#genuinely unfathomable shit

[grassbreads]

I just got a verbal job offer for more money than I ever thought I'd be making in my entire life

[naivety]

my sense of urgency for this election was all used up watching a genocide play out live on instagram while my mom continued to talk about which politician might make the housing market better and i tried not to genuinely lose my mind over the dissonance. in all honesty short of bombs dropping on americans' houses my adrenal glands are beyond checked out. i'll show up to the polls and do my part and try to plug into the bare bones direct action i can find in the middle of nowhere deep red county state but god. there are so many posts circulating trying to fear monger me into voting for one genocidal president of this genocidal nation over another and i may as well live on a different planet. i can fathom the urgency but i could not make myself feel it short of being held at gunpoint. which may even be on the ballot but that's how americans have been voting for decades now and each of them regardless of party has worried about the idea of being held at gunpoint while a right of theirs is taken away while there are people who are already being held at gunpoint and their rights have already been taken away by the very people being beamed into my eyeballs as the escape from this hypothetical violence that's already non-hypothetically happened to millions who aren't US liberals because of the america they're trying to save from trump the same america regardless of democrats or republicans or whigs or federalists and does anyone else feel like they're going crazy

[angelicdonuts]

Nene and girlfriend this time :3 !!

Grhghvhhg the girls... the shawty baes..

(Still more!! Next post is gonna be boyfriend focused [with a little bit of Pico too ^_^] !!)

[eosofspades]

also by the way other people with curly hair there's no way you actually have to have a routine for your hair, right. there's no way that you're actually SUPPOSED to be putting like three different kinds of leave-in and cream and foam whatever the fuck that stuff is, right ?????? this is halfway a vent post about how disabling adhd is also but i can barely manage to change my clothes every day if you told me i needed to have a HAIR CARE ROUTINE for my hair to actually look nice i would actually lose it

[sassygwaine]

thinking about how as an adult i value the same things that were beaten and trained out of me as a kid (like a dog like a fucking dog)

thinking about who i would be if i could have kept what came naturally to me

thinking about how unfair it is to have to relearn it now or grieve its absence

to know there’s some of me that’s lost forever and what isn’t missing is still so wounded

[cinnabeat]

i think its a crime that all the soccer shit ended right when shark week was done

[unnameablethings]

concept:

supervillain × henchman with the twist that the supervillain is a sort of cartoon foppish dramatic gay villain with gonzo schemes and no bodycount. and the henchman is secretly a grimdark ultrapowerful Apex Predator supervilllain who came to Stake Out the competition. got mistaken for a henchman and found this so fucking funny hes just 100% committed to the bit.

hes carrying around boxes of fucking Acme Corporation sticks of dynamite. hes dressing in the matching stylish outfit. hes managing the other henchmen to execute gonzo schemes flawlessly. genuinely the most fun hes ever had in his life

his dumbass gay boss has literally no idea the lengths he is going to behind the scenes to make sure nobody interferes with any of this shit.

(apex supervillain, in his Supervillain Disguise. homoerotically and terrifyingly flirt/threatens flamboyant supervillain. smash cut to this poor man lying face down on a couch unpacking this with the very attentive henchman)

("hes going to eat me maybe????? but GOD that was the HOTTEST fucking thing thats ever happened to me. but i might DIE?? do u think he LIKES me...."

henchman: i think he does :3)

the ruse comes out when someone who the apex supervillain didnt catch comes to ACTUALLY challenge/harm his gay boss in public and apex supervillain is like. yeah no we're not doing this. time for the power of unfathomable violence.

gay supervillain promptly has a FULL MELTDOWN. oh my god the blood. and also. "you LIED TO ME???"

apex supervillain, apologetically: "I was waiting to see if you'd ever figure it out yourself. And the longer it went the funnier it got."

gay supervillain: "I TRUSTED you!! you were my BEST HENCHMAN"

apex supervillain: aw. past tense?

[aenramsden]

The following is not my idea; it was the original brainchild of a friend of mine named Omicron, with help from various others including EarthScorpion, TenfoldShields, @havocfett and ShintheNinja:

So, you know what I want to do one day? Run (or play in) a D&D campaign in which the Big Bad Super Dragon that is fuckoff ancient and unfathomably powerful and whose actions have shaped history and bent the course of nations and had repercussions on the whole culture and society in the region where it's set; the Bonus Special Boss for some endgame optional quest after you defeat the direct BBEG and win the campaign...

... is a white dragon.

To explain this for people not deep into 5e monster lore; D&D dragons are sapient beings, and known for their instincts and tendencies, and whenever you meet an big evil dragon that's really old it's usually this ancient creature of terrible intellect Smaug-ing it up all over the place.

Except white dragons are fucking stupid. Like, they're still capable of speech and thought! They're just… feral, hungry morons. And you almost never see them portrayed as ancient wyrms for that reason; they lack majesty. Critical Role did it, yes, but even then, Vorugal is explicitly the most bestial member of the Chroma Conclave, and the others are the more intelligent planners and long-term threats. An ancient white as a nation-defining endboss, though; not a thug for a smarter master but as the strongest and biggest threat around is just not the sort of thing you tend to see.

Adventurers: "Oh wise Therunax the Munificent, gold dragon of Law and Good, what can you tell us adventurers of the evil dragons which rule this land?" Therunax the Munificent, 500-year old Gold Dragon: "Good adventurers, know this: this land is torn apart by the evil of Tiamat's spawn. The eastern marches are the dwelling of Furinar the Plague-Bringer, black dragoness whose hoard is a thousand sicknesses contained in the body of her tributes. The southern volcanic mountains are the roosting of Angrar the Wrathful, the fiery red dragon, who brings magmatic fury on all who do not worship him. And the northern peaks are home to Face-Biter Mike, the oldest and most powerful of all, of whom I dread to speak." Adventurers: "F-Face-Biter Mike???" Therunax: "Oh yes, verily indeed; two thousand years has Mike lived, and his eyes have seen the rise and fall of five empires, and a hundred and score champions have sought to slay him; and each and every one he bit their fucking face off."

Like... I want to see a campaign where Face-Biter Mike is genuinely the most powerful dragon in the region, if not the entire world. Where sometimes he descends on a city to grab himself some meatsicles and causes a localised ice age by the beat of his vast wings and the frigid wastes of his mighty breath and by the chill his mere presence brings to everything for miles around him, and everyone just has to deal with that for the next decade. An entire era of civilization comes to an end, an empire falls, tens of thousands starve in the winter, all because Mike wanted a snack. Where his hoard is an unfathomably vast mass of jewels and artefacts and precious stones frozen in an unmelting glacier, except he is a nouveau riche idiot with fuckall appraising skill, so half of his hoard is coloured glass or worthless knicknacks, and he doesn't give a shit.

"Your Draconic Majesty, this crown is… It's pyrite." "Yeah, well, it's brighter than this dusty old thing made out of real gold, it's my new best treasure. Throw the other one away." "…throw the Burnished Tiara of Bahamut, forged in the First Age of Man, your majesty???" "See? I can't even remember its fucking name." "But my lord-" "DO YOU WANT TO BE A MEATSICLE" "…I will fetch a trash bag, your majesty."

But at the same time, he's not stupid, he's just simple, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous than the usual kinds of scheming Big Bad you see in these things, while simultaneously justifying why Orcus remains on his throne (because he's lazy). Face-Biter Mike doesn't make convoluted plans or run labyrinthine schemes; he just has a talent for violence and a pragmatic, straightforward approach to turning any kind of problem he struggles with into a problem that can be resolved with violence. Face-Biter Mike has one talent and it's horrifying physical power, so his approach to any complicated problem is "how do I turn this into a situation where I can fly down and bite this dude's face off?" with absolutely no regard for the collateral damage or consequences of doing so, because those are also things he can turn into face-bitable problems.

"My lord, the dread necromancer Nikodemion is using his undead dragons to attempt a conquest of the eastern kingdom; his agents are everywhere, his plans are centuries in the making, what can we do against such a mastermind?" "I'm gonna fly over the capital and eat the eastern king." "M-my lord???" "The kingdom will collapse without leadership, Nikodemion will win his war, he'll take the capital and crown himself king." "And that helps us… how?" "Once he does I'll fly over to the capital and eat him." "…" "This is why you advisors all suck. You're all about convoluted plans when the only thing I need to win is know where my enemy is so I can fly down there and eat him. Stop overthinking things."

And, like, yeah, it's a simplistic plan, but when you're several hundred tons of nigh invincible magical death, you don't need brilliant strategy; the smartest way to win a war is, in this case, the simplest. He's not even all that clever at figuring out the consequences of face-biting, he's just memorised the common consequences of doing so.

(If you want to go all in on Mike being the major mover and shaker in the region; Nikodemion only even has a pet zombie dragon because Mike killed the last dragon to show up and contest his turf but wasn't going to eat a whole dragon by himself. Nikodemion got to stick around and amass that much power because Mike ate the Hero of the Realm while he was adventuring because he figured the Hero would come and try to slay him at some point. Nikodemion got started because Mike ate half the leadership of the Academy of High Magic who typically keep evil wizards and necromancers in check. And then eventually this product of Mike's casual, careless actions becomes a big enough problem to bother Mike personally, at which point Mike eats him too.)

He doesn't even really fail upwards, either! He is regularly reduced to nothing but the glacier he stores his hoard in, but he's Face-Biter Mike so nobody wants to commit to actually ending him forever lest they get their faces bitten the fuck off. And his hoard's in a huge-ass magical glacier so nobody can get to it without running into the Invading Russia problem; it's hard to wage war when everything is frozen over and you're both starving and freezing to death. Once he's been beaten back to his central lair and has lost all his holdings… I mean, he's still a problem, but he's a far away problem. So he loses his assets and spends a decade in a cave brooding it up while no one dares risk trying to actually kill him, and then a generation or two later he flies down to a kobold colony and gets himself some minions, or a dragon-worshipping mage comes to offer his service against a pittance from his hoard, or a particularly stupid cult starts thinking they can get in good with him and leech off his power, and then he's (hah) snowballing again.

He's also got a very… well, the kind of weird Charisma that Grineer bosses do. Like Sargas Ruk, who's a malformed idiot, but oddly charismatic. As he's a dragon, that makes him a natural sorcerer and thus Charisma is all he needs. He's pretty relaxed when he isn't in a face-biting mood, and he's kind of infectiously optimistic, because his life has taught him that he will succeed as long as he perseveres. So he just believes it.

And sometimes that's really refreshing to work for, as an evil minion of darkness! It's like, you're coming to your Evil Dragon Lord with terrible news; you've worked for evil overlords before, you know how it goes. You fall to your knees weeping and tell him that you've failed to seize the incredibly powerful magical artifact, you think your life is forfeit. And he's just like "Eh, it's okay, these things are all over the place. Better luck next time. You remember the guy who took it, right?" and you go "Y-yes, oh great lord!" and he's like "Sweet tell me his name later and I'll grab it" and then eats a frozen adventurer he kept around as a snack.

His followers tend to quickly realise that if they fail him, bringing some temple's silver or a sack of brightly coloured beads or a couple of dead cows means he's super forgiving because at least he's got something out of the day. "Oh boy, cows? It's been forever since I had those, ever since the Orc Steppe Nomads took over it's all about goats and onions. Today is a good day." He's a master of delegation by dragon standards, in that he just tells you "Just go get it done, I don't care how" rather than micromanaging you and constantly appearing as an image in smoke or taking over your campfire.

The key part of Face-Biter Mike as a threat to players (because he exists in the context of a D&D campaign) works well in that you can rely on several known quantities:

He will not pull sneaky shit that you don't see coming

He will not make convoluted plans that you must work to unravel

He will consistently attempt to come down and wreck you personally if he finds the opportunity and you are a threat to him

You cannot fight him head-on (at least not until the last leg of the campaign, and ideally as an optional boss rather than mandatory)

So as long as you are good at staying under the radar, thwarting his minions (whom he gives broad orders to with almost zero oversight) and not putting yourself in face-biting range, you can deal with him. If you succeed, it won't be the first time Mike has lost his assets and had to go brood in his glacier for a decade or two before rebuilding. It happens; he can deal with it. And that's a win for you within the context of a single campaign, so take the win.

And if you're not going to use him as an enemy, he works pretty well as a quest-giver, too! The costs for failure are obvious and straightforward, and "do whatever, just get me mine" means that players have a lot of freedom in accomplishing their goals. As far as evil overlords go he is actually one of the least dangerous to work for; his pride is relatively subdued by draconic standards, his goals are simple and typically achievable, and he is easily pleased.

(There's also a good chance he is the forefather of any draconic sorcerer in your party, because Face Biter Mike is a deadbeat dad.)

[hoshigray]

KALI. SEEING THIS POST AFTER WHAT YOU DID THIS MORNING, I'M EVEN MORE SICKER THAN EVER.

BUT!!! for the sake of this kinktober, i shall be nice 😒😒😒😒 from Oct. 1st to Nov. 1st, I, tumblr user @hoshigray, promise to the Tumblr and Mudae Gods above that I'll have Toji on Mudae and return him to tumblr user @blkkizzat right after the month of October is finished. Hand on the Bible.

.........HOWEVER. Because thanks to the crash out you put through this morning, we're doubling the price. So, not only are you gonna give me Toji for the entire month of October, but once Jan 1st comes around, you're fully resetting Mudae. Everyone's lists cleared out, back to square fucking one for the start of the new year. 🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃 or so help me, not only am I vouching not to write ever again, but I'm airing out every single fic and piece on this blog, no archive, no Ao3, no nothing!!

(Oh, you thought I was trippin' trippin earlier?? Now we bout to go balls to the walls with this!! GET FUCKING READY, AAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAA)

Five jjk chapters left, and if I don't see a single frame of toji popped up in any one of them (or an art piece/sketch), I will retire as a writer and go back to drawing.

[tojisun]

it takes a rampage (to be a dad)

!! fluff & angst; simon’s pov; simon’s insecurities; vague descriptions of violence; repeating allusions to past child abuse; parenthood; f!reader // wc: 3.5k // dividers by @/plutism!

a spinoff of the apple that rolled over to the tree

simon’s not a good man, but he concedes that there are just certain circumstances where you have to be the good man. where you have to bleed and burn through, and sacrifice a shit ton because that’s what being good is.

case in point: the child, who couldn’t be any more than two, bundled in his arms as the squad tries to come down from the adrenaline after a dangerously high-tension exfil.

“where,” johnny pauses, breathing deeply, quick fingers unlatching any tight strapping that’s making it difficult to gulp in air. “where ye dumpin’ the brat?”

it’s callously said, but they all know johnny’s meant it in a place of worry—which is founded, by all accounts, because the base is a terrible place to care for a two year old toddler. no one’s even equipped to deal with the boy, not with the mission still on its last legs; granted, the winding dregs would only require their captain, maybe garrick for backup, to finish but nothing is ever certain.

but—

the boy shifts on his lap, big brown eyes staring up at simon with unfathomable trust. like the sight of his mask, and weapons, and even having seen him in action—poised guns and clean shots on the head; unfazed eyes scanning the explosion of brain matter spilling he’s caused—was not petrifying.

simon knows what they say about ghost—the living boogeyman; the harbinger of death and destruction. and yet here the little boy is, looking up at him like simon isn’t anything other than man; like simon is something so human.

simon thinks about his place back home that’s dancing close to the outskirts of the city; he thinks about its picket fence and its brick walls and its big backyard.

he thinks about its love, forged from the softest hands that simon’s ever held; from the hands of the only one that simon’s ever loved.

“i’m bringin’ ‘im ‘ome.”

.

laswell was kind enough to pull some strings so that the boy has whatever legal documents he needed so simon can bring him back safely—passport, citizenship papers… adoption documents.

jacob emory riley. (yakov in russian. yasha.) he’s simon’s ward now. his son.

(laswell had congratulated him with crinkled eyes and the softest of smiles; it might just be the first simon’s ever seen her look so at peace.

somehow, it was that brief talk with laswell that made everything feel tangibly raw; simon realized that things got too real too fast, and that he found himself almost wanting to reverse everything he’d done so far because what if he wouldn’t be a good guardian to the child? what if simon’s too broken for the child? what if—

his thoughts stuttered, quaking until they reach a tentative halt because the boy closed his little fist around the entirety of simon’s finger. he was so small, like that, and still so blindingly trusting even with all the littering scars on his little arms and little legs. he held onto simon so fiercely, he didn’t even notice the turmoil in simon’s heart. or how simon had almost given him away in an act of his cowardice because simon is a coward. especially with this.

but jacob—

but yasha held him, chose him, and the storm raging in his head died down, petering into a quiet chill until simon could bite out a weak but not any less genuine, “thank you,” to laswell.

laswell stared at him, all-knowing as always, before bidding him and yasha a sweet goodbye.)

the boy responds better with the diminutive, all giggly and grabby hands as he toddles over simon. the rest of the squad had eased into their roles, battle-worn bodies turning into the softest cushions with yasha in their arms. he is a shy little thing, hiding behind simon’s leg whenever price would come visit, or refusing to be put down from simon’s arms or even make eye contact with mactavish when it’s his turn to babysit.

garrick was a different story altogether. yasha had looked at him once, studying with such inquisitive curiosity, before deeming his sergeant the safest after simon. he’d grumbled and cooed and begged for uppies—garrick had been all too pleased to give it to him.

which is why saying goodbye now is difficult.

yasha would not stop crying, pale face all blotchy and snotty as he wails, chubby arms thrashing, trying to reach for kyle, but the sergeant and their captain are already suited for the mission, ready to leave the moment simon and johnny and little yasha do.

“ky! ky!” he cries out, unable to fully say kyle’s name but trying so desperately because his grief is so much bigger than himself.

simon bounces him on his hip, trying to calm the little tyke down, but shrill wails pierce their ears, unstoppable, and he wonders if it was too cruel to have made him say goodbye to kyle and price. simon heard from the medic that it was healthy for children to cry, but yasha sobs like he is grieving, and simon can’t fault him—this is his first, and hopefully his last for a long while, experience of abandonment. sure, they’ve all told him that kyle would just be gone for a while, but yasha is a child, unable to reconcile such reality where his uncle isn’t flying home with him.

(they didn’t mention the fragility of their lives in their line of work; how, every time they suit up, there are chances that they’ll never return. yasha is too young for such reality.

‘sides, kyle promised to come back. so he has to.)

kyle is teary-eyed, so is mactavish, and simon presses his sorry’s and his reassurances on yasha’s inky black hair, while kyle makes a vow once more.

“don’t worry, son,” their captain croons, his face creased in the softest it has ever been. “i promise i’ll bring your uncle back in one piece.”

yasha sniffles, watery brown eyes not looking away. then, “o’ay.” he lifts an arm up, waving it cautiously. “buh-bye?”

“yeah, bubsy,” their captain replies because no one can, not kyle who is crying nor simon who can’t lift his face up from where he’s breathing in his son’s baby smell. “bye bye.”

“buh-bye,” yasha repeats, still quiet but more sure. “ky? buh-bye?”

kyle chuckles wetly. he steps forward and pinches yasha’s cheek. “bye bye, little man. see you in two weeks, okay?”

yasha hums, having grown exhausted from his emotional outburst. the base shrink said that’s normal for children; that it’s good when they’re emotional, it’s healthy, so simon bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from fussing.

instead, as a distraction, he nods at his captain and his sergeant, and he and mactavish turn to leave.

“daddy?” the little tyke asks.

“yeah?” simon replies, turning his full attention to yasha.

“buh-bye?”

“oh, son no,” simon murmurs. “daddy’s always goin’ t’be with you.”

yasha nods, and flops back down on simon’s chest, satisfied.

.

the flight was tedious, sprinkle the listless child with that, and it was just about draining. he couldn’t thank johnny enough for being with him throughout because being an uncle to tommy’s kids didn’t teach simon much about this—cranky and emotional two year-old’s, and their complicated tastebuds that almost made it impossible to feed them aeroplane food, and their odd sleeping patterns.

but as simon shoots yasha a glance, watching the boy sleep peacefully finally, he thinks to himself how it’s all so worth it.

.

johnny doesn’t follow them to prestwich, crashing instead somewhere in stratford before making his way back to dundee. yasha hadn’t cried as hard for johnny as he did when he said goodbye to kyle, but he’d been teary-eyed even when he refused to be given to his sergeant’s waiting arms. still, simon’s boy had been solemn and gave mactavish a weak wave.

simon tells yasha that johnny would come back in two weeks’ time too, with the captain and garrick, before trailing off when he realized he doesn’t know how to tell yasha exactly why johnny was giving them space.

shit, he hadn’t even thought about how yasha would react when—

the house appears past barren trees, and simon’s lungs constrict in one full swoop. god, he’s missed this place, very much so.

pinpricks fill the back of his eyes, and he desperately blinks them away as he tries swallowing past the lump in his throat, but not even the familiar warmth of yasha could ground simon back. rather, the reminder that simon’s not returning on his own this time makes everything feel a lot more intense, like ragged tendrils curling at the base of his neck, grasping him until reality and faraway dreams blend into something miasmic.

simon’s never once deluded himself with thoughts of having his own family. he once thought he’d go grey on his own, something he was perfectly fine with because nothing is ever sacred—the catholics had a word for it, johnny said, how one’s mere existence was the original sin, and simon is neither a pagan nor a believer, but when you grow up with shadows that are ever so perpetually haunting, you learn that not even the sign of the cross can truly ward off the demons.

but then, his beloved appeared before him—just as… fearful; as self-punishing as he had been, and he knows it was twisted but he had been pulled. he had been lulled into the weight of your gravitational force, dragging his heart until it was homesick for anything less.

(two words have never sounded sweeter to him before.

i do.

since then, he’s never hunger for more.)

(until yasha.)

the cab stops, the driver dutifully ignoring how simon must look, all brooding and emotional as he holds his child close, like if he blinks, someone would take him away. he tips generously, and declines any offer of helping with the unloading of bags in the trunk. simon didn’t even bring much, just a travel bag and a rucksack stuffed with as many travel essentials for yasha.

the boy is asleep again, exhaustion dragging him back to his dreams. he looks so peaceful like this, and younger too, and simon knows that isn’t a good thing because yasha’s so small for a two year old. simon’s only comfort is that he’s bringing him somewhere safe; a place filled with boundless love.

he walks to the front door, debating on whether he should just take the spare key underneath the nondescript potted plant to get in or just bite the bullet and introduce yasha to you like this, through the entrance.

the choice is taken from him when you swing the door open, surprise and disbelief lining your face.

“i saw you—” you say at the same time that he rasps out, “love—”

he beckons you to go first. you did so with a tremor in your voice.

“i saw you from the cameras,” you pause, roving your wide eyes over him, before stopping at the bundle he’s carrying. “haley helped me set them up—said you can, uh, get notification of movements outside and, and…”

he watches as you realize that you’re about to ramble, so you take a deep breath, finding the centre of your gravity, before, “baby? who…”

simon adjusts his hold on yasha, before a careful hand sweeps away the blanket so you can see the boy better.

“this,” he says, quiet and fragile. “this is our son, jacob emory riley.” he licks at his chapped lips, the word ‘our’ settling so warmly in the pit of his stomach. “our yasha.”

“oh,” you whimper instantly, tears already springing from your eyes. a choked sound gets stuck on the back of your throat before you’re rushing forward, careful to not jostle the tyke awake, until you’re pressing yourself against simon’s side, watching raptly.

“simon he’s—” you hiccup, rubbing your face on his shoulder. “darling, he’s perfect.”

simon ducks down to brush his lips on the crown of your head, humming deep because yeah, he is. but so are you—and he wouldn’t have done this, anyway, without you. because yasha deserved the best and simon doesn’t know anyone who could step up other than you.

you, who is so bright and joyful; who has crafted fortitude from the ragged shards of your pain.

you, who is the strongest person that simon’s ever met; how you could look at the storm and find a reason to dance.

you, who is so beautiful and lovely, and so utterly full of love that it spills into everyone you meet and everything you do.

yasha deserves you.

and, love, you deserve a family just like this too.

.

yasha wakes up and simon makes the mistake of not being there for him. he didn’t even know he accidentally slept in the living room, long body sprawled on the couch gracelessly. he jolts awake after the loud ring of cries, the fear he felt at hearing yasha’s familiar sobbing slams so fiercely into simon’s heart.

he topples to the ground, knees thudding against the hardwood floors, before he bolts up, frantic as he tears through the house, trying to find his boy, desperate to comfort him and to apologize and to make things right because he never wants yasha to feel so alone in his new home—

simon pauses, feet stopping just in front of the bedroom where you and simon had put yasha in since the guest room has yet to be baby proofed and prepared, when he hears your familiar croon.

“shh, darlin’. you’re alright, i promise.”

simon angles himself so that he can see through the ajar door. you’re kneeling on the floor, head a few feet away from where yasha’s is pillowed. the boy is staring at you with wide eyes, wet and red, but he’s no longer wailing, and simon wonders if it’s because yasha’s internalizing his fear, but then he sees the tyke make grabby hands at you—pudgy fists closing, then opening again. he seems like a baby like this, more than a toddler, and simon watches as you coo, inching closer, giving yasha room to roll away if he wants, but the boy turns to his side, facing you properly, and it’s all the confirmation you need to take him in your arms.

you rise up from the floor, yasha perched on your hip. the boy is still watching you, curious, and you murmur something too faint for simon to hear, before wiping at his wet cheeks and his runny nose.

“hi, love,” you murmur, voice a tad quiet. simon sees the hesitance in your gait, like you don’t know what else to say. it takes a heartbeat, before you’re uttering your name, voice curling around the vowels the way simon never gets tired of hearing.

“i’ve heard good things about you, you know?” you say, brushing the pad of your finger along the bridge of yasha’s nose. simon’s ears pick up huffing sounds, then your giggles, and yasha’s hum.

“oh, i sure did,” you add, smiling, bouncing the toddler in your arms. “simon said you’re the best boy ever!”

simon did, he guesses, say that but with more words—he told you how he found yasha, and how yasha had been so brave after such a stressful change in his life; how yasha had been so excited to learn and to trust, and how he’d brighten up everyone’s day back at the base; how yasha had first called him daddy, and the others unca’, his brave little boy so eager for a family that he made one even when all he’s surrounded with was a ragtag of broken men.

yasha is truly such a beautiful boy, so darling and loving.

“si-‘on?” yasha says, attempting simon’s name.

“yeah,” you reply, just as choked up as simon is. “simon… your daddy.”

yasha hums, fist curling up your shirt.

“daddy,” he repeats, nodding. then, like he remembers that simon isn’t there, yasha begins to look distraught again, whining, looking up to you like you hold the answer when he asks, “daddy where?”

simon takes that chance to walk in. you two whirl to look at him, both with pained faces easing up into the loveliest of smiles just at his mere presence. it makes simon feel… raw; that somehow, all he needs to be is himself, and it’s enough to brighten up the room.

his lips twitch up in his own smile too.

“hey there, kid,” he greets, slotting himself to your side so he can pull you close and be in yasha’s line of sight.

you turn, moving to pass yasha to him, but the boy’s hand is still tight on your shirt and he still looks at ease with you, and simon nuzzles his face on the top of your head in comfort when he sees the way your lips wobble at yasha’s easy display of trust.

“daddy!” yasha cheers. “you here!”

simon ruffles the soft tufts of yasha’s hair. “of course. did you nap good?”

yasha nods, distracted by the bright colours on the bed. the yellow pillows and the baby blue blanket.

the dog stuff toy.

yasha gasps, utterly delighted, and he wriggles out, begging to be put down, and you and simon watch as he runs to the side of the bed, plucking the toy out with a giggle.

“towy!” he says, showing it to you and simon.

simon files the name for next time, focusing on yasha as he runs to hug simon’s leg, then yours, before running back to the bed, chatting animatedly to the toy.

simon pulls you close, slotting your back to his front to bury his face on the crook of your neck, because this, right here, is change. but also, he’s home.

“i missed you,” he murmurs, because it is the only thing he can verbalize. he wants to say more—he wants to say how he’s never once stopped thinking about you, how he’s always kept a picture he has of you in his helmet, tucked under the crown pad, how he’d always toy with his ring when he has the chance because simon is made of many things, and one of them is your love.

but this is all that forms from his lips, inadequate, but then simon hears the twinkle of your laughter, and, “i missed you too, love.” and knows, there needn’t be any more words. not when you two have more time than he’s ever had the privilege to spend.

.

the first time yasha calls you his mom—“mommy!”—was just days before the squad was set to meet the riley’s in their residence.

it was a mundane day; you and yasha are in the living room, playing with his army of anatoly’s—towy—when yasha squeals, finally able to dig out his favourite anatoly from underneath the couch after futile attempts. you’ve asked him if you can help him with it, but he’d been so adamant, tutting the way simon does and it’s honestly so adorable that you let him have at it.

so you laughed at the sound of his happy trills, watching as he turns, running to you, saying, “mommy, towy look!”

he falls to your lap, humphing loudly and smooshing the turtle stuffie on your face, and all you can do is gather him close, trying not to cry in front of him but—

he’s called you mommy.

your little brave boy called you—

“mommy, sad?” yasha asks, readily giving you another treasure, saying the word so naturally like you were never anything else to him.

“no, sweet pea,” you reply, choked up with the weight of your joy. “mommy’s the happiest she’s been.”

you kiss his chubby cheek, breathing in his scent, before letting him squirm out of your hold so he can play with another anatoly, leaving you the turtle one. you hold it close, trying to ground yourself, but the happiness bloats and you feel floaty.

god, it is almost unimaginable.

(you tell it to simon later at night, and simon coos as he wipes the tears away from your cheeks.

“i’m so, so happy si,” you breathe out.

simon bumps his forehead to yours. “i am too, baby.”)

.

simon is not pouting, thank you very much. if anyone says otherwise, he’d like to go on record and say that they’re all a bunch of liars. yes, that includes his beautiful wife too because, again, simon is not pouting.

sure yasha has refused to detach himself from uncle kyle, but that doesn’t mean simon’s jealous, he swears.

“yer a lying scumbag,” johnny hisses at him because he’s been trying to get simon to admit that he’s jealous, which simon isn’t. “i’m on you, LT. i’m on you.”

“whatever ‘tavish,” simon grumbles, hands twitching at another hearty giggle that rings from where kyle is playing with yasha. “last i checked, the boy still runs away from you so, you know, start with that.”

“oh you motherfu—”

“boys,” price barked out, and simon and johnny cringe at the chastising voice of their captain. “language.”

johnny says something that no one picks up because he’s chewing on his words. simon sniffs, looking away only to meet your eyes. unabashed glee is bright on your face, and simon knows he would be hearing you teasing about this later on tonight.

simon scrunches his nose. you reply with a playful rolling of your eyes.

yeah, it’s a good day. and simon still isn’t pouting.

notes: it turned out to have heavier (?) parts than expected. also to clarify, yasha’s been picked up from a mission (the specifics were removed since things got a wee graphic). i’ve included a concept photo of simon and yasha, which was fun to use while reimagining! i hope u guys liked this <3 peace out and sm love mwah!!

[thegnomelord]

Okay, genuine question, why did the devs have to make Makarov into such a fucking twink? Like look at this bastard:

The hair, the smug smirk, the fact he looks like a damn twig compared to the rest of the 141 boys. I know he would probably kill me the second he loses interest in me but like, I want to bend in him half so bad.

And you know he'd be a demanding bratty twink; hips rolling back to meet yours as you pound him into the desk, his legs thrown over your shoulders and knees against his chest, moaning lowly as you bully your cock into him like he's a common whore.

But don't think you're the one in control. He's got a knife pressed against your throat, blood rolling down your skin from the places where he'd nicked you already. It would be so easy for him to slit your throat, to take your life like he's done to countless others. But he doesn't, the knife is only there as a reminder of who holds the leash around your throat.

"That's right болван, harder." He demands, knife pressing harder against your throat. He doesn't beg, men like him don't beg. He demands, harsh and loud, taking the pleasure you can give him. "Don't disappoint me now."

You redouble your efforts, your hips bruising his ass with every hard thrust that has his cock leaking spurts of precum from the way your dick bashes into his prostate. A loud and satisfied moan leaves him, head rolling back and eyes closing as he lets you ravage him. "хорошая собака." A small bit of praise escapes him, the sharp blade of the knife easing off your skin. "Just like that, good." He moans unabashedly, rough fingers tangling into your head and tugging your head down.

He presses your mouth to his exposed neck, suit and jacket undone just enough for his collarbones to peek out beneath the ruffled fabric. "Bite." He orders.

And you do, teeth digging into the pale skin of his neck until you taste blood, feeling the way he groans and clenches around your cock like a vice. Pain and pleasure are one and the same to him, muddling his mind better than the most expensive whiskey. So you don't ease up, fucking him like a breeding bull as you lay bite after bite across his neck, your fingers leaving hand shaped bruises on his thighs.

His moans echo freely through the office and into the halls, more sweet praises falling from his lips "Good dog, just like that, fuck me harder, yes-" as the sharp edge of the blade makes little nicks across your collarbones. The pain makes you throb inside him, every bruise you such into his neck just one more example of how much he owns you; You're his dog, his to train, his to punish when you step out of line , his to reward when you bring back the head of his enemies.

You can tell he's close by the way his body shakes, hole clenching and fluttering around you, walls clinging to every inch of your shaft as you pull out to nail his sweet spot again. You're far beyond words at this point, blindly grabbing his dick in your large hand and loosely jerking him off as you chase your own orgasm.

"Hah- yes, shit!" Makarov groans as he cums first, cum splattering onto your fist and his expensive suit as you fuck him through his orgasm, each harsh punch on your hips against his making another spurt of cum shoot from his tip.

Your cock throbs as you're so close to cumming, the fluttering and clenching of his walls helping you get closer and closer to your sweet release. A knife presses against your throat again. "Enough." He gasps, still demanding even as he tries to catch his breath, tears prickling his eyes.

It hurts you to still your hips, your cock hard and throbbing inside him, release so close yet so far away. His eyes are blurry as he looks at you, body still quivering around you. But that smug smirk on his face returns. His free hand cups your cheek, gentle, despite being stained with unfathomable quantities of blood. "хорошая собака." He purrs, kisses you, biting your lip as he pulls back. "You listen to me well, yes?" He chuckles as he feels you twitch inside him, your panting breaths fanning over his face.

He chuckles, his fingers running down your skin to pick at the barely scabbed over cuts he's made across your neck. "I can feel you, you want to rut into me so bad it makes you look stupid." He smirks, cooing at you like you're a puppy. "You'll have to wait." He shoves you until you're forced to pull back, your cock sliding out of his warm depths, rock hand and aching between your legs. He sits up, hand now firmly on your throat. "Find that rat in our midst before sundown, I'll let you have me." He says, every bit both a promise and a challenge.

And you, you're his dog. He tells you to sit, you sit. If he tells you to bite, you'll go for the throat. "Yes sir." You force out, receiving a hard and demanding kiss before you're dismissed.

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

If you're still doing arcane writing, could I request jinx x s/o who calls her "lucky charm".

It's cool if not and either way I hope you have a lovely day 💕☕

Requests for arcane are open!

Lucky Charm!

For starters, she did not understand why you called her your “lucky charm”

She has never been known as a symbol of luck ever since she was a kid

She never even really believed in luck probably

In her mind ever since she was a kid she had the deeply rooted idea that she is and only will ever be a jinx

Something that brought bad luck, chaos and death

It’s so deeply rooted that she cannot fathom that someone viewed her as anything else

Especially luck

But for some reason when you came into her life, you did!

She was very confused when you started it, even saying sometimes to quit it out

She thought it was meant to mock her at first

“But you’re always there to save me! Everything’s always right when you’re with me.”

Was probably something you had told her

It made her freeze up for a moment probably because yes, she would and always will be there to save you

She loves you, and you’re one of the very few good things in her life, she can’t have ya dying on her!

But the fact that you think whenever she was around everything was good and right and everything was well was unfathomable to her

“Don’t mock me…” was a very common saying after that

You had to work very very hard for her to know that no, it wasn’t meant to mock her, but you genuinely believed she was your good luck charm

After time it made her feel a bit giddy

That you, someone she loved dearly, loved her so much back that you wanted her around to be your good luck charm

So she basically used it as an excuse to always be around you

She loved hearing the nickname fall from your lips

She also loved playing into the “good luck kisses” before missions

Saying that everything will go to shit if she doesn’t give you your kiss

She knows it will go right cause she’ll be there with you, but still

She loves that she’s your good luck charm

It makes her feel like less of a jinx and makes her feel loved

Like she’s not just a monster that brings chaos

But just a teenage girl in love and loved back

[atragicallycrispydude]

I absolutely love that XRD Bedman (not "Bedman?") is this impossibly smug and annoying asshole, who spouts edgy 13 year old dialogue at a moments notice, mostly because I think he's one of the few Guilty Gear characters who deserves to act like that simply because he can back up most statements with action.

Like, I want y'all to understand something. Bedman created a miniature version of an Absolute World on command. A space where he could theoretically rewrite reality however he pleased. On his own. He did die quickly after, before he could actually do anything, but he was going to die anyway so it's hard to say if that was what killed him.

To clarify, the only thing that creates a real Absolute World is when the Scales of Juno and Flame of Corruption exist in the Backyard at the same time, which causes the Backyard and reality to merge or be superimposed on top of one another or something. The Scales and the Flame essentially just contain a shit ton of information, and the sheer amount of information blurs the lines between reality and the Backyard. These lead to mass extinctions that span the whole universe, as the "dense informational pressure" kills many creatures.

It's also somewhat implied that Bedman did actually possess the ability to rewrite reality and did it, given that Delilah is no longer in a coma after he dies and he spouts about "making it right" or whatever before he dies.

Bedman is also seen fighting both Gabriel and Slayer (who was actually attempting to kill him, probably) and not immediately dying. Both of these characters are implied to be able to hold their own against Sol Badguy, another of arguably the most powerful in the series. He used less than 8% of his full power against Slayer, which was enough to blow a 30-40 foot wide crater in the ground and create a massive explosion when the two of them clashed with one another. He did run away from both of them, but he was willing to fight both had Ariels not called him away.

And he KNOWS that! He's a fucking asshole about it! He says, OUT LOUD, that he's going to use 8% of his power against Slayer before he starts ominously glowing purple. His "kill you with a sneeze" line from XRD round ends is probably completely accurate! He might be selling himself short, honestly!

He is genuinely just a snarky teenager in a motorized bed, who happens to have unfathomable power. He is frankly a very tragic character. Also, he talks like this most of the time.

im sad he's dead :(

[thevirtualvalentine]

Content warnings: implied sex, making out, dry humping, gn!reader

Thinking about Sabo finding out just how kinky you are…

To say Sabo is into some freak shit is an understatement, he is the king of the experimentalist kink. If you can imagine it, he’s probably wanted to fuck you while trying it at least once. We been knew that though.

You on the other hand, are a recent Revolutionary Army recruit who has just so happened to have caught his eye. The pair of you have been spotted about the camps talking, walking, training, and various other things… but you haven’t taken it to that last step yet considering your budding relationship.

But today, he has you pinned between him and a hard wall (literally) as he dominates your mouth with wet kisses. His groin trying to find relief by grinding you into the hardened dry wall methodically slow.

Your own sexual desires sometimes make you feel embarrassed to ever bring up, and the hunger to quell them is never met. Since you’ve met him though, Sabo was different from other partners you’ve had. Being with him makes you feel drunk with lust and lit on fire by desire. You want him to devour you whole just like he’s doing right now, but harder. Much harder.

He parts from you with heavy breaths to squish your cute face in his big hand, admiring your features and swollen bottom lip as you pout. “Sabo…” you beg through puckered lips, you didn’t even know what you were asking from him. It’s simply an unfathomable need for him to please you in whatever way he wants.

“What is it dear,” he says while clasping one of your hands before bringing it to his face, softly kissing it ushering for you to speak your mind. But you just can’t tell him, you don’t want him to know all the sick and depraved things you’d let him do to you. Maybe it would scare him off? So you shy away, just avoiding his intuitive eyes.

“No no no, now you have to tell me. What has you quiet all of a sudden?” Shit. He does have a fair point. Usually the banter between you two is incessant, you’d never shy away from him; meeting his every challenge with one of your own.

In hindsight, neither one of you is aware of just how nasty you could be together, your lips just barely a centimeters apart. “I just want you.. and need you.. so bad. I want you to almost hurt me from how bad you need me Sabo.”

Holy. Shit. All the green flags are going off in his brain that he’s almost not present in the moment with you, somewhere far off in dreamland. Obviously the two of you will need to sit down and have a genuine conversation about this before engaging in something like that, but the carnal urge to split you open and stuff you full gnaws at him. “Whatever you want love, it’s yours.”

Somehow he makes you feel even smaller trapped between him now, his cock now seemingly harder than before. He smothers you in his unyielding adoration, his hands in your hair, your face, all down your body. He’s completely smothering you, insatiable. The two of you swapping spit as his tongue slides around yours, that similar state of drunkness finding you once more.

You two now have the freakiest (and safest) relationship within the ranks. Whatta man.

[aveloka-draws]

"I'd love to read more" well if you say so! So... Narinder. The iconic catboy. Following along with the theme of loving a god being the equivalent of entering a toxic relationship that is EXACTLY what Narinder has done. Praising and encouraging the lamb for their actions in killing the other bishops. Getting them to open up about all these personal details while simultaneously never revealing anything about himself (shit man SHAMURA is the one to tell the Lamb that his name even is Narinder!) The worst part is that it is at least partially genuine. There IS something there as with the other bishops and their relationships, but they are gods and such can only respond as gods always do. By drinking in all the devotion, and only giving something back when they want to. Things are healing now, but it'll never be the same as it was. Now Narinder finds himself stuck in a situation where he is noticing the slow and steady creep of "godhood" in the lamb, and is trying to keep Lamb grounded to their mortality. Now he's the one in the position of giving devotion, and its important that his quest succeeds, because he knows no matter the outcome he's not getting off the wild ride. Shamura, my fella, where do I begin with you. They have been a god for the longest. The oldest, and we don't even know how much even older they are than Kallamar. The only thing we know for certain about Shamura's age is that they have been alive since the glory age of gods. They have been divinity for unfathomably long, and were the closest to what it should mean. However, they have been upheld as god for so long I think its fundamentally warped every single relationship Shamura has. Does this make them evil? No, but it makes it hard to treat anyone outside of their family as an equal. Even after becoming mortal, just from what I've seen, they STILL are on a pedestal. The other bishops remember the big and wise older sibling. The LAMB, the only actual god left, is begging THEM for help. So Shamura will help alright, by telling the Lamb all about the warped ways they believe a god should perceive the world. I think Shamura needs, whether platonically or romantically (I don't know your headcanon for their orientation), for someone to get mad at them. Saying what is true but saying it in a cold/cruel way is very "i'm a god and can say what I want without consequence" behavior. Someone needs to shove this nerd into a chair and give a passionate "I don't know how to explain that you should care about other people" speech. Anyways that is all. I must let my brainworms rest for now.

Biting this biting this thank you for the food jshsjsh thank you brainworms

Narinder starting to feel the consecuences of his actions fr by being on the other side of things huhu hopefully he'll do ok

Also the pts about Shamura uogh that spider is so interesting to think about either as a god or mortal, spider with secrets and dementia

Been thinking about getting Shamura a friend for some future scenes maybe

Still in progress, being rotated in a microwave as we speak

[starryhutcherson]

hii, hru?

i have an idea for another clapton davis one shot:)

what if the reader is an spanish girl and she help clapton with his spanish homework but one thing led to another and yk it ends in smut

- 🫧

━━ NO HABLO ESPAÑOL

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: clapton davis x spanish-speaking!reader warnings: 18+ sexual content! oral sex (m!recieving), come swallowing, mentions of p in v, swearing, google translated spanish word count: 3300+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

Clapton’s bedroom is drowned in the drowsiness of a late-afternoon heat; the sunshine bleeds against his scattered memorabilia, stretching beams across the floor and illuminating the entire space in a picturesque light. It’s hot, too hot — sweat settles on your starfished body as you lie sprawled atop his carpet, surrounded by stationery and permanently tainted with a subtle flush of rose. 

Initially, he’d intended for this to be no more than a harmless study session — he was god awful at spanish, and you were a fluent speaker. You just happened to be unfathomably drop-dead gorgeous. It was pure coincidence, of course it was. 

He’d erupted in an animated grin when you’d agreed to help him, teeth gleaming in a wide display of genuine gratitude – he wasn’t entirely sure of the appeal of helping your friendly-but-not-a-friend classmate with their spanish homework, especially due to his apparent lack of intelligence — but you agreed all the same. You had your reasons, even if he didn’t know them. 

What he does know is that he’s struggling. With the Spanish, sure, though that wasn’t much of a surprise — he’s also struggling not to seize hold of you, hands splayed against your skin, taking you right here on this fucking carpet. The eye contact you’re maintaining is dangerous; that damn cloying smile, those saccharine sentences – the impact it has on Clapton is enough to shatter bullet proof glass and he’s not sure he'll be able to rope his caveman brain out of the gutter. Your voice is so sweet he swears it’ll give him cavities. 

“Alright, translate this one. Tomé al autobús.”

His forehead creases with concentration, trying to focus on the meaning of your words, and not the simmering spike of dry heat that spirals in his throat and his crotch. He narrows his eyes, inhaling a breath as if about to answer, but after a delayed moment all that escapes is a dejected huff.

“I got nothing.”

You tut at him disappointedly. “C’mon. We just did this one.”

He tries to think back, but it’s hard to cast his mind to one single moment with you, because every minute seems to blur hopelessly into the next one. Concentration is impossible when you’re this close to him, when he can hear every breath of yours like they’re his own, when his head is full of filthy fabrications in which your velveteen voice screeches while he slams into your g-spot with lethal precision. 

Get a grip. He swallows around the presence of nothing and tries to hold the crumbling pieces of his facade together. 

It isn’t working. 

“Uh, no we didn’t,” he teases slyly, attempting to reach for your own sheet, which is already full with all the answers. You snatch it away from his desperate hand, swatting his palm for emphasis. The desultory touch shouldn’t mean as much as it does. 

“Yes. We did. C’mon. I’ll give you a hint— bus.”

He does light up with a fraction of recognition. “Oh, shit, yeah. I got it, it’s uh— I’m gonna take the bus?”

You let out another dissatisfied hum. “Not quite. It’s I took the bus. Past tense.”

He rolls over onto his back with a tediously drawn out groan. “That’s like, the exact same thing, c’mon.”

“Uh, no it isn't. If someone asked you how you got home, you’d say “I took the bus,” not, “I’m taking the bus.” You taunt, a mocking twinkle in your eye that renders his body weak with desire. 

“Uh, actually I wouldn’t say either, because I get home by car.”

With mild amusement you roll your eyes, and Clapton’s head wanders yet again, to venereal visions where that eye roll is taken far out of context — right now, spanish isn’t the only thing that’s hard.

“These entire sentences are too hard to translate. Just gimme some words.” 

You scoff at his swift abandon, but you do oblige, reaching across yourself to grab the standard textbook for the grade, idly flipping through a few pages before finding something you deem to be his level. 

It’s a basic configuration of nouns, English situated on one side of the page and Spanish on the other; the lists are out of order and the goal is to match up each pair with the correct translation. You figure with a bit of your help, it’ll be easy enough. 

“Here,” you say, handing him the textbook. He hauls himself back to his prior position on his stomach, snatching a pen, examining the page, and then staring back up at you blankly. 

“C’mon, what am I, a kindergartener?”

You snort, shuffling marginally closer to him so that your shoulders just barely collide. The contact is faint, sure, but it’s enough to make his mind warp. Maybe his desire for you isn’t so one-dimensional. 

“I know it looks easy, but it’s about the words, Clapton, not the activity.” 

“Well it’s dumb. I liked the other stuff better.”

“You asked for this. Start matching.” 

He glares at you through narrow eyes, a semblance of their hazel hue present through the gap in his lowered eyelids — the irritation doesn’t last long. Not when his gaze meets yours and he can feel the gentle wash of your breath against his lips, dainty and dangerous simultaneously. He’d swallow it if he could; preserve the very flavor of your exhales straight from your lips to his. 

An obvious spill of crimson fragments blossoms against the dermis of his cheeks, every moment he spends around you is like being bathed in incandescence, like being roasted from the inside out. He’s a moth and you are a painfully hot flame. 

His eyes stray downwards in a weak attempt to hide his blush, grumbling to himself before beginning the work. He makes it through one and a half questions before he inevitably gives up for the second time. 

“This is too hard,” he admits. 

"Thought it was for kindergartners." You chuckle, to which he mumbles a low, "Shut up."

A measly moment passes before he's hit with an idea. "Let me test you."

"Seriously? You know I'm fluent. That'd be like me testing you on English."

He chuckles to himself, the smug sound leeches to the atmosphere and sends a fresh swarm of butterflies to thrash amidst your stomach lining. He’s too tantalizing for his own good, he’s your forbidden fruit. You’d love a taste. 

“Pretty confident then, huh?” 

The delicate development of his smirk doesn’t go unnoticed by you; it’s hot, the way his bottom teeth are just partially visible by the action, the way his eyes glitter with the promise of a challenge and his demeanor is altered from defeated to determined in one brief snapshot of a moment. 

“Seeing as I’ve grown up speaking Spanish, uh, yeah. I’d say I’ve probably got this in the bag.” 

His grin flourishes exponentially. “We’ll see about that.”

✩‧₊˚

Four minutes later, Clapton’s master plan at veering the pair of you away from doing the work is proven to be pointless — his assumption in which he could find some big word to stump you was dismissed after witnessing your effortless answers. 

“Sun?” “Are you kidding? Sol.”

He glances up from the textbook, where all of the answers are, huffing a little and searching for something more difficult. 

“Gimme something harder.” He can think of something harder. 

“Okay, okay. Uh… dance?” 

“Bailar,” you say, rolling the ‘r’ with a tantalizing flick of your tongue and he’s sure that by now the tightness in his jeans is obnoxiously prominent. “Seriously, these are so easy.”

“Okay, full sentence: “I’m gonna buy a coffee.”

“Hmmm… let me think,” you say mockingly, and he almost believes he’s got you until you answer with a mirthless chuckle: “Voy a comprar un cafe.”

A dull ache burns in his pants, even the most mundane sentences sound sultry when you use that tone. That fucking tone. He’s still minutely annoyed that you answered his questions with ease, but what did he expect, really? This was your language. 

“These are the simplest questions ever. You really underestimate me.” 

He snorts at this. It was impossible to underestimate somebody like you. He knows that much. 

“I don’t. Trust me.”

A sideways glance, a furrowed brow. You seem to dismiss the comment – it looks that way to him, at least. He’s unaware of the internal screams that loop in your head, cacophonous to the drill of your pounding heartbeat. He really knows how to throw you off your game, after all. 

He clears his throat at the lack of response, endearing albeit the awkwardness. “What even are these words anyway? They don’t even sound anything like the Engish version. I mean— Patio-day-jaygoes?” He flicks his eyes over some of the words in the textbook; his over emphasized, americanized interpretation of the syllables makes you chuckle. 

“Patio de juegos. It means playground— and I already told you that ‘j’ in spanish is pronounced like ‘h’ in english. Y’know. Heart. Hat. Hole.” 

“Doesn’t make any fucking sense. Like, look at this– Zapaytoes?”

“Zapatos. Shoes.”

“Days-fil-e?”

“Desfile. Parade. You really do suck at this.” He scoffs, but you can see the humor buried beneath his irritated disposition. “I told you that like a thousand times. Bay-so?”

“Beso. Kiss.”

Shit. He can feel the color prick his cheeks before your words even truly compute with him. There shouldn’t be any meaning behind them; just a simple definition. No hidden feeling lurking beneath your shallow translation. 

Right? 

Wrong. 

He has an idea. He wants to be cocky. Every single splintered thought is you, you, you, and he feels like if an opportunity presents itself he’d be an idiot not to take it. He wasn’t going to be an idiot. Not today. Not with you. 

“Oh. So… just out of, y’know, curiosity… how would you say, ‘I want a kiss?’”

His ulterior motives soar above your head – you’re so ingrained in helping him that you fail to recognise his confident grin. 

“Puedo tener un beso.” You reply, eyes combing through the familiar words etched against the textbook pages, completely oblivious. A beat of silence falls, a second of hesitation, before he goes in for it.

“Si, si. Uh… si puedes. ” Yes you can. He grins, clearly a little proud of himself.

If you’re being honest, it’s pretty cheesy, what with his eager eyes and butchered pronunciation. At least he’s trying — scraping together his kindergarten-level dialogue to form a simple sentence, and it’s sort of sweet, you think. 

“Was that a sincere offer?”

No harm in asking, right?

“Was it a sincere question?” He fires back instantaneously. 

And oh, he knows it wasn’t. You were merely answering a question, following the sound of his voice and the way it rose and fell like pebbled leather – but his taunting is tantalizing. Your desire is hungry and he offers to feed it – and why would you refuse?

He tastes sweet. Barely a moment of brevity was able to pass before your lips cradled his, sucking and soaking the flavor of lingering soda straight off his teeth. His tongue is his weapon of choice, breathlessly exploring the cave of your mouth, trying to mold himself right into your gums. 

His hands roam, up and down your figure, eventually settling on either side of your waist and thumbing circles into your hip bones, it’s sexy. Just as he is. 

You crook your head to alter the angle and he moans, completely unabashed, the sound passes through his mouth and into yours, and you know his mind is following the same dirty pathway as yours.

You tear away from him, reveling in the way he pants like a wounded dog, the way he struggles to leave your lips as if he’s magnetized to them. 

“I think I know how to help your spanish…”

“Mmm?” He tries to sound like he’s in control but it’s a vain and vacuous attempt. It’s cute. 

You don’t offer a response, but your fingers traipse lower, beyond the region of his shirt’s hem and dipping beneath his waistband. You glance at him, eyes seeking consent. He nods, words failing him as your fingers find his buttons and begin to tug. 

When his denim restrictions pool around his ankles, you guide him to sit on the edge of his bed – his thighs are quivering in anticipation and a saturated spill has soaked his boxers, where the defined shape of his dick has begun to show. 

You grab the spanish textbook from beside you before spreading his legs with your hands. Your pace is agonizing. 

“C’mon, you’re killing me,” he croaks, eyes struggling to stay on you with the weight of this moment heavy on his shoulders. 

You have a spark in your eyes, one that’s ignited and waiting to devour – your thumb encircles his clothed tip and a shudder licks at the base of his spine. His twitching hands come to rest in your hair, interlacing with a grip that stings like rope burn – you’re not opposed to the pain. It’s proof of his lack of control over himself, and the thought itself is enough to make you, in turn, shudder as well. 

“You— fuck. You’re totally evil.” 

A few painful moments of you tracing him through the fabric and he’s getting a little bit frenzied – his jaw is uncomfortably taunt and his hold on your hair is only growing tighter. You decide to indulge his whispered pleas. 

Your hands shift from their position splayed on his thighs and delve into his boxers, making a show of drawing them down his legs until they join his jeans at his feet. His cock’s hard, weeping as he writhes with want. He thinks if you don’t do something, he’ll actually die. Just something. 

“Can you— ah– just do something?” His voice sounds scratchy, punctured by his longing. 

“Ask me in spanish.”

“What?” He’s maybe a little delirious, what with all the blood leaving his head. 

“I’m here to teach you, Clapton.” Your devious grin sends him reeling— his cock shivers with him as he scrambles to open the textbook, trying to find some stupid page that’ll give you what you want. 

He thinks it’s cruel, dangling yourself in front of him like this, mocking him every minute that those decadent lips aren’t wrapped around him. He wonders what Spanish would sound like when it’s muffled by his cock. 

Your hands, callous-free and creamy with the vestige of vanilla lotion, inch gradually upwards along his thighs, enjoying the way their feather-light touches cause tension to erupt across his nerves. He’s trembling in the mid-may heat. 

“Uh— fuck— por– por fay– por-far-vor pay-paydo tenarlo?” You can barely understand the massacred words, and when you do— por favor puedo tenerlo— you deem it to be a little vague. But at least he’s trying. He just needed some motivation. 

When you finally allow him solace in the comfort of your mouth, he goes a little dumb. His jaw slackens with an audible sound as his tongue falls from the roof of his mouth — he was previously rolling it around to try and find any remaining taste of you. He was unsuccessful, of course, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

Not when his cock was buried in the narrow channel of your throat, not when you’re groaning against him as his weight settles against your lapping tongue, not when your teeth graze along his shaft and his hips wildly buck off his bed. It’s so filthy, but it’s everything he needs. 

“Shit— shit, that’s good, yeah, just like that. Fuck that’s— ah!” 

His English is nearly as bad as his Spanish right now, and can you blame him? With every trembling buck forwards he’s thrown deeper into your mouth, your trachea, all accompanied by that greedy glint of lust in your eyes that’s damn near tangible. 

His eyes are rolling backwards, up into the depths of his skull so all you can see are the alabaster parts of his sclera. Your own eyes are misty; soaked with spills of tears that taste like a reward, a reminder of your efforts. He’s breaking and it’s all because of you. 

“Holy fuck,” he rasps, his hands still settled in the roots of your hair. This might not be his first blowjob, but it’s certainly his best one. 

His length prods deeper, bruising at the palate of your mouth, drooling pre-cum around your gums, sousing them in his salty scent. You fall into a rhythm and he falls into you, teetering on the brink of bliss with every prolonged suck that you give him. 

By the time his edge is impending, his cheeks are kissed with stains of vivid cherry red, hair is tousled and slick with sweat, and he’s managed to regain control of his rolling eyes, keeping them trained on your figure with a bout of concentration. Good. 

Your lips leave him, just for a moment, matching your previous pace with your hand and ignoring the desperate whine he emits from the action. 

“You gonna come?”

He looks almost ashamed, as if the prospect of it occurring so early is anything but what you wanted. 

“Well – yeah. Yeah– fuck— if you, if you keep going like that, then yeah.”

His voice cracks like distant thunder and his body bites back another pitchy whimper. 

“You gotta ask nicely.”

The words sound a little foreign as you spit them from your mouth, but you’re too stuck into the experience to care. Your hand chafes against him with the dry friction, and he yearns for your lips once more. In this sticky-sweet moment, he thinks he’d do anything for them back. 

“Please. Please– please, I gotta, you gotta just–”

You interrupt him with a tut. “In spanish.”

En español. 

He fumbles for the book, his hands sliding from your hair with a begrudging expression – he can’t stay infuriated for long though, not when you're subtly slinking your head back to nuzzle his tip. Fuck. 

“Por— por favor.” 

His docility is almost pathetic. 

“Por f– fuck, do I really gotta– ah– do this?”

When your hand threatens to leave his cock completely, the panic he exudes is nearly comical. He’s been wanting this for so long, he’s not losing it now.

“Okay, okay! Por favor, por— shit– por favor. P– yeah, that’s it, you’re so good, so hot, shit—”

His endeavor is ultimately scrambled when your mouth makes its return around him, and you know the moment his eyes begin to lose their focus that he’s gone. You let his consciousness leave, with every desperate thrust into your throat, with every dulcet whimper – your hands extend to fondle his balls and ultimately he’s nudged off into the void of blissful oblivion, by you and you alone. 

His wail is weak but encouraging as he comes, polluting your throat with opalescent ribbons, he tastes like seaside salt and everything you’ve been missing. Indulgent. His shattered voice is the most gratifying sound, incomprehensible praises clotting between his lips and washing over you, and you bask in it. 

You're battered and probably bruised, your jaw aches and your knees are raw, but it was all for a good cause. Seeing him like this, quaking with the pleasure that you carved into him— maybe it’s the orgasmic haze but Clapton swears you’re glistening in the afternoon sun. An angel on Earth. 

Un ángel en la tierra. 

You don’t end up leaving his house that night — instead you lie against the quiet ebb of his heartbeat, tangled in his sheets and woven into his arms where you rightfully belong. His homework still isn’t done, his room carries the scent of sex and sweat and all things filthy, but neither of you have the cognitive ability to worry about it. 

So, you sleep; rocked into exhaustion and sharing a pillow. Your flesh sears as his gentle hands stroke it, he can feel your smile as it forms against his chest. 

Aquí es donde usted pertenece.

reminder, my requests are always open

masterlist

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