#been a while since a wrote a drabble

[novasintheroom]

Touch me gently (Vash x Reader)

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 3k

♡ Warnings - mentions of having future children at the end

♡ Description: A drabble of various touches between you and Vash the Stampede as your relationship grows.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3 (separated into different chapters, as indicated in brackets)

Hands (056. Turn)

Neither of you are very touchy people.

Vash because he has to be careful.

You because you’ve never liked it.

It suits you both fine; neither of you signed on to the job to be touchy.

The boss wants a survey of a nearby gulch and valley. Hopes to find some good land for investment – water or oil or to build some new town with his name. You, the cartographer for the job. Vash, one of your hired bodyguards. The other two men look the part – grizzled, tough. Mercs. Vash stands out with his frame, the bold red coat. Still a merc, but he looks at you kindly, and you take to him as only a nervous scholar can. Some kind of comfort, if only in your head.

You shake the bodyguards’ hands. Vash’s is warm and a little clammy. You turn and do your best to not stare at the old-tech arm at his side. How curious, still.

/~*~\

Arms (053. Emporium)

The town square is full of life.

The other two mercs have gone off elsewhere to find booze or girls or bullets. Vash weaves on ahead. Always light on his feet, careful to dodge stray hands and still looking at everything with a smile. He’s careful to keep you in the corner of his eye. He loves this. He loves people. He’s in his element – one of them, anyway.

You, little scholar, are not. The crowds push in on the emporium – marketeers hocking their wares and greedy eyes follow your steps. You keep one hand on your purse. All walks of life brush past, children running around, toma pulling carts and calling out. Something lets out a boom, and there’s cheering down the street. Colored smoke rises from a stall with a dizzying aroma. It’s overwhelming, it’s more than you’re used to.

“Vash!” You call out. He doesn’t hear you.

Quiet halls with old paper and ink. The shuffle of pages, someone reading their research under their breath. Old tech flickering to life with a hum. Echoed rooms and soft music playing. That’s where you belong. That’s your safe space. Your element is so far away in this press.

A group of women pass between you and Vash. You lose sight of him. It’s jarring, how used to that red you’ve become, looking at it for some sort of comfort. He’s further ahead now, looking at a stall selling old tech baubles. You reach for him, that beacon of red, catching the crook of his arm and weaving your own through before you can think, before you can lose him again. He stills and looks down at you. Your jaw sets, your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You glance up, and ask with a look, Is this okay? Please let it be okay.

And he thinks for a moment. His heart warms. Squeezing your arm with his own, he pulls you closer to his side as you both step back into the throng. Yeah, it’s okay.

/~*~\

Feet (033. Trampoline)

Five months into knowing Vash, and you’re at his heels more than you ever were at your mother’s. Mostly to keep him out of trouble, but still.

The backs of his heels meet the sky more times than any grown man’s should. Summersaulting through the air to escape bullets, grabbing hands, the loss of freedom. You dog at him the entire time, your own feet pounding, pounding, pounding to keep up.

Vash meets the edge of a building, and he cries out, arms pinwheeling to keep him up. You lunge, snagging his ankles as he pitches forward. His weight pulls you, and you both fall. Luckily – as Vash’s luck often goes, metronoming from one extreme to the other – you land on a market stall’s tarped ceiling, bouncing once, twice, a makeshift trampoline. Now both of your feet are reaching for the sky.

Vash’s breath comes in and out like bellows. Yours isn’t better. In the distance, you hear shouts, screams, cries from the mob trying to hunt down the Humanoid Typhoon. You know you need to move. The stall owner is peering up at you strangely from beneath his tarp.

Still, Vash finds the time to look over at you and say, “You shouldn’t have done this.” ‘This’ meaning follow him, of course. A tired argument at this point, like he can’t get enough of saying it.

And you, you know you shouldn’t have. You have no business following an outlaw like him. Scholars stay hidden in their nooks and crannies and don’t do things like jump from building-to-building chasing after that waving red flag. You should focus on being a librarian, hand out books to word-starved children, build the world into a better place. Be who you should be.

You look back at him, a moment of stillness settling in your bones. “And let you have all the fun?” You shake your head. “No.”

A spark of something in his eyes. Clarity? Realization? He won’t tell you to this day, but his lips quirk up, and he drags you off the tarp and down to the ground. You both race off, leaving the bewildered shop keep staring after your dwindling figures.

/~*~\

Stomach (001. Trust)

It’s been a long day. The winds howl at the mouth of the cave, spitting dust and bits of sand like an angry cat. You and Vash set up camp deep within.

Dark with only a small electric lantern at your side, it’s hard to see the ink in your book. You don’t want to sit up to look at it, though. You squint. Vash finishes laying out his sleeping bag at your feet. He’s already set up some line and sound trap measures at the cave’s opening. No one needs to keep watch tonight.

 “We should get you a new book in the next town,” Vash says idly, “that one has pages falling out of it.”

 An old topic of chatter. “That’s because it’s well-loved,” you hum.

“You’re going to love it to death.”

You smile and raise the book to look at him. He’s set up near your legs, getting his sleeping bag ready and as comfortable as it can get on a stone floor. “Trust me,” you laugh. “I’d rather have it go like that than –“

And suddenly, he scoots up and puts his head on your stomach. A little pillow to use instead of his coat. You’re shocked, finger holding your place in the book as you look his way. He peaks back, a shy glint of blue in the lamplight. Is this okay?

Please let it be okay.

His head bounces when you laugh. You return to your book and knock his head gently with your other hand. Yeah, it’s okay.

/~*~\

Shoulders (082. Warmth)

His broad shoulders are distracting.

Burning white and too-hot already, the morning suns accentuate the curve of his neck, the slope of his back, tapering to a slim waist. Vash curls into a yoga pose in the shade of the outcropping, stretching his muscles and limbering up his joints. He’s shed his coat for the moment. Even he feels the heat today.

You feel a different heat. One you’re trying to not freak out over.

Since when has he been that built?

Your mind scrambles to get ahold of itself. That’s your friend, you think, chiding the rampant girlish thoughts of Holy Hannah, he’s hot.

Of course he’s also hot. Of course! It’s not enough that he’s kind to a fault and genuinely funny. And cute. His face is very cute. You purse your lips and force yourself to stare down at your notebook. You almost gag when you notice you’ve been doodling his figure this entire time, rather than writing notes of your latest escapade from town.

What are you, a schoolgirl?

Guiltily, you look up and watch him stretch his arms to the sky, from one side to the next. His eyes are dull, thoughts turned inward. You trace his shoulders again. They aren’t perfectly rounded – more square, and there are things underneath that slightly bulge and catch on his shirt when he moves. You eye those parts, wondering what it is that makes those shapes.

What’s under there?

Blue eyes suddenly flick to you, and you’re caught red-handed staring. But Vash, ever forgiving, ever one to give someone the benefit of the doubt, gives you a sincere smile. “Why don’t you join me? It could help!”

A blush’s warmth crawls up your back. Help? With what? “Oh,” you say aloud, realizing he means your own limberness needs some work. “Well, sure,” comes out before you think about it, and you put your notebook on your bag, padding over to him on bare feet.

He smiles, dimples in his cheeks. “Do you know how to do the cobra pose?” He’s testing the waters, unsure of how much you know. Vash lays flat on his stomach and bends his body upward. You follow him, feeling your abs and shoulders stretching. “Breathe in…and out���”

And that’s how it goes for a while; Vash teaching you new and old yoga poses, and you trying not to ogle your friend. Not what you expected today – but when does living with Vash ever turn out the way you expected?

/~*~\

Lips (097. Sinking)

The first time, it’s an accident.

You’re both pressed into a crevice in a canyon, fleeing a large worm set on making you its meal. The rock digs into your spine, and Vash is squished to your front, trying to be the shield. The worm screams and screams and breaks against the crack. Pebbles and sand rain down from above.

Vash leans down and shouts, “I think - !! – should – “

“What?!” You scream back.

Vash lowers his head just as you stretch to hear better. Your lips touch, his moving with his message and yours open in terror. Even then, you note how chapped his lips are. “We need to climb!” He starts climbing the sheer rock wall that shakes with every shove of the worm. All you can do is follow.

The second time is a coincidence.

It’s a dance at a bar. One of the many you and Vash have been to. Line dancing, dancing with partners, dancing alone – all on the docket. It happens when he’s leading you down the clapping line, cheek to cheek. He’s singing with the song, leading you back and forth and getting the crowd laughing with how he spins and twirls you, then how you dip him like a lady. You nearly drop him. He screams like a girl. You both lurch toward the other and your lips collide.

The crowd roars in approval, even if it only lasted half a second. There’re pats on the back, winks from the ladies, before you’re shoved back in line and the incident is moved to the back of everyone’s mind in favor of more drink and dancing. Vash’s cheeks flush every time your eyes meet.

“Sorry about that,” he says later, when you’re both stumbling to your rooms and the noise downstairs has died down. His hand is to his neck. Bashful. “You know, the whole…” he gestures with his hand, moving it from his mouth to yours in the air.

“No, I, uh – no, it’s fine,” you stammer, feeling your own heat of embarrassment. But you laugh to ease the tension, “Hey, best kiss I’ve ever had!” Your jaw snaps shut, teeth rattling, and before you can say anything else, you flee into your room with a squeaky “Goodnight!” following the door slam.

Vash flushes, staring at your door. His heart thuds in his ribcage, quick and bright. He lets out a chuckling sigh and goes to his own room. The motions of changing to pajamas, brushing his teeth, and cleaning his face is a soft blur. When he’s finally lying in bed, a hoarse giggle escapes, hands fisting the blankets and turning his head into the pillow to hide his smile from the moonlight.

The third time is a damn shame.

You’re nestled in the crook of his arm, both of your legs hanging off a ledge as you sit on the side of a porched building. Your stomachs are full for once, merriment of your hosts tucked away in their house as you take a moment to yourselves. Another damsel in distress saved. Another day lived.

A content sigh slides out of you, and you rest further on his shoulder. You’ve borrowed a blanket from the lady of the house, wrapped around your shoulders to fight off the chill of night. The last of the suns sets. Everything is blue and quiet.

“You getting cold?” He murmurs, wrapping you closer to his side, opening his coat wider to allow you in.

You smile at his voice. “Nah, you’re a furnace. I dunno how you stand the heat.”

You’re close again. Too close. Always too close, Vash thinks, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. It brings your eyes to his, and there’s a sudden something between you.

He can’t ignore the look in your eyes. The love there. But he buries his own echo of it deep and wonders, why me? Why would you pick me?

Still, he leans forward.

Still, you do the same.

And just as your lips brush, just as he feels the warmth of your breath fan over him –

– someone opens the door of the house and calls out, “Vash, ______, get back in here before the little worms getcha!”

You two spring apart like you’re both on fire. Maybe you are. An “Oh!” falls from your host’s lips, and she hides inside in embarrassment.

A coiling, sinking feeling rests in Vash’s chest. He isn’t sure what to call it. It feels close to regret, maybe indignation? Embarrassment? It’s hard to look at you. His ears are burning. When he finally peaks over, he sees you do the same. You both look away quickly. “Uh, uhm,” he says, then clears his throat, “they’re probably starting the games. We should – “

“ – yeah, we should.” You nod, standing and twirling around to retreat. But, you stop, seeming to catch your cowardice and glance at him. Hesitantly, you offer your hand out.

Vash looks at your hand. How many times have you offered it to him now? Too many, he thinks. But you always do so willingly. He takes your hand and stands, following you back into the house, the feeling of your breath entwining with his still on his mind.

Damn shame indeed.

/~*~\

Nose (107. Sigh)

In the dim morning light, you feel his nose brush yours.

His nose is straight, somehow, despite all the times it’s been broken. You feel his enviously long lashes brush your cheeks. You try to keep still.

“Morning,” Vash whispers, and kisses your eyelids.

You still don’t move, feigning sleep.

“I know you’re awake,” he says, and his lashes flutter on your own now. “You’ve stopped snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” you say, groggy, and smile when he lets out a laugh.

You hum, scrunching your body up into a ball and burrowing closer to him. He lets you – he always lets you – and his hands run up and down your back, along your sides, under your thighs. The careful caresses of a sleepy lover.

The suns rise once more, blinking into existence one at a time. The motel’s dusty windows let in a fraction of their light, old and cracked. You reach out and trace his chest with calloused fingertips. Your eyes slowly close.

Times like this are rare. A comfy mattress to sleep on, a safe room to be in (with locks that actually work), and nothing but each other to keep company. It’s perfect. Delicate.

“Hey,” he says, leaning his head down and nudging his nose with yours. “I had a dream. We had this big farmhouse with lots of land, and you had your own library in it, and I was an actual Plant engineer, but just for the city near us.”

“Oh yeah?” You yawn, shaking your head to clear it of fuzz. “No more travelling for you?”

“Guess not.” He continues rubbing your back, eyes never leaving you. “I think my mind made up that all the Plants were doing well enough to not need me as much. We even had two dogs and a cat.”

Your lips quirk up. “Can’t have a farmhouse without those.” You yawn again into his chest.

He hums. “Nope. It was a big house. I got lost in it a few times, but then the kids helped me find my way out – “

“The kids?”

He sputters to a stop, and you’re suddenly much more awake, looking up at him through lashes. His eyes rove yours, wondering if he should keep going. “The kids,” he says quietly, “yeah. I…think there were three.”

Your lips thin for a moment, teeth worrying your bottom lip. “Whose…I mean were they…?”

“Ours?” His voice is just as quiet. His hand takes yours from his chest, holding it over his heart, and says, “Yeah, they were.” He licks his lips and a blush rises to his cheeks. “Two of them had your eyes.”

The information settles on you like a warm blanket, and you give him a sleepy smile. “That’s too bad. I’d prefer they have yours.”

He stares at you a moment. Then, Vash lets out a sigh of relief and pulls you closer. Kissing your temple, he says, “Nah, they need your pretty eyes.”

You’ll agree to disagree.

[lilacthebooklover]

Shadowvanilla with prompt 35

35. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

“You heard me!” Shadow Milk smiles sharply. His voice is playful as ever, but the glint in his eyes is deadly serious. Pure Vanilla listens closely as the mirth in his tone evaporates, that unearthly stare boring into him more intensely than ever before. “Take. It. Off.”

Subconsciously, the healer feels his hand drift towards his Soul Jam. It thrums with power beneath his fingers, simultaneous reassurance and warning pulsating through the azure jewel. It clings to his robes like it knows what will happen if it is removed, and Pure Vanilla finds himself shaking his head before he even realises what he’s doing.

“No,” he says, voice definite. Shadow Milk is capable of putting him through torture beyond comprehension, but Pure Vanilla will not falter. He can’t afford to, not when so much is at stake. He steels his gaze, tightens his grip, and offers a denial that can only be met with fury.

As expected, the world twists and warps around him, the warm, fuzzy edges of his dreamlike prison distorting into a tangle of blackened tendrils, creeping and twisting and grabbing. Pure Vanilla is safe when he’s awake. That doesn’t stop Shadow Milk from trying to convince him to surrender when unconscious. The Dark Side of the Moon is an otherworldly place; in a sense, Pure Vanilla wonders if he ever sleeps at all, anymore. He certainly doesn’t feel rested just then.

“No?” The jester echoes finally, head tilting eerily to the side. Pure Vanilla does his best not to shudder at the anger he feels emanating from Shadow Milk in waves. “Hmm. You know,” His voice dips into something between a purr and a growl, tracing his finger down Pure Vanilla’s jaw. The Beast is a master of deception, and Pure Vanilla knows as much. That doesn’t stop the urge he feels to lean into the first warm touch he’s felt in what feels like centuries. “This would be so much easier if you stopped resisting. So stubborn, Vanilly! I’d be impressed if it wasn’t so infuriating.” 

The grip on his jaw tightens, and Pure Vanilla desperately hopes that determination masks the fear in his eyes as they’re wrenched towards Shadow Milk’s own. He’s too close, Pure Vanilla thinks distantly, sickening anxiety slithering under his skin. The scorching, gentle touch he provides is something the healer both despises and craves, and he hates himself for the latter.

“No matter,” Shadow Milk softens again, stroking against Pure Vanilla’s cheek. He should fight back. He doesn’t. “You’ll come around eventually.” The steady tick of a clock begins to echo in Pure Vanilla’s ears, unnatural and loud and far too damning.

“It’s only a matter of time.”

[swallowtailcherry]

Just a short fluff drabble featuring our favourite King of the Underworld, Hades!

No warnings, just pure fluff!

Bella Notte is the reason why I wrote this 😂

The king of the Underworld smiled fondly as he laid in his bed, holding you gently in his strong arms. You were slowly falling asleep on his chest, your chest moving up and down. He let out a few chuckles as he feels your cheek brush against his toned chest. Hades always adored his beautiful wife.

Hades moved his hand, gently caressing your cheek while taking the time to admire your face, his eyes moving to your lips. He loves how soft and sweet they are.

"Mmmm... Love..." You mumbled quietly, moving yourself up a bit, wrapping your arms around him. Hades sighed, running his fingers down your back.

"Kirei na kirei na yoru

ko yoi wa Bella Notte

kirameku hoshi no iro mo

yasashiki Bella Notte~"

You moved your head to look at your husband in surprise. Hades had never sang before, and oh boy, was he good at it.

"Aisuru futari ga

kata wo yosere ba

tokimeku omoi ga

yozora ni no boru~"

Your heart skipped a beat from the very sound of his voice. His singing is deep, but it was very smooth.

"Shizuka na yume no yō ni

hoshi furu Bella Notte~"

You didn't say a word during his singing. You laid your head on his shoulder, sighing in satisfaction as Hades continued to sing.

"Aisuru futari ga

kata wo yosere ba

tokimeku omoi ga

yozora ni no boru~"

You felt yourself falling asleep just from his voice alone. You wanted to stay up to hear more, but his voice just had to be very pleasant.

"Shizuka na yume no yō ni

hoshi furu Bella Notte~"

By the time Hades was finished, you had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Hades leaned in to kiss you on the forehead, resting his head next to yours.

"Goodnight, My beloved~"

[intheticklecloset]

Haiiii 😆 I’m a huge fan of your MHA Fixs! In honor of them, can we do 🍿 🍉 with Lee Bakugou & Ler whoever you want? I hope you have fun with this and I hope you have a good day/night 💕

🍋 Lemonade Special Order 🍋

~~~

“DEHEHEHEHEHEKU YOU FUHUHUHUHUHUCK!!” Bakugou roared with laughter, struggling and kicking to no avail as his friend hovered over him, fingers deep in his upper ribs. “THE MOHOHOHOHOHOVIE ISN’T OHOHOHOHOHOVER!!”

Deku giggled. “You weren’t even watching it anyway!”

“LIKE HEHEHEHEHEHELL I WASN’T!!”

A particular dig into one of the blonde’s weak spots made him kick out in retaliation, catching the bowl of popcorn the greenette had placed – safely, he thought – on top of the coffee table and sending the kernels flying everywhere, showering down on them like rain.

They had, until moments before, been watching a popular anime-turned-live action movie together to unwind a little and start learning how to be proper friends again, but not even halfway through Bakugou had started to nod off, so Deku poked him playfully to keep him alert, and well…

“AHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHA STAHAHAHAHAHAP!!” the blonde screamed, clamping his arms to his sides far too late to actually protect himself. His head was thrown back and a giant smile on his face as he cackled.

Deku giggled along with him, continuing to press and knead into that sweet spot between his ribs and armpits, enjoying himself very much despite the change in activity. Usually he was on the receiving end of this kind of treatment from Bakugou; it always felt nice to turn the tables on him when he could.

“GEHEHEHEHEHET OFF OF ME YOU SOHOHOHOHOHON OF A—!!”

“Language~” Deku warned teasingly, daring to lift his friend’s shirt enough to expose his tummy and blow a quick raspberry against the skin.

Bakugou went rigid, laughing so hard he went silent, wheezing out what giggles he could before taking a deep breath and rolling over to look up at the smaller boy, mirthful tears in his eyes. “Plehehehehease,” he begged, holding up a hand in surrender. “No mohohohohohore, Izuku!”

Deku grinned but did as he was asked and sat back, letting his friend sit up and catch his breath.

After a moment of regaining his bearings, Bakugou glanced around and muttered, “The fuck happened to the popcorn?”

“You kicked the bowl.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Deku shrugged, still smiling. “Not my fault you’re so ticklish, Kacchan.”

Bakugou had him pinned to the ground and begging for mercy through his own hysterical laughter in three seconds flat.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Wheezy Weasel x Younger!Reader || Drabble

Plot: That 🔼🔼🔼

Warnings: Age difference + smoking + smuttiness. Unedited.

Tagging: @astridflo , @disney-android-foundation , @marinerainbow , @moxiiscool .

You loved him. Or you were obsessed with him. Or both. You knew that, for sure. You just never knew... if he felt the same. He kept his feelings very close to the vest; worried you were so young and he was a fucking creep.

Maybe he was, he was already a thug anyway, but you sure didn't care. In fact the sooner that the old bastard came to terms with being a creep, the better for you.

So no, despite your feelings (Your very obvious feelings, that you don't even attempt to hide from anyone, least of all him), you were not a couple. Still though, you often found yourself hanging all over him late at night, after the other weasels have all gone to bed. Your legs spread across his thighs, or leaning against him, or fully sat in lap. For some reason... he never complains. There was a silent understanding, even if one of you was tired, you would stay up and watch TV together; and pretend it was by coincidence.

Tonight you're particularly tired, feeling foggy and affectionate. It had been a long day and all you could think about now was Wheezy; you wanted to cuddle up to him and stay there for as long as possible; you didn't even care about the smell. After you absentmindedly watch Greasy, the last one to go off to bed, your gaze shifts over to Wheezy looking handsome as hell- as always- smoking a couple cig's tucked between his teeth so the grey smoke puffs slowly, softly upwards towards the ceiling in warm billows. His eyes seem to glow dangerously behind it, watching TV even though he knows you're watching. You always liked that.

"... hey Wheezy?" You ask, shifting across the couch and gently laying your legs over his lap, and wrapping your arms around one of his. This causes him to sigh through grit teeth, because god forbid he let the cigarettes go for a second, and relax under your touch almost immediately. Like he cant help it. You like that, too. You never miss it; you always make sure to watch, when you touch him.

"Yeh?"

"How come you smoke?"

At this he glances down at you, scary luminescent crystalline hues gliding down your body and- oh. Thats unexpected. He- did he really just- Yes, he actually did.

Your cheeks warm up as he shrugs, turning back to the TV. "What can I say? Keeps my mouth and my hands busy. 'therwise I start sayin' things I shouldn't. Doin'... uh, things, I shouldn't."

"Well- do you think you'll ever stop smoking?"

"Babygirl, I'll stop this fucken second, if you gimmie a better use for my hands and mouth." As soon as he says that your eyes light up and you part your lips to respond- but he beats you to it. Realises what he said. "Oh, fuck. Listen, I didn't mean it that way. Yer too young, y' know that. I could be yer grandpa. Thats that."

Immediately your face falls, even though he sounds more like he's telling himself. Even though he likes you hanging off him. Even though he stays up to be with you. Against all the evidence, because its always this way. He never wants to take the last little step; he's a coward.

You're not even that young, you think, frustrated. Just because he's an old man... A pout appears on your face and when he glances at you, and sees it on your cute lips, it breaks something in him.

You only know it when he turns suddenly towards you and flicks his burning cigarettes into the ash tray on the coffee table. " -'then again, I could be a fucken idiot."

"Wh- "

His lips slam into yours and you release a whimper on impact, parting your lips immediately for him and accepting his experienced tongue into your mouth for the first time. His hands fall down your body, guiding you to lay down and wrap your legs around him- one at a time. Dragging your right leg over his hip and then the left. When you're all wrapped around him you can feel how hard he is for you. Fuck. He must've been like that the whole time.

His lips glide down over your chin and over your throat, leaving hot firm kisses all along the way, and talking gruffly against your skin between every touch; his fingers in your hair holding you still. "Look. what you fucken. did now. Kid. Made me a scumbag. Like Grease. Well," His lips graze gently back upwards, over your lips. When he doesn't immediately kiss you again you have to force your eyes to crack open. See him looking sternly at you; almost scary but it only makes you feel hotter, more light headed. "Now I'm all yours. Your-fucken-problem. Congrats." He says it like its a penalty. A punishment, somehow, instead of what you wanted. "'lright?"

He was asking you one last time. Giving you one last Out.

Goddamnit, this man!-

Instead of answering that stupid question, you lean up and kiss him deeply. "Take me now... "

"Jesus."

[natasha-in-space]

I just saw your post about Zen with a disabled MC, now I can ask you to do the same but this time is MC who has an invisible disability, you can choose what invisible disability is that

Sure thing! I decided to go with two different options here :)

: ̗̀➛ It will take Zen some time to educate himself and fully come to terms with all the nuances of chronic pain or fatigue if you're someone who is dealing with it in their daily life. Though I don't think he is completely unaware of it either. As I'm sure I've stated before, he definitely has disabled fans with whom he has interacted before. It's pretty reasonable to assume that at least a few fans with chronic pain and/or fatigue would approach him or send him their letters of appreciation, detailing their lives to him.

But he will be upset for you.

The way you react to it is entirely up to you, but I do think he will go through a phase of accidentally smothering you with his worry for your well-being. Telling you to rest when you say you're fine, doing easy tasks for you that you can perfectly do by yourself, and constantly asking if you're experiencing a flare-up or not. He has good intentions. He really does. Zen truly does view you as such an admirable and strong-willed person, but it simply breaks his heart to think of you struggling with anything by yourself when you already have such a difficult battle to endure almost every day.

You will most definitely have to share many sincere conversations with him about the topic. Set clear boundaries and educate him on the specific needs you do have. It won't be picture-perfect from the get-go, but Zen loves you to the moon and back. If you thought he was hardworking before, wait until you see all the work and commitment he puts into your relationship.

With time, you two will work out almost everything, even the smallest of details in your routines. He understands what you require during a flare-up. He knows when to leave you alone and when you'd rather have him hold your hand and coo into your hair loving words of reassurance, placing kisses to the crown of your head. And he ensures that you always have all the medication you may need in easy access.

Zen learns to let you make all the decisions you need, and you learn to rely on him whenever you want.

: ̗̀➛ And if you have a chronic mental illness, it's not much easier. People often undermine just how much your mental health can affect every single aspect of your life. I think Zen may be a bit less knowledgeable here. You're going to have to educate him on your disability, and how it affects you specifically. But despite being a bit clueless, Zen is not disrespectful by any means.

He will listen to you to talk without interruption, his hands clutched together on his knees, and his eyes completely focused on you. Knowing how much you're struggling will make his heart ache for you. Especially hearing jusy how hard it can be get basic respect from people when your disability isn't immediately noticed by human eyes. You can count on him to place a gentle hand on your shoulder and promise to always be there for you when you need him.

It's not going to be simple. And both of you will face challenges navigating your relationship. Zen will especially struggle with communication in this instance. Much like him taking on a role of a caretaker as I wrote prior, he will end up making the same mistake here. Only this time, it'll be him neglecting his own emotional needs and being hypersensitive to your mood changes throughout the day. He simply doesn't want to worry you or to cause you any more stress... Especially when you are dealing with a depressive episode, for exactly. Communication is something you two are going to have to work at one step at a time.

But Zen is nothing but stubborn. And he's very much stubborn about his love for you. When he was considering giving up on himself, you have been there for him and believed in him like no one else did. He is determined to demonstrate the same level of dedication to you, if not even more so. No matter what hurdles you two face, he will always be there to hold you tight and remind you just how much he loves you, at the end of the day.

I also kind of think that you dealing with a chronic mental illness will increase his awareness of the topic of mental health as a whole. His fans will probably see him donating to mental health charities and research, promoting mental health awareness in Korea, and advocating for the visibility of chronic mental health disabilities.

[sunlightandsuffering]

Sorry to ask but I miss Christmas Chaos so much. I miss little Nico and his shenanigans… when will we get an update on the goober?

AHAHAHA aww it always makes me smile how much y'all like the little gremlins I write lmfao!!

Eren experiences his first fight with his child for the most ridiculous of reasons. Sure, he'd realized that at some point the whole fatherhood thing wasn't going to be sunshine and rainbows and Nico would most certainly have vengeful tantrums. He'd just thought it would be over something more reasonable.

Apparently not.

It's been twenty minute and his child is giving him the stink eye. Bundled up in green gumboots a pair of dinosaur shorts, a blue shirt that proudly declares 'Fisherman', and a neon orange life vest Nico watches Eren expectantly.

"Did you catch anything yet?" Nico demands expectantly and Eren breathes out a sigh, the third time in ten minutes. This is partly his fault though, no one said taking first graders fishing was a good idea. They simply don't have the patience or the prefrontal cortex for it. "No," Nico tells him and Nico's glare somehow worsens, mirroring that of his mother when Eren forgets to take the garbage out or leaves her in the morning without a kiss. "Nico, buddy that's not how this works, we have to wait for a fish," Eren bargains with the little boy.

God he hasn't seeked anyone's approval this hard since high school when he wanted to impress his father after Zeke came back into their lives, fuck. Nico sniffs, turning his head out towards the infinite blue of the lake. The final nail in the coffin is when the little boy drops his fishing rod to the bottom of the boat, toeing it away from his presence like it's personally offended him.

"Nico," Eren tries again, he'd wanted this to be a bonding experience, reminiscing on his own summer days out on the boat with his dad. But now that he thinks about it, maybe he'd been a little older when they'd done that.

"I guess you're not as good as mommy said you were." It's a shot to Eren's heart, and he immediately renews his fishing efforts, reeling his line in so he can cast again. He's going to catch this little fucker a fish if it's the last thing he does, if only out of pure spite at this point. "I'm a great fisherman, I showed you the pictures right?" Nico sends him an almost disbelieving glance, green eyes doubtful before turning back to the wonders of the lake, "You looked a little younger in those pictures daddy, I'm not sure you've still got it." Fuck, children are evil, pure evil, and observant as hell. Everything this kid says is ripping his confidence to shreds because he's not fucking wrong, not in the slightest.

Eren hasn't fished in probably two years. He'd given up the hobby mostly during teaching school, there wasn't time to trek out to the lake or the river for hours on end just to catch a small trout or if he was lucky a bass.

Eren winces, pulling his rod back for another cast, "Why don't you try again with your rod buddy, you'll have fun." "I'm okay," Nico mumbles, leaning over the boat to dip a finger into the water, "I'll just wait for you."

God it's the disappointment that's by far the worst part, who knew gleaning your child's own approval would be so hard.

It's killing him inside, he's gotta catch this kid a fish.

Its not even been an hour since they got out here, maybe 40 minutes maximum.

Fuck, he should have listened to Mikasa when she said he might be a bit young for fishing, why hadn't he listened to the boy's mother? Famous last words. Eren does not in fact catch a fish, no matter how mnay different areas he moves the boat, or how many fish he sees other nearby boatgoers catch, the fish seem to absolutely loathe him today. He goes back to the dock heartbroken, even more so as Nico steps out of the boat primly, going almost immediatley to Mikasa's awaiting arms. She hugs him, that bright smile on her face as she asks them both about their adventures, "How did my boys do? Anything I'll be cooking up for dinner tonight?" "No Mommy, Daddy's not the best fisherman," Nico comments before burying his head in her waist, and Mikasa fucking laughs. She notices his forlorn look a few minutes later when she sends Nico back up to their campsite, and she's borderline cackling as she slides her arms around his waist, looking up at him mischievously. "Bad day?" "He hated it, ugh," Eren groans, dropping his fishing gear to the dock and letting himself be comforted by his very beautiful wife, he's ffucking moping. Mikasa laughs, the tinkling of bells in his ears as she kisses her way up his neck before placing a chaste peck at the corner of his mouth. "That'll happen sometimes, get used to it baby." "It really fucking sucks." Mikasa cackles now, "First time it happened to me was when I brought him to an amusement park. Kid fucking HATED it." "Really?" Eren pulls back, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "An amusement park?"

"Yeah, too loud," Mikasa chuckles, "I paid all this money and he was miserable all day, we left early actually." "Seriously?" Eren asks, tugging her further into his arms, his hands not so conspicuously running over her ass. She swats him for it, but she doesn't bother to move his hands. He smiles into the crown of her hair and she snuggles further into him, "Yep, and let's not forget my attempts at tennis lessons, I thought he could be a child prodigy but what a mistake that was." Eren barks out a laugh, "Is that why he's always glaring at the tennis equipment in the garage?" Mikasa nods against his chest, "Yup! he thinks i'm gonna send him back." "Let's hope not." She bites his shoulder playfully, "Well with your luck now Yeager he's going to be glaring at the fishing equipment."

He swats her ass this time and she squeaks, "I've still got time." "That's what I said about tennis." "We could raise a fishing tennis prodigy yet Miki." "Sure." It's nice to know he's not the only one, and he's sure Mikasa feels the same, parenting isn't exactly easy, and despite what his early childhood education classes would have him believe, it's not quite as straightforward as employing Vygotsky and Piaget at every turn and gentle parenting the shit out of kids. Sometimes it's difficult, and disappointing and very much not rewarding when his little gremlin of a child stonewalls him fromt he other end of the boat, but it's still his kid either way and he sure does love the little brat.

[appocalipse]

coming out at midnight!!!!!! ♥

[sleetkissed]

𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚃 .  [𝙱𝙶3 — 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚄𝚛𝚐𝚎]

The albino babe

Esteri grew up as a milkman's child in the upper city of Baldur's Gate. Her parents   —   A married couple of influential figures who struggled to receive a child saw it as a blessing, when the knock on their pompous mansion's door revealed a babe draped in red velvet. Albeit it was mostly clear Esteri was not their biological child, ( She did not share many similarities to her adoptive parents   —   Both elves with dark features  &  rather small statures ) they truly loved the girl. Her father made himself a name as a renowned painter, even being commissioned by lords  &  ladies alike. Esteri naturally picked up on his creativity, learning from him  &  experiencing joy while pursuing art. She was eight years old when her parents tried for another child. And to her family's fortune, it worked out. And to Esteri's misfortune, it worked out. The girl wasn't happy with having to share the attention of her parents. She became quieter. Isolated herself more  &  more. Which naturally resulted in both father  &  mother spending more time with Esteri's little sister. Their biological child. Brushing it off as normal for the kid to act jealous, even more natural after being a single child for eight years, both elves did believe things would settle eventually.

Her 12th birthday.

It was the fourth year Jule was a member of her family. A leech, in Esteri's eyes. Her father began to teach her sibling how to paint. Just like when she herself was little. Took her with himself to smaller events just like when she was little. Silence was the only thing that kept that boiling anger inside her. And to make herself a gift, Esteri decided she wished for blood this very day. And it shall be Jule's. Her first murder. In her father's studio. The young woman not only figuratively painted the room with the four-year-old's blood  &  intestines. Everything was red. The walls, every painting which was still in progress, every brush every stool. Red red red. And how she basked in the scenery. It felt relieving. It felt so, so right. It couldn't possibly be wrong. It took her parents a few hours to notice their little darling babe was missing. Finding Esteri drawing with Jule's blood while her body was already cold, unrecognizable, the shock sat deep. It was horrifying. A sickening display. Their little treasure, their little golden girl which appeared at their doorstep years ago obviously was to blame. And Esteri wouldn't even deny it. She . . . was proud, excited even.

After her first masterpiece.

Safe to say, her parents were not sharing the human child's ecstasis. She must be possessed, thus, they tried their hardest to search for a cure. No church could help them, no exorcism had an effect. That child was pure evil. Turning their child over to the authorities was their last straw, but a wise one, so they thought. That twelve-year-old girl would be locked up in the city's dungeon system until they could figure out a date when to execute her, very sure she was just a vessel to something horrifying, something unspeakable. But somehow, the girl did not stay long behind bars. Vanished. From one night to the other. Not to be seen in the near future. Freed by bhaalists  &  ending up spending her remaining childhood in Bhaal's Temple, Esteri realized ( and more importantly, got taught very intensely ) she was Bhaal's flesh. His daughter. Not some elven snob's kid from the upper city. Something great.  And of course she came back to end her "parent's" life. The now 16-year-old made a great spectacle out of her once loved ones' bodies, similar to her first kill. And it felt almost as refreshing as Jule's. They held her down for a decade. She was not able to embrace her true purpose. They deserved nothing less.

[ This should suffice for a little insight of her past. If there is interest, I will write some more about how she grew up in the temple, how she met the Gort-man and stuff :9 ]

[katia-dreamer]

Dear

Darling

Dearest

Percy has many different endearments for her, which all sound lovely in his mouth.

They taste sweet when she leans forward to kiss them off his lips. 

Her fingers brush the curve of his ear. His skin is soft and warm. 

He shivers against her as his hands rest on her waist, comforting and familiar. 

He holds her like he doesn’t want to let go.

She doesn’t mind. 

Vex moves her hands to the nape of his neck, tickling the hair she finds there. 

“Vex’ahlia,” he whispers, and she devours that off his lips too. 

-

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 7

Everybody thank @brutal-nemesis for her cave knowledge and help today!

If you've been sitting here saying "wow boa, this stuff is great, but I really need a character based off the warlock class of DND struggling to serve their patron!" then you're really gonna like today's writing and you should buy a lottery ticket.

Content warning: Claustrophobia in the form of a very narrow cave. Take care of yourselves!

Magic with a Cost

The walls of the cave were definitely getting narrower now. Where there had once been enough room to stretch out his arms, his fingertips now brushed against the rough, stone walls on either side. 

The adventurer sent the shadows of these depths away, leaving an otherworldly light. Controlling the darkness was strange in that way. If he banished it, there could only be light in its absence.

He unfurled the parchment on which a very drunk bar customer had scribbled the map of this cave system. It occurred to him that he should’ve tried harder to persuade them, rather than simply buying drinks until he got what he wanted. But it wasn’t his fault his patron had been so stingy with their powers recently. 

Well. Not entirely his fault.

If he’d read the disjointed scribbles of ink correctly, this crevice would lead to a wider cavern housing the element his patron was after. 

Pushing forward the walls narrowed further, just as promised, until they were pushing against his sides. They were moist, wetting his cloak just enough to feel the clammy chill this far underground, but the grainy texture still chafed against bare arms. He wrapped his cloak around himself, sliding further into the crevice, finally able to spot an opening just ahead.

His shoulders were too wide after a while and he sidled ahead instead, but then even the cloak was too thick to pass through. Reluctantly, he unclasped it and regretted his sleeveless style. Though usually functional in conflict to avoid overheating, his teeth were now chattering and his arms and shoulders were being scraped raw. 

With one final lunge, he emerged in a round cavern. It still felt remarkably like a hallway, longer than it was wide, but he could finally breathe again. He summoned a fire for light this time, remembering his instructions.

Call me when you arrive. I don’t need you messing about with what’s rightfully mine.

He hadn’t quite understood the explanation of why his patron couldn’t travel here themself. The pitch dark of a cave was, naturally, suited to them. But they’d chastised him with explanations about natural light sources, potency of shadows, and how his humanity allowed him to ignore such discrepancies. 

But fire, as a sister to the sun, was a suitable replacement for her. 

Flames danced along the walls revealing what he hadn’t paid attention to before: sloped floors dipping down to a pool in the middle of the room. It couldn’t have been more than a meter deep, and the water was clear all the way to the bottom.

And then he was pulled away from it by a familiar dizziness as his own shadow lurched and twisted. Of course, rather than possessing one of the many eligible shadows around him, his patron had to make their entrance unsettling. His consciousness blurred at the edges until they’d adjusted their physical form to their liking, towering over him with a grin.

“Ahhhhh… and here I was thinking you’d never call me, baby!” They stretched dramatically, hissing sounds and tendrils of smoke imitating the cracking of joints.

“I would never call you that. And you’d be much grumpier if you just made the journey I did.” He was having trouble hiding the goosebumps and smeared blood on his arms.

“You are my spiritual sugar baby if we’re being technical. You’d call me that if it meant I restored your full access to my power.” Their patron laughed, knowing he had no good response to that.

“Well, get going with your thing then. I’d like to stop begging for every miniscule bit of help.”

“Yes, about that. Where the hells have you brought me?” 

“Where ol’ drunkie told me the Treasure of Elmstern Cave is,” he enunciated sarcastically.

“I told you what to do if you wanted my powers of persuasion.”

“And I wasn’t going to give a sermon on a demonic entity to the whole bar, including the guy I needed details from.” 

When his patron touched him in this plane of reality, it was delayed. Their touches were firm and cold, but disconnected from their body. The movement simply happened faster than this realm could process. 

All that to say: when they slapped him, he couldn’t see it coming. A chilly wind preceded harsh contact, only after which did he see the followthrough of their hand before tumbling to the ground. 

“I am not demonic.”

“Yeah? You’re definitely acting like it!” He pushed himself back up, only to find his patron’s manifestation standing directly against him. “I know you’re not a demon, but those without pacts aren’t very understanding.”

“That doesn’t excuse you speaking in such a way.”

“Then just take your fucking treasure and leave me be!” He pushed them back, tired of the cheap intimidation tactics.

“Oh, I would have.” Their tone dropped.

That made their beneficiary freeze.

“And why not?”

“It’s not here.” A flinch.

“But they said-”

“I don’t care what story the town gossip spun for you,” they interrupted, their voice booming and echoing off the walls. “I’ve warned you. Continuous failures prove to me that the essence of your soul may be much more useful than your precious little mortal existence.”

“I-I-” They stalked forward, forcing him to wade into the pool. “I didn’t anticipate the difficulty of your tasks. I’m not useless just because I’m not some… some hotshot who’s been doing nothing since the birth of the universe.” Frustration bit into his words. If they wanted to play rough, he’d do the same.

“Be careful what you say, human.” 

He was choking, and then a hand wrapped around his throat to add the pressure that cut off his words. They were standing in the middle of the pool now, and adrenaline couldn’t stop him tensing up from the freezing cold. 

“Prove to me that your pathetic life is worthy of preservation.”

Their hand plunged him into darkness. 

The water was all encompassing, seeping into each crevice of his being. The grip of his patron loosened and his body breathed before he could stop it, forcing liquid down his throat and up his nose. His feet had left the shallow floor at some point during the struggle, and he couldn’t orient himself. Desperate hands clawed at rocks and his movements kicked up silt, making his eyes absolutely useless. 

Somehow, his grip found purchase and his head met air, desperately coughing up water so he could breathe it in again. How much had he swallowed? He didn’t even remember doing so. 

Tears came next: relief, horror, exhaustion, all of it wracking his body as if he had energy to be wasting on this.

Then the water rippled behind him and a hand found his shoulder.

“Oh, you think you’re done already. How cute.”

[mari13606]

Lost

“Esma?”

“Yeah?” She turned, sharp jaw clenched pensively.

“Ne- nevermind,” he dropped his gaze, watching a raindrop fall from his nose to between his boots. Galen follows after her when he hears the sharp twist of Esma’s boots in the wet gravel.

Her most recent abode isn’t much further, luckily. Galen can feel the heat hit him when Esma opens the door, hurrying in to escape the cold dampness of the rain. He carefully removes his shoes by the door, feeling Esma’s presence doing the same before she moves away. He takes another moment to fully unlace his boots before he follows, tugging off his soaked cloak. 

The floorboards creak lightly under his feet, betraying his position as he steps into the sitting room. Esma looks up from where she’s stoking the fire. The way he swallows feels too loud in his ears as he takes a few steps forward.

 She moves to the kitchen before he gets within three steps of her. Galen closes his eyes at the phantom sword in his chest. He carefully hangs his cloak by the fire to dry, and sits on the floor near it. Perhaps a bit too closely, the fire almost burns on his skin. He doesn’t move.

Galen hears the way Esma deliberately creaks a board as she walks away. He pretends he didn’t feel her presence as she left his tea just within reach, opting to simply turn and pick up the mug with a hum of thanks. The tea is his favorite, rosemary and mint. 

He’s careful to not watch her settle into an armchair, tucking her feet up against the armrest. His fingers still feel cold despite the way the fire pushes feeling back into his fingertips, and while the tea is nice it does nothing to parse the lump in his throat. He sets his tea down.

He can feel Esma’s eyes on him. He closes his and tilts his head back, leaning back until the fire truly begins to burn, until he catches the slight change in her breathing. He opens his eyes and leans forward, meeting her eyes.

“What happened to you Galen?” her expression is the most open it’s been since he’s seen her again, some mixture of confusion and grief. He isn’t sure what his own expression is, isn’t sure he wants to know. He doesn't know how to answer the question either. Too much has happened since she left and to be honest he doesn’t quite know how he even ended up here.

Whatever expression he has must be enough, he watches the confusion clear and the grief redouble and somewhere in it all he finds his voice again.

“Could you hold me? Please?”

Esma crashes into him, simultaneously pulling him from the fire and flooding him with warmth. He shivers, clutching the back of her shirt, and feels her pull him a bit firmer against her. His eyes sting, he tastes salt, and in her arms it finally feels like home.

~~~~~~

@creativepromptfills thank you for putting out prompts! This one in particular inspired me to pick up the pen again, hope you enjoy!

[despairforme]

The internet was down at a really bad time. Long gone were the days when you could watch TV WITHOUT an internet connection. Maybe a smart TV wasn't so goddamn smart after all. He'd been watching netflix again. A lot of his time recently had been spent just laying on the couch. It wasn't good for his mental state, he knew that. But, it had been raining for DAYS, so he was not keen on going out. He DID drag his ass out once a day, but that was just to get food. He was going to fucking rot in his apartment if this weather continued. The lack of internet connection could force him to go for a walk though. Nnoitra glanced out the windows. Rain gently tapped against the not-so-clean glass. He sighed and pulled out his phone. He was gonna play a mobile game ( he only had one ) until the internet returned--- Oh. There was an update needed to start the game. Which, again - he'd need an internet connection for. FUCK why was the world so goddamn technological? He kept scrolling on his phone, hoping to find an app that could entertain him. Pretty much the only app that even worked without a connection was the photo album app. He snorted as he opened it. Nnoitra was not the kind of guy to take pictures of stuff. He sometimes took pictures of posters with ads on them, just so he'd remember where he could buy cheap shit. He scrolled through the images of old posters with promotions that had expired long ago.

All ya can eat fried chicken, huh?

Oh, wait - it had expired six weeks ago.

He continued to scroll. Almost unexpectedly, something BLUE appeared. Then more blue. A lot of blue. A blue haired guy. Sleeping, or working out, or laying on the couch with a white cat on his lap. Grimmjow. That's right... Nnoitra had almost forgotten, he'd used to take quite a lot of pictures of him while they were dating. The next picture was Grimmjow flashing his sharp teeth in a grin. His eyes squinted and his dimples showing. Something in Nnoitra's chest ached at the sight. He knew he wasn't over him ( maybe he'd never move on from him ), but to his defence, it had been a little while since he'd thought about him. Seeing pictures of him though... FUCK HE MISSED HIM.

He wanted to see him again. Wanted to hear his voice. Wanted - REALLY WANTED - to touch him. He scrolled to the next picture. Fuck... He really was so goddamn handsome, wasn't he? With his sharp jawline and bright blue eyes. Not to mention those abs. Ah, fuck. He was getting horny. Was he really going to jerk off to pictures of his ex? How pathetic was that?

His pants felt tight so he opened them. Even while depressed, Nnoitra sex-drive was on-point. He'd already jacked off today. Didn't mean he couldn't go for another round though. He shoved his hand down his boxers.

It was such a long time ago, that he could not really recall the feeling of Grimmjow's touch. How his single hand had felt when it touched him. He remembered his lips had always been chapped. He remembered the scent of him. Cigarettes ( which Nnoitra hated ). Somehow he hadn't minded it when the scent came from Grimmjow. He remembered how cold his body had always felt. He could picture him quite vividly in a number of compromised positions. How good he'd looked when he was being choked. His face when he came.

The sex with Grimmjow had always been great. Nnoitra hadn't really appreciated just HOW good it had been. Having sex with someone you actually loved - and who loved you in return. Maybe it was a cliche, but it was special. Nnoitra got laid PLENTY now that he was single, but... It could not compare. And no, that wasn't just because the guys ( or girls ) he slept with were not as good looking as Grimmjow ( though you'd be fucking hard pressed to find anyone with looks that matched ). Nnoitra knew it was the emotional connection that was missing. He really... Really had loved Grimmjow. Too bad Grimmjow had stopped loving him. No - that was not fair. It was he who had made it impossible for Grimmjow to love him.

Nnoitra wrapped his fingers around his dick, squeezing to feel the size. Always satisfying. Even now that he was feeling a weird hybrid between heartbroken and horny as hell. He started stroking himself. His eye slid shut so he could better imagine Grimmjow's face. How he would kiss him. How the other's hand would push up into his hair and pull. Hard. How Nnoitra would shove his tongue into his mouth to take his breath away.

I know I'm a fuck-up.

'S there a chance ya can still love me?

'N even if ya can't ---

Won't ya let me fuck ya so I can pretend?

And in his fantasy, Grimmjow would deepen the kiss. Like he was saying that YEAH, he could try to love him again. Then Nnoitra would open up his body. Quite forcefully because he couldn't wait to be close to him. Be inside him. Fuck, he loved Grimmjow's expression when he fucked him. How his eyes watered over as he tipped his head back and moaned. FUCK---

Nnoitra got off, and came crashing down from his brief high with a mix of shame and sadness. It really was pretty pathetic, to jerk off to a fantasy about getting back together with his ex. Not to mention Grimmjow deserved better than to be his jack-off material. Still he really just... Missed him. Missed him so much.

[erthlyheavn]

Dash has got me thinking about this but Beelzebub genuinely has no need for contracts. And I think that, among many other benefits is what makes being in her employment so enticing and sought after.

And any hellborns and the extremely rare sinner are able to get an equal opportunity shot at any job. She doesn't care about class or species. All she cares about is if someone can do their job and do it right. And there are many benefits that comes along with working for Beelzebub specifically. But one of them is her protection. You work for Beelzebub? You're virtually untouchable. Not many people would fuck with someone who worksdirectly under a sin.

She's also a very generous employer who genuinely values loyalty among all else. However, it doesn't need to be said but it's pretty well known in Gluttony that once you set foot into her palace, your life is in her hands. If someone so much as crosses or betray her in any way?

Their life becomes forfeit. None of her other employees will try to help nor will they have any sympathy. Because really, the person in question should have really known better and well, that just means a position has just opened up.

[intheticklecloset]

Hi, Nym! How are you? Can I please request a ler!Dazai lee! Fyodor coffee shot? Imagine! The two are in bed (either cuddling or just doing their own thing) and -tall-bitch-Dazai kind of just sits on Fyodor's hips and Fyodor is absolutely unfazed- going as far as to taunt him... until Dazai starts 'air-tickling him'. So Dazai is just wiggling his fingers above his boyfriend's giggle spots and Fyodor is trying his best to avoid his fingers, meanwhile Dazai is teasing him with, 'I'm not even touching you!' Please tell me if you get sick of this ship/lee and ler pairing LMAO- I don't want you to get sick of it.

“Oh?” Fyodor mumbled with a sleepy smile as Dazai pushed the covers aside to loosely straddle his hips, grinning down at him. “You want to go another round already? I thought I’d tired you out.”

Dazai ran his hands up and down his partner’s arms. “You did. I’m too tired to go again right now, bunny. Don’t worry.”

“Hmm. Then what are you doing?”

Dazai tilted his head as though the answer should be obvious, lightly trailing his hands down Fyodor’s chest. “Just thinking of how I can get you back.”

“Aha.” Fyodor smirked up at him. “And what have you concluded, moy blestyashchiy?”

The detective hummed again, dramatically shifting into a “thinking very hard” pose. Then his eyes lit up like fireworks and he snapped his fingers. “I know!”

He wasn’t even touching Fyodor – he was hovering almost six inches above him, in fact – but the sight of Dazai’s wiggling pointer fingers over his bare torso made the Russian full-body shiver, and he instinctively brought his arms in to protect himself, despite not actually needing to…yet.

“Moya lyubov’,” Fyodor muttered, his voice wavering ever so slightly, “don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?”

The Russian wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that trick. He attempted a glare, but it was halfhearted at best with the way the brunette was beaming down at him.

“Worth a shot,” Dazai chuckled, switching from wiggling just two fingers to wiggling all of them, darting down as though he were about to attack before pulling back at the last second. It was worth it to hear Fyodor’s sharp intake of breath, to watch him twist uselessly to the side as if he could go anywhere like this.

“Dazai, don’t.”

“Don’t what, bunny?”

Fyodor hated the way the too-smart-for-his-own-good detective was looking at him. Like he was just waiting for an invitation, an excuse to go for it – like hearing him sputter out helpless giggles would give him all the fuel he needed to get through his next day.

“Don’t…tease me,” Fyodor relented, refusing to make eye contact. “Just do it already, pridurok.”

“I don’t know what you called me, but I’m sure it was a loving pet name, right, bunny?” Dazai giggled, then finally brought his wiggling fingers down to Fyodor’s sides, watching him arch and snicker with immense satisfaction.

“Ya tehehehehebya nenahahahahavizhu!”

“Love you too, Fyo~”

[grumpy-limsan-customs-cat]

"Were you going to ever tell me?" or "May I come with you?" (Alternatively, "Just be careful, okay?") For Luvshan of course! But with whomever of your choosing.

Variety of writing prompts

Even when visits from Luvshan's elusive companion had always been more than welcome, at times Jikhaa chose the worst of timings for them. Not that the youth was ever at fault for wandering through the door during the late hours - it was unavoidable with the long hours the clinic stayed open, full of people looking for care.

No, it was Luvshan's fault alone, for being found in the situation that he was. Tired, hunched over his desk like a barely awake husk of a man, empty bottles of wine and the uncomfortable, sweet stench of fogweed surrounding him. Even through the haze of both, the shame managed to rear its ugly head, and Luvshan's eyes were unable to lift to meet Jikhaa's - the gaze as distant and unfocused as always, but always seeing through to the things the old Xaela desperately wished to hide.

"...Were you ever going to tell me?"

The voice was soft, a barely there whisper with no ill intent or blame, but the hint of concern stabbed Luvshan all the same. It made him curl more into himself, hiding his shame under a self-deprecating sneer.

"Tell you...what? About this? My daily life?"

It's none of your business.

The words passed his mind and lingered on his lips, but they were never uttered. Even without them Luvshan could sense the shift on the other Xaela - the slightly lowered gaze, the barely there tension on his jaw. Not from disappointment, not from anger, but from something more tender.

The silence lingered for a while, awkward but stubborn, before Luvshan could feel another change before his desk.

"...I'm still here."

Another whisper, but heavy in determination, and even heavier in meaning.

Resolution, and a plea.