#and like at least she's a decent one but still

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder. 

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back. 

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling. 

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness. 

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember? 

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears. 

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you. 

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace. 

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene. 

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man. 

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief. 

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy. 

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering. 

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again. 

You don’t. 

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?” 

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions. 

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling. 

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.” 

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms. 

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him. 

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.” 

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.” 

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.” 

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so. 

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum. 

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.” 

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation. 

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.” 

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial. 

He’s right. He always is. 

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple. 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand. 

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say. 

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.” 

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd  a bid as that is. 

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you. 

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath. 

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing. 

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry. 

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch. 

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him. 

 “Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat. 

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you. 

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.” 

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?” 

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions. 

— 

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side. 

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity. 

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it? 

There’s plenty of nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case. 

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum. 

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is. 

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone. 

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.  

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral. 

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts. 

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.” 

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning. 

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought. 

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march. 

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words. 

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?” 

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions. 

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

[meazalykov]

its never enough

barca femeni x platonic!alexia putellas x reader

summary: the team had to intervene after seeing the amount of things you own

warnings: overconsumption, financial issues, childhood trauma, angst

you’ve always been a fighter, y/n. 

growing up in a small, cramped apartment with not much more than a kitchen table and a flickering television, you learned early on how to make the most out of little. your world was filled with the sounds of exhaustion: the tired creaks of your mother’s joints as she came back from long shifts, the gentle rumbling of your stomach as you lay in bed at night wondering if tomorrow would bring a meal or just another day of uncertainty. 

when you were younger, you were happy because you didn't know better. there was no one to tell you that many other kids didn't go through the poverty that you had to go through.

there were nights when you would curl up under a thin blanket, feeling the hunger gnaw at your insides, wishing for just a slice of bread or orange juice to ease the ache.

your mother worked tirelessly, holding down two jobs and often coming home with her eyes clouded from exhaustion, but she always made sure you had at least one decent meal a day, even if that meant sacrificing her own. the smell of burnt rice or old beans became an ordinary experience, an echo of sacrifices made out of love. 

she sacrificed a lot, even if you started to resent her after seeing all of the rich kids at your school with no worries about when they're going to eat next.

you remember the days when you would sneak out to the local park, pretending that the kids from the academy didn’t have talking points that revolved around the latest gear or shiny new sneakers. you wore the same worn-out cleats for years that you found in a thrift store, and while those shoes may have drawn odd glances, they also pushed you to play harder, to train longer.

those white colored adidas cleats of yours slowly turned yellow and green overtime due to the grass stains. 

the first time you were signed to an academy, it was through scholarships. you took public transport (sometimes without paying) back and forth from home to the academy from 6am to 9pm.

that’s where it all began—out in the sun-kissed fields—the heartbeat of your journey. every dribble, every sprint, made you feel alive. the coaches quickly noticed your raw talent; your feet danced like a lyrical melody, weaving in and out of opponents with fairy-tale grace. 

they’d call you into training sessions meant for the older girls and suddenly, you found yourself in a world where your poverty didn’t define you.

many of the nice coaches offered to pick you up from your home in the poor neighborhoods outside of your city, knowing that they couldn't afford to not have you on the pitch.

those were the fabrics of the beautiful game that would one day pull you from those struggling days into a life of unimaginable opportunity.

your childhood academy, once you graduated high school, called you up to the senior team. the salary was small but it was enough to finally see breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in the same day instead of sacrificing one or the other. sometimes, you're lucky that you still have muscle and strength for someone who was not eating enough.

fast forward to after you turned nineteen, a year after your first senior team callup from your childhood club.. you were standing in the hallowed halls of barcelona, far away from home.

the weight of your dreams now intertwined with the club’s crest stitched delicately onto your new jersey. barcelona had been keeping an eye on you for years.

the contract you signed with the catalan team was something you could hardly comprehend—it felt surreal, almost like playing in a fantasy. the money you received dwarfed anything you had imagined during those starving nights as a child. suddenly, you had means far beyond what you had deemed possible.

the first time the signing bonus hit your account, you stared at the numbers blinking feverishly on your screen, unable to process it. the world opened up before you like a child’s storybook, each page filled with opportunity. and so, you rented a bright little apartment in the heart of barcelona, sunlight pouring through oversized windows, casting warm hues upon your brand-new life. 

it felt like a fresh canvas; you could paint it any color you desired. and paint it you did—perhaps too much.

at first, it felt liberating. a new superpuff jacket from aritiza? an absolute must. four different colors? obviously, because how could you choose just one jacket? each item in the store beckoned to you like love notes, whispering promises of happiness that you’d long been denied.

body washes in five different scents? a practical necessity because—how could you ever pick just one that felt right? you bought them all, bringing home bags filled with excitement and haste, giggling as you unwrapped each item in your sunny living room, often spilling the contents across your pristine floor in a flurry, and marveling at your newfound abundance.

having a space to yourself where the shelves were always stocked, the floors were always cleaned, and the heater actually working was something that gave you more peace than you expected.

sometimes, looking around your apartment often made you realize that the walls were suffocating under the weight of your possessions. clothes spilled from closets, shoes lined the hallway and your closets, and accessories filled every surface; a delightful chaos really, yet one that made your heart race with a strange sort of anxiety. 

you owned everything you ever wanted, but somehow, it still felt like a little too much.

your relationship with your teammates blossomed, particularly with alexia. she was a guiding light for you; her encouraging words sculpted you into a more confident player, and her laughter felt like a reminder that you were not alone in this world. 

she took you in after seeing how much potential you had for a twenty year old. the way you'd tackle world-class forwards like you had ten years of experience under your belt was something that caught the spanish woman off guard.

at barcelona, you gained the closest companion in your life, esmee, your best friend.

esmee visited your apartment frequently, often gaping at the sheer amount of items you owned, her eyes wide as she stepped over a particularly extravagant pair of heels that you probably haven’t worn once.

“y/n, do you really need all of this?” esmee asked playfully during one of her visits, standing at the entrance as if she were an unwitting tourist exploring a museum filled with ridiculous wonders.

“of course! look at this,” you laughed, sliding on a pair of trendy sunglasses you had bought just that week. 

“i could be a runway model with these prada ones.”

esmee chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief, careful not to trip over the plethora of colorful items sprawled about. 

the dutch places her jacket in her walk-in closet, hoping to not mix it up with all of your other ones. seriously, it looked like a whole family lived in your apartment instead of yourself.

“the fashion runway maybe, but i genuinely wonder how many outfits you have.”

as the months went on, whispers began to circulate amongst the team, drawing a bit of humorous attention. 

mapi once teasingly commented to alexia, “you know, i’ve never seen y/n in the same outfit twice. it’s like she has a new look every single day!”

alexia raised an eyebrow, thinking back to the countless intricate combinations you’d flaunted during practice and the matches that followed. 

“are you serious?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. 

“you think she actually has that many clothes?”

“esmee and i were talking,” mapi continued, her lips curling into a smirk, 

“and we noticed that y/n always has new shoes, new clothing, she's always walking by with a new fragrance scent—it's hard to keep track. i don’t get it.”

the curiosity started to whirl in alexia’s mind. she respected you immensely and admired your skills, but now she felt a tug towards something deeper. the urge to check in, to see if this was just youthful exuberance or something more. 

so, she decided to probe a bit further, casually nudging esmee one afternoon while both of them waited for practice to begin.

“does y/n have, like, spending habits?” alexia asked casually to esmee, pretending to tie her shoelaces, her expression deceptively nonchalant. 

“not that it’s any of my business– nevermind.. who am i kidding, it is because i need to watch out for her.”

esmee looked a bit uneasy, weighing her words carefully. 

“you know, she does get a lot of packages delivered to her apartment,” she admitted after a short pause. 

“it worries me a little. she’s got a lovely place, but, um, some of the things she buys are expensive—like that vintage prada jacket she flaunts all the time.”

alexia nodded, her mind racing at the thought. 

“okay, but how does she really feel about it? do you think she realizes it’s become…well, a problem?”

“i don’t want to start anything,” esmee replied quickly, clearly hesitant. 

“but…i’ve noticed some little things here and there.”

a few days passed. you found yourself bustling through your apartment, obsessively tidying up as you waited for a batch of brownies to finish baking. the sweet aroma was filling the air, comforting and familiar, hard to resist. 

you had always loved experimenting in the kitchen since having your own space. growing up, you had no idea what brownies were until your childhood academy threw an, "end of the season" party for getting top of the league. they were delicious, but you knew that your mother at the time only had enough to feed your rice, chicken, and pinto beans.

a knock broke your reverie. you wiped your hands on a dish towel and opened the door, revealing alexia dressed casually in a simple t-shirt and sweats, looking relaxed yet focused. she stepped in, offering you a warm smile.

“hey, y/n!"

"ale!!" you say, hugging her before leading her into your apartment.

"whats that smell? are those brownies?” ale asked, stepping over a pair of athletic shorts you’d carelessly discarded near your living room. 

“mind if I grab one?”

“sure! they’re almost ready!” you chirped, feeling a bit of giddiness wash over you.

as you neglected the untidy piles around you to shuffling around the kitchen, you could feel alexia’s gaze wander.

she noticed your open closet door by your front door, she didn't notice the amount of jackets and shoes you had stored in there when she first walked in.

alexia knew that you didn't have a roommate, you or esmee would've told her. all of those items belong to you.

the older woman turned to you, her expression turning serious. 

“y/n, listen,” she began slowly, 

“i wanted to talk about something.”

you froze for a moment, piecing together the gravity of her tone. the brownies, still cooling, were suddenly secondary to her serious demeanor. 

“what’s up?” you asked with a slight frown, putting the tray down on your kitchen island to focus on her.

“i’ve been meaning to bring this up,” she said, taking a deep breath. 

“i heard some things about your, uh, spending habits, y/n. i think it might be good for us to talk about it?”

you instinctively shook your head, the edges of denial creeping in. 

“my spending habits? what do you mean?” you asked, your voice suddenly edged with defensiveness. 

you hoped that your bedroom door was locked, you thought inside of your head. that would’ve gave away all of your issues that alexia is concerned about. 

“it’s not like i’m, you know, drowning in debt or anything.”

“i—I know that,” alexia kept her eyes locked with yours, her gaze gentle yet unyielding. 

“but y/n, it’s a lot. i want to make sure you’re okay. i mean, it’s easy to go a bit overboard when you’ve finally got the chance to buy things you’d never dreamed of.”

“what do you mean? it’s not overboard,” you insisted, crossing your arms. 

“i grew up fine, really, i am not–” 

“y/n, please don’t lie to make yourself feel better.” 

“alexia–i–i just…i like looking nice, and it’s not just about the clothes. it’s—you know, it makes me feel good.”

“trust me, i get that, really.” alexia's voice softened, understanding behind her words. 

“but don’t you think all of this,” alexia points to all of your shoes in the hallway leading to your bedroom. 

“could be something more? an underlying problem?”

your heart suddenly felt heavy. 

“underlying problem? what are you saying, alexia?” the defensiveness you felt turned to an urgent need to protect the parts of yourself that had been so fragile for so long—the parts that still whispered fears of never being able to escape your past.

“i know how you grew up,” alexia said gently, the weight of her words settling like a blanket between you. 

“almost everyone on the team knows, y/n. and it’s okay. we all love you but you don’t have to be afraid of going back there—I promise, you’re safe now.”

you shifted uncomfortably, grappling with the urge to retreat, but alexia’s words were like a balm, soothing your frayed edges. yet, discussing your financial problems felt almost impossible.

“it’s hard for me,” you finally admitted, almost a whisper. 

“i’m scared, okay? scared that i’ll get back to being that poor little girl who was always hungry ale…i don’t want to be that person again, even if it was years ago.”

alexia stepped closer, her eyes radiating kindness. 

“y/n, you don’t have to live in fear anymore. you can have the nice things you’ve always wanted, but maybe you should think about getting a financial advisor? someone who can help you save, invest, and still enjoy life? you really can have both.”

you pondered her words, the idea gently pulling at your heartstrings, unsure of how you could intertwine the idea of safety with spending. 

“i don’t want to give everything up,” you breathed. 

“i just…I don’t want to feel like i’m back there—not again.” 

“you won’t,” she assured you. 

“you have the power to change, and you did. you can still get nice things, you deserve that since you work hard on the pitch with us– but maybe focus on less quantity and more quality? your childhood doesn’t have to dictate your future, y/n. believe me. you can have the nice things you still want.”

you nodded slowly, feeling a sense of warmth envelop you. 

“maybe that’s true,” you whispered.

“you don’t need to hide your past either, y/n. many of us did not grow up with a lot of dinero either. aitana’s family suffered while she was growing up, same situation as you but you didn't have the politics involved.” alexia lightly smiled, hoping to see you less scared of the conversation. 

“oh,” you said, leaning your arms against the kitchen island across alexia sitting on your stool. 

“i am just saying that all of this stuff and the idea of buying it will only last temporarily. you do not want to spend so much money to the point where you’re broke. i have an idea on how much your salary is at barca and with adidas, its a lot and you should not blow through that much money in one month.” alexia and you giggled at her last sentence. 

“i know, and i’m sorry.” 

“don’t apologize to me, you didn’t do anything to me. i’ll set you up with the financial advisor i have and we will put you on the right track okay? maybe a therapist at barca too?” 

“anything you think will help me, capi.” you leaned against alexia for a hug. 

masterlist

[curlygrant44]

It's not like he didn't expect the question...it was the reasonable place to start, but Curly can't help the chagrined smile as he answers, "Well...I hope it won't be a disappointment to you..."

He leans back in his chair a little, getting comfortable.

"Jim and I met when we were kids. Four or five, I guess; he came from the wrong side of the tracks, you could say, but there was only one public park nearby so my nanny would take me there during the day while my parents were at work. That's where we met, and most of how I saw him...we didn't get to know each other well until I was...I don't know, thirteen? Something like that? He was already working to pick up the slack for his dad, and I was..." Curly grimaces. This one's a little harder to explain, but he tries his best. "...I was in a bit of a rebellious phase, you could say...so I forged my mother's signature and transferred to a public school. Spent three years there with Jim, hanging around town when he had time or heading home on the bus if he didn't -- I told my parents I was studying at the library, and they believed me...for a while, at least."

The question of what his parents are like is harder to express, but he decided to try, and he will.

"My mother was...posh. English, came from money. She married a researcher at the top of his field, had a child...and when dad ended up disgraced, they took me back to America and raised me there. I never knew what it was like anywhere else, so I never considered myself anything but American...never really visited, either. Mother didn't like taking the trip." He pauses. Swallows. And for a moment, as he looks down at his lap, despite his age, something about Curly looks so young and vulnerable-

And then it's gone again.

"...she was...well...she was strict. She didn't want me to be like my father, do something reckless and destroy my career and nearly ruin my family. If she could see me now, right?" He can't help the little wry joke, but it doesn't last long before he sighs again. She probably has seen the news, in truth. He's sure she keeps track of him, it's not that she didn't love him in her own way...

He looks up, catching Sunshine's gaze, and tries weakly to smile. "I haven't seen her since I was 16. She threw me out when Jim and I left for flight school, after I'd bailed him out. I don't regret what I did...I just wish...I wish things could've been different. That it hadn't cost what it did to make the right choice."

It cost him the chance to watch his brother grow up, to be there for him, to help him with all the awkward years he knows now his parents never did -- but he didn't know what to do, and he was still trying to scrape by in his twenties as a rookie pilot fighting to get decent jobs. It wasn't because he didn't care, and he knows Charlie understands that now.

Restless as he is, Curly wanders aimlessly and sketches a rough diagram of the halls, pausing now and then to answer messages as he goes -- it's when the tablet's battery gets low that he decides to follow the map to backtrack to his room and take a break from wandering.

Except...when he opens the door, there's no familiar paperback on the desk, and the one person in room -- changing clothes, no less -- is definitely not Jim.

This isn't his quarters, clearly, which means...

He blinks at his double before averting his eyes, suddenly embarrassed. "Shit, sorry, I- I didn't mean to intrude, I got turned around."

Well. He'd meant to find his double to ask about the matter of nicknames and color-coding the crews, anyway. Not to mention discussing the uranium situation. He might as well stay for a moment. "...I did have a couple of things to ask about the next time I saw you, though. Do you mind if we talk? I, uh. I can wait outside for a minute, if you'd rather."

( @curlygrant44 )

At seeing his door suddenly opened by his double while he was getting changed does cause a small deer-in-headlights type effect before he blinks and quickly putting his shirt on properly.

"No worries, it happens with the state of the ship." He says as he moves to tidy up the room slightly as he didn't really expect anyone to ever enter the room besides himself.

"But you are quite welcome to come in. Don't mind the small mess? What do you want to talk about since I'm all ears." He offers a small smile before offering his bed to sit on.

[setsailforbyacona]

Beggar's Luck - Information Post

Your father has always been regarded as the greatest pirate hunter to have ever sailed the waters of the tropical Byacona.

But now the unthinkable is happening: Your father is charged with piracy!

So it is up to you, his only child, to travel to the Byacona and help prove his innocence, or at least get him to reveal what happened.

Which is easier said than done, because whatever your father was doing seems connected to the sightings of a ship long thought sunk:

The Beggar's Luck, ship of the fabled Alistair Moray, King of Pirates.

Has Moray risen from the dead to seek revenge? And has your father something to do with it?

It's up to you to find out.

Hope you know how to swim and wield a cutlass.

Where can I play the game?

(No link to the NEW version yet. The game is still undergoing a massive rewrite and should be up sometimes in December '24/January '25)

Extremely Old, extremely short version is HERE

The world, Sildrys, the game is set on is home to various races besides human, allowing you to play as human or a mix of human and elves, dragons and other decently strange beings (as long as you can swim).

The age is set to 20.

All genders are playable.

--

ROs (Details bound to change):

Lieutenant Elliott Sewell (24, human, cis man): Elliot is a young Navy-Lieutenant working as Admiral Géroux’s secretary after a leg-injury send him into very early retirement. He’s as headstrong as he’s handsome.

He’s been a great admirer of the MC’s father, and seems dead-set on becoming a renown pirate hunter, filling the empty space the Commodore’s alleged treason left.

Midshipman Noah Paget (18, human(?), cis man): Mr Paget is commonly seen as a lost cause. Eager, ambitious and honest, but clumsy and scatterbrained. Has several rumours surrounding his heritage which weights down on him in addition. When push comes to shove he takes up the chance to prove himself to find the fable pirate port of Lobo Marino.

Lucy Kerrigan (19, human, cis woman): Lucy is regarded as the ‘soul of the Shredded Sail’ the scummiest tavern on all of Lobo Marino. She takes great pride in the fact that her missing father’s the new King of Pirates, even though no one else agrees with her on that.

She’s headstrong and boisterous, though no one can say what happens when her shell should be cracked one day. Great affinity for fire and explosives.

Florentina 'Shipwreck' Espinosa (26, Half-Elf/Half-human, trans woman): Regarded as the unluckiest captain to have ever sailed the waters of the Byacona, Florentina is good-natured but very sarcastic soul. And she has absolutely no patience for people betting behind her back how long her current ship, the Windmill will last.

(more to come)

Death

Guns

Alcohol

Blood

Piracy

Public Executions

(TBC)

If you like what you're seeing and would like to support the author, here's a few ways to do so:

KoFi

Pat-Reon

There's also a discord. Send a message (not ask) after you've followed this blog or any of the game blogs below for a good while.

Enjoy the stories <3

The author is currently working on the following games as well:

Ballad of Devil's Creek: A Weird West adventure @devilscreekballad

Curious Cuisine: A superhero/cooking slice-of-life romp @cornucopiagazette

Ashenmaw - Dragons of Marrowoods: A dragon adventure/mystery romp set in the same world as Beggar's Luck. @ashenmaw-if

[zealouswitchwerewolf]

Head canon that all the bats are actually pretty decent cooks but only under very specific circumstances.

Bruce: if Alfred is anywhere near, he'll burn water. He can however cook for 15+ people, if he tries for any less he ends up overusing salt/sugar/spices and the food ends up inedible. Whenever Alfred has the day off, he secretly cooks for his kids while pretending he's just reheating Alfred's dishes. Curiously, they all usually find excuses to show up at the manor when Alfred isn't there, even Jason.

Dick: will not cook for himself even if he has to eat raw pasta. However, if one of his siblings is coming over or they ask for a snack he can make mostly healthy food with the most random ingredients that no one else would have put together. It's usually pretty good.

Jason: can't cook with people in his kitchen. He needs space. The exception is Alfred. Tim has taken to hiding in random places in the kitchen to see how long he can stay without Jason kicking him out. His best spot is top of the fridge, almost beaten by the time he hid inside a floating cabinet and it ended up caving to his weight and dropping him on top of the sauce Jason was making (luckily not yet on the stove).

Tim: only cooks when the recipe has precise measurements of each ingredient (mg/ml instead of cups/tbsp). Proceeds to completely ignore his recipe and ends up with a completely different thing, usually opposite of what he was making, still tastes like he had used the recipe for the final thing.

Cass: cooks based on vibes only so most of the time she's the only one who can eat her concoction, mostly using ingredients that require her to dance and contort around the kitchen at the beat of whatever music she's listening to or just whatever. That being said, her food improves drastically if someone's in the kitchen with her, out of her way but watching, cause then she bases her measurements and ingredients in body language and her proportions end up being incredibly accurate.

Steph: can make anything that requires batter and make it be the best thing you've ever tasted. So waffles, crepes, pancakes, some cookies, cake, etc. Anything other than that will end up on fire. Funnily enough, she can also make incredible fillings that have an uncanny resemblance to some of her previous ashen attempts.

Duke: can cook in the dark without making a mess. He's also a pretty decent cook in general but he somehow leaves piles of dirty pans/dishes whenever he's seen cooking, no matter how simple his dish is.

Damian: can only cook with the recipe or someone (Dick specifically but sometimes Alfred) guiding him. His favorite food is the one traditional from the league, specifically the recipes Talia gave him when he went to Gotham. He wants them to be exactly as his mother intended so he won't deviate from the recipe in the slightest. It's special to him. Just as it's special to cook with Richard and getting to learn his favorite foods from before Bruce took him in. He might or might not either write the recipe after each time he cooks with Richard and ask clarifying questions like "what do you mean measure with your heart? How many tablespoons is that? No, I didn't see, you covered my eyes and told me to 'trust the process'"

Bonus: Alfred has the skill of spoiling the food of people he deeply dislikes while making the rest of it completely perfect for everyone else. Even if it's all cooking in the same pot. He's gotten so good at it he doesn't even do it consciously anymore and forgets he's doing it. It still gets the point across though. Interestingly enough, each of the bats partners have gotten shitty food from Alfred at least once (either shovel talk style or because they did something mean to their respective bat or wtv), they can't even say anything cause all the bats will just look at them like they're being crazy because Alfred could never while Alfred smirks at them from the opposite side of the room.

[burningcheese-merchant]

What does Spice and Jack like to do together?

It's unbearably hot here and I hate working. One more ask, for realsies this time, because fuck everything else

"What do Kratos Burning Spice and Atreus Pepper Jack like to do together?" Sorry, I wanted to do that lol

Spice travels back and forth between the Golden Cheese Kingdom and the Spice Ridge by himself a lot (for work, basically), and he brings Jack with him whenever he can (after Paneer was born, he started either taking them both or alternating between them each time so they get an equal amounts of trips with him). He actually likes when his son joins him to do stuff, even if it's "boring" king/leader duties (which Jack does not find boring, he actually is legitimately interested in things like that and likes that his dad takes him to his "work")

They go on hunting trips often, too. Spice got him in on that early - as soon as he could walk in a straight line without tripping lol. Paneer doesn't like hunting (she actually really loves animals and doesn't want to hurt any ever), so it remained purely a father/son activity. They'll go out for a while - a few hours usually, or even a few days if Spice wants to go somewhere far for a challenge - and hunt game together. They lock onto/track something and work out a plan of attack, so to speak. They both have very different ways of doing/approaching things, both on a hunt and in general (it's those clashing personalities again), so they try to meet halfway and think of something that works for them both. They actually work quite well together and make a good team. (As Jack ages, Spice grants him a little more control/authority of their hunts, to see how he handles taking charge of something like that. Jack does well, for the most part. It makes Spice really proud.)

Jack likes to tell Spice about things he learns (he likes telling both his parents, really). Jack is very smart and even more curious, so he tends to pick a thing or two up every day, even if just a bit of obscure trivia - and he likes to share it with his dad, because he actually likes hearing what Spice has to say about stuff. He'll show him books, he'll bring Spice with him to the library when he can so they can read books together (I honestly think Spice is a smart guy, or at least I headcanon him as such. He was the Herald of History; it's canon that he used to enjoy having deep, open-minded discussions with others, particularly about history, so I think that lends itself to Spice being reasonably intelligent, even wise to some degree). When he was little, he'd just walk up to Spice with a book in hand and climb into his lap, then either ask him to read it to him or ask to read it together. (While Spice no longer fully possesses the patience he once had to entertain people's thoughts and attempts at conversation (he regained a decent amount, but a few millennia being violently antisocial kinda damages your people skills lol)... he has all the patience in the world for his son, so he's happy to indulge him.) Somewhere underneath this behavior is Jack's inherent need/want to get closer to his father, because (as I've mentioned in another post) they're so different from each other otherwise and he doesn't want that little gap between them to exist. They don't always understand each other very well and Jack doesn't like that. And there's still that little nagging insecurity in his heart that Spice is disappointed in who he is and he's not "worthy" of being his son, so it sometimes leads to him trying too hard to "prove" himself to Spice in one way or another. He knows his dad is smart, and he knows his dad will at least indulge him when he wants to tell him stuff, so that's the avenue Jack most often takes. "Look, Father, I know lots of things like you do. I know/want to know history like you do. I'm like you, see? Am I doing a good job?" Some sort of thought process like that. It's sad and unnecessary, but Jack doesn't really understand that for a long time (that "not knowing how to communicate with each other" thing doesn't help)

They also like to spar. Spice always made the biggest effort and took on the biggest role in training the kids in combat, and that reflects in him having one-on-one fights/sparring sessions with them both often. It's one of the ways he likes/tries to bond with them the most; he never loses his taste for battle even as a better man, and he wants to share that excitement with his children. He fights them for practical reasons and also just for fun. Jack views sparring more as a way to let off steam than to have fun (not that he doesn't have fun, though), so he doesn't necessarily always dig this every single time (because he's not upset about something all the time, you know?), but he rarely turns Spice down when he challenges him, so.

And this is more when Jack is little than any other time, but - Spice likes to pick him up and carry him around places. Jack will sit or perch on his shoulders and they'll walk around together. Just a father/son stroll, just because. Jack likes it because it makes him feel tall (Spice is like 6'5" minimum in my headcanon lol). Spice knows it makes him feel tall, so he helps his son pretend he's tall for a little while lol. They do this a lot less after Jack gets past toddler age; Jack thinks it's a little embarrassing to get piggyback rides when he's older... He just sticks to walking by Spice's side like a "mature" person then. But... Sometimes he misses clinging to his dad and feeling tall, so he'll just go ahead and fly up and perch on his shoulders like he used to. And Spice just lets him do it, whenever he wants, without any issue, because he likes being seen and admired as this larger-than-life figure (figuratively and literally) by his kids

[lostmyshadesanon]

HCs About the L.A.D.S "Packages"

My head canons about what's going on beyond the border of their belts, and there will be spoilers for the main storyline and their myth story lines so be warned.

Xavier

• Decent sized just slightly above in length and thickness.

• Show-er in that his race doesn't grow or shrink at all they are just always at full mass even when fully spent.

• If you've ever seen Zhongli from Genshin Impact's Archon form where he has the gradient from dark to light skin on his arms. Same concept but on Xavier's penis going from his lighter skin to a dusky matte black-blue with flecks of white that glow like stardust. He has a knot at the base with a horse like circular head.

• He has to knot to be able to release seed, though he's still able to experience orgasm without, it's just dry, or expelling a lightly glowing lubricant like substance. The seed also carries some bioluminescence, and he expells all built up seed in one session before having to rest to produce more. Though as stated prior he retains the same size throughout so can keep going if he wishes to while waiting to be able to knot again, and can dry orgasm in the meantime. Due to it being all at once it is quite alot, enough to give anyone a bit of bloat due to being filled.

Zayne

* Grower in that when you saw it for the first time you were a little disappointed, but you could work with it, and then it got bigger.

• The only normal looking human one. A couple noticeable veins to work with for some pop.

* The perfect size, doesn't matter what the size is that's perfect for you whatever it is he is somehow that size. He's linked to your soul, and I feel like "she" would somehow make it happen. Just so that if you and he attempted the act it would be so amazing that everyone else wouldn't compare and you'd miss it for the rest of your lives.

* Average amount of seed for an adult healthy male, but due to his busy work life he does get a bit backed up sometimes. So occasionally you'll get a bit more than you were expecting depending on how long it's been between sessions.

Sylus

* You were expecting him to be big considering how many times he's pulled you into his lap, and how he fills out his pants, and he is, but it's also because he has two.

* Always at half mass, but still a grower. The man is girthy to the point it's a bit snug to wedge it inside. They are stacked on top of each other and of similar lengths. The top one being girthier then the lower one with bulging veins. The lower is more comparable to an average man in girth, but with a curve pointed towards the top length.

* In his human form outside of there being two they look like normal penises. While in his "other" form the upper sides gain ridges and the lowers sides bulge slightly outwards making them girthier, and in his "other" form they are retractable into a pouch like space near his crotch area.

* He has breeder balls and comes copious amounts and seems to need very little rest time between orgasms to produce more. Though it gives the illusion of an average amount as it's split between two penises. In his "other form" the lower one loses the ability to express seed as it becomes a locking mechanism and the base will swell a bit more to keep the top penis wedged inside, but that means that all the seed is concentrated in one area, along with an increased stamina, will result in long and messy sessions.

Rafayel

*In his human form he's the smallest of the bunch. Still decently sized but slightly skinner than average, makes up for it in being longer than average. The biggest grower in that it almost disappears when not erect, and the only curious thing is that if you stare at it long enough you'll swear you can see an almost off blue-purple tint. He needs the longest rest times between sessions, and produces the least amount of seed while in human form.

*In his Lemurian form he has a cloaca. He has both sets of gentalia, and they are both bioluminescent. His dick-like structure can extend out of the cloaca, and is more similar to a tentacle, and is very flexible. It is covered in an oil-like shimmery, luminescent, sticky slime-like lubricant. At the base of the tentacle are multiple smaller tendrils that will grasp and hold any copulation partner, and can extend from the base quite far to wrap around any appendages to hold them in place. He can control them to a point though some movement is pure instinct. Depending on the gender of his partner his anatomy allows for eggs to be deposited into his womb, or be deposited through his hollow tentacle into his partner. He still only produces minimal amounts of seed as the tentacle is quite long but flexible, as to not be uncomfortable, and meant to be right up against the entrance of any womb.

*In his Sea God form his genitals are a cross between his Lemurian and human form. As it appears more human in structure, though retains the flexible size, lubricant, glow and color of a Lemurian.

That's all hope that was at least legible.

[zoe-oneesama]

Also, curiosity, what’s your take on Amelie’s personality for Scarlet Lady? Just curiosity. Cause siblings in canon are usually opposites. So, this mean SL!Amelie, instead of main character syndrome, has background character syndrome? Or low self-Steem?

I'd put SL Amelie as So Normal. Like she's born into this bizarre English family that still does arranged marriages in this day and age (not totally knocking the practice, but it's definitely implied it's being done against Emilie's and Amelie's wishes), has a super dramatic sister who runs off with her equally dramatic husband (who Amelie barely likes) to become a fashion mogul's actress wife, rubbing elbows with the Mayor of Paris and a bunch of weird rich people who throw bizarre Diamond Dances to show off their kids as if they're a spectacle and holding Eyes Wide Shut parties in their house.

And Amelie's just like "anyway" on the sideline.

[purpleshimmer]

Yeah I agree with most of this; I have almost 0 complaints about s1 but it was very weird that she completely forgot about ekko and buddied up with piltover so quickly after years of being abused by enforcers in prison. However, I felt like s1 did a decent job of letting us inside her head and kind of explaining where she was coming from (Caitlyn and Ekko's conversation at the tree comes to mind, when Caitlyn said "You'd be well within your rights to keep it. I couldn't blame you. But... if you do, this cycle of violence will never stop." Vi probably views Jinx's actions as needlessly violent and reckless, + she's with Silco, who Vi hates for obvious reasons. This is just a personal thought, but Caitlyn was the first person in 7 years to show her any kindness, so I feel like it makes sense that Vi would kind of go along with her agenda. Then again, Vi is a very independent + headstrong person, so idk

About Jinx siding with Piltover, I also thought it was really weird at first but after thinking about it for a bit I can almost justify it from a story writing point of view? I don't really know how they could have the sisters reconcile with each other in the end if they didn't both end up on the same side, and we know from League of Legends that Vi works with the enforcers, so I feel like a Piltover collab was inevitable.

From a character perspective, I think that Jinx, like you said, is very selfishly motivated. She may have agreed with Silco more than Vander, but we also have to keep in mind that Silco implanted his ideas in her head from a young age.

Now that Jinx has no one to tell her what to do and what to believe (which we know worries her from her monologue at the beginning of s2e2), she has no one to direct her. She has to form her own viewpoints, which she seems to struggle with so far. She doesn't appear to care too much about the Jinxers who are protesting Noxus and Piltover's rule, as we see her brush off Sevika when she tells Jinx to attend the rally at Vander's statue. She only breaks them out of jail because Isha is there, and Isha is like her little sister now. Like you said in your post, Jinx is working for Silco because loves him, not (at least not in my view, I could be totally wrong though lol) because she necessarily agrees with all his politics.

All this to say, her joining Piltover in the fight against Noxus is probably not going to be because she cares a lot about the politics and moral questions involved in the war, but because Vi wants her to and she still desperately loves her sister (and probably to avenge Isha's death, since Noxious is the reason the fighting in the hexcore village broke out).

Arcane and Ideological Clashes

Tags by @coolseabird

I'm glad I'm not the only one who feels this way. One of season 1's themes I loved was the philosophical and ideological debate between Silco and Vander (and then Jinx and Vi). I adore the personal character-driven aspects too, but the thing is, they don't have to be mutually exclusive. Ideologies can be extremely personally informed/motivated, and in the case of these characters, they were. Every part of their worldviews were shaped by their circumstances, their lives, experiences, and relationships with other characters. For example, Silco surviving the murder attempt by Vander and how this very personal betrayal motivated him politically, to be unrelentingly extremist in his methods. Or Vander feeling personally guilty for all the deaths on the Day of Ash, leading to him forming a political deal with Grayson to subdue the undercity from ever stepping out of line "for their own good". Because when you live in these kinds of dire conditions, there really is no way to separate the personal from the political.

Though season 1 didn't explore these themes with the sisters as deeply as I would have liked, the crumbs were there! Especially for Jinx. Yeah, she's selfish and personally-motivated, but her actions are nonetheless political. When it comes to her political opinions, the first season itself only gave us crumbs ("We kicked the enforcers butts, imagine what the whole of the Lanes could do!" as a kid, and then later Silco tells her that the children of Zaun deserve more and she seems to listen pensively, but never comments on it). Every act of political violence by her in the first season was given a personal motivation (she wants Silco to think she's strong, she wants to confront Caitvi on the bridge, she wants to avenge Silco). But writers comments outside the show gave us more - one of them said online that while Jinx understands Vander, she disagrees with his worldview and aligns with Silco's views on fighting topside. So that confirmed that Jinx does have an ideology and it aligns with Silco's, even if she was mostly preoccupied with personal matters in S1.

Vi on the other hand was completely neglected by season 1. All of her thought process and political opinions post Act 1 were left entirely subtextual. Act 3 was the worst offender because it's there that she makes her most controversial decisions (betraying Jinx to the Council and attacking the Shimmer factory with enforcers). However, again there were crumbs that one could string together to form interpretations. In S1E2, Vander basically convinces her that rebellion against topside is futile as it would likely lead to the deaths of her loved ones. She then decides to give up her desire to fight them and turns herself in to the enforcers. What follows is 7-8 years of being beaten and abused and downtrodden by topsiders in prison. Yeah, I can definitely see how this experience would only confirm Vander's words, that Piltover's might is too much to overcome, not without heavy casualties on their side. That rebellion is futile and the best thing to do is to keep your head down and don't invoke their wrath.

However, it was a fellow undercity citizen who murdered Vander and took her sister. And when she returns years later, she finds that he is still in power, has significant influence and a large number of followers in the Lanes, and no one has overthrown him. One line that really stood out to me was one she said to the brothel madam Babette in S1E5 - "From the looks of it no one down here lifted a finger to stop Silco". How juicy is that! She feels resentful towards her fellow Zaunites for not avenging Vander and taking down Silco in her absence. She feels betrayed, abandoned, left behind by her own neighbours. Her sister changed under Silco, her home changed under Silco. And everyone moved on without her. Expanding on this could have been such a natural way to justify her class treason by joining the enforcers. She thinks Piltover is too strong for Zaunites to beat so there's no use rebelling against them anyway. So why not use their might against her Zaunite enemies? Zaunites themselves "won't lift a finger" to stop violent gang leaders so why not use topside's power to do it? "What loyalty should I have to my class, if the people from my class abandoned me like this?" I could even see how being wronged by Zaunites could hurt more than being wronged by Piltovians - she could see it as the latter owing her nothing while the Zaunites are supposed to be her family and neighbours, who owe her more.

Again, season 1 itself did jack shit to delve into these feelings nor her trauma from prison. But the crumbs were there. I happily used them to form my own interpretation to justify her bizarre decisions and was satisfied. But then season 2 rolls around. They had the blueprint and chose not to use any of this rich material. How do they justify her joining the enforcers? Do they explore any of the complex feelings of resentment Vi may have for her home and class? Nope, she joins after hearing how her crush talked her up to colleagues. How do they justify her fully turning on Jinx and disowning her sister? Do they explore Vi's loyalty to her foster father Vander, and her acceptance that Jinx chose to betray him and side with his murderer, then try to murder Ekko for years? Nope. In fact, she forgets about Ekko and never mentions him again lmao. Rather she seems to turn on Jinx because she attacked the Council??? That seems to be the turning point for Vi, the thing that makes Vi view Jinx as a monster. "She killed the tyrants who oppressed me all my life, how dare she😤" ???? It would make sense for Vi to view the attack as stupid and reckless, again just like Vander said - fighting topside only brings more wrath to the undercity. But they don't even do that. They never explore Vi's political opinions and how she agrees with Vander's "compliance for our own good" stance. They never touch on her time in prison and how it may have compounded Vander's views. Instead they make it so Vi seems to sympathize with the Councilors and condemns Jinx's bombing because of some generic "violence bad" moral.

It's so stupid too, because they completely forget about Grayson. That's more PRIME material to justify Vi's enforcer arc. If Vander, her mentor, allied with Grayson, Caitlyn's mentor, then why shouldn't she ally with Caitlyn? She could easily use the Vander-Grayson peace deal to make herself feel better about her class treason. "He allied with enforcers to keep the undercity in check for their own good. So will I. Putting on the uniform is just the next logical step. I will take out the gang leaders and Silcos that Zaunites are too weak to stand up to. My parents were wrong to fight against topside, rebellion is futile. Jinx is wrong to fight against topside and will only get more Zaunites killed in the resulting retaliation. They can call me a traitor but I'm doing this for their own good."

All the pieces are there. Instead they never bring up the Vander-Grayson deal. Caitlyn and Vi have never even spoken about either of them in their entire relationship lmfaooo. They don't even know that their beloved mentors knew each other. They never speak about anything of substance. The only crumbs of an ideological clash we get in season 2 is the argument in S2E5. But it's all from Jinx's side - "I wish I was just seeing things when you decided to throw in with the Piltie goons who murdered mom and dad." But then Vi replies with some lame insult, then they're having a cheap slapstick comedy fight, and Vi never reckons with this. She never expresses what she thinks of her parents dying fighting topside. Then the Piltover vs Zaun war is completely abandoned and the plot focuses on Warwick/Hexcore/Noxus. And we don't get any more explorations of the ideological/philosophical clash that the sisters represent. Is it worth it to rebel against an oppressor if you lose yourself and all your loved ones to violence, but at least those in the future reap the benefits of your fight? Is it worth it to comply for the safety of yourself and your loved ones, if your people will eventually suffer a slow death and never have a future? What are you willing to sacrifice for your revolution? How far will you go? They handled this theme beautifully with season 1 Silco, then said "alright that's enough" and dropped all effort when it came to season 2. And from the trailers of Act 3, it looks like Vi will be convincing Jinx to fucking help Piltover against Noxus. Which is just gross lmao.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

[sysig]

Let him dad her!! (Patreon)

[girls-and-honey]

.

[brionysea]

this man is pissing me off

[babieken]

Guys is this a safe space?👀

Just stumbled upon a st*y k*dz concrt (2023 i think) on tv and ig it was time for solo perfs bc there was 1 one member on stage singing,(vocals, not rap) standing with a mic stand (so there wasnt any dance or jumping, it was a loud ballad) singing OFF KEY the ENTIRE TIME without any backing vocals...

Out of curiosity, was that a one time thing or do they suck in vocals?

[greypetrel]

Watching Poldark with my mother, who is allegedly not into history. We're in 1790s Cornwall.

Elizabeth: "But I just married, whatever should I do in my days?"

Mother: "Those poor women, it must have been so boring, they had nothing to do save bearing children!"

Me: "ACTUALLY-"

*slams Mary Wollstonecraft-Shelley on the table, Anne Radcliffe, Jane Austen, mantua making, Anne Clavering and others and we're talking of just England- Concluding that it was fucking Queen Victoria that ruined it.*

[stuworbutwithchipmunks]

I know ppl couldn't care less about the humans in the cgi movies but Zoe and Dr. Rubin were both hilarious characters and the more i rewatch the movies the more i think about that.