#and instead of sleeping I wrote this

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

Guilliman's Soup

"Look, I'm not going to harm any of you, not unless it involves stuffing Guilliman in a room without his....." Fulgrim trails off, the demon prince's lower half coiling in discomfort as he stares at the abomination that bubbled within the pot. It smelled distinctly of both Mjød and cigarettes, appearing as something that Fulgrim was uncertain if even a Nurgling would eat. He certainly wouldn't. Actually he doesn't think any Slaaneshi demon is depraved enough to even attempt to make such a thing. He shakes his head. "Will I be allowed to help?" Calgar, who was certainly not at all expecting to see the demon prince of excess himself at the entrance to the Imperial palace, couldn't decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand it meant that his primarch wasn't affected by any chaos god, if even Slaanesh was getting involved; on the other, did he really want to accept the help of a demon prince? Especially one that is well.... Calgar sighs deeply, "Fine, you might actually be a good deterrent to Dante anyway. He's been a pain in the ass" "Who is-" Fulgrim doesn't get to finish his sentence as a very old marine of what appears to be of the blood angel's chapter is shooed away by a serf with a broom, wacking the marine's shins with it as he hisses like an angry goose. Fulgrim has his answer on who Dante is but is now even further confused, "I thought Blood Angels were supposed to be noble?" "I'm hoping the soup will kill me" Dante helpfully responds which has the demon prince blinking in utter shock, because what the fuck happened to Sanguinius' sons!? Another Ultramarine, this one apparently named Cato is crawling on his hands and knees out of the room where Dante came from, coughing and generally being a rather sad sight with the stench of both vomit and the abominable liquid upon his breath. Slaanesh, who just briefly decided to turn her head towards whatever the fuck her demon prince was doing, vomits and mutters 'I can't believe none of this was Nurgle's idea; he actually wants the fucking recipe!'. Needless to say, Fulgrim doesn't really want to know what's exactly in that pot. Instead he dryly says "I'm amazed this hasn't summoned anything other then myself..." Calgor sighs "No, it has, there's the Sanguinor, and it's currently being kept back by some Sister of Silence out of fear that it's going to beat Dante to death with a sandle. Personally I'm not fond of trying to explain to the blood angels that we didn't kill their chapter master; it was the soul of Sanguinius, himself, that ended his life. I can't see that going too well...And Cato, please stop eating father's soup." "But-" "No buts or I'm throwing you into the same room as the Sanguinor" That stopped any more protests out of Cato who shuddered at the very idea of confronting the very angry warp spirit that was half of mind to possess someone.

The sound of what Fulgrim could still recognize after all these years as a very angry Leman Russ can be heard in the distance yelling "WHAT DID YOU FUCKING DO WITH MY FUCKING MJOD, ROBOUTE!?" This was going to be a long and terrible process, Fulgrim just knows it. ____ This short story was inspired by a convo between myself and @moociaoafterdark on this post.

[proneterror204]

"Do you want to continue being a vigilante?" Batman asked his new ward Danny aka Phantom.

Danny stopped, looked confused and glanced at the batfamily like he didn't understand what was asked. " want? What does 'want' have to do with anything? I became a vigilante because I was needed, because I was the only one capable. Are you Batman because you wanted to be or because you were needed. Does anyone become a hero because they want to be or because they're needed? I wanted to become an astronaut. I never wanted to be a hero and I wasn't wanted as a hero, but I was needed or the people I loved would die. So my question is. Am I needed?"

The entire bat family is staring at him worriedly

[spoopdeedoop]

very very late to the party on the lost in the woods somewhere beeduo fae au by @hellenite but i am here now and it is taking over my brain like a very fast growing moss of some sort

[twijaxx]

Rin who love to cuddle and simply can’t fall asleep when you are not in his arms, but sadly you are a night owl and you stay up to ungodly hours. Rin was a night owl too but now he has practice early in the mornings and he forces himself to sleep early (which is very hard)

Rin who wakes up in the middle of the night only to feel you are not besides him, he starts to panic while really bad thoughts run thru his head, but then he remembers that almost every night after you realize he has fallen asleep you quietly go to the living room so you won’t disturb his sleep with your stupid tiktok videos.

He rubs his eyes, still half asleep but he knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep if you are not cuddled up with him. As Rin gets closer to the living room he hears an ASMR tiktok that’s probably played like 100 likes already cause when he enters the living room you’re long asleep on the couch. He stares at you for couple of seconds.

“why do i love you so much..” he mutters to himself.

He gently pick you up from the couch, like you where a porcelain doll he couldn’t drop or else you will break, as he carried you to the bed you started to murmur something, he stoped for a second, scared that you will wake up, but you simply just turned your head to the other side. He sighed softly as he again started to walk to the bedroom

When he arrived he putted you down on the bed, praying that you won’t wake up from the sudden change of your surroundings, he crawled back into the bed right besides you, and he could finally peacefully sleep with you in his arms.

[imfinereallyy]

Steve finds love in clean sheets.

He comes home on a Wednesday night to his, Robin’s, and Eddie’s apartment, exhausted. They are packed in like sardines in the place; Robin gets a room to herself, having the space to create her own identity. But Eddie and Steve share a room and do so without much complaint.

They both want her happy.

They are friends, so it’s normal to share a room. It’s probably less normal to share a bed—but the space is small and they have so many things, so sharing a full bed is easier than squeezing twins into corners.

Steve doesn’t mind it being so close to Eddie. Thinks he should be worried about that feeling, but finds he isn’t bothered at all.

Their habits rarely butt heads, their organization skills somehow meet in the middle, and Steve doesn’t care how Eddie decorates as long he’s okay with the nail bat placed under the bed.

The only thing that is a problem that really isn’t much of a problem, is the bed sheets. Sometimes, Eddie forgets, so Steve’s taken it upon himself to change them. It’s not that he doesn’t like the smell of Eddie that lingers. It smells of a home he didn’t know he had on a warm summer day.

But after work, especially on hard days, Steve likes to shower and bury himself beneath clean sheets. The cold, smooth texture rubbing against he legs, the fresh linen scent feeling up his nose.

Steve doesn’t think Eddie notices; he is almost positive, and even if he did, he wouldn’t bat an eye. So Steve changes his sheets every five days or so, more often than really necessary.

Until this Wednesday night.

Steve isn’t having a good day—in fact, he would categorize it as one of his worst yet. Work was hell, and nothing was going his way. Steve walks into the apartment to see Robin and Eddie on the couch, and all Steve wants is to shower and crawl into a clean bed.

The problem is, though—the day from hell has actually been the week from hell, and Steve realizes he hasn’t changed his sheets in a week.

Steve groans as he heads towards the shower, ignoring the curious look from his friends. He begrudgingly accepts his fate—a dirty bed in exchange for an early sleep. Steve bangs his head on the bathroom wall.

Steve exits, and moves to his room to throw on boxers and a tshirt he almost sure is Eddie’s.

Then, he lifts the blankets and snuggles inside only to realize—the sheets feel amazing. They feel clean.

Steve glances down at them, realizes they are the flower sheets Eddie hates—replacing the dark grey ones that had been there this morning.

Steve knows undoubtedly that Eddie is the one who changed them. Steve could write it off as Eddie finally remembering a chore, but he can’t lie to his heart.

It knows Eddie did this for him.

Steve lets out a huge sigh of relief as he sinks down into the clean sheets, the smell of linen wafted through the air with hints of Eddie’s cologne from his shirt.

Steve snuggles into the bed—taking Eddie’s pillow instead of his own, and falls asleep to the steady thought that Steve Harrington is in love with Eddie Munson.

It’s the most peaceful sleep he’s ever had.

[leeny-leens]

"Please, don't leave"

But it's Theodore Nott horrified at his own anger, the one he's gotten from his father. The anger that has him growing horns and fangs that bury deep into the flesh, claws that rip everything apart.

It's Theodore Nott scared that even the most marginal bit of anger will turn him into a monster like his father was and begging you to please see past it, see him as you always have because if you of all people stop seeing him, was he ever capable of being anything more than a rotten clump of evil and dark?

And so against his better judgment, he sinks to his knees and holds onto you for dear life, begging and babbling through his tears asking you to please not leave him, he doesn't know what to do if the only person who's made him feel remotely human were to leave.

And you can't help but cry at the sight of the boy who thinks his anger makes him a monster, the boy who thinks any sort of reaction or emotion means he's like his father, damned to hurt anyone he loves.

Therefore you just pull him up and take his hand, hugging him tightly as you comfort him, reminding him that while his anger might be scary to him, he isn't scary, he isn't monstrous and he isn't bad. He asks you if you'll leave, and you reply asking him if he wants some space. He can only shake his head in silence, his hands tightening around you like you're his anchor in the raging storm. His voice is hoarse when he asks you to stay the night, stay by his side because he can't bear waking up to see you gone like everyone else.

And that night, you don't leave. Not even when night turns into morning, or when evening comes around. You stay by his side, steady and calm and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he isn't a monster after all.

[pippin-katz]

Edwin's Parents Canonically Did Not Hug Him

I was watching interviews of the boys for a post I'm working on, and fucking excuse me?!

Source: Advocate Channel Interview, Timestamp 3:17

We have confirmation from George that Edwin's parents did not hug him while he was alive. It's due much more to the time period rather than neglectful parenting, but that is still crazy to think about. He also says "parents", meaning both his father and his mother; neither of them gave him any kind of physical affection.

The repressive time period causing Edwin's parents to be very emotionally absent from his life is not a new concept, and it gets brought up in varying intensities in fanfics I've read, but it always felt like a fuzzy, floating concept based on speculation heavily supported by probability. I knew it was an accurate assumption, but I couldn't reach out and touch it, if that makes any sense. Now, it's concrete in my mind.

It gives this scene even more weight:

Edwin's expressions, while already perfectly understandable, make even more sense. The way he's seemingly pained by the embrace at first. He did not even realize how badly he needed and wanted this kind of affection.

There is such a strong surge of pure joy, comfort, and love from the hug that it hurts him, because he realizes in that moment what he's been deprived of his entire life and existence. Edwin has existed for over a hundred years, and even though it's hard to believe, they've never hugged each other like this in the thirty years they've been together. I don't think I could ever confidently say that they never hugged, ever, in thirty years, especially given how physical Charles is with his affection.

But that expression on Edwin's face in undeniable.

George says earlier in video that Edwin "lacks the skill set to keep up" with all of the new emotions he's experiencing, and you can feel that in the way his face changes.

Edwin hugs him back, and lets out a big breath, relieved and satisfied by the embrace. The wave of emotions passes as he realizes that even if he overwhelmed and terrified by the love he's feeling, it feels good to hug Charles. He realizes that he wants to hug Charles, that he's allowed to want to hug Charles, and that he actually can hug Charles.

God, the amount of emotions Edwin has in that moment that he's completely unequipped for, simply because he's never experienced it, not even from the people closest to him in life. It's heartbreaking, but seeing him learning how it feels to be loved for the first time is so beautiful.

Edwin, the character that you are... George Rexstrew, the actor that you are... 😔🩵

(ko-fi)

[zweetpea]

Neuvillette: Please stop making fun of me if I misuse references to Popular Culture and Media. I’m really trying. Are we cowabunga on this?

You: *Holding back tears and laughter* Yep. We’re cowabunga on this. You’re doing great sweetie.

[alzrite]

Theres something falling from the sky and its falling fast.

So, what does Jon do? He catches it. Only it is not an it that he caught but a she. And she is dripping green all over. And boy does the green sure looks like its blood with all the gashes it was oosing out of.

Jon panics and does the only thing he can think of.

"DAD!"

Superman appears beside him near insantly.

"Jon, what's-"

He stops mid question as he spots the girl in his arms.

"Let's get her somewhere safe."

[gauloiseblue]

[TW: rape, non-con, dark]

There's something about stray dog's behavior that speaks König to me.

He'd been kicked around, ridiculed, and left on the cold pavement alone. He had no real house, and had to beg even for a scrap of food. Those were the factors that forced him to grow teeth way earlier—and sharper—than he's supposed to.

He'd held the bitterness in his heart, causing him to despise the weak, the poor who couldn't stand up for themselves. The perfect replica of his past self.

He hated seeing them, he'd even go as far as 'taking care' of them. Letting them know that no one would help them, no one would come to the rescue. Just like what people did to him back then.

He recognizes his contribution to the vicious circle, yet he finds himself helpless as he's unable to break free from it.

Perhaps that's when God decided to punish him for it.

There's a mission that required him to work together with the other team, and met with the reprisal for his bad deed, in the form of a medic.

He didn't spare a glance at her, didn't acknowledge her existence, until she defended her patients in front of him.

One of the missions went wrong, causing the soldiers to be injured by gunshots and a grenade. It was theirs to blame, because they didn't pay attention enough, but she shouted at him, telling him if he'd given them a deserved break, it would've been avoided.

He, of course, was angry at her.

He told her she didn't know anything, that she's hindering the mission. But she didn't flinch, even when he growled at her.

It frustrated him, because even his glare would send his soldiers running. Yet it didn't work on her. The people who's not afraid of him are usually those in power, but she isn't one of them. She's just a mere medic.

He tried to kick her out of the team, but the higher ups told him that there's no one available for her replacement. He also tried to make her quit, but what he did came back around to him, as he received a penalty.

It stresses him out, to the point that he'd overwork himself to distract him from his thoughts.

One day, a bullet passes through his heart and lungs, causing him to collapse on the spot.

In daze, when his consciousness slips in and out, he thinks how he could've easily avoided it. But his body wasn't listening to him, delaying his feet to move back.

In what feels like months, he opens his eyes for the first time after the incident.

What he sees, is a pale light on the ceiling, and a blurry figure by the bed.

And there she stands, just like the angel of mercy.

She doesn't say much, except for telling him to rest, and that he's lucky he survived.

She tells him the same thing for days, before he can muster two words out of his mouth.

Shut up.

And strangely, she smiles.

"Seems like you've recovered well." She responded, "Welcome back."

She continues to nurse him, despite his snarky remarks that she easily deflects. She takes care of him with patience that should've withered away from the moment she joined the army.

It shouldn't have bloomed in front of him.

For the first time in his life, he feels the weight of his guilt on his chest. He could've been kinder, could've been softer, and he would've broken the cycle just like she did. But he chose to nurture his anger—just like his father, and his father's father.

Then again, she could've gotten it easy from the start. Though in his heart, he knew it's just an excuse for his behavior.

The day he's permitted to work again, he left without saying thank you.

At night, he wonders if she'd come to hate him as well. No one would blame her if she does, but deep in his heart, he hopes she doesn't.

Since that day, he has followed her like a lost dog. But he would turn his head away whenever she looked at him.

Sometimes he scoffs at himself for thinking about injuring himself, just so he could receive her care. Yet he couldn't help but panting at her feet, lapping up every little conversation they made. He wants to surrender himself to her, letting her put a collar around him and call him hers.

And it's all because she showed just a little kindness to him.

On lonely missions, or lonely nights, he often imagines what they could be. Living in the suburbs, white fences, and kids. The picture perfect of the marriage.

Until it all shatters on the ground.

It's not his intention to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help but lean in when he hears her voice. She sounds happier, as she shows her friend the ring on her finger.

So he bares his teeth,

And bites.

(One time, his uncle had to put down their dog

Because he bit his children for no reason—

Other than jealousy

He heard the dog whined

on the cold table,

alone, and scared

As the vet slowly pushed the poison

Into his bloodstream

And God, how cruel is it

To put a heart inside of a beast

When all his life

He only knew

How to bite?)

He pants as he presses himself into her, causing her to whimper, as her voice is long gone from screaming and crying.

She must've had no idea of what's coming to her when he called her to his office. The scratches and bruises on his body were enough proof of her gullibility, that she came to him, unassumingly, and trusting.

He had her bent over his desk, smothering her easily with his body as he forced himself into her. She was a fighter, but not strong enough to defeat him.

He had lost his inhibitions, as his back arched for the eighth time, spilling his seeds into her.

And she's lost as well, as her eyes were unfocused, and all her energy had been zapped from her body.

"Leave him." He said, as he drove himself into her once again.

She lets out a high-pitched moan when his cock stretches her open again, filling the room with sticky sounds.

"Leave him and love me instead." He said for the second time, and she cried in pain when he buried himself too deep.

"Love me," He sobbed as he pulled the ring out of her finger, knowing fully well he couldn't replace it without twisting her arm. "Please love me."

Her tears flood her cheeks as she watches him discard the ring from her, before latching his mouth onto her shoulder. Marking her with another bite, drawing yet another blood with his teeth.

He knew she had closed her heart the moment he slammed her on the table. He knew she wouldn't come to love him. But if he's not loved by her, then no one should.

[neuro-psyche]

jason todd is a girls girl.

let me explain (ik ik i say that a lot)

Jason Peter Todd will stand on business if it means helping someone out, especially a woman.

A creepy man following you home? woah that's crazy jason todd is very suddenly your friend and just so happens to be walking the same way.

Someone being a dick to you in public and making a scene? jason intervenes, handling the person after calling you a cab and paying for it up front.

You need someone to watch your drink? Mr. Fucking Red Hood will stand with a gun held over the drink until you get back, regardless of what he was doing.

Jason Todd is a girls girl in my mind and I will die on this fucking hill.

seriously though I feel like he and Steph would recreate that sonic meme that's like

Steph, saying something about how she, Cass and Babs are better than the rest : -and I'll prove once and for all that a female can be just as good of an hero as a male!

Jason : You know, anytime someone calls attention to the breaking of gender roles, it ultimately undermines the concept of gender equality by implying this is the exception and not the status quo.

Steph :

Jason :

Everyone and their mother :

Jason : What? Just because I'm a resurrected zombie freak and assassin, doesn't mean I'm not a feminist. I read pride and prejudice, dammit.

[casdeans-pie]

AU where Dean is the Michael Sword but meaning that he’s actually genuinely an angelic weapon given human form

--------

"Am I even human?" Dean wants to sound angry - he wants to sound furious - but his words come out as broken as he feels inside.

Cas says nothing for such a long time that Dean nearly tells him to just go, but before he can spit the words out, Cas stiffly climbs up next to him and joins him on Baby's hood.

All the fight deflates out of Dean in an instant.

A Fallen Angel and an Angel's Sword sit side by side on a car in the middle of the night. It sounds like the worst set up to an even worse punchline.

"Guess I've got more in common with you than I have with either of them..." Dean says bitterly, gesturing back at Bobby's house.

Cas clasps his hands neatly over his knees and sighs. "Dean, do you know why the Michael Sword is so powerful?"

"I dunno, 'cause I'm awesome?"

Cas throws him such a flat look that Dean can't help the tiny smile it brings out him. It fades quickly.

Cas jabs him in the shoulder - the same shoulder the handprint is on - and it lances a jolt of something electric down his spine.

"Wh- hey!" Dean swats Cas's finger away and rubs at his shoulder, hoping Cas won't notice the red blooming on his face in the dark.

"Listen to me, Dean. The Michael Sword is so strong because it's powered by a human soul - it's own human soul - yours. You have flesh and blood. You have thoughts and feelings. You are human."

Dean feels the full intensity of Cas's gaze as it's directed at him, and he is powerless to turn away. He's caught by blue eyes and an earnestness he's never seen in Cas's expression before.

"You're stubborn, you're defensive, impulsive, brave, selfless- you're the most human person I know," Cas adds, something catching in his usually stoic voice.

Dean huffs out a startled laugh. "The most human person you know..." he repeats, amusement and affection spreading like warmth through his whole body. He clears his throat. "Thanks, Cas."

"Besides," Cas rumbles, a note of pride slipping in, "I rebuilt your entire body myself, so I know for a fact that it is chemically and biologically identical to a regular human body."

Dean loudly snorts another laugh. "See, now you've just made it weird."

Cas reaches over and gently holds Dean's hand, palm up, in his own. The move is so unexpected that Dean's brain appears to go immediately offline and all he can do is suck in a quiet breath.

Cas moves his fingers gently, one by one, and presses onto the pads of his fingertips, while Dean can hear his own heartbeat between his ears.

"Uh-" Dean finally manages. Great. Nice. Useful.

"It may be difficult to understand, but you are as much this man of flesh and blood as you are Angelic steel," Cas says gently. His fingers continue to press across Dean's hand, as if now he's started he can't stop. "I've noticed that you are a very tactile person, and you respond well to touch. I'm attempting to ground you in this moment. Is it working?"

Dean wants to immediately deny it and snatch his hand back, but he pushes down the reflex and watches Cas trace the lines across his calloused palm. He takes a deep breath. "Yeah."

Cas doesn't let go and Dean doesn't pull away.

When the experience starts to feel too much Dean weaves their fingers together and looks up at the stars, knowing Cas will be able to feel how sweaty his palm is, and can probably hear the way his heart is slamming against his ribcage.

"Am I at least cool looking, as a sword?" Dean eventually asks, breaking the silence. He turns back to Cas and throws him a small grin.

Cas's eyes roam across his face, almost seeming to bore into him like he can see beneath his flesh. Maybe he can.

"Yes, Dean," Cas replies, the ghost of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips, "you always look 'cool'."

[0bticeo]

welcome to the show!

summary: vox sends you as a spy to the hazbin hotel. alastor decides to give him a show.

tw: voyeurism, biting, blood play, fingering, valentino mentioned. english isn't my mother tongue.

you're thrown in hell - quite literally. the fall from purgatory and its beasts was long, arduous, and painful.

you've led an ordinary life. woken up. worked. slept. repeatead. same old decaying matter as everything else. you didn't think too much of it, of course not. you were twenty something and rising slowly, steadily in your company as an esteemed lawyer. memento mori didn't ring a bell. maybe it should've.

now you're in hell, and you're burning with sheer, unbridled rage, because how dare they throw you in there? (you're all in hell for a reason. all of you, fangs and bad intentions bare to the world.)

you take up your old job at vox tech. lawyer for a corrupt company. old habits die harder than you do. there, there's the thrill of probing the opposing companies and sinking your fangs into them, corrupt little fox with a too wide smile on your face.

what you gather is this: velvette's sense of fashion involves too much purple, valentino is the embodiment of everything you hate and vox... vox is obsessed with the radio demon. he's disappeared not too long after being asked to join the vees. you'd know, you're the one who wrote the contract he refused to sign. bastard.

could've been fine, really. but they work you to the bone and treat you as little less than a glorified secretary. when valentino throws the cup of coffee you brought him to a board meeting with the other executives of the company, you slam the door on your way out and don't look back.

it goes like this: you've been in hell for a while, and you're done playing the part of the sinner. so you tell charlie morningstar when she greets you at the hazbin hotel.

she accepts you, welcomes you with, out of all things, a song. too much trouble for dear old you.

"nonsense! everyone deserves to be given their rightful importance!"

that one hit close home.

you don't have the time to thank her before she's introducing you to the staff and the rest of the hotel.

vaggie, staring you down with a suspicious eye, fingers itching to reach for her spear. ah. an angel. fascinating.

angel dust. you have to thank him for being here. after you murder him for calling you an enticing little vixen and winking at you.

husker. former overlord. sold his soul to the radio demon in a bad game of poker.

your hair stand at the back of your neck. static crackles in the air. your ear twitches. alastor's entered the game.

"alastor, it's a pleasure to meet you, quite the pleasure my dear!"

he brings your gloved hand to his lips. even through the thin leather, you can feel the warmth of his breath, the press of his teeth like a warning.

his grin deepens when you introduce yourself in turn. a glimmer of recognition flashes in his eye.

shit.

**

you've always liked to cook. there's something about the glimmering edge of a knife cutting thin slices of meat that appeases you. tonight, you crave some rabbit.

somewhere in the kitchen, the clock ticks the minutes away, time bleeding out. doesn't matter when you have eternity to atone for your sins. 

the watch at your wrist flashes. 2:37. of course, insomnia had to follow you down to hell. it served you at voxtech, back when you were pouring over contracts and meaningless paperwork.

you make your way towards the fridge, hoping to god you'll find something to satiate your appetite.

"ah, feeling peckish my dear?"

you startle.

alastor.

you turn, back facing the counter, resisting the urge to bare your fangs. there he is, slithering out of darkness, a spectre in red. you wonder if it's a reminder of the blood he's shed.

"what do you want?" you snarl.

he laughs, static buzzing in your ears. you blink. when your eyes open, he's inches away from your face, craning your neck towards him - he's tall, that fucker.

"why so aggressive, little vixen?"

his fingers dip down your shoulder, down your arm, until they close on your wrist. his teeth press against the bracelet of your watch, scraping the skin beneath, drawing a drop of blood. the screen glows, a faint blue light in the penumbra of the kitchen.

your breath catches in your throat. he's gorgeous, blue light draped over his hair like threads of moonlight.

he hums, the vibration settling low in your gut.

"i just want a little taste..."

you shiver at that. at the way he looks at you like he wants to devour you, consume you whole. at the way his tongue presses on the cut, lapping at the blood. you tense, biting back a soft, needy little sound.

his leg pushes your thighs apart. you don't realise you've been humping against the warmth of him until his hand settles on your hip, claws digging into your skin hard enough to draw blood.

"behave, little spy."

you laugh at that, baring your throat.

"was it really that obvious?"

he hums, clawed finger trailing down the column of your flesh, pressing against the jugular. he can feel your pulse, staccato little thing beating wildly as you look up at him, lips parted with want.

his smile stretches, impossibly wide.

"vox wouldn't have let his precious little lawyer go." his claws tap against your watch. "and i'd be a fool not to get a taste."

he kisses you. he kisses you, teeth nipping at your mouth until you can feel static against your tongue, until you arch your back against him. you whine, claws digging in his shirt, eager for more. of course, he pulls away. bastard.

"patience, my dear. all good things come to those who wait."

you scoff.

"because seven years and s'more weren't enough?"

a pause. his lips trail down your throat.

"i suppose that's fair."

he bites you, teeth sinking at the junction of your throat and shoulder. you keen, a breathless moan of his name as you feel him grind against you. you shouldn't let this happen. shouldn't revel in the warmth of him, body going limp in his grasp. shouldn't drag his hand towards your aching core, let him press his fingers against your slit and chuckle at how wet you are. you can't let him finger you on the kitchen's counter, can't mewl like a wanton whore.

you do.

you do, his name like a prayer on your lips, hips stuttering, desperate for release. you feel him against you, lapping at your flesh like a starved hound. when he lets you go, there's a spider-web thin string of blood connecting him to your shoulder.

the sight of him takes your breath away.

there he is, eyes half lidded, looking at you. there he is, blood, your blood, dripping down his lips, his chin.

he leans closer, watching you, the way your shiver at his every touch, as his free hand digs in the tender skin of your breast and sinks into the flesh.

oh.

something snaps in you - you're on fire, head thrown back in a silent cry of his name.

on your wrist, the watch flashes blue. alastor grasps your wrist in his hand, bringing it up. it's easy for vox to see you. you, disheveled, red fur a mess of sweat and blood, panting, cheek pressed against alastor's chest. you, nightgown hiked up to your hips. you, legs wrapped around alastor's waist, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder to muffle your moans as he drills his cock into you.

vox groans at the sight, pants growing too tight.

the radio demon smiles.

"hope you enjoyed the show, old pal!"

[kami-kun1003]

im just gonna come right out and say it:

pretty much everyone in this fandom portrays Silver as this perfect, flawless, polite, beautiful, princely, romantic gentleman who can do absolutely no wrong in his life ever. which is… not really accurate at all.

he’s odd. he struggles with showing emotions and doesn’t understand social cues very well. his dorm uniform vignette is literally about how people find him strange and unapproachable due to his lack of expressiveness. in his lab coat vignette, Jamil straight up calls him weird to his face and he fully agrees without hesitation.

and in one of his voice lines, he calls Yuu strange just for wanting to hang out with him. stop and think about that for a second. he considers himself boring and doesn’t expect anyone would want to spend time with him. maybe he used to try and make friends, but people kept avoiding him, saying that he wasn’t fun to be around.

he’s not the handsome guy that everybody in the school falls for, he’s the quiet kid who doesn’t say much or has any friends outside of his own personal circle. and i think that has a lot of potential for angst.

[grimalkenkid]

“The Kind of Person I Wanted Back Then”

(Had a burst of inspiration thanks to @havanillas art of Aventurine with a baby, so have this angsty-yet-hopeful Drabble! Enjoy?)

Aventurine knew his place; he was a tool for the Strategic Investment Department to deploy in situations deemed too risky or underhanded for any of the other Stonehearts. He was basically disposable, a pawn who was nevertheless useful if he could turn the tides at a pivotal moment. So it came as little surprise when Diamond sent him to once again “offer” the IPC’s aid to a particularly stubborn border planet that refused to ally with the Amber Lord against the Antimatter Legion.

Even from orbit, Aventurine saw the scorched craters where once-thriving cities stood, though the sight couldn’t hold a candle to the devastation he witnessed firsthand in his opinion. Of course, he would offer his sympathies or condolences when he met with their leader, but he wouldn’t sugarcoat anything. If Diamond thought a gentle touch would get through their thick skulls, then he would’ve sent Topaz.

The negotiation went about as well as expected. Their leader was a tough, old soldier, determined to maintain his people’s independence. However, Aventurine had seen enough of the crumbling masonry and hastily-set tents along the outskirts to sense the cracks in the man’s resolve.

“Give the IPC a controlling share in the planet’s geothermal energy market, and you’ll have the Preservation’s protection.” The words burned his tongue, bitter and acrid.

Like they should have protected the Avgin…

Aventurine left the meeting having given the leader a few offers to ponder and many possibilities to chew on. He was certain they’d come around and agree to the IPC’s terms. Eventually, everyone did.

There were few casinos still operating within the city, having lost most of their clientele to leisure activities less reliant on luck. A shame, Aventurine thought, and so he returned to the small space-port, texting Stelle to pester her into playing online poker. They were two hands deep when a laser-scorched shuttle made an abrupt landing nearby.

Dozens of injured civilians and soldiers rushed out. Aventurine hung back, keeping out of their way as they undoubtedly hurried to the nearest hospital or, more likely, a first aid kit. He tried not to think of how powerless he was right then. For all his wealth, he couldn’t actually protect anyone. Only the IPC could wield that kind of power, and he was little more than their puppet.

With a heavy-hearted sigh, Aventurine tried to turn his attention back to his game, but a lone figure lagging behind the rest of the refugees caught his gaze first. It was a small child, his awkward gait a sign that he had just barely learned to walk. He stumbled about aimlessly, his wide eyes watery and darting everywhere. Before a single thought formed in his head, Aventurine had already pocketed his phone and strode over to the confused child.

The instant the child saw Aventurine approaching him, he abandoned his wandering and stumbled as fast as his little legs could carry him towards the only adult who even seemed to notice him. Aventurine knelt down in front of the kid, his heart nearly stopping as he saw his eyes clearly, with the distinctly two-colored irises of a Sigonian.

“Where are your—?” Aventurine started, but his question would have to wait as the kid slammed into his chest, clawing at his waistcoat and sobbing as only a frightened child could.

Whatever questions Aventurine had could wait. He slowly brought his hands up and wrapped the poor kid in an awkward hug. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who offered comfort, shouldn’t be the one people trusted. Wasn’t supposed to be a person, just a tool, a pawn. And yet this kid was clinging to him like a lifeline. The least Aventurine could do was give him reassurance in return.

He patted the kid’s head, speaking softly until his tears dried and his breathing grew steady. Only then did Aventurine lift him into his arms, whispering a comforting lie as he returned to the city,

“Now, let’s go find your parents.”

Hours later, and Aventurine had the answer he’d known all along. The kid’s parents were dead, and no one would take him in. Of course they wouldn’t; why would anyone take in a Sigonian? To do so would be asking to invite a future thief and liar into one’s house.

But Aventurine was already a liar. A murder. A loser.

As the kid fell asleep in his arms, Aventurine returned to his ship, shutting himself away from the prying eyes of his subordinates. He sat down in the first chair he saw and finally let his own tears fall.

“I’ll take care of you,” he swore with all the kindness and tenderness that remained in his scarred heart. “I won’t leave you to fend for yourself. I’ll protect you… I promise.”

And he meant it.

[passionateseadruid]