#and upload it to ao3

[totheidiot]

yeah just read the egg and like i have been thinking. it's a very half-baked idea but hm. light yagami as that main character man in that story, the man who died from the car accident. like, are you getting me? light is not going to heaven or hell so what if there wasn't heaven and hell to begin with actually? the universe is an egg and he is all of these different reincarnations actually, he was every single human being and the universe was made for him. in the egg, the main character died from a pretty normal car crash, light has his canon death in that staircase and he finds himself wherever the original egg story was set. meets with the narrator who is inexplicably supposed to be God. that back and forth conversation between light and God, where God reveals stuff about reincarnation and how it works, telling him also about he is everyone. a point about if he really was everyone who ever lived, then that means that he was once L or near or misa or mikami or every single person that he has ever written in the death note. it's revealed that he is on the path to becoming God but just not yet. one day he will be but he's still not grown enough. and then, he is sent on his way to his next life. i might write a piece about this, like it's going to be copy paste the egg story but changed up to fit death note and light.

[sarcasticscribbles]

That's all folks!

All 14 Poll Avatars are done! Thank you so much for making these with me! I can't express enough how happy I am over the response for this project, I had so much fun designing the characters and connecting with a bunch of you guys! I've uploaded all statements to Ao3 if you'd like to read through them, otherwise @alukardtheabysswalker have voiced all statements and put it on a playlist for you to check out!

This has been super fun, and I'd love to hear from you about these guys, any questions or thoughts! (From TMA Poll Avatars; October 2023, to January 2025)

[themortaldraw]

read twilight thinks he's a dog

[choccy-milky]

just the wedding pic bc i rly like it🥹💖

[inkyrainstorms]

The Martian Stan AU - The Apology - Excerpt

Ford was working as he always was nowadays, half listening to the radio behind him and trying to stop his heart from jumping in his throat every time that Stan stopped speaking for more than 10 minutes and nothing but static filled the room again. Ford wasn’t sure what exactly his brother was talking about anymore, as he welded a set of support bolts into place, but he nearly dropped the welding gun on his foot when Stan suddenly spoke after a long stretch of silence.

“Ford?”

Ford fumbled for a moment before shoving a stack of loose paper aside and  setting the welding gun down on the table beside him. He put his hands on either side of the radio on the same cluttered table and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart.

“Yes, Stanley?” He asked softly.

Stan, of course, didn’t hear him, but had paused as if waiting for a response before continuing anyway.

“I know, I know damn well you’re probably never gonna hear this, but I need to say it anyway before… Well. I don’t need to eat as often and shit and I know you’d love to figure out why but… I’m not sure how long I’m gonna last out here either way.”

Ford didn’t say anything, staring down at the wooden grain of the table like he could burn a hole clean through it with his thoughts alone. His palms ached from where he’d dug in his fingernails, and his shoulders mangled to hunch even further.

Stan laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound.

“Ah, damnit. This isn’t about me. Can’t even do this right, you idiot” His brother took a deep breath. “ But Ford… I think I need to apologize.”

Some old, fossilized hurt in Ford’s heart snarked ‘you think?’, but Ford nearly gagged as he suffocated the thought before it could take root anew. He felt sick.

Oblivious to Ford’s turmoil —and of course he was, because he didn’t know Ford was right here, that Ford wasn’t going to let one of the last things he ever said to Stan be that he thought Stan was worthless— Stan continued.

“I don’t think I ever got to, back when… you know. What I said that night is a bit of a blur to me to be honest, but I know I was spouting nonsense and saying all the wrong shit and… Moses, Ford. I know it’s too late now but I’m sorry. I really am.”

Something in Ford simultaneously healed and broke in his chest at Stan’s words, but he didn’t get the chance to process it because Stan wasn’t quite done yet.

“And I need you to know it wasn’t on purpose. I’d never do that to you. Never. Why would I ever want to hurt you like that, poindexter? I just… I was scared and I didn’t want to be alone in Glass Shard Beach scraping barnacles off the Taffy shop for the rest of my miserable life and I wasn’t. Thinking.” Stanley’s voice had been rising in a steady crescendo, but suddenly got so quiet that Ford had to strain to catch the words in the buzzing static. “I’d… I shouldn’t have gone into the gym. I shouldn’t have even gone near your friggin project. I didn’t go there to break it, I would never—“ his voice broke. “I thought you knew that. I’m your brother, you dingbat, why would I ever want to hurt you?When did I ever not support you, man?”

“Then why did you do it?” Ford whispered back, just as quiet. That old anger he’d tried to push down rose up again, simmering. Stan knew he’d poured months of his life into the perpetual motion machine, that he’s shed more than a few tears and more than a little blood and sweat over it. And then he’d thrown it all away?

“I’d only hit the table, ya know. Didn’t think the grate’d pop off or anything like that. I tried to fix it. I know I should’ve told you, I know and I’m sorry, just…” I was scared, goes unspoken. Ford’s legs were shaking, and he tried to steadily himself by leaning further on the table. “I know I should’ve told you. I know. I messed up fuckin’ good, Sixer.” Ford flinched.

“I’m. I know you’re never gonna get the apology you deserve cause I was too much of a coward to actually call you and say something.” Stan’s voice was shaking. And I’m sorry for that too. And I’m sorry for not listening to you about your stupid book, and I’m sorry— ugh. We’ll be here all day trying to name my fuckups. That’s the last sorry you’ll ever hear from me you nerdy, uh, nerd.”

Stan sighed loud enough for the radio to crackle and screech. “Good going, Stan,” he muttered, his voice getting quieter as he evidently walked away, done.

And all that was left was static.

Ford pushed himself away from the table and sank into the rolling chair nearby, putting his face in his hands and trying to breathe as the chair was pushed back several feet from his momentum.

“He’s lying,” Ford tried to say, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “He’s trying to make it so… so.” He faltered. “He’s obviously trying to deceive me.”

Trust no one.

But he had trusted Stan. And Stan got hurled into a Dimension of Nightmares for it.

Stan has no reason to lie, Fords mind whispered, because it was always against him no matter what stance he took. He doesn’t think you’re coming to save him. Why wouldn’t he try to explain the worst mistake of his life in a fit of guilt and complete loss of hope?

“Shut up,” Ford said intelligently, and he didn’t dare pry his face away from his hands, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets and pushing up his glasses to his hairline

Stan had no reason to lie.

Stan came to help him at the drop of a hat after ten years of being too afraid to even call him. 

Stan… Stan didn’t mean to break his project. It was a stupid accident, done by a stupid teenager too afraid to admit his own failings. Stan didn’t betray Ford. Not like he thought his twin had, for all these years.

Ford was wrong. About everything. He was wrong about Stan and Bill and Fiddleford and, Moses, had he ever done anything right in his entire, miserable life? Ford didn’t know. 

The empty bunk bed beneath his own  for those last few fateful months before Backupsmore, the tears and screaming at a boat that never even left the shore, the years of resentment and refusing to believe he missed his own twin, what was it all for? Because Ford suddenly felt the sharp sting of grief all over again, throbbing with a ferocity he’d refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks. Years. 

It was like he was 17 years old again, mourning for all the wrong reasons and all the right ones too. For his brother. For his chance to become someone worthy of recognition, of love. For pushing away the ones who’d already loved him.

For the first time since the day Stan fell into the portal all those weeks ago, Ford pulled his knees up to his chest on the seat and, in the safety of his own arms, he wept.

The static crackled on, steady and unchanging. Unforgiving.

———————

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face @littlelilliana15 (if anyone else wants to be tagged pls let me know! I’m going to probably be posting more for this au sometime this week)

I have ideas for a mini comic and a whole animatic using Space Oddity so I’ll just have to see how far I get, really

[esoteric-choleric]

how is the reanimator fandom still alive. it's been 40 years

[24-05txt]

In regards to the whole soul mate thing, Soap's been through all the phases.

He'd started curious, then confused, then mournful, then resentful. For now he's settled somewhere in the vicinity of apathy—maybe spite.

He doesn't have a soul-mark. Never has, never will, and that's... fine. He's far from the only one lacking that kind of connection, and that's enough for him to feel understood. Not alone. He's got plenty of good friends besides—with and without soulmates of their own—and he's happy that way. Really, he is; it took him a fair amount of work to get to a place where he could say that and it not be wishful thinking. He's got friends, family, dalliances, motion and company and light in his life despite the lack of a mark that tells him where his place is.

And then he meets Ghost.

The Lieutenant is huge in the sense that his presence alone takes up what space his height and muscle can't. He's quiet, too, at least before Soap makes the effort to worm his way under all that tacgear. (The man is intriguing, what can he say? Who else walks around with a honest-to-fuck skull mask day in and out.)

Ghost seems to tolerate him at first, then inexplicably starts to prickle and grouch whenever Soap comes within six feet of him. He could make up a few reasons for why that is, but instead contents himself with pretending he doesn't notice—pushing the implied boundary until Ghost mans up and tells him off.

He never does, though. And it's not long at all until Soap's found that the boundary has given way and Ghost is—well he's actually pretty pleasant to be around. He's funny, and patient, and gives way too much of a shit to be in a career that pretty much ensures the death of everyone he works with. (He likes to pretend he doesn't, but there's no other reason he would have been waiting up in that church for Soap—in fact he shouldn't have still been there at all, since he'd already scoped an escape route. The bastard's soft, is what he's saying.)

And that's when things start to backslide just a little.

They're sitting in the mess—only three of them, the Captain unable to grace them with his presence—and Gaz is talking about his sister's husband's new boyfriend being the result of a late-discovery soulmatch.

"Could you imagine," he says, pausing to chew his mouthful before he continues. "Going thirty years knowing there's someone out there for you, and not seeing them until after you're already married?"

"Could be platonic," Soap pointed out, not bothering with the same courtesy of chewing his food. Ghost kicks him under the table for it, but he honestly can't be asked to care for only three words worth.

"Could be, but still—could you imagine?"

"Nope." Soap pops the 'P' and grins. Ghost doesn't kick him this time since he hasn't taken another bite yet. "I'm a wee bit hopeless in that department."

"Ah, brother." Gaz reaches out and they clasp hands for a moment, then he nudges his shoulder. "You and me both. Never much got the fuss about it, but that does seem like some sort of cosmic irony yeah?"

"Issat irony?" Soap asks. "Don't think that's right."

Obviously, that incites a short argument that ends when Gaz pulls out his phone to look up the actual dictionary definition of 'irony', and Soap grasps to change the topic to literally anything else to avoid Gaz gloating on the off chance that he's right.

"Lt, what about you?"

Ghost blinks at him as if he hasn't been staring at the both of them through the whole conversation.

"I know what irony is, Johnny."

"No—" he can't help the scowl, and talks over Gaz's sudden jeering as he shoves his phone under his nose. Soap lifts his chin to avoid it. "You got a soul mark?"

"Read it and weep, Soap!" Gaz cheers, only slightly subdued in respect for every else in the room.

"I do." Ghost says at the same time, dipping his head in a tiny little nod, and Soap's world ends just a little bit, right there in the mess hall. Curls up, withers, and dies without so much as a squeal.

He's not able to ask if Ghost knows who it is, or if he's met them, or if they're still alive, or if it's romantic or platonic; he's not sure if it even matters, because Johhny knows right then that he will never be as close to Ghost as they are.

And it hurts.

It hurts in a way he wasn't entirely expecting.

He must hold it together well enough through the rest of dinner, and then through walking with Gaz back to their rooms, but once he's got the door locked behind him he feels the smile fall off his face. He sits down on the edge of his bed.

Ghost has a soulmate.

Ghost has a soulmate and Soap is pissed about it. Because that soulmate isn't him—it can't be, since he doesn't have a mark of his own.

It's just—it's unfair. They work so well together, on the field and off. He knows for a fact no one else can read Ghost as well as he can, no one else talks to him like he does, he doesn't hang around anyone else like he seems to hang around Soap. If anyone should be Ghost's soulmate, it should be him.

But he's not. Which means there's someone else out there that can watch his six better, understand him more, have more satisfying conversations—and it seems fucking impossible, because he doesn't even know how it could get better given the time they've known eachother... and yet.

And yet Ghost has a mark, and Soap doesn't.

It takes him days to get over it—at least enough to act himself when he's in company. Ghost tries to get him to talk about it three separate times before he can manage to get his shit together. He won't *lie* to Simon, nor is he about to admit to what's eating at him, and it leaves him snappish. Leaves the vitriol closer to the surface than it ever has been around Ghost and he hates to see how he reacts to it; he doesn't cower, doesn't flinch, doesn't avoid him, just stares—in a different way than before. John's temper will flare and Ghost will freeze a little, tilt his head, furrow his brow, and fucking stare at him until the moment passes. It might be better if he raised his voice in return, let it escalate into a proper fight—or even if he shut Soap down hard and told him to cool off. Instead Ghost looks at him like he's gone and become a stranger; like he's confused where he doesn't expect to be, and that hurts almost as much as finding out his place isn't next to Simon—or at least, he doesn't have any rightful claim to it.

[loccorocco]

Mishka the wise. Based off a meme

Stalker oc Mishka (+ Sanya and Anton)

[bigdumbbambieyes]

for @thissortofsorcery, who wanted more Billy with a belly button piercing (hehe) and inspired by @robthegoodfellow's amazing tags!!

nsfw

The first time he sees it, it's on accident, and he's not entire sure what he sees.

He's about six beers and two shots deep, so his eyes aren't really focusing as he catches a glimpse of Hargrove's stomach, perfectly toned because he's a fucking asshole, but the peek of silver around his belly button had caught Steve's wandering eye.

They're in Tommy's backyard with a dozen of other people he can't remember the names of, but Billy had invited him so he had gone, and Tommy had glared at him the entire night but also hadn't approached him because the guy clearly doesn't care enough. Which, admittedly, hurts Steve because they had been friends for forever, but not anymore.

But, it's whatever. Hargrove has taken a liking to him and Steve's not about to pass up on someone he can have decent conversations with - even if the guy irritates him to no end.

And, apparently, intrigues him.

Billy had raised his arms in a stretch once he stood up from his chair by the campfire, groaning out a soft sound as Steve had eyed him from above the rim of his cup, the beer catching in his throat as he saw the quick reflection of something shiny on Billy's belly button.

There was no way, right? He's seen plenty of girls with their belly buttons pierced. It was a girl piercing. No guy he's ever known has ever had one.

Until Billy, it seems.

And Steve, as he coughs up a lung and tries to soothe the burn with more beer, thinks back to the times where Billy wore his shirt unbuttoned almost down to his navel, and he'd never seen them before. He's met up with Billy after his shift at the pool, when he wore his cropped Everlast shirt, and there hadn't been anything there except a dark blond happy trail.

It has to be new. Recent.

"You good, princess?" Billy asks him suddenly, his brows furrowed.

His eyes watery from coughing, Steve nods and waves him off, watching the blond roll his eyes and go back inside for another drink.

There's no way, right? 🖤 It's been a week and Steve can't stop thinking about it.

He has to make sure he wasn't just seeing anything or else it'll eat him alive.

So, he calls up Billy that weekend, asking, "You wanna come over for a swim? Maybe some beers, too?"

"I worked at the pool all day, the last thing I want is to fuckin' swim, Harrington. How about we just have some beers? Maybe take them over to Heather's?" Billy offered cooly, like he wasn't ruining Steve's perfectly laid out plans.

Pursing his lips, Steve covered up his indignant huff by palming the bottom of his phone before transferring it to his other ear, saying, "Yeah, I suppose we could."

Because he was a sucker for Billy. He couldn't help it.

"I'll pick you up in twenty, be ready."

The line went dead and Steve huffed again.

🖤

A couple days later, he's finally got Billy at his house, but his parents are home. Not that they're going to ruin his plans or anything, but his parents actually enjoy Billy's company, so they ask him to stay for dinner and who is Billy to decline such a generous offer?

His dad's barbecuing in the back and he and Billy are chatting about something regarding sports while Steve helps his mom prepare the table. He had immediately noticed Billy's new shirt when the guy arrived, a soft light green t-shirt, tightly fitted - and if Steve could only get a damn glance at his stomach, he might be able to see the shape of it through the fabric.

It's almost comical how much stuff gets in the way: Billy's standing behind the barbecue, his dad is in front of him when they come in with food, his mother passes his father the salad bowl just as Billy goes to sit at the table.

He kinda wants to scream.

And again, Billy asks him, "Everything alright, Steve?" Because he's Steve in front of his parents.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he smiles tightly, their eyes locking for a moment, and there's something shining in Billy's blue eyes.

After dinner, when they've had their full and it's time for Billy to go, he watches the blond pat his stomach and keep his hand there as he stands, thanking the Harringtons for the meal.

Steve manages another tight smile as his parents tell Billy to come back soon.

🖤

A couple guys they know from school are playing basketball at the park when he and Billy drive by a couple days later, and Billy glances over at him with a grin, saying, "Wanna join them?"

Steve stares at him for a moment before flicking his gaze over to the guys on the court, noticing that they're shirts vs skins. And knowing Billy, he'll want to take off his shirt.

Oh, yeah. This will work.

"Sure," he hums, playing it cool.

They park and head over, standing on the sidelines until Patrick stops dribbling the ball and asks them, "You two come to join?"

"Yeah, thought maybe you'd want some actual competition, McKinney," Billy smirks, grinning when Jason gives him a glare for his smart mouth.

"Alright," Patrick nods with a smile, "Harrington, you're skins."

Steve feels his shoulders drop, and he glances at Billy, figuring he'd say something like 'nah, let's switch' but Billy just looks at him, quirking an expectant brow.

"You gonna strip or what, Harrington?" Billy asks with a leer.

Sighing, Steve rolls his eyes and pulls the bottom of his shirt over his head.

🖤

It's gotta be on purpose, right? Steve's suffering from some kind of karma that he doesn't deserve. How fucking hard is it to catch Billy Hargrove without a goddamn shirt?

He has Billy's aviators from the other day and he's on his way to Cherry Lane to return them, his thumb tapping his steering wheel as he replays the memory of that simple little lift of Billy's shirt that started all of this. It's honestly infuriating how unlucky he's been.

And he knows he could just ask, but there's no dignity in that. Billy would just tease him about it and never show it.

When he pulls up to the Hargrove house, Billy's outside mowing the lawn, in shorts and a white tank top. He's sweating a bit, his face so unfortunately attractively flushed. His lips go red whenever he's working out too hard and Steve can't help but to stare at them.

He shuts off his car and gets out, calling, "Billy!" over the sound of the mower.

Billy looks up, squinting in the sunlight, and shuts off the mower. He smiles at Steve, in that mean way he does, and shouts back, "Miss me so bad you had to come and track me down, Stevie?"

He's Stevie when Billy's teasing him, when they're alone.

Steve leans against his car and holds up the aviators, "Figured you'd want these back, asshole."

The smile that blooms on Billy's face is beautiful and he actually says, surprisingly without sarcasm, "You're a goddamn lifesaver."

But, it's not what he says that has Steve freezing in place - it's his hand, going down to the bottom of his shirt, like he's going to lift it to wipe away the little beads of sweat on his forehead, and Steve's breath catches in his throat.

Holy shit. Finally.

His stomach clenches in anticipation, his jaw dropping a little, until he hears a sudden familiar voice screech, "Billy!"

It's Max, on the front porch, with anger written across her face, and Billy's immediately turning to face her, his hand falling to his side, sweat forgotten.

Steve lets out a groan and rests his forehead on his car, closing his eyes as he half listens to the step siblings yelling at each other over something petty.

Goddammit.

He's really at his wit's end.

🖤

It's been two weeks and Steve finds himself at a party on a Friday night, at his wit's end about the whole stupid thing. He can't even talk to Robin about it.

Well, he could, but he doesn't really want to see the look on her face and the deadpanned 'you're such a dingus' she'd say to him.

He knows he's being a dingus, but it's not like he can stop.

What he can do, though, is shoot back some vodka with Carol like they used to in freshman year.

"What, no Billy tonight?" She hums, words just a touch slurred, and he gives her a shrug as he reaches for his half-drunk beer.

"Dunno where he's at," he replies, glancing around the busy room, "Assumed he'd be here."

"You two are, like, attached at the hip these days," she smirks, giving him a look, "What's the deal?"

"No deal," he shrugs again, feeling the vodka warm his belly, "He's just...nice to hang out with, I guess."

"Hm," she hums, giving his arm a pat, "Well, if you wanna know where he is, I saw him go down to the basement like, five minutes ago."

Steve's eyes widen and he immediately looks towards the door leading down to the basement of her house, which is cracked open a little.

He eyes it for a moment before asking, "He take a girl down there?"

"Nope," Carol shakes her head, "Probably went to get more beer, or something."

Maybe he should go check on him.

"Maybe you should go check on him."

He turns and looks down at her, eyeing the impish look on her face, and he doesn't know why it's there or why she's saying that, but he nods anyway.

"Yeah, 'kay," he slurs softly, pushing himself off the counter, his beer left behind there as he makes his way to the door.

The basement is cool, and dark, except for the warm glow of a lamp that he can spot at the bottom of the staircase. He pulls the door closed behind him without meaning to, and slowly descends, hearing the rustling of bottles in the fridge that he knows is down here. Carol's dad had the basement fully finished and furnished for his poker nights a couple years ago, and the fridge in the corner is always fully stocked.

He steps down onto the landing and sways, holding onto the railing as he watches Billy compare two bottles of beer, as if he really prefers either. The best beer is a free beer, and the only thing better than a free beer, is a cold one.

Steve breaks the silence first, saying, "You didn't tell me you'd be here."

Billy glances over at him, surprised, before he recognizes him and then he's smirking, "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be here anyway, pretty boy."

He's pretty boy when they're alone and Billy's flirting.

Steve feels his face flush, from the alcohol (he tries to convince himself), and he quietly watches Billy put one of the bottles back in the fridge before bringing the other one to his mouth, opening it with his molars, and it makes Steve cringe every single time.

"You're gonna wreck your teeth doing that shit," he mutters, like he does every time.

Billy flicks the cap away with that smug smile still on his face, and like every time, he replies, "Haven't yet."

He watches Billy come over to him, to probably go back upstairs now that he's invaded Mr. Perkins' stash, but he can't help the way his eyes flick down Billy's body.

And his eyes stop at the bottom of Billy's Metallica shirt, which might've shrunk in the wash or something, because it's short than Steve remembers and that's when he sees it.

A shiny metal ball, just peeking out from under the dark fabric.

His heart skips a beat and he doesn't even hesitate to step off the landing and push Billy back against the nearest wall, listening to the soft rush of air as the blond's back hits it a little too hard, but he's smiling like the prick he is, staring down his nose at Steve as he tilts his head back.

"Mm, Stevie, that wasn't very nice," he purrs, and that's when Steve smells the alcohol on his breath, but he doesn't care.

He grabs the bottom of Billy's shirt and rucks it up, his jaw dropping as he breathes out a rush of air, like he's just been punched in the gut.

He wasn't seeing things. He was right.

A silver curved barbell, pierced through Billy's navel, sitting so pretty and perfect just above his happy trail.

"You like it?" Billy hums, arrogant, because he already knows Steve does.

His mouth is too dry to answer, and he can't help it when he begins to touch the skin of Billy's stomach, his dark eyes trained on the piercing as his fingers dance around it, his thumb daring to draw closer and closer until he strokes the barbell, giving it a little tug that has Billy making this sound that goes straight to his cock--

"Fuck," Steve breathes, feeling his cock throb in his jeans, so fucking turned on and he hadn't even known it until he heard Billy make that sound, and now he's arching into Steve's touch, seeking it out, and...and...

He flicks his eyes back up to Billy, sees this look on his face, like he kinda wants to eat Steve alive but also wants to be kissed, so Steve does.

He surges forward and Billy meets him halfway, their mouths meeting in a frenzy, like they can't get there fast enough or close enough. He can hear glass break, knowing it's the beer bottle, but it's forgotten because it's dizzying - the way Billy pushes his tongue into his mouth, not wasting a single moment, groaning into his mouth and it goes straight to his cock again.

His hands go to Billy's waist and he pulls himself against him, tilting his head to suck at Billy's lower lip as he grinds his hips into the blond's, revelling in the choke moan he receives for it.

"Knew you'd be into it," Billy breathes, when Steve kisses down his neck and licks at the cologne there, his skin bitter and salty, and he bites down on the junction between neck and shoulder just to hear Billy moan again.

"Shut up," Steve pants, pouting as he sucks on Billy's neck, and then pauses because--

He pulls back just enough to look at Billy, admires the flush on his face before he says, accusingly, "You knew."

"Of course I knew," Billy chuckles low, his teeth flashing as he grins, "I couldn't help it. It was fun watching you lose your mind over it."

"You're such a fucking brat," Steve growls, fisting a hand in Billy's hair and pulling him into a hard kiss, hearing Billy's chuckling hums turn into soft moans as Steve slides his tongue against Billy's.

He can't help but to imagine a stud there, sliding against his tongue, against his skin, against the tip of his cock--

Billy hooks his leg around Steve's hip and reaches down to grab his ass, pulling their hips together until there's a delicious but restricted friction, the blond growling into his mouth, "Yeah? You gonna do anything about it?"

It's enough of a taunt for Steve to pull them away from the wall and turn them, once again pushing Billy back towards the poker table in the middle of the room, a fire in his blood that Billy notices in his eyes and it has him grinning, flushed and pleased as he crawls back onto the table, letting Steve push him down onto his back.

"You gonna suck my cock like you've been wanting to, princess?" Billy breathes, cocky as always.

"Maybe," Steve hums, pushing Billy's shirt up again to get another look at the piercing there, thumbing over it and giving it a playful little tug that has Billy hissing.

"That hurt?" He asks gently.

"S'fine," Billy hums, licking his lips, "Just got it caught on something this morning, kinda tender..."

"Good," Steve says, pushing the shirt higher with both hands, until he's thumbing at Billy's nipples, feeling them harden under his touch and he watches the pleasure cross Billy's face as he squirms under it, sensitive.

"Wonder how sensitive they'd be if you pierced them, too," he murmurs, feeling his blush spread down to his chest as he images it, silver barbells through each nipple, playing with them until Billy had tears in his eyes, begging him to stop or make him cum.

"Maybe we should find out," Billy sighs, moans when Steve gives them a little pinch, arching into the touch like a girl.

"Maybe we should," he agrees, thumbing over them again as he lowers his mouth, pressing and sucking kisses into Billy's stomach, unable to help himself as his mouth wanders lower, his tongue peeking out to guide the metal ball of the barbell into his mouth, groaning as he closes his mouth around it and gives it a little suck, feeling Billy's hips buck under him as he gasps out, "Steve!"

"Yeah, baby? Feel good?" Steve murmurs as he flicks his tongue over it again, sliding his hands down from Billy's chest and to his jeans, tugging his belt open and kissing lower and lower, nuzzling that happy trail with the tip of his nose as he tugs Billy's jeans down, lower and lower until his cock is out and Steve can feel it bump his chin.

He's like a man starved, opening his mouth wide and taking Billy's cock onto his tongue, moaning at the taste of him, salty and bitter like cologne and he still fucking puts it on his dick, the freak, but it's too good and he doesn't even care at this point, not when Billy's grabbing a fistful of his hair and gasping his name.

It's messy, because he's kinda drunk, but he does his best, sucking and minding his teeth, swirling his tongue over the tip before taking Billy as deep as he can, gagging on it gently because Billy makes the prettiest sounds when he does.

"Fuck, Stevie, so fucking pretty like this," Billy moans, watching Steve bob his head up and down on his cock, and he glances up at the blond, their eyes meeting as he slurps at the tip like a fucking slut, and it makes his cheeks burn red.

"Shit--I'm close," Billy gasps, his face twisting in pleasure, which is honestly a compliment because Steve knows he can blow him better than this if he were totally sober, but it's not exactly the time to drag things out, so he sucks harder and brings his hand down to fondle at Billy's balls, giving them a little tug and pressing his knuckles to his taint, enraptured as he watches Billy's eyes roll back as he cums, gripping Steve's hair hard.

It makes him whimper, feeling a streak of cum in his mouth, and he pulls off Billy's cock with a soft gasp, feeling another streak or two paint his chin and cheek.

"Holy fuck," Billy laughs quietly, going limp on the table, but he's still staring down at Steve, humming, "You got a lil something there, Stevie..."

He doesn't even care, too turned on to fucking think as he straightens and goes for his own jeans, yanking them down and pulling out his cock with one hand while the other goes to his face, spitting Billy's cum out onto his palm while he wipes the mess on his chin and cheek with his fingers, bringing that hand down to wrap around himself with a moan.

It's gross but it's worth it to see the stunned and awed look on Billy's face, his jaw slack and blue eyes wide as he looks down to watch Steve stroke himself, clearly admiring his cock.

"Jesus, Stevie," Billy sighs, "You've been holding out on me."

"You've seen it before," he grunts, stroking over the tip and feeling his balls tighten in response.

"Not like this," Billy hums, licking his lips, and Steve's locked in on his mouth then, imagining it stretched around his cock, knowing that it eventually will be.

He feels his stomach tense and he whimpers out a quiet 'fuck' as he cums, aiming right for Billy's stomach, sighing happily when he watches it cover Billy's piercing.

"Oh, you fucker," Billy chuckles, breathless and almost fucked out, looking up at Steve with annoyed amusement.

"Pay back, for the two weeks you put me through," Steve pants with a grin, triumphant.

But, like he knows, he's a sucker for Billy and he doesn't leave him like that. He goes over to the couch against the wall and grabs the box of tissues there, pulling a few out to clean himself with before taking a few more to Billy, who grabs them from him.

He watches Billy carefully wipe away at his piercing, smirks when he hears the annoyed grumbling as he wipes the cum from his belly button, and he grins when Billy shoots him a look.

"You had it coming," he chuckles, scrunching his nose when Billy throws the crumpled up tissue at his face.

"Asshole," Billy hums, tucking himself back into his jeans, slow and unhurried.

Steve does the same and watches his best friend push himself up with a wince, until they're face to face again, although the table has Steve looking up at Billy a bit.

They stare at each other for a moment, in that warm lamp light, until Steve leans in and presses a sweet, chaste kiss to Billy's mouth. Way too sweet for what they just did.

"So," he hums against Billy's mouth, "About those nipple piercings..."

He feels Billy smile against his mouth, his chest rumbling with a chuckle as he mutters, "I'll think about it."

They both know he's definitely doing it.

[startanewdream]

Why would I think you're weak? Everyone gets nightmares."

For hinny, preferably Ginny is the one with the nightmare

Please and thank you

hope you enjoy this sort-of missing moment that could have been:

*******

Harry walked absently to the Room of Requirement. It was still early, but he enjoyed arranging the room ahead of the D.A. lesson; for today, their first real class about the Patronus Charm, he had the idea of filling the room with mirrors so people could look at themselves while they worked the spell. As he reached the usual entrance to the Room, however, he realized he wasn’t the only one who had started early.

The door was already there, even before he asked for it.

He entered carefully, just in case someone had inadvertently found out about Dumbledore’s Army. The room seemed empty — until he noticed a figure in the farthest corner. For a moment, his stomach dropped, remembering the last time he had been there alone with someone — he and Cho weren’t really speaking these days, avoiding each other’s gaze after the disastrous Valentine’s Day date —, but the sight of vivid red hair told him it was someone else.

Ginny hadn’t seen him. She was facing the warm fireplace that was always lit, mumbling to herself. Her eyes narrowed in a fierce expression as she moved her wand; nothing happened, and she sighed unhappily, stooping her feet and looking up to the ceiling—now enchanted, like the Great Hall, to reveal the day sky above. 

Harry caught himself staring at her; it wasn’t the first time he’d done so, not with him teaching the D.A. Ginny’s spellwork had always impressed him; he remembered George once telling him that size was no guarantee of power when talking about Ginny, and though Harry hadn’t witnessed her famous Bat Bogey Hex yet, he could see what George had meant. Ginny had a strong raw power; even though she was still in her Fourth Year, she’d had no problem mastering any OWL-level spell Harry had shown the class. He would often compare her with her boyfriend, her usual duelling partner, and more than once Harry had thought she deserved someone better—he hadn’t said it out loud, but Michael Corner had looked quite bland—

“Ow!”

Ginny’s voice startled Harry. For a crazy moment, he’d thought she’d read his mind and was mad at him—then he realised she looked sheepish. 

“Sorry, I thought I was alone.”

Harry shook his head. “You were, I just came in. Are you practising?”

Ginny flushed as she nodded; it suddenly occurred to Harry that it had been a while since he’d seen that. It was weird seeing her looking flustered when she had been nothing but bright around him.

“You know, I appreciate the effort, but I cannot give you house points.”

As he had a feeling she would, Ginny chuckled.

“Prat,” she called without any malice. “Sorry, I meant Professor Prat.”

Harry smiled. “Much better.” Then he tilted his head. “What were you doing? You didn’t have any problem with the Shield Spell last class.”

“Ah.” She bit her lip. Harry had a sudden urge to ask her to stop it before she drew blood. “The Patronus Charm.”

That made him blink, suddenly aware he had been looking at her mouth.

“Patronus?” He repeated, startled. “We are just getting started.”

“Yeah, but…” Ginny took a deep breath. “It annoyed me that I couldn’t cast it.”

“It was just our first lesson—I mean, not even a lesson, it was just a lecture.” 

It had been the final part of the last D.A. lesson, last week. Satisfied that everyone seemed to have mastered the Shield Spell, Harry had started the Patronus Charm, the one spell everyone was excited about. He hadn’t much time, so he’d decided to explain the theory behind the charm — the first time he’d talked more than show any spell, and rather than seem annoyed, everyone had eagerly listened to him. He had given everyone some sort of homework — to think about their happiest memory — and, in the last five minutes of the lesson, he’d let everyone try the Patronus Charm for the first time.

A few people had managed a silvery wisp, nothing resembling any shape or that lasted more than two seconds. 

“Every time I try, nothing happens.”

“I don’t think anyone can cast it in their first attempt,” Harry said. When Ginny raised her eyebrows, he added, “I didn’t.”

“How many lessons did it take you?”

“A lot,” he answered truthfully. 

Her expression didn’t change. “You were thirteen when you first learnt it.”

“And I had Professor Lupin giving me private lessons. All you got… is me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are an amazing teacher.”

“I think you are comparing me to Umbridge, so—”

“Stop it.” She patted his arm playfully; her hand was warm. “You know you are a decent teacher, come on.”

“I noticed the downgrade from amazing to decent.”

A grin appeared in her lips as if she couldn’t help herself; Harry smiled in answer. He enjoyed her reaction.

“See, that’s better—you cannot try the Patronus Charm if you are all gloomy.”

“I wasn’t gloomy.”

“You were stomping your feet.”

“Maybe I had an itch.”

“Did you?”

“No,” Ginny admitted, and then she threw herself on one big bean couch that had just appeared behind her. “I’m really frustrated.”

Harry gave her a bracing smile as he sank on the couch next to her. “It was just your first try.”

“I got every other spell. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but something happened.” She waved her wand absently, not seeming to notice the sparkling dust that she was casting. “Now I could yell Expecto Patronum until I lost my voice and this wand wouldn’t be more useful than a random stick.”

“I get it,” he said bracingly. “I was disappointed with myself when it didn’t improve the way I wanted—but there is no secret, you just need to keep trying.”

“It is as if I can’t get it right—every spell I try, even when I don’t cast it, I can feel it, the connection between me and my wand. But the Patronus just eludes me.”

“What memory are you using?” Harry asked before he could think it through. He smiled awkwardly. “Sorry, I know it’s personal.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not working anyway, so—” Ginny shrugged. “I thought about when I got my Hogwarts letter. I dreamed of it since I was two—” She caught sight of Harry’s face. “What?”

“That’s what I remembered the first time I managed something. It was just this silver shadow, but—”

“But it was a start.” Ginny sighed. “I’m not even hoping for a full corporeal Patronus, just one that gets the dementors far away from me.”

She shivered, her face whitening so much that Harry felt he could count the freckles on her cheek. 

For a moment that distracted him, until a long-distant memory resurfaced. He was thirteen and recovering after meeting a dementor for the first time; he’d just fainted, but the worst part had been hearing a woman’s scream. He hadn’t been in the best condition, so he hadn’t really noticed the small girl quietly sobbing in the corner of the train, looking just as pale as now—he’d never asked what Ginny had heard, but now he got a good idea…

“You had forgotten.” He blinked. Ginny was grimacing. “You are not the only one who hears You-Know-Who when dementors are around.”

“That was not what… I never considered what you would remember.” He bit his lip. “Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? You saved me. I was the one stupid enough to get involved with a Dark Lord.”

“You were not involved, I mean—you didn’t know who he was.” He met her gaze. “And I am sorry for forgetting what you went through. I guess it was just easier to think everything was all right.”

Harry remembered the final days of that term, when he had watched Ginny closer; after a moment’s struggle, she had looked happy, a bright version of the girl that had slowly shrinked that year. Even her brothers were visibly relieved that Ginny seemed to move on. At some point, Harry had just stopped looking for any distress sign.

Ginny sighed. “I know. That’s how I wanted you to perceive me. Not as the weak girl who couldn’t sleep at night because of her nightmares.”

“You are not weak. Why would I—why would anyone think so?”

“I still dream—”

“Everyone gets nightmares.” He thought about a graveyard, a cruel laugh, and a boy’s dead eyes. “It’s just a reminder that we survived. You survived.”

“Only because you—”

“Because you fought Riddle long enough to give me time to get there. You were eleven.”

“Saying like this makes me look stronger than I was.”

“You were strong. You are strong.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not saying this to excuse myself, but I forgot about you and Voldemort because I can’t see it when I look at you. You went through one of the worst things that any human could experience—I know how I felt just by thinking I was possessed—and yet you are here now, casting every spell, destroying those Death Eater dummies, and getting a reputation for that Bat Bogey Hex that I have yet to witness.”

He felt suddenly self-conscious of his speech, but Ginny was smiling softly now, and Harry just reminded himself that he was the teacher, he could be motivating even if it involved personal stuff. In any case, even her eyes were shining now, warmer; Ginny’s eyes were a nice shade of brown, like treacle tart.

“Let’s find Umbridge,” she suggested at last. “Then you can witness my Bat Bogey Hex, it will be epic.”

Harry chuckled. “I don’t doubt it, but I don’t think you’d want to be expelled.”

“I’d only be if I got caught,” she noted, winking at him. Then Ginny jumped, leaving a soft trace of flowers on the couch. “I’m going to get this.”

She closed her eyes, her expression confident. Harry couldn’t know what she was remembering, but a breeze filled the room, coming out of nowhere, and made Ginny’s hair move as if she was flying. Then Ginny opened her eyes —they were blazing—, flourished her wand and whispered, “Expecto Patronum!”

A silver shadow flew from her wand, dashing around the room before disappearing. It wasn’t shaped yet, but Harry could swear he saw a long snout and a floating mane.

“Yes!” She cried happily, beaming at Harry; for a moment, he thought she was going to hug him — he even opened his arms — but Ginny didn’t move. “It was something!”

“It was a perfect start,” he told her, jumping to his feet. Ginny looked bright now, and he didn’t think it was just an act. “What do you think it will be? Your patronus?”

“No idea. I think it had hooves.” She smirked. “It won’t be a stag, though, I’m hoping to be original here.”

Harry just smiled. “It’s my father. I mean, the stag represents my father. It’s a long story, I’ll tell you later.”

“Ok.” She nodded, watching him, her expression sober now. “I remembered the first time I took flight on a broomstick.”

“That’s also one of the memories I tried that first time learning the Patronus Charm,” he noted, amused. “I’m glad it worked better for you.”

“Flying made me feel free—and powerful. I think I’m done with Riddle’s voice in my mind.” Ginny paused for a moment, watching Harry, before taking a deep breath. “I was afraid that if I couldn’t cast the Patronus, it meant that, in some way, I wanted to hear him.”

“I get it,” Harry mumbled, not quite meeting her eyes now. “The reason why I got so bad around dementors was because I could hear my parents’ voices, when they were… in their last minutes. And it was the only memory I had, so for a while I hung on to them.” He risked a glance at her. Ginny didn’t look pitiful, so he felt safe enough to give her a small smile.

She shook her head.

“I think you are very generous to compare you missing your parents with my unhealthy relationship with the diary that almost killed me, Harry, but that’s just you.”

“Well, what made me cast the Patronus Charm was that I could not risk us losing another Quidditch match.”

“Priorities.”

“I can tell all the effort paid off in the end.”

“Isn’t it true that you managed to fight off a hundred dementors to save Sirius?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “But I was thinking that Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup that year after all.”

She grinned back. Ginny had dimples when she smiled; she could be as bright as a Patronus, Harry thought suddenly. She’d manage to cast one soon, he just knew.

He was about to tell her this when the door of the room opened. Ginny glanced at the door before taking a step back, her face only slightly flushed as she asked him, as if continuing a different conversation, “How can I help you?”

“Huh?” Harry said, confused. The group of Ravenclaws had just entered, and while they were greeting him, Cho had given him a smile, though somewhat avoiding his gaze.

“The Room,” said Ginny patiently. “You like to get the Room ready before the lesson, and I thought I could be useful—hi, Michael.”

She waved at her boyfriend, and for a moment, it crossed Harry’s mind that there was as much enthusiasm in her voice as in Cho’s smile to him. 

He shook his head. “Mirrors, it might be helpful.”

“I’m on, Professor Potter.”

“Not prat anymore? I see the improvement now.”

“Like I said, you are kind of decent, Harry.” She winked at him, clearly amused, and turned around; as mirrors appeared on the corners of the room, her boyfriend joined her, hands hanging on the inside of the pockets of his robes and just watching her.

I didn’t like him, Ron had said it once, and though Harry didn’t think he’d share this thought with anyone, he couldn't help but agree with Ron.

[crispyliza]

The one benefit about ao3 being down is that it forces authors to focus on writing their own fics instead of procrastinating by reading others.

So everyone, be ready for mass updates tomorrow 👍

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

✮ tags ; gn!reader, implied bottom reader, semi-erotic and bloody fingersucking, romance, struggling with intimacy on astarions part, not an established relationship fr, 18+

✮ wc ; 1.6k (literally what in the fucking world)

✮ a/n ; *smacks astarions back* you can fit so much projection onto this thing.

canon divergent i.e. this takes place during act two but reader doesn't sleep w astarion in act one. it's explained in da fic.

The taste of intimacy is acrid.

It's bitter and sharp to the senses. In many ways, he finds it unpleasant. Intolerable. He's lost in thought, primarily caught up in the sensation of your skin pressed against his.

Too much, he decides, this entire affair is proving to be too much.

"You know, there's no need for theatrics," He can almost hear the recoil in his own voice, like hiding away into the shadows when dawn approaches. It's instinctive. "All this...poetry is quite thoughtful but very unnecessary."

Yes. Unnecessary. Somehow it feels violent, though it's anything but. You pull away from him and he winces at your expression - genuine confusion draped across your face. Your skin is hotter than the sun, much warmer than his. You're attractive.

Astarion wonders if he can assess you as beautiful. If he's allowed to use something so flowery.

He can't stop thinking about it. He's played the part of a lover before, so kissing and touching in quiet whispers is not unfamiliar. If that's the sort of affair you wish to have, than Astarion can be apart of it no problem. Whatever makes your desire towards him tangible, whatever you want. The last part he doesn't say out loud, or to himself.

But it was real, just a moment ago, wasn't it? The feeling of your lips on his forehead and the crook of his shoulder was real. The words of affection were real. He was looking for fun, debauchery, pleasure.

This is not that, he decides. He decides, too, that he does not like it.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh don't play dumb, darling," He says, his throat tightening. It's natural to him, in a way. "Though your heroic romantic gestures are quite something, they're very unnecessary. We both know what we're here for, do we not? A little roughing up is fine."

You pause, and you stare. Your eyes are clear, like the water of the open ocean surrounding the lower city. Even in the darkness, he can see you perfectly. You can see him too, but he can't see himself even in the reflection of your gaze. He wonders if that is some kind of mercy, but remembers quickly that no god has ever shown him such kindness.

And you wouldn't either, or you shouldn't. He convinces himself that its a courtesy, and that this conversation is an attempt at honest between you. He's expecting something different. Maybe a snarky laugh of approval, or a widening set of eyes. Lurid with excitement in all the ways you're okay to defile him.

Most people he's laid with have given him the same. They're pleased with his fluidity. He shows it off like he's water in a beautiful chalice, look at all the forms I can take and adore me.

And yet, you're all but silent. What a terrible conversation to have when he's almost inside of you, he thinks.

"If that is what you desire," You says, your words slow. You then, so softly, draw your thumb over his cheek bone. It takes strength not to recoil. He almost wants to mock you. Wants to bite at the gentle caress of your hand, wants to make you bleed. "But I would've hoped my gestures conveyed my feelings a little better than this."

Shit. Shit.

"Feelings? Have you really taken a page out of the wizards book and written me a poem?"

"It would be easy enough to do," You say, so easily and so naturally - he can't help but show that he is startled. Shaken by the sincerity of every word. Bitter. "If you desire such gestures."

A feeling coils in his chest. He cannot distinguish his urges from each other. Whether it is hunger or desire. Whether to push you away or cling to you closer. He cannot make sense of any of it, despite his efforts. He doesn't need any blood, he's sure - but his mind lacks clarity.

Is he afraid or angry? He does not remember how to tell the difference between those two emotions, either.

"We're here for sex, you know?" He says, proactively pushing into old habits. His eyes feel heavy in their sockets, like their weighed by his own need to be desired perfectly. He seduces you easily. Lowers his lids and parts his lips, snakes a hand against your waist and lets you fall forward until you collapse against his chest. "Hot, lecherous, burning pleasure. Such romantics are best saved for..."

You look at him, and you want him. But it is not the same. Even he is not so foolish as to deny something you make so obvious.

"For?"

The words someone you love do not leave his lips, though they threaten to. "Someone more suitable."

"There's no one so suitable as you," You say, and the words do not sound damning. They do not intend to please him. They're not coated in myth or covered in lies. They're like you, honest and rich. "And that pleasure can be found all the same with regards to what I do."

Astarion understands little of you. Never has, in full. He finds your character damning, finds your kindness often irritable. His plan to seduce you had worked, he thought. You had taken some kind of liking to him. Enough that you act against yourself, just to appease him at times. To clumsily win him over by being a little bad, or being silver-tongued.

But you hadn't laid a hand on him despite his efforts. Without taking anything, you shield him from harm. You kill the people who wish to kill him. He'd never stopped trying to seduce you, because it benefits him to play the part of prized possession to the strong.

He thought your acceptance of his request meant you had finally broken. That he could go through with it.

Yet, you touch him like this - as you have been all evening. You brought a bedroll to fuck him in the woods of all places. Your hands are soft, and warm. You're reverent. He's kissed plenty of people, and played lovers even more than that. It was his lifes work, after all.

But it is impossible to deny that you're different, despite his best efforts to believe you are not.

Astarion isn't familiar with your gestures. He cannot hold his ground against honesty when his existence is passing and pleasant - ephemeral as a white lie.

"Astarion," You say, clear. You enunciate his name. It is not intended to have any weight, yet it crushes him. His chest tightens. Aches. It is all so strangely miserable. He wants to interrupt you, but cannot fix his lips to do such a thing "I wish to make love to you. You're welcome to find it unnecessary."

A kiss. Your mouth is warm, and tastes faintly like the sweet wine you had before bed. Your hands cup around his nape, and your other hand keeps you upright. He won't fall for it but his body does not listen, makes him melt comfortably into the bedroll. You kiss and kiss and kiss, and it is well-practiced like you have loved many times before him.

You must know something better than him.

Still. There is not enough strength in his limbs to fight you. His eyes blink open when you've stopped. A scream almost rips from him, but he's frozen in place instead. He can fight now. He could fight this.

The nails he tries to scratch you with, dig deep onto your waist. He closes his eyes. A begging for you to stay.

"Darling, really," His voice cracks. A touch so gentle and unfamiliar may be the thing to flay him open - cut him into pieces and open him up the blackened night sky. His lips feel cracked, hands shaking. "Wholly unnecessary."

There is no way out from this. From his feelings for you. How terrible.

You examine him quietly, then smile like you know everything. He is so much older than you, yet you smile like you've lived one thousand more lives. Maybe you have.

"Astarion," You mumble, your hands finding his hands. You lock your fingers together, your touch making his nerves fire whenever you brush along them. Your free hand ghosts his lips. "Look at me,"

Then, very suddenly, you push your thumb against the point of his fang. It punctures you in no small wound, and you push until the blood spills. You wince, but it's barely there. You let the blood spill into his parted mouth, let the taste of it fetter onto his lips and tongue. It's almost saccharine. He leans up on instinct, latching himself to it. He drinks from your self-inflicted wound with his eyes lidded, with desperation so unsightly.

You don't slink back. You watch onto him fondly. Watch him eat recklessly. Watch him swallow around you.

You already know what he is, he realizes, too late. The weight of your deliberateness nearly buries him. Unpleasant eyes, that know everything about him without any modicum of effort.

The feeling of anxiety, of restlessness well up even deeper inside him. The bitter unforgiving irony of finding intimacy with you lingers still. There is no escaping the thought that it will be you who betrays him first, and not someone else.

But the taste of blood, your blood, washes it all out. The gentle touch of your skin unsettles him as much as it makes him needy. He wants to be adored, and be adored by you.

He wants you in a way that does not incite any instinct. He works against each one trying to look you in the eyes.

When he manages, you are there and you are kind. You want to make love to him. He wants, very desperately, to believe it is possible. That such a ridiculous thing exists outside of a performance.

His voice is soft as a whisper. "I guess it's not impossible to appease you,"

You kiss the corner of his mouth and grin. He doesn't flinch this time.

"I'm quite relieved."

[reddamselette]

Kevin isn't sure when or how it started.

Or maybe he does know but refuses to acknowledge it.

There’s a number of moments swirling through his head as he thinks about it.

A jump in his heart when his hand covered Neil’s eyes in the beginning, asking for his game. Did it have to be anything other than that? Could there be a way to justify asking someone for their devotion on the court, to dedicate that devotion to him as he pours his heart and soul into the very thing that gives him life? 

The undeniable trust Neil handed over before he left to Evermore. Kevin felt like he’s been holding Neil’s life in his hands since they met. He couldn’t help but think what would’ve happened if Kevin never sought him out in Millport, if Neil heeded his warning to run yet still willing to teach him every night no matter the consequences. Would their paths cross in that other life? Would Kevin recognize Neil, not for who he was hiding, but for everything he’s seen in the other man for as long as he could remember? 

Recognize Neil by his blue eyes. His voice, his quick quips and sharp tongue, his hands and featherlight touches. The cheeky smiles and the dimples on either side of his face.

Then there’s the other thing.

The excitement bubbling in his chest as he came face to face with Andrew for the first time. The potential Kevin had seen and how he wanted to so badly utilize it as he knew inside and out Andrew is worth more than anyone could ever think.

Relief flooding his body when Andrew promised to stand between Kevin and the Moriyamas. To never be hurt, never be taken away again and live a life full of misery in Riko’s shadow.

Patting checks of injuries and late night practices when it was just the two of them like a secret only they ever had.

It’s ridiculous, really. How his mind and his body associates the smell of cigarette smoke to Andrew. The cliché of it all as Kevin compares the sunrise to hazel eyes.

Kevin thinks the irony isn’t lost on him.

How well Andrew and Neil look together like the sunlight against the blue sky or the changing colorful leaves to the fall season. The effortless way they communicate silently with matching armbands, a fire in Neil’s gaze and the slightest twitch of amusement to Andrew’s smileless lips.

Just like day and night.

We’re all born with something missing, so that we can find someone else to complete us, his mother once said so long ago. Kevin still believes it but living tends to carve out holes in everyone and it makes it easy to need more than one person.

He hopes it all goes away.

“You know, I always look for him,” Kevin says quietly, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and he rubs his palms together. It’s an ache in his chest he can’t seem to get rid of. A void in his stomach that never goes away—it doesn’t matter what Kevin is stressed over because it’s there. It’s always there. “Even when I pretend I don’t care, I do. I care so much, I don’t know what to do.”

He sighs and peers over his shoulder to look at Thea sitting beside him. Her leg is crossed over the other, a thoughtful expression on her face as she listens. Kevin, though, didn’t come to her for advice but a peace of mind. To get it off his chest so it doesn’t affect his game on court. He’s not entirely sure if there’s anything to say about this.

Kevin can’t let anything go into ruin. He’d rather die than let that happen because he’d lose them both. It’s never one or the other, not when he wants something that’s his and could never be taken away. The scars on his hand and the two on his cheek made sure to engrave all of that into his soul.

“Are we talking about Neil? Or Andrew?” Thea asks and Kevin looks away. His silence answers her question and she places a tentative hand on his forearm. The touch draws his eyes back to her and he wishes he didn’t. He can’t stand that look in her eye. “It’s both, isn’t it? My god, Kevin.”

“I know.”

God, does he know.

Kevin drops his face into his hands.

It is incredibly easy to need someone but the cruelty of that, in which no one ever tells you about, is how excruciating it can be to need and want someone that isn’t yours the way you want them to be.

Kevin can practice and practice and burn himself down to the embers of his soul on the court until his stupid heart can give out but he will never have what he’s wishing for. Not here in this lifetime, not in the society where remaining heterosexual is easier, not when his entire life has been faced with cameras and articles.

Not when there’s countless people watching him at every turn.

In this moment, he finds himself wishing his mother was still alive to soothe him, offer reassurance or advice on how to navigate this issue because he has to be careful and watch what he says before it crumbles before him and he’ll need to start over.

“How did this happen?” Thea asks, carefully pulling Kevin’s hands away from his face before he has the thought to start spiraling in public.

Kevin shrugs helplessly with too many circumstances pounding at the doors of his mind, to allow his heart in and take control of the wheel, to guard the goal of logic and self-destruction. “I don’t know. It was easy to pretend it was nothing, that it is nothing, but I— It has to be nothing, Thea. I can’t have it not be nothing.”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Kevin. You can vent your frustrations. You can drink until you make yourself sick. You can try and fuck your way out of this but I can’t tell you what to do. I know you didn’t come to me for help so why are you asking me to help you?”

“I wasn’t,” Kevin sighs out.

“You implied it. I won’t tell anyone, you know that. And you also know that saying this out loud makes it into a bigger problem that you will need to fix,” Thea says without missing a beat, as harsh as she can but as supportive as she could be. Kevin appreciates the lack of sugar coating, though, she could’ve told him what he wanted to hear and they’d be parting in separate directions.

Kevin can’t talk about this to anyone.

Wymack seemed to pick up on it not that long ago and speaking as a coach—Kevin had to handle it, but speaking as a newly found father—Kevin could confess and request the advice he needs.

But it’s not the same as they’re still navigating the tightrope of their relationship.

It’s something only a mother could understand.

Kevin stands abruptly, brushing off Thea’s hands trying to pull him back and he doesn’t spare her glance. He merely shakes his head and inhales deeply. “I’m aware it’s a bigger fucking problem. It would’ve been easier if it was like what I had with you.”

“Kevin,” Thea scoffs and grips his arm to spin him around and face her. She rises to her feet as well and a frown settles over her face with furrowed brows and a narrowed glare. “Don’t walk away angry. You should’ve known what it would cost you if you got too involved. It might not be like what we had but it’s all the same, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’re that stupid.”

“Should’ve known,” Kevin echoes and waves his hand around dismissively. “It’s not easy, Thea. I wasn’t in love with you.”

His words startle them both into still and stiff stances. Thea’s lips part and Kevin’s eyes widen.

Oh.

Is that what this feeling is?

The explanation for these dreams he has of them, daydreams and fleeting thoughts of what could be and what couldn’t be. The meaning to play with what if’s and obsessively watch over Andrew or Neil or the two of them when they’re in the same room. Is to love with a traitorous heart to believe the best of them, to act as a stepping stone to their victory and have a hand in crafting their futures because he only wants what’s best for them? Is to admire with wandering eyes tracking each and every mistake they make on court to help them work through it and grind it down into nothing so no one else can ever take advantage of them where they can feel somewhat safe away from what haunts them?

Is to speak with bitten lips as he glances once, then twice, then countless times in wonder of how it’d feel to have taste them on his tongue and swallow the sounds of their voices to always know it and always remember until the end of time?

Yes, he should have known what it would cost him for becoming too involved and too attached but the Foxes weren’t like the Ravens and sometimes, when speaking to Thea, he defaults to that mindset.

Kevin could ignore it before but he could never take those words back no matter how much he prayed and begged a god that would never listen. 

“You idiot,” Thea whispers and pushes at his shoulder harshly. “You idiot.”

“Don’t. Just…don’t.”

next

[dendrogynous]

(wip) they seem to be very close friends

[captainrufflebanger]

Hey *scratches neck like the drug addict I am*

I was wondering if *unholy sounds*

You got anymore of them *panicks*

Alcina in a suit pics *cries*

I FORGOT TO ANSWER THIS ASK FROM WEEKS AGO

Hi sorry I don't have much that's presentable to the public but take this messy sketch dump I did after writing a teeny tiny fic snippet last year.

Lady Dietreschcu

[neetily]

hii! so glad to see one of my fav writers back and safe! can i request some soft somno with dom sebastian? tyy <3

this request is so old, i wonder if you still follow me hehe... thank you for waiting for me regardless, this was lovely to return back to writing with! thank you for your kindness <3 !

warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, thigh fucking wc: 2,146

It's not so unusual for him to be up so late at night. Beyond working well into the AM on his clients tedious projects, gaming with friends, and otherwise just existing online, he's usually the last to get into bed on any given night. Not that he minds that fact— part of him secretly loves knowing that at the end of a long and oftentimes stressful night, he's got you to consistently greet him under the sheets. And there's comfort in the mundane, he thinks. Though you may be asleep nine times outta ten, his cheeks always grow warm and his chest always tightens every single time without fail at the sight of you so peaceful, blissfully unaware of his presence as he quietly slips into bed to shuffle closer to you at the urging of his affections.

Moonlight flutters in through the barely drawn curtains, dancing across your snoozing form in such a pretty manner that he struggles with himself not to reach out and cover your cute little face in plentiful kisses. There won't be much moonlight left he imagines, huffing to himself as he checks the time on his phone with squinted eyes: 4:38am.

You'll be awake soon enough for the farm.

Which is fine, really! He knew what he was signing up for when he'd initially accepted your confession, and he'd be hard pressed to complain at the style of life you provide him. It's nice, if a bit taxing.

But oh, how he misses you dearly sometimes.

It's why he so strongly loves these quiet moments with you left unknowing. Hidden away in dream land for him to privately admire and adore upon you. You look so soft and sweet when under the sheets, all curled up and cosy without him. And the slight twinge of jealousy that pangs his full heart almost convinces him to tug the sheets away from your sleeping body to instead wrap himself around your frame— see how good he is at keeping you warm? How much better he is that that raggedy old blanket you refuse to replace?

And yet, he does nothing of the sort. Instead, merely admiring from afar with a dumb puppy smile upon his lips. Eagerly in love with you, consistently desperate to show and spill and sing and shout it at every opportunity he gets.

Even when you're fast asleep and lightly snoring beside him, he still finds you oh so adorable— cute puffy little cheeks, cute messy little bed head.

And as he lays side by side with you, he still misses you. Tenderly, like how a dog waits for its owner to get home. Metaphorical tail wagging behind him at the recognition of just how much he simply loves you. Enough to leave him wanting. A deep burning yearn in his chest at the sight of you laying there so sweetly, so pliantly. Without a single care in the world because you're knocked out cold from a hard days graft on the farm.

... He'd be a fool not to take advantage of that, right?

There have been prior talks of consent regarding his filthy thoughts, though the twitch in his pants could really care less in the moment, he's emboldened to know that you have no qualms with the way he feels tonight. Because he wouldn't want to hurt you, not ever. Including when you're passed out and when he could so easily do so, y'know? He appreciates all the trust you put in him more than anything.

So trust that he'll make you feel good tonight in your dreams too, okay?

It's a selfish thought at the root, though. A need to display his lewd affections for you in secrecy— because it's always hotter in private, right? Like his own little secret; not even shared with you! Tenting in his underwear at the simple thought of taking you unknowingly alone, indulging in his own perversions with the giddy excitement of a dirty virgin.

It doesn't help that you're literally what his wet dreams are made of too.

And it's so easy to convince himself to tug his boxers down. Took no convincing at all really, given the way you sleepily huff and sigh for him, like you can feel his weight on the sheets so close to you; and he hopes you're dreaming of him. Wanting him just as badly too, needy little thing just wants to feel good in her sleep, right? Needs him to look after you, and that's why you're currently crooning for him without realising, right?

Well, far be it for him to ignore his womans cries, thinking with his cock as a pearly bead of precum drips down his tip as if attempting to coax him closer. Not that he needed much convincing in the first place, nervously chewing down on his bottom lip to concentrate just long enough to slide his way closer to your sleeping body—because it's difficult to move fully with his boxers resting at his ankles like shackles—wiggling himself all the way until his tip brushes just gently against your exposed tummy (he briefly thanks the Gods for allowing your top to ride up a little, and for the fact that you're naked below the belt) and he chokes on a moan in response. Swallows it whole in fear of waking you, because while he just loves playing with you when you're awake absolutely, he can't deny the specific sweet edge that toying with the hem of your top when you're none the wiser provides him. Like he's doing something bad, acting out with consent. But the play pretend is enough to leave him more than a little breathless before you, taking shallow breaths so as to not disturb your peace too much, and so that he may selfishly enjoy the look of utter content upon your pretty face as he angles his cock down with a thumb at the base of it, only to gently smear the fat beads of precum you've thus far coaxed out of him against your soft and squishy thighs.

It's just all so exciting. Getting to crawl into bed when the whole town is likely fast asleep; well, perhaps except for Sam, he was just gaming with him moments prior. Shuffling as close as possible to the love of his life in the early hours of the morning, where no one excepts much of anything from him, let alone this. Letting a shaky breath escape him at the shiver that rolls down his spine when he allows his hips to roll against you impatiently... Just a little, like a small tease for himself. But fuck, if you aren't the prettiest thing in the world to him right now... And God, he's missed you so much as of late— been too busy with work himself, and he knows you to be the same.

So you can hardly blame him for getting so excited over relatively nothing tonight, right? Gripping at the base of his cock with his whole fist now as a way to try and release some of the built up tension he's grown in his balls after a few days of not cumming— he wanted to save it for you, y'know? And he's so ready for you tonight, shuddering under the sheets with barely contained excitement to dote on you in the privacy of your dreams.

"Are you asleep?" He whispers at you, suddenly worried with his cock throbbing in his fist that you might, in fact, just be pretending to sleep. And he'd be stuck with the embarrassment of acting like a pervert in front of you in the meantime... Though thankfully, you fail to respond with anything other than a silent sigh. Lips parted just slightly as if to tempt him some more, and oh, he'd love to give you so many kisses right now... Pepper compliments against your lips with smiles and sweet words, praise you for being such a good and obedient little girl in your sleep for him.

But he's lifting your thigh up instead in utter need for you. So fraught with it that he allows his nails to squeeze into the fat of them just a little, selfishly enjoying the meagre wobble in your lips at his small action. And he's so greedy with his touch, just a tad possessive as he juts hit hips forward to let his precum coated tip glide against your lower inner thigh before gently dropping the leg he's lifted mid-air back down into it's original position and— yeah, fuck, that's it—

So soft and tight between your legs, nice and padded and squishy for him to pulse against— and he can almost pretend that it's your cunt given how close his cock is in proximity to it. Riding up against your slit for him to drool precum against. Get you all nice and wet enough with the smallest of humps; and, he's also still a little scared about waking you up. Caught with his pants down, literally. God, could you imagine? Huffing right in front of you, biting his tongue to hold back the moans that want so bad to spill for you, cock tightly lodged between your cushy thighs and— fuck, the absolute state of him right now. So completely whipped for you that all he needs is the simple thought of you to get off, let alone to be currently humping his fat cock between your thighs with more confidence with every stroke, finding it increasingly difficult to withhold his lungs given just how much his tip spills for you. Resulting in such a sweet squelch as he leaves your inner thighs all messy and slicked up; which is perfect for him. Makes it soooo much easier to glide his cock against you, incidentally rocking his cock further against your by now sopping slit with every greedy hump and God. It feels so fucking good to be using you like this.

Like a little toy, tailor made for his own personal and selfish use. Creeping around at night to wait for you to pass out before wagging his cock against you like a bitch in heat. Ah, but he just can't get over himself. Too lost in how nice it feels to faux fuck you in your sleep, debasing your purity one hump against you at a time as he plants and shaky hand on your hip to rock you ever so gently back against his thrusts. As if you were actually reciprocating, but knowing that you aren't is what's hot to him. Being able to manhandle you into inadvertently fucking back against him just to selfishly improve the stimulation he oh so desperately needs so late at night, is hot. Turns him on more than anything to know that you haven't the faintest clue as to how he's touching you, loving you, and needing you right now. So caught by how smitten he is with you that he doesn't realise just how close he is from the minimal amount of petting he's endured until his hips instinctively pick up the pace on their own. Seeking a quick end to the pent up release he's reserved for you, and fuck he's just so close to you now, tugging and pulling on your soft skin while he fucks himself silly between the fat of your thighs, which are unfairly tight with the weight of sleep deep in your body, and yeah, God, right there—

All he can think to himself is that he's happy that you're still fast asleep as he cums embarrassingly fast, no doubt due to holding off for you for just a couple days. Either that, or you're convincingly faking it; he doesn't mind either way. Too busy focusing on how fucking good it feels to be shooting fat ropes between your thighs, milking himself empty in the cool air of the night without a single witness to gaze upon his misdeeds

Good, as it should be.

Just him, lazily humping the remainder of seed from his cum coated cock to let it drip down the back of your legs and onto your sheets in a sheer puddle, he's sure. Just him, and his prettily sleeping girl, who still yet adorns the most innocent of expressions after his lewd display of affection tonight. Just him, letting his cock slip free from your sleepy grip as he starts to soften and can finally relax with a heavy sigh escaping his burning lugs— too many moans held too close to his heart.

And he should really think about cleaning you up right about now, but... There's just something so enticing about leaving you with a sticky mess for the morning, y'know? Like his own perverted version of a surprise.

He's hopeful to wake up to his own when he eventually awakens in the afternoon.