#and also it’s too fucking hot to sleep and too humid and I feel like I am fucking dying all the time I hate summer

[isdalinarhot]

bank transfer times you are my worst fucking enemy

[seattlesellie]

dads best friend!abby scenario cause why the hell not.

cw: sexual themes mdni, age gap, abby’s a cocky but charming asshole, power dynamics-ish? : ・ෆ・┈・┈・ᕱ⑅ᕱ・┈・┈・ෆ・ :

— "Oh and honey? Doctor Anderson's coming over for dinner" Everything felt oppressively hot and everything felt impossibly tight. The food seared your tongue, humid steam rising from the vegetables on your plate causing your throat to constrict and your eyes to sting with tears. Your right hand was clenched in a tight fist, left hand gripping your fork like it might grow legs and run away if you let go of your grasp. Your tights were itching relentlessly, tank top strap kept sliding off of your shoulder and built itself a home down your arm. Your lipgloss felt too sticky and your palms too clammy, you felt agitated, uncomfortable and way too goddamn nervous.

You felt consumed.

You didn’t know why.

Sure, Doctor Anderson was attractive, with palms twice bigger than yours. She wore a tight fitted muscle tee that had you squinting then turning your head around fast enough to crack your neck, noticing a goddamn six pack poking through maroon fabric. And yeah, she had an intoxicating scent of pine and wood and a hint of pepper that made your eyes nearly roll back inside of your skull, voice silky smooth, thighs firm and muscular, eyes icy blue, a smile that made you melt and all that stupid jazz,

but none of these things were a good enough explanation to why you were feeling this way — dazed, stupid, all bothered.

She sat down on the dinner table’s leather chair in a manspread as if she owned the place, and her thighs bulked up even more, veins of her arms becoming more prominent. She always knew what to say, and when you cracked a joke about orthopedic surgeons she cheekily told you to “watch it” — which made you thickly gulp and sheepishly smile down to the floor like your idol from age thirteen just told you they want to marry you and have you forever.

You needed an ice bath, but she also wouldn’t stop goddamn looking at you, even when you made it clear that eye contact with the surgeon, your father’s best friend, was a task that you apparently couldn’t manage to complete.

Her look made you nervous, and when she narrowed her eyes you nearly choked on a carrot, and when your father asked you “What’s wrong, kid?” you couldn’t even answer because what was wrong — was that you had to cross your legs together cause of some aching down there, and what was wrong is that his best friend made you feel like you were losing your mind at 9pm with a fork glued to your palm.

So you lied.

“M’just... tired, I guess” you murmured, then fake yawned, then internally cringed at yourself for performing the worlds fakest goddamn yawn.

“Already?” he voiced, shifting his gaze towards a visibly amused Abby. “Quite the night owl, that one... usually”

"What can I say, dad, loooong day" answered you, with a syrupy voice she wanted to stick her fingers inside and lick.

Abby chuckled, then smirked at you even though the response wasn’t directed at her. Then, she looked over to your father who was gnawing on some overcooked steak.

“She’s a kid, needs to get her sleep”

You scoffed, which made doctor Anderson poke the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “What...?” she murmured cockily, cracking a toothy grin. Your tights felt tight again, glued to your hot flesh, then you realized why they fucking call them tights because dammit they really are tight.

“I'm not a kid, can, y’know... drink, and stuff. Plus... M'busy, with... College"

You sounded like a damn idiot. All Abby did was chuckle and tilt her head back slightly, leaning further back in her chair.

“T'aw, I know, What'ryou studying again? Fashion science?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. That bitch.

"Sorry I don't wanna go to medical school and spend seven years of my life sticking my hands down a corpse"

So you didn’t go to your room after that, caught up in a whirlwind of proving a point. You stayed stubbornly with your feet glued to the floor and listened to Abby and your father ramble and yap on about work shenanigans. Usually, you’d semi doze off at this point, go on your phone and occasionally throw a snarky remark, but this was different. She was different than any of his other friends. Abby was actually funny, she didn’t brag too much, and if she did it faded quick cause she really was that good.

Abby threw a reference to a book you thought no one else had read except for you. You timidly lifted your gaze and remarked, “Oh, i read that book, actually”

Abby smiled and flattened her hands on the wooden table. “Smart cookie, huh? Did you like it?”

You batted your eyelashes like a kitten seeking more strokes at the praise, not noticing that body language of yours.

But she did.

You talked about the book for a solid ten minutes. Your father was the one, surprisingly, to go on his phone and faux-snort when he felt excluded from the conversation ran by two intellectuals and a giant elephant who goes by the name of "Tension", in the middle of the room.

Abby made you laugh and she made you think and she listened to your anecdotes. It made you buzz with electricity, and it made you yearn for her attention.

it also made her long for yours.

Your father interrupted by showing Abby a picture from work. When her eyes lowered to his phone, she shot you a lingering gaze and a smirk. You, feeling a rush of heat to your cheeks, shyly looked away.

It was tight everywhere all over again.

So they talked more about work, Abby’s patients, their coworkers, Doctor Martha’s chicken pot pie, Doctor Johnson’s bizarre antics, the glass door no one bothered on calling to be fixed, blah blah blah, an endless stream of chatter.

And you listened, you listened with rapt attention, every ounce of your focus aimed at the prospect of another one-on-one conversation with Abby. Each time the older woman casted you with a quick glance, you flushed even harder. You waited, and waited and waited but your father was a blabber mouth, and you were oh so impatient,

you began mindlessly kicking the wooden table's legs.

Your sock-covered feet shifted restlessly from side to side, then you tucked them beneath your chair and resumed kicking, the movements gaining force. You curled your toes and continued to play with the table's handles. Abby winced, but you didn’t pay her any mind. You kicked again, with more force now.

You sighed.

Abby cleared her throat, and her cheeks suddenly bore a faint crimson blush. You couldn't help but notice, hm, must be the red wine finally catching on to her form. Ignoring, you kicked again, and the doctors back straightened and she stiffened in response. Your father asked her a question, and Abby… stammered.

“Yeah, that guys… uh— yeah”

You rested your chin on your hands and lightly tapped your fingertips against your cheeks thrice.

Then you kicked again, harder, you were bored and restless, waiting, give me some attention, Abby —

And then, you felt a pair of shoes encase your feet, ankles creating a cage around yours. It was then and only then that you had the startling realization: you hadn't been kicking the table at all. Instead, you had been unknowingly engaged in a game of footsies beneath the table with a goddamn world class surgeon.

And oh god did you want to die.

And oh god did abby sport a shit eating grin on her face that only you seemed to catch.

You froze, not even able to release your feet from her iron like grip. Unmistakably, she didn’t seem to release her grip either. So she kept them there, caged and locked.

“Alright,” your father sighed and cleared his throat. “Got some cuban cigars in the yard, shall we?” he gestured towards Abby, who was still holding your feet in her tight grasp.

“Yeah, go ‘head, I’ll just clear the table” she murmured absentmindedly. So kind and polite, huh?

You father chuckled and tapped abby on her shoulder, as he rose from his sit and straightened his back. “Nah, let the kid handle it”

Abby shot you a glance. Your pupils were dilated and your chest heaved rapidly up and down.

“She's not a kid, remember?”

Abby let go of your feet and you rose from the chair with such haste, you nearly had whiplash. When you lifted your plate, staying mute, looking like a deer caught in headlights as your father paced towards the yard, Abby gazed at you, and her eyebrow arched up in utter amusement.

“You uh, play soccer, by any chance?” quipped her, crossing her arms on her firm hard muscly chest.

You gulped.

“Huh?”

Abby lifted her wine glass to her lips, taking a sip that left a glistening sheen on her bottom lip. A chuckle escaped her.

“Jus’, y’know… with all the kicking, and everything. I mean, take a girl out for a drink before you do all that, yeah?”

You stood in shock, you didn’t speak, didn’t mutter a word, merely humming in response. Abby grabbed the plates from your hand, and then she grabbed the salt.

She furrowed her eyebrows and huffed. “M'just ’joking, smart cookie. If you wanna play, let's play"

Then you heard your father’s voice down the hall.

“Sweetheart?” he paced closer as Abby walked towards the sink. He leaned over the wall,

“forgot to mention it to you but, Abby’s staying over for the weekend”

[icallhimjoey]

I feel like Joe's the type of guy during a heatwave to complain about the heat but still insist on cuddles. And I just imagine both parties being grumpy from the heat but also from not being able to just cuddle.

lil short one! sticky sweaty cuddles with a lil side of grump! Wordcount: 1.5K

---

That Better?

"Where do you think you're going?" you can barely make out the words Joe's mouth tries to shape. He's pressed up against your chest, his whole cheek stuck to your skin in a way that makes his lips go funny.

It's uncomfortable. Way too hot and sticky. Outside you can see another flash, and hear the sky rumble in the distance. No rain yet, though. Just humidity.

"Joe," you warn when he tightens his grip on you as you try to move away a little. "Please, it's too hot." You use both hands to find his shoulders to create some space in between the two of you.

It's difficult, because you're fatigued with the heat, and Joe is stronger than you.

"The fan's on." Joe argues, though it's dry and flat, no energy to put any heat behind his words. It's already hot enough.

He holds on, quite tightly at that, and you huff a breath into his face as you relax again. You're too weak. The room already feels stifling and heavy without a person stuck to you, but Joe's lying right on top, and you desperately need the fan to hit the areas of your body that he's covering with all of his right now.

But Joe doesn't want to move.

He's grumpy for it too, but he needs the cuddles to get to sleep, no matter how warm and sweaty and gross it feels.

Which, it does.

Everything feels damp.

It's silent for a while, until you can feel a drop of sweat make its way down your scalp, sliding through your hair slowly and then picking up speed when it gets to your neck.

It's disgusting.

"I'm not even moving and I can feel myself sweat." you complain, but Joe just hums. Adds, "Yea, it's sweltering." in agreement. He can feel you sweat too, but knows that it just means that the fan feels nicer for it. He doesn't add that bit of information - fan feels like a sensitive subject now. You had just had a big fight over whether or not to sleep with the floor fan on.

It wasn't exactly a silent one - the fan or the fight.

Joe desperately wishes for the fan to be moved out of the bedroom; it's a big floor fan that sounds like an airplane taking off, he'd always say. But you need it on. You'll take the loud constant whir that will bring you an actual breeze over suffering in a dead silent humid room that feels more like a sauna than anything else.

"Baby, you know I can't sleep with it on. It's too loud."

"Can't sleep with a fan on, but can fall asleep in the middle of The Expendables." you'd sarcastically said, making a face at him. The Expendables was basically a whole film of big loud explosions. He'd insisted on watching it the other day, and then fell asleep about 15 minutes into it.

"You know that's not-" Joe sighed with frustration. "That's hardly the same."

You could feel the sweat sit between your toes, it was that hot.

"Joe, without the fan on, I don't even want to touch my own body! Let alone yours!"

You fought, back and forth until you'd cut it off by going for a cold shower. When you got out, you found Joe in bed with all the lights off and the fan on, and you silently accepted Joe's kind compromise.

When you'd laid down on the bed, Joe had immediately rolled half onto you, and you knew that in return for the fan being on, he wanted to at least be able to fall asleep the way he wanted to. Needed to.

Touching.

All snuggled up.

Breathing your breath, limbs crossing limbs, bare skin pressing into bare skin. Feeling heartbeats and hearing heartbeats, until one of you can't feel their arm anymore from lying on a shoulder weird. Joe needs the comfort of a whole person to make a psychical connection with to feel instantly at ease.

It not his fault that you calm him down so much. That he loves you.

And you love Joe too.

But it's definitely too fucking hot for any of it. You feel too grumpy, and you know Joe isn't in the best mood either.

Joe might feel at ease, but you don't feel at ease at all.

You're still holding out hope that the clouds that had threatened rain all day will actually give way. The heat needs to break already. So far, no luck though. Just some flashes and some rumbling thunder up high in the sky.

You're not a fan.

You don't like thunder storms. There's something so very threatening about them. Every loud crash makes you jump a little, surprising you every single time.

Joe knows.

He remembers the first time he'd been around you during bad weather, and he had watched you from up close for a little while until something inside of him took over.

I, big giant man. You, small little defenseless woman. Must protect.

Cave man behaviour.

Cute when you're after a little babying, but absolutely awful when the heat and the humidity had you in an awful mood. Like right now.

Another flash lights up your bedroom for a split second, and you can hear how the storm's getting a little closer.

"I'm not scared, you know," you comment softly, and Joe just hums again. Acknowledges what you're telling him, but keeps you close for his own comfort. Doesn't seem to care if you're scared or not - just pretends that you are, because he likes that a little better.

He ducks into his shoulders a little more, curls up to you a little more, and you can feel how the side of his face slides against your chest.

Slides.

You try to hold back an audible wince at how much you hate that, and you endure Joe's weight for a little while longer. But then, slowly, the itch under your skin becomes too much and it builds until you feel like you're about to burst.

"I can't," you suddenly sputter, pushing at Joe's shoulders again. "Sorry babe, but I cannot." you say definitively, groaning as you move to sit up. This time, Joe lets you go.

When you see Joe's sad little face, half of you wants to reach out to wrap your whole self around him. But the other half wants you to go sit in the freezer.

Unfortunately for Joe, the latter wins.

"M'sorry, just..." you turn in the bed and find a piece of cold mattress to lie down on, your head near the foot of the bed now, your feet near your pillow. You get the best bit of air from the fan from there too, right in your face, and it feels a little better.

It really does help that you're damp all over.

Makes the air actually cool you down.

You suppose that's what sweat's meant to do in the first place, so it makes sense.

Joe watches you from his spot.

Watches as you starfish on top of the bed in the dark, hair blowing in the breeze, and Joe wants to frown, because this isn't what he wants. But then he sees how the creases on your face slowly disappear, and just witnessing you be a little more comfortable makes his own frown smooth out a bit too.

"That better?" Joe asks, and you're not sure if it's a sarcastic question or not. If saying yes will hurt his feelings or not. You detect a little hidden bite in there though, so you don't answer.

Instead, you sigh a little contently and say, "Come over here."

Joe doesn't need telling twice.

In an instant, his legs have swung around on the bed and he finds a nice much cooler spot next to you.

"Here," you say, and you hold out your hand.

Joe gives it a glance before looking at your face. He knows you've only just showered, but your hair's mostly dry already. He notices it now as it drapes over the edge of the bed, swaying in the wind. You may be sweaty, grumpy, sticky, and uncomfortable, but you're still gorgeous. It's almost annoying how he likes the way the heat makes you look.

"Hold my hand." you say when it takes too long for Joe to grab hold of it.

It's your compromise.

Joe smiles.

Takes it.

It's not as nice, but Joe will take it, fingers intertwining as your palms glue together.

"That better?" he asks again, and this time there's no doubt about his intentions, voice much sweeter and softer, no hidden bite left in there at all.

"Hmm." It's your turn to hum now, agreeing as you add, "Better."

Joe gets to touch you.

You get the fan on.

It's not the best of both worlds - it's still fucking boiling - but it's definitely better than before.

And then, just when you think, maybe you actually could fall asleep like this, you can hear the soft patter of a few raindrops hitting the bedroom window.

Just a few at first, but it quickly picks up into a gentle, rhythmic pattern as the sound grows.

You squeeze Joe's hand, and there's still a slight slick to your palms and fingers, kind of clammy, definitely warm.

But it's kind of nice to be stuck together like this.

Joe squeezes back, and you let a happy sigh escape you.

You can actually fall asleep like this.

"Much better."

---

The Taglisted

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add yourself

[emphistic]

Écoute Chérie

A/N: grr

<- Series m.list

When a certain someone — specifically a blond male, showed up to Sukuna’s door that next morning holding a wad of cash in his hand, Sukuna wanted nothing more than to sock him in the jaw. But he contained himself, saying, “Keep that shit for yourself. I don’t want it.”

“Oh? You backing out now, Captain?”

“. . .You’re one sick fuck, Zen’in.” He snatched the money out of the younger’s hands, before slamming his door shut.

Pride is a terrible, terrible thing, and Ryomen Sukuna was full of it.

“Oh, my God, girl! I feel like we moved on a little too quickly. Pause: He—you—you guys KISSED? Stop, don’t—don’t play with me right now. I can’t even get a guy to let me cheat off of him on a final, but you kissed someone on the FIRST date. Let me say that again, FIRST date?! As in the first EVER date you two have been on together.”

If you were counting — which you weren’t, this would have been the seventy-ninth time you giggled out loud this evening. You and Nobara were sitting — no, standing, actually, with you leaning forward with your elbows on the counter, and the brunette doing likewise. You decided — well, you were forced — to fill her in on all that happened the day before. You had just gotten off of your shift, and, obviously, were still in your uniform, but Nobara insisted you tell her anyway. She wouldn’t and “couldn’t” wait until you got back to your apartment.

“Yes, Nobs, for the hundredth time. We kissed and even added a little bit of tongue and then he walked me back to my apartment and we fucked all night.”

The look on her face was absolutely priceless, her jaw dropped to the floor and even broke through the tiles and went further beneath the surface. Just kidding; because that’s not possible, but her expression was even more funny after you said, “I’m just messing with you, girl. I have some self-worth left, believe it or not, and I wouldn’t sleep with someone after the first date.”

“Funny how you decided to deny only that part.”

“. . .”

“Don’t—don’t tell me the rest was true. Oh, my God! STOP! I was only kidding; but you—you actually added tongue? What the fuck? And, you just decided to not call me right after? Wow.” Nobara crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air for only a few seconds before she went back to gripping your shoulders and shaking your body. “You are such a freak, my God.”

“He also walked me to my door, y’know. No need to focus on only those parts.” You tried to bring her focus onto that, because you found that part the most adorable.

Truth was, the only reason you didn’t immediately call Nobara that night was because you spent the last few hours of that night screaming into your pillow like a schoolgirl and reminiscing on all that happened.

“You know,” you started, turning to face the man behind you, “you didn’t have to walk me all the way to my door, right? I could’ve just gone by myself.” 

You had insisted and insisted to Sukuna that you would be fine, and that the other residents of the building were friendly and cordial, but Sukuna ignored every one of your pleas and walked right next to you anyway. From the parking lot, to the elevators, and down the hallway, Sukuna never left your side, and actually, was surprisingly nice company. You two talked on the way about how good or bad the food at the game was, how hot and humid it was, how annoying the older gentleman beside your seats was, you two talked plenty enough.

“I know. I wanted to.” Sukuna stopped to lean against the wall beside your apartment, crossing his arms as you pulled out your keys.

“Hey, so, I had a lot of fun today. I guess baseball isn’t as boring as I thought it was,” you laughed, scratching the back of your neck. “Thanks for inviting me.” You had tried to tell him on the car ride to your place, but you chickened out.

Sukuna snorted, “No problem; my pleasure, actually. And, I had a lot of fun, too. I think I enjoyed today more than I would if Yuuji was there instead of you. So thank you for coming.”

“Oh, please. Don’t lie; he’s literally your brother. Besides, Yuuji’s not even here to defend himself. Kinda rude, if I say so myself.”

“I’m not lying, though, really. I enjoyed today. I can’t even remember the last time I was able to leave the house for anything fun and actually, sincerely, enjoy it.” Sukuna moved his head as he spoke, as if in a way to accentuate his point. You found that completely and utterly adorable. Just the thought of you being part of making his day alone made you blush, and you looked away sheepishly.

“I’m glad you had a nice time, Sukuna. And thank you, again, for today.” You caught Sukuna by surprise — beyond surprise, actually — when you cupped his face in your hands and brought your lips to his cheek for a chaste kiss. Mwah! The sound was audible through the night. And it was the sound which replayed over and over in Sukuna’s mind as he lay completely awake for hours past midnight in bed. The only thing he dreamt of — when he eventually fell asleep, that is — was you. You.

Now that he thought of it, there were no words to describe you. No words to describe your beauty, though, ethereal did come close. No words to describe the smile which you gave him when you two passed each other on campus. No words to describe how friendly and comforting the melody of your voice sounded to him; if you were a siren, and he, a pirate, Sukuna would dive headfirst into the water. No words to describe how drunk, how dizzy, how pathetic you made Sukuna, even with mere eye contact. But, there was a word to describe Sukuna.

It’s quite simple, actually.

Sukuna was whipped. Absolutely enamored of you. But. . . Very unfortunate he only noticed now. And, it was such, such a shame that he was also full of pride.

“Okay, that’s so romantic, though! I can’t believe it. My friend is gonna get with the love of her life, and I don’t even know how to turn the stove on. Oh, my God. My friend’s getting with the love of her life. OH, MY GOD!” That was not even close to the last time you would hear Nobara say “Oh, my God” that night.

-

“You wouldn’t happen to . . . y’know . . . have plans . . . this weekend?”

You didn’t know why Sukuna kept on pausing, but you knew it was oddly suspicious.

“And if I did?”

“Then, I wouldn’t ask you to . . . help me . . . with some . . . math.”

“Sukuna, are you okay? You sound like you’re being held at gunpoint.” You crossed your arms, failing to stifle a giggle. You really couldn’t fathom why he was acting so strange. Sukuna couldn’t, either. 

Ever since the day you both went to that baseball game together, Sukuna’s been different, to say the least. And yeah, maybe after kissing someone for the first time changes your behavior towards them, but still, it was strange. 

He wasn’t as cocky when going over his daily feats at basketball practice; he wasn’t as blunt and insulting to freshmans whom you two came across while on campus; he wasn’t as teasing or sharp with his remarks as he usually was; he wasn’t as assertive and casual whilst slinging an arm ‘round your shoulder. He wasn’t him. Then again, Sukuna also didn’t know why he was acting this way.

“I’m . . . fine. I’m fine.”

“Okay. . . Anyways, I am free. So yeah, I can. My place or yours?”

“Ah, you don’t have a lot of good alcohol,” Sukuna tapped his index finger repeatedly on his chin, as if contemplating which location to use was very difficult for someone like him. “I get bored with just water. So, it’ll have to be mine. ‘Sides, I don’t think Gigi likes me that much anyway.”

You laughed. Sukuna wasn’t very keen on having you tutor him while your apparently “murderous” cat was present. Giselle, also known by her nickname ‘Gigi’, was a black-furred breed, with very sharp, untrimmed nails, which proved useful whenever Sukuna came over to hang out with you or do some other shit. Maybe it was because of how provocative Sukuna and his usual cold demeanor were. Maybe it was because of how close Sukuna got to Gigi’s owner whenever you sat down on the couch together. Maybe it was because of the fact Sukuna took your attention off of your so precious cat whenever he stepped foot into the apartment. Maybe it was because Sukuna was just Sukuna. And Gigi didn’t like that one bit.

“Alright, since you’re afraid of a mere feline, which — mind you, is less than a quarter of both your height and size.”

“Well, that feline comes from the depths of Hell. So yeah, excuse me if I prefer to stay sixty miles away from it.”

“Gigi comes from Hell, now? Pfft—she’s probably just excited to see her previous neighbor, then,” you snorted.

Sukuna gave you a side glance, hiding his growing grin. He was not about to openly admit you were even slightly funny. No, he would never give you that kind of satisfaction.

“Okay, so can you tell me what the variable ‘d’ is?” You had explained the formulas as best as you could, even taking it a step further and dumbing it down immensely. Then you left the living room to put away the dishes, leaving the pink-haired male to attempt his assignment on his own. — With some guidance here and there.

Sukuna and you had ordered Chinese, deciding to study while eating. And while your plan for energizing proved to be frustrating at first — since a certain someone didn’t know how to eat with his mouth closed, you had become used to it by the end. Your tactic? Drowning out the audible chewing noises. Eugh.

“Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll show you.” Sukuna leaned his head on the cushions, wrapping an arm around the back of the sofa.

You scrunched up your face in reply, pausing in the middle of scrubbing food and gunk and whatever off of the porcelain plates. “Pass.

“I told you already, Sukuna. The exponential functions are the ones that slowly curve up; think of it as this: good things happen to a bad thing. Get it? Like, their lives are getting better. And, since I know you’ve already forgotten, a ‘y’ value can have as many ‘x’ values, but the ‘x’ value is . . . unambiguous, so it only has one ‘y’ value. Now, does that help?” 

“Ugh, this is such a bore. How can anyone pay attention to these types of things long enough in class to be good at it? Fuck.”

You took his consequent silence as him giving up on life and continuing to work on solving the problem in his evident misery, but oh, how wrong you were.

“S’kuna, what are you doing?” you sucked in a breath. He was so close. So close, to you. You thought it had only been two seconds, but in those two seconds, it only took Ryomen Sukuna four easy strides to end up here. — With his chest pressed almost right up against your back. Key word: almost. Yes, Ryomen Sukuna was so close, but still, so far.

“Helping you.” God, did he have to be that ambiguous all the time? He was like a walking enigma, a puzzle, a riddle, for you to solve. A mystery for which you would soon lose sleep over.

Sukuna easily grabbed several dried plates, removing them from the rack, and storing them in the cabinet above your head. His hand left lingering touches on your arm as they passed by each other. You slowly, gradually, accumulated a mountain of goosebumps.

It was infuriating.

He was so close, but not close enough.

Every time he moved to grab another plate, he would rest his hand upon your hip or on the curve of your waist. Sometimes he ran his large-scaled hands up your middle; sometimes he moved them lower, and lower. Was he trying to give you heart palpitations?

“Y’know,” he started, his voice dripping with honey, “you can keep breathing, right? What, do I smell that bad?” he snickered.

“I—what—why—what the hell are you doing?” You wanted to argue that he had no sense of personal space, which, yes, was true, but you feared he would stop whatever he was doing at the moment. And, you didn’t want that.

“I’m . . . helping . . . you.” He bent down to your level, lips brushing your ear as he spoke, and his hot breath fanning your ear. 

There it was again. That ‘pausing thing’ of his. But, this time, it was different. Earlier he was pausing as if he was unsure, but now, he was pausing just to create suspense and further rile you up. He clearly knew what he was doing; he knew what he was doing to you. Poor ol’ you, who just innocently wanted to wash some dishes.

You had previously wanted to turn around and properly face him in order to confront him better, but now, you didn’t dare meet his eyes. Not like you could, anyway, you were stuck between the counter and him. Your eyelashes fluttered, as your eyes darted here and there. And your palms began to sweat, you quickly wiped them on the material of your sweater, but your continued attempts were futile.

“No—no, you’re not.” You struggled to stifle your heavy breathing, and it took you quite a time to form a sentence without giving away the tight feeling in your chest.

“Yeah? Then, how could I help you, hm? Tell me,” he spoke your name firmly, like he was anticipating your breaking, and egging you on nevertheless. Then again, how could he not be? It had been days, days, since you two went to that game. Days since he felt like he was in heaven and talking to an angel. Days since he felt your lips on his. Days since he felt well. Days. And for days, he’s been restless, hungry, thirsty, empty. Hell, forget about your predicament, he was the one close to breaking.

“Tell me,” he said your name, again. “Tell me, pretty girl. Tell me.”

“. . .You can help by telling me what the fuck we’re doing right now.”

“Don’t you already know? And here, I thought it was obvious.” Sukuna bit his lip, but that didn’t help any bit in suppressing his laugh.

“What . . . are we . . . doing?” You repeated.

Sukuna was silent, for a moment, “You’re tutoring me, on math.”

“I already know that, dumbass. I mean, what are we doing?”

“You’re gonna need to be a little more specific than that.”

“Oh, my God—what are we doing? What are we? For fuck’s sake. How thick is your skull really, damn.” You finally mustered the courage to twist your body around, and though you were only met with his chest, you sighed and looked upward to meet his face.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You glowered at Sukuna.

“Okay, okay. I’ll talk,” he cleared his throat. “We’re . . . just us. I don’t know what to tell you. Sukuna and you. You and Sukuna. That’s all there is to it, right?”

For a second, you thought he was referencing what you had previously said to Nobara, but then the rational side of your brain kicked in and said, “No, there’s no way he could’ve overhead that,” and so, the surprised expression disappeared from your face as you looked down at the floor of the kitchen.

“We’re friends, yeah, that’s all there is to it. . . But friends don’t do . . . this. So we clearly, definitely, shouldn’t be doing this.”

“So, we can pretend we’re not doing this, right? There, fixed the problem.”

“And if I don’t want to pretend we’re not doing this?”

“Then don’t; we don’t have to pretend.”

“But—”

“Please,” he looked at you with such an earnest expression on his features, “don’t say that word. Not again. You’ve no idea, no idea, how much it drives me crazy when you say that word. Mad, insane, deranged. Anything but that, please, anything. We’re clearly not friends. We’re clearly not just friends. So please, don’t call whatever we have as that. I’m sick of it.”

“If we’re not friends, then, what are we?” Your voice was just above a whisper, and you couldn’t even recall when it turned out that way. 

“. . .We’re whatever you want us to be. . . What do you want us to be?”

“No, you decide, Sukuna. What do you want us to be?” You gingerly laid a palm on top of his chest.

“I decide?”

You nodded, “Whatever you want to be . . . will be.”

“I want us to be . . . us. Together. Just us. No one else; just you and me.”

“Okay. I’d like that.”

He took your hand from his chest and held it in his, as if in a way to seal his promise. “I’m glad.”

Having had a couple beers — in favor of Sukuna giving up on attempting any more math, you were a little drunk. Just a little. 

“You have a stupid, stupid face, but it’s still my favorite. It’s my favorite to stare out. It’s my favorite to kiss. It’s my favorite to rub — your skin is so soft. It’s my favorite. My favorite.” 

He let you pepper as many pecks as you wanted onto his cheek, but when you tried to give Sukuna a proper kiss on the lips, he quickly moved his face to the side so you unintentionally planted your lips on his cheek instead. 

For, he didn’t want you to freak out in the morning and think he was the type of guy to take advantage of someone while they were even a little bit tipsy.

Besides, he had just gotten you. He couldn’t lose you now, could he.

A/N: i love portraying raw emotion

[girlleon]

I MUST BE SPOILED AND ROTTEN (CAUSE NO ONE ELSE WOULD EVER DO)

real dad!leon x fem reader

warnings: father-daughter incest. could perhaps be read as a sequel for too close for comfort. daddy kink. also more nicole dollanganger, this is a little more directly inspired by uncle. pussy smacking, d/s dynamics, established relationship. title taken from spoiled and rotten by darling violetta.

Summer is blisteringly hot. It’s been nothing but eighties and nineties and humidity. It doesn’t even have the decency to cool the hell down at night. Your box fan doesn’t do much for you, the only air conditioner is in the living room.

Which is why you’re awake, staring at the ceiling with a gnawing in your lower stomach.

You get up, clad in dad’s old t-shirt and ruffle socks, and pad down to dad’s room.

The door creaks when it opens, there’s no reprieve from the heat in his room or the hallway.

You slip silently into his room and crawl into bed with him. “Daddy?”

Leon’s up in a moment, strong arms wrapping around you. Government training left its mark all these years later. “What is it, baby?”

“Can’t sleep.” You nuzzle his neck, leaving a kiss over his pulse.

He laughs, voice ragged from sleep, and your stomach flutters as one of his arms unwinds from you and dives into your panties. “Yeah? Think I know why, baby. Want me to make it better?”

You nod, lifting your leg up a little more for him.

Quickly, he withdraws his hand and smacks your pussy hard enough to make you jolt and cry out.

“What do we say?” No change in his inflection, but that’s your daddy.

“Thank you, daddy.” You mumble, rewarded with a kiss to your jaw and his hand gently petting over your stinging clit.

“My poor baby.” Leon coos, nudging your nose with his and leaving a kiss near your mouth as he slowly fumbles with your clit. “Your fingers not doing it for you anymore?”

You shake your head. “No, daddy.” They haven’t since he got inside you that first time, bending you over the kitchen counter while dinner burned on the stove.

Yeah, it was real fun trying to shut up the fire alarm whilst you both were naked from the waist down. Doing the dishes was awful, but that’s his job.

You stiffen up when he pushes two fingers in, no burning stretch because he got you used to three in no time.

When you moan, Dad rewards you with the heel of his palm grinding against your clit. “That’s my sweet girl.” He rests his forehead against yours, then kisses you as you get close, feeding off your moans and the way your walls squeeze his fingers.

Leon withdraws his fingers and gently wipes his hand on your tummy, patting your mound gently and grinning when you giggle. “Is that better?” He wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you over, head in your neck.

“Mhm…” you nod lazily, already nodding off.

One orgasm plus dad’s weight on you equals a good ten hours of sleep.

You shift a little as you stand in front of your mom’s grave, feeling sort of ashamed in some odd way. Would mom be horrified if she was alive? If she knew her husband and kid were doing it on the daily?

Then again, you kinda ceded the kid label the second you let dad get inside you. Maybe that’s why you’re so interested in Twin Peaks, Laura Palmer was her dad’s own daughter-wife.

You lean into dad’s side unconsciously, staring at the headstone and sweating through your t-shirt in the fucking sun.

Later, as you’re cooking for the two of you, dad’s hands slip beneath your shirt, resting on your waist. “You’ve been all weird today, baby.” He sets his chin on top of your head and comes a little closer, fingers drumming on your sides.

He’s like a cat, Leon is. Never shows up when you’re actively showing attention to him and is bothered by it at best, only to turn around and come begging for it when you inevitably fuck off. You’d think he’d sleep at your feet if he could.

You sigh, stirring the noodles around the pan. “It’s complicated.”

Leon sighs too, dropping his head to ghost his mouth over your cheekbone. “So? Talk about it with me. I’ll uncomplicate it for you.”

You stir a little more, staring down at the pan and slowly sweating through your previously clean shirt. You should’ve just thrown this shit in the crockpot and called it a day. “Feel like I’m disrespecting her. Mom.”

His hands freeze; called it.

“Why?” He asks slowly, like he’s trying to interrogate you. Kinda reminds you of when he’d run a full investigation of why there were no leftover pizza slices left. If there are none left and only two people in the house, no dog, then how many graves are you spitting on?

You scoff, trying to pull away, but Leon’s got you cornered against the stove. “Come on, baby.” He goads, wrapping big fucking arms around your middle and pulling you in. “Why?”

You’d look at him as if he grew two heads if you could. “Because she’s my mom. Cause she’s your wife. You fucked her before me.”

He snorts in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Is that jealousy I hear, baby?”

You growl in annoyance, turning off the heat. “Don’t ‘baby’ me.”

Dad smiles against your face. “You sound just like your mother.” Of course this motherfucker isn’t bothered by it. “Just like her too.” He pats your ass. “In some ways, at least.” A wet kiss on your neck.

You make an unhappy noise, aiming an elbow at his ribs. “Focus, dad, Jesus fucking Christ. You can’t just fuck me every time we have a disagreement.” It’s not really a disagreement, he thinks you’re all in your head again. Got that from mom too.

Dad freezes, then withdraws, turning you to face him with the hands on your sides. “I’m sorry. Promise I’ll be serious.” Leon takes a hand and kisses it, keeping a hold of it like a bridge between you.

You huff, only slightly mollified by him. “You don’t feel… you’re not bothered by it?”

Leon’s eyes study you for a while, brows slowly furrowing. “I love you. Lots and lots, baby. What—“ he holds your hand a little tighter. “what we have, what we do, is only a natural extension of that.”

When you’re silent again, he reels you in, his fish on a line and hook in your cheek. “The royals did that, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, and Prince Phillip was a ghastly looking beast.” You mutter, pressing your ear to his heart. Dad snorts above you.

Hear that? That beats for you. Used to beat for mom, but he got a new one just for his precious girl.

“And Nicholas the second’s son had that blood disorder because of it.” That’s probably not true, but also could be true, who knows.

Divine punishment, like in a One Hundred Years of Solitude when that kid was born with the pig tail after generations of inbreeding. The entire settlement in Venezuela got wiped from the face of the earth for that. Rocks fall, everyone dies.

Lot’s daughters raped him. His wife got turned into a pillar of salt because she looked back after they fled Sodom and the girls never got any comeuppance.

He smooths a palm over your head. “Honey, Alexandra also had the same problem. So did at least two of the daughters.”

“But we don’t know.” You look up at him and frown.

Dad pouts down at you too before kissing you. “Your mom is always in my heart.” He says once he’s pulled away, wiping a bit of his spit from the corner of your mouth. “And so are you. She’d want me to be happy.”

You hold back a snarky comment, only giving him a look. Leon shrugs and straightens up. “Is that all it was, babydoll?”

You nod after a moment and he pats you on the ass again. “Better?”

You suppose so, you’re not really sure.

You feel a little like everyone knows when they look at you. Like Girl, Interrupted when Angelina Jolie looks at Brittany Murphy’s character and tells her everyone knows her dad rapes her, but what they—we—all missed is that she likes it.

Liked. Likes. Same difference, honestly. All that matters is that she—you—liked what her dad did to her. Rape.

God, what if his coworkers found out? Incest is a felony in most states. You and him go in the clinker, and everyone knows what happens in prison showers.

There are some things better kept between family.

Your dad loves you, you know he does. You love him too, even if everyone else is weirded out about it. He needed a relic of mom’s around, and what are you if not that?

Cum is thicker than water, in that sense.

[mintmatcha]

Hey minty d'you think inevitable au aizawa would let you ride him? It feels like he'd prefer it bc he doesn't have to fuck with his leg to be on top, and it lets you set the pace and chase your orgasm which ALSO seems very him

The house is humid and hot. He sleeps on top of the blankets, pillow on the floor. Sure, he could get up and fix the fucking thermostat, but then he'd never get to sleep. No, it's best to lay here and suffer-- to wallow in how much he fucking hates you and you're sudden fucking attitude and your--

"Shouta," you hum.

He's dreaming. It's too fluffy, too hazy to be reality. Your skin is too warm to be real, almost burning as your thighs loop around his hips. You're wearing the same blouse as you did today, the sheer one that you always layer, but now there's nothing beneath to hide the pearling of your tits-

"Shouta." You'd never say his name like that, so sweet, so needy--

"You wish you could, right?" You're pulling at the band of his briefs, coaxing out his cock into your hands and between your legs. "You wish you could fuck me?"

Oh, your pussy slips against his length, molten hot and devilishly wet. You roll your hips selfishly slow, chasing your own high with soft, measured sounds, little whines that he wishes he could swallow up.

He's not even inside you yet and his body is revolting; each breath is a pant, each twitch of muscle threatens to be a thrust. His hands are reaching for you, but never find purchase, forever chasing what he can't hold.

You fall forward and press your forehead against his, hot breath tickling his lips as you lean closer, closer--

Your lips brush against his as you speak. "I want it too."

The jerk of his cock drags him awake. He's not cumming, no, but he's on the precipice, an inch too close for comfort. When he readjusts, it throbs again, painfully hard.

It's not enough for you to make his work day miserable; you have to haunt his dreams now too?

[romanscool]

Results!!

the people have spoken! who am I to ignore such a good vote honestly (no one im a sucker for drunk max as well)

Drunk Max is a touchy Max:

The first time Daniel sees Max drunk, they’re in a club in Malaysia. He’s flushed, and wobbly walking, and laughing too much. 

Now, he’s quiet, though. They’re flying from Malaysia to back home in Monaco. They’ve partied all night, so obviously they still have some alcohol running in their blood, even though Daniel’s bodily fluids feel more like blood running in alcohol, and it makes his head buzz. He hasn’t seen Max pretty much all evening, only sharing a couple glances here and there, too caught up in the adrenaline of the win and the pretty girls that flooded the dance floor, but now he feels kind of bad. Max deserved to celebrate a one-two too. 

Except the celebration is finished now, they’re on the plane, a plane that’s too bright and loud for Daniel’s liking, and don’t even get him started on the kid that’s been fighting the back of his seat for at least half an hour now. Daniel has never been much of a child person and this particular one isn’t helping with the view Daniel has of the species. Little fucking monsters.

Max helps though. He’s next to Daniel, on the window seat, lucky bastard, and also completely passed out. His always neat hair is fucked up, spiky and still smelling like a mix of Red Bull, vodka and sweat, his eyes are more bags than actual skin and his lips are so dry it makes Max look like someone who’s just passed three years in fucking Antartica, despite having spent a week in a country that’s way too hot and humid. 

It’s kind of sweet, though. Max is a kid, and he looks like one, all pimple and red cheeks flushing so fucking always but he doesn’t feel like one. Like, sure, he and Daniel joke around all the time, and they’re pretty immature about it, too, laughing like they’re on a candy high 24/7. And Max’s dad is near most of the time, a shadow in the paddock no one wants to cross, not even fucking Max, it’s pretty scary. So it’s clear Max is still barely eighteen. A kid. 

But they have these conversations sometimes, in the middle of the night when they’re both in Monaco and they know they could easily go to the other’s apartment any time they want, but they don’t. They text. Like kids. And in those moments, when Daniel can’t see the baby fat around Max’s face and the childish sparkle only half-hidden by big and thick eyelashes, Daniel can’t associate Max with being barely an adult. It certainly doesn’t feel like it, in the way he speaks, all fancy and perfect English, and his voice isn’t there to crack and betray his age. So, it’s times like these Daniel likes Max a little more than he should.

And right now, he’s sitting in a plane with Max beside him and the only thing going through Daniel’s mind is that he wants to kiss him. Doesn’t even want to be gentle either, he wants to be rough, teeth clacking and saliva everywhere, make it something mature that Max just isn’t. But it’s easy for Daniel to think it’s something that could happen when Max is sleeping peacefully, pale like a sick man and snoring like a grandpa. It’s easy.

It shouldn’t be. 

It isn’t easy when Max puts a hand on Daniel’s shoulder just as he goes to sip his drink. Drunk Max is a touchy Max, Daniel’s noticed, but what he notices less and less these days is that drunk Max is still eighteen-year-old Max, even with how much Daniel wishes it wasn’t the case. But being eighteen doesn’t come with not being touchy, and maybe Daniel’s reading too much into it, or maybe the tequila is fucking with his brain, but he can’t not stare at Max’s lips when he takes a shot, and the fucking lip freckle that Max always licks when he passes his tongue over his mouth to get the last drops of whatever he just drank in his stomach. Daniel thinks it isn’t fair.

And Max laughs, and laughs, and snickers when his mouth is still full of liquid, because drunk Max is still easy-to-laugh Max, especially when Daniel’s here. 

And drunk Daniel is still easy-to-laugh-it-off Daniel as well, so he shakes Max’s hand off off his shoulder and ruffles Max hair to make himself remember he’s a kid. It’s not right. So Daniel shakes it off, laughs to pretend everything is okay and a single touch hasn’t awaken his libido in fucking seconds and goes to find a reasonably aged girl wherever a reasonably aged girl could be in a Monaco club. 

Turns out there’s lots of them. They’re all pretty. Daniel doesn’t want to look too much into it when he picks the one with short dirty blond hair and red plump lips. Tells himself he’s into European looking girls, even though he’s never been, that maybe it’s a thing he’s picked up when he turned 27 last month.

Daniel’s 29 now. He’s still into tall blonde girls and ones that laugh too loud. He’s still into girls with freckles on their face and ones that can’t dress to save their lives. He’s still into girls that don’t look like strangers but that are. It’s easier that way. 

Max is 21 now. He’s still a kid, just a tad older. He isn’t as round on the face, sharper nose and cheekbones. He isn’t as sharp in his body, rounder waist and arms. Daniel doesn’t want to notice that be he does. He notices the hair that starts to grow just under that sharper nose and the muscle that’s building up on his chest, making his Red Bull merch polo stick to his shoulders tighter than it used to. 

Max is 21 and his face is sharper and his body rounder but he still can’t handle alcohol. Two shots of vodka in and slowly nursing a g&t, Max can’t stop himself from getting his fingertips on the small of Daniel’s back. Daniel’s learned to ignore it now. He gets better at it every time they go out, even though they don’t as much this year. The DNFs start to pile up. 

But it’s Mexico, and Daniel got pole, but Max won, so Daniel wonders what he’s even doing here. The girls in Mexico always have dark feature, long brown hair that cascade down their back and chocolate eyes that Daniel used to want to drown in, but not anymore. So it’s clear he isn’t taking anyone home tonight. He’ll have to drown in shitty whiskey and expensive tequila instead. He’ll have to drown under Max’s touch that seems to want to spread over Daniel’s whole body and go home before midnight to not wonder what the fuck he’s doing with his life.

One night, when they’re both in Monaco again, and Daniel is just waiting for the season to end, he finds a drunk Max on his doorstep. A very drunk Max. Which isn’t usual. Not that Max is drunk, because he always is in some type of way, drunk on a win or some wine it doesn’t matter, because Daniel’s used to Max being giddy. He’s used to Max being drunk Max. Thank God for it. 

The weird thing is, when they’re both in Monaco, and even when either one of them is drunk, the only thing they’ll do is text. Like fucking kids, text message that always have too much abbreviations for Max and typos for Daniel. It’s always this way. Texts. Daniel is glad for it in a way, because drunk Max being a drunk Max, he can’t handle himself, and Daniel’s fine handling him in public, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to do it at home. Especially after the neat whiskey he’s started to drink after already finishing three, the one in the glass that’s still on his nightstand. Daniel drinks in bed, so what.

And this drunk Max is flushed, but still standing, so that’s good, but the flush is making the pimples and red spots on his neck and jaw pop out, which isn’t fucking good. At all. Makes Daniel remember Max is still only 21 and that he shouldn’t lust after a guy that just grown out of his teen years. 

« Fuckin’ hell, mate, what the fuck are you doing here. »

« Shut up. » 

Drunk Max is a touchy Max. Turns out he’s also a kissy Max. And he kisses like a kid. All teeth and too much tongue, not even bothering to ask if he can hold Daniel’s waist in the obscene way he’s doing right now. He kisses like he has a lisp, lips scattered everywhere and letting out noises Daniel knows he’ll hear in his dreams tonight. He really hopes Max will be there while he dreams too, though, which isn’t something he should be thinking. But Max has a grip that’s just a little too tight on his hair and it’s fucking up the whole thing sitting inside Daniel’s skull. 

Fucking drunk touchy kid fucking up his whole life. 

[eddiemunsonbignaturals]

saying grace

a slow morning— declarations— breakfast in bed. 3.8k words

eddie munson x reader smut, 21+

cw: pussy slapping, not choking but like if ya squint sure, oral without protection, lmk if there’s anything i should tag otherwise

heat.

stuffy stillness; warm, stale air; the scent of clove and tobacco on his breath, of your rosemary hair oil; itchy sweat prickling the button of your nose and your scalp; long, fine hair sticking to your cheeks and forehead; and damp plush—

you take sensory stock, counting all your fingers and toes as your claw yourself to consciousness, up through this syrup-trap pit of sleep. your sweetheart, your Eddie, stirs behind you as you stretch your legs and he closes the steaming gap between you, pressing as much of his skin to yours as possible.

you feel like a raw boulder, like a bag of sand, each 100-pound limb still too heavy to fight off the massive blanket your legs are tangled up in. some sunlight makes it through the thick shag of the blanket, and your humid little bubble glows a deep dreamy orange. you feel a different warmth in your chest that melds you to him, and you wonder if you’ve been here for decades, wonder if you’re really carved from sunwarmed stone.

you feel Eddie’s breath, a deep sigh gusting hot over your brow. his chin is resting on the top of your head. the hair sticking to you isnt yours; the silk scarf you sleep in feels as secure as ever! as in: its slid only halfway off your head, only mostly useless. but it is still snug enough to keep your curls back and off your face. you know your sweat is reverting the blowout further, but can’t bring yourself to give a shit. his arm anchors you to the bed by your waist. you try to sit up, but he’s not budging.

he’s started to “snore” at your gentle attempts at slithering out of the cocoon you’ve built for yourselves, and your eyeroll must be audible.

the slide of your free arm up towards your head where the blanket ends, just under his nose, selfish bastard, takes a whole minute; the slow crawl of your opposite-side leg to the bottom edge of this impossibly large goddamn blanket takes two. you abort the first mission and try to roll away from this chest glued to your back, but he finally abandons sleepy pretense and grabs your wrist in his notably dry hand. there’s a vent up there you can’t reach, and it makes your search feel even more dire. your eddie isn’t moved.

“don’t remember givin’ you clearance f’r travel.” gravelly, you think. so, his throat’s dry too. when he speaks, you feel the rumble through your whole body like you’re made of jello.

“don’t remember fucking asking,” you mumble, still sleepy. then you sigh, too. you don’t want to unstick from him, duh, its too comfy here frying alive, but you’re afraid if you don’t move now that you never will, and also maybe your teeth are actually growing moss.

“i’m roasting. eddie. edward. eddie, i’m dying, i’ll die.” his next shitty fake snore rattles your teeth its so loud, and then he doesn’t speak again.

yeah, fuck the scarf. eddie groans, annoyed at your fidgeting, but the sound lilts and lightens happily as you reach up to snatch it off with another huff. its basically soaked, and he’s pulled back to bury his face in your now exposed cloud of hair. he moans into it then pushes his pelvis slowly into you, then back, then forth again to settle.

it all feels so good, he feels so good; its too hot. but you’re too in love to even think of peeling all this skin apart. you’re rubbing against him where ever you can, toes gliding along his calf, hand sliding up and down his thigh, legs rubbing together like a joyful little cricket, and you feel the dark chuckle rumble in his chest as you wiggle your ass back—as if theres a centimeter of room left between you.

now, you’re realizing with a giddy thrill that he’s naked, that his cock is smushed between his stomach and your back. you’ve let a man into your bed, love a man in your bed, you cannot believe it. you have to get out of this oven or you’ll fall back to sleep like this—have to shower and brush your stale tongue, have to hydrate, have to figure out your hair, plan the day ahead.

or, not. no, you dont have anywhere you’d rather be, actually. you flex your glutes, he sighs, and you mull on how your purpose in life might end here: on your side wearing eddie munson like a backpack, his knee bent and nestled between your thighs, his heavy arm depressing your waist. his downy forearm is pressed up under your arm and between your breasts against your sternum, and eddie’s broad and callused hand is clasped tenty around your wrist. god, he’s everywhere, you can taste him from last night, smell yourself on his hands. of course you can’t leave, and he tightens his grip on you with the top arm while he winds the one outstretched under your head around your neck, forcing your chin up and back, snuggling even tighter.

but still, “it’s, hoooot,” you whine, and you shoot your free hand out into the world outside and flip the edge of the blanket down and over your hips as far as you can fling it.

fuck, yes, oxygen. you gulp the blessedly cool air into your lungs and wake up for real as if you’ve splashed water on your face; it tickles your nose.

he gasps at the chill, and you both shiver together at the splashing relief, but your little jolt ends while he keeps up writhing against you. you hum into his elbow ditch, eye closed against your sun-bright room, and kiss each little bat there in turn, then lap up the skin before it dries of his salty sweat. he feels your tongue in his sensitive funny bone like its between his legs, and he squeaks at the tickle. so cute, so fucking cute. you reach your free hand back to take inventory of him and keep up licking and suckling at him, up his arm and down as far as you can crane your head. but eddie releases your trapped forearm and intercepts, capturing the questing hand against your chest where his once was.

even with both hands full he tweaks a nipple somehow and you jerk, moaning only a little in pain. you’re twisting your head back to face him, but he’s tightening his grip, so you give up. “le’mme up,” you say to his bicep, and he lets out another ripping bear-snore.

the sweat cooling where the sweet chilly air rolls across your body is refreshing, and you smack your lips again and swallow against the drymouth. “need water, munson, come on.”

munson hums, faux thoughtful, and grinds his stiffening length against the rift of your ass. you do arch for him, you do sigh, but you hope he doesn’t feel your heart skip, and he says, “I think I know what you need, princess,” and releases one of your hands, freeing his own to drag roughly over your tit, then your stomach, then down between already spreading thighs. with the pillow-arm now braced across your collarbone he rolls you both a bit, just until he’s mostly on his back and you’re a little on top of him, both half-facing the ceiling.

the sweat, the heat, should be uncomfortable, unbearable, but eddie squeezes the luscious chunk of your thigh just at the apex ‘til you wince a bit, and its a different heat entirely that wipes your mind of practical thought. he shakes it just to watch you jiggle, then massages his way down to your knee, spreading you open.the cool air against your sex makes you shiver again— he might be able go feel the goosebumps as they shake you.

those ripples of movement through you make his cock jump, and his hand’s on the outer thigh now, dancing its way to the back of your knee, then hitching it up so your foot falls between his legs.

eddie groans again, short and deep like its wrenched out of him at the slide of his cock against your back, his slit already leaking a snail-trail along the curve of your bum.

“okay, good morning, baby.”

he asks, “can we make a mess?” and you answer by sinking your teeth meanly into his rounded bicep. its supposed to be, “yes please,” that’s what you say, but its muffled by all his ivory flesh in your mouth. eddie hears your accommodating, “yeph, pleaph,” and sets out to prepare his breakfast.

he’s hooking his foot around you knee and trapping your leg open, the prickly scratch of his hair lighting up your sugar-sanded skin like tv static. you press into him for the sensation, and before you can register how fucked you are, he tucks two fingers between your lips and spreads them, exposing your inner folds and swelling clit to the cool air. you hum a breathy ‘uh huh’ around his chewed and reddening arm as he rubs a v-shape up and down your wet lips, and he’s a little distracted with how the sound nudges him on, the little high breath it pulls from him. he’s like a furnace, his exhaust against your face makes you struggle against his grip again.

you’re torn between staying latched and turning to gnaw on his tongue instead, but anyway you repeat your encouragement—‘mm-hmm, mm-hmm!” —right there, exactly right, thank you. its like you’re innocent in this, just answering the rhetorical of his sure fingers. then, after like, eight passes? you realize he’s fucking around with you.

eager now, blood pumping a bit faster, you hump into his palm and he shushes you, so you do it again, and he laughs into your hair when your hips leave the bed to chase him. you grow bolder in your need for him every day, he can’t believe how lovely you are, that you’ve let him see you want him so bad. its a long way from the ice-queen he met all those months ago. but you’re still biting him, slithering your tongue along the seam of his locked elbow, needing the occcupation. not hard, not to bruise, jaw loose enough that he can hear it more clearly when you tell him, “listen, listen— i need water. le’mme up!”

no, actually. he doesn’t think he will.

you can hear the smile. “well, which one is it? you need me more? this?” he says, dipping just a bit below your hole and swiping up, making you twitch hard, “or water?” oh, please. “f-mmm,” you start, but he stills his hand over your heat and cups it like he’s shielding you, a warm cover. he’s got you, you’re safe and held, even trapped in purgatory.

then, “release me, heathen,” he has the nerve to order, so now you’re biting down with intent to harm, force increasing incrementally. he feels you try to fuck up into him again, and he’s running out of time before you break skin. eddie flexes his thigh— gets his heel into the mattress, in what you realize too late is preparation— his leg still traps yours down, a bit of a stretch burning in your inner thigh and hips and making you leak, coating your ass, and your other leg can’t unbend fast enough to close before he pecks your cheekbone through your fluffy hair and then delivers a burst of punishing sharp taps against your clit. the wet slap makes you jerk and squirm as if shocked, heat burning over your cheeks anew. you’re almost shy, now you’ve been scolded.

almost. you’re caving your stomach, curling in against the sting, trying to avoid another onslaught and sinking deeper into the heat building in your stomach, and at last you release his arm with shock, your high choked cries stutter and echo through his head, go straight to the root of him—‘ah—hah- ah!’ they’re forcing your mouth open enough for him to adjust so you can’t take another bite out of him, tighter now so you can’t turn your head.

free now, eddie slides down past your button again and you gasp as his callous catches it on the way down. scratchy, so so good, almost like new. you’re shaking one leg a little, craving more friction, so he dips into the well of sap leaking from your aching pussy, then back up to press lightly against the underside of your clit, swiping left and right, then around and around, no real pattern or rhythm. just reveling in the clicking and squelching of your running wetness.

but he takes pity upon your next raspy, “please? baby, please,” and slows his already slow circles, pulls out from between your slit. “still thirsty,” he concludes, and you’re asking so nicely. you’re so sweet for him in the morning, it seems, so much more willing to melt instead of sharpening, more ready to ask for what you need. he’s gentle in gliding up and down your outside lips, pressing down on them, then releasing your leg and arms together. he drops a kiss to your shoulder and moves to sit up, not breaking all contact, but you miss him behind you already. you grab his hand without thinking, suddenly worried he’s leaving the room but he doesn’t break your grip, just squeezes you back, kisses the corner of your growing pouty frown, and sits up to dangle over the foot of the bed, swinging his legs to lay behind your back.

you’re finally unrestrained but don’t move, can’t, except to press your thighs together and rock them side to side, sliding the two halves of you against each other. you knead idly at one breast, and ghost your finger tips across both nips, watching his body bend, his muscles move beneath his skin. you wait as he sits back up holding your full carafe of water and chugging it. he grips the fancy glass pitcher with both hands and gulps down half the volume, and you recall how he had scoffed at it when he visited your room the first time. you think of the meadow you laid in together, in a position just like this: facing each other, legs extended behind one another, fingers clasped in your weird handshake. like you’re about to play a hand clap game, like he’s going to read your palm. so comfortable hunched together from almost the beginning.

you take the carafe, and gratefully sip as fast as you can for a while as he watches your throat move, you naked chest rising and falling with each breath. his wide brown eyes chase the errant water droplets streaming down your jaw, dripping into your lap. he takes his time checking you out, following the line of you down for a bit, then movement catches his eye. you’re flexing your toes, content, and his hot hand finds your clammy ankle to cradle it, and the warmth spreads up through you, down to your soles. soothing, perfect. outside the bubble of that blanket, you’re colder again than he is, but he’ll let you decide to cover up if the spirit moves you.

he smooths up and down your leg, just because he can, because he knows this familiar ease still sends chills into you, primes you. you announce to yourself, “we have to like, get up and do something. can’t just sit here,” then you’re vulnerable, twisting at the waist to place the mostly empty vessel on your nightstand with both hands; eddie isnt one to waste an opportunity.

“that’s what i’m saying! time for breakfast.”

he’s tying back his hair, smoothing his damp bangs all the way back and lying down. you still haven’t placed the water jug yet— even empty, its solid and bottom-heavy— as he bounces to scoot down the bed, pressing his chest against the strawberry skin of your bum and thick thighs, you exclaim your vexation, almost dropping the thing down and then looking over your shoulder.

“eddie, jesus! can you act like,” and the question is forgotten as he slices his hand between your legs again, widening a gap big enough to fit his head through. your own sense leaves you— your eyebrows shoot up, your smile feels feral, but you let yourself be rolled half on your side again so he can lay more on his back, get one arm under your leg, and hook one hand around the outside of your thigh, hoisting you a little over his shoulder. you think of his rings, of what almost happened. then hes yanking you towards him with a satisfied grunt, so your ass is flush against him. he whispers his thanks at your sex, licking at the oozing evidence of your arousal— “there you are—” and he kisses your pussy with tongue, sucks one lip into his mouth, then the other, lets out a stuttering groan of relief like a starved man at banquet.

“eddie, jesus, eddie.” its a ragged plea, you sound wretched to your own ears, and you don’t know what you’re begging for. maybe a moment to breathe, maybe you just want his name in the air, want him to know how much he kills you, wants his —either way, his chest soars with it, abs flex to the beat. he lives for your pretty mouth around him, even like this. he wants to say, you slay me, you’ll never get it, on your sweat and soft laughter and scowls, i’m sated, but he says:

“s’ no time for saying grace, baby, save it,” and his mouth barely moves around the warning, too focused on lining up his nose against your weepy slit and taking in a big cool breath of air before pressing it in and smothering himself. he wants to kick himself when your giggle is cut short, because its he that robs you of breath when he puckers his lips around you ripe clit and sucks only lightly. you make up the difference when you squeeze his head between your thighs. he’s so at home, its silly.

the press of your thighs, the press of his against your back helping to prop you up. his lovely head peaks only a little past your tummy from this angle, and he sighs happily when your fingers rake through the front of his flattened curls, scratching at his scalp. he’s humping the air like a dog, and you just want to feel him. you reach behind again and this time meet fired iron, the generous sheath of flesh easing his way against your palm. he keens into your pussy as he devours it, hips already stuttering a bit as his eyes screw shut, as you squeeze him at the base of his thick, perfect cock, feel it jump as he knees you gently in the back. you pump it with as much dexterity as you can manage. you start words and can’t finish them, pitch climbing higher and higher as he licks you out and pants into you, pushing you further and further out of orbit.

“f—, sh—, gahh— eddie, mmm eddie yes, please, just like th—hng,” that’s you, trying so hard to sing his praises and failing. he’s too much, this early, and it’s knocking you out.

you work his length, and you’re pulling back the hood of it all and swiping the considerable pool of gelly cum around and around the head of him when he spurts hot a wet across your arm, trembling. you know its not over for him though, not nearly, but you abandon tricks and agility for something simple, letting him fuck your tight hand and twisting a bit, gasping.

he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, and he could live off the creamed honey you’re dripping down his chin, grinding into his face. he presses the message into your heat, with the knob of his nose carving the way through your folds, slurping and suckling to your rhythm. so sensitive, so responsive, he opens his eyes to watch your perfect tits tremble and bounce as your body jerks in time with his work. his tongue is almost too slick as he laps at you, flicking back and forth where you like best just under the crest of your puffy clit, so he presses harder, puts his whole face to work. it says, yes, princess, take whatever you need, fuck yourself on me, i’ll take care of you as long as you allow it.

you didn’t vocalize through the great long huffs of breath you heaved out at first, chest rattling, or moan aloud at the feeling of his nose burrowing deeper and lower with each swipe up and down and up again. but now the pressure is deepening in your gut, the snake of ecstasy curling and twisting you up inside as eddies evil tongue goes impossibly wide and flat, spreading your nectar all about, and he then narrows as he presses into the opening of your cunt. you can feel him testing you, not quite pushing in even though you know he feels you clenching around nothing, sucking him in, asking him in, and he won’t go yet. you’re panting now, and losing patience. you need his tongue inside, and have to say so. “eddie, for fuck’s sake,” and you pull on his scalp when you feel him giggle against you. “eddie, hah- please baby, please can i have it?”

baby, finally, “hmm?” you know he wants you to say it, so you have to, you have to push past the last shreds of prudishness and say to the room, “eddie, baby, please. would you please put your tongue in me? i need it, fuck me? fuck—“ and you hiccup another gasp, and let out a long solid whine as he pushes his tongue and two fingers into your sobbing hole, curling them in opposite directions to spread you open and search for the other buzzer, the vulnerable spongey spot inside you that set your whole body aflame.

he’s gripping your leg so hard it almost hurts, then sliding that hand up to cup one breast without looking, and with the fingers inside massages your spot relentlessly. your abs are seizing and your leg begins to spasm, you don’t have it in you to force quiet the short needy gasps he’s fucking out of you, breathy pants that each end in a whine almost like a question.

in the haze, as you approach your precipice, you grab his hand and make him reach up high to your mouth, where you suck two of his thick square fingers between your lips and bite down, just to keep him still. he presses down against your tongue and sparks dance behind your eyes with impending release.

you just need something to occupy your mouth while you come, he had said once. to shut me up? you had wondered, but no—he was right, when you couldn’t talk, or wouldn’t, you wanted pressure. every hole filled at once, to feel full, covered in him. and he could only oblige, ever the gentleman. you’re saying his name around his fingers, crying it,

and then the trembling reaches its zenith, and you’re bending your body around him, pouring into his mouth like a doomed ray of light around a fresh black hole, fucking his chin like its the last thing you’ll ever do. his gravity pulls you in so profoundly that you’re scared you might scatter into nothing. your gripping his hair so hard you know it has to burn, and the deep buzz of his moans, so throaty and mean they’re more like growls, run through you so deliciously it shakes you in the nape of your neck, curls your toes.

his mouth stays the course, but when the plunge of his fingers stretching you to bursting is joined by his thumb finally breaching the gate of your vicegrip asshole, soaked and winking, a thousand thousand tons of your being condense into an inch of space, your universe turns to one bright burst of white heat as you come all over him, gushing around his agile tongue and fingers with a cry that rips rough through your throat, sobbing high and tight.

you draw your knees up to your chest with him still between them, and he moves his mouth against your pussy still, kissing out of you slowly. then, panting himself, he watches his star collapse.

back against the bed, one arm draped over his legs and the other still clasped over your panting open mouth, shocked ‘o’ of your lips shiny with drool. he doesn’t have to pry your legs open because your limbs are back to jelly, and he doesn’t have to shield his arms from your teeth, because you’re still coming back to the world when he lays his weight on top of you, elbows by your ears holding him up. he coaxes you with kisses, reminds you, “come on, danishes,” and strokes your hair back and off your neck as you spread your legs to wrap around him, feeling his hardness settle wet under your drenched thigh. you come back to him with a deep breath and a soft whistling exhale, eyes fluttering open, and he’s kissing the teary corners of your eyes and grinning. not smug or gloating, just happy.

you say it together as he leans in to press his lips to your slick forehead, “love you,” and you can’t help but roll your eyes. he shivers at your nails along his back, your lashes on his cheek.

all your little tasks can wait, you think again. he looks at you like he has the world in his arms; you close your eyes and thank whoever’s listening for bringing you home.

••••••••••••••

••••••••••••••

••••••••••••••

[rexxdjarin]

SPEAKKING OF BOBA THOTS I FORGOT TO SEND YOU THIS ONE THIS MORNING

(i think it could also work for wolffe but mainly boba)

somnophilia (maaaaybe free use—for wolffe 👀), waking up in the middle of the night/really early morning pinned to boba’s chest, he’s got an arm barred across your chest holding you by the shoulder as he fucks your thighs

he just keeps you in that blurry half awake dream space just making the both of you feel good until one of you gets more desperate and he makes you beg him to fuck you back to sleep 🤭

AHHHHHHHHH ok you have inspired me 🤭 and it’s gonna be boba bc I miss him my daddy

Sunlight just peeking over the horizon hits your face as it paints the indigo night sky with the soft pale pink of dawn. It was already warming up. You could feel the heat on your bare skin, the haze of humidity starting to flood the bedroom from the open balcony archway.

Before you could open your eyes, a dull rocking shifts your body forward like the billowing air tides across the dune sea. A grumble fills your ears as you begin to come to, feeling warmth radiate across your entire backside. You tried to turn over, but felt the restraint of a muscular forearm against your pebbled nipples.

“Don’t move, little one. Got you right where I want you.” Boba huffed softly, the whispered words hot along the shell of your ear. He groaned deeper as he let his other hand pull you by your hipbones impossibly closer to where his hips were lazily snapping to meet yours.

“Hmm…Boba…what…” You drawl softly in your half-asleep daze, reaching down to entwine your fingers with his on your hip. Before you could finish your thought, you felt the hot, weighted length of him press between the plush of your closed thighs. You gasp delightfully, widening your thighs just enough to let him move with an enjoyable amount of friction.

The subtle throb of his morning cock found it’s home slotting itself just below your own entrance, brushing at your clit gently with each thrust. You let out a desperate mewl at the contact and began writhing in rhythm with Boba’s hips.

“Looked so pretty laying there. I can’t help it, princess. Daddy’s gotta have you.” Boba whispered, placing the laziest of long, hot kisses at the spot behind your ear that always made you melt. “Watching the suns paint your silhouette across my sheets as they rise over my city…you’re mine too, aren’t you?”

His thrusts increase in strength without ever changing the pace. The mounting intensity along your drenched slit without the relief of entrance has you boiling in your core as you ache for the stretch of him inside you. In the daze of morning, you were powerless to resist such teasing. You moaned louder now, the whispered sweet nothings across your pillows no longer enough to signify your need for him.

The deep grumble of a satisfied laugh spread across your back as it echoed in his broad chest. “All you have to do is say it. Tell me you’re mine. Beg me to fill you and I’ll make that ache go away.” He instructed, letting his soft kisses turn into sloppy, desperate hickies on the length of your neck. Still the thrusting of his thick cock between your thighs didn’t let up, his hands traveling to knead at your thighs.

“Fuck.” You whimpered, tipping your head back onto his shoulder and crying out as he slid himself between your soaked slit now.

“C’mon, little one,” he mocked, keeping his composure despite your heat threatening to envelope him in seconds. “Use your words. Let me hear that pretty voice so early. Wake up our city.” He laughed darkly as he let the tip of his cock slap against your clit and you lost it.

“Boba. Fuck me. Please. I’m yours, Daddy, all yours. Please.” You begged at full volume, rocking back into his lap and gripping his hands desperately. You were slick and ready and if you waited even a second longer you’d explode.

He groaned loudly, shifting his palm down your upper thigh. “There you go, my Princess. Now you’ve earned it.” He purred, lifting your leg higher and splitting you apart on top of him.

He took you like that into the late hours of morning, letting you fade back into blissful sleep with every climax and waiting to wake you up again each time for another round.

[xsezzie]

Under Threat

Oopsie... more Kavetham with inspiration from cute anon hehe~

Work is kicking my butt lately so I have had less creativity flowing through me when it comes to proper fics, I apologise!

Warnings: It’s a tickle fic???

______________________________________________________________

Summertime in Sumeru meant hot and humid temperatures. Most city dwellers would flock to the nearby lakes or Port Ormos to cool off. All except the Scribe, who was a serial napper and ‘I am going to stay indoors’ when it came to this type of weather. Though, his roommate Kaveh was also suffering due to the extreme temperatures, having shed most of his outfit off at this point and spread himself across the couch, his legs and feet invading Alhaitham’s personal space, who in retaliation also laid across from him and placed his own feet in Kaveh’s lap.

It was no secret to a select few in Sumeru that there was something more between them, but they are both too stubborn to admit it.

“This position is making me feel hotter… get your legs off me…” Kaveh whined, nudging at Alhaitham’s feet in his lap.

“I am just returning the favour, seeing as you sprawled yourself out over me first.”

“You are a pain…”

“A pain you continue to be affectionate with?” Alhaitham smirked as Kaveh gave him the middle finger lazily, covering his pink face with his other hand.

The Scribe chuckled to himself and gently squeezed Kaveh’s ankle, meaning for it to be a gentle gesture. That is until the blond shrieked and kicked his leg into Alhaitham’s chest.

“W-What was that for!? I… don’t do that!!” The architect sat up in a huff, his face now red as he pouted.

“Huh…? Is that… not supposed to be affectionate…? I… oh.” Alhaitham, having caught on, began to scribble his fingers slowly over Kaveh’s soft ankles.

“H-Hey! Aaaahhh!!! S-Stahahahahaap!!!” The blond’s reaction was immediate, throwing himself back onto the couch, squealing and giggling, trying to kick Alhaitham. “Y-You know better than t-to tihihickle meehehehehee!!!”

“Ah, but I have never tested this spot before… I know your feet are ticklish though.” Alhaitham teases, he gets a tighter grip on Kaveh’s ankle and traces his nails along the soft soles. The sound Kaveh made could have possibly shattered a window, and it certainly caused Mehrak to jump up from its spot by the door, making a little angry face at Alhaitham.

“Look your weird toolbox is mad, be quiet or the neighbours will hear us~” 

“A-ALHAITHAAAHAHAHAHAM!!!!” Kaveh squirmed and kicked his legs as the assault on his soles and ankles continued, if he wasn’t already feeling the heat from the weather then he was definitely feeling it now. His face red with embarrassment and laughter, and his legs were in a firm trap, Alhaitham having wrapped his own around them to keep him in place.

“Whhhheeheheheeheheyyyyyyyy!!! MEHRAK HEHEHEHEELLLPP!!”

The poor toolbox was confused, looking back and forth between the two, eventually deciding that nothing was needed doing and it reverted back to its sleep-state. “Heh, looks like it doesn’t think you’re under any threat.” Alhaitham continued to spider his fingers along Kaveh’s soles.

“I AM UNDER THREAT! I AM UNDER THREEEAHAHAHAHAHT!!!”

Kaveh began jerking his entire body to try and escape the younger man's grip to no avail, picking up a pillow instead and smacking him with it while the ticklish sensations continued to travel up his legs from his feet. It was becoming too unbearable and he was getting desperate, why did his feet have to be so sensitive? Stupid Alhaitham with his stupid smirk on his face and his stupid strength because he secretly isn’t a feeble scholar…

Kaveh made a squeaking sound as Alhaitham focused on his arches, “NAHAHAHAT THEHEHEHEHEERREEE!!! F-Fuck off you ass!!” Through his tears of laughter the older genius finally realised he could start to tickle Alhaitham’s feet in return as they were right there wrapped around him. 

“T-Take this!” Kaveh weakly began to scribble the scribe’s soles in return, earning a soft chuckle from the younger man.

“Quihit that~” Alhaitham’s feet weren’t as ticklish as Kaveh but he could feel his grip loosening on his senior.

“N-No! Stop tickling me and I-I will stop tickling you!” Kaveh huffed, weakly trying to retaliate. He then suddenly had a wonderful idea… “Mehrak! Mehrak I am under threat! Get Alhaitham for me!” Kaveh pleaded with his toolbox companion who was idle on the floor, it perked up upon hearing its name called and made a curious emote on its small screen. “Mehrak grab his hands!”

Alhaitham found himself quickly restrained by Mehrak’s telekinetic abilities, leaving him highly vulnerable, “K-Kaveh… What is this? Don’t… Don’t even think about it….” 

“Don’t even think about what?”

“I am not falling for that… Do. Not. Tickle. Me.” Alhaitham tried to sound serious but his little smile was giving it away. Kaveh knows Alhaitham can be more ticklish when he is unable to stop it, so now was the perfect opportunity.

“Ah sorry my age must be affecting my hearing!” Kaveh teased before gently scritching the underside of Alhaitham’s toes. He immediately lets out a half covered snort and can’t help but kick his legs softly, “K-Kaveh! Pff- hnng- ugh stahap!” A soft squeak comes out as Alhaitham feels himself getting warmer, probably just from the hot summer day- definitely not the tickling. Kaveh’s nails were exploring other areas of his feet now and he couldn't hold it much longer, it also didn’t help that his arms were currently being restrained by his roommate's weird suitcase.

“K-Kaveheheh… s-stop that! Pff- Nohohoho!” The ticklish feeling on his arches now were becoming too much and a few soft squeaks escaped the younger man's mouth, he desperately tries to free his hands from Mehrak to cover his face but the telekinesis is strong.

“Nuh-uh Alhaitham~ No trying to escape now, not until I hear a proper laugh!” The blond softly rakes both of Alhaitham’s feet, the sensations traveling from his feet and through his whole body are too much and he finally gives in. 

“Pfffff- NAHAHAHAAA STAHAHAAAP!! Heheheheheh! Quihihit ihihit K-Kaveehhehehh!!!” The Scribe can only throw his head back and let out a raspy laugh with the occasional squeak, much to his dismay and Kaveh’s delight, “Aw is my junior a bit sensitive? Tickle tickle tickle!” The architect teases as he continues his ticklish attack on Alhaitham’s feet. 

“K-Kaveh I swear hahaha- Ahhh! D-Dohohohon’t!!” Alhaitham feels Kaveh’s fingers make their way up the back of his leg to his knees, “KAVEH Dooooon’t!!!!!”

“He finally gives in! I knew you loved it when I tickle you~”

“AHAHAHA! NOOOHHOHOHOO!”

“Ah-ha-hah- yes don’t you mean?” Kaveh smirks as he gets to see this softer and less restrained side of Alhaitham.

“AAAH!! OKAY OKAY!!! I GIVE I GIHIHIHIHIIIVE!!!” 

Kaveh seems to snap back into the reality that it is a really hot day, not realising how red and sweaty the two of them have become on the couch. He lets the scribe go and commands Mehrak to release his arms, of which Alhaitham immediately brings down to wipe his bangs out of his face. Kaveh can’t help but blush and think how good Alhaitham looks when his hair isn’t covering his eyes…

“Ah… heh sorry, but it was nice to have the upper hand in a tickle fight for once~” 

“You cheated… using your stupid toolbox…”

“Hey! Mehrak is not stupid! Don’t make me get it again so I can tickle you elsewhere!”

Alhaitham tossed one of the cushions at Kaveh’s head, “Not on a day like this… jeez I am sweating so much, I think a cold shower is in order… ugh.”

“Well, this is what you get for tickling me! You should have known better than to start this on a day like today…”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be so ticklish.”

“Hey!”

[smallnico]

Okay I know these are basic but I actually think I haven't asked them yet. A rundown of Esper's favorites: favorite flower? Food? Drink? Animal? Color? Season?

a lot of these i hadn't thought about either, so thanks for the opportunity!!

flower: i don't know if this counts, since it's not really known for its flowers, but i would probably say rosemary.

i've written a little story where esper gets a gift of a sachet of rosemary from astarion, in part to help with the whole 'lingering smell of death' situation, so it has a lot of sentimental significance to them. that said, it's also pretty appropriate -- in addition to smelling nice and tasting nice, it's also said to purify and protect against negative and corruptive spiritual energy. some meanings i've found in terms of flower language are memory, love, lust, mourning, and fidelity, all of which are also appropriate lmao. it also looks like esper, a little -- so pointy and kind of evocative of spikier pine needles, so you don't want to get too close, but when you do the needles are actually pretty tender, and the flowers are a well-kept secret -- maybe you didn't realize that rosemary Had flowers, that it was just a leafy herb for seasoning, but it has a lot of beauty to it even beyond how useful and versatile it is.

food: roasted dwarf, obviously -- just kidding, though. esper's favourite food is probably sauteed mushrooms.

(and not just because the durge c*nnibalism stuff squicks me out a little, so i choose not to incorporate it more than i have to into esper's story.) esper actually doesn't like eating meat if they can help it. it feeds That Durge In Them, but that's why they don't like it. mushrooms, on the other hand, remind them in some small way of better times. they did grow up in the underdark, so they ate a lot of mushrooms as a kid!

drink: esper will drink anything that's given to them, but they're especially fond of mint tea.

esper used to be an absinthe and dark liquor enjoyer back in the bhaalist days, but ever since their lobotomy and necromancer vivisection experience, their old drow poison/alcohol tolerance is pretty much nonexistant, so they don't drink much alcohol. tea on the other hand is good for stress management, and mint tea in particular helps to bring up your energy level without caffeine, so it doesn't make it harder to sleep -- something esper, chronic bhaalspawn nightmare haver, struggles with enough as it is.

animal: no question here. cats!

it's partially a joke, but i associate esper pretty strongly with cats -- and in-game (though this is mostly my fault) i use speak with animals to prevent ever harming them (yes, i know about steelclaw and grub. not on my watch, larian), as well as other animals. esper has a soft spot for creatures, but they do have a particular affinity for cats and their ways of life. esper too pinwheels between being god's favourite little acrobatic obligate predator and being so cuddly and sweet. also, between being cool and aloof and careful, and being an absolute fucking bastard menace with a taste for mischief. if you've ever been stared at relentlessly by a cat, you understand how it feels to be stared at by esper.

colour: you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at them, but it's somewhere between teal and purple.

these are the colours i use to depict their magic, not coincidentally! even though the main non-black colour accent i use with esper in art is this purplish red, that's the colour i use when i want to depict The Urge, or bhaal. this is why their text bubbles in my comics are pink -- it's halfway between bhaal and esper. :>

season: now this is one i'm not sure about. they'd need to have a few more years accumulated of Experiencing Seasons before they'd be able to make up their mind, but i know in my heart it's probably autumn.

i have an easier time saying for certain what seasons esper hates, lmao. they hate summer. too much sun, too hot, too much Weather, too humid. again, they grew up in the underdark and spent a lot of their forgotten adult life either underground or prowling at night. they are more than happy with shorter days and cooler weather -- the only reason winter isn't their favourite season is because snow is a pain in the ass, and because esper runs hot (body temp wise) but not hot enough to dress how they usually like to when it's Actually Cold. and spring just means summer is coming, so to esper that makes it the sunday night of seasons. autumn is nice and cool, kind of spooky, dark, and full of the smell of things rotting (but in like a good way).

~~

THANKS FOR ASKINGGG you're a real one molly <333

[lastoneout]

So my neurologist actually did something right for once and gave me some ambien to help me sleep while I'm on the steroid pack since I already have insomnia and steroids make it WAY worse, and I was really excited because this is legit what I've been wanting a doctor to do for like over a year now...but it didn't really help me sleep, at least not as well as the weed does.

I could possibly just need a higher dose(I am known to be very resistant to these sorts of meds, it takes like twice the normal dose of propofol to put me under) or maybe the steroid is just so powerful the meds can't make a dent in it(which I'd believe since I'm really sensitive to steroids and the weed ALSO doesn't help me sleep as well when I'm on them), and also it's really hot and humid right now which makes it hard to sleep in general AND I just got my bc implant put in which is making it hard to sleep since I have to be careful with my left arm and I like NEED to be able to switch what side I sleep on cuz my shitty arthritic joints don't like staying in one position for too long...but this is a bit of a let down ngl. I was really excited to be able to sleep and then maybe use this as proof that I can be trusted with sleep medication and I could finally stop having to spend damn near $100 on weed gummies every month and a half just to Sleep At All but like...hnnnn.....

Idk, when I see my primary I'm going to beg her to send me to a sleep specialist again bcs the weed is NOT sustainable it's already expensive and on top of that I am absolutely building up a tolerance which means I have to take more to sleep and thus spend more money and it's so fucking annoying. I've already made a lot of progress in the trauma department too and that hasn't really helped me sleep better which leads me to believe this is def a result of one of my other medical issues, I def think a sleep specialist is the best bet rn.

The plus side tho is she gave me 15 ambien and I only have three days of the steroids left, and my arm should be healed better in the next couple of days, so I should have a chance to test the ambien without the dual whammy of the arm pain and steroids wrecking my system, and if even that fails well that's a 15 day T break for the weed which honestly I really do need so like there's that.

Also since I have a bunch of new followers quick FAQ/rundown before anyone gives advice:

I have bipolar disorder type II and adhd and severe chronic pain from fibromyalgia, arthritis, and hEDS. The adderall for my adhd isn't the problem, I actually sleep WAY worse without it. I don't drink that many caffeinated beverages and I especially don't drink them basically at all when I'm on steroids so that's not it either. At least a little of my insomnia is due to trauma and not having a dog currently, but I can't adopt another one right now for numerous reasons, and EMDR has helped the trauma nightmares/anxiety let up quite a lot but that hasn't helped me sleep. I can't take CBD it makes my brain feel like I'm hooked up to a car battery. I also can't smoke bcs asthma so unfortunately I am stuck buying edibles which are very expensive. Insomnia isn't on the medical marijuana criteria in my state so I can't even make it cheaper that way. Melatonin does nothing. Benadryl also does nothing. Exercising before bed also does nothing. I can't do yoga(hEDS) or meditate(adhd). Cutting down on screen time before bed doesn't help and I already spend as little time in my bedroom as possible during the day so my brain keeps associating being in there with sleeping. Listening to music/a podcast doesn't help. Sleepy teas and nice baths and all that before bed doesn't help. I have a weighted blanket which does help a little, but sucks bcs it traps heat like a motherfucker, but I'd sleep worse without it so yeah. Also I can't make my house any cooler/less humid because I'm renting and it's old and shitty and doesn't have real air conditioning and the little portable ac unit + dehumidifier is trying but like...it's not enough I'm still hot and sweaty all night.

I am on hydroxyzine and nortryptraline and they don't make me even a little tired. I cannot take SSRIs or SNRIs on account of the bipolar and the fact that I'm just really sensitive to stuff that messes with my serotonin, even when I'm on a mood stabilizer, and the only med that I can stand that does serotonin stuff is the nortryptraline and it's also the only thing that helps my pain so switching it to something else isn't an option. I build up a resistance to seroquel really fast which makes my insomnia infinitely worse in the long run so I don't see the point in taking it. I have tried basically everything my psychiatrist can think to give me outside of narcotics, which led to her straight up telling me to my face she just can't help me before clarifying that apparently narcotics are somehow worse for me than not sleeping so she won't prescribe them even if they might help. I don't snore or wake up gasping for air so I know I don't have COPD or sleep apnea.

Literally the only thing that has ever made sleeping easy is weed(and opioids but those don't help my pain and have so many hoops to jump through so I don't wanna take them anymore), specifically indica with CBN, but it has to have THC in it I've tried pure CBN + CBD gummies and they don't make me tired they just make me feel weird 'cuz of the CBD.

So yeah. I am up shit creek without a paddle and I really quite desperately need to see a sleep specialist. I appreciate advice but like believe me, I've tried just about everything I can think of and none of it helps. I just naturally have really bad insomnia. And it sucks.

[adaines-furious-feast]

because i cant stop thinking about it and i think it was your blog where i saw the idea most, but thoughts on jace joining the sophomore year quest:

he's obviously there to hinder them as long as possible so that arianwen can do her stuff. they're so <3 to me i can't *not* include them in any jace-related storyline anymore

porter then has to go w/ the ratgrinders himself, which is a whole different story lol

also gilear doesn't go with them. something, something only needing one aguefort staff member per quest. and jace is the smarter choice

jace is absolutly dying on the van-boat. he gives such "i need to drive so i can be in control" energy. especially post-shatterstar.

jace at the golden gardens <3 he's so glad they're spending so much time here on leviathan he can finally fucking relax

post-shatterstar, jace cares too much about arianwen and doesn't want to sleep w/ garthy o'brien and he's already in a precarious situation w/ porter.

jace befriending sandra-lynn faeth. they're going to be messy bitches together. if jace can't sleep w/ garthy, sandra-lynn still will

jace wanting to protect adaine bc she's arianwen's daughter still, even if she doesn't know that she's trying to stop her mother.

and jace fighting like hell to keep adaine away from the elves who want to take adaine away and being *devestated* when they take her. he wants to be her dad *so bad* but she's off sacrificing herself.

jace hoping he can kill angwyn so he can *finally* have more of arianwen's attention. and him *really* wanting to kill angwyn after seeing what he's done to his daughters.

jace loving and hating kei lumenera. it's such a fallinel thing and i think jace just really hates fallinel and the traditional high elven things. he's such a material girl to me.

he also dislikes all of leviathan other than the golden gardens. he's such a solesian <3 <3 <3

jace in arborly and having to watch the fucking shrimp party antics.

jace lying about not having plane shift (or he doesn't know plane shift bc why would he be leaving this plane of existence when this plane has all that he needs?) and having them take longer and longer to buy arianwen time.

jace, who feels guilty about sending aelwyn off with her mother when she deserves to rest. jace, knowing that he was supposed to be going into the forest but kalina *likes* where he is, what situation he's wrapped himself up in. and now he's *porters* and porter wants him to trail along the bad kids and see if they're the threat that may come up

i think porter knows that the bad kids are the ones that would end up coming after them, since no other party is giving this much effort. but with how distracted and wild they usually are, i think porter discredits them. especially after gorgug multiclasses into artificing.

jace, who has kalina in his ear all of the time, who is so amused by all of this and is driving a wedge further and further between arianwen and jace, because he is not Cassandra's anymore, he is Porter's

jace in hell. it's too hot and humid and it's messing with his hair

Jace having to fight penelope!!! even though she is in hell and actively trying to get revenge, that was his student!!! probably one of his best students!!!

jace and bill. consider? /j

jace in the nightmare forest? jace turned into a puppet by kalina??? jace who is forced to hunt adaine and hurt her even though she's so much like arianwen it hurts and he never wants to do that.

kalina who taunts him about it. kalina who asks him if adaine will want her to be her new dad after *attacking* her? kalina who uses him like he's her favoritest little mouse.

and jace, who eventually comes to and sees arianwen once again, but she's been corrupted. jace, who sees his beloved attack her children, casts *power word pain* on adaine without remorse. jace, who's illusion of arianwen cracks and he tries to patch it together by saying she's under the influence of the crown and that he has to stop her in order to save her, that something went wrong, but,,,

did it?

and then kristen, who jace had practically forgotted was here, decides to ressurect cassandra herself, twisting her into someone different than what jace was sworn on, but his goddess is back!

except, she's being tied to a sophomore he knows is currently failing her cleric classes. except he can't worship her because he's tied to porter. except, she's punishing her own, true devoted worshipper Arianwen.

and kalina is destroyed and jace is happy for a moment, until he sees what's become and how he couldn't have ever won in this scenario.

and as they gather their bearings for one last night in the golden gardens, aelwyn asks how long he was with her mother, because aelwyn *knows* that he was the caster arianwen was planning on taking. and aelwyn *knows* that he's wrapped up in something greater than him

something, something jace and aelwyn parallel about always following the wrong person bc you care about someone who doesn't care about you the same way.

and jace who wants to be there for her, because now she has no parents (he's still reeling from the thought of adaine killing her father with a single punch), but jace knowing that if he gets any closer, porter will want to infect them as well.

and aelwyn goes on to find kipperlilly copperkettle, working for her to keep an eye on jace. and jace having to do sophomore year now w/ rival groups both considering him a mentor and how he doesn't want to betray either of them, but knows he will.

Oooph, absolutely nothing to add. At this point, whatever the fuck went on in the Mountains of Chaos in the original time line probably hurt a whole lot less than this

[factorialsotherfandoms]

A follow up to the declawing torture, 9 and a bit years later.

XCOM2 au, references to, well, torture. And mutilation. And various other terrible things. Also Felps being a manipulative little guy making Cellbit look after himself.

The archive is rarely the warmest room on the ship. With cheap ink and home-made paper, they keep it cool and dark in an attempt to preserve the papers as long as possible. The humidity is drained, too, though that can be said of the entire ship. It was Philza's first, but it's Cellbit's now; they both have a desk here, but only one is commonly used.

There's a stack of papers on Cellbit's desk, ones he is doing his best to work through. He's looking, he's looking - somewhere in this mess he knows is the answer, he knows there's something about the missing civilians to be found here. He's pulled out the whole drawer from the filing cabinet - one draw for each problem, with colour-coded labels for shelf-stored items, those are the rules from long before Cellbit came to the Avenger - and he has so many pieces they just... Don't fit together.

His finishes reading the page - looking at the patterns, he can see why Max is convinced his partner's disappearance fifteen years ago is related despite being pre-invasion - and reaches for another.

His fingers seize up, refusing to bend and grab it.

Cellbit looks at them, and sighs, and uses the still functioning hand to rummage around in a drawer. He grabs a heat pack, snaps it, and lays it over his screaming knuckles.

There has been trouble with his hands ever since... that, but cold tends to make it worse. A minute or two and it will be fine - sore, but fine - he just needs to wait.

Cellbit hates waiting.

But he's good at it.

He sits there, gently flexing his fingers and waiting for full movement to return. They almost bend far enough to continue working, when the door slips open.

"Hey Cellbo."

Felps sounds more than half asleep already, wandering in and towards his favourite corner. There's a few old, spare cushions there, placed down purely because of Felps' habit of sleeping anywhere his friends are. Cellbit has caught Tubbo napping there before, too, though in all matters it's usually Felps.

"Heya Felps," he waves to his best friend, forgetting the hot pack for a moment.

It slips from his hand, to the desk, to the floor.

Cellbit curses, and reaches for it, and as he does he hits his suffering hand against a drawer handle.

"Fuck!" he yells, louder than before, immediately moving to cradle the hand against his chest. "Motherfucking bastard drawer."

He kicks it for good measure, and then Felps is there - significantly more awake, and holding the hot pack out to them.

"Cellbit?"

He reminds himself to breathe, "I'm fine, Felps. It just surprised me; feel free to rest."

But Felps doesn't. Instead he takes Cellbit's hand, pulling it out and exposing it. He hums as he rubs circles into the hurting muscles, noticible even through Cellbit's gloves.

Cellbit tenses, and Felps frowns.

The humming stops dead.

"I'm going to check it, okay?" Felps asks, fingers shifting to Cellbit's gloves.

"There's no need," Cellbit promises. "I just caught myself badly, that's all."

Felps /looks/ at him, and Cellbit... Cellbit could say no, he promises he could, but it's late and he's cold and for all he never wanted Felps to know, hiding it would be more suspicious.

If he's lucky, Felps won't be able to tell.

"Alright," he concedes - because it's Felps, it's always Felps, and what wouldn't he give for his first and closest friend?

"Alright," Felps replies, a little too serious for either of their likings.

Felps is so careful as he removes the glove, making sure not to tug or pull at the skin beneath. It's his left hand - the hand with the neater scars - but they are still immediately obvious.

But Felps doesn't say anything, not yet, just... Looks at them.

Cups Cellbit's hand between his own, and gently massages the skin.

Their eyes meet, and they know - they both know.

Cellbit doesn't stop him as he takes his other hand, gently removing the glove there too.

They both look down - five more scars, three neat, one messy, one carving down the length of his hand.

"Cellbit..." Felps starts.

"Don't," Cellbit whispers back, voice cracking. "Please, don't."

And Felps doesn't say anything, but he breaks Cellbit anyway - a kiss to every scar, and then pulling Cellbit into a hug.

He can feel the questions, he can sense them burning on Felps' tongue - Cellbit trembles in the hold, and it's nine years ago again. There's a scalpel to his knuckles and Cucurucho is smiling eerily down at him and the surgeon's eyes are laughing as he carves away his bones, his skin. There's no pain but there's blood and then he could meet their eyes but how because he's terrified, terrified, terrified and they /took his claws/ and cut open his bands and his bones have never been right, not since and not again.

His trembling grows to a shaking, and drives them both down to the metal floor. Still Felps keeps holding him, wrapping an arm across his back and another tangling into his hair and he's started humming again - one of his stupid, cheerful songs.

And Cellbit - Cellbit cannot cry, he has no regrets, but it hurts and it hurts and it's been nine long years and his claws were only the start. He cannot cry, but he cannot stay silent, so he laughs as he sits on the archive floor, Felps wrapped tightly around him.

Felps, Felps, Felps - finally, finally, his best friend is safe. His best friend is safe, and here, and Cellbit would destroy countries if Felps only needed him to.

"Has a doctor looked at it?" is the question Felps asks, once Cellbit quietens down.

He's still playing with one of Cellbit's hands, moving the fingers and poking the joints, treating it with the curiosity of any other new, strange thing.

Cellbit laughs again, and it's bitter, and it's dry. "A doctor did it."

Felps pauses - looks to Cellbit's face, then back to the hand. "They're a shitty doctor then. Has a real doctor seen it?"

"I think Fed doctors count as real doctors, just about."

The words slip out, and Cellbit has said too much; Felps freezes, glazes over, then comes back with something determined in his spine.

"We're going to see Doctor Ruiz."

"Felps..." is all the objection that Cellbit can quite manage. Anyone else he would fight, but Felps...

Felps squeezes his hand, "it'll be okay - I'm here. You don't need to be scared."

---

The infirmary is thankfully quiet for once, everyone injured well enough to be up and about the ship, only needing to check in every so often to check healing process. The doctor is at the computer, updating notes on... Cellbit's pretty sure those are Foolish's notes.

"Hey doc." Felps greets her like a friend. Given how often he has to come by, given his condition, she may as well be.

"Felps," she spins her chair around to face them. "And... Cell? What has he done this time?"

"Cellbit," he corrects her, flinching a little at the name.

"Cellbit has old injuries that need checking," Felps says. "It's not me this time."

The doctor doesn't seem convinced, but does bring up Cellbit's notes - first on the computer, then transferring them to her tablet, "how can I help you, then?"

"It's really nothing," Cellbit tries to say, even as Felps tugs his right hand - his worse hand, but not the one troubling him today - towards the woman.

She looks at the scars, then her tablet, then squints at Cellbit.

"Cat hybrid...?" she hesitates a little.

Cellbit dies a bit inside, but nods; Felps squeezes his arm in reassurance.

"How long ago did this happen?"

Cellbit glances at Felps, and knows he won't like the answer - he knows Felps is going to destroy himself over it, but he also knows he has no way out of this situation.

"Nine years."

As expected, Felps flinches, and he clings harder.

Cellbit takes back his hand, and uses it to hold Felps tight.

"Does it cause you trouble?" she asks.

"Nothing a few minutes with a heat pack fails to solve."

"Pain?"

There Cellbit hesitates. Because, yes, constantly. But admitting that, saying that, confessing that he's been in constant pain for nine years, with fluctuating functionality, while Felps is right here and his best friend is intelligent enough to /know/ why this happened...

"I see," the doctor says, noting something down. "Have you ever received treatment for it?"

That makes Cellbit laugh - the day after he was declawed the stitches tore, and he had to fucking replace them himself. The idea of having any proper treatment... "Fuckers didn't even stitch them properly."

He can almost /feel/ Felps go pale - he certainly feels him freeze up against his side.

He glances to him.

"Do you want Felps to leave?" the doctor asks.

And... Yes, but no. Cellbit doesn't want Felps to hear this, doesn't want a single secret of it whispered even to the doctor, let alone to the person for whom the sacrifice was made. He doesn't want Felps to know, he doesn't want the guilt, or the pity - he made his choice and, fuck it, it was worth it. He doesn't regret a thing - not the pain, not the stiffness, not the agony. There's not a single thing he would not have given for Felps, and now he has him back...

Now he has him back, Cellbit thinks if he's not there, he's going to lie to the doctor just to escape.

If Felps isn't there, and he's being forced to remember this... Cellbit doesn't think he'll be able to stay present.

"No," he answers, and it tastes like ash - to condemn his best friend to guilt, just so he doesn't have a panic attack in the doctor's office. "No, he- Felps stays."

His fingers clamp tighter on Felps' shoulder, keeping him close.

Felps does nothing.

Doctor Ruiz hesitates, but carries on.

"Can you tell me about how it happened?"

Cellbit shrugs. "I was undercover in the Federation. On orientation day, I was taken to a Cucurucho's office, where a surgeon was waiting. Dental anesthetic in both hands, metal cuffs to keep them still, had my ears pinned while it kicked in and then the bastards cut out my claws."

"Follow up care?"

"I passed out and woke up in blood soaked bandages, and had to deal with it myself."

Against his side, Felps whines. Cellbit clutches to him tighter, putting his fear into his body that he might keep his mind clear.

Felps already knows something is wrong - if he can get through the doctor's appointment, it will comfort him. Cellbit doesn't care about pain, but Felps cares about him being in pain, so...

So he'll try.

He'll try, because for some stupid reason Felps loves him, and Cellbit has to deal with that.

"Any infection?" she asks. "Other complications?"

"I don't remember well," he confesses. "It was nine years ago, and I was busy."

Neither Felps nor the Doctor like that answer.

The Doctor flicks something on her tablet, quickly reading. Then she flicks back, and looks at him again. "Laser?"

"Scalpels."

Under his arm, Cellbit can hear Felps whispering a combination of half-formed prayers and curse words. He shifts, holds him closer, whispers an apology in his ear.

It breaks the chain; Felps slaps his thigh, and goes quiet.

"Did you receive other injuries during your time there?"

Cellbit nods, "there's also scarring on my back and shoulders. And Cucurucho," he gestures at his head. "I was in one of their departments."

He glances at Felps; the Doctor sees the look, and doesn't press. Instead she moves on, eyes promising to discuss the other scars some other time.

"This is not an area I'm much familiar with," the Doctor confesses. "But would you mind an x-ray? Sometimes it causes damage to the remaining bone, which will worsen over time."

Cellbit does mind, but Felps looks at him and... And he agrees.

Doctor Ruiz has to do everything in the infirmary, except occasionally when Aypierre helps. After a really bad mission Philza or Bad might help triage, but that's about it.

It saves time, though; the x-ray machine is just the other side of the room. Felps has to let go of Cellbit while it happens, waiting back by the computer and far from the radiation.

The Doctor tries to flatten Cellbit's hands, preparing them for a clear picture.

It takes everything Cellbit has not to scream.

He swears instead, and she frowns, but finds a pillow to place them on - allows him to keep his knuckles bent, if only because they cannot flatten at all.

The x-ray does not take enough time for the pain to fade, though the doctor does not call him back immediately. He's allowed to sit there gathering himself as she reviews the pictures.

She also has to take more from other angles - that might be why.

Eventually, when the sharp pain has faded and everything has levelled out, she comes over and sits on the x-ray table.

"The good news is there are no loose bone fragments," she says. "I'd like a full CT scan of your hands, but it's awaiting repairs - once it's fixed, I would like you back here so I can assess the muscle damage. Some is obvious, but I'm not sure of the extent."

Cellbit hates that, but he can see how Felps is, so... so he nods in acquisition.

"For now, you said heat helps?"

"I have some heat packs - the camping ones - I grabbed from a sports store," he says.

"I'll requisition more with the medical supplies," she says. "It won't be a reliable supply, but it's fewer questions. Do you take anything for the pain?"

Cellbit shifts, "it doesn't do much, so I don't tend to bother."

And it must be bad, it has to be worse than he thought, because she hands him a bag of boxes of tablets.

"Please take something when it gets bad, at least," and she sounds so tired, like she's said this at least twenty times before. "Do I need to explain how long term pain fucks your body up, or are you going to behave?"

He takes the tablets.

"I'll... try," he says.

"You'd better," she sighs. "Side effects are on the leaflets, come back if there's problems. Once the CT scanner is fixed we'll look at your hands in more detail, and I'll do some research; physio could probably help, but the joints seem unstable."

He... doesn't really like the sound of that, but he nods, and he takes it, because he knows that he has to - there's a doctor sat near him, and he has to do what he's told.

Felps deems himself no longer banished, coming and sitting in Cellbit's lap.

The pressure throws his brain a second. He wraps an arm around Felps' waist, and remembers how to breathe.

"Thank you," he says, because all he wants is to escape.

"I'd tell you to stop pushing them, but I know a loosing battle," the doctor says. "Chief Tubbo said the parts should be ready tomorrow; I'll see you in a week?"

Felps is here, and will hold Cellbit to that; he nods anyway.

It fades into an awkward quiet, until eventually Felps pulls Cellbit away.

---

They end up back in the archive - Cellbit and Felps both sat on the cushion pile. Cellbit has coffee, and water, and Felps forced one of the painkillers on him.

Felps has some sort of fruit juice, and given the colour Cellbit is a little afraid to ask.

They drink quietly, Felps leaning on Cellbit's arm and Cellbit leaning back. It's quiet, and it's still, and it isn't working but Cellbit is struggling to hold his glass.

The mug is fine, with the handle to loop his fingers through. The glass...

Well, he abandons the water just as soon as the pill is taken.

"Why did you do it?" Felps eventually asks, voice too quiet.

"I had to," Cellbit says. "They did this shit to all the hybrids in the department. There was this one woman-" she's dead now, or at least Cellbit hopes she's dead. "- never got her name. The office called her Junior. Fish-hybrid. They carved off all her scales, and used skin graphs to stop them growing back. The air con caused her gills to get infected. Didn't see her again after that."

Felps shakes his head, leaning closer, "did you?"

"Yes." Cellbit says, because there were no other paths he could have taken.

Felps takes one of his hands, and holds it close. His fingers are back, tracing over and over the scars on his skin.

"There's always an option," Felps says.

"They took you," Cellbit replies. "I couldn't let them keep you."

Felps holds the hand tight, and leans against Cellbit's side, "you could have."

Cellbit uses his free hand to turn Felps' face towards him. "No. I couldn't have. It was worth it, Felps. I found you, didn't I? You're safe now - we're both safe now."

Cellbit begs Felps to understand, to realise the cost was worth it - his claws, his hands, it would have been worth even his life. More than his life! Felps is his best friend, and Cellbit is a selfish man. If it had cost other people their lives to get him back then, well, what would he have cared? Felps would have been safe, and that has always been the first thing to matter.

"You'll stay safe?" Felps asks. "You promise?"

"As safe as I can," Cellbit replies.

"No more sacrifices."

... And Cellbit cannot promise him that, so he holds Felps closer and they both fall onto the cushions, curled up in the warmest part of the archives.

"Cellbit." Felps says. "No more sacrifices."

"... I can't give you that," Cellbit says. "But I promise I'll always bring my family home."

"And you'll come with them?"

"If I can."

"Cellbit."

He can't promise it, he can't, he can't - there's so many variables, so many things that can go wrong. He can't stay away from the missions, not always, not when there's secrets that just loot and recordings will never fully capture, not when Pac and Mike go out so often, and Felps might be his best friend, but they're his family too.

And hell, Roier - Roier is out there so often, and Roier isn't Felps' family yet, but Cellbit knows that the cute spider hybrid is his own. His heart, his heart...

It's a terrible thing, to have family.

To have people you are afraid to loose.

"Cellbit. Please."

And Felps is begging, his family is calling for him, and Cellbit is a weak and mortal man.

He closes his eyes and turns his head, tucking it into the small of Felps neck.

"I'll come home to you," he promises. "No matter how long it takes, I will not leave you. Not if you're taken, not if I'm taken; I promise I'll always find you."

Felps relaxes, finally, and smiles, and laughs, and pretends he hasn't just torn the heart from Cellbit's throat as he picks up the hand and begins to massage it once again.

"Does this help?" he asks. "It's kind of fun. Your hands are all squishy."

"I have no idea," and Cellbit doesn't, because his head is full of doctors and surgeons and scalpels, and he's hyperaware of his hands.

He cannot stop thinking about them, cannot stop feeling them, but now Felps is touching them and...

And he thinks of Felps, not of scalpels and blood.

"We'll try, then," Felps says, and it feels like he means more than just massaging Cellbit's knuckles.

And what can Cellbit do but try?

[aggravateddurian]

OC Interview | Melanie Foster/Gonzalez (depends on the timeline)

Was tagged by @ouroboros-hideout. Thank you, Colonel.

Name: Name's Melanie Foster... although, things going well, it might be Gonzalez soon enough.

Nickname: Some people call me 'Mel.' Truth be told, I'm not fussed.

Gender: Female (Cis)

Star Sign: I was born on March 27, so I guess that makes me a... *checks agent* an Aries.

Height: 5'7"

Orientation: Pansexual

Nationality/Ethnicity: I was born in Seattle, which technically makes me a citizen of the Western Corpo States. Both of my parents were white.

Fave Fruit: Pineapple. Sometimes, even on pizza. I've been told that's bad, but fuck me I didn't realise we were all conformist sheep in 2079.

Fave Season: No season is fun in Night City. It's either dry and cold as fuck, or it's 100% humidity, swimming through the air... oh and the rain is acidic and burns your eyes. Honestly, it's the fall. Nice reminder that everything's in a constant cycle of renewal.

Fave Flower: Japanese Cherry Blossoms. They're so delicate, and while pretty, they're short lived... the best people in Night City are like sakura. They bloom, live short, brilliant lives, then they die as quickly.

Val's more like a peony. Hardy, yet beautiful. Her ex is a fuckin' gonk for letting this one slip through his fingers.

Fave Scent: Val bought a peach-scented spray for the apartment the other week and it's now everything to me. Really masks out the smell of rotting garbage that permeates Japantown.

Coffee, Tea, or HC: Hot Chocolate. They sweeten the shit with scop paste but fuck me if it isn't addictive. Just don't tell 'er I'm drinkin' it. 'kay?

Average Hours of Sleep: More than what Val gets when she's tuning virtus for the Mox, that's for sure. Somewhere between 6-8 hours.

Dog or Cat Person: I'm a dog person, but Val has this ginger cat, she's grown on me though.

Dream Trip: Love to go somewhere tropical. Not sure exactly where, but I just want to relax on a beach with a mojito.

Favourite Fictional Character: John Wick, not just because he's fuckin' brutal in those BDs, but he also kinda looks like Johnny Silverhand.

Number of Blankets They Sleep With: One. I tend to run a little hot, but Val really feels the cold. So sometimes I'm buried under a mountain of blankets. She's lucky I love her.

Random Fact: Promise not to share this with too many people? There's a little secret I've been keeping from Val... I've been tuning some of the raw BDs from Lizzie's she's been working on, help take the workload off her. Doesn't seem right that Susie Q expects her to do that job alone.

Tagging (with no pressure): @genocidalfetus @gloryride @shivsghost @olath124 (and anyone else who would like to hop on)

[eddies-disability-swag-blog]

CW: Venting about my mental health. This one is a bit of a downer.

Ever since we were hit by Norma, I’ve been spiraling. Having three days of rain and wind and almost a week where I could not communicate with my friends, and having most of the tools I use to engage in my hobbies be either frozen or limited to very specific times of day when the house isn’t pitch black, and having everything rot around you and fill with mold and algae, and having a relatively important delivery get delayed and eventually get stuck in the system, and then having your kinda buggy but still functional PC finally break down enough so it doesn’t even boot, and not having anything to eat because most edible things have already been eaten or rotten, and being eaten alive by mosquitoes at every waking hour.

It really doesn’t do great stuff for your mental stability.

My sleep cycle is all messed up again after kinda fixing it and my executive dysfunction is at an all time high. I literally feel groggy and gross and like I can’t do anything.

My bones did not like this violent transition into winter climate. Like, the 19th it was hot as fuck, and then the 20th temperatures dropped to like 17º or something, plus the humidity. My throat is also not liking the new climate, every breath feels like a punch into the sternum and the cold irritates my nose.

I feel exhausted every day, and I haven’t done my therapy homework… or my college homework, but I’m already a bad student because of mental health shit, so I already internalized that (I still have time to finish them too, so I’m not that worried).

Anyways, I just wanted to complain to someone, so to the void of the internet it goes.