎🏻

(Translation: What if I was a turkey and you were a turkey and we were two turkeys who were sad and miserable on Thanksgiving)

Tommy's throat tightens as he presses dial on Buck's number, laughter warring with grief warring with fondness. Evan answers on the first ring.

Tommy clears his throat. "You know what I think?"

"Tell me."

"I think..." He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what he's only just discovered he's going to say. "I think we should call a truce. One day only. You, me, a couple movies, and definitely not talking about our complicated turkey feelings. How does that sound?"

Buck hums. "Sounds good, one on condition."

Tommy freezes. He waits for the rejection and hopes the fear doesn't come across in his voice. "What's that?"

"You help me eat the embarrassing amount of desserts I've made while trying not to call you."

"How many?"

"Including the ones I've given away? About thirty-ish."

There's a lot to unpack there, way too much for one impulsive conversation. Tommy nods even though Buck can't see him.

"Well, hey, you throw in a carrot cake and you have a deal."

"Tommy," Buck says seriously. "I have three carrot cakes."

Tommy grins, despite himself. Warning bells go off in his brain and he ignores every single one of them. "Careful, Buckley, or this truce might end up being more than one night."

"Might not be the worst thing."

Tommy swallows. His grin slides off his face as he looks around his empty home. It looks lifeless and hollow, a cold mausoleum where all his hopes went to die. For the first time since the breakup, he allows himself to remember what his home looked like, what it felt like when it was filled with his boyfriend, when it was filled with love. How safe and warm it was, and how it could feel again.

"No," Tommy says softly, and he swears even across the distance of the phone, he can feel some of that warmth even now. "Might not be the worst thing."

living in a world where buck decides holidays don’t count and texts tommy a sweet and earnest, “even though i wish we had more, i’m thankful for the time we did get together. happy thanksgiving tommy.”

[homoeroticgrappling]

He ain't slick, I saw what it said before he edited it

I will now be overthinking about this until Saturday

[98chao]

truly i love all of you and i'm so grateful for all the support i get on my vanilla milkshake posts here because i've just seen the way people talk about vanilla milkshake and mysticao on twitter and its genuinely taken 50 years off my life. now i've been reminded as to why i should never join the crk fandom on twitter

[pocketramblr]

I always found it slightly awkward how media makes siblings or people who see each other as siblings call each other brother/sister all the time as in real life you almost never see people do that with their own siblings (maybe someone out there like that)

In the case of Arkham Shadows I see why they did though because Bruce quite literally tells Harvey he loves him and Harvey says it back. Can't have the audience think Batman is in love with the DA.

They had Bruce pay for his college, pay for his campaign, pay for his surgery, pay for his therapy and had Harvey have him as his best man at his wedding. Wow..... Sugar baby Harvey is real.....

The calling sibling title thing is less common in English than in some other languages for sure- me and a couple of my siblings do it on occasion, but it's for a bit then. More common is when I call one of my close family friends "my sister" or "my nephew" when talking about them to someone else because it's faster and easier to say that than to say "my friend who I've known since she was born and lived with for a few years and consider a little sister" or "child of a close family friend who considers me an aunt" to someone who doesn't know them. Which is a lot of words to say that if they wanted to fully sell me on the brothers thing they should have either had a different bit or should have referred to the other as "my brother" when talking to an unrelated character instead.

But "oh no we have to make Bruce not look gay" has been a problem DC has struggled with more than once for many decades and it basically never works so I guess at least they didn't try to solve it this time by having Bruce pick a lady love over Harvey or cutting the holding hands thing

Because I saw that scrapbook! I know Harvey has been Bruce's sugar baby since he was ten years old! But we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him the love of his life because ok technically that's Gotham but also because gay. And we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him his best friend because they're not ten anymore and somehow that seems gay also. So brothers it is, I guess. Even if I think my brothers would bite my finger if I ever tried to pay for everything for them on that scale, guess it's different at billionaire levels

[akkivee]

can’t believe they just highlighted ichiro and kuukou’s hand size difference and matching rings set up in one swoop like that lmao

[savingthrcw]

honestly my happy ending for Lucy (said as someone who only finished fallout 3 and her lone wanderer died) is that they get to reclaim their 3 vaults and use their resources while leaving the doors open, and she keeps going on quests until she retires and has a bunch of animals, the marriage she wanted, and friends who keep visiting her, after they truly started unraveling what is left of Vault Tec, and you can pry that from my cold dead hands

[mountainofhistory]

Referencing gensokyohyakkiyako's ask

In truth, Keine's not one to enjoy a battle. But she also feels that she has to be ready for it. And she suspects, though she has no way of confirming, that Mokou's been going easy on her in her sparring matches. Which has led her to this solution. Bold, absolutely. Impractical? Maybe. But Kaguya doesn't seem to mind it.

"Don't give me a reason to complain, Princess, and I won't," Keine agrees to the otherwise unspoken contract. The punch registers a second later, Keine bracing but still feeling the impact much, much more than she expects, knocking her back a step or two. She doesn't seem particularly discouraged by it, though. "I had a feeling you'd be good at this... it's actually not my own specialty. I'm better with a naginata. But I don't always have a naginata." The implication is obvious. She wants - needs a backup option.

Keeping her fists close to her chest, she darts in forward, aiming for any vulnerable-looking spot on Kaguya's body she can reach. It's just sparring, but with Eirin so close, there's no need to hold back. And with her youkai stamina and Kaguya's Lunarian capabilities, it'll probably be a while before either of them goes down.

[mitamicah]

And so I have finished all four of the gig stickers for the upcoming Käärijä europe tour :3 The plan now is to order them as soon as I am done eating :3

Any preferences whether you'd like to see the designs now or closer to the gig dates :3? I mean, the Polish dates are first in december after all x'D

[eoinmcgonigal]

So I saw a post about tumblr wanting to try this 'communities' thing, and I just gotta vent/say my piece. (the tl;dr is 'fuck that shit')

1. I really hate the current trend of fracturing and fragmenting things down into little pieces so they can be categorised into boxes. That's not natural. (Also, discord pushing threads, which I already detest for 1) making me feel like I'm gonna hurl from the violently dissonant, ugly layout, 2) the severely narrow topic problem, and 3) how neurodiverse-hostile they are.)

Like, naturally conversations meander. If you're only allowed to discuss one topic, it's gonna be stifling. You WILL run out of things to say. Making another little box isn't going to fix it, it'll just add to the clutter

2. Quite importantly, honestly, just stop fucking changing shit. It's unnecessary

3. It's not going to be neurodiverse-friendly. As if fandom hasn't changed enough to become increasingly unfriendly to people who are just here to enjoy their hyperfixation and/or special interest. I don't need another thing to learn to navigate. I don't need another place with different rules to carefully traverse. Yes, I'm fandom old and salty. I'm AuDHD and a spoonie with about half a spoon to spend on a good day. I do not have the energy to do all this switching about and jumping from thing to thing. It's exhausting. I want everything where I can find it, and where I can be passionate without having to perform tasks like it's some customer service job, or job interview

4. FOMO shit is toxic. This whole 'be a part of the thing!' necessity if you want to 'engage' or see the conversations and 'content'. Why? I guess it's a social media model that drives engagement, but the stress of it is going to fuck people up. What if you don't have the time, energy, health, spoons, social skills, etc? I have no idea how much interacting will be expected with other people in the 'community' but I can see it becoming a twitter-like circlejerk, and if you're not one of the 'in' crowd doing your required interaction/reblogging/commenting then you might as well not exist to that fandom/group

5. From the description, it looks like these things will be ripe for drama, toxicity, clique shit, becoming echo chambers, etc. because 'semi public' means you gotta opt in/join in some way and whatever's said isn't visible to any old user

Like, who is going to create and mod these things? Who decides what the rules are? What if your fave is 'problematic', or your kink is 'gross' (if nsfw is allowed at all), your take doesn't fit with fanon, or you are just a bit weird and people shun or turn on you for that?

I hope I'm wrong and either these things never happen or they're not as bad as I fear, but fuck sakes I have the above worries because it's shit I've seen happen time and time again, and I don't want to see given a place here

Also, genuinely, what the fuck is tumblr going to be like if you can't/don't want interact with these community things?

Quickly, 6. it creates an 'us' (in crowd) vs. 'them' (not part of our gang)

And then 7. who is going to be dominant in these 'communities'?

Yes, I'm upset right now, because tumblr was just fine (well, fine enough) until this point. I mean:

We have the ability to make sideblogs! (My Star Wars sideblog from... well a decade ago oops... is still out there, I don't touch it any more but I left it up for people to go through). Tumblr even made it so we can reply with sideblogs, which was a very neat update.

Tags!! I don't think it's as usual these days for people to go through tags to find new content, but that's how I do it, how I've always done it, and how I always intend to do it. I'm not following everyone who makes an SAS:RH post. I love you guys, but no. My dash would cause me to have a panic attack. It's already too much for me most days.

EFFORT!!!! I can be here every day full-time doing Stuff if I want! Or I can zone out for weeks if I want/need, materialise and contribute a silly meme, then drift off into the sunset again. If I 'miss' anything, I can go back through the tags, or scroll someone's blog. But honestly, who notices/cares on here if someone lurks or goes afk for a bit. It's super low pressure, because I'm doing what I can/want when I can/want

I want to opt in/out on my own time and terms. The thought of having to be part of a 'community' so I can see/not miss Content TM is freaking me out. I don't want there to be an 'appropriate' time window to interact with things like there is on other social media sites.

So, idk how the shit will look, but I don't agree with making things harder for people to access/find. I won't be posting stuff 'semi-privately'.

And you know what's super upsetting? The thought that I won't be able to see conversations and creations for things I love, because they're hidden away behind some complex new social thing I can't navigate. (Which is already an off-putting, ostracising problem on discord.) That's not how fandom communities should be.

The thought of there being less stuff 'out there' because it's in some 'community' somewhere... really not the direction I'd ever hope this site wold go in

I'm fuckin exhausted. Just lemme do my fandom whateverness without having to perform to some arbritary social interaction standard/requirements that I neither understand nor can do

[piningpercussionist]

(ooc)

*lying dead on the floor*

I have queued,, 5 more asks fhcjsfjfr

Two will have art responses! Probably should have staggered them but I think they're back to back lol. It doesn't matter anyway

I might try to cram one more in,, to better match batch one,, we'll see. But that's likely batch two ✌️