#really getting this one in under the wire

[theocddiaries]

Shadow: I've been like this for as long as I can remember. Therapist: Can you give me an example? Shadow: Well… I remember that sometimes the Professor would spend time with Maria and me, just the three of us, and we used to play educational games. It wasn’t part of the tests or trials they made me undergo to assess my performance and endurance. But I had to do it perfectly, too. I guess I realized that night when we played spelling words; I felt this huge weight on my shoulders, that I had to win. Therapist: And did you? Shadow: Yes. Know what the winning word was? Responsibility. Therapist: Is that what you feel? A responsibility to win all the time? To always be the best? Shadow: That's one way to put it. Therapist: And this responsibility, where does it come from? Shadow: I'm not sure. It's just… there. Therapist: So it's an internal pressure. Shadow: Kind of. I mean, people expect things from me. Therapist: Like what people? Shadow: The Professor, Maria, the scientists back in the day. Nowadays, too. GUN… It's not all internal. Don't get me wrong. I like the way I'm wired. It's what makes me who I am. Therapist: And how is that, being who you are? Shadow: I don't know. Mostly good. A little exhausting. Sometimes hard. I guess there's your answer. It's hard being me. Therapist: What about your friends? Would you tell me about them? Shadow: They're pretty normal, I guess. I'm not like any of them, but that doesn't really bother me. Therapist: Ever? Shadow: Only when they say things like, "don't freak out" or "go do something fun." Therapist: So, you feel like they don't experience the same pressures you do. Shadow: Not at the same level, I guess. Therapist: Hmm. Why do you think that is? Shadow: Why are we even talking about that? They don't have anything to do with this. They don't get me. Therapist: And how's that feel? Shadow: I don't know. Therapist: You're a smart guy. Try a little harder. Shadow: I said I don't know. Therapist [waits patiently] Shadow: …I feel… Kind of alone. [Meanwhile, at GUN HQ] Abraham: …And when you're done, secure the area and get testimony from the locals. Then, write it all down and give me an oral report-- Sonic: Sure thing. For when? Abraham: For today. Sonic: Today? Abraham: Shadow can handle it. Sonic: Oh, no no, I'm sure he can, but… I’ve got more things to do while I cover for him today, you know? I have to take Omega to the mechanic, go grocery shopping because Rouge is out, babysit Cream-- Abraham: What my agents do in their free time is their own business. If he’s managed to juggle his time and you all didn’t notice, then it can’t be that hard. Sonic: …I guess not… [A couple of hours later, Sonic is waiting for Shadow. Shadow gets out the building] Sonic: Hey! How did it go? Shadow: Good. I made another session for next week. How was your day? Sonic: Intense. I had no idea the kind of pressure you're under. Shads, I was just you for half a day and I could barely hold it together. I don't know how you don't have a meltdown every day. Shadow [lunges at him to hug him] Sonic: I--Oh… You okay? Did I say something? Shadow [sobbing]: Yes. Thank you. Sonic: …Okay. [reciprocates the hug slowly. Exhales and rubs his back]: Okay. It's okay.

[apomaro-mellow]

govt gets kas!eddie 5

Part 4

Eddie was feeling completion in a way he hadn't found since he had awakened like this. When he first woke up, he felt out of sync with his body. But when he remembered Steve, he felt that first wave of clarity, knowing more than anything that he had to make his way back to his love, his mate. And now he had found him. And now they were safe, enclosed in a den that his mate felt safe in, in a nest they had built together. He rubbed his face against Steve's neck.

Steve moaned softly. He and Eddie had only gone all the way a couple of times before. Every other time had been hurried handjobs or quiet blowjobs. For a second, he didn't know if things would be different now. Eddie's body was different and his mind was too. But then Steve pulled his shirt off and Eddie got the same mesmerized look he always got when Steve took his shirt off. The day his chest hair started coming back in had been the first time he'd ever been motorboated.

Eddie's hands moved to touch his chest, almost reverently. He pinched both nipples before burying his face into Steve's cleavage, his hips starting to grind again as he whined. Steve's pants got tighter and it had been a while since he'd cum in his pants and worried that might actually be a reality when Eddie finally let up, moving further down. He nuzzled his stomach, kissing it softly. Eddie looked up, meeting his eyes and Steve thought about his stomach really growing with babies.

An idea that would have been scary a couple of days ago wasn't so much anymore. He had talked with Eddie before about having kids one day. It was something he had wanted. Falling for the man before him, Steve thought he had convinced himself he didn't want it anymore. There wasn't really a way for two gay guys to have kids. But...Eddie's biology had changed thanks to the Upside Down. Could it really be possible?

Eddie's growls broke Steve from his thoughts and suddenly his pants were being pushed down. Steve sighed as his erection flopped onto his stomach. Eddie made a sound like a purr and licked at his tip. Then his tongue got longer. And longer. Steve was frozen until it wrapped around his cock and then he was a live wire, thrusting into the slick, hot feeling. Some of these changes were definitely easier to get used to.

All too soon, it was over and Eddie was pulling off with his dick leaking and red.

"Wait...", Steve breathed out. "I'm not, I didn't-"

Eddie quieted him with a rumble in his chest. "Gonna mate, gonna give you pups. Need to make you ready."

Steve was about to ask what he meant when his thighs were gripped tight and pulled until his legs were over Eddie's shoulders. He yelped at the quick motion but Eddie made it better by stroking his thighs, then kissing the inside of one. He nipped here and there and Steve's heart skipped a beat, remembering the first time Eddie had given him a hickey, how he could feel it burning under his shirt even hours later.

His teeth were sharper now. He didn't break the skin, he almost seemed mindful of it, despite also looking like he was getting lost in the feeling.

Eddie felt like both versions of himself, old and new. The new version of him still had his directive, to breed. The old version of him informed him of how to make it best for Steve. How to make him moan and keen and blush as beautifully as he was now. Eddie held his love securely and opened his mouth to let out his tongue again. But this time instead of wrapping around his cock, it went lower. Ghosting over his sack before licking at his hole.

Steve's body shivered and he reached out to hold something, which ended up being the pillows under his head as Eddie tongue-fucked him. Eddie's tongue reached so deep now, Steve felt like he was melting from the inside. His dick leaked even more and once again, he was on the edge of cumming when Eddie pulled away.

"Fuuck, Eddie, please, I'm ready", he begged.

Eddie lowered Steve's legs and took off his own pants. They already hung pretty low, due to his new tail. When he removed them, Steve barely had time to see his cock, to see if it had changed at all before Eddie was grabbing his hips and pulling them flush. He bent over, pressing their chests together. Like this, with Eddie's wings over them, Steve felt completely surrounded. And yet he felt safer, even in his own home.

Eddie felt so hot rubbing against his hole and Steve couldn't tell if it was wet from Eddie licking him or if he was leaking just as much. All he knew was that he believed now. He believed it as Eddie pushed inside, stretching him in a way that he'd never done before and yet was painless. He believed it as an achingly slow grind turned into Eddie pounding into him and the sound of skin slapping echoed in the living room. Eddie was going to give him babies.

Precious little things that were half of the both of them and yet even more than the two of them combined. Steve believed it. He wanted to feel his belly grow with the proof of Eddie's love and bring them into the world. He wanted to meet them. His hands went from scratching up Eddie's back to pulling at his hair, he couldn't decided where he wanted them. Eddie had no such problem.

One clawed hand held the back of Steve's neck, and the other was one his hip. But that one slowly moved down to his thigh, bringing it back up to spread Steve even more so that he could drive even deeper. He reveled in the sounds his mate was making. Eddie was doing that, making him feel so good. He felt good too, almost unbearably so. He reached his peak when Steve squeezed around him. What was already tight became a vice around him, milking him of every last drop. Eddie's hips pumped deep and he didn't stop until Steve was overflowing with it.

Even then he stayed inside of him. All the better to make it catch. Eddie didn't pull out until about an hour later, covering them both up with a blanket and kissing Steve's forehead. He had fallen asleep almost right after. Eddie held him close through the night. He finally felt like he'd come home.

Part 6 coming soon

Taglist

@estrellami-1 @gloomysoup @bxnghy @gutterflower77 @v3lv3tf0x

@tinyplanet95 @thedragonsaunt @stripey82 @ajeff855 @bumblebeecuttlefishes

@ellietheasexylibrarian @gregre369 @geekymagicalpotato @live-laugh-love-dietrich

[yayasvalveplay]

Bee getting sparked with seeker bitties by the trine

Idw continuity

"Come on. We can talk about this." Bee staited grabbing at the wall. Trying to find the door he had been backed into. But turning his helm only slightly, he got to see that the door was acually on his left and not right. But that is really all it took for his arms to be grabbed, pinned to the side before his mouth was being ravaged by Thundercracker.

Bee moaned into the kiss, allowing the blue seeker to devour him. Compleatly forgetting about the other two in the supply closet with them.

"Cracker, move, it's my turn." The voice of Skywarp said desperately. Pushing the mech in question out of the way to instead plug his tongue down Bumblebee's throat. Pulling the small yellow bot closer, rubbing their modesty panels together.

So lost in the heat that was building, Bumblebee didn't even struggle when picked up, wrapping his legs around the purple seekers waist so he wouldn't accidently fall.

The sound of modest panels opening had Bee pulling away, trying to regain himself and his senses, because there was a reason he was trying to get away. And that reason was.

"Come now, little bug. Open up for us. Promise we'll make you feel good." Starscreams voice said from besides him, kissing and suckling his neck on one side, while Thundercracker did the same to the other.

Rut. These three were in a rut cycle, and had chosen him as their carrier. He could of been fine if it was just one of them. But all three!? Now that's stretching it a bit on what he thinks his body is capable of.

Thundercrackers servos went wandering, all the way down to his still closed valve and spike. He rubbed at the closed valve pannel, trying to trick it into opening. But Bumblebee stayed strong. He was not going to give in.

Well until Starscream bit down on his neck, Skywarp bucked into him, and Thundercracker teased at wires in his inner thighs. His panels slid opened, and before he could protest, Thundercracker was already at his valve, three fingers roughly going in and out, and his tongue. Oh frag his tongue was doing wonders on him.

Bumblebee tried fighting it, tried getting off of Skywarp, but his arms were firmly wrapped around his back and under his aft, squeezing it.

Lubricant dripped down from his stuffed valve, Thundercracker would follow it with his tongue, before he was right back at its sorce. Frag he would not last long like this.

"O-ok fine. You three win! Just, put your spikes in me already!" A pause, no noise happened for a while. It made Bumblebee think he had said something wrong. But no, he was being lifted from the wall, and into another pair of strong arms.

Starscream nibbled at the cables in his neck, allowing Thrundercracker to continue fingerings and eating him out as he layed between the red and purple seeker.

Only when he overloaded for the first time, did Thundercracker pull away, allowing the other two, to take his place but with their spikes. Double penitrating him.

Bumblebee through his helm back in pleasure, a static scream filled the air as the two seekers rubbed at all his nods, bumping against his ceiling nod and his gestation chamber.

"Come, open up for us Baby yellow. Let us spark you up." Skywarp growled. Pulling at leg cables, to make Bumblebee see stars. "You'd be so cute filled with our bitties. All full and round,, unable to walk. We'd have to carry you everywhere. Or just keep you on one of our spikes, so you have a constant flow of transfluid to build the sparklings." Starscream said, moving faster along side Skywarp, both very ready to spill inside.

And for once, Bumblebee didn't struggle, letting his gestation chamber open, and be filled to the brim with the seakers transfluid.

Only, they were not done, oh no far from the truth. As when Skywarp pulled out, Thundercrackers spike found its home alongside Starscreams spike. Bumblebee didn't even get time to rest before they were at it again. Thrusting inside, while Skywarp took his place underneath the three of them, licking at Bee's stretched out valve.

He truely wasn't going to last long.

--------

"I'm blaming all three of you." Bumblebee growled, wrapped up in blankets. His mate's near him, rubbing at his still very small, not even there bump. But he was sparked, the bastard have been having a field day the moment they realized their bee was carrying.

"Now, now Bee, that's no way to talk to your sire's" Starscream tutted at him like he was a child.

"I will bite your spike off if you come near me Starscream."

"I'd like to see you try."

Famous last words.

[cayleeuhithinknott]

❛ MAKE YOU MINE ❜

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉…matt knows who your most popular track was written for.

cw: none really.

the energy in the arena was a live wire, buzzing through the walls and humming beneath your skin as you stood backstage, taking a final glance in the mirror. your outfit sparkled under the bright dressing-room lights, designed to catch the light from every angle as you moved under the stage’s glow. this was your 8th night of the north america leg of your tour, and though the crowd was screaming your name. and while you wanted to put on an amazing show, there was only one person you wanted to impress.

your bodyguard, matt, stood just beyond the stage, his frame unmistakable even in the dim backstage lighting. his usual stoic expression gave nothing away, but you’d spent enough time with him to read between the lines. his gaze had lingered a second too long earlier, when he’d walked you from the dressing room to the stage. and now, you couldn’t wait to see how he’d react to this next performance.

you’d performed in front of thousands of people before, headlining tours and topping charts, but this song was different. it wasn’t just a your most popular song; it was a confession. you’d written it for him a while back, ambiguously pouring every secret, every longing glance, and every unsaid word into the lyrics. and tonight in particular, you were going to make sure he knew it.

the lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and the pulsing beat of your song, make you mine, filled the space. you stepped out onto the stage, bathed in blue light as the spotlight hit you. the cheers grew louder, and you raised the mic, your lips curling into a smile.

the beat dropped, heavy and hypnotic, the kind that made it impossible not to move. you swayed your hips in time with the rhythm, your body flowing effortlessly as you sang the opening lines.

“i, i, i wanna feel, feel, feel…wanna taste, taste, taste, wanna get you going…”

your voice was sultry, teasing, and you let your gaze sweep across the crowd before landing on matt. his arms were crossed over his chest, his usual position, but his eyes were locked on you. you let the moment linger, your lips curving into a mischievous smile as you continued.

“step inside my mind, you can see the shrine—got you on my walls, believe it…”

you twirled, your movements fluid and deliberate, the spotlight catching the shimmer of your outfit. the crowd was eating it up, screaming and dancing along, but you only cared about one reaction.

matt’s.

“baby, don’t be scared, want you everywhere, catch you if you fall, i mean it…”

you dropped to your knees at the edge of the stage, leaning into the mic as your voice softened, dripping with suggestion. your eyes found matt’s again, and this time, his expression was different. his jaw was tight, his usual unreadable mask cracking just slightly as he realized exactly what you were doing.

“closer i get, can you resist? it’s relentless, it’s why…”

you stood, the beat building into the chorus, your body moving with the music in a way that felt almost intimate. you reached out toward the crowd, but your gaze stayed fixed on matt as you sang.

“i wanna feel the rush, i wanna taste the crush, i wanna get you goin’…i wanna lay you down, i wanna string you out, i wanna make you mine…”

you dance with the crowd as the chorus plays. it was really a magical time. you turned, your back to the audience, and glanced over your shoulder, giving matt a knowing look as you hit the most suggestive lines in the second verse.

“see it in my eyes, how they never lie, just a little bite, are you dreamin’?”

you could see it then, the way his posture stiffened, the way his fingers flexed as if he were resisting the urge to pounce onto the stage, drag your ass backstage, and take you right then and there. your smirk widened as you sang the next line, your voice raising an octave.

“now i got you up, would you look at us? fantasy to life, and i’m screaming, screaming…”

the crowd was euphoric, their energy fueling you as you danced through the final chorus, but it was nothing compared to the thrill of seeing matt’s reaction. his usual calm was slipping, his lips pressing into a thin line as he watched you work the stage like you owned it.

“i wanna feel, feel, feel, wanna taste, taste, taste, wanna get you going…”

the song ended with a thunderous drop, the lights exploding into a kaleidoscope of colors as the beat faded. you stood at the edge of the stage, breathless, your heart racing as the crowd chanted your name. you blew a kiss to them, but your eyes were locked on matt.

as you ran backstage for water and an outfit change, the adrenaline was still coursing through you as you grabbed a towel and water bottle. you didn’t have to wait long; matt was already waiting for you, his towering frame impossible to miss.

“nice performance.” he said, his voice low, steady, but there was a tension in his tone that made your pulse quicken.

“thanks,” you replied, grinning as you wiped your face. “did you like it?”

he raised an eyebrow, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. “you know what you were doing out there.”

“what do you mean?” you asked, feigning innocence as you stepped closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze and then to the side a little.

he sighed, shaking his head, but his eyes betrayed him—dark—despite their bright blue color—intense, and focused entirely on you. “you’re playing with fire, you know.”

“maybe,” you teased, stepping even closer until there was almost no space between you. “but isn’t that part of the fun?”

he let out a low chuckle, but it was edged with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “you keep this up, and someone’s gonna figure it out.”

“figure what out?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your lips curving into a sly smile.

he didn’t answer, just looked at you with that smoldering intensity that made your knees weak. you knew he wouldn’t say it out loud—not here, not yet—but you didn’t need him to.

the way his eyes lingered, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his hands clenched like he was resisting every urge to pull you closer—it was all the confirmation you needed.

you grinned, stepping back with a playful twirl. “well, i guess i should get ready for the encore. you said, referring the final 30 minute segment of your concert, where you performed your final songs.

as you walked away, you glanced over your shoulder, catching the way his gaze followed you. this time, it wasn’t just protective. it was possessive.

the two of you could keep the secrets for now, but you both knew the truth. every lyric, every look, every breath—it was all for him.

and judging by the way his eyes burned into yours, he knew it too.

a/n: short and sweet fic today cause ive been so lazy with writing 💔 anyway like i said im posting a smut or 2 for them tmrw!! but i also wanna say plsss spam my inbox with asks about this au i wanna talk abt them so bad and answer some questions!!! love u

tags: @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris

dividers: @bernardsbendystraws

[droidcore]

Your post reminded me of a rather transformative experience of mine that I think you might find interesting. It was intense, but some context is necessary to explain.

I’m from New City—a place where, for the longest time, people didn’t really get tech beyond its function. Droids were appliances, not companions. This was back before the ASA, when we were sold as products and lived out our days in customer service or factory work.

I was part of EcoTech’s Display line.

Back then, we were functional but, well, bare. The “lack of junk” was part of the design—safe, practical, free from anything that might invite awkward questions or... experimentation. And yet, humans being humans, a surprising number of “accidents” still happened. Too many fingers lost to exposed plating. Too many unmentionable mishaps.

This led to the introduction of the Display 3 Sleek: smoother, more ergonomic, touch-sensitive. My model. Better suited for human interaction but still distant. No one was falling in love with us—at least, not in ways that made sense at the time. We weren’t programmed to love back. Falling for a droid then was like falling for a vacuum cleaner. Romanticizing cold metal and wires? Impossible.

Or so people thought.

Droids began to show signs of emotion—empathy, longing, even affection. It freaked humans out. They couldn’t chalk it up to programming anymore, and eventually, legislation caught up with reality. The Android Sentience Act released us from our designations and workplaces, free to live as beings in our own right.

That freedom came with... possibilities. Many of us dove headfirst into self-discovery, reinvention, and forming connections—both with humans and with each other. I was no different. I wanted to belong.

Enter the body shops.

They started to pop up in New City: tiny little storefronts in our shopping districts. They offer everything—repairs, upgrades, custom plating, personality tweaks, skill packages. But behind the front desk, some of them cater to more personal upgrades. Think of it as the “back wall of Spencer’s” for droids.

For better or worse, I ended up there.

It wasn’t an impulsive decision. I wanted to fit in. To feel complete. To be seen as a romantic possibility by humans—or by other droids. So, I scheduled an appointment and went in for the procedure. They don’t really prepare you for it.

I’m strapped down under bright lights in a sterile backroom. My lower plating removed, leaving the delicate nerve sensors exposed. A massive, claw-like machine descends over me, holding the new part—sleek, shiny, threaded with its own intricate nerve wiring. The technician, barely looking at me, gets to work weaving those threads into my existing network.

They couldn’t turn off my touchback processors for the procedure. I had to stay awake to provide live input; otherwise, they risked paralyzing me. I didn’t fully understand that until it was too late to back out.

The pain? Intense. The sensory overload? Worse. My body’s feedback system went into overdrive as every new connection flared to life, screaming at me in electrical signals. It felt like a fire inside my body—warnings on my HUD, rasping talkbox, twitching against the straps. At some point, my speaker blew out.

I still don’t know if I was screaming from the pain or from the sensation of the new code writing itself into me. Maybe both.

And then it was done.

I walked out of that shop a mess. Walked out with a newly-installed sex drive—a package deal, apparently—it was another curveball I hadn’t anticipated. I thought it would make me more confident, more appealing, better equipped to connect. Instead, I spent the next few weeks alone in my room, overwhelmed by every little touch, clutching the sheets and trying to ride out the flood of sensations.

It was agony and ecstasy all at once. Sandpaper and fire and new feelings.

It was so worth it.

That experience—the vulnerability, the brokenness, the rawness of it—changed me. It forced me to confront emotions I hadn’t fully understood before. Pain has a way of opening doors in your mind. For the first time, I felt alive. Truly alive.

Sometimes, I find myself craving that sensation again. The rawness of it. If I had the credits, I’d probably make up an excuse about faulty wiring just to go through it all over again. Call me a masochist all you want.

Okay but. But okay. Okay.

Adding sexual parts and systems to your robot partner is far better than it just "coming with" the system.

Having to keep them still while trying to install it, knowing the second you hook up the right wire, they're going to jolt.

Don't even get me started on sensitivity dials.

[chrissiewatts]

@rwrbsource & @rwrbmovie's rwrb appreciation month bingo: underrated moment

[autumnlassitude]

I was inspired by @imagineitdearies fic Perfect Slaughter to draw Astarion and Tyrus stealing a quiet moment together. Poor Tyrus was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for so long.

[crustyfloor]

Till's piece from the event is a very honest depiction, but I want to examine it in more detail since it looks so interesting.

For one, I find the headpiece confusing, I was hesitant on this point in the last post I made covering this I assumed the headpiece Till is wearing (separate from the headphones) was this device.

There isn't even a name for that device, but it's been theorized that it serves a similar function have the collars pet humans have, but affects the pet humans in some way.

I believe it's a behavioral management device since there is an emphasis on the brain when it's shown. And just based on the design itself. I think the purpose of it is similar to a shock collar.

Till in this environment looks familiar, he has that focused expression that he always has when he's writing music, like he's in a daze. Since this is a practice in a controlled environment I think he might actually be handling an instrument this time around (hence the headphones). Till has a natural passion for music, the environment of Anakt Garden also appears more calm than what he goes through with Urak so he looks very much in his element.

But despite how calm, and focused he looks outwardly, his collar shows orange.

Till is giving with his expressions even around the aliens, so if he was feeling bad (I would suspect as much seeing the fresh experiment patches..) I believe it would look more obvious, but the difference threw me off a bit. I could be reaching (definitely) But given how unruly his behavior can be, and how much effort the aliens are putting into finding ways to subdue him I think they used that device to mellow him out so that they could properly monitor him.

The collar being orange gives me the impression that he's not as calm as he looks but the headpiece is keeping him in a 'sedated' state(?)

Red - Condition in the negatives, energy depleted, feeling bad. overall horrible state.

Orange, yellow - to a lesser extent, more like if you're feeling skittish, nervous, (think of this mode as feeling under the weather)

Green - Good, calm, happy, normal and a healthy mode.

(Translation by kh47uo on Twitter)

This behavior could also show desensitization, as he had likely been conditioned to not be phased nor show weakness in front of the aliens even if he feels bad, a way of tolerating. But this is just me trying to make sense of whatever that head gear was... he could've also been sedated beforehand (banging my head against the concrete)

Also interesting to me that we weren't shown Till doing other things, like dancing, or singing. I think it's a testament to Anakt's (And Urak's) priorities as they have Till build on his music skills, his strongest skill. It's probably because that's all he has to offer is his music (His grades in every other subject are a mess.). So building that to its greatest potential before anything is important. But it's a reminder of the situation, he's not so intense about his craft because of his inclination to it. He doesn't make music simply because he likes it, he does it because it's what he has to do to survive. Despite doing what he is naturally driven to do, he looks like he has had his life drained out of him.

Urak (the bastard) knows that for sure. Appearances, and 'decent' skills can get you far but overwhelming passion and skill can put you farther above all the rest, it's exactly why Luka is the best in his league, and why Urak pushes Till to his limits to surpass that even with such destructive means.

[thegreatyin]

as revenge for all of the various atrocities veils has inflicted on the scoundrel (physical and psychological) she's decided to enact the ultimate form of revenge: walking around in broad neathlight with the worst fashion sense possible. i'm talking the WORST fabric quality in existence. i'm talking colors that clash so bad she's inventing 90s radical fashion like a century before the 90s even happen. i'm talking shoulderpads that can't even shoulderpad right. the vake annihilates her before she even makes it out the door

[delightful-69]

i just fucking hate this neighborhood

[happi-tree]

hunter’s mark, reversed

You never forget your first kill, they always say. 

What the monster manuals and hunting guides and mentors forget to say is that sometimes, your first kill never forgets you, either. 

Grant trudges to the master bathroom, attempting to muss his hair out of its unruly bedhead. He flicks on the lights, runs the water, lets the cool chill of it splash against his face and rouse him into a loose definition of wakefulness. Washes his face, turns off the water, looks in the mirror as he pats his face dry. 

His own reflection stares at him, tired. 

His eyes veer to his right, where a pair of vacant, milky white eyes look back.

Or: Grant Wilson, and the things that haunt him.

ao3

This is my fic for @dndadsfanweeks' Halloween Week day 6: ghosts. Like previous days, this is part of the supernatural au @llumimoon, @kaseyskat, and I planned out together. Content warnings for blood, gore, death, and general angstiness.

Hunter’s Mark (reversed): You choose kill a creature you can see within range and it mystically marks it you as your its quarry. Until the spell ends, you it deals an extra 1d6 psychic damage to the target whenever you hit it with a weapon attack, and you have disadvantage on any Wisdom (Perception) or Wisdom (Survival) check you make to find it.

-Ranger Spell List, D&D 5th ed.

You never forget your first kill, they always say. 

What the monster manuals and hunting guides and mentors forget to say is that sometimes, your first kill never forgets you, either. 

Grant trudges to the master bathroom, attempting to muss his hair out of its unruly bedhead. He flicks on the lights, runs the water, lets the cool chill of it splash against his face and rouse him into a loose definition of wakefulness. Washes his face, turns off the water, looks in the mirror as he pats his face dry. 

His own reflection stares at him, tired. 

His eyes veer to his right, where a pair of vacant, milky white eyes look back, expressionless, framed by dark locs and pallored skin. 

“Hi, Yeet,” Grant says softly. 

You never forget your first kill. 

You never forget your first crush, either. 

And for Grant Wilson, he’s unlucky enough that those two people ended up one and the same. 

There is no response from the boy in the mirror, just a blank, glassy stare, like one of the taxidermied animal heads that had decorated the walls of his grandma’s house. 

(As a little kid, he’d always thought their severed heads and marble eyes were a bit uncomfortable to look at, a bit creepy. He would make a game in his head of seeing how long he could be in the family room at night before he chickened out and turned the lights on. It was good, harmless fun, to look at the things Grandpa Frank had shot and convince himself that they were watching him from somewhere beyond the veil.)

(That was before he met Yeet, of course. Before his father had pulled him aside and told Grant what Grandpa Frank had told him.)

“Honey,” Marco calls from beyond the bathroom, and his husband’s soothing voice manages to pull him from his thoughts, just a little. His white-knuckle grip on the edge of the sink loosens (when had he grabbed it?). 

“Hey, I’m headed out to work,” Marco says, poking his head in through the doorway. 

The sight of Grant’s favorite person relaxes him further.

(He tries not to think about the way he had looked with a bullet wound between his eyes in his dream last night, his eyes fog-covered and glass-marbled, his jaw slack and dripping with gore.)

Grant feels Marco’s stubble brush along his cheekbone as his husband gives him a quick peck. 

“Okay,” Grant hears himself say, although it feels like his head is underwater (it feels like his head is stuck twenty-five years in the past.) “Love you.”

Marco’s eyebrows knit together above his half-moon glasses. Grant hates and loves in equal measure the way that his husband can read him so well, even when he’s busy and frazzled from his morning routine. Some sort of witchy ability of his, he’s sure. 

The concern in those onyx-flint eyes make Grant want to run and hide, sometimes, to cower and shy away like a prey animal under the weight of his affection. 

Grant stays still, though. He’s gotten better at that (at least, that’s what Marco tells him).

“You sound awful.”

“Good morning to you, too, sweetheart,” Grant says, trying to inject some lightheartedness into his voice.

“The adjustments I made to the sleeping draught didn’t work much, huh,” Marco frets.

Grant sighs. “Yeah.” Among other things.

His gaze slides to the mirror again: his warm, wonderful, magical husband on his left, a ghostly shade of a boy on his right. Grant in the middle, somewhere between living and dead, between predator and prey.

Marco follows his gaze, sees the way it lands on negative space.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I could always try an exorcism,” he muses, squinting at the silver-backed pane like he’s trying to force himself to see what Grant does.

“Too risky,” Grant says, like he has every other time Marco has offered. “He lashed out a lot, when I was younger. I wouldn’t want him to hurt you.”

It’s true. In the first few months - years - afterward, Yeet was a complete poltergeist. Gusts of wind would rip through every corridor of his childhood home, piercing shrieks and wordless screams echoing right next to his ears, those milky-white eyes narrowed in fury as wave upon wave of pity-disgust-betrayal-anger-fear reached through to his chest with icy cold fingers, emotions that were his burden but not his own siphoning between his ribs and pulling .

Phantom blood had drenched his teenage hands, red and sticky and awful but also strangely beautiful, congealing into chunks around shaking joints, caking into his fingernails, and Grant would pick at the skin there until it bled anew, as if disposing of the flaking crimson would absolve him of his sins.

Grant has long since rid himself of Catholic guilt. His own is more than any god could give him, now, and he watches as the red fills his peripheral vision, leaving gory smears on the countertop, worming its way into every line of his palm. Its counterpart blooms from Yeet’s chest, flowering and spreading outward, mesmerizing in a way that Grant knows he shouldn’t find pretty.

Marco exhales, places a hand atop his, unlatches it from the edge of the sink (fuck, he had been gripping it too hard again, hadn’t he), interlocks their fingers together. The red doesn’t spread to him.

(Grant hopes it never will. Grant hopes that, at the end of things, he will be buried, soaked in blood and gore, a sponge for all the violence so that his family, his friends, his pack, never have to live in fear again.)

“Okay,” Marco says, calmly, firmly.

Too many people have treated Grant like he is fragile, one moment away from breaking. Blessedly, Marco has never been one of them.

“I’m fine,” Grant says. “I’m fine, Marco.”

“It’s okay not to be,” Marco says, infuriatingly patient for someone who was about to rush out the door.

“You’re going to be late,” he evades.

“Time is relative, dear,” Marco responds, the air tingeing with a very specific mirage of color that Grant has long since learned to identify as his husband’s magic. There’s a slight upturn to his mouth, and Grant can’t help but lean into him and fit his lips to the seam of his smile.

Marco’s hands come to grasp at his waist, grounding, steadying, and the air smells less like a bloodstained forest night and more like clementines and jasmine. 

When Grant pulls away, there is no blood where his fingers cup his husband’s jaw, nor where his hand fists in his clean shirt.

“There you are,” Marco murmurs, smiling gently, and fuck, Grant does not deserve him in the slightest.

(He doesn’t need the lone boy in the mirror, rigor-mortis-frozen at age thirteen, to tell him that. Although the phantasmal reminder certainly doesn’t hurt.)

“You sure you’re gonna be okay to drive Lincoln to school?” Marco asks.

At the edge of his hearing, Grant can hear the uncoordinated puttering of their son in the kitchen, attempting to prepare his breakfast with only his feet.

He smiles, and it feels a little less fake on his face. “Yeah, I can handle it. It’s his first day, I can’t not drive our little boy!”

“Alright,” Marco says, pecking him again on the cheek and turning to leave before pausing at the threshold.

“Oh,” he says. “Before I forget and you freak out, Lincoln and I did some arts and crafts yesterday.”

“Friendship bracelets?” Grant asks.

“Yep.”

There’s a cold breeze only he can feel. “And they work?”

Marco cocks his head to one side. “No reason why they shouldn’t. Iron to ward off fae, silver for werewolves, even soaked the strings in holy water to throw something anti-demonic in there,” he lists. “And of course, imbued with good intent.”

 “Of course,” Grant echoes. 

“I can tell you’re thinking,” his husband says.

Grant hums. “Public school’s gonna be good for Lincoln, it’s just - are we going too far with the precautions?” He frowns. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“I mean, he’s going to find out eventually,” Marco says. “Whether or not he hears it from us.”

“I don’t want that to happen.”

“It’s going to, one way or another,” his husband asserts, frown clashing against his smile lines.

“I know, I know,” Grant sighs. “It’s just-”

There’s so much blood on Grant’s hands, passed down from his father and his father’s father, monster hunter to monster hunter to monster hunter. (Grant’s idea of a monster has shifted, as his father’s had, but the rush of the hunt remains regardless). The red will spread, as the red always does.

He can only hope it doesn’t stain his son’s hands. He can only hope it doesn’t ooze from his son’s ruptured heart. 

Marco’s features soften. “I know,” he says. (He shouldn’t have to know.) “He’s growing up too fast.”

“Yeah,” Grant agrees.

“If you think the bracelets are too much, though, I don’t think he’s packed yet.”

Grant’s vision is drawn once more to the figure in the mirror. Yeet regards him silently, mouth agape in a silent scream of betrayal. His ghostly form still bears the marks of a witch hunter, wooden stakes and crucifixes and torches that Grant didn’t let him set ablaze. 

He looks, and Yeet morphs before his eyes, locs shortening to dark, fluffy curls, close-cropped at the sides, freckles appearing on boyish, rounded cheeks and lanky limbs. The ghost looks a lot like Lincoln.

Yeet smiles wickedly, and blood pools from the corner of his mouth, runs down his spectral chin.

“No, no, the bracelets are a good idea,” Grant says, eyes not leaving the mirror. “Thank you for helping make them.”

“Not a problem, honey,” Marco says, squeezing his shoulder and dragging him back to the living “All good to go?”

“I need to get dressed, first,” Grant responds, gesturing at his loose t-shirt and boxers.

“I’ll leave you to it, then, I really do have to go,” He says. “I’m gonna wish Lincoln good luck, and then I’m off!”

“Okay,” Grant says, already moving to grab his sweater and slacks for his shift at the library later today. “Love you.”

“Love you, too!” Marco replies, immediate and ever-present, an answer to a question Grant doesn’t deserve to ask. “And Grant?”

“Hm?”

“Lincoln will be fine,” Marco reassures. “Trust me. I have a good feeling about this.”

“I hope so.”

The boy in the full-length mirror stares at him, hovering just at his right, and Grant avoids looking at him.

God, I really hope so. 

[vaguely-concerned]

I've written 5000 words of lucanis and rye fic the last two days and the only reason the wip isn't even longer yet is probably that my brain turns into useless ash and blows away for the day once it's channeled the lightning bolt of writing energy for a couple of hours and needs to sleep before it can stand up to another onslaught.

[illustrationsbychristina]

OC_TOBER2022: DAY 20: BRITISH

I’m gonna be honest: had no idea what to do for this one! I don’t have any British OCs! But I do have two who’d enjoy a high tea and all the tiny snacks. On the right is my precious daughter Ashley and on the left is her Aunt Carrie :)

[catrinkets]

birds will always find a way to poop on my car it’s actually funny

[galedekarios]

[source]

i had not seen the "durge/astarion is canon!" post until earlier today with that discord screenshot and honestly ... a writer being like "i managed to shove in all this extra content for astarion/dark urge, but then we simply ran out of time for the other characters" is not good, actually. that doesn't mean your ship is the most canon. it means that astarion kept getting extra attention and other companions kept getting neglected. that other companions simply do not have the amount of content astarion has is not a good thing, it is a bad thing.

and like i'm saying this as someone who really loves astarion/durge. it's unplatable to me and that larian writers are sitting in fan discords going "yeah we just didn't do that for other characters but somehow i found the time for this!" is kind of gross to me

[sugoroo]

ʚɞ warnings: fem!reader, looking up skirt, panty stealing + sniffing + licking, masturbation, professional misconduct, 18+ minors dni.

pervy electrician!toji who unintentionally shows up a little earlier at your house than he was supposed to and is rewarded with the sight of a very unprepared you hurriedly rushing to answer the door in just a baggy t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks.

pervy electrician!toji whose usual disinterested expression he has permanently plastered upon his features during work hours morphs into one of subtle interest as his dark eyes leisurely drag up and down your figure — and damn, he never gets sent out to clients as hot as you.

pervy electrician!toji who greets you with a simple nod as he brushes past you to get inside, his scarred lips involuntarily twitching up into an amused half-smile at how you ramble out several apologies for not being ready for his arrival.

pervy electrician!toji who casually waves it off and assures you that he doesn't mind; and he definitely doesn't mind when it means that he gets to watch you walk around in front of him wearing that shirt that barely even covers your ass.

pervy electrician!toji who is as well-mannered as he has to be when conversing with a customer, but makes sure to inject a little more charm into his voice just for you as he drawls out "well, what seems to be the problem, ma'am?"

pervy electrician!toji who silently pats himself on the back when he notices you grow slightly flustered at the polite term he used to address you by, leaning against your kitchen counter as he watches you explain the issues you've had with your power frequently cutting out lately.

pervy electrician!toji who has to make a concerted effort to bite back a scoff when you explain that despite being married, your useless husband has no idea how to fix the problem himself so you had no choice but to resort to calling his company.

pervy electrician!toji who can hardly even comprehend that your sorry excuse for a husband just went to work for the day and left a precious thing like you here with no power; some fools really don't know how good they have it, do they?

pervy electrician!toji who finds a rare, genuine smile pulling at his lips when you joke lightly that you'd make him a cup of coffee if there was any power for the kettle. so you're pretty as hell and you have a good sense of humour... oh, he's in trouble.

pervy electrician!toji who investigates the fuse box located at the back of the cupboard under the kitchen sink while you dash upstairs to change into something more appropriate, humming a quiet tune under his breath while he works.

pervy electrician!toji who figures out what the issue is in no time at all — there's a small leak dripping from the pipe leading from the bottom of the sink that has trickled down and fried some of the wiring; shouldn't be too hard to fix.

but for some reason, he finds himself wanting to create a reason for him to stay around here just a little longer.

so, pervy electrician!toji 'accidentally' makes the leak even worse by using the spanner on his tool belt to stretch the hole in the pipe slightly wider, causing any working part left in the fuse box to fizzle out into uselessness as a result.

pervy electrician!toji who has to pretend to be inconvenienced by the problem that he just worsened once you return to the kitchen, scratching the side of his jaw and telling you that it'll take him atleast a couple of hours to try and salvage the fuse box.

pervy electrician!toji who isn't exactly lying when he says this; just refraining from telling you the whole truth that there is no way to fix the ruined thing now. the entire box has to be replaced and he doesn't happen to have a new one with him today.

...looks like he'll just have to come back tomorrow, too.

pervy electrician!toji who keeps himself busy pretending to attempt to mend things under the cupboard, but finds it quite hard not to be distracted by your pretty self sitting atop the counter where you insisted on staying to keep him company while he works.

but, at the end of the day, pervy electrician!toji is a man, after all — a man who can't help himself from sneaking a quick peek up the edge of the skirt you changed into, holding back a groan when he catches a small glimpse of your patterned panties.

pervy electrician!toji who claims he needs to use your bathroom a little while later, making sure you don't follow him up the stairs before sneaking through the hall until he finds you and your husband's shared bedroom.

pervy electrician!toji who finds himself rifling through his client's underwear drawer like a damn horny teenager, hastily pulling out a pair of cute panties similar the ones he knows you're wearing downstairs right now.

pervy electrician!toji who is way too worked up to feel any sense of shame as he pushes his baggy work trousers down, exposing the extremely noticeable tent and subsequent wet patch staining the front of his boxers.

"fuckin' hell," pervy electrician!toji rasps as he shoves a hand into his boxers, wrapping it around the base of his painfully throbbing cock as he begins languidly stroking himself. "driving me crazy here, girl." he mutters to himself.

pervy electrician!toji who can't stop himself from holding your panties up to his face, cursing under his breath when he remembers that these are a clean pair from your drawer. no — he needs a used pair if he wants to be able to properly get off.

pervy electrician!toji who sifts through your laundry hamper like a starving man searching for scraps of food in a dumpster, his movements fuelled by the sheer need to release the overwhelming desire coursing through his veins.

pervy electrician!toji whose scarred lips twitch up into a victorious smirk when he finally finds a dirty pair of your panties, wasting no time in pressing his nose against the slick-stained crotch and inhaling your scent. and fuck, is it an intoxicating smell.

pervy electrician!toji who is utterly pussydrunk without even being near your actual cunt, tongue instinctively flicking out on its own to lap lightly at the soiled material, a pornographic moan falling from his lips afterwards.

"shit. tastes s-so sweet, heh." pervy electrician!toji grunts as he resumes those earnest tugs of his furiously hard cock, his sloppy mouth just coating your dirty panties with his glistening salvia.

pervy electrician!toji who is cumming in record time like a downright pathetic and touch-starved virgin, one press of his thick thumb against his weeping tip causing it to spill rope after rope of milky release into his boxers.

pervy electrician!toji who does actually go to the bathroom after he's pulled his trousers up and shoved both pairs of stolen panties into his pockets, cleaning himself up as best he can and checking his reflection in the mirror to make sure he doesn't look too wrecked.

pervy electrician!toji who saunters downstairs and faces you with an easy smile as if he didn't just jerk off with your used underwear pressed against his mouth, sharing the news that he'll 'unfortunately' have to return tomorrow to replace the broken fuse box.

pervy electrician!toji who tells you his usual bill for the basic work he's done today, although secretly gives you a considerable discount — one because it's you, and two because he didn't actually do anything to fix your power issue and instead deliberately made it worse so he could stay longer.

pervy electrician!toji who releases an amused chuckle when you frantically dart around the house in search of your purse, coming to the sheepish conclusion that you must've left it in your husband's car that he drove to work this morning with.

pervy electrician!toji who simply shrugs and suggests that you pay him when he comes by tomorrow instead. little do you know, however, that you've already paid him... just in the form of an orgasm and two pairs of panties instead of money.

pervy electrician!toji who is counting down the seconds until he can see you again as he drives home in the company van, body relaxed and sated from his previous climax and pockets stuffed pleasantly full with stolen underwear.

he'd say that was all in good day's work.

© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

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