#he shouldn't because he's fucking horrible

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Author's Note: Old request #3! More Idia for the soul 💙 I think I have a thing for shut-ins/gamer nerds/socially awkward men 💀

Pairings: Idia x male reader

Warnings: Male!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!Idia, adult Idia, teasing, rough sex, breeding kink, college AU

The bed creaked horribly as the two bodies on top of it collided again and again. Your cock—buried to the hilt inside of your boyfriend—slammed into Idia's ass, leaving his cheeks red and tender from the abuse. Idia's sharp teeth tore into his pillow while his dick rubbed against the sheets from the power of your thrusts.

If your rooms were any further apart, you'd never have such wonderful mornings like this; Mornings where you dump a load or two into Idia before you head off to your classes, leaving him floating on cloud nine as he can't ignore the gooey mess dripping out of his hole and into his boxers until lunchtime. Yeah, mornings like these were the best 💙

“Mmmkhnmffnh-”

“What was that? Can't hear you when you're chewing on your pillow, babe.”

Idia unclenches his jaw long enough to whine “I said n-n-not so rough… aah! If you keep doing that, I won't be able to walk to class–” before chomping down on the plump surface again when you pound into him even harder.

“As if you wouldn't enjoy staying home. Besides, you were just on your knees begging me to– hnmgh… begging me to breed your cunt, remember?”

Your full weight is on top of him—crushing him against the mattress. Idia's eyes roll into his skull when you fill him the first time, followed by a long moan that drips from his lips like honey.

You don't pull out. Cum fills Idia's hole, plugged inside by your thick dick, and he can't fight you off when your tip is so far inside that it practically fucks his brain dumb — not that he really wants you off, anyway. With your pretty boy all pliant, you lift his hips and press a hand on his upper back, forcing him into an arch. Once again, Idia's ass becomes your fleshlight.

“Mhhnmfn–!”

You repeat your earlier sentiment about not being able to understand him when he has a mouth full of pillow.

“Aah- breed me!” Idia cries. Exhausted, but desperate to feel more of your seed flood his guts before his legs quit working entirely. Though staying inside and not dealing with people sounds rather tempting…

Per his request, you fuck another load deep into his hole, pressing your hips as close as physically possible into him so that your cock can unload all the way inside. Still not pulling out, you rub Idia's shoulder while you recover. The entire time, he whines into the pillow, grumbling as you plant little kisses on the back of his neck and try to cheer him up.

His head lifts off of the pillow and he says in a raspy voice, “If I get pregnant because of you, we're in trouble…”

“……Idia? Do you actually…?”

“What?” he finally turns to face you. His brows are furrowed, and the slight annoyance on his face makes you realize that he's serious.

“………”

“Y/n???”

“…you're right, you really shouldn't skip class…”

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[diushek]

Well, he (user: HeavenlyPillar666) is just a guy who only reads a webnovel out of boredom after his martial arts classes and finds himself unfortunately trapped- the plot is uninteresting in the first instance, the descriptions are long and absurd (SERIOUSLY, FIVE PARAGRAPHS TO DESCRIBE A DAMN PLANT? TEN PARAGRAPHS TO DESCRIBE A MONSTER? More action scenes than dialogue!? Who the hell is that IcedBlueBeast and why the hell does he insist on making everything SO DENSE AND SLOW?), but... one of his characters? DEFINITELY HIS FAVORITE CHARACTER IN THAT HORRIBLE WORLD. HIS MISUNDERSTOOD BLORBO. HIS BELOVED.

In a summary not summarized, a story about two twin brothers who were separated at birth, and both found their way to cultivation world in different ways. Reunited first like disciples and then Peak Lords of different peaks of the same sect, suddenly, the brother who remained with his wealthy family - Shen Yuan - was seen as something of a villain for having had kind and lovely parents, a home and an education, always portrayed as the spoiled rich kid who bought his way into the Sect, while the REAL SCUM VILLAIN ACCORDING TO HEAVENLYPILLAR666, that bitch Shen Jiu who was stolen from his family and raised as a slave and then on the streets, ended with basically a harem of peak lords, fanning himself with his fourth-rate victim role.

And the rest of that pathetic novel it's just... shit full of dramas, betrayal and eternal descriptions being an ode to finding the hundreds of ways in which Shen Yuan's inherent kindness was misinterpreted as manipulation, judged and accused of wanting to do something bad just because he comes from a rich and well-off background.

And how it should be fair after all that gaslighting and psychological torture, Shen Yuan finally agree with them!

Crack under the pressure and the mistreatment of everyone, he just decide that if everyone thought he was a villain, then he was one!!

Allying with the demons first as an informant spy and then rising to power among the court, he ended up being something like a emperor-demonic cultivator eager for revenge and proving that no matter where he came from, he would show them what he was capable of! If the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect believed that a powerful cultivator was only forged through hard work and suffering, look at him now!

So all that good revenge plot would go to shit with Shen Yuan start to fucking monsters in scenes that were almost fade to black despite the deep descriptions and CHEMISTRY between the passionate Shen Yuan and the mythical creatures to have more power for the revenge that never seemed to come... To end with a completely unsatisfying shitty ending in which Shen Yuan gave up his revenge for filial love and the power of forgiveness, giving his own life to save his fucking damnit brother's life!

Where was the cruel revenge?! The taking over of the world?! HeavenlyPillar666 is RAGING, more than anyone else in all those damn comments!! Dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel!!!!!

...

Yea, the user HeavenlyPillar666 shouldn't have said that while choking on his damn glass of water. It's not that he thinks he could die by drowning in a glass of water, LITERALLY. That's ridiculous. It's the height of ridiculousness.

But now he is dead, and he has transmigrated into one of Shen Yuan's less filial disciples who would ultimately be the person who would hurt him the most when he turned his back on him, after having been practically raised and adored by Shen Yuan, this damn disciple who always treating his Shizun with contempt and disdain knowing his invented reputation, but despite that, he was so dear to Shen Yuan who more than once was capable of putting himself at risk for him...

No, nothing like that!! No more of that trash!!! Shen Yuan deserves MORE, and the one who now is Luo Binghe is going to make sure Shen Yuan has all of it. A happy ending, a filial disciple, someone to count on, someone to stand up for him when no one else will. Someone by his side when he decides to destroy the cultivation world, someone to HELP HIM DO IT AND GET REVENGE ON ALL THOSE ASSHOLES SONS OF A B-

If only that fucking System would stop yelling at him for being OOC. Luo Binghe already knows!!! Fuck you System!! He's not going to respond that rudely to his Shizun, he is a beautiful little sun, what's wrong with you!?

[gurggggleburgle]

The other skinzun fic idea I had: ok so in a similar vein of Shen Qingqiu finds out the world is a horrible meatscape constructed of binghe for the binghorse this is the System reacts to some key input and fucks up and glitches which causes Shen Qingqiu to get turned into a skin creature and also mute is on so he can't even talk. He's trying but for some reason his vocal chords will not work and Luo Binghe is only sorta freaking the fuck out. His husband is a skin cat creature (potentially in the background somewhere a hairless cat is screaming because its now attached to some dudes body) and nobody has any idea how to fix it. And like it doesn't seem to be just Skinzun effected by this but everything else is benign to non issue.

It's a clipping problem really. The hit boxes are malfunctioning and it's causing texture merges and asset locks that shouldn't be possible

Meanwhile the system is like give me a reboot and Shen Qingqiu is just like bitch for real!!! That's not fair. Turn me back right now.

System: no can do this is now a registered wife plot in our glitch report.

And so Shen Qingqiu has to figure out what the wife plot requirements are while dealing with the fact that his husband is having way too much fun messing with his paws and taking advantage of the fact he can't run out of the room in a difficult conversation or interrupt or try to play around the difficult part.

Anyway in a similar to my last idea this is a Shen Yuan needs to work on emotional honesty and letting down walls he's put up without really thinking about it related to how he struggles to just communicate. Its some imposter syndrome meets would you love me if i was a worm sorta deal. And once they reach a certain point true loves kiss does the trick.

But like there's a ticking clock element in that the system starts basically turning shit on and off in order to process and fix the request beceause too much is nonfunctional for a reboot. Like Language gets turned off at one point and suddenly Shen Qingqiu can't understand anything Binghe is saying and the system just goes the language settings are locked on Spanish.

And its like why is that even an option!!!

Anyway at a certain point it looks like to Binghe is more of animal and he's crying and sad but Shizun is listening but for some reason the close captions are not localized in one spot and you are talking so fast!!!!

[unascended]

THIS WAS NOT HOW ASTARION HAD SEEN THINGS GOING. There was horror blooming on that gorgeous face, wrapped in thorns and heartbreak. Astarion may be a vampire and far past accepting that fact despite the pain it'd brought him, but this... Oh, this made him feel beastly. He'd given away the truth without explaining it, and without giving any reassurances that maybe he did want this. Because -

Why? What was he so afraid of that he'd willingly tried to continue this charade when it was clearly nearing its expiration anyway? Fighting his own feelings had only drowned them both.

Now Sylverian felt like a monster who'd groped at his skin and torn into his flesh without his wanting it. And while it was true that Astarion hadn't, at least not at first, they weren't hands that had ever harmed him.

Sylverian never ripped out his hair. He never shoved things inside him when he was ill prepared, eyes glossy and far away. Even if he'd fallen into himself when they'd fallen into bed together, he was still somehow the most present he'd ever been when that sweet touch blessed his skin.

It was Astarion who'd tainted this. He lied. And he lied again to cover the lie. And he kept lying until he couldn't lie anymore and Sylverian was shattering before him into multicolored crystalline shards. This, he had to admit, was the most loathsome he'd felt in his entire existence and he couldn't even bring himself to speak.

Through eyes wide, sad, and shining with fear Astarion was forced to watch and listen, frozen to the spot, as he was told he'd never be forgiven. It served him right, really. This was what he'd earned through his own choices. Could he even be trusted with making his own choices?

Was Astarion even capable of making good choices to begin with?

Could he change that?

If he accepted that he was helpless and stayed the same, perhaps he'd spend his freedom after killing Cazador doing the same thing over and over again. Breaking hearts and experiencing the torment of having genuinely wanted them but fucking it all up. Or worse - perhaps he'd fall prey to doing the same horrible things as his master. Obsessive over something, destructive, willing to tear down the world for the kind of power that allowed no one to hurt or leave him again. He was frightened and he was weak and Gods Sylverian was leaving him and he didn't want him to.

"Please. Wait, you don't have to -" You don't have to forgive me, just please don't leave.

By the time he'd reached out his hand in an attempt to catch one of Sylverian's wrists before he could flee it was too late. He was gone, his sobbing carrying over the camp grounds, and Astarion was left alone wrapped in fur and choking down the urge to cry and curse himself. (Astarion didn't deserve to cry like Sylverian. He did this.)

⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩- ⋆｡°✩

IF THE JUDGEMENT THAT FATEFUL EVENING HAD BEEN BAD... In the days that followed, it was worse. Sylverian was avoiding him. Whenever Astarion attempted to catch him alone to speak with him the little golden boy was squirreling himself away - gathering a party, talking to someone who glared daggers over his shoulder, rushing out of camp before Astarion even got within five feet of him. The rest of the party all had cutting things to say to him, too. Even Lae'zel, who found Sylverian's frequent crying irritating had threatened to stake him if he hurt him any further than he had.

Frankly it was beginning to piss Astarion off. He was trying. But every time he tried his attempts were rebuffed or dodged. More than ever his existence felt like a plague, and he was beginning to think, more than a week later, that perhaps he shouldn't stay. To the Hells with all of them. Let them all die screaming like he would.

Except... every time he packed up his bag and pressed his palms to his tent with all intentions of dismantling it to take with him, his guilt and shame arrested him. They'd made it to the Underdark. Tomorrow they'd be passing through the Grymforge to the surface, to the Shadow Cursed lands. Before he was even more starved and emotionally unstable, he had to do something.

Halsin seemed to be the only one in the group willing to entertain him for more than a moment since he'd admitted to it. So it was after some sage advice from the world's most annoying druid that Astarion settled on the one thing he could do about this.

If Sylverian wouldn't speak to him, then he'd leave him a note. Perhaps even a gift. Both things he could discard should he not be interested. After all, he'd overheard that the day prior a pair of Sylverian's favorite gloves had been utterly ruined in a fight. He was distraught about it, and there was no way to not know about it - everyone in Faerûn knew when Sylverian was unhappy with something. He may not be able to fix what he'd done, but he could fix this.

And so, as he was left behind once more Astarion fished those gloves out of a bucket they'd been unceremoniously dumped in during a melodramatic fit and scrubbed them until the blood was gone. He spent the entire day holed up in his tent, sewing. There were holes, but he fixed them with careful embroidery - intricate stars and fairies with a silver thread he'd found when they were still above ground. They were beautiful. Dare he say more so than they had been before.

Late that night, when the lantern in Sylverian's tent had gone out and the camp was silent, Astarion stalked through the dark lit only by glowing crystals and mushrooms toward his former lover's tent. The flap was tied shut, but he wasn't looking for an invitation to feed - he'd gone longer without, and surely he was going to again. Dropping into a low crouch before the sealed opening, Astarion shoved his apology under the canvas - the gloves, neatly folded and crossed over one another resting atop a letter written in flowing crimson script.

He then stole into the night in hopes of finding something to eat. It'd been days. Hells, he'd take a gnome at this point. (Except he wouldn't. It would upset Sylverian.)

The note read:

Sylverian, I want you to know that I'm sorry. You've said you won't ever forgive me and I understand, but you deserve this. If nothing else, you deserve an apology. Really you deserve the world at your pretty fingertips. Here we are about to march into eternal darkness when you deserve sunlight and happiness, and not a bitter and twisted man like me.

There is no good reason why I did what I did. The truth is that you didn't deserve it.

I don't want to make excuses. Something about you makes me want to be better. You make me want to be honest when lying would be so much easier. It's been instinct for two hundred years. You've made me believe that maybe I can BE better than this. Better than what he made me.

What I experienced is a part of the real world, but you're also real. I was too afraid to allow myself to believe that and I treated you like a tool instead of a person, just like my master did to me.

I feel awful, but... this isn't about me. I lied to you, bedded you, and manipulated your feelings so you or the others would have no reason to drive a stake through my heart. Even more, I wanted you to save me. I wanted you to want to save me. I didn't expect to start feeling something real, and I certainly didn't expect this. I didn't expect to want something real... with you. You trusted me, even when that was an objectively stupid thing to do, and you deserve me being honest even if it makes me look worse and you want to be rid of me.

What I feel is real. That day was difficult because I thought I could force myself to get rid of it. This time I don't have Cazador taking you from me an hour before sunrise, crushing my hope and mocking me. There is no getting rid of this, not for me. So I'll devote myself to doing better. Or... trying. I don't know what better is, but I'm willing to try.

For what it's worth, your touch was the first I've ever chosen for myself. Even if I didn't go about it honestly. You didn't hurt me. I hurt you.

You deserve happiness. I'll be here to make sure you achieve that and live, even if it isn't by your side.

Yours, Astarion

Of course Sylverian had waited when Astarion asked him to. Of course he had listened. How his heart ached for this poor man! How he wished he could take away his pain, could ease the weight of all that suffering. He wanted to reach out, to tell him that he understood. That they never had to be intimate, and he would be just as content simply holding him, just as devoted, just as hopelessly enamored. A promise Sylverian firmly believed he could keep, just as he believed he could anchor his fickle heart to one man, that what they had was truly special, that he could handle Astarion’s dark side.

He wanted to snuggle up to him, to thread his fingers through those pretty curls, to whisper against his skin that it was alright. That Astarion never had to do anything again that he didn’t want to.

But the depth of his sympathy was suddenly eclipsed by something heavier, something cold and leaden in his chest.

Astarion’s words echoed in his mind like a cruel whisper, over and over, refusing to fade.

To lie so you’d touch me.

His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, anything, but no words came. His thoughts reeled, struggling to process what had just been laid bare before him.

Had he understood correctly?

Had Astarion just admitted that… he had never truly wanted to have sex with him? That every touch, every moment of intimacy had been built on deception? Had he lied every time?

Not that it mattered. Even once would have been horrible enough.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Sylverian remained still, his hands resting in his lap, his expression growing more and more shocked by the second.

Sylverian had never once questioned whether their passion was shared in equal measure. Until today, he never had any reason to! Particularly, when it was often Astarion who had initiated intimacy. Oh, he must have been truly determined, truly skilled, to weave such a convincing illusion on someone so attentive and caring as the feyblooded half-elf. One should commend his skill at deception of the lowest order. How utterly despicable!

Even so, Sylverian still blamed himself for failing to see the invisible.

❝Tell me this isn’t true...❞ The words came out softer than he intended, barely above a whisper, as if he feared speaking too loudly might shatter him completely.

❝Gods, I—I would never have touched you if I had known, I would rather cut off my own hands...❞ His breath hitched, tears welled up in his eyes, his throat felt tight and for a moment, the weight of it all rendered him speechless. When he finally spoke again, his voice wavered between grief and fury. ❝Do you have any idea what that does to me? How I feel? Like some wretched, loathsome, vile bastard——!!❞

He needed to go. To get away from this tent, from Astarion, from the unbearable weight of betrayal that sat heavy on his chest like a stone. He pushed himself to his feet so fast his vision swam. Or maybe it was the tears. ❝I gave you all of me, and you let me! I—by the gods, I will never forgive you for this!!❞ A sob tore free from his throat, but he refused to stay long enough for Astarion to see his complete undoing. He turned on his heel and stormed out into the night. Crying.

[crimeronan]

shoutout to AU hunter's ongoing fantasy about just grabbing luz and ripping her out of the castle and finding some remote cabin up on the knee to hide in forever where nobody will ever ever ever bother them again. surely nothing about this can be traced back to any formative childhood experiences.

[bayetea]

seeing non-black people critique rick's portrayal of black characters is interesting sometimes. only like 30% of the critiques I see make any sense to me to be honest

[calamitoustide]

just thought of a jegulus they both die at the end au and suddenly I'm thirteen again

[salty-an-disco]

uuuuuuuurrrrrrgggghhhh

[featherymainffins]

Trying to remember where I first encountered humanity as a horror to see if this has a root the same way you can trace literally all of my thirst for fictional characters back to WITCH, but ngl I genuinely cannot remember anything like that.

[arowizards]

dear tumblr tonight i dreamed an elaborate shadowgast au

[running-in-the-dark]

just realised something random: I've always been kinda sad that there isn't any media that my parents liked and shared with me, that sort of thing. I know of things that they like, of course, but it was never something they showed me or anything.

and I just realised that's because it was never something nice, something fun, something they wanted to share - no, they only ever brought up things that they liked as a way to say that everything I liked was bad.

[ladyseidr]

my gender but it just corresponds to whichever character from my current hyperfixation is the most ambiguously gendered to me ( michael. michael. there's a phone call for you. )

[leatherbookmark]

my favourite thing abt tumblr mass-finding out about the origins of the “poor little meow meow” phrase is a couple of people in the tags, who listen to things like, i assume, punk or rap, going “oh so THIS is what people got so emotional over? wow they wouldn’t last a day over here” or “ah, this, yeah a couple of guys from our side did it too”. refreshing

[pangzi]

It seems to be a massive unpopular opinion but I genuinely don't think Lune and Star did anything wrong by not telling their friends they're dating. Straight or not, they don't owe it to anyone to tell hem they're together. Especially if they know some of their friends won't react well. I know everyone seems to loooove White but I actually don't think he would've reacted much different had they told him directly instead. The only difference would have been that maybe he wouldn't have been as awful as he was to Ivy.

[widevibratobitch]

christ my mother just cant catch a fucking break and i have no way of helping her kms this is so unfair