#and if that satisfies you fine. so be it.

[allpiesforourown]

Since Binghe is a near indestructible heavenly demon I like to think the modern non demonic version of him would be one of those guys who has an absurdly strong immune system. Which is really convenient because when shen yuan gets sick binghe can get under the blanket with him and kiss his forehead to check his temperature and be as handsy as he wants and shen yuan will let him bc he knows binghe will be fine. VERY satisfying when shen yuan isn't feeling well and he tells Liu qingge "oh stay away... you don't want to catch this" while shen yuan sits in binghes lap

So the one time binghe does get sick is catastrophic. Yuan ge can't hold him? Yuan ge has to stay away from me? We've been living together for two years and we have not been separated since. He'd go into shen yuan withdrawal. Shen Yuans like "I wish I could look over you like you do for me, but I'd only get sick and then be a burden. I'll call you a nurse and stay with my parents" and binghe is calling him every few minutes telling him "I miss you gege"

[22ayla21]

The Heaviness of Love

Coming home after a long day, Mydei collapses onto the bed on top of his beloved, not giving her a chance to get up.

Silence had drowned the house. Outside the windows, a lazy rain drizzled, its measured drops lulling as they tapped against the wooden roof. In the fireplace, a cozy fire crackled, filling the room with golden light and the subtle scent of dried herbs thrown into the flames for warmth. She had just settled onto the bed, wrapped in a soft blanket and immersed in a book. The day had been unusually calm, a rare stroke of luck in their usually turbulent life.

Suddenly, the front door creaked open. First came heavy, tired footsteps. Then – a clatter, clicks, and plates of armor hit the floor with a dull thud. Midei had returned.

"Hello, my lion," she smiled, not taking her eyes from the pages.

A low, barely audible growl answered – something between "home" and "tired as hell." He already knew where to go – to his island of peace, to warmth, to her.

Not a minute passed before his silhouette appeared in the bedroom doorway. Rumpled, disheveled, barefoot, but with a satisfied smirk and a determined glint in his eyes.

"No-o-o, Mydei, wait, you're heavy… oh!"

He literally collapsed onto her, burying his face in her neck and hugging her so tightly it was as if he wanted to dissolve into her. The full weight of his strong body pressed down on her, the mattress groaning softly under the load.

She gasped, wheezed, tried to wriggle free – without much enthusiasm, though.

"You… you're like a sack of potatoes, only with swords," she rasped, trying to shift him even an inch.

A blissful purr was the response. Mydei only pressed her closer, throwing a leg over her hip, completely claiming his territory.

"Seriously?!" She tried to free at least one arm. "Can I even breathe?"

"Mmm… you're breathing," he mumbled, not opening his eyes. "So, everything's fine."

She snorted, lifted her head, and with difficulty turned it to see his face. He looked like an exhausted wolf who had finally reached his den and now had no intention of leaving under any circumstances.

"You weigh like a pony," she grumbled, though there was more tenderness than irritation in her voice.

"Then you are my brave rider," he breathed out hoarsely, kissing her temple.

Her heart fluttered. That was it. The escape plan was canceled.

She sighed heavily, one leg still dangling off the bed, and her hand tried to find the edge of the blanket to cover him at least somehow.

"You know," she murmured, stroking his back, "you just use your hugs as a blanket and an anchor at the same time."

"Convenient," came the satisfied reply. "You're soft. And you smell like home."

They lay like that for several minutes: he breathed relaxedly against her neck, and with each of his exhales, she felt her resistance melting away. After all, despite all his weight, he was hers – her own, beloved, warm.

"Tomorrow you'll whine that your neck is stiff," she whispered.

"Let it get stiff, as long as I'm with you."

"You big fool…"

"Your fool."

And with those words, he fell asleep right on top of her, with a sleepy smile, not intending to move. And she, looking at the ceiling and feeling how the weight of his body strangely warmed her soul, only smirked.

Love… it really can be heavy. But in her case – in the very best way.

[my-castles-crumbling]

ask - jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 620

“So. Who’re you all going to ask to the Ball?”

Regulus stared around the large group as Sirius’s question sank in. It had been strange that the two very opposite bunches of friends had collided, but what with Pandora and Lily, and Dorcas and Marlene both being couples, it had been a natural thing.

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious for most of us,” Dorcas replied, wrapping her arms around Marlene and grinning.

“Yes, I’m asking Pete,” Remus replied, grinning at Sirius’s affronted expression.

But it was James’s response that had Regulus’s stomach lurching. “I’m asking Regulus,” he said casually, ignoring the shocked looks from everyone, most of all Regulus.

-

It became a Thing. Every time the Ball was brought up, James mentioned that he was going to ask him. It was ‘Yes, when I ask Regulus…’ or ‘After Regulus agrees to go with me…’ or ‘Regulus and I…’ It was driving Regulus absolutely insane, because he knew that James was joking. He could tell from the twinkling in his eyes, the mischief in his smile.

But to Regulus, it hurt. Because Merlin, he wanted it to be real. And the fact that he wanted that was mortifying.

Every time James brought it up, it was like a stab to the ribs. A kick to the gut. He tried to smile and laugh with the rest, but he wanted to cry, which was the scariest feeling he’d ever felt in his life. He hated feeling anything, and sadness? Longing? No, it was terrifying.

-

One day, he snapped.

“So, I’ll pick up Reg at…maybe seven?” James was saying to Remus, who nodded along. “And then we’ll-”

“Stop!”

All eyes turned to him.

“Stop, James,” he mumbled, steeling himself to avoid the tears. “I know you’re not actually going to ask me, and it’s not funny anymore. I know the idea of someone fancying me is a joke to you, but you’re being a prick!”

And with that, he fled.

He assumed, of course, that the footsteps of the person following him belonged to Barty. But the hand that grabbed his shoulder was wider. Warmer.

“Regulus, please-”

“It’s fine, James,” he mumbled, still walking, trying to shake him off.

“Please listen.”

Annoyed, he turned. “What?” he demanded, gritting his teeth and giving James a death glare. “What do you want?”

The older boy looked as distraught as Regulus felt. “I want you to go to the Ball with me,” he answered softly. Regulus scoffed and began to turn but James continued. “No, really! I thought–I thought joking about it would like… get you used to the idea?” he smiled and shrugged self-consciously. “The idea that I fancy you, you know? That way, when I asked, you wouldn’t just…rip me to shreds on the spot.”

Regulus gaped. Could this really be genuine? His heart was hammering in his chest so loudly he could hardly hear James’s word.

“I get if you’re mad, it was kind of a shit move,” James said with another half-smile. “But..please don’t think I’d ever joke about you being…fanciable. Especially when I…Godric, I can’t even describe how much I fancy you,” he admitted, face turning pink.

Regulus swallowed, still shocked. “Well,” he breathed, trying not to shake, “unfortunately, the feeling is mutual,” he admitted with a frown.

It took James a moment to understand what he meant, and then he broke into a huge grin. “Y-yeah? So you’ll go with me to the Ball?”

But now, he’d regained some of his footing. “I never said that,” he replied lightly, smirking at the older boy. “You’ll have to see when I ask you.”

It was satisfying, he had to admit. Walking away and leaving a shocked, dazed-looking James Potter behind.

[tarotsoul]

Smoke & Light — Part One

SUMMARY: Your ex-boyfriend gives you his dealers number, but you don’t expect for him to be so fine. And you certainly don’t expect him to be so goddamn flirty.

WARNINGS: heavy mentions and usage of drugs and driving under the influence (weed), azriel is a drug dealer, kissing, swearing, teasing, masturbation -- don't fuck your plug guys

WORD COUNT: 9.9k

Series Masterlist

Your patience was wearing thin. Very fucking thin. Those three grey dots mocked you as they bubbled at the bottom of the screen—disappearing and reappearing again—until they were replaced with another less than satisfying message.

Brandon: are you taking the piss? Why didn’t you just ask when you were here earlier?

You scanned the message over, swallowing back the groan at the idea of another potential argument. You needed to nip his attitude in the bud, you weren’t entertaining his bullshit anymore. Gnawing at the inside of your cheek, your fingers quickly typed a response.

You: I didn’t realise I was out until I got home. Can you get any or not? Just lmk

The dots appeared again after a few moments of silence, and you prepared yourself for the snarky remark he was most likely to give you, and took a deep breath to compose yourself in advance. 

Brandon: no. I can’t get you any. Sort it out yourself for once.

There was no way in Hell you were going to let your frustrations show. Despite the pure anger and annoyance that began to bubble even more within you.

Brandon could be a lot of things. A liar. A cheat. And a fucking asshole. In all honestly, the only thing he was truly good for was the occasional above par fuck and the fact that his dealer had the best weed you’d ever smoked.

But when they were the only two good things he had going for him, it was hard to justify the disgusting behaviour he showed throughout almost your entire relationship. You broke up every few weeks as it was, but if you’d known about the cheating before, you would’ve left for good sooner.

Instead, you found out a year and half into the relationship, coming to the deafening conclusion that he had, in fact, never been faithful for a single moment of his teenage and adult life.

Fuck him. And fuck his shit sex. The weed, you could get yourself.

You: lmao ok. What’s his number?

A heartbeat after he read the text, he was calling you. And the moment you answered the call, he was his usual, un-charming self.

“What the fuck do you mean what’s his number?”

“Hello to you, too.��� You murmured, tucking yourself under the blanket on your couch.

His clipped tone didn’t startle you, didn’t worry you about any form of consequences. He wasn’t scary, even when he tried to be. He was just a douche.

“What do you mean what’s his number?” He repeated himself, that agitation growing thicker and thicker with every word he spoke.

“How else am I supposed to get any?”

“Find your own dealer.”

He was being bitter now, pathetically so. You picked at the aged edges of your book, a novel you’d read five times over but one you couldn’t get enough of. Your love for it could be seen by the fading print of the front cover and the severely broken spine—despite how careful you tried to be with your readings.

“Brandon, I’m not going to find a random dealer. Your Azriel guy has good stuff and I know it’s safe. Besides, me going to the same person as you is not going to affect you in any way.”

He was silent for a moment, mulling over your words. Despite his dreadful personality and lack of love and care and compassion, he knew how little you knew about marijuana. He was the one that taught you to roll, after all.

You’d barely smoked before you met him, and on the rare occasions you did get high, it was usually in the form of gummy edibles your friends had. And you weren’t addicted or reliant on it in any way. You just enjoyed a smoke every now and then if you’d had a long day.

Alcohol had never been your favourite, and you much preferred to feel the chilled buzz from a joint than cradle a hangover for two days after a soirée.

“Fine. I’ll text you his number. Say Marco gave you his number, it’s a code he made up—had cops on him a while ago. He can be a bit of an ass, don’t let him shit talk you. Ask for a 3.5, he usually charges 40 for it. It’ll last you a couple weeks unless you’re planning on smoking heavy.”

It was easy to be pulled back in when he was like that. When he did the bare minimum of offering advice on things he knew you weren’t too sure on. But you were better than that now, smarter. You weren’t going to fall back into your old ways again.

Not with him. Not with anyone.

“I’m not. Thank you.”

The line went dead as soon as the words left your mouth and a few moments later, he texted you Azriel’s number. You would’ve appreciated a reminder of what you were supposed to ask for but at least you got his number. Small wins. You weren’t his responsibility anymore.

It took you a few minutes to figure out what to say, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you typed and erased, typed and erased. Until you settled on ‘Is this Azriel?’ and finally sent the message.

Ten minutes passed and you didn’t get a response. Your nose was tucked back into your romance novel as you chewed on the drawstring of your hoodie. In all honesty, you could’ve quite easily slipped into a peaceful slumber under the warm golden glow of your lamps.

That was another thing Brandon couldn’t respect. Your No Main Light rule. The vibes were always immaculate with gentle warmth from lamps. The main light was not allowed on under any circumstances. You much preferred the cosy feeling of golden hues that accentuated the deep green leaves of your plants and vines that scattered the walls and crevices of your home. 

Your phone chimed from your lap, a small surge of anxiety pulsing in your chest. You unlocked the screen and read over the message.

Azriel: depends who’s asking.

Ah, Brandon did warn you. You considered fucking the whole idea off. Maybe cracking open a bottle of wine and snuggling on the couch with a book or tv show would be better than having to meet this asshole, but the bottle of White Zinfandel wouldn’t give you the mellow buzz you wanted.

Not unless you had at least four glasses which was usually paired with a hangover the next day. Something you did not want to entertain. So, you bit the bullet and typed your reply.

You: y/n, got your number from Marco. You about?

The more you let your mind wander, the more you realised how little you knew. You had no clue how this sort of thing worked. Would he come to you? Your home? Would you meet at a location of his choice? Or would he just stash the weed somewhere for you to collect and you don't cross paths at all?

But the burning fire of the what-if anxiety was quickly trampled and extinguished when another text came through and instead of him deciding for you, you were given a choice. 

Azriel: sure, I can meet you at old tower in 20 if that’s good for you? If not I can drop to your location. 

He didn’t seem as much of an ass now. No, quite the opposite. But you supposed that offer was something he probably gave to all new, female clients. If he truly was an ass or not, you couldn’t fault him for the consideration. 

Old Tower was the old old watermill tucked slightly away in the centre of the city. It had been derelict for years, but due to its location—so close to all the necessities and right opposite the police station—no one ever tried to break in or set it alight like many other derelict listed buildings had been in the past. 

Even now, at almost midnight, that part of the city would still be bustling with city-natives and tourists alike. And you appreciated the safe and public meeting spot he suggested. 

You: old tower in 20 is fine. 

As quickly as you sent the message, you received another reply. A text describing his blue Mustang and his licence plate. You shook the nerves off as soon as they came. Azriel was respectful and well known. He dealt to make his money and that was that. 

But the facts didn’t stop you from sharing your location with Brandon just in case, nor did it stop you from double checking you still had your little pepper spray clipped to your keychain. 

The walk to the Old Tower wasn’t a bad one. There were many ways you could access it, most of them leading you through the city, but here were a few that hid you behind back roads and alleyways—those were routes you never took. Not on your own and certainly not in the middle of the night. 

The air was still a bit sticky from the summer heat, and while the denim shorts you wore kept your body cool, you were grateful you kept on your hoodie—just that extra layer that protected your arms and shoulders from the chill of the breeze that your legs never seemed to experience. 

It didn’t take long for you to reach the Old Tower, and it took even less time to spot the electric blue 2022 Ford Mustang. Small tufts of white smoke emitted from the exhaust as it sat in its standstill, headlights facing the opposite direction of what you came in, but you could still hear the engine humming from your short distance away. 

You double checked the licence plate to the number Azriel texted you, and slowly made your way closer. While you didn’t know much about drop offs, deals, and weed in general, you did know the unspoken rules of picking up. And if you were picking up from someone in a vehicle, most people got inside for a few minutes before leaving. 

Azriel must’ve noticed you from the rear view mirror because just as you approached the back of the car, the passenger seat opened wide, inviting you in. You sucked in a breath but accepted the invitation, keeping your eyes forward as you settled into the warmth of the leather seat and closed the door shut. 

You finally let your body shift and your eyes met his. And you were fucking done for. 

You’d never seen a man so strikingly fucking beautiful before. He was tall, lean and muscular and oozed pure sex and charisma. Tan, golden skin and dark, luscious hair that swept loosely down his forehead and curled gently around the tops of his ears. 

His face was chiselled not too sharply, a subtle gentleness to the stark contrast of the cold, brooding aura he carried. And those eyes. Christ, those fucking eyes. Hazel iris’ that dripped with a golden hue of honey. 

You swallowed down the dry lump in your throat and willed your lips to part so you could finally speak. “Thank you for meeting me so late.”

And Azriel was absolutely hooked. 

When you’d texted barely thirty minutes ago, he did not expect to be meeting with someone so fucking gorgeous. Your soft hair was twisted in a loose braid that hung over your shoulder, wayward strands having fallen from the updo and framing your face mesmerizingly. 

Your eyes were the most captivating thing he’d ever seen; rich in colour and wide with slight anxiety, despite the sleepiness he could slightly notice beneath them. Your voice sounded like a fever dream. It wasn’t sickly sweet like most women he knew or dealt to. Perhaps it was just the sleep, but there was a rasp—a very slight ruggedness—in your tone and Azriel was certain he’d never heard something quite so sensual in his life. 

He cleared his throat, that all too cheeky grin teetering on the corners of his mouth. “I was already out,” he shrugged, nonchalantly. “How much are you after?” 

His voice was a perfect blend of sweet and rough. A deep depth to his tone that skipped hand-in-hand with a sweeter note. God, he was unreal, and the sound of him had you forgetting entirely what exactly Brandon told you to ask for. 

You pulled your lips between your teeth and offered a very sheepish—but mostly embarrassed—smile. “Um… I’m sorry,” you found yourself apologising for the second time tonight. “My ex used to do this part, so I have no idea how this works.”

You couldn’t help the flush that rose to your cheeks at your own admission, couldn’t handle being the subject of his firm gaze, and you absolutely could not fucking handle the soft rumble of rich laughter that chuckled through him. 

“Do you smoke a lot?” Azriel finally asked, a slightly amused smile on those full lips of his. His pink tongue swiped out to wet them and your heart thundered against your ribcage at the sight. 

“Not really,” you cleared your throat. “Just every now and then. Semi-regularly, I guess.” There was no such thing as semi-regularly when it came to drugs and alcohol. To someone’s own self, sure. But not the general mass that consumed whatever it was they did. 

Some considered three joints a day ‘semi-regular’, while others considered it as a joint every few days. Azriel had a feeling you were the latter, but he didn’t say anything about his thoughts or what you’d said. 

Instead, he hummed and chewed at the inside of his cheek in thought. He wasn’t laughing at you or your lack of knowledge or understanding. Usually, he’d have kicked a new client out of his car by now and told them to figure it out on their own—he was a dealer, not a fucking private tutor—but with you, he didn’t seem to mind explaining or breaking things down so it was easier to understand. 

Neither of you white understood why he was happy to explain, but you didn’t complain. You’d much prefer this than the alternative version of him that you’d been warned about. 

“A 3.5 would probably be best for you, then.” He decided. 

Yes, a 3.5… that sounded very familiar. You nodded, slowly, considering your next words carefully. You had already disclosed the most embarrassing part of not having a fucking clue how this worked, one more probably wouldn’t hurt, would it? 

“This is going to sound absolutely ridiculous,” you chuckled nervously, scratching at the nape of your neck. “But can you break that down in joint terms?”

Azriel laughed again, softer this time, through a breath. It was odd, really. He wasn’t laughing to be cruel or to embarrass you further. It seemed to you that perhaps he found it endearing—your innocence on the matter—and maybe, just maybe, you reminded him of himself when he too at one point, had no idea either. 

“It depends on how strong you have them. Do you smoke blunts or just joints?” 

Your eyes widened animatedly. “God, no. Just joints. I think a blunt might wipe me out.” 

A glint of warmth and light fluttered through his eyes for a split second. “So, a 3.5 would get you like seven joints.” 

“Yeah, that would last me like a week, two weeks.” You nodded. “I’ll have a 3.5 then, thank you.”

Azriel hummed in agreement, and it was only when he reached for the centre console and flipped open a compartment that you saw his hands. His golden skin was marred beyond belief, etched in burns and an array of pigmented colours. Your stomach lurched at the sight. Not from fear or pity or disgust, no. Your stomach twisted in agony, your brain couldn’t comprehend a reason for scars like that. 

You looked away as quickly as you clocked them, not wanting to stare and not wanting him to notice. You supposed he was used to lingering gazes, but you would not be a name added to that list of people. 

Azriel did nothing but make you feel comfortable in the brief few minutes of meeting one another. He was kind enough to not laugh in your face and kick you out of his car after your admittance. You were not about to make him feel uncomfortable either. 

He pulled out a small plastic baggie stuffed to the brim with forest green nuggets and handed it to you between two scarred, pinched fingers. You took it gratefully, a full and genuine smile on your lips now as you thanked him, reaching into the back pocket of your denim shorts for the cash. 

“Did you want me to roll them for you, too?” Azriel’s teasing voice dripped with sarcasm and your eyes snapped to him with a stern look. “‘Cause that’ll cost you extra.” 

“I know how to roll, thank you.” You bit back, and while your voice and tone held all the conviction, the amused glint in your eye and the corners of your mouth told him he hadn’t offended you in the slightest.  

“It’s twenty-five.” Azriel chuckled from beside you. 

Your brows furrowed as you pulled out two twenty’s, meeting his gaze again. “Isn’t it usually like forty?”

The air now smelt of that tangy, vile scent, something that you don’t think you’d ever get used to. Or enjoy. He shrugged, flipping down the lid of the compartment between you. “You’re a new client.”

You raised a brow now, a taunting smirk creeping at the corner of your mouth. “Do you always undercharge new clients, then?”

Azriel liked you. Very much. You didn’t shy away or hide your personality from him, even after only knowing one another for barely an hour in total. He had a feeling he was barely scraping the surface. 

He matched your stare, only he wasn't teasing. “Only the pretty ones.”

There was no hiding the heat that crawled up your neck and sat heavy on your cheeks. It had been a long while since you received a genuine compliment. Let alone one so forward and from someone so unexpected. You averted your gaze from him, looking at the two twenty’s in your hand. Raising them, you pursed your lips. 

“I only have two twenty’s on me. So you may as well take the full forty.” 

Azriel didn’t listen. Instead, he pinched one note from your hand, his skin brushing yours but you didn’t falter, didn’t shy away. He was warm, and despite the scars and marred skin, his skin was softer than you expected. 

You huffed, not ungrateful for the discount but this was his livelihood and taking away from that felt wrong to you. 

“Let me know when you’re out.” 

You smiled appreciatively and nodded, stuffing the bag and cash into your hoodie pocket and reaching for the door handle. “I will. Nice to meet you, Azriel.” 

He watched you climb out of the car, offering another warm smile as the cooler evening air kissed at his skin. He wanted to ask how you were getting home, if you’d be walking alone or if you needed a ride. But Azriel couldn’t cross those lines, especially not with someone he only just met. 

So he bit his tongue and prayed to the Mother above to get you home safely. “You too, Y/N.” 

He started up the engine again as soon as the door closed, but he didn’t drive away. He watched you through the rear view mirror until you were out of sight and when he finally looked down, he found his jeans tight around his crotch and a painful erection. 

“Fuck.”

“Why don’t we give the brownies idea a try?”

Azriel’s head felt like it may explode. For the past two hours, he’d been stuck in a discussion between his brothers regarding new ideas for new products to sell. And while Az and Rhys had no ideas to suggest (all agreeing cocaine, molly and ket were not up for discussion), Cassian was still hellbent on making weed brownies—despite knowing not a damn thing about baking. 

“Cass,” Rhys sighed, pinching sharply at the bridge of his nose. Azriel was going to lose his shit, he couldn’t go through this again—for a fifth fucking time. “We literally spoke about this last week! None of us know how to bake!” 

Cassian paid no mind to Rhysand’s clear frustrations with him and scoffed as he threw his head back on the couch. “It can’t be that fucking hard.” 

“Then by all means, buy your own shit and burn it while you try and figure it out.” 

Azriel blinked, looking between the pair. He’d barely said a word, too worried he may get a bit too heated. Cassian got like this sometimes—most of the time—and more often than not, Az got the idea he only did it to get a reaction out of Rhys, who had very little patience when it came to him.

Someone had to play mediator and devil’s advocate in every situation, and somehow, even since they were teens, that role always landed on Azriel’s shoulders. 

Deciding enough was enough, he leant forward and peered between them both. “As much as edibles would help out sales, Rhys is right,” Cassian snickered at him, “It’s not a good idea right now. Not when we have no clue what we’re doing, and especially not when we’re having problems with our supplier right now.”

It was silent in the room for a moment, for the first time in an hour. And after a few minutes passed and no one spoke, Rhys stood from the couch with a sigh. “I’ve gotta get going to the parlour. All my sketches are there and I’ve got a long day and a huge back piece to tattoo tomorrow.” 

He clapped a hand against both Az and Cassian’s shoulders before bidding them a goodbye and leaving. Cassian remained sulking on the couch, thick and toned arms crossed on his chest with an unsatisfied scowl on his face. Azriel took purchase on the coffee table in front of him, lips pursed to suppress his amusement.

Cassian often got like this if he was told no or something didn’t go his way. When they were younger, Azriel used to roll his eyes and tell him to get over it. But now, in their mid-twenties and Cassian sharing a striking resemblance to that hunky character from that one Disney movie, Azriel found his sulking the best form of entertainment. 

“Are you not working tonight?” Az broke the silence with a lighthearted question. As much as he found his brothers face amusing, he didn’t really have the energy to deal with it all fucking night. He had shit to do, people to see. And he didn’t particularly want to bring Cassian along to his drop off’s—not when Cass scared the shit out of most people. 

“Club’s closed, waiting for Nes to finish. Staying at hers tonight,” he mumbled.

Relief was quick to flow through Azriel’s blood as he let out a breath. His phone chimed from his back pocket as he said, “Tell her I say hi,” and a gentle smile tugged at the corners of Cassian’s mouth.

Az and Nesta had a decent friendship, he was closer to her than he was Feyre, but maybe that was because Nesta didn’t tiptoe around Az like most other people did. Maybe that was why he liked you so much. You didn’t shy under his gaze, and you didn’t treat him differently after noticing his scarred hands. 

Yes, he saw you watching, inspecting with hurt and curious eyes. But you didn’t say anything so neither did he. And when you purposely brushed your skin against his when you took that bag of bud, he knew you’d done it out of silent reassurance. 

And yet, he hadn’t heard from you since you met three days ago. Not that he expected you to message so soon, not after you said the 3.5 would last around two weeks, but he still felt that deep disappointment whenever he checked his phone and your name wasn’t the one to have messaged him. 

He needed to get a grip on himself, really. But you were different. So different from anyone he’d ever met or known before. You didn’t play up to any facade, you didn’t hesitate to tease him back. You were honest, painfully so when you admitted you were clueless, but that only made him find you even more endearing. 

“What about you?” Cassian’s voice drilled into his ears, abruptly pulling Azriel away from the memory of you. He quickly typed back a reply to a client that he could drop off within the hour and shoved his phone back in his pocket. 

“What about me?” Az asked. 

“Any plans?” 

Azriel shrugged, elbows leaning on his spread thighs and the oak coffee table creaked beneath his firm weight. “I’ve got a few deals to do, but that’s about it.”

Cass nodded, finally unfolding his arms and letting them drop to his sides. “Well, you know where I’ll be if you wanna come by, Nes would be happy to see you.”

Azriel raised a brow. “I saw her two days ago.”

His brother gave him a look, one that suggested ‘yeah, I know, but you’re like her best friend and she loves you to literal death’, and that was that. 

Cass left soon after, picking Nesta up from work and leaving Azriel home alone for what seemed like the thousandth night in a row. He didn’t mind it, not really. He enjoyed his own company and when Cass stayed at Nesta’s and Rhys stayed at Feyre’s, it meant Az could play around with new melodies and not be scolded for playing guitar at 4 a.m. and waking everybody up. 

Having the apartment to himself was a win-win for everyone involved. 

Only tonight, he didn’t want to sit and play with new sounds and rhythms. Not when his mind was completely distracted by you. By your smile, your eyes, by that sensual voice of yours that he hadn’t stopped replaying in his memory for the past three days. 

It wouldn’t hurt to send just one text, right? Just the one, just to check in on how you were finding the bud. As if you hadn't smoked it before they met. 

He shouldn’t. This wasn’t what he did—he didn’t chase after girls, he never had, and he most certainly did not get hooked—especially not on someone he’d known for three days. 

And yet, despite that, Azriel found himself on your messages, hovering his fingers over the keyboard and typing out a quick text and sending it before he could even think about it. 

Azriel: how’s the bud?

But it wasn’t his lack of thinking before sending the message that had his jaw slack, no. It was the fact that as soon as the message travelled from the box to the messaging thread, you had already opened it. Like you were already on the chat. Perhaps debating your own text to him. 

Those grey bubbles appeared at the bottom of the screen and Azriel made quick work to click out of the conversation. His heart should not have been stammering in his chest the way it was, he should not have felt so anxious about what you may think if he read your text as quickly as you read his. 

You: very good. And you were right. 7 joints! 

And then, another.

You: I may need a top up sooner than i thought, if that’s ok?

Azriel: what happened to it lasting you 2 weeks?? Nah, that’s fine. Did you wanna meet up tonight?

You: would that be ok?

Azriel: yes. Old tower in 20?

You: life saver <3 see u then!

He tried his damned hardest not to stare at the little heart you sent him, tried his best not to picture you thinking about texting him to meet up again. But all he tried, it didn’t work and a smirk began to tug at the corners of his mouth. 

His Ford Mustang parked outside the Old Tower fifteen minutes later, the engine still humming softly and his eyes flitted between the rearview mirror and his view in front of him, trying to gauge which way you’d come from. 

He didn’t expect for you to come out of the shadows in a third direction, one in the wake of the passengers side, and he didn’t realise until the door opened and you slid your body inside his car, shutting the door behind you. 

“Hi,” you turned to him with a beaming smile—eyes gently blazed with a moody pink hue. 

Azriel drank you in. Your hair was down today in what he presumed was your natural waves, face bare of makeup save for the sheen of pinky lip gloss that coated your mouth. You wore an oversized cropped olive cardigan; the large buttons done up just enough to offer a slither of a peek of the white bralette you wore beneath, and a pair of straight-legged black cargos. 

Gods, you looked even better than he remembered, but Azriel wasn’t naive to your staring either. Your eyes caught notice of his thick, muscled arms. They weren’t hidden beneath a jacket this time. No. They bulged from the black t-shirt he wore, and his brown skin was etched in intricate swirls and shapes and designs in black ink. 

You gulped, visibly so. Tattoos had always been an immediate attraction for you—not that Brandon ever had any—but the sight of Azriels and the one that hid beneath the sleeve of his top and curled up and around his neck… Gods, your throat felt extremely dry.

And Azriel noticed everything. 

“I thought you said you didn’t smoke much?” 

Your eyes finally snapped to his hazel ones and warmth coated your cheeks and chest. You cleared your throat, blinking a few times to regain some sense of composure. “I don’t,” you retorted. “Girls night. And it was my turn to host.” 

Azriel tried not to think too deeply into the idea of you having a night at home with your girlfriends, stoned and warm and cosy and all inhibitions thrown out the window. He wondered if those were the types of things you did with your friends. He’d been with a few before that did. 

He looked away as soon as he felt that familiar tightening in his jeans. “So, you want another 3.5?” He cleared his throat, lifting the compartment between your seats. 

You hummed, eyes following his movements. Your gaze lingered on his biceps for a moment, trailing down to the veins that protruded from his smooth skin. You didn’t know what was wrong with you. Oftentimes than not, you found yourself horny and riled up when under the influence, but never like this. Never so strongly at the sight of two veiny, tattooed arms. 

“Um, yeah… please.” You finally spoke. “I promise it’ll last me longer than three days this time.”

Azriel prayed to the fucking mother above that it didn’t. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he retrieved a 3.5 baggie and handed it to you, closing the compartment again and the second he opened his mouth to speak, you were already grabbing a marred hand and shoving two twenty’s into it before forcing his fist closed. 

Perhaps it was the buzz of the joint you smoked on your way, or perhaps it was the pure arousal you felt at the sight of him and the feel of his hand in yours that gave you a surge of confidence. Whatever it was, it had you saying, “Pretty clients might get a discount from you, but incredibly attractive, tattooed plugs get full pay from me.”

Azriel was stunned for a moment, by both your boldness and the shameless compliment. His mouth blubbered open, a retort just as flirty as yours on the tip of his tongue when the sound of his ringtone blaring through the car’s bluetooth speaker cut him off. 

He disconnected the call a bit too quickly, an amused smile teetering on the curves of your already twisted lips. Azriel paid no mind to his own actions, instead turning back to you with a fire in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. 

His lips parted in another attempt to speak when that gods-dammed phone interrupted him for a second time and you could no longer hold your laughter. Azriel decided there and then that the next time he saw you, he’d make sure he heard that sweetness again. 

You didn’t give him time to cut the call off again. Instead, you reached for the door handle and offered a grateful smile. “I’ll text you when I’m out.”

His senses were too on overdrive. Too torn between wanting to stop you, even if to spend a few more moments in your presence, and the deafening sound of his fucking phone. But you’d exited the car and closed the door behind you before he could do anything about it. The cash was still stuffed in his warm hands and the incoming call continued to make his ears bleed. 

“What?” Azriel seethed the second he answered the call. It was silent for a moment, the caller caught off guard by Az’s tone but that only pissed him off further. 

“It’s Brandon,” the line paused for a moment again. “You about?” 

Azriel felt his blood boil. “If I don’t fucking answer the first time, that usually means no.”

He disconnected the call without another word, marred hands now gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white. He hated the way he was reacting over you—over being interrupted from your presence. But he couldn't help it. Couldn’t get the thought out of his head of how sweet your lips probably tasted with that gloss. And without it. 

Azriel’s chest heaved slightly, that all too familiar sense of arousal tightening in his pants. He couldn’t stand this, couldn't understand how a tiny slip of your bralette could have his mind and body reacting like this. How a subtle smirk and a sultry gaze could have him ready to blow a load in his pants. 

Christ, he needed to sort himself out. Absent-mindedly, Azriel snuck a hand between his thighs, large scarred hand palming at his length through the fabrics. His breathing turned quicker, his movements growing needier. If he didn’t sort himself out soon he’d been in agony. 

With one hand on the wheel, he forced himself to drive—only for a moment or two until his Mustang was parked idly between two buildings and switched off the engine to not draw too much attention to himself. 

He was above this—above getting himself off semi-publicly. But he couldn’t fucking help it. He didn’t care how shameful and icky he might’ve felt afterwards, not when he was so desperate. 

As soon as the car was covered in shadows of darkness, he unclasped his seatbelt and unpopped the buttons of his jeans. He didn’t bother to pull them down, only releasing the zip and reaching into his boxers to tug his length free. 

The second he felt his skin on him, he shuddered. His slender fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, offering himself a teasing squeeze as he slowly moved. Azriel didn’t need lube or lotion—not when pearly beads of semi-translucent arousal leaked from his pink, ruddy tip. He smoothed it down his length, mewling at the contact he rewarded himself. 

And all he could think about was you. 

Your eyes, your lips, your voice.

He let his mind wander to sinful images of what may lay hidden beneath your clothes—beneath that little white bralette. Azriel quickened his pace as his eyes fluttered closed, the back of his head hitting the headrest. He throbbed in his hand, a gruff moan tearing from his throat. 

Azriel could picture you clearly in his head; on your knees in the footwell, your dainty hands around his cock as your lips kissed and sucked him. His hand in your hair, bobbing you on his length, watching your eyes water from the size of him as he hit the back of your throat. 

His breathing grew ragged, filthy images of your choking on his cock filling his brain, clouding his sensing and coaxing a release out of him. Azriel didn’t think he’d ever come so quickly before in his life, but the idea of you looking up at him with sultry eyes through thick lashes had him spurting warm ribbons of cum into his hand as he cupped his head to minimise the mess. A desperate attempt to replicate what he imagined the warmth of your mouth would feel like. 

As his breathing began to even out, the post-nut clarity hit him like a ton of fucking bricks. Shame boiled in his blood, a tint of pink embarrassment painted on his cheeks as if the shadows judged him, too. The idea of seeing you again while knowing what he’d done to the thought of you… it made his insides churn slightly. 

But more than that, it made his cock leap again in anticipation of soon being in your presence once more. 

“Az, what do you say? Up for a double date?” 

Feyre couldn’t hide her smile, unable to keep her emotions in check when it came to her attempts to set Azriel up. But the instant disappearance of his smile wasn’t missed on her. Nor was the way his shoulders tensed slightly. 

He sighed. “Fey, as much as I appreciate your concern for my love life, I don’t need to be set up.”

She pouted at him. Despite that always being his answer, she still held a shred of hope every time she suggested it. Even if he never changed his mind, she was willing to continuously try, even if he did find it annoying. Even if she didn’t tell him until the very last minute. 

“Who’s the lucky girl then, Az?” Nesta piped up with a wide grin from her seat in the couch, tucked closely into Cassian’s side who paid no mind to the conversation at hand. 

He rolled his eyes at her. “There is no girl.” 

“Guy, then.” Nesta scoffed, waving a hand. 

Azriel didn’t want to entertain this conversation, especially not because it had somehow brought his mind back to you. Something he’d been so desperately trying to avoid. 

Though, he supposed it was inevitable. He would be seeing you again at some point and then he’d be stuck right back where he started. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure why he was doing this to himself— why he didn’t allow himself to pursue you if that was what he truly wanted. 

His phone chimed from his pocket. 

In hindsight, it was probably a good thing that Azriel didn’t hear from you for two weeks. It gave him ample time to attempt to get his hormones in check, but it didn’t stop his blood from warming everytime he received a notification. Each time, he was left with slight disappointment to find it was just another client. 

Until today. Until now. Where your name was in fact the one on his lockscreen and all of that forgetting and willing to get you out of his mind faltered. 

You: Hey, are you free later?

Azriel: I'm free all night.

When you didn’t respond, Azriel assumed you were looking for a more direct answer. So he sent another text. 

Azriel: old tower in an hour good for you?

You: see you then.

He couldn’t help the frown that furrowed in his brows at your reply. Given, your only communication was mainly through text, and perhaps he was looking too much into it, but you didn't seem yourself. And that thought shouldn’t have irked him as much as it did. 

He barely bid anyone a goodbye, throwing a mumbled ‘see you later’ as he grabbed his shit and left. 

His first stop was to Sean, a lean Asian guy that had been buying off Azriel for two years now. He was decent enough, never tried to haggle or complain about the prices. They shared a mutual respect and minimal words were shared when Az handed him a Q and Sean gave 140 in one swift motion. 

And just like that, Azirel moved onto the next.

And then another. 

And another. 

Until he was waiting at the Old Tower and watching your silhouette approach the Mustang. You entered the car just like you always had done, though you didn’t meet his gaze this time. Instead, you kept your line of view ahead. Your hair obstructed the side of your face, effectively shielding you from his prying eyes. 

“Sorry I’m a little late.” 

Azriel absolutely did not like the quake in your voice as you spoke, nor did he like the way you seemed to cower into your body and clothes. Clothes that didn’t seem to match your usual vibe—instead, the mismatched black sweatpants and bright pink puffer jacket gave off the impression you threw on whatever was around you. 

Somehow, Azriel still thought you made it look good. On you, the outfit looked both planned and effortless. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that that wasn’t the case. 

“You good?” he asked through the piercing silence. 

You hummed, twisting the bulky silver ring on your thumb. “Yeah, just tired.” You tried your hardest to offer a convincing smile as you turned to him, but Azriel noticed the way it didn’t meet your eyes—the eyes that appeared slightly bloodshot, though he had a suspicion it wasn’t from smoking.

Not wanting to press on the matter, Az opened the compartment and pulled out a baggie of your usual amount and kept it pinched between two scarred fingers. You reached for it, the cash in your other hand but he kept his grip tight. 

Azriel raised a brow. “You’re sure you’re alright?” 

You could see the concern flood his hazel eyes, and the sight pulled on your aching heartstrings. How could someone who was a virtual stranger care more for you than the ones who were much closer in your life?

You didn’t trust your words, so you nodded and he finally released his hold on the bag. “Alright,” Az sighed. “It’s a different strain than my usual stuff, so go a little lighter with it. It’s pretty strong.” 

You were incredibly thankful for the warning, though you couldn’t help feeling a little offended. Did he really think you were so naive and new to this world that you couldn’t handle a new strain at your usual strength (which, admittedly, was very weak) without greening out? 

But as quickly as that feeling rose, it faded. He was a dealer, afterall, and he couldn’t afford to lose business all because someone thought they knew better and had a bad trip. 

“Thank you,” you muttered out, already reaching for the handle when his ruggedly soft voice stopped you. 

“You wanna smoke before you go? I can drop you back after.” 

You whipped your head to him, blinking through slightly blurred vision. With a brow raised and widened eyes, your lips parted. “Together?”

A smile stretched across his full lips, one so full of charisma and keen interest that it awakened something deep in the pit of your stomach. Something you distinctly remember feeling the last time you saw him. 

“Why not?” 

You swallowed as your hand slowly fell from the handle and made its way back in your lap. Your smile morphed into a smirk that matched his and the air shifted into something unreadable. Something palpable but not quite real. 

“Really? Do you normally smoke with your clients?” 

Azriel’s wicked grin widened. “I do with the cute ones.” 

You choked on a laugh, rolling your head back until it hit the headrest and Azriel didn’t think he’d ever seen or heard anything so fucking beautiful in his life. That laugh would haunt him in his dreams to a blissful paradise. 

“First, I’m pretty. Now I’m cute… what’s next?” 

Damn the rules he set himself. Damn the restrictions he forced when it came to someone who piqued his interest. It was about time Azriel took what he wanted for once. Even if that meant he started with no longer feeling guilty for flirting with you. 

Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Azriel started up the engine and shifted the gearstick. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.” 

He tilted his head to the dashboard compartment and you pulled it open. The small warm white light lit the cove, a golden hue casting on a small yellow tin. Throwing a glance to Azriel, he nodded and you pulled it out, closing the compartment and popping open his travel tin. 

It was packed with perfectly rolled joints and blunts. The smell was strong—potent—but you didn’t mind. Not as much as you had before. You picked one random of the bunch and pinched it between two fingers. It was rolled tightly and packed full, a very small twist of paper at the end and you hummed, impressed. 

Of course he could roll perfectly. And you had a feeling just two pulls of one of those would keep you warm and fuzzy for the remainder of the night. 

“There’s a lighter in the cup holder.” Azriel spoke as he pulled out of the space and began to drive further out of the lights of the city. 

You pinched the lighter. Just a simple black one, no funky pattern or engraved initials like most others had. No, Azriel’s was one that came in a pack of five and the other four were somewhere in the car or back at his apartment. 

“We can smoke in here?” you asked softly, that crack in your voice easing. 

Az hummed, taking a right turn. “If you’re comfortable to.”

You waited a moment, eyeing the joint and then him. “You drive when you smoke?” 

He seemed to notice your somewhat apprehension when he nodded again. He turned to you briefly before flicking his eyes back on the road again. “I drive better when I’m stoned. But if you’d prefer, we can park up somewhere.” 

You shook your head, warmth caressing every inch of your body. You didn’t know what it was, but something had overcome you. An overwhelming sense of pure yearning. You could admit when you first met Az that he was attractive, incredibly so. But now? Watching him, speaking with him, smoking with him… oh God’s… you had a fucking crush on your plug. 

“You wanna start it or should I?” Azriel’s voice broke you from your epiphany and you blinked quickly, willing the rising heat to just fuck off and give you a moments reprive. 

“Oh,” you squeaked. “You can, it’s your weed.” 

He didn’t look away from the road, not for a second. With a hand on the wheel and the other shifting gears, he edged his head closer to yours and angled his face just slightly with his lips parted. You were stunned for a moment, realising what he was asking you to do, and you swallowed back that bubbling arousal as you placed the unlit joint to his lips and sparked up a flame, igniting the end.

Az hummed in thanks as he took a long, deep drag. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was a fucking sight. Cheeks ever so slightly hollowed and eyes barely squinted as the smoke filled his lungs. 

A scarred hand left the gearstick to reach for the joint, his thumb reaching for the bottom while his forefinger grazed the top and he pulled it away with another fresh intake of breath, settling the drug further. 

You were soaked, you were sure of it. Your previous problems from today were a distant memory as you finally watched him exhale and bring the joint to his lips again for another long pull. 

The sound of the windows opening broke you from your trance and only then did you realise you hadn’t yet put on your seatbelt. You tore your gaze away to clip yourself in and when you turned back, Azriel was offering you the joint. 

With your free hand, you accepted it, the other stuffing the cash in his cup holder with the lighter. You inspected the joint, tried not to let your heart race. You’d only ever smoked with your friends and Brandon. Never with a dealer. Never with someone like Azriel. 

You slotted your pursed lips over the same area Az did, and inhaled as deeply as you could. The burn at the back of your throat was stronger than when you smoked your own joints, and as it filled your lungs you pulled it away and held back a cough that gagged to release from your throat. 

With a shaky exhale, you swallowed around the dryness of your mouth before bringing it back to your lips for another drag. When you pulled it away, the burn wasn’t as bad and you passed it back to Azriel who took another turn on the roads. 

“Where are we going?” You pondered, a certain rasp to your voice from the strength of the joint. 

Azriel took two short pulls and angled the burning end out the window, flicking off the excess ash before offering it to you again. 

“Wherever you want,” he replied. “But first, we should probably get some food for when the munchies kick in.” 

You laughed as you exhaled another breath and handed the joint back to him, waving a hand to signal you were tapping out and did not intend on smoking anymore. Five pulls of that shit was more than enough for you. You could not handle the idea of greening out in his car with him. 

Azriel stifled a laugh and finished off the rest of the joint by the time he pulled into a drive-thru. He placed his order first, turning to you with flushed cheeks and hazy eyes. You blinked a few times, your brain requiring a few moments to catch up with what was happening. 

“I’ll have the same as you.” 

He stifled a laugh as he spoke into the machine, doubling up on his order and driving through to the next window. Azriel paid no mind to you when you attempted to offer him your money—barely even looked at you as he tapped his card against the reader and then reached for the cash in the cup holder, shoving it back in your empty palms. 

“You can keep that, too.”

You knew it wasn’t up for discussion, so you begrudgingly took your cash back and stuffed it into your jacket pocket again. Az stopped in the parking lot, the two of you eating through hushed yet uncontrollable giggles at the people that passed by. 

It was the first time you’d heard his laugh so unrestricted and it spread another shot of warmth through your body. It continued like that for another undisturbed hour, where after the food, Az sparked up another joint and began the drive to your apartment. You’d told him Old Tower was fine, but he wasn’t okay with that. 

“Too many freaks around at this time of night. I’ll drop you to your door. Put your address in the GPS.”

And it wasn’t until the drive back to your apartment that you were reminded of your previous troubles. The ones that caused your teary eyes and sombre mood. The buzz off the night felt like it had dwindled away the second you thought of your situation, and you were left slumped in your seat again, fiddling with your fingers. 

Azriel noticed your change in mood almost immediately as he glanced over to you before flicking his eyes back to the road. He took another drag of the joint. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You pondered his offer for a few moments, weighing out whether or not you should. In the end, what difference would it make? If you divulge your issues or not, it wouldn’t fix them. But perhaps talking about it might help. 

“My sister got married yesterday and no one told me.”

Azriel blinked rapidly, almost spluttering on the breath he exhaled. “What?” 

“Yeah.” 

He waited patiently, eager for some sort of explanation as to how and why something like that was kept from you. But he didn’t know the relationship with your family, he couldn’t presume anything. For all he knew, you had troubles just like his. 

“My family and I didn’t have the best relationship growing up. I was born from a toxic relationship so I was cast aside as a kid, I guess. I thought we were past that, though. I thought things were better.”

That familiar ache sat heavy in Azriel’s chest. He knew all too well the hurt that came from being shunned by your own family. He wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. Especially not somebody like you. 

“I’m sorry.” His words held such compassion and sympathy. No pity, just pure understanding. 

You blinked back the tears, not wanting to show just how much it had all affected you. But it was no use. A single drop slipped down your cheek and as quickly as it fell, you wiped it away. 

You were agitated now, extremely so. “I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend, Az.”

“Why would they do that?”

There was a pause. And then, “because her now husband was my first everything.” 

You waited for the statement to settle into the thick night air. Your first kiss, first boyfriend, first time. First love. Azriel could understand even more now just how much it hurt you. And the fact they kept it a secret? Even your family knew what they did was wrong. 

“I’m so sorry, that’s truly fucked. But you know, families suck sometimes. I only speak to my mom.”

“Oh?” You hadn’t realised you were even on your street until he parked right outside your apartment and flicked on his hazards. 

Azriel flicked the but of the smoke out the window and held out his hands, showcasing the marred flesh and patchy skin. “My half brothers did this to me when I was eight. They didn’t like that our mom had me with another man before she had them. They said that my bastard blood tainted the family, so they wanted to taint me.” 

Azriel had absolutely no fucking idea why he was divulging such an intimate and traumatic part of himself. But he made no attempt to hide or sugarcoat any of the truth. Especially not when he looked up from his hands and caught sight of your face. 

Salty tears silvered the linings of your eyes at the truth of what had happened to him. Bile crept up your throat and hatred for his family formed. Eight years old. You felt sick. 

“Az… I’m so sorry. That’s… I can’t even…”

But Azriel waved it off with a gentle smile. “It’s awful, sure. But I’m fine. I wouldn’t have met Cass and Rhys if that didn’t happen. They may be my found family, but they’re my brothers. Blood doesn't mean shit to me.”

A single tear slipped down your warm cheek, staining the skin in its wake. Azriel reached out to wipe it away, his touch gentle and soft and yet all-consuming. Your gaze met in a flickering glance of hazy eyes and fluttering lashes. 

And then next thing you knew, your lips were on his. 

Azriel was quick to kiss you back; moulding his plump lips around yours as his large palms cupped the sides of your face. He was sweet on your mouth, a hint of salt from his fries and he swiped his tongue across the seam of your lips, you almost imploded. 

Azriel was no better. The second he got a taste, he was a starved man. Your tongues met in needy strokes and Az had never tasted anything like you before. Sweet like the watermelon lip gloss you wore, and a tang of smoke that haunted your mouth. 

He was hooked, desperately fucking hooked. Your own hands reached up to hold his wrists in hopes of keeping his touch on you. Azriel kissed you deeper, licking across your teeth before settling even deeper in your mouth. 

It was needy and messy and every unspoken word of desire was poured into that kiss, your touch. He could stay like that forever, kissing you, tasting you. Azriel could feel himself stretching in his pants, and from the almost inaudible whimper that strained from the back of your throat, he was certain you were just as needy between your own thighs. 

The thought spurred him on, as it did you. Your hands trailed down his forearms to his biceps, feeling at the muscle that tensed beneath your touch, until your arms were wrapping around his neck and he was pulling you closer over the centre console. 

Azriel kept a palm caressing your jaw while the other snaked to the side of your neck, his long fingers weaving through the hair at your nape and blunt fingernails scratching at your scalp. 

In your drug and lust filled haze, Azriel was shifting in his seat. You let one arm leave his body to reach for your seatbelt, planning to unbuckle it and crawl into his lap for a deeper, richer taste of him. 

But the second the safety belt was released, the blaring sound of an incoming call through the car's speaker jolted you both apart. It was then, and only then, that the gravity of the situation finally sunk in. 

His eyes were glazed over with something you’d never seen on him before, his lips even plumper and smeared with your gloss. You didn’t look much better. Only your eyes were wider than his and your hair had been a lot more dishevelled. 

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, the insistent ringing of his phone jarring your eardrums. For the fourth time tonight, warmth settled over you again but in the form of embarrassment. He confided in you about a trauma so deep, and you’d kissed him. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologised breathlessly. 

Too caught up in your own fear and anxiety of what you’d done, you missed the way Azriel’s brows furrowed. His confusion quickly turned into panic when the thought settled in that perhaps you had regretted it. That even though you kissed him, perhaps you felt he had pressured you. 

And that made him sick to his stomach. 

Before Azriel could utter a single word, your hand was on the door handle and you were pushing it open. “I’m sorry, I should go.” 

You climbed out of the car as you uttered another apology, and slammed the door shut without so much as offering him another glance. The incoming call died to voicemail but Az couldn’t take his eyes off your empty seat, couldn’t get the taste of you off his tongue, the feel of your lips off his. 

Frustration grew at himself. Azriel turned forward in his seat, nostrils flared and teeth grit. He’d fucked it. He’d gone and fucked it entirely. His open palm smacked against the wheel before gripping it tightly, taking a moment to compose himself. 

He looked over at your seat again. 

Despite the lack of your physical presence, you were still there. In scent and touch and taste. 

Azriel was fucking done for. 

A/N: guys you have no idea how EXCITED I am to finally be reposting this series. I love plug!az with every fibre of my being and I cannot wait to share it again and finally finish it!!! This is the original first and second part merged together and I’ll be scheduling the next part for some time next week!!

[nomifae]

Why Hazbin is so dear to my heart ❤️

I know this might be cringe to others but idc, here we are cringe and free ✨🙌

I’m not kidding when I say Hazbin seriously saved me when it comes to art and other things in my life. Before the first season released I was feeling so lost with where to go with my art, I only drew anime girl with simple pose, and while there is nothing bad with that cus I still do like those arts, I just felt like something was missing, I wasn’t satisfied at all but didn’t know what to do about it.

Then after watching the show and becoming completely sucked into the story and the characters, I realised what I was missing. I had stopped drawing art with emotion and a story behind it. I only drew for the aesthetic and nothing more, while that is what a lot of artists enjoy doing, it was just not the path I wanted to take.

Years ago as a kid I did draw art that had a story behind them and comics as well, and that’s what Hazbin finally brought me back to. It pushed me out of my comfort zone again and challenged me to draw different things. It has really made me look forward to doing art again, and helped with my depression. While ofc I still struggle with my depression it would be much worse if I had not gotten into this show. I honestly don’t know where I would be right now.

Hazbin helped me:

- Find my love for art again

- Find a lot of new friends to talk to since I used to only speak to like 2 people before

- Make my mood so much better that I felt well enough to move back into my own apartment

- Just find motivation in life overall and to continue fighting

Anyways don’t mind my little ramble ahahh! This is why when I constantly see hate about Hazbin such as ”Nobody likes this show” ”It is such a bad show why do people care about it?”

Like sure you can dislike it that’s fine, but don’t say that NOBODY likes this show. A lot of people do, and I know there are many artists that found their motivation again thanks to this show. So while it is not for you, it is very special to a lot of us 🩵

[dckweed]

tiktok made me do it gf! vs tf 141 bf

Your boyfriend gets cocky and agrees to try one of those period cramp simulators with you. Except what he doesn’t expect is for you to be completely unbothered. Chill. Unflinching. Meanwhile, he’s gasping like he’s been shot. And the longer it goes on, the more he realizes: this is your normal.

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE — “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

It started as a joke.

You were in one of your chaotic TikTok moods—messy bun, oversized hoodie, devious little grin—and John should’ve known something was up when you said, “Baaaaaabe… you love me, right?” while setting up the simulator on the coffee table.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said immediately.

You pouted. You begged. You reminded him of that time you made him a steak dinner and didn’t film him falling asleep mid-bite like a Victorian grandfather. He sighed. “Fine.”

You strap the simulator to both your stomachs, grinning like the demon you are. He glances at the controller like it’s a live grenade.

“Ready?” you ask sweetly.

He nods, all masculine pride.

Level 1: Nothing.

Level 2: Still nothing.

John smirks. “S’not bad.”

Level 3: He shifts in his seat. “Alright. Bit of tension.”

You’re completely chill, sipping your iced coffee.

Level 4: His eyebrow twitches.

Level 5: He lets out a grunt. “Okay. Now it’s… yeah, alright, it’s uncomfortable.”

You glance at him. “You wanna stop?”

He glares. “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

Level 6 hits and he flinches hard. “Bloody—fuckin’ hell, that’s not tension anymore, that’s a punch.”

You’re still sitting pretty, scrolling on your phone.

Level 7.

He jolts. Actually jolts.

“Jesus CHRIST—" He’s gripping the edge of the couch, sweat beading at his temple. “What the hell is wrong with this machine?”

You: “That’s my Monday morning, babe.”

Level 8.

He growls. Growls, like he’s in a firefight. One eye closed. Breathing through his teeth. “How are you—how the fuck are you still—talking?”

You shrug, smirking at him a little bit. It was oddly satisfying watching your big strong man experience the things he and most of society brushed off as normal pain that you and billions of other women were forced to continue to live life through without acting like it bothered you. “I usually get nauseous around this point. Sometimes I puke.”

He blinks. Stares at you like you just told him you walk on glass every day for fun.

Level 9.

He rips the strap off. Rips it off. Slams it on the coffee table and stands, breathing heavy like he just ran a 5K.

You're really not shocked. “That’s your limit?”

He looks at you. Then slowly sits back down beside you, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“You go through that. Every month?”

You nod. Shrug.

He just stares for a second.

Then leans over, presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

You kiss his head. “It’s okay. Now go fold the laundry while I bleed in silence.”

He does.

With extra snacks.

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK — “i'm seeing god, she's mad at me.”

Kyle thinks he’s tough.

He’s run half-marathons. Rucked uphill with a 70lb pack. Taken hits in training and grinned through them.

So when you say “Let’s do the period cramp simulator,” he laughs. Laughs.

“Easy win, babe. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

You just smile, quietly connecting the pads to his lower abs, and flip on the app. You’re both in sweats on the couch, your phone filming the whole thing. You press start.

Level 1: He shrugs. “Tingles. Cute.”

Level 2: “Okay, it’s a little weird.”

Level 3: He winces. “Bit stabby.”

Level 4: He clutches the throw pillow. “Okay—wow. That’s... that’s actually rough.”

You’re beside him, not even blinking, watching the show.

Level 5: He yelps. “Wait. People live like this? On purpose?”

You: “Not by choice, babe.”

Level 6: His eyes widen.

Kyle: “Oh my god. It’s like a cramp. Inside a cramp. And it’s angry.”

Level 7: “BABE I’M GONNA PUKE.”

You laugh a bit. “That’s normal.”

Level 8: He keels over sideways, curled on the couch, gasping.

Kyle: “I’m going to pass out. I think I’m hemorrhaging.”

You arch a brow at him. “Want me to go up another level?” You wiggle your eyebrows, teasing him.

He doesn’t respond. He just lifts a single finger like he’s drawing his final breath.

Level 9: He rolls off the couch entirely and lays on the carpet.

“I’m seeing God. She’s mad at me.”

You turn it off, having a good giggle to yourself as you watch him. "You okay down there baby?"

Kyle lays there a minute.

Then, very quietly asks “...You go through that every month?”

You nod. “Since I was thirteen.”

He blinks. Looks at the ceiling. Then at you.

“I don’t know if I wanna fight you or hug you.”

You: “Why not both?”

He crawls back onto the couch, pulls you into his arms, and whispers, “I’m buying you a heating pad and a Costco pack of chocolate tomorrow. I swear to God.”

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY — “That's internal combustion.”

Simon sits down like it’s nothing.

“You sure?” you ask, raising a brow.

He scoffs. “How bad can it be?”

He’s seen combat. Been tortured. He thinks he’s built different.

Level 1: “Huh. Feels like static.”

Level 2: “Bit annoying. Like pins and needles.”

Level 3: “Okay, bit of a pinch.”

Level 4: “...Starting to think this is a trap.”

You’re relaxed beside him, arms folded.

Level 5: His leg twitches.

Simon: “Did the setting change?”

“Mmhmm.” You munch on a cracker from the small bowl sitting next to the couch.

Level 6: “What the fuck was that? That’s not a cramp. That’s a curse.”

Level 7: He sits up straighter. “Nope. Nope. That’s internal combustion. That’s demons.”

You, sipping water respond calmly. “That’s ovulation cramps combined with regular ones.”

Simon looks at you like you’ve been suffering war crimes in silence.

Level 8: He rips the velcro off and tosses the simulator like it insulted his mother.

“Turn it off. We’re done. That’s it.”

You almost laugh. “Tapping out, pookie?”

He stares. Hard.

Then his voice drops low.

“You go through that. Every month. And still do everything.”

You nod slowly.

Simon doesn’t speak. He just walks out of the room.

When he returns, he has a blanket, painkillers, and a hot water bottle.

Then he pulls you into his lap and wraps you up.

“You ever need anything—anything—you tell me. No questions.”

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH — “That's a dragonslaying cramp!’”

Johnny’s too confident.

“Piece o’ piss, lass,” he says, strapping the pads on. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder before, can't be any different. I’ll be fine.”

You smile sweetly. “Ready?”

“Bring it.”

Level 1: “Tickles.”

Level 2: “Okay. Weird. But nothing wild.”

Level 3: “That was a twitch. Did it twitch? Or was that me?”

Level 4: “Aight. This is... it’s makin’ my leg bounce.”

Level 5: “HOLY HELL.”

You watch him start shifting like a toddler who has to pee.

Level 6: “SWEET FUCKIN’—WHAT IS THAT?!”

You’re laughing. He’s grabbing your hand.

Level 7: “That’s not even funny anymore, babe. That’s a dragonslaying cramp.”

You: “It lasts 6–8 hours, minimum.”

He stops. Eyes wide.

Level 8: He’s wheezing, clutching his stomach like he’s giving birth.

“I—can’t—I need—a priest.”

You turn it off.

He flops sideways, panting.

Then lifts his head, looking at you like he just saw an angel of death.

“You deal with that every month?”

You nod.

He stares.

Then bursts into a fresh round of whining. “I AM SO SORRY. I’M BUYING YOU FLOWERS. I’M BUYING YOU A NEW CAR. I’M—I’M NEVER ASKING FOR SEX AGAIN IF YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD I SWEAR.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “You said that last month.” You take yours off too. "I'll take you up on that new car offer if period sex can still be on the table..helps sometimes, with the cramps.."

He whimpers.

Then crawls across the couch and kisses your stomach gently like an apology to your uterus.

“Yer a fuckin’ warrior. My warrior.”

You forgive him for all the times he's dismissed your pains before, or asked why you hadn't put on real clothes, or why you were crying when nothing happened to make you cry..

But only after he does your chores for a week and buys you that new car like he said.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

your big bad bf is just as easily taken out by cramps as you and the rest of vagina owners everywhere have been. you feel bad, but only a little.

[crystalbeetle888]

Squeaky Clean

141 x Motel Cleaner-Reader

Warnings- course language, Word Count- 800

You sigh, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you push the unreasonably heavy trolley to the next room. Opening the door you are greeted with the sight of a thrashed room. Bloodstain on the sheets, mud tracked through the carpet, a cup used as an ashtray, four duffle bags halfhearted shoved into the closet.

You could feel your anger starting to boil over. You had originally taken this job as a way to avoid dickheads, but it seems they’re in every industry. You also had a bad habit of mouthing people off, which is why retail never panned out well.

Taking a deep, and not very calming breath, you set to work. You rip the sheets off the beds, shoving it into a cleaning bag, along with the exceptionally dirty towels. “What the fuck is this? Motor oil?” You cringe, wiping your hands on your apron. After, you collect all the dishes, dumping the ash and scrap food into the bin before soaking it in the sink, “Fucking disgusting” you mutter. Then, you get to the bathroom. Toothpaste splattered on the mirror, hair in the sink, toilet paper rolls thrown across the floor, and more blood staining the grout and tiles.

You grit your teeth, “It’s fine, it’s literally your job to clean up after them” you tell yourself. After scrubbing the living hell out of all the surfaces in the bathroom and wiping everything down again, you could finally close the door on that room. Onto the beds. You sort the linens onto each one of the fours beds, laying the two sheets down before tucking the edges underneath the mattress. However, as you shove your hand under, you hit something hard. "What the fuck?" you whisper, before lifting the mattress to find a handgun sneakily hidden away. "What the fuck!" your anger quickly boils over, "What kind of dumb fuck- Ugh!" you yell in frustration. You pace the room for a moment, completely shocked that someone could be so irresponsible with a firearm, "Stupid fucker, stupid dumb fucker, I could've gotten shot!" you mutter angrily. You scour the room carefully for anything else, you find nothing. You put the gun away, locking it in the rooms safe box .

For the rest of the clean you angrily fluffed, dusted, scrubbed, vacuumed and mopped before grumbling your way out into the hallway. You drag the heavy linen bag to the chute, struggling with it you groan in frustration, “Need help lass?” A thick Scottish voice sounds behind you, causing you to jump. “Fuck!” You squeak, turning around you come face to face with four tall, well built men “No I’m good thank you” you dismiss them.

“You sure?” He asks again, tilting his head in amusement. You smile as politely as you can, “I’m good really” you reassure him. Picking the bag up with a grunt, you hold it in one hand, opening the chute with the other and dropping it in. You twist your back, cracking it with a satisfied sigh. You were finally able to knock off for the day. Taking the trolley back downstairs, you throw your apron in your locker and grab your bag, before heading to the door to leave, “Wait lass, hold up!” The Scots-man yells behind you.

Turning around, you find him jogging to catch you, his tall spooky friend not far behind “You just cleaned our room right?” He asks you with a worried tone. “Uh yeah probably, I did the whole floor” you respond cautiously. “Did you happen to find something under one of the beds?” He tries to ask discreetly. “Ohh..you guys were the fuck heads with the hidden gun, and the bloody sheets, and ashtray cup, and the bloody bathroom. Yeah… I put that away in the safe, where it should have been in the first place.” You glare at him. He cringes “Yeah sorry about that”, “You brought a gun?” His friend practically growls, his deep British accent reverberates pleasantly in your skull. “I might need it” he defends himself, his arms outstretched dramatically.

“Okay, well I’m leaving now so…” you attempt to turn back around, the Scott grabbing your arm “Wait, what’s the code?”. You look at his hand with disgust and disbelief before glaring into his eyes “Get your nasty fucking hands off me, I’ve seen how live and I’m not impressed” you chastise him, his face flushing in embarrassment.

His friend chuckles “You’ve got him there, now what’s the code love”, you sigh reluctantly “It’s zero, zero, zero�� zero”, he shakes his head “Should have fuckin known”, “Probably”. You stand there awkwardly “Can I go now?” You tilt your head, swaying back and forth. “Yeah sorry love, we’ll let you go” he grabs his friend by the back of his neck “Sorry for everything Lass”, “Yeah, yeah, clean up after yourselves you fuckin nasties” you wave them off as you finally leave the hotel. You breathe a sigh of relief, “Hot damn they were good looking”.

Johnny looks up to Simon, a grin sneaking onto his face “Is it just me or is she kinda hot when she angry”, “Keep it together Johnny” he shakes his head, heading back towards the elevator. “You think she’ll be back tomorrow? Maybe she’ll tell me off again?” He chases after him.

[bbybhr]

The lipstick

Apparently having a neatly applied lipstick is a luxury that the warlords wife can't offered. but worry not, you can have smudged lipstick together.

You’d spent the better part of the afternoon chasing the perfect shade. Not just any crimson, but one that held a certain defiance, a boldness that mirrored something within you. Finally, after mixing and blotting and layering, there it was. You leaned back from the vanity mirror, a satisfied sigh escaping your lips as you admired your work.

The door to your shared quarters creaked open, and you glanced up in the mirror to see Ambessa. Moving with a quiet grace. She stepped in closing the door, her gaze instantly finding you.you smiled at her,acknowledging, but continued working on your make-up nonetheless...stillness settled over her, the usual sharp angles of her expression softening ever so slightly as her golden eyes remained fixed on you with an intensity.

Then, she moved, her steps measured as she closed the distance between you. She reached out, her touch surprisingly gentle as she tilted your chin up with a single, calloused finger, turning your head towards herself. Her thumb brushed lightly under your lower lip as she studied your handiwork with a critical eye, a smile showing up on her lips.

"That color..." Ambessa began, her voice a low murmur, her gaze still locked on your mouth. "...it's magnificent on you."

A playful flush warmed your cheeks. "Really? You think so?" you asked, looking up to her... a hint of pride in your voice.

A slow, almost predatory smile touched the corners of her lips. "Hmm," she mused, her golden eyes gleaming. "Let's be certain."

And then she leaned down, her kiss taking you by surprise with its sudden intensity. It was a hungry kiss, demanding and possessive, her lips molding to yours as if she were claiming a piece of you, her tongue demanding to enter,and as soon as you allowed it, she began tasting you, savouring all she could. Time seemed to melt away as the kiss deepened. It went on for a long moment, she nipped at your bottom lip before finally pulling back, leaving your lips tingling and yourself utterly breathless.

You blinked, trying to gather your scattered thoughts, kiss drunk...that's what you were. "Ambessa!" you exclaimed, lingering pleasure in your voice. That was until you saw her lips...the smudge crimson stain on them...gods she had ruin your makeup...you turned to look back into the mirror "ambessa!!" You called her name again this time with annoyance

Ambessa simply met your gaze in the mirror, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips, she put her hands on your shoulder, leaning so her stained lips could meet your ears. "Reapply it."

You sighed dramatically, picking up your brush again, carefully retracing the blurred lines. "Let me see" she said turning your face once again nodding at your clean work she leaned in once more, suddenly , her lips met yours again, a swift, decisive kiss that for sure was going to leave another mark...you whined in her mouth hitting her shoulder lightly before she pulls back with that smug expression... she was holding back her laughter...you could tell. You glared.

"Okay, fine! If you love it so much..." You stood up grabbing her arm, pulling her (she allowed it) down to sit on the chair infront of the vanity, she looked at you with amusement...her smile never fading. "Your turn. Hold still," you commanded with mock seriousness as you picked up your brush.

With exaggerated care, you began to apply the crimson lipstick to her lips. Ambessa watched you, her hands coming up to rest on your hip, her thumbs tracing a pattern, surprisingly compliant. she allowed you to do your work in silence. Her golden eyes followed your every move. When you were finally done, you stepped back, as much as her hands allowed, admiring your work.

Ambessa turned her face towards the mirror examined her reflection, looking at the newly colored lips thoughtfully, she raised her eyebrows at the shade, good enough. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face as she turned back to you, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Well," she purred, her voice laced with amusement and something deeper. "What kind of wife i am if I Don't treat us both...equally."

Before you could respond, she pulled you in,one her hand coming up to the back of your neck. She kissed you soundly, leaving yet another imprint of her crimson-stained lips on yours, ruining the perfect application, before letting go of your head, her hand on your hip tugged you close, now making you sit on her lap.

You were poker upon the sight of her ruined lipstick...narrowing your eyes at your wife.

She laughed.

[emeraldtintedsword]

seconding the sentiment that the ideal game would take a lot of pressure off of the GM. this is something ive spoken to a lot with the blogger of Fae Errant. to quote one of their posts...

> because a huge portion of the fun is actually the rules, not the content. Getting lost in the dungeon is exciting and tense because you made the players map it out on a sheet of printer paper without exact measurements and they are running out of torches. You didn’t prep that, no one designed that. It happened because the rules (procedures procedures everywhere). The entire point of a rules system, imho, is to get you into interesting situations. If your rule set isn’t helping you find interesting situations, find a different rule set, or better hack something into that one to make interesting situations happen.

from In Defence of Mediocre Content

i think that this is also a pretty solid criticism of rules light games in general actually, not just peoples approach to 5e etc. a lot of those texts leave out the mechanics that create the interactions from which emergent experiences/interesting situations unfold. in doing so, they make it significantly harder to run because the experience is being far more left up to the quality of the content (adventure or whatever) and the person running it. much more has to be done manually to fill in the gap left by the effort that the system could be doing for you.

THAT BEING SAID i also think that rules light games specifically rely on their users having experience with broader RPG conventions - they expect the GM to know how similar games typically run, what rules or experiences they might include. and so, if the GM is experienced in those play styles then they can get by alright, pulling in whatever they think they need to run it. but the problem is two fold - very experienced GMs believe that "system doesnt matter" because they dont realise they are using the rules and conventions remembered from previous games theyve learnt or played, AND new GMs being introduced to rules light games lack that context and so run hollower games which need to be filled in with more effort on their part.

... i would also add, i think a lot of GMs have a play style focused around being heavy handed conductors of play. they step in, add emerging monsters when things get boring, push and pull and try and create satisfying rollercoasters of tension and ... whatever. theyre trying to create a Narrative, and putting in effort to actively maintain entertainment for the players. which i think its broadly absolutely fine, and to a lot of people it sounds like a very desirable approach. buuuuut it takes a lot of effort! it can be very exhausting for the person running the game, and can diminish the feeling of agency for the players. i sincerely think there needs to be a greater appreciation for games that are basically set up like episodic TV shows lol. dungeon crawling is really fun, and it is formulaic because the formula rocks actually. (classic) Traveler is a game that Fae Errant often goes on about that succeeds at that really well. just set the game up and enjoy as the wonderful experiences spring forth on their own

anyway. ramblings at midnight. hope i dont come off as elitist anywhere here (talking about play cultures is often dangerous), i just... hope that GMs put less effort into their games lol. the burnout isnt worth it!!!! i promise itll be fun!!!!!! the system should work for you, you shouldnt be a slave to its maintenance!!!!!!

I honestly think we could do with less "a good DM would do [whatever it is a good DM would do]." A lot of the time that type of advice boils down to "a good DM would realize that this particular part of the system actually sucks ass and ignore it," which is actually a statement I'm not sure I agree with most of the time: it has basically emerged from a D&D culture of play that puts a certain type of play on a pedestal and considers the type of play that D&D produces natively to be pedestrian. A lot of the time when you hear "A good DM would ignore the rules in order to produce a better experience" it does, to an extent, come from a place of understanding what sort of experience the game of D&D produces but with a preconceived notion that said experience is dysfunctional and bad.

But also a lot of the advice given kind of sucks ass. I don't think you need to be able to redesign a system on the fly to be a good DM. I actually think the specter of the "good DM" is somewhat harmful, because it lets game design off the hook and furthers this idea that there aren't any good games and games are only "good" once a good DM has had a chance to tinker with it.

Anyway, in my opinion you shouldn't need to be "a good GM" to run a game. The ideal game would actually take a lot of the pressure off the GM (or Storyteller or Narrator or MC etc.) so that they can simply run the game as is and if the game has been designed well get a consistent good experience out of it. We shouldn't saddle GMs (or DMs) with the expectation that they must somehow elevate a game above itself to make it produce a "real" roleplaying experience befitting us distinguished nerds. I think D&D is cool and I think dungeon-crawling is cool and I think all the nerds who think dungeon-crawling is beneath them and D&D needs to be "saved" by making it not about dungeon-crawling should go. Idk I don't even want them to go play other games because I like other games and frankly those people sound exhausting to play with regardless of game.

Anyway so the point of this rambling post is: you should not need to be "a good DM" to run a game. A good game would take your hand and help take the pressure off running the game. Putting the onus on "a good DM" is letting the game off the hook. Anyway here are a few realizations that I think can make anyone a good GM:

Realize that games are designed for a purpose and that if a game is designed well you should not need to modify it on the fly.

Following from the above, realize that if a game is not doing what you want it to do it's not necessarily the game being bad but your desires not matching up with the game's.

Realize that it's usually much easier to just play or run a different game instead of trying to tinker with a system to make it do something it wasn't designed to do.

None of these things will turn you into the mythical "good DM" who can run the best kind of games, but they might turn you into "a good GM" who knows that there's a game out there that better serves their needs and whose style of running games better jives with a different game.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Seph is having a rough day with anxiety, so Zack shows him the dancing fruit video to help him disassociate.

For reference:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=b65MoVwANq4&pp=ygUNZGFuY2luZyBmcnVpdA%3D%3D

Something about the colorful animation, those uncanny fruit faces, and the repetitive beat unlocks a primitive joy within him.

Genesis: Why are there fruits dancing on Shinra's 80-inch plasma screen?

Sephiroth: Zack queued this for me. He said it would "rewire my brain and calm my anxiety." I've been watching this for eight hours.

Angeal: OH—

Sephiroth: No, no, it's fine. The more you watch it, the more you understand the plot. The pineapple is the captain. The grapes are his foot soldiers. They've formed a coalition with the cherries but tensions remain with the rogue banana on the left flank.

Genesis: The banana is literally twerking.

Sephiroth: She's the intelligence officer. Her espionage arc begins in episode four.

Angeal: Sephiroth, buddy, don't you think you've spent a little too much time watching this?

Sephiroth: I find the narrative progression satisfying. The mango's redemption arc is subtle but moving.

Angeal: Genesis he's losing his mind

Zack, walking in: Oh hey, did he get to the part where the fruits do the conga line?

Angeal: Zack! Why the hell would you put on a children's program for Sephiroth to watch?

Zack: To help with his anxiety, duh. Look at him, he's so happy and healthy! This is great for his mental health!

Genesis: Really? Let's test that, shall we? Sephiroth, darling, does the strawberry have a backstory?

Sephiroth: Orphaned in a jam factory explosion.

Zack: Aw fuck.

[myfanfic-urfantrash]

Asking for kisses while they're busy.

Note: Wanderer's s/o is taller than him by a head at least.

-------

Neuvillette stiffens before glancing up from the documents in his hands then back down. It's nothing of immediate importance, just a monthly report from the Research Institute. His eyes look at the small clock on his desk. It's just an hour or two before his scheduled break...

"I see..." He clears his throat and adjusts the collar of his shirt feeling the heat filling his cheeks as he sets the documents down. It's a bit warm isn't it?

"Well, I suppose I can take a short break but no more than that."

He stands hissing a little as his hair gets caught on the back of his chair but he quickly pulls it away with ease and makes his way to their side on the sofa.

He cradles their face in his hands stroking their cheeks with his thumbs and bends down to press his lips against theirs. He hums as he pulls back.

"My break will not be for another hour so I can have someone bring in some refreshments while you wait." He rights himself and heads towards the large doors.

"You are more than welcome to leave if you wish should you grow bored but..." His hand pauses on the door ready to open it as he looks back at them with fond eyes and gentle smile.

"I will not be opposed to you staying. Your presence is quite refreshing."

-------

Wanderer frowns though his cheeks are starting to turn pink. He glances at his "homework" which is just some pointless mandatory essay he has to submit for class if he wants to skip taking the equally pointless final exam.

"Are you serious? Have you no shame?" He says but both his tone and the glare he gives them lack its usual bite he gives just about everyone.

"Can't you see I'm busy? What? Can't go without me for even a second?" He says with a smirk hoping to tease them but they just nod in response confidently. It flusters him and he reflexively reaches for his hat to hide his face.

But his fingers grab nothing, and he looks around in confusion until his eyes land on his hat carefully hung on the wall beside them where he left it... hours ago.

He wants to wipe the smirk of their stupid lovable face so bad. So that's exactly what he plans as he slams his pen down on the desk and stomps over to them. His hands are firm but not rough in how they pin their wrists against the door by their head. He looks them defiantly in the eye as if he's in control though this is exactly what they want and he knows this.

"You want kisses? Fine. I'll give you kisses."

He closes his eyes and tilts his head up towards them standing on his tiptoes to kiss them but his lips brush against their cheek as they dodge him. He opens his eyes flustered and frustrated at their teasing.

"Get down here. Do you want to kiss or not?"

They hum looking toward the ceiling as if they're considering his question before looking at his somewhat needy eyes. They nod and dive down to meet his lips with their own.

He practically melts into them at the attention his hands sliding from their wrists to hold their face in his own. He feels their hands land on his waist to hold him close as he pulls back.

"There. Satisfied? Now go sit pretty or something and let me finish my essay."

-------

Wriothesley hums not looking up from his documents as he reads through them.

"So that's why you were so quiet. And here I thought I was boring you."

He glances at the clock on the wall showing he's been at this for more than a few hours.

"Well then, I guess I can take a small break."

He sighs setting down the documents and stretching his back, rolling his neck and shoulders to release tension. He feels a bit stiff honestly. He stands and makes his way to their spot on the sofa taking a seat beside them laying his left arm above the back of their seat.

He lifts their chin with his right hand and gently places a kiss on their lips. It's simple and sweet.

He pulls back with a soft smile stroking their cheek fondly. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Of course if you find that unsatisfactory you can always file a complaint and I will be sure to remedy the issue..." He glances at the clock.

"Later of course." He winks standing. "But until then I've got paperwork to finish."

[wing-ed-thing]

… And the Beast (Yonji Vinsmoke x Reader) Chapter IX

Synopsis: You thought your little crush on Prince Yonji was a well-kept secret. Yonji is mean enough to exploit your eagerness to please in the face of his unrelenting cruelty; the thought of actually developing a soft spot for you never even crossed his mind.

Word Count: 6k

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, Angst, Slow Burn, Naive!Servant!Reader, Side/Plot Device Original Character, Beating, Spitting, False Allegations, Name Calling, Physical Assault, Incomplete Suggestive Assault, Threat/Vaguely Mentioned SA

Notes: If you're fine with Ouran HSHC, you'll be fine with this chapter. If you have questions about the warnings before reading, don't hesitate to shoot me a message

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX

Yonji entertained Princess Ursula for the rest of the morning and was discreetly brought for examination sometime later. Whether it was by a private physician or a more senior collection of scientists, you didn’t know. All you knew was that Judge was inevitably involved, and staff members were to entertain the kingdom’s guests alone.

Ichiji was as severe as ever about the situation, and Ursula could only be described as less than enthused about her new plaything disappearing in the middle of the day. To make up for the confusion and skepticism he caused, Yonji arranged for a romantic day with Princess Ursula, which was set to start the following morning. 

He thought it best to arrange for brunch in his favorite place in the kingdom: the library.

Like most of Princess Ursula’s visits, a notice of the royal’s accommodations to the servant staff came with short notice. You spent the better part of your night moving furniture and making rounds about the library to ensure that everything could hold up to scrutiny— or at least more than the Vinsmokes already doled out. You moved all of Yonji’s favorite books, allowing them to stick out on the shelves by just a millimeter so he could find them quickly. You assumed that he would want to do a bit of bragging, although you weren’t sure that Princess Ursula was one to be too interested in books. 

On the ground floor below, your usual reading chair and side table were absent from their usual place by the grand window. This morning, a round, decorated table sat at the base of the window with two chairs on either side. The table was already set with elegant—albeit rather plain—tableware.

Several pieces of cutlery of various sizes surrounded the main plate, and your eyes darted over the several glasses that sat just adjacent to the neatly folded cloth. Cosette worked downstairs, having taken over the library kitchen for the morning in preparation for the special meal. The library kitchen was far smaller than the main one and housed far fewer appliances. You were certain she wasn’t happy about the change in scenery. You’re sure she’d tell you all about it later. 

“Are you Yonji’s lover?” Ursula’s voice resounded within the tall ceilings. 

You spun around at the sound of her voice, shock bolting through you as if you had just been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Ursula stood between the double doors with her hands on her hips. She was as decorated as ever, adorned with pearls and swooping accents. Ribbons seemed to engulf her. And yet, Ursula appeared as scathing as ever. Too lost in your thoughts, you hardly heard her enter the library.

Ursula crossed her arms over her heavily bodiced chest.

“I asked you a question, servant.”

“No, I’m not.” The words shot from your lips with a bit more certainty and bitterness than you intended. But despite how curt it was, Ursula appeared wholly satisfied with your response.

She hummed, sticking her nose up in victory as she strutted into the library. 

“Well, that’s a relief,” she sighed snootily, eyeing the many shelves that lined the walls up to the ceiling. “At least he hasn’t lowered himself that far… But…” Ursula’s lips twitched downward into a steep frown. “This is the place Yonji wanted to show me? I thought he said he had a surprise.”

You knew better than to add any commentary. In fact, you would have already politely excused yourself if Ursula weren’t standing right in the middle of the entryway. 

“I can guide you to Master Yonji if you wish,” you offered, “I believe he—”

“I’m sure you could,” Ursula sneered, before strutting off toward the left-hand staircase leading up to the balcony. She wore a pair of Mary Janes with a thick heel, and her puffed skirt brushed against where her lace socks ended. Ursula swiveled her head toward you. “Well, aren’t you going to show me around? Now?”

You glanced toward the hall.

“Master Yonji—”

“I said now!” Ursula’s sudden outburst immediately made your attention snap to her. She had since faced away from you, but the bunched fists at the sides of her skirt were apparent, as was the tail end of a little stomp on the floor. 

You immediately complied, coming to her side with little haste, and only when you came up next to her did Ursula continue up the stairway. 

“This one.” She pointed at a large-spined book within your reach just as you reached the top of the stairs. You didn’t have to speak royal to know that it should be in her hand before she grew less amused than she already was. You handed it to her, keeping your upward-facing palms ready to support the encyclopedia by its covers. You doubted Ursula wanted the true weight of the book on her delicate hands. She frowned as she flipped through the pages. “This is what he wanted to show me?”

“I don’t believe so—”

“Did I ask you to speak?” Ursula gripped the book with both hands and heaved it to the side, causing it to tumble down to the floor. She shoved a pointed finger in your face. “Just because Germa allows the help to be undisciplined doesn’t mean I am going to stand for it. I hope that you keep in mind that when I’m queen. I’m going to whip this place into shape real quick.”

You didn’t say anything. What was there to say? Staying silent and bowing your head graciously was likely the only thing you could do right as Ursula straightened out, a small, satisfied smile gracing her lips as she patted down the skirt of her dress.

“That is much better,” she lauded before trouncing off down the shelves. 

And so it went; you followed Ursula around the library, handing her any book her heart desired. Although she didn’t appear to desire them for long before she threw them to the floor if not right off the balcony. You didn’t say a word. You wondered how long it would go on without making your subtle glances toward the clock too obvious. 

If anything, her presence gave you a new appreciation for the Vinsmoke family. While Ursula’s visit to your library wasn’t all too dissimilar to Niji’s infrequent visits, the Vinsmoke boys had a vested interest in keeping their archive intact at the very least. And it was only as you watched Ursula did you finally notice how gentle Yonji always was when he came to read. 

But even without actively occupying your attention, Ursula continued to demand it. You stared forward at the shaking ladder, hands in a vice grip on both sides as Ursula climbed. She had spied a book up near the top, but rather than snapping her fingers for you to retrieve it, she insisted on grabbing it herself. Ursula told you to hold the rolling ladder steady and to face forward or down; she didn’t want you peeking up her skirt. You couldn’t say you were interested in doing so in the first place, but the idea of Ursula so much as thinking you were being inappropriate with her was enough to keep your eyes glued downward.  

“My father used to try to read these to me when I was a little girl,” she scowled, the book splayed across her hand. You moved out of her way as she hopped down from the last rung of the ladder. Her hair and puffy skirt bounced as she did.

When she descended, you realized which book she had her eye on.

Like every book she held before, she thumbed through it flippantly before she stopped on the cover page of a chapter. She regarded it with bitter scrutiny.

“I could recognize this book anywhere…”

A young woman with long hair knelt in the grass of a garden, her hand on the cloak of a handsome young man propped up on the ground beneath her stare. The seam of the cloak led up to the head of a beast, some mix between a boar and a goat, from which the man appeared to emerge. It was “Beauty and the Beast,” and you always thought that the Beast, as depicted by the cover art, always looked strikingly like Yonji. 

Upon declaring that the library was his and discovering that you had hidden the book after Ichiji’s command, Yonji urged you to return it to the library. It typically had a home in your reading chair, but with the chair moved to accommodate Yonji and Ursula’s brunch spot, you thought to logically file the book away. With it tucked away all the way near the ceiling, you didn’t think that anyone would spot it up there. 

Ursula’s brow furrowed almost as tightly as her clenched teeth. 

“I don’t know what kind of idiot he took me for… even back then. He kept trying to read them over and over again like I was some stupid little girl.” Her nose scrunched up like a pig as her fingers clenched the top of the pages. “As if I needed to be coddled. As if I wasn’t born a queen.”

Riiiip. 

And then the cover page was in her hands, attached loosely to the pages behind it by the edge where the papers were torn. Ursula let them go, letting the torn pieces flutter haphazardly to the ground. Her eyes had a blankness to them, like a child who had just torn the wings off an insect without understanding the weight of what she had just done. But then her gaze soured once more as she continued to rip out pages. 

“That’s enough,” you found yourself blurting, making a lunge for the book. Ursula kept it from you, turning away from you as she continued tearing up the pages. You stumbled, trying to reach for the cover. “That belongs to the Germa Kingdom! It’s special to them!”

Ursula ducked around you, scurrying down the right-hand set of stairs with sadistic glee. 

“This thing? A set of kids’ stories? Yeah, right.” She stopped in front of the neatly decorated brunch table, pieces of paper flying like feathers. “You didn’t care about any other book in this room, but this one gets you riled up? What are you? Some sort of child?”

You grasped her wrist, forcefully turning her around without a thought. You gripped her hand, pulling her by her wrist.

“That book was their mother’s!” you pleaded. Ursula stared at you blankly, if not with the slightest scrunching of her nose. You wondered what you looked like at that moment with your frantically widened eyes. Your fingers gripped the side of the book firmly, trying to wrestle it from Ursula’s grasp. “Your mom passed recently, right? Can’t you understand why it’s so important to him—?”

SMACK.

Ursula’s hand flew swiftly across your face. You could hardly commit the seething vitriol to mind before your neck harshly recoiled. The book slipped from your grasp as your own force caused you to stumble back. For a little thing, she was strong.

“How dare you speak about my mother,” she growled, her face scrunched up with heated fury. “How dare you lay your filthy hands on me! How dare you talk to a princess like that—!”

Before you could even process the sting of the handprint on your face, Ursula’s foot struck your shin and you slammed back into the decorated table behind you.

The entire display was destabilized. Plates crushed to the ground and the tablecloth seemed to flow willingly down to the floor, taking cutlery and glasses alike down with it. The teapot that sat in the middle spilled its contents freely, splashing scalding liquid across an already chaotic mess. And through it all, Ursula didn’t yield.

“I’ll kill you, you rat! You—you little bitch, how dare you!” she screamed, coming down on you with the force of her body weight as she drove the sole of her shoe against your body. “No one has ever laid a hand on me— No one! You’re nothing, you servant rat— insect! I’ll crush you under my own goddam heel—!”

And still, you were left frozen. You always froze like this. Curled in on yourself. Protecting your head as best as you could until Ursula decided she was bored of you. It was always like this.

It wasn’t the first beating you’d gotten. It was hardly the worst. The soldiers who kept you captive all those years ago on your home island packed way worse of a punch than the petite woman above you. You didn’t even have to worry about her violating your dignity. If anything, a few kicks were nothing you couldn’t handle. 

Ursula stomped on the weaved fingers that clutched the back of your neck. Her force was deliberate and steady. It hurt, and yet you knew you had the stamina to hold out until she grew bored. 

“You know what?” You heard her sneer, her barrage not ceasing for a second. “I’m relieved to know you're nothing to Yonji. I wanted to get rid of you from the moment I saw you, and after this, it’s going to be even easier than I thought.” And seemingly satisfied in having the last word, Ursula finally stopped. 

A wet glob hit the back of your hand, seeping between your fingers and splattering over the shell of your ear. As she began to storm away back toward the library doors you picked up your head, body aching as you shifted among the broken plates.

But your attention wasn’t drawn to Ursula or even the ruined dishware that surrounded you. You didn’t even seem to notice how the library was covered with haphazardly tossed books. 

It was drawn to one book.

Your eyes found the torn bundle of pages in front of you, forgotten on the ground and splayed open around visible rips. Jagged pieces of paper poked out from the center crease, missing the rest of their contents. A scrap of the cover page sat among the mess of shreds that littered the library floor. 

The prince’s face sat intact, but the page had been torn diagonally, ripping off the upper body of the depiction of Beauty. Her hands, who reached for the Beast, were all that remained, along with the prince’s longing stare. 

You stood slowly, the broken pieces of the dining table shifting noisily around you. 

You weren’t brave. That much was true. After a lifetime of being forced down to the ground, the idea of standing seemed like it was little more than a fantasy. It hadn’t been a concept you were certain you could even imagine. 

It was why you were drawn to him in the first place. 

He stood, and he stood tall. 

He knew what he wanted. 

He took it. 

“I may not be his lover, but I am not nothing to him,” you asserted, causing Ursula to stop with a foot in the hallway.

You stood.

You stood. Bruised and swelling with your hand beginning to pool with blood from scraping against shattered ceramic, but you stood. 

Ursula turned just slightly. Viewing her from behind, you could only see the tip of her nose poking out from the side of her face as she spoke over her shoulder.

“Not nothing, hm?” she repeated with barely restrained rage. She finally turned to fully face you, the back of her hand poised daintily over her mouth. “You think you can win over a prince? Don’t make me laugh!” The sides of her lips tugged upward to reveal her canine teeth. 

“Of course not,” you admitted, and you didn't do so courageously. Nothing you spoke came from your mouth bravely but rather with a ravenous tumble and deranged overconfidence. “Even if you marry him. Even if you do become queen of your country, it’ll always eat at you that there’s one thing you don’t have. You’ll never have him. Not really. Not when you don’t know him nearly as well as one servant rat!”

Your words rang out over the air.

And a pause came followed by silence.

You didn’t even realize you had been moving until you were upon her. She looked at you with wide eyes. Wide. Enraged. Confused. Insulted. 

“Know him?” She hissed; the stillness in the air deafening. Ursula shook with barely restrained fury. “Why would I give a damn?”

She glanced to her left down the hallway. 

Then her wide eyes welled with tears. Before you knew it, she ran with her face in her hands. But even as she left, she couldn’t grant you any relief. 

“Yonji! Thank goodness you’re here! This savage servant just attacked me! You have to do something!”

Panic shot through you like a bullet at the mere mention of Yonji’s name. You immediately scrambled to follow her, almost slipping on the carpet as you went. You instinctively reached out to the wall for balance, leaving a smear of blood as you scurried out after Ursula. 

Surely enough, Yonji was at the end of the hall and Ursula had his arm in her grasp as she cowered behind him. 

And for once in a long while, you couldn’t read the expression on Yonji’s face. While he was as lacking as his siblings when it came to emotions, Yonji was always consistently expressive. Empathy wasn’t something he was familiar with, but shock, anger, and disdain never appeared to be traits that Judge apparently considered emotions when he programmed his supposed emotionless children. 

Yet, you found yourself searching Yonji’s face for any semblance of relief. For evidence. For evidence that he didn’t believe her. 

And after a beat, he didn’t say anything. His silence shook something in you, the sound of Ursula crying and screeching in the background falling utterly quiet as you met Yonji’s eyes. 

You weren’t certain what urged you to do so, but you looked down. You looked down at your disheveled uniform. At your hand which now sported a large gash across the palm. A decent amount of blood pooled there, having dripped on your clothes and the floor. Looking downward, rogue strands of hair fell from their usual styling, making you appear even rougher than you already appeared. 

You ran for it, and Yonji let you pass. 

***

You couldn’t hide in the panty forever. You knew it, and so did Cosette. And yet, she sat with you, just the one dangling light hanging from the middle of the ceiling above you. 

You curled with your knees to your chest, arms wrapped around you like a protective shield as you pondered the words she last spoke. 

“I don’t want this to come off the wrong way, but… Maybe it’s time to leave. Like, the kingdom… Look, I don’t want you to go— I—I need someone to keep me sane in this place, heh, but— the fleet is going to sail together until they find you. Maybe it’s easier to quietly slip off to an island… Live a normal life.” 

“I don’t want to see you put to death over this…”

There wasn’t much she could do or say to make the situation any better, and she knew it. You hugged her tightly, thanking her for your friendship before excusing yourself from the kitchen. If she was caught sheltering you, she’d be punished with the same harshness you were sure awaited you. 

You wandered to a random ship when it grew dark, slithering past patrols in search of a place to lay low. Germa, being the militaristic kingdom it was, meant that there were more buildings dedicated to storage than in a typical city. Germa didn’t have traditional citizens, after all, and with the entire country essentially functioning like a hybrid between a castle and a battleship, any building that wasn’t a battle station was likely storage. The larger towers— which belonged to the respective Vinsmoke siblings— were typically teeming with unused space as the tower was sheerly meant to be large.

With the entire kingdom sailing together like this, it gave you better options. You made your way down the grid, quickly slipping from “4” territory down to “0.” You knew Reiju’s tower best second to Yonji’s, and while you couldn’t count on her to help you in any way, you considered her territory to be the safest to lay low. 

You stealthily made your way up the staircase, padding over the dark, stone steps. Every so often, you’d pass a window. It appeared it was a new moon. Without the streetlight below, you likely couldn’t see much of anything outdoors. Your hand brushed along the stone wall as you groped your way up to the third floor. 

Despite the great, arched windows that lined the hallway, you could see even less than you could in the stairwell. You kept your hands out in front of you, trailing along the wall and ensuring that you didn’t crash into any of the decorative statues or pillars that lined your path. A few doors down, you felt a familiar set of door knobs. Quietly, you slipped into the room, turning the knob so that it closed silently behind you.

The room was pitch black and cold. You stepped gingerly toward the center of the room, bumping into some stray pieces of furniture that you didn’t remember being placed there before. Your hands swept over all the surfaces you could touch, fingers nudging against items like paper, pens, and velvet that you couldn't recall. 

“Come to seduce another prince of Germa? I’ll tell you now that it won’t work. Book Roach.” 

A lamp illuminated in the corner to reveal Ichiji. He sat on a leather seat, some sort of file in his lap, and his ankle slung over his opposite knee. A white towel draped over the thick straps of his wife-beater to catch the small droplets that clung to his damp hair. 

“You are a roach after all. The fact that you made it from morning to night without a single soldier apprehending you is a disgrace. And yet you came here, of all places.” 

Your heart beat out of your chest, and any inkling you had to make a swift escape began and ended with Ichiji’s stark, icy blue eyes. He seemed to sense your petrifaction, closing his file and moving it to the side to stand. 

Ichiji ran the towel roughly through his hair, messing the damp strands into a cascading mess that roughly resembled his usual hairstyle. He didn’t avert his gaze from yours for a second, but the intensity of his stare forced you to look away.

“I didn’t hurt her.” You dared to glance at Ichiji for only a second, passing over the large tattoo on his bicep before returning to the floor. “Princess Ursula, I mean. I didn’t attack her.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” 

Your head shot up. Ichiji had his back turned to you, having thrown his towel haphazardly on the bed. He appeared to have busied himself with his file again. 

“You don’t?” 

Ichiji didn’t acknowledge your question, organizing his papers neatly into his folder and brushing past you to place them back amongst a box of them which sat on the opposite wall. You pivoted your foot, turning to eye him as he appeared to ignore you.

He moved a few folders around the box before placing the lid on top and sliding the entire case to the lefthand side of the wood-carved desk. Ichiji then meandered to stand in front of the double doors to his room, seeming to stop to think for a brief moment. His hands sat deeply in the pockets of his baggy lounge pants. 

“If you think Ursula is a little terror, you should have seen her mother.” Ichiji’s slender fingers slipped quietly and elegantly from his pocket, a shiny metal key between the pads of his fingers. Without a word, he locked the door before turning to you and wordlessly slipping the key back into his pocket. “Were you ever curious why Germa hadn’t pursued relations with such a clearly desperate kingdom before? One from the North Blue, no less?”

“High standards?” you croaked, despite an awareness of the rhetorical nature of the question. You were too occupied with ignoring the locked doors. 

“Standards went out the window the moment we even considered pirate alliances,” Ichiji swiftly corrected with a roll of his pretty blue eyes. He took a step toward you and then another. “It’s because desperation is the worst stench a person or a thing can have. It wreaks, and if you’re desperate enough that others smell it on you, you’ll never get what you want. It’s something about desperation that incentivizes those who have to smell it to keep desirable things out of reach.”

He walked toward you with purpose, and you took several steps back to maintain distance. 

“Ursula is desperate to be queen. Neptune is desperate to reclaim the power their family lost upon Salacia’s passing— but let’s be honest with ourselves— they were a half-baked monarchy to begin with. So again, why now, I’m sure you’re wondering. Although, I’m not even sure you’re smart enough to ask that question.” 

The back of your knees hit the footboard, but Ichiji’s pace didn’t slow. You fell back onto the bed, and Ichiji had your wrist in his grasp in a second. He pinned your right hand to the sheets, planting his other hand next to your head as he towered above you. His knees made deep divots in the mattress on either side of your hips.

“You. Because you broke him. You… A book rat.” Ichiji’s hand left your wrist to grab your face. His palm engulfed nearly the entirety of your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin with force. The base of his index finger pushed up against your nostrils, cutting off your air supply as his palm covered your mouth.  “Decades of science and work so genius that I’m sure it would short circuit that pea brain of yours if you tried even glancing at it… Ursula isn’t much better than you are, but at least she’s royalty. I knew she could whip him into shape and undo all the damage you’ve inflicted, and Father is always more than willing to listen to what I advise.”

Your lungs were starting to burn.

“I finally had to report it all to him. To Father. I could hardly stand to listen to my defective brother as he defended you to the family. It was disgusting… Disgraceful.” Ichiji let go of your face, drawing a deep wheeze out of you as you caught your breath. Ichiji paid no mind to the way you coughed under him, reaching into the to snap his fingers. With one loud snap, the room suddenly went dark. “It’s actually a good thing you’re here,” he said, and you could hear his voice growing closer. And when he spoke again, he did so with his lips pressed against your ear. “I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to discipline you properly. I want to see what has my little brother so wrapped around your finger.” 

Ichiji’s hand returned to your wrist, gripping it harshly as he trailed his thumb up the side of your palm. His other arm collapsed into the sheets as he held himself above you. One of his thighs slotted itself between yours. You could feel Ichiji's warm breath against the side of your neck.

Ichiji was keenly listening, waiting for your heartbeat to quicken.

And yet…

“This isn’t like you.” When you spoke, you did so flatly, spitting the four words out like a statement of fact. Not a drop of fear laced your voice. It almost caught him off guard, causing him to pause for the slightest of seconds. If Ichiji hadn’t known better, he would have said it was a challenge. 

“What?” You wished you could have seen his face as his hands quietly retreated from your skin. You sensed him sit back, and in turn, you sat up, propped on your elbows. A stagnant tension sat in the air. “You think you know me? I can’t tell if you’re stupid or arrogant—”

“I can’t image you’d get anything out of it. Being with a book roach, I mean…” You couldn’t see a thing, but you could sense Ichiji’s face not too far from yours. He was watching you, stalking you like a predator of the night.

In the blackness, you thought you might have been able to make out Ichiji's stark blue eyes. You had never seen them before, you realized. And if the Vinsmoke brothers were truly beasts like they all seemed to claim, you wondered if Ichiji's beautiful, icy irises were means to paralyze his prey before devouring them whole.

You stared directly into the abyss, unblinking and petrified as you stammered on, “You have a lot of pride, a— and it’s obvious by the way you hold yourself and talk. And maybe, and maybe I’m wrong, but I just wouldn’t know what you’d get out of it. You’d consider it lowering yourself… or at least that's what I think." Your gaze flickered away, and your muscles unconsciously relaxed. "Lowering yourself for no real gain…” 

Ichiji paused, and after a moment, you felt his absence as the mattress slowly rose. 

“Lowering myself, huh?”

Ichiji's presence didn't carry much heat, but when his body left yours, you could feel the lack of him. His voice had already traveled somewhere else in the room.

Your mouth spat out the first question on your mind, “How can you even see?”

A pause. You didn't need to see Ichiji to imagine the scathing scowl that graced his lips.

“How can you forget your manners when addressing your prince?”

“How can you even see, Master Ichiji?” you corrected as if that were the issue. 

“I’m not a human, unlike you, remember?” Another crisp snap cut through the room and the lights illuminated Ichiji’s bedroom once more. He was across the room, rooting around another box before he plucked out a wide envelope. 

“Yonji said something to me like that not too long ago,” you hummed, sitting up fully. Ichiji couldn’t help but flicker his eyes toward you at the mention of his brother’s name spoken so informally. Perhaps there would have been a time just a few short moments ago when he would have lambasted you for it, but he remained silent. He flickered on a small lamp that sat next to a plush chair that faced the bedroom doors. 

Ichiji didn’t linger for long and came back toward the bed, removing the contents of the envelope carefully. You sat up, legs hanging off the side of Ichiji’s large mattress. And to your surprise, Ichiji offered you the contents of the envelope. 

He held them out to you, gripping the pages carefully so they wouldn’t fall out of order. You opened your palms, eyeing the papers with slightly widened eyes and bated breath as Ichiji carefully lowered them into your hands. 

“I don’t know, Master Ichiji,” you started breathlessly, eyes darting from the torn pages to the oldest Vinsmoke prince. “This seems pretty human to me.” 

Ichiji frowned.

“That’s the most insulting thing you’ve ever said to me,” he huffed, throwing the empty envelope on the bed next to his damp towel. He stuffed his hands back into his pockets. “It’s just what the servants cleaned up, that’s all. It belongs to you. You are the librarian, aren’t you?” 

Ichiji sat down at the foot of the bed, although he kept some distance between you. Without his glasses, you could make out the shape of his face more clearly. Ichiji had a sharp, defined nose and a strong jaw. His cheekbones were equally chiseled, and you decided that the main theme of the eldest Vinsmoke son was sharp. 

He was a decently stark contrast to Yonji who screamed bulk. Yonji’s nose was far rounder at the tip, and while he had nearly an equally defined jawline, you always considered his cheeks rather full and boyish. Yonji was taller, his muscle bulkier, but overall somewhat round. Now that you looked at them, you were certain that the curl in Yonji’s brows was more circular than Ichiji’s. And yet, there was something indescribable about them that screamed “Vinsmoke brothers.”

You couldn’t help but let out a light laugh, and Ichiji’s head immediately shot toward you.

“What are you laughing about?” He demanded. You shook your head. 

“You and Yonji are a lot alike, you know?” You smiled, and Ichiji couldn’t help but note that you had once again spoken an assertion like a fact. 

He stood with a shake of his head, pointing toward the doors.

“Get out,” he growled, and yet again, you didn’t seem to have an ounce of fear in you. 

“If you say so,” you said without urgency, rising from the edge of his bed. "Mistress Reiju didn't like when I said something like that either—"

“And one more thing,” Ichiji frowned. You turned to regard him, holding the pages neatly in your hands as he crossed his arms. “You should leave this kingdom as soon as you can. You’re a liability now. I should kill you.”

“Leave?” You blinked as if that was the part of the sentence that should have alarmed you. 

Ichiji adjusted his posture, standing tall and sturdy even as he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t let the stench of desperation be what costs you your life— although I’m surprised that your naivety hasn’t already done that,” he said with a bounce of his curled brows. You supposed that was another Vinsmoke trait. Ichiji’s cold irises met yours. “Don’t forget that my brother is a prince, and now he’s arranged to marry a princess— someone of his own stature. Their marriage will fulfill a long-time goal of the kingdom and he will have the happiest life he could have. Trying to pursue this and tempting him will only drag him down.”

You breathed in a steady breath. Logically, you knew exactly that.

“I, uh…” Your eyes found the floor for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “I know that.” Your gaze darted back to Ichiji. “He told me that even if he marries her, nothing will change! He wants me by his side; I told Ursula as much!”

The words came out louder than you wanted, but the volume hardly fazed Ichiji. He was still, looking at you blankly. He let the beats of silence deflate your posture. Ichiji didn’t have to tell you a thing; you already knew. 

“My brother is a fool,” Ichiji said, dead and even. 

Ichiji didn’t have to say anything at all to rock you where you stood. It felt as though he summoned an earthquake to test your foundation, and for all the courage you summoned to stand, you quickly folded back to the ground. 

“So you’ll go?” It was a question, but much like how you’d been unwittingly speaking for the entirety of the night, he spoke it like a certain statement. “I can make it easy for you.”

Ichiji tilted his nose upward, regarding you with lidded eyes. 

”If you don’t, I’ll kill you both,” he said. “Germa doesn’t need a human prince.” 

And you knew how he meant it, but as you looked down, you couldn’t help but slowly focus on the ripped-up pages. 

“The two of you talk about being human as if it was a bad thing,” you whispered, less to Ichiji and more to yourself.

“Excuse me?” Ichiji grunted, having heard you perfectly clear.

“You said the servants picked these up?” You held up the bunch of papers toward the light, inspecting them carefully. “They put them in order? And put them back together? They don’t even have page numbers.” You lowered the bunch of papers to reveal Ichiji’s stoic face. 

Ichiji didn’t speak a word. Instead, he conceded one slow nod.

“I see,” you said, continuing to study the pages.

“I’m letting you leave this room. You should take those and go back to whatever hole you slink back to at night.” Ichiji turned, throwing the towel from before somewhere off into a corner before climbing into bed. “I don’t care about children’s stories anymore. Take those and go.” 

Ichiji snapped his fingers and the bright lamp in the corner of the room, the one just to the side of Ichiji’s leather chair, extinguished. But unlike before, the room didn’t fall into pitch blackness. 

A warm light glowed from next to the plush reading chair. It wasn’t bright, but just enough for reading. You glanced toward Ichiji’s resting form. His tall, muscular frame had contorted into a mound of red blankets and a nest of equally vibrant hair.

You sat down in the chair, facing away from Ichiji and toward the door. The ripped-out pages of the book of fairy tales were nestled in your lap, and it dawned on you that perhaps this was all planned. For what he said about letting you leave and not caring for children’s stories, Ichiji retired to bed with the key to the locked bedroom doors still in his pocket. 

You began to read. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: I found this image as I was trying to look for a cover page to base my description off. I do think the Beast in this version looks the slightest bit Yonji-esque.

[sircantus]

There’s also like the aspect of Techno chasing after a god’s approval, sort of. Like he keeps trying to get The Best Thing just so Phil can grin and be content about it and only THEN will Techno be satisfied. For a time. It never does last but thats fine he will chase it for eternity if he must. There is nothing better than seeing this all powerful being and knowing that they depended on YOU for the joys theyre currently experiencing. Its like a sense of power for Techno.

Ur vague em duo is literally how gods were made

Technically Techno is worshipping Phil as a deity bc Phil was the equivalent of an angel from the heavens in saving his life but he’s very mellow about it hes like eyyy phil i brought Stuff and Phil is like oh neat and techno is like do you. Do you not like it. I can get more Stuff. Better stuff. And Phil just kinda raises his eyebrows and is like somewhat intrigued

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Emaciated Villain Used as Entertainment at a Hero's Party Part 7

Warnings: severely injured & abused villain, caretaking/recovery whump, panic attack, degrading talk, treating whumpee like a dog

Until finally... Superhero barged into the bedroom she was keeping Villain in, letting out a surprised gasp.

"So that's what happened to my missing prisoner!" She exclaimed in sheer disbelief.

Villain was absolutely petrified, sitting up with one arm wrapped protectively around his bandaged midsection and all the blood draining from his face as he stared at Superhero – his torturer. His chest was heaving, still in mid panic-attack.

Hero rushed around to stand in front of her, placing herself between Superhero and Villain.

"Superhero, wait! I-I can explain!" She sputtered frantically, desperately searching for a good excuse. She had an idea, and could only hope that Superhero would buy the lie.

"I was surprised at first to see what you had as entertainment at your party," Hero said smoothly, forcing the stutter out of her voice. "That's why I reacted so badly. But after the shock passed, I came to enjoy myself." She swallowed anxiously as the lie wove itself together on her tongue.

"I had so much fun, in fact... that I decided to take one of the party favors home with me so I could keep playing with it." She wanted to gag at the vile words leaving her own mouth, referring to Villain as no more than a useless plaything. But it was the only way to protect herself, as well as Villain.

"I-I hope you don't mind," she added, shuffling her feet awkwardly. "I didn't think to ask first before taking your property... but is it alright if I keep the villain?" She couldn't meet Superhero's eyes for fear that she might see the lie reflected in Hero's.

"I can pay you a handsome sum to keep this prized specimen," she continued. "I haven't been able to have fun in ages. Ever since… the accident. When I myself was held captive."

Superhero smiled cruelly at Villain, before turning her attention back to Hero. "Don't worry, you can keep the runt... and you don't even have to pay me for him, I'll give him to you as a free gift. You deserve to enjoy yourself after all the torment you've been through." She stepped closer to Villain, eyes narrowed.

"I'll check in every so often, though, to make sure he behaves himself for your entertainment," she giggled. "I bet you'll have a lot of fun with this one. He was one of my favorites – and you can train him far easier than the others.”

Villain’s eyes were huge with unbridled terror as Superhero stepped closer to the bed he was laying on, jerking away from her fearfully, recoiling toward the far end of the bed.

Fast as a striking snake, Superhero closed the distance between them, roughly grabbing Villain’s jaw to stop him in his tracks, even though he still visibly strained to keep backing up.

“Freeze,” she hissed, and Villain’s body instantly stiffened. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten your house rules. Never pull away. Are you still a good boy?”

Villain’s eyes were glassy and glazed, but he didn't hesitate to answer.

“Yes, ma’am,” he croaked weakly. “I’m… I’m a good boy.”

“And what do good boys do?”

“They take whatever is given to them, and… and don’t complain. Even if it hurts.”

“And why don’t you complain?”

“Because good dogs don't bark.”

Superhero nodded approvingly, seeming satisfied with that response. She took her free hand and pressed a finger into one of the bandaged wounds overtop Villain’s ribs, making him squeal in pain – but he didn’t pull away this time.

“Better,” Superhero scoffed, turning back to face Hero. “He might need some fine-tuning on occasion, but he’s very submissive and well-mannered overall. You picked a good one.”

“T-Thanks,” Hero rasped hoarsely, horrified. She could still see the muted panic in Villain’s eyes, but it seemed… dimmer now. As if his entire panic attack had just come to a screeching halt, leaving him docile and detached from reality.

Dissociation, she recognized. A deep-seated habit he must have developed during his captivity.

But what the heck?! ‘Good dogs don't bark’?? Is that what Superhero had been drilling into Villain all this time? That he was a dog, meant to serve her and nothing more? That his only purpose in life was to endure pain without resistance?

Hero’s stomach churned with nausea and disgust. This was worse than what she’d been through at the hands of the villain who had tortured her a year ago. That villain tortured her, yes – but never did anything so degrading as forcing her to grovel at his feet like a useless mutt. Never treated her like some kind of animal.

Villain had been through hell, while she had merely gotten a taste of it, she realized.

“If you’d like I could arrange some re-training sessions to keep him sharp and obedient,” Superhero offered sweetly, snapping Hero back to the present. “I’ve worn away his jagged edges a long time ago, but there are still rare occasions when he forgets his manners or doesn’t do what he’s told, and I know some people strive for perfection in their pets so–”

“NO!” Hero gasped, then wrangled her tone back under control. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she corrected quietly. “I can handle him just fine on my own. thanks.”

Superhero shrugged casually, walking toward the bedroom door. “In that case, have fun with your new toy! Call me if anything happens you need help with.” She paused in the doorway to glance at Villain one last time, expression dark and full of malice.

“Behave yourself,” she growled coldly. And then she was gone, the sound of the front door opening and closing announcing her departure.

Hero stood rigid for a few minutes in shock, processing what had just happened before shaking herself out of it enough to come sit on the side of the bed to reach out to Villain and check on him.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @written-in-the-stars135 @neverthelass

@starz8nk @redwinesupanover @whumpisgoodwhumpislife @theforeverdyingperson

@writing-with-olive @whatwhump

[ofthedevil]

OH also you dont have to publish this once again but 1. THE SOUND DESIGN IS SO SATISFYING… and 2. i actually got into of the devil by a fanart commission of morgan and i liked her design and the demo was free so i went “ok fine whats up with this character” and ough. so. yippee?

You heard it here first folks: commission your favs to draw lots of Morgan if you wanna spread the good Word of the Devil!

...But to address your point, most of the sound design, specifically in the UI, incorporates gun trigger, reloads, and clicks to give the UI a unified sound language and also to subtly put you into Morgan's headspace.

[cairoblair]

Hello there! I’m relatively new to the fandom of LADS and really enjoy how you write for them! It’s all very accurate and spot on for every one of them and I love it! I was wondering if you could do headcanons for the LADS men with a s/o who has ADHD? (This may or may not be more self indulgent on my part lol).

Like they are talkative and loudish, energetic/hyperactive, and like to have a lot of fun or relax at home, and like to spend time with their friends, or spend time alone by themselves.

But they also have trouble starting tasks (cleaning their room or putting laundry away), they forget to eat or care for themselves, they get distracted or fail to do a task and feel like a failure, overthink constantly, or have obsessive thoughts about certain things, and sometimes have difficulty regulating their emotions.

If you don’t feel comfortable writing something like that, that is totally fine! I just wanna see how each guy would handle the ups and down of a s/o that struggles with adhd, since it’s not just the happy talkative side, it’s also the “has a todo list and does nothing and feels terrible” side as well.

Thank you so much!!!! 💜💜

hi anon! thank you for requesting! i’m pretty familiar with ADHD thanks to my friends, so i hope you enjoy these! if you’d like me to write something longer for each or one of the LIs, i’m happy to do so!

Rafayel

• definitely indulges in your hyperfixations with you, he wants to hear all about it

• loves when you get a spurt of energy - he’ll suggest going down to the beach or channeling that energy into art

• when you get overstimulated, he’s quick to offer you a quiet space to recharge. he’ll let you sit and watch him paint, and he’s perfectly fine with silence

• if you’re having trouble tackling your to-do list, he’ll offer to do everything with you. he knows it can be difficult to stay motivated, so he’ll try to make it fun

• he’s great with reassurance, always telling you that he’s proud of you and that you’re more than capable. he never wants you to feel less than

Xavier

• he’s great at keeping up with fluctuations in your energy. feeling hyped? nothing a trip to the arcade can’t satisfy. exhausted? nap time!

• if you’re having trouble staying focused on a task, he’ll set up a system: work for 20 minutes, then take a 10 minute break with him to relax. it may take longer, but he wants to keep you happy

• i think he’s great with emotional regulation. he has a very calming presence, and he’ll gladly sit with you as long as you need him to. he’ll hold your hands and encourage you to breathe with him until you can relax

• if you failed a task you worked hard on, he’ll be there for the aftermath. he’ll reassure you that you did your best, and that’s all you could ask for. next time, he’ll help you tackle it in any way he can

• he just wants you to feel at ease, and he’ll do whatever he can to make that happen. talking, listening, going out, staying in, together, alone - doesn’t matter, he’s there for it

Zayne

• he’s rather clinical in his approach, offering research-based solutions for any problems you might deal with

• however, he’s not careless. anything you need, he’s ready to supply. whether it be a day out or a day spent at home, he’s just happy to be there

• if you’re feeling restless, he’ll suggest baking or doing something that requires focus. if you’re unmotivated, he’ll create a space that you want to work in

• suggests that you meditate when you feel out of control. he’ll make sure you have essential oils, pleasant music, and a comfortable space to do so

• assures you that one failure, one bad thought doesn’t define you. you are more than your mind, and more than your shortcomings

Sylus

• finds your spikes in energy endearing. he’s quick to offer a ride on his motorcycle when you need to get out of the house

• when you need a lazy day, he’ll happily oblige. he’ll put on one of his records and lay around with you all day

• he’ll listen to you ramble about your interests, asking you specific questions about them just to hear you get more excited

• when you’re feeling scattered, he’ll help you slow down. he’ll encourage you to voice everything going on in your head, then help you organize them in a way that makes them less daunting

• he’s perfectly content being in the same room but doing different things. he’ll do some work or clean one of his guns as you’re doing something else. as long as he’s near you, he’s happy

Caleb

• in my personal opinion, he’s the best match for someone with ADHD. high energy? he’s all over it. feeling tired? no problem, pillow fort incoming. special interests? he’s just as into it as you are. feeling down? not on his watch

• if you have a long to-do list and can’t seem to get started, he’ll handle as many things as he can. laundry? done. cleaning? done. cooking? done. you just worry about your top priorities.

• if you’re overthinking, he’s quick to offer any reassurance he can. you’re everything to him, he can’t imagine you thinking any less of yourself

• he’ll offer to help you do your work, whatever it may be. he may not know the ins and outs of it, but he’s sure he can figure it out if it means helping you finish it

• if you need some time to yourself, he may pout, but he’ll make sure you have everything you need. snacks, a full water bottle, a game, a book, whatever it is. he’s over the moon when you finally seek him out again, though