#memories { drabble }

[superbat-love]

Green Lantern: So Spooky, truth or dare..?

Batman: I refuse to play your childish games, Lantern.

Green Lantern: Spoilsport. Fine, I’ll ask someone who actually knows how to have fun. Supes, truth or dare?

Superman: Truth.

Green Lantern: Tell us about your first male crush.

Superman: Wha-? I-I don’t…

Green Lantern: You have to tell the truth, Boy Scout~

Superman: [sighs in defeat] I was a kid.

Green Lantern: Ooooh, was he a celebrity?

Superman: One day, a family from out of town drove by my house, and their big fancy car suddenly broke down. They were stuck there for a while. I saw this boy around my age sitting in the back. He looked pretty lonely, so I invited him to play baseball.

Green Lantern: Did you fall in love with his athleticism?

Superman: Err…he kinda sucked at baseball. So I tried to teach him.

Green Lantern: So he was wowed by your athleticism.

Superman: Not really, he threw me over his shoulder.

Green Lantern: [bursts out laughing] That’s hilarious! Sounds like something you’d do, Spooky!

Batman: …

Superman: We sparred for the entire afternoon and his family stayed for dinner. It was fun. Sadly we never met each other again after that.

Green Lantern: Should have known you’d go for the fiery ones. What do you think he’d say to you if you meet him again? Can you imagine the Superman having a crush on you?

Batman: He’d say you’re an idiot.

Green Lantern: Hey! Nobody asked you, Spooky. Well, what would you say to him if you meet him again, Supes?

Superman: I just hope that he’s happy now, wherever he might be in life.

[greygreyfruit]

AU where Zoro and Sanji decide to have a kid. They want to use a surrogate and when they’re deciding whose DNA to use Sanji pretends to put up a fight about it and then when they're in private Zoro says “I really don't care, the baby can have your DNA. You're strong as hell and I'll raise them to be an amazing swordsman regardless”

And Sanji is like “NON ON ONONONOPLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE IT HAS TO HAVE YOURS IT CANT BE A VINSMOKE GOD PLEASE NO NO NO”

And Zoro's like "jesus fuck- fine whatever."

And Sanji is so, so happy when the baby comes out with green hair and furrowed, straight eyebrows. A little mini marimo for him to love.

The crew's all like “damn Sanji you must be pissed he doesn't look like you at all” and Sanji responds “what haha yeah what an asshole Zoro is for winning the argument for that hahha” but he's so glad that his son looks nothing like him. Nothing to remind him of his birth “family”

But of course the kid grows up with so many Sanji traits. He's polite, and selfless, which really should've shocked Zoro more the first time his son gave his food to the small seagull that had landed on the Sunny. But really, he just finally saw Sanji. He also loves to cook, and he understands the intricacies of food way more than Zoro ever could. His son knows more about flavor and drink pairings at 5 years old than Zoro ever will. 

Everyone can see Sanji in the little boy, even if he's missing the curly eyebrows and blonde hair. Even though he has his dad's grey eyes. Because Sanji broke the cycle of abuse despite all his worst fears. And he's nothing like his own father. He's an amazing papa, and their son becomes an amazing person.

[ayyy-pee]

Center Stage

suguru whimpers as he pounds into you, folds your legs until there’s a knee on each side of your head. you're so good he has to bite back a gasp when your walls squeeze down on him, gripping his cock so fucking hard he sees stars. his eyes roll back when he reaches a hand down to your clit, swollen and sensitive and he feels the sudden gush of your arousal drip down between your bodies. suguru loves how your tight little cunt always takes him so well, how it makes room for him and holds him like it never wants to let go.

every thrust, every roll of his hips, every slap of your skin meeting has suguru leaning down to groan into the crook of your neck. he doesn’t let up, pounding into you like a man possessed. and he is. your pussy makes him insane, makes him want to scream, makes him want to fucking cry.

it feels like heaven in your walls.

suguru loves to look between you, where your bodies connect and see the creamy mess you’ve made on him. fuck he loves how your pussy always makes a mess. it’s one of his favorite things about you.

that and the way your lips part when he pistons his hips a certain way, touches that sweet spot you love. how your head falls back and your back arches when he wraps his thick fingers around your neck, makes you hold his weight as he fucks into you with reckless abandon. the way your little moans fall from that pretty mouth he loves to bury his cock in. he loves all of that.

he loves the way your hands find his hair and you pull. not gentle at all, just the way he likes. you’re as a desperate and fucking needy as he is.

“come on baby. tell me how much you love my cock.” he pleads. he knows you love it. you've told him plenty of times. but suguru also loves to get his ego stroked.

“i love it, ah- fuck, fuck i love your cock!” you whimper beneath him like the good girl you always are. all he ever has to do is ask and you’ll deliver every time. so obedient. it’s why you’re his favorite.

suguru can feel your walls softly convulsing around him. you’re so close. but while your words were good, they’re weren’t good enough. so suguru slows his pace, staring down at you with half lidded eyes. he wants you to do it right.

“pretty girl forgot her manners,” he chides, clicking his tongue. “i love your cock, what?”

he bottoms out with a particularly harsh thrust that has you crying out, your fingers tightening in his tresses and he chuckles, his dick twitching within the confines of your cunt.

“oh fuck! i love your cock master geto”

there it is.

you peer up through your lashes at the man above you and the smug smile on suguru’s lips sends you spiraling over the edge, your orgasm rushing over you, your body shivering as wave after wave hits you. and your sweet lips muttering his formal title, it has him burying his face in your neck again, whining as his hips stutter with every sloppy thrust until his balls tighten.

he grips your thigh hard, high pitched whimpers falling freely from his mouth as his cock stiffens and his hot, white seed fills your twitching pussy. the release has suguru shaking, struggling to hold his weight as your pussy milks him of every fucking drop.

you’re both panting, both catching your breath as suguru kisses you desperately, pressing kisses to your face, to your lips. and he’s still cumming

“m-master geto,” you mutter between kisses. he hasn’t pulled out of you, just keeps rolling his hips into your slowly, softly as he continues to litter your lips and face with kisses.

suguru hums in acknowledgment.

“you’ll be late to session tonight,” you warn him. “you know there will be big donors there. you don’t want to be late.”

ah yes, the work never stops for suguru. he would love to stay here, on the floor of his stage but it wouldn’t be a good look to have his donors and worshippers walk in on you both in the middle of such a salacious act.

and you, his most favorite follower. there's no way in hell allow anyone to leave the room alive if they saw you this way. no, you're meant to be seen by him this way and him alone. even with your current situation, he knows you are loyal to him. so with a hiss, suguru pulls out of you, smirking when he sees the way you pout at the loss of fullness.

cute.

“come and see me after session” he tells you with one last press of his lips to yours. he crawls off of you carefully and fixes his robe. you nod, watching as he exits the room.

he knows where to find you.

suguru always finds you the moment he enters the room, packed with worshippers ready to give themselves to him. and you’re among them, loyal as ever to him, even as you bow politely and pledge yourself to the organization alongside your husband.

[lildoodlenoodle]

Some random Hobie information from the comics! I’ve specified where the movies might come in and fanon stuff!

Hobie, despite having a British/cockney accent in the movie and in the comics, lives in NYC in the comics(movie might b different).

Hobie is a homeless teen(I’m pretty sure his parents died) radicalized by his dystopian world.

He’s been Spiderman for 3 years(movie so most of his comics have probably passed) and his world is a weird combination of 1970s-1990s.

Canonically bad at naming things.

His friends/band are tired of his shit and regularly make fun of him for saving the multiverse.

The cops in Hobie’s world all have the venom symbiote, he uses his guitar to play frequencies that disrupt the symbiotes.

He kills Norman Osborn twice.

Yes he kills cops.

Full name is Hobart.

Originally he hated being called Spider-Punk.

He works with his worlds Daredevil(Mattea Murdock), Captain America(Captain Anarchy), Hulk(Robbie Banner), Ironheart(RiotHeart), Ms. Marvel, etc.

Most people in his ‘band’ can’t actually play lol.

With facism one of his other greatest enemies is capitalism and being ‘marketable’.

Hobie’s design was originally meant to be Spider UK, who later became Billy Braddock.

He also got a symbiote dog called Spider-Mutt in his latest run.

Gwen Stacy was a famous rockstar who died in his world, Hobie was a fan!

He was originally recruited to what I affectionately call the ‘Interdimensional Spider Death Squad’ run by the Superior Spider with Spider Noir (and eventually Miles and Jessica joined right before the teams merged)rather than the other group of spiders.

He was the one that brought Miles back into the ‘spider society’ when the inheritors came back.

In the comics he lives in a Welfare center in Brooklyn he and his friends/band operate, in the movie he lives in a boat!

Hobie has an interdimensional band with Gwen(drums), Pavitr(keyboard), Noir(bass), Anya(1616 vocals), and Ham(air guitar)

I can’t remember Hobie having any romantic interests in his universe, but fanon wise he is often shipped with his canon gay friend, Captain Anarchy aka Karl Morningdew, but Karl does have a canon boyfriend. But outside of his universe there’s a whole host of possible ships and some do include: Hobiemiles / punkflower hobiepav/chaipunk hobiegwen / ghostpunk

[omegaovaries]

prompt: memories | ao3

Ace notices little details of people’s appearances more often than he’d like to admit.

It’s easy on the Grandline – Ace has seen and met and fought more people in a year than he has in his entire childhood on Dawn. There’s all different sorts of people to meet, to avoid, to just be around it almost makes him dizzy.  

It takes a while before he catches onto what he’s doing. 

He stares a little too long at blond men and women, watching the sunlight catch into their hair, watching the moonlight make the strands glitter. He stares at certain shades of blue too long – blue ribbons and waistcoats and denim and eyes. But especially the ocean. He has to shake himself awake from a trance somedays, staring out at the waves that can be so bright they mirror the sky, staring out at indigo waves only illuminated by moonlight.

The Spades noticed after a while and eventually the Whitebeards do too. 

How his eyes would linger on top hats and hair that would curl just so and how sometimes, he would go quiet and watch the waves from the highest point on deck, thumb rubbing across the embroidery of an old but well kept handkerchief. They notice how on certain days Ace is too loud or too quiet, staring out into the ocean at random moments, fingers unconsciously pressed against the ‘S’ in his tattoo. 

When Luffy’s first wanted poster comes out, instead of saying ‘my little brother,’ Ace will sometimes say ‘our little brother.’ 

Before Ace leaves Luffy near Alabasta to continue his hunt for Blackbeard, he tells him, “We’re proud of you,” easy and automatic. Luffy’s quick “I know,” comes out just as easy.

They both freeze for a moment before Luffy smiles at him, wide and sunny. “I know you guys are.”

[5sospenguinqueen]

Sebastian: You can trust me! Let's not forget who saved you from the Inferni the other week.

MC: Let's not forget who created them in the first place!

[whumperer-86]

Bad Memory Eraser ep2

Fainted , collapsed because of brain surgery bad memories

[gaily-daily-musings]

Here, have another abomination of an idea:

Anakin works at a nursing home. He's a vampire. It's easy to drain and eat people there. No one suspects someone is killing the elderly because they are already on their deathbeds. It's the perfect job. Obi-Wan is a 70 year old man at said nursing home. A surprisingly attractive 70 year old man.

(Yes I was thinking about iwtv when I wrote this why do you ask?)

“Good morning Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan groans. He hates mornings. His back cracks as he sits up. Anakin helps him to the bathroom. Obi-Wan waves him off.

“I can do it myself, Anakin.”

“So you've told me, but you fell last week.” He reminds the old man.

Anakin took care never to let someone fall or hurt themselves on his watch. It would look suspicious if too many people died around him. It had to appear random.

Obi-Wan grumbles as Anakin helps him.

“Way to make me feel older than I already am.”

Obi-Wan takes a seat on the toilet and Anakin gives him his privacy. Once finished Obi-Wan struggles to get up and over to the sink. His hands shake as he washes them. The Parkinsons was getting worse.

Anakin hears the sink going and opens the door. He clicks his tongue. “You didn't tell me you were finished.” He pouts.

“I can pull up my pants by myself, thank you!” Obi-Wan normally isn't so grouchy. In fact he liked Anakin. They had a report. But he'd woken up feeling particularly bad today. He's almost always in pain now, but it varied.

He dries his hands. Anakin comes over and wraps a strong arm around his waist. He steers him out of the bathroom into the little room. It wasn't standard for nurses to touch patients in this way. They had certain procedures they followed. But Anakin was handsy. Obi-Wan chalks it up to him being overly friendly, but then again he's seen him with the other residents. He doesn't hover the way he does Obi-Wan. Probably means nothing.

Obi-Wan groans as he's lowered into his chair. Anakin's brows furrow. He knew the poor guy was in more pain this morning. He'll have to slip a little more drugs into his oatmeal. Obi-Wan didn't have any family and couldn't afford a higher treatment. Good thing Anakin was here to take care of him.

Anakin was amiable with all the folks and staff here but it was Obi-Wan he liked talking to the most. He wasn't insistently chatty the way Karen was. Neither was he sexist like Todd or Clark. And he certainly wasn't racist like any of the frankly alarming number of people. He was personable. He was kind. But his soul felt sad. It called to Anakin.

He didn't have to pretend to be interested whenever Obi-Wan talked. He told him so many stories of his youth and his life. It was strange. Anakin has been removed from humanity for so long his mask has started to feel like his face. He feels Obi-Wan's loneliness as if it is his own. A mirror.

He listens to stories of Obi-Wan's dead wife, Satine. How she'd been fierce and strong. How he'd supported her and her entire career. How they'd had a son together. How Korkie had been killed in a car crash at 17. How they'd never recovered from the loss. Anakin could listen to him talk for hours. He has listened for hours.

“What I'd give to be 30 again.” Obi-Wan sighs. “Not to mention I was so much more handsome back then.”

“You're handsome now.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “Lying does not become you, Anakin.”

“I'm serious. You're like a silver fox.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes.

-

Obi-Wan has a dream involving Anakin. It's half remembered and blurry, but he'd heard Anakin call to him. He'd come helplessly, unable and not wanting to resist. Their bodies had twisted and melted together. The heat of Anakin’s stare and scorching touch of his hand burned like a furnace.

Obi-Wan can barely look at Anakin the following day. Too ashamed. Anakin holds a secret smile like he knows what he's thinking but that's impossible. Nevertheless, he pushes the memory down. He was much too old for wet dreams. And much too old for Anakin for that matter.

Anakin guides him out of the bed to the chair in the corner so he can sit and watch his programs. Anakin's hands linger around him, pressing close. He inhales like he's smelling him. Like Obi-Wan was delectable and not stinking of chemicals. It's nothing new. Anakin always lingers. But this time his mind wanders to the dream.

He stiffens, flinching away. Anakin doesn't seem to be offended by it.

“It's okay to rely on me.” Anakin whispers. “Whatever you want, just ask and it's yours.”

Obi-Wan shivers. It was a good thing, he thinks, that he had Parkinsons and could simply blame his reaction on that. He licks his dry lips and tries to find his words. He can't. Instead he nods.

Anakin gives his arms a squeeze before releasing him. He turns back around to grab Obi-Wan’s lunch.

“Lemme me know when you're done. I'll come get the tray.” He winks and leaves the room.

Obi-Wan breathes out a shuddering exhale. The thing is, it had felt real. The dream. Anakin's hands had felt real. He looks down at his legs and swears he sees bruises in the shape of fingers. He's old. A light breeze can bruise him. He'd probably tossed in his sleep and done it himself. And yet…he puts his hands over his thighs where Anakin had had his mouth on him. It’s almost like a memory half forgotten rather than a conjured dream.

-

Anakin wasn't on duty when Obi-Wan has a stroke. He rushes into work the second he hears. By the time he finally arrives Obi-Wan is in bed dozing peacefully. The doctor has already checked him out. His chart hangs on the end of his bed. Anakin doesn't need to consult it or anyone else about the incident. He already knows Obi-Wan's heart was giving out. He can hear it stuttering in his chest. It wouldn't be long now.

Anakin feels real panic settle into his bones. He has not felt this way in a long, long time. Not since…well…

He's never made another vampire. Never wanted to curse anyone to this kind of existence. But he wants Obi-Wan. He needs him.

He gingerly sits beside the bed and places his hands over Obi-Wan’s soft ones. He can't imagine never hearing that accent again. Never seeing those blue eyes hold his image within them.

So many people desired Anakin. He's had so many partners. People wanted him. But they did not cherish him the way Obi-Wan did. Obi-Wan looked at him like he loved him. Like no one ever has before.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter open. His gaze locks onto Anakin’s. There's confusion there. Disbelief too. But also a familiar little swelling of love as his pupils dilate.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin whispers, his voice soft. Too soft. Like he's scared. “I can offer you eternity.”

He strokes a thumb over the back of Obi-Wan's hand and listens to his soft breathing.

“Be with me and live forever.”

The confusion is still there. He probably thinks Anakin is not real. That he's not here and this is yet another dream. That's fine. Let him think this is his imagination. Anakin will take it.

“Forever?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you an angel?”

Ankain smiles. More like the Devil come to steal his soul out from heaven.

“No, I'm a vampire.”

Obi-Wan blinks. He processes this. Anakin leans closer taking his face in his palms.

“Please accept my gift. Accept me. I promise to love you the rest of my existence. Until the stars burn out.”

Obi-Wan lifts his hands and places them on Anakin's. He exhales sadly, a smile on his lips.

“Darling, you never had to ask."

[whumpshaped]

Hypnotic music box!

- @oliversrarebooks

tw gaslighting, hypnosis, magic whump, tiny whump, lady whump, captivity, memory loss

The song filled her mind and body as she kept spinning, keeping completely still for her owner’s enjoyment. She was a perfect little ballerina, her master’s favourite, never stumbling and never ever disappointing them.

Her dress was as pretty and perfect as the body it served to accentuate, with a soft face and shiny hair to match. A work of art, her master had called her. A masterpiece.

The music was gentle as it wrapped around her, settling deep in the creases of her mechanical body and soothing her every worry. She let herself be carried around and around, her glassy eyes fixed on something invisible. Her master was in the room with her, she noted distantly. She could only ever catch glimpses of them, but it was enough to motivate her to do well.

She would always do well. She was perfect, a product of her owner’s genius.

“The battery in your music box is running out,” Master said one day. “I’ll get new ones soon.”

She didn’t doubt it. She was grateful to be informed ahead of time, that way she didn’t panic when her little personal carousel started slowing, and eventually came to a complete halt. She stayed motionless, staring out into the empty room with the last remnants of the song playing only in her mind.

Her owner must’ve been at the store by now, getting the new batteries so they could continue to enjoy her dance. She only had to be patient for a few more minutes, at most an hour.

The stillness was unnerving. She almost felt like her arms were getting tired in this demanding pose, even though she knew that was quite impossible. Dolls didn’t get tired. And while her master was a particularly skilled tinkerer to have created something as lifelike as her, they would’ve had no reason to make her susceptible to exhaustion. That would’ve been cruel, given her purpose.

Still, the feeling continued to spread. Her joints started aching, her mechanical muscles were burning, and despite her best efforts, she eventually had to lower her arms. It felt sacrilegious to do that while the music box was open… but there wasn’t any music now, nor an audience to dance for. Maybe it was okay. Maybe she could treat this unusual circumstance as if the box had been closed.

It kept bugging her, though; the bone-deep exhaustion that suddenly plagued her now that she was off duty. And what were all these new worries? Why did she feel so anxious? Was she shaking from fatigue or nerves?

Why was she shaking at all?

She glanced towards the empty room again, suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to crawl out of her box and explore. Her whole body protested as she carefully crossed the threshold into the outside, walking along the table with a sense of odd familiarity. It felt as if she had gone on walks like this before, even though she had no recollection of anything but the box.

She didn’t make it far. She crumpled to the ground in pain, curling up in an attempt to soothe her aching joints. Everything hurt. Nothing had ever hurt before, not since her owner had created her.

Oh, lying down like this would definitely put a few wrinkles in her pretty dress. Bad, bad, she was being a bad doll.

‘What a bad doll you’ve been.’

‘I’m not a doll! Stop calling me that, stop– what are you doing? You can’t lock me in there!’

‘But I can. Dolls belong in boxes, after all.’

The hallucination made her sit bolt upright, eyes wide and full of terror. What was that? Where did that come from? She hugged her knees close to her chest, barely understanding why she was suddenly crying.

The box seemed scary now that she was out. It seemed like nothing but a prison instead of a home.

She stared down at her realistically painted legs, blinking at the level of detail she had never noticed before. She couldn’t help it. She gently scraped against the layer, consumed with a desire to see the paint flake off, to see her metallic endoskeleton underneath… But it hurt, and all she found was a layer of flesh with blood bubbling to the surface.

It couldn’t be.

She was a doll.

She was just a doll.

‘I’m not a doll!’

She buried her face in her hands, taking quick, shallow breaths. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. None of it was real. She had to get back into the box. She had to get back and dance and look pretty. She had to be perfect, she had to be nothing but a beloved object.

The door opened and she flinched, scrambling to her feet and promptly falling again. She was so tired. She was so scared. She had to get back to the box before her owner realised what a bad doll she had been.

“Oh… The battery ran out sooner than I thought…” Her master walked over to the table, and their presence held none of the usual gentleness that always put her at ease. She felt nothing but the dread of a prey animal, trapped and about to be killed. “How unfortunate. I need to fix this box, this is the second time in only a few months.”

Second? In a few months? No… She had never had the box stop before.

“What’s going on?” she asked, startled by her own voice. She didn’t know she had a voice box. Was it a voice box? Or was it her voice, natural and painfully alive?

“Shh, it’s alright.” They quickly inserted the batteries into the bottom of the box, then set it down on the table again. “Come on. In you go.”

“No! No, I want– I want you to explain! Why am I bleeding? What’s going on?”

“You’re bleeding? Oh, my. What a mess.” They flipped a switch and the song started back up, and she didn’t know why she covered her ears. She just knew she had to, it was crucial that she did, it was the most important thing in the world that she blocked out the song completely.

“Just tell me what’s going on!” she cried, shrieking when her owner pinned her down against the desk, securing her limbs with clear tape. “No, stop, stop it! Please! I don’t understand, I don’t understand!”

“Shh… Calm down, sweet… It’s alright…” They winced when they saw the wound above her knee, swiftly grabbing some ointment and a cotton swab to treat it. She struggled against the makeshift restraints, unable to stop the music from infiltrating her mind any longer. “Oh, what a bad doll you’ve been again…”

“I’m not a doll!”

Her captor gave her a pitying look, gently dabbing the injured area and making her cry harder with the sting of it. “It’s going to be alright.”

The empty box continued playing the music, and she felt her anger slowly give way to resignation. Her struggles became weaker before they ceased entirely, and her pain dissipated before she was even freed from the clear tape. She wasn’t tired anymore. She wasn’t hurting.

“There you are,” they murmured. “My most perfect little creation. My little ballerina.”

New clothes were brought out for her, and she lay completely still as her owner changed out the old ones. She was placed back in the box, where the song was the loudest, and she let it wash over her. It was so heavy, like a comforting blanket.

“Get into position for me, won’t you?” She raised her arms and tried to mimic the grace of a real dancer, making her master smile. “Perfect. My little mechanical doll. My toy box dancer. What a little wonder I’ve created.”

The song filled her mind and body as she kept spinning, keeping completely still for her owner’s enjoyment. She was a perfect little ballerina, her master’s favourite, never stumbling and never ever disappointing them.

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe. 🩵 Special thanks to @secretbraintwin for the ko-fi request! 🩵)

In which Chatterteeth considers Tyrus and Astarion’s relationship.

-

“I never want to see these wretched little pieces of misery again.”

The undead woman, now called Chatterteeth, froze where she stood. She’d thought long and hard for the past year on how best to ensure her goal. She returned to the material plane for a very specific purpose after all—the Szarr reign’s end. And now it was so close.

Sentiment for these boys standing in front of her couldn’t color her judgment.

As much as she saw good in him still, thought of him nearly like a wayward son, she had been prepared to let Tyrus die. He showed enough signs to warrant concern, if not certainty, of continuing the monstrous Szarr legacy whether he became a true vampire or not. His sweet beloved, on the other hand, only seemed to want Cazador dead. 

Only after hearing these words from Astarion’s lips, however, did Chatterteeth realize she may just have spent less time around him.

A very long time ago, Donnela had promised at first to set the other spawn free under Gathwycke’s reign. She’d sworn, in the shadowed, intimate moments they stole away together, that she would only do what was necessary. And before she drank the vampire lord’s hideous blood, she likely meant it. 

But necessities quickly changed once power was gained. “Aenore,” she’d said over and over again after killing the others only a few weeks later. Sounding so justified in her explanation, “Aenore, they questioned me at every turn; they already whispered plans of my demise. They couldn’t be trusted like you. It was necessary. I only do what is necessary.” 

It must have been Chatterteeth’s first given name. Spoken so soft and entreating in the memory that a shudder traveled down her old bones even now.

Perhaps Astarion’s words lacked the coldness of Tyrus’s orders, but the justification and sheer loathing in them was much more extreme—and he hadn’t even reached true vampirism yet. He could well turn out worse than Donnela.

One of these two boys had to defeat Cazador, however. Chatterteeth glanced between them as they began to follow the group ahead, suddenly at a complete loss as to which.

Her mother had served Gathwycke all her life, raising “Aenore” in the Tumbledown estate. The young girl witnessed from an early age that any person was capable of doing horrible things. But often there were signs to indicate those most inclined. Which made it all the more disgraceful, how blinded she became once Gathwycke brought his beautiful young cousin to the estate for the family rites.

At the age of 142, Aenore had rarely left the estate except for her studies, too quiet in her classes to make a single friend. She’d never left the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. Donnela brought novelty, beauty, and passion into Aenore’s life, sharing all her tales of traveling across Faerun, uncovering lost items and secrets of the past. And in her, Donnela seemed to have found a confidante, a support, an enthusiast to plan the next adventure with.

They fell in love rather quickly—meeting outside the estate on quiet nights to explore the city in ways Aenore never had before, kissing and then making love under the false protection of darkness.

But Gathwycke threatened that bond over the years. As he grew more controlling, he exercised cruel punishments on Donnela and forbade her to ever leave the estate. As he became more covetous and paranoid, he stunted Aenore’s arcane studies and even burned her spellbook. Eventually he forbade them ever speaking on pain of death.

With her beloved threatened, Aenore had been more than ready to kill him for it.

She saw some similarities in Tyrus and Astarion now. They fought for love and liberation; they trusted no one but each other. They were ready to make sacrifices, no matter how great, to ensure the other’s happiness.

But she’d seen how such sentiments could sour. How what was sacrificed in the “name” of love fell far from the actual thing, and could end up tainting such feelings forever. How trust could falter as priorities twisted to center around power and control. How liberation could turn into a new kind of enslavement.

Aenore helped Donnela kill Gathwycke. But she’d only given her master a new name.

Astarion helped Tyrus so willingly now, supporting his weakened form as they braved the first few stairs down into the grand chamber. And Tyrus kept moving, even knowing he was walking towards his own death, so that he might save Astarion’s life. The sight alone nearly cracked the fortitude of her reasoning.

But she and Donnela had once held each other just as gently. How long would either of their touches continue as caresses, their gazes keep soft, their love stay true, should she reveal another path? One that would not only help them survive together, but seize power?

Aenore, young and foolish as she’d still been, supported Donnela’s decision to drink from Gathwycke’s neck. It seemed like the only way to ensure they kept control of the Tumbledown Estate, and not fear when the other vampiric Szarr family members came to call. Even after the death of the other four spawn, even once Donnela started to Turn her own unwilling fledgelings, Aenore had refused to see what was happening. She only tried to steer her beloved towards other projects, like the Tourmaline Depths excavation and new palace construction.

She tried to control Donnela in return. And that is where she failed her. 

“They are only fodder now,” Astarion had just said of the victims around them. And if he ascended, how soon until Tyrus was as well?

“You were a step on my path to eminence,” Donnela had said with some measure of melancholy, right at the end of it all. Straddling a defeated Aenore on the crypt floor beneath the new palace they had built together, stroking a blade up and down her sternum. “An important one, my dearest. But I left you unruled, indulged your quiet rebellions too long. Even the bite would not tame the hissing, venemous little thing you've become. Would it?”

Aenore hadn’t fought, not once her own necromantic ability to command undead failed her against Donnela. “I did . . . only what was necessary,” she whispered, thinking of the much more quiet defiance she’d enacted against the woman she loved: creating one last soul cage, enchanted onto a simple folded parchment in the library along with instructions for whoever found it. A way to turn the enchantment against the vampire lady one day, and entrap her own soul within it for a long, cruel eternity.

With that last measure in place, she didn’t resist the soft kiss Donnela pressed against her lips with those same soft, petaled lips she knew so well, just before the blade pierced her heart.

Yet neither had she resisted the chance to return and ensure, this time, that the Szarr legacy was fully destroyed, the cycle of violence and bloodshed finished. That another Donnela wouldn’t walk into these halls and suffer the same fate as her own beloved.

Or so she’d thought.

Now the skeleton called Chatterteeth was at an impasse. If Tyrus killed so many, he would fall into darkness. Even if he didn’t kill them, giving him the mere knowledge on how to control Astarion could prove disastrous. But if Tyrus died—clearly Astarion would be lost all the same.

Donnela and Aenore’s fight for freedom turned into a quest for power that destroyed them both.

Was there any surety that these two could be different?

No, Chatterteeth realized as she hurried her old bones into motion and caught up with the boys’ descent down the stairwell. Her jaw clicked uncontrollably as she steeled herself for what she was about to do—for all she was about to risk.

“Tyrus,” she hissed as she caught up with them. “Tyrus.”

There was no surety they would make better decisions than she and her beloved. But perhaps there was a hope.

[youphoriaot7]

just saw a heart-wrenching edit on tiktok (sad music and all) about q!cellbit and the way he interacts with the eggs and i just...

i remember when i was still getting into the qsmp (which i did from cellbit's pov) and was scrolling the wiki on the daily, trying to figure out past lore and relationships and everything

and every single time i clicked on an egg's page i would end up seeing cellbit's face somewhere in the relationship box. and it always made me grin so wide because it was just...cute. and then i realized a lot of them had even mentioned things like him being one of their favorite tios or whatever and i'm just so. fucking. soft. about the idea of just-

this guy. comes to this island. in the middle of nowhere—doesn't really know how he ended up there, doesn't remember much about where he came from, nothing. and, like, it's natural to be a bit skittish or at least defensive, especially when there's already so many people here, because you don't know what they will do to you, how they'll react to anything: they are essentially unknown entities.

and if you really think about it, that completely includes the eggs. because although they're just kids, q!cellbit was canonically in a war at, like, age 15. he's definitely not one to underestimate someone because of their age—he is damn well aware of how scary people can be, regardless of what their age is.

but then they start interacting, and, like—tallulah gives him flowers, and ramon picks him for a partner in the boat race, and he's able to joke and play around with chayanne and bobby, and...in a way, it's like seeing himself, or rather, what he could have been.

because he never got that; he never got to do that. he can see the relationships they have with their parents—tallulah and chayanne with phil, ramon with fit, dapper with bbh, bobby with roier and jaiden—and he sort of comes to realize, like, "these kids don't know." they don't know what it's like to be at war. they don't know what it's like to end up in jail. they don't know what it's like to not be able to live because you're too focused on surviving. whether it's been that way in the past and they don't remember or not, they don't know.

and, inwardly, he decides he's going to make damn fucking sure it stays that way.

so he starts collecting flowers, to give some to tallulah the next time they meet, and the way she beams assures him he'll continue. and when ramon makes a mistake in the boat race and starts beating himself up about it, he empathizes and reassures him. (practically makes the poor kid cry.)

he sees the way chayanne takes the lead around the younger eggs and takes note, making sure to joke around and play with him whenever he can—because he may be the oldest, and the most responsible, but he deserves to have fun, too.

all of this includes richas, of course. in fact, it's even more exaggerated, to the extent that (in some ways similarly to fit) he mostly lets richas do what he wants, only growing concerned or stern if the kid's life is in danger. (because he saw what happened to bobby, and he's not going to let it happen on his watch.)

because there's enough pain in the world. chaos runs rampant on the island, from the federation to the codes, from the kidnappings to the tasks, from the bombs to the capybaras. there is death at every turn, and this island can be deceiving, because it doesn't seem like it. it seems perfectly fine.

but he knows.

he's been in this position before, where everyone and everything is trying to kill him. he's familiar with the concept of survival. and this island is survival.

but these are kids. they don't need that. hell, he had that as a kid, and look how he turned out. no, if he has anything to say about it, nothing will seem out of the ordinary. as much as he can help it. he will gives flowers to tallulah, he will make jokes with chayanne, he will explore with richas, he will spend time with ramon and dapper—all to offer even a semblance of normalcy.

so uh the fluff part of this train of thought is over so click off now if you don't want the hurt <3

but then things start to change. bobby dies, and the federation teases them about it, dangling the child above their heads. the codes ramp up their attacks. the kidnappings start to increase. people die and respawn more frequently. and the more he tries to get free, to get away from the island, the worse things get for the current inhabitants.

he meets pomme. this terrified egg that's been trapped behind a wall since before he even got there. and he realizes that he won't be able to shelter them forever.

things are going to happen, one way or another, to shatter the fragile illusion of reality the islanders are trying to create for these kids. in some way, the curtain is going to fall, and it is going to hurt. it's going to hurt as badly as it hurt him when he was thrown into battle. it's going to hurt as badly as it hurt him when he ended up in a top-security prison when he was barely an adult. it's going to hurt as badly as it hurt him when the wool was yanked away from his own eyes by that white bear not a week after his arrival on the island.

so whatever you do, don't think about what it must've felt like to find that book. don't think about what he must've been thinking as he flipped through those old, yellowed journal pages. don't think about him reading that lost egg's words, and just thinking, "god, this could've been me."

because it very well could've been.

the book literally talks about not wanting to survive, but wanting to live, and all he can think about for the rest of the day is how it was abandoned. same as him—only one was on a battlefield, and one was in this tiny-ass room. and there was no warrior in shining armor, no police officer taking pity to pull this egg out of there. he had someone. this egg had no one.

so of course he switches out the keychain on his backpack. because carrying that egg with him is like carrying a piece of himself, in just the same way that all the eggs feel like a piece of himself.

he can't protect the eggs forever. he knows that. but that doesn't mean he can't try.

[jethrowest]

the taste is just a memory you hold…

Prompts for @cozycornerkinktober: overstimulation/double penetration. briefly mentioned since this is a drabble, but i wanted to contribute!

Warnings: incubus homelander- need i say more? fun, freaky tendril shit. slight dubcon. happy reading! 18+

—

The days blur together now.

He doesn’t limit his visits anymore. You used to only see him at night.

He’d start off slow, simply studying you while he sat in the chair in the corner of your room. Then he would move to the edge of your bed.

He had quickly grown tired of that, however, and after a few evenings of nothing beyond having his piercing gaze all over and through you, he would trace your skin. Your neck had been first, observing how you reacted to his touch. Once he seemed satisfied, he would slink across your body and envelop you.

Sometimes, if your focus isn’t immediately robbed, you catch sight of fingers bleeding into the darkness. He is mostly concealed, offering glimpses of handsome, ethereal features that glint beneath the moonlight. His eyes shimmer and glow a faint red. You can’t tell what clothes he wears, if any at all.

When he drapes himself over you, attaches himself to you, you feel the weight of a man, but don’t see it.

Inky tendrils disappear inside your stretched center; your open, silently screaming mouth. They make you quiver and shake. Make you clench and cry out.

Your orgasms overtake and consume you, leaving you sore and wrecked. Those very coils disperse and permeate within, leaking from you like your pooling arousal, sliding down your thighs and soaking your sheets.

It becomes so frequent, so haphazard, that you begin to wonder if you leave the house. If you wake up. If you’re currently in a dream.

Hours, minutes, seconds later, you stand in front of your full-length bathroom mirror, staring hard at your reflection. Hoping answers will seep past your pallid complexion.

Instead, something black starts to collect on the floor, spilling from between your legs.

Your knees buckle. You almost fall forward; nearly come from the way it eases inside out, thorough and swollen.

The sensation of something indistinguishable expanding within your most vulnerable, sacred areas and slipping through your cervix until it breaks free is indescribable. It’s unlike anything you’ve experienced, and it is equally petrifying as it is delicious.

It’s fucking biblical.

And it doesn’t stop until something you haven’t witnessed in its entirety takes shape.

He flows from you. Stands behind you. Grabs you and pulls you flush to him, pale hand unwavering at your throat.

When you regain balance, you notice that he is now whole to you. Blond hair adorns his crown, irises sparkle blue with a hint of crimson, and rows of teeth are a brilliant, perfect white. Sharp.

Beautiful, elegant robes cascade to the ground, fanning into a velvety scarlet. He smells sweet and warm, like fields of strawberries drenched in sunlight. He smells of the earth and what lies below it.

His slender nose drags along your pulse point. His tongue follows. He inhales greedily.

“How long have you been here?” you ask. Outside. In. It doesn’t matter what you’re referring to. You’re delirious when you question him, as if you’ve already been fucked an unfathomable amount of times, only being held upright by his presence. Your mind is coated with a thick fog.

You notice a small, strange grin lift the corners of your lips. The action feels foreign to you, almost like he’s controlling your mouth.

Your heart dilates, breaks apart and produces two separate beats, thudding in unison. Your cunt flutters, adding a third.

Will time come back to you? Greet you with welcoming arms that tell you it’s always been yours?

He laughs, a low, penetrating sound. “Oh my precious little lamb…” That voice lives in your bones, dense and deep.

“What gave you the silly idea I ever left?”

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Gameplan

Hello! Another Drabble (second one i wrote) concerning the idea of Nightmare returning to his original form (Lovely Prompt idea by @spotaus )

First Drabble here Prev drabble here Next Drabble here

Warning, unedited and unbeta'ed. We die like my ability to spell anything.

----

Cross checks around the corner towards the street and waits for a moment longer before nodding "I think we are in the clear. We can talk here for a moment."

Killer just lounges back against a dumpster as he pants "Good! Cuz! I am not walking another step!"

Horror frowns as he searches his backpack. Slowly taking out some fruits "We need to stop this. We can't get the resources we need like this."

Cross groans as he rubs his face "I know I know. But we can't just settle anywhere! How do we explain..." He stops and slowly turns to look to the side at Dust.

Dust sits completely calm on the gorund, cross legged. Looking perfectly calm and content. With the still struggling Nightmare in his arms. Dust just sits there and looks at Nightmare with a raised brow and moves around a bit. Easily getting Nightmare to sit back in his lap with one of Dust's arm holding Nightmare around the middle wiht both arms trapped. And the second arm around his shoulders to pull him back easily. Nightmare looks grumpy beyond believe and Cross can't take it too seriously as Nightmare lost all his goop and corruption. All that remains is a perfectly normal and adorable tiny babybones.

Cross turns back to Horror and Killer and waits.

Horror looks at the scene before shrugging before turning back to prepare a snack for their now tiny charge. Looking calm as he moves.

Killer snorts "Why would we? Boss is tiny now. So what?" and he shrugs.

Cross groans as he rubs his face. He can admit that he will still need some time to get used to the change. But it is okay as he can accept it. After they found the old picture book and the just as old crown they had been putting together what actually happened. And well, even if they sometimes act dumb three out of four of them have university degrees of some type and Cross had always been one of the smartest soldiers.

That together with the known fact that Drema broke out of the stone young but grew up made the fact obvious.

It wasn't that they were in a situation of Nightmare having been deaged. They were in the situation that the Nightmare they had known had been an aged-up version of the real nightmare. Which is the very same grumpy babybones that Dust is holding right now.

Yeah. Cross just needs a bit more time.

Cross glares at Killer and focusses at the issue they need to actually fix "We know that!" he waves around them "But how do you think anyone is going to react to knowing we have Nightmare and that Nightmare is well... like this again?"

Killer hums and nods "I guess..." he turns towards Nightmare "How about a different name? What do you think Nighty? What can we call you?"

Nightmare glares with all his six year old force "Boss."

Killer snorts "got it tiny boss!" and he grins at Cross and shrugs "Guess that idea is a burst. anything else?".

Cross groans as he rubs his skull "don't you see the issue?! If anyone finds out about this they will try to take him from us and bring him to the Stars, if they don't just call the Stars!" Or worse. And they will think that killing Nightmare would be a reasonable solution to keeping him from aging up.

Killer actually glares as he radiates his blood- and LOVE-lust "Let them try."

Cross sighs as he rubs his face "what do you suggest we do?!"

Killer huffs "Obviously we do what we are doing now. We keep moving and universe hopping." and he nods.

Horror looks up with a frown "We can't do that. We will run out of resources. babybones need nutrients" as he says this he sits by Dust and Nightmare with the cut fruits. Nightmare focuses his full glare on Horror but Horror doesn't even blink. They have gotten used to this routine over the last few days and there is a good reason Dust and Horror do it.

Dust nods as he helps Horror by aiming the still struggling babybones "Not to forget his schooling. Now that he is young again he will need to relearn things. Can't do that while hopping from place to place."

Cross turns back to Killer and crosses his arms "See? horror and Dust agree."

Killer grumbles. "Fine! We find some stupid positive universe to hunker down in some abandoned building and do raids to get stuff. Easy!"

Cross crosses his arms "Still the problem of what we do if someone sees him. How do we explain that? people will think we stole him!"

Killer goes to speak. pauses and tilts his skull "I mean. Technically we did kind of steal him. Sure he was originally our boss, so ours. So we have the right to steal him again but still. Very much stolen."

Cross sputters "I! I wasn't serious!" well he was but not about the stolen comment!

Horror speaks up even as he feeds Nightmare, which Ngihtmare tries to fight but Dust is there to assist him. "Technically it wasn't stealing."

Cross sighs "Thank you Horror-"

"We kidnaped him." Horror finishes his statement as he manages to get Nightmare to eat a bit. Nightmare actually pauses and the stubbornness makes way for the much younger mind that enjoys the food and a tiny soft purr starts to leave the babybones. He doesn't struggle as much anymore as the second bite is brought over.

Cross stops and lets his skull fall into his hands "we are so fucked."

All three speak up "Language."

Cross groans louder. They are so fucked.

---------

First Drabble here Prev drabble here Next Drabble here

[lildoodlenoodle]

Some random spider noir information from the comics! I’ve specified where the movies might come in and fanon stuff!

Noir was raised to be and is a socialist activist.

Dude most likely has a 1920-30s NY Bowery accent.

His first run takes place in 1933, in ITSV he comes from 1933, his second run(EWAF)takes place 8 mo. after, so he’d be coming off EWAF to ATSV.

Age wise this makes him 17-20.

Noir has been spiderman for like 2 yrs at most by ATSV, he started in 1933 and is from 1933 in ITSV.

Was bitten by a mythical spider rather than a radioactive one(its a whole thing let’s not get into it).

His costume is/based on his Uncle’s WW1 fighter pilot outfit

He has a black cat named Ding Ding.

Has an ambiguously strained relationship with aunt May bc she’s against killing, he is not.

Yes, he kills Nazis.

Yes, his uncle was cannibalized, his ‘love’ interest had her face mutilated, and his best friend was lobotomized.

Had two paternal figures named ‘Ben’ who died lol.

One of the few spiders who are always strapped.

Has organic black webbing!

If I’m remembering this right unlike the other Peters he’s more interested in physics than bio.

In the comics he’s not as physically strong as the other spiders and carries around a small vile of venom for emergencies.

He lives/grew up in a Bowery welfare center with his Aunt and Mj(sometimes) but later gets his own office/apartment.

Recruited to Superiors death squad before working with the other spiders.

Has died at least once(confirmed), but implied multiple times, and was resurrected from another dimension by a spider god back to his own universe.

Fanon wise, most people call him some variation of Benjamin(while avoiding Ben lol) like Benj, Benji, B, etc. with various justifications but ultimately to more easily differentiate between the other Peters. Me personally, I think he takes on the name ‘Benjamin Urich’ but that’s a different post.

Noir does have canon love interests. He has had a romantic(mostly sexual) relationship with White Widow aka Felicia Hardy, but she was like 40 he was like 16/17 it’s weird and gross. He has also had a weird relationship with his MJ but it’s not super flushed out and he even says in the comics it’s strained, so most fanon views her as a sister figure.

Fanon wise, he is often shipped with his best friend Robbie Robertson(who dies very traumatically) or Jean DeWolfe, a federal agent, he’s seen working with. Recently, I’ve seen him shipped with a lot more characters, most notably Ham, Hobie, and Miguel.

[omegaovaries]

prompt: favorites (unnamed Whitebeard pirate 2nd person pov)

ao3

There’s no denying that Ace has become one of everyone’s favorite sibling in the short time he’s been with the Whitebeard’s. It’s hard not to get caught up in Ace’s orbit. Everyone is literally drawn to his flames like moths. He makes you feel just as warm as his flames do, his eyes and smile and attention all on you. 

Well, that’s until his brothers show up. 

Once either or both of them are present, good luck trying to get a sliver of Ace’s attention back. You’ve never seen Ace with hearts in his eyes (you didn’t think he was the type) until he looks at his brothers. You don’t know which is worse, having Mugiwara or the Revolutionary visiting. 

Actually, you do know which is worse: both of them visiting simultaneously. 

It’s ridiculous how much the two spoil and baby Mugiwara like he isn’t an Emperor in his own right. Both Ace and the Revolutionary tease and tickle and touch him so affectionately. They’re drawn to Mugiwara like flowers to the sun and Mugiwara is drawn to them like a cat looking for pats in turn. 

It’s disgustingly domestic how the blond brother will wipe excess food off Mugiwara’s mouth or cradle him close like a baby, tucking his head into the crook of his neck and teasingly rocking back and forth, Mugiwara’s delighted giggles echoing across the deck of the Moby. Ace looks at them like they’re all his dreams come true. 

He lets Mugiwara steal food right off his plate and lets the Revolutionary drink straight from his cup. Sure Ace complains about it, even starts squabbles that have them all rolling in an indecipherable pile of flailing limbs about it, but he never stops them.  

You try not to feel jealous about it. 

[dimmestmorn13]

(click for better quality)

read L <- R im never doing a 4koma ever again