#skull reshaping

[shahinjavaherimdplasticsurgeon]

Skull Reshaping Surgery in San Francisco, CA

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[robi1425]

Natural Aesthetic Skull Reshaping for a Balanced Appearance

In the quest for beauty and self-improvement, aesthetic procedures have gained significant popularity. One such procedure that has gained attention in recent years is aesthetic skull reshaping. This innovative technique allows individuals to modify the shape of their skulls to achieve a more harmonious and balanced facial appearance. In this blog post, we will explore the intricacies of aesthetic skull reshaping, its benefits, and what you need to know before considering the procedure.

The Benefits of Aesthetic Skull Reshaping -

Improved Facial Proportions: Aesthetic skull reshaping can address concerns such as a disproportionately large or small forehead, prominent ridges, or a flat back of the head. By creating a more balanced skull structure, it can improve the overall facial proportions.

Enhanced Self-Confidence: Many individuals who undergo aesthetic skull reshaping report an increase in self-confidence and self-esteem. The procedure allows them to achieve the desired facial symmetry and balance, leading to a more positive self-image.

Long-lasting Results: Aesthetic skull reshaping provides permanent results. Once the skull has been reshaped, the changes are permanent and do not require additional procedures or touch-ups.

[itslookingback]

hihihi!!!!! reflect & venture for the ask game :3

hihihi!!!!

reflect: what are 3 things you have accomplished this year that you are proud of?

this is going to be very academia focused but that is literally only what has happened this year. number 1. i did my a levels and got into uni!!! probably the biggest thing that's happened and i'm so happy about it!!!! number 2. moved out wahoooooo (to go to uni) and number 3. i was so scared about it and thought i would crash and burn in an autistic manner but living independently has been good so far 👍👍👍

venture: name 3 new things you tried this year.

number 1 DOCTOR WHO (not really new since i had watched a bit of 10 + 11 + 13 but i started from the beginning of new who) number 2 knitting cables!! hard but it's really fun!! number 3 went to a big gig for the first time to see one of my fave bands and it was really fun :3

[catalina-kachie]

Aaaaaaa

[unfriendlyamazon]

made a joke watching jurassic park 3 anyway now all i think about is yellowjackets au but they crash land on isla sorna and instead of furs they're decked out in dinosaur skulls

[enviedear]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ got what i wanted, but it's never enough for me

⤷ jacaerys velaryon ⊹ ࣪ ˖

౨ৎ synopsis— battletorn and bruised, you’re one sword swipe away from death when jacaerys finds you. if the wound searing into you isn’t causing enough annoyance, then surely your prince’s reprimanding will.

౨ৎ warnings— w@r, injury, canon divergence (isn’t it always), brat!jace (he’s so stressed, he’s taking it out on reader sorry), bastard!velaryon!reader, arguments, reader isn’t fully trusted by team black. 2.1k words

request ⊹ series masterlist

your entire body sears with pain, not at all akin to anything you've felt before. above you are the sounds the roars of dragons, around you the sounds of dying men. moaning and weeping, praying and making peace—it drills an ache deep into your skull.

you glance down at your torso, wincing when you see the large chunk of armor missing. gritting your teeth, you brace before pressing your fingers to the exposed flesh underneath the gnarled metal. your armor has left deep scrapes along your side, the patch of flesh filed down to the very muscle.

with great effort, you rise, fingers still pressing into your own wound. the sword at your side is sheathed, afraid your arms could not bear to hold it any longer. there's a white cast across your vision, a chill to your flesh.

you wish immediately to have stayed atop vermax with jacaerys. you have no doubt that he is handling himself with grace, every bit the deliberate warrior prince he's described. yet here you are, grounded and wounded— haunting a maelstrom of a battlefield.

you shut your eyes momentarily trying to steady your mind at the very least. it provides no aid.

you're the bastard of a dead man, what use is masquerading as if you won't inevitably meet the same fate. you still sense the slightest bit of contempt from the queen, court meetings often ending before you can speak— her eyes watching you, as if daring you to break out of line.

sometimes, you truly want to, to step into the role of 'master of complaints', but this is war. you funnel all resentments into your fighting. the words you want to spew at the roundtable reshape into the cuts tore into each of your foes.

vaemond velaryon could afford his grips until he couldn't, and it seems his daughter will do the very same. you began too incensed, angered at a comment by the prince.

jacaerys shares his mother's unease of you. rightfully so, you are a bastard to the man who sought to revoke the late prince lucerys’ title. your allegiance to her grace has never wavered. you are and will always be, a faithful servant to the crown. your own mind far different than your father's.

perhaps that is why the prince's comment etched itself so deep within your heart.

like always, the dragonpit had been scarce for company. entering only to be met by the prince and one of the keepers.

“my prince.” you had greeted, bowing your head slightly until he had addressed you in return. tasked to ride out with him as the head of your secondary regiment, you nervously approached his dragon.

“my lady.” his voice had been sharp, albeit princely. “vermax is ready, we’ll leave shortly.”

he had turned from you right after to whisper something to the dragonkeeper, his hands on the grip of his sword. he had looked back at you one last time before mounting his dragon.

you neared, “i have never had the privilege of a dragon ride. anything to note, my prince?” your words had been meant to ease any tension but when the prince simply offered out his hand without reply, you began to second guess your choice.

jacaerys helped you upon the dragon's back, and you took your place behind him. there was a long pause before he replied, his muscles taut, “keep your hands here,” his own hands directed yours toward ropes attached to the saddle. then, whispered and almost indiscernible he added, “and away from your blade.”

that's why you fled, as soon as vermax dipped low enough toward the battlefield— you jumped. you forwent the ease of watching the battle from above for the challenge that is an open combat. it was easy at first to guard off attacks on foot. but you must have made it look a bit too easy, as swarms of knights threw hits your way, you're lucky all they managed is the gory gash at your side. your life remains, slowed and tense, but there regardless.

you catch your breath, shallow and uneven, pushing through the blinding discomfort. determination fuels you, and it is the only thing propelling you forward. the chaos of the battlefield doesn't pause, doesn't show mercy, and neither shall you. the prince's words still echo in your mind, a bitter reminder of your place in this war. let it be a foolish wish, but you want more than anything to rise above the mistakes of your father.

your eyes scan the area, seeking any sign of jacaerys, but the prince and his dragon are nowhere to be seen. you grit your teeth, frustration mingling with worry. you can't afford to think about him now. survival comes first.

a sudden movement catches your attention, a knight of the usurper is charging toward you, sword raised high. you reach for your own weapon, but your fingers barely grasp the hilt as he nears. the knight's blade descends, and you scarcely manage to roll out of the way, pain flaring in your side. you stumble to your feet, using every ounce of strength to stay upright.

with a desperate lunge, you unsheath your sword, parrying the knight's next strike. your movements are sluggish, each one sending jolts of agony through your body. but you fight on, deflecting blows and striking back with whatever strength you can muster.

the knight's eyes are wide with surprise as you hold your ground, and in a moment of hesitation on his part, you find an opening. you drive your sword into his stomach, feeling the resistance as the blade cuts through armor and flesh. the knight falls, a choked gasp escaping his lips.

you lean on your sword for support, breathing heavily. the battlefield is a blur of motion and noise, but you force yourself to stay focused. you can't afford to falter now, so close to breaking through their lines.

the taste of blood is on your tongue, metallic and bitter. you don't know if it's yours or someone else's. the battlefield is a mess with death, every step a reminder of your own fragile mortality. you press forward, each step an exercise of sheer willpower.

a roar sounds overhead, louder than the fighting below, and you look up just in time to see vermax swooping low, flames spewing from his maw. jacaerys is astride him, his expression fierce and determined. for a moment, relief washes over you, but it is quickly replaced by the realization that you are in the path of his attack.

you dive to the side, narrowly avoiding the scorching heat. the fire engulfs the enemy soldiers ahead of you, their screams piercing the chaos. you struggle to your feet, the adrenaline surging through you, numbing the pain.

jacaerys spots you and directs vermax to land nearby. he dismounts swiftly, eyes scanning you critically.

"you're hurt." he forces out, voice tight with concern.

"i'm fine, my prince." you manage, though it's clear you are anything but.

he steps closer, his hand reaching out to steady you, "you shouldn't have jumped. you would have been safe."

"you did not want me there.” you snap back, the hurt from his earlier words still fresh.

jacaerys recoils at your harsh words, his eyes flashing with dismay, "my words were reckless," he says, trying to defend himself. "i was anxious... but i never want to see you hurt."

you stare at him, torn between anger and gratitude, "that moment may have passed us, my prince. perhaps you could help me instead by finding a way out."

jacaerys nods, his focus shifting back to the battle ahead. "we need to reach the castle's gates. there's a concealed passage that will get us through to our own lines."

you swallow, the pain in your side flaring up again. "i can't go on like this. you need to ride vermax back to the lines yourself and get help."

jacaerys shakes his head, his face set in determination. "i won't leave you behind. we'll make it together, just as we promised the queen."

with renewed urgency, he helps you move forward. the city gates loom ahead, a beacon of hope in the midst of chaos. but your strength is fading fast, every step more difficult than the last.

"almost there," jacaerys murmurs, his voice a lifeline. "just a little further."

you nod, clinging to his words. the gates draw nearer, and you can see the secret passage jacaerys mentioned. it's a narrow opening, just wide enough for the two of you to slip through.

jacaerys helps you inside, the walls of the passage providing some relief from the battle outside. he guides you through the dark, winding tunnel, his hand steady on your arm.

once inside, the confined space seems to press in on you, amplifying every breath, every heartbeat. the flickering torchlight casts long shadows, making the passage feel even more claustrophobic.

"you shouldn't have jumped." jacaerys echoes his earlier words suddenly, breaking the tense silence. his voice is blunt, riddled with frustration.

"i couldn't stay." you retort, your own temper flaring despite the pain. "not after what you said."

"i had one moment of unease!” he snaps back, his eyes flashing with anger. "do you have any idea how dangerous it was to go off on your own? when i am meant to protect you.”

"protect me?" you scoff, your voice rising. "by treating me like a traitor? alluding that i, of all people, would gore you in the back?"

"i was mistaken, my lady.” he admits, his tone drops but his ill-temper shines through, your weak title sounds foreign on his lips. "but you made it all worse by acting so carelessly."

"carelessly?" you laugh bitterly. "i was proving something. i am not my father, jacaerys. i have never challenged you or your mother." you drop his title, speaking to him as a peer now, "i deserve to be here."

"and your demonstration nearly got you killed!" he shouts, the sound reverberating off the walls. "do you think that would have proven anything?"

"maybe not," you reply, your voice shaky with emotion. "but at least i would have died fighting. an honorable death."

jacaerys steps closer, his expression fierce. "i do not wish you to die." he says, voice low and intense. "i need you alive. we all do."

"then stop doubting me." you breathe out, words barely audible. "stop treating me like the enemy."

his anger dissipates, replaced by something subdued, more vulnerable. you’re completely unfamiliar with such a look upon his face, "it is not your loyalty i doubt, nor you. not truly." he says quietly. "i doubt my own ability to keep you safe... to keep this entire kingdom safe. this war has become utter perdition."

the confession takes you by surprise, and for a moment, you seem to feel the weight he carries, the burden of leadership and the fear of failure. your anger ebbs, replaced by tentative understanding. in all the years you’ve known the prince, never have you both been at such a state of understanding— albeit frail.

"jacaerys…" the name escapes your lips like a question. you reach out, almost instinctively, touching his arm lightly. his gaze meets yours, a mix of strife and resolve swirling in his eyes.

"i am sorry." he says, his voice a ragged edge of emotion. "i did not mean to contest you. i just… worry."

"i know," you reply softly, your own anger dissipating with each passing heartbeat. "i know you didn't. it's just the war getting to you, it muddles my head just the same."

silence settles like a shroud around you both. for a moment, the world outside the narrow passage wilts away, leaving you and the prince in this fragile sanctuary.

"we should keep moving," jacaerys finally breaks the quietness, his hand still lightly resting on your arm. "the passage leads to safety, to maesters."

you nod again, grateful for his steadying presence. together you navigate the dark tunnel, your body pressed against his. his strong hands never once leave you, providing constant support.

when you emerge from the passage and into the relative calm of your own lines, relief washes over both your features. people rush to tend to your wounds, their movements efficient and practiced. mostly blurs to you, head still pounding. jacaerys stays close, fingers pressing slightly into the pulse at your wrist.

"you need rest." he insists softly, his gaze beating down on you.

"and you need to go be the prince. go lead your men." you reply, not willing to let him linger over you while the battle still rages.

he hesitates, brown eyes flicking down to your wrapped wound, "promise me you will rest?" he finally requests, monotone.

"i promise." you assure him.

jacaerys nods, pulling away to attend to his duties. you watch him go, your mind a mess of emotions.

[wakeup01]

hi i would love if you could transform me into your stupid foot slave.

Clean Slate

“What do you want to be in life?” I ask you as we relax at my place at the end of our date. You give a rather non committal shrug as I peel off my socks and rest my feet on the living room table.

“Huh. No career ambitions? Artist, scientist…cleaner?” I smile at you as you approach and sit across from me, scrunching your nose slightly while the scent of my feet wafts over to you.

“N—no. I guess not.” You reply sheepishly, your eyes leaving mine as they lower to my large feet.

“I’m sure we can find your place in life. You probably have lots to give. Talented at many things. Such as…cleaning.” I sway my feet back and forth on the table as I watch your eyes follow them. “Just keep watching.”

“Huh?” Distracted, you don’t even look away. My feet and their movements were utterly fascinating. “I—I don’t…”

“Cleaning.” I repeat bluntly. “I bet you’re good at cleaning.” Your back bends as you naturally feel yourself lean forward, your head lowering slightly as my feet take up more of your vision. I hear you take a tentative sniff, your eyes glazing over.

Cleaning.

“Cl—cleeaning.” You slur as a bit of drool slides from your mouth. I give a little snicker as I witness you lick your lips. Your head begins to sway along with my hypnotic sweaty feet. Mirroring it’s motion. The smell at this point was incredibly overpowering, burning away your feeble inhibitions. My feet are fucking your mind, my toes pushing to the back of your skull. Reshaping your soft brain like playdoh. Back and forth. Back and forth…

“See, I’m not so much looking for a ‘boyfriend’. Too much maintenance. But I’m sure we can find a use for you. Cleaning clothes perhaps? Maybe bathroom cleaning? No. Cleaning…feet.” I look down and validate you with a smirk.

Cleaning. Feet.

“Foot cleaning. Yes, yes I think that’s your place in life. A mindless foot cleaner. Cleaning my rank feet. You’re very skilled at it.” I assert, placing my hand on your head and guiding you closer. “It’s okay. Some of us are meant to improve the world, some of us are meant to be productive members of society. And some of us, some of us are meant to lick the space between men’s toes.”

“I…no. Please.” You plead as your face enters my feet’s gravitational pull. The musk flowing up your nose and swimming around your emptied, foot fucked mind. They smelled just as you suspected they would, of feet. Your attention is captivated by a bead of sweat on my sole. It didn’t belong there, there on my perfect feet. You feel an impulse growing. A need. You needed to…needed to…

“Clean.” I answer for you. Making everything suddenly fall into place. It just made sense. “Clean my stinky feet.”

You shudder, any hint of resistance fading in an instant. Your mouth obediently opens and your tongue glides down the length of my sole, picking up all the sweat and grime that gathered from our long walk. The taste is sour and foul but for some shameful reason, that stirs your cock. You didn’t want this, but not wanting it made you so unbelievably hard. My feet had successfully hypnotised your mind, conditioning you to kneel at the mere sight of them. Seeing my sole was the only trigger needed for your mouth to water, for your thoughts to dissipate. For you to become no more than a rag to wipe my feet clean.

“Always glad to see someone enjoy their job so immensely.” I bend forward and pin a little badge to your shirt. The two words printed on it in basic typeface describe your entire existence ‘Foot Cleaner’. Now no one, including you would be confused about your role in life.

“Cweeann siiir.” You moan with a mouth full of my flavourful foot cheese.

I laugh above you, flexing my arms as you perform your job. “Good boy. Good foot cleaner. Lick every inch until they’re glistening with your saliva. Aren’t you happy I helped you find the height of your aspirations at the bottom of my feet. Dumb idiot.”

“Yusss, thank you sir.” You wanted to be a good obedient boy for master.

“Shut up and work.” I shove my feet into you, rubbing them across your face. “I expect my feet to be spotless slave. You will be here every evening from now on to fulfil your duty. And then you will pay me for the privilege like the pathetic foot slut that you are.”

Do I make myself clear?

[curioscurio]

ONE DAY you wake up and your face looks a little different. Its not really the same shade of flesh that you've known your whole life. It's a bit off color, and seems like it's getting a little longer. Not too much, but long enough for you to really think about getting your mirror replaced.

The next day, when the moon is full, you collapse on the ground. Writhing in pain and clutching your unfamiliar body, agonizing pain floods your senses.

You notice your hair color is dark black, approximately shoulder length, and straight. The fat in your face has shifted. No matter what gender you were before, you realize you're now a half-Korean 35 year old man. Black headphones grow from the sides of your skull to wrap around your ears. Your bones snap as they reshape again, and all the genes in your body change their very structure into something newly alive.

Slowly, as the pain and fatigue subsides, you notice that you've transformed into a perfect identical biological copy of famous gamer youtuber, Markiplier.

[loaksbitch]

ok this is based on request, but imagine jake sully fucking you with pure hated cause your existence alone fucking irritates him yet he can’t keep his hand off of you yes? HECK YES

warning(s) – enemies with benefits, angry sex, mean jake, clit stimulation, overstimulation, cervix fucking, dumbfication, owning kink (if that’s a thing), cussing, orgasm denial, choking, slight hair pulling, cum stuffing, reader is a bratty minx too.

jake was sat across the hut, reshaping his arrow tip to hunt for later and very much annoyed on how youre in front of him, chewing on your thumbnail so fucking loud, on eywa you’re was so bitchy.

for the past half hours he was trying so hard to block out the chewing sound yet nothing helped, especially with your very aware self doing that purposely.

“can you stop doing that?” jake huffs, doing his best to control his growing anger and hatred.

“what?” you say with an attitude, a brow arched and giving him a stare.

you and you’re fucking attitude. jake licks his lips, tongue poking through his cheek. “that, stop chewing loud you’re distracting me.” he says, pointing to where his reshaped arrows are.

you click your tongue, nodding your head to the door. “if you’re disturbed, the door is that way.” your words are pushing him on edge, wanting to rip you and do things, you on other hand was also feeling the same and you want him away from your sight.

“this place is not yours.” he spat, tone showing a tint of anger. you’re hitting jackpot. “and it’s not yours.” you bite back.

a deep growl leaves his chest, jake frowning as he starts to speed his knife against the wooden arrow. he decides to ignore you, thinking it’s the best to steam down his anger, fuck he really hates you it’s making his cock twitch.

you’re not done with him, especially after yesterday night when he literally scared the cute na’vi male who was talking to you away. this bitch deserves to go crazy with your existence.

“slow down.” you say, voice high and pushing him to the edge. “i swear to God, y/n if you don’t shut the fu—“ you dare to cut him off, you fucking cut him off and his nostrils flared.

“you might not want to cut those fingers, do you?” you tease, empathizing with the fact he has five fingers and is different from the na’vi’s.

he blinks, eyes twitching and triggered before he snaps his head to yours.

“i’m sick of your bitchy self today.” he tries to humble you but you find ways to slap his face with your fiery mouth. “and i'm sick of your bitchy self every day.” you say and jake loudly hissed, amber eyes strictly glaring at you.

“fuck you.” he grumbles

“fuck you.” you hiss back.

done with his shit, you decide to leave and get on your feet. he smirks, lips opening to get on your nerves. “leaving already?” you don’t reply, only one plan in your mind. you’re gonna destroy this man.

intentionally, you walk over to where reshaped and non shaped separated arrows are and nudge your leg to them. you feel them tumble, falling and mixing together. “oops.” you giggle,

jakes’ smirk drops, fading so quickly, this was the last string of patience he had. he lets a terrific chuckle out and your body shivers, maybe you’ve taken it too far.

“you little bitch.” he was now on his feet, walking to you and grabbing you by your hair. you two always ended up in a fight, him not caring if you're a female or you not caring if he was male. you just go for it, punching him when he dared to touch your hair.

“the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you turn to him, face red with anger as well. you’ve always hated when someone had you by your hair. you poke on his chest, pushing him while you knew this drives him insane with maddens cause he hates getting pushed too.

“don’t. push. me.”

both of your eyes were on fire and burning holes to each other’s skull. you swallow nervously yet hold your ground and not let him see how he was intimidating you.

“don’t be an asshat and you won’t be pushed.” you said quietly.

“fuck you.” he says, voice to deep.

“fuck you.” you’re on your tiptoes now, chin raised high to show you’re not scared or bottoming out.

without any warnings his lips were on yours, hot and wet as he takes your lips and devour you. anger was still in him but the lust is winning. both of you are fighting until he was biting on your lips and making you involuntarily moan.

it was his chance, tongue being shoved inside your mouth and being tied. he moans to the kiss. jake suddenly pulls you closer and you whine, hands skimming to his chest and push him away.

he licks his lips, eyes lingering on your lips before lifting to see your eyes. you wipe your lips with your arm, spitting on the floor with disgust. oh trust me, you were so fucking turned on but had to pretend.

“don’t wipe my kiss off your lips.” he demands and you scoff, wiping more and watch his eyes squint, a chuckle leaving him.

“fine then, i’ll mark you all over your body and see if you can wipe it.” he spits and you’re being scooped to his shoulder.

you don’t fight cause you know you want this, but at the same time you’re nervous.

before you know it, you’re being thrown to the hammock, jake crawling on top of you and you almost moan at the sight. “what the fuck are you doing?” you ask, not letting him have a chance to know you’re wanting him right now.

“i think your sexy ass knows exactly what i’m doing.” your inside twists, pussy pulsing at his words. he doesn’t miss how your legs close themselves and he nods, smirking. “that turns you, doesn't it?” you look away when he holds onto your knees and forces them open.

“fuck you.” you say again and this time jake grins. “please do.” he begs this time.

he was between your legs, your loincloth getting ripped away and him untying his gently. he’s so passive aggressive. “i’m gonna fuck you till you’re screaming my name only.” he leans to nudge on your cheek with his nose.

“fuck off, i’m not doing–“ jake was again kissing you, rough and angry that almost breaks your skin. your legs are roughly pushed wider. “i fucking hate you.” he reminds you and anger bubbles in you, “i fucking hate you too–hngh..!” you struggle to answer when pleasure strikes you as jake cups your heat.

“you’re so fucking wet.” your eyes almost roll up to your head, his husky voice being too much. jake was admiring the way he bruised your blue skin when he was marking your neck.

jake trails hot wet kisses down your cleavage and to your breast. you drew a deep breath between your teeth when he took your nipple. jake locked his eyes with yours when he tugged on your nipple, letting it roll between his teeth. the sharpness of his teeth scraping on your nipple and making you shudder.

he leaned back, getting on his knees and glaring at you as he told you how he is proud with the effect he had on you with his eyes. your temper was flaring.

you pull your legs to your chest and try to close them but jake was fast. “uh-uh.” he grips onto your ankle and yanks your legs back open. you grit your teeth, fighting him and his masculine ass to get off of you.

“baby.” he sternly calls and you freeze, “the fuck did you just call me?” you slap his hand away from you when he tries to reach and brush your messy hair from your forehead. “i ain’t your baby.” you growl.

“fine, you want it the hard way?” he spits. “i’ll fuck you then.”

you’re getting pushed back and pinned to the hammock. “fucking stay like that or else…” he threats and you scoff. “no, you don’t tell me what to you, i’m not yours to obey around.”

“you’re not mine?” he arched his brow and you're silent, looking away and staring at the roof until hands are firm, grip on your jaw turns you and makes you meet his gaze. “you’re not mine?” of course at the end of the day you’re his.

“yes, you don’t own me.” every time his nostrils flared, you were very happy because he was getting upset. “we will see about that.” and then he was leaning down to capture your other breast that didn’t get attention.

you were fast to throw your head back, moaning when you felt him lightly bite on your bud and make you squirm under him. you didn’t realize you were pushing his head away from your chest until jake was grabbing your wrist and throwing it away.

right then you arch your back for him to suck on your nipple more he stops and you whine. “you’re not mine huh? you sure you don’t want to take that back?” you huff, eyes telling him you’re not changing your mind.

“yeah,” you spit, watching him grin, “is that so?” he says.

“yes, because you’re— argh!” you groan when his other hand roughly parts your fold and sinks in until his knuckle is a barrier. jake was so rough when he fingers you, your cunt squeezing him deliciously.

your eyes widen when you catch his cock jump and point straight to the roof, precum leaking from the angry tip of his dick. he can imagine how warm and tight you are.

“relax.” he curls his finger inside you, thumb flicking your clit. “relax for me.” he hates you yet look at him going all ‘relax for me’ on you.

“you’re so pathetic, so fucking dumb on my fingers.” he pulls his two fingers out before shoving them in you.

“who am i?” he asks and your answer causes him to curl his fingers inside you. “you’re an asshole!” you mweled. “asshole? i’m an asshole?” jake pinches on your thigh when you try to close them on his hand.

“c’mon pretty, i know you’re better than that. who am i?”

you’re silent, only soft breath leaving you. jake can feel how you pulse on his fingers, telling him you’re about to come. “what the–“ your eyes shoot open when you feel jake pull his hands away from you.

“open your legs wider, be fast.” for once you do as you’re told and jake hums, pleased.

“you’re not gonna get that far until you say you’re mine.” he was very serious and you gulped. you’re spread open and jake closes his eyes when the scent of your leaking slick hits his nose.

you smell so tempting and delicious.

your gaze follows him when he settles between your legs. “gonna fuck some sense into you now.” you throbbed when you said that, feeling your wetness leaking out of you fast and clenching on nothing but air.

jake held both of your legs, pushing them up to your chest and folding you half. it was his turn to squat, watching your exposed and pink folds shining as his angry tip circles on the slit.

“please,” you catch yourself slipping, pride somehow demolished. jake was surprised, “what? can’t hear you.” he gives you an attitude.

you don’t fight back, just wanting to be filled with his dick. “please i need you inside me.” he wasn’t up for teasing now. he needed you as much as you needed him. “fuuuck.” he moans, watching your face attentively when your jaw hungs open.

pain and pleasure hit you, he was not giving you any time to get accustomed to his length. jake thrusts into you, angry and rough.

“you’re mine?” he asks, taking advantage of your hazy mind but you’re no near to being hazy. “fuck off.” you hiss when he pushes your leg to your chest more, almost blocking your lungs from your stretching.

“hm, i’m asking you in a minute and i’ll need you to get it right yeah?” you only moan. jake pressed his body to your folded leg, grabbing your hips and titling your pelvis. you scream when he hits the right spot.

hands sought to his broad shoulders and pushed him when he ruined your tight cunt, it was painful when he started to slip in more. jake can’t help but get shocked when he fucks you open. his cock was literally in your cervix.

“it hurts.” you whine but jake only shushes you. hands wiping on the tears that appear on your eyes. “shh, you’re okay. i’m just so deep, f-fuck don’t do that.” he grips on your hips when you tighten on him. your warm breath hits his lips on how close he is and pressing himself on you.

hands that were wiping your tears slides to hold onto your wrists that keep pushing him away and moving them away from him. “who am i, baby?” you’re now completely gone, his dick controlling your brain and body, even your breath when he ruts to you.

tears are leaking from your eyes as he keeps thrusting into you, abusing your walls and bruising them. you moan and cry louder, nothing making sense with the pleasure and pain you’re feeling.

your breath shortens when jake wraps his large hand on your throat, oh mother eyw—

“who am i?” his tone changes on the last word and you scream? giving in easily. “jake! jake sully!” you cry out, orgasm bubbling in you, you want it out of you, the growing pressure. you want jake to rip it out of you.

“okay, that’s it.” he pats your temple, “ seems like ’m knocking some sense in you.”

“now,” he kisses your forehead, hate still bubbling in him. “you’re mine, yeah?” you wanted to shake your head. wanted to punch him. wanted to…

“c’mon, say it and i’ll give you what you need.”

“i’m yours, i’m yours, i’m yours.” the moment you said it, jake felt something in him burn with ego. you’re his, you gave yourself to him. no going back now.

“good fucking girl.” he huffs, pulling out of you and causing you to cry, like seriously cry loud and he spreads your leg apart, hands wrapping on your waist before he helps you get on him.

your ass sets against his strong thighs and you moan when he easily slipped inside you.

“JAKE!” you yell when he pushes you down, bottoming out before grazing on your earlobe. “you’re mine, you get it? a part of you is mine and i own you.” you hate how his words made your insides clench.

tears are shed, heart in pain with no reason. “i hate you.” you tell him and he smiles, pulling you close to him and hugging you as he fucks himself in you. “i hate you too.” jake chuckles when you hide yourself on his chest.

“i’m gonna cum…” you whine, feeling the man holding you close. “i got you, i’m here.” at this point the hate is confusing because jake doesn’t know what he is feeling any more.

you let go, trusting the man you hate the most and coming. he was soon taking your step, manly whining and hiding himself to the crook of your neck. “shit.” he moans, loading himself in you.

he suddenly feels you pushing him away and hips buckling causing him to slip out of you. he was about to ask what was wrong until glaring at him with pure rage.

“this never happened.” you bark and watch him confused and try to understand. “what?” he innocently asks and you point at him then, down to his semi-hard cock. “this, me and you. we never did it.”

right then it hits him, jake gets that you don’t want this to get out of you two, it was like a dirty secret and jake felt annoyed. “you don’t want no one to know?” you’re quick to nod. “yes.” as much as he wants to show you off.

if you want this then he got you, he was gonna bite his tongue and sit back and you watch him hesitate before nodding.

“good.” you state and move from him to fetch on your loincloth. he only stares at you, the tension you both had a while ago long gone and his amber eyes following you as the mean man he was before disappeared. you don’t even spare him a look as you dress and leave the hut.

too confused and trying to process what just happened.

like + reblog is very appreciated but not pressured! i love each and everyone of you sm!

[solaiced]

CASE 9 AND 10: SUKUNA RYOMEN'S DOUBLE TROUBLE!

!content!: anal, double penetration, mean sukuna :(, implied mind break at some point, and cream pie.

wc: 1,041

solace: how yall like double posting ♨️

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Remember when you said you couldn't Sukuna Ryomen in a fight or in bed? You lied, apparently. Because if you hadn't, how on God's green Earth had you managed to take both of his cocks in both of your holes?

Okay, maybe, he used a bit of RCT on you to lessen the hurting, but still. Even Sukuna was impressed; stopping his degrading, mean words to praise you. Well, as much as the King of Curses could praise.

"Holy shit, you actually did it, woman." Sukuna's surprised voice rings in the throne room. You smile shakily, hands gripping one of his shoulders and the throne's arm rest. You felt accomplished, almost as if you had reached your goal in life.

“I did it. Sukuna, Fuck, I did it!” You bounce on his lap, grinning. Sukuna smiles, a strange feeling in his chest when you expressed your happiness. He should see Kenjaku soon. Heart problems were the demise of multiple kings, and he wasn't one of them. Not today. Not ever.

However, your joy ended as soon as his hips bucked up harshly, knocking the wind out of you. A bizarre noise escapes you, a mix between a moan and a gasp.

You cover your mouth with the hand previously on Sukuna's shoulder and he narrows his eyes.

Had he expressed himself on the fact that your hand should be removed?

No, why were you covering your mouth? He liked those noises of yours. He grabs your wrist and rips it off your mouth with a surprised gasp, you fall on his chest and with your spine arched this much, a new angle is discovered and you moan, shutting your eyes tightly.

Sukuna smirks, putting his arm around your waist to bring you even closer, hips grinding you down on both of his massive cocks, the one in your pussy grazing your cervix in a mind buzzing, tear shedding and toe curling movement.

Your legs shake as they hang off the throne, elevated by the multiple skulls Sukuna retrieved. The man in question spreads your ass cheeks for his lower cock to delve deeper into the hole.

Combined with the tongue on his abdomen licking and flicking your clit, you couldn't help but get tighter to avoid cumming, because he had ordered you not to. Sukuna slips his lower arms under your knees, lifting you off so that only his tips remained in you.

You felt strangely empty, like he was the only one capable of filling your holes. But with how big he was, he probably reshaped you until that was true.

Immediately, Sukuna senses your discomfort and drops you, thrusting up midway to reach you. You choke, hands digging into his shoulders. He grins, shark like teeth gritting as he repeatedly slams into your cervix and his balls slap your ass so hard, you think he doesn’t need hands to spank you.

A wave of heat washes over you, tingles in your clit and at the base of your spine to warn you, you’re about to cum. You don’t even realise you’re crying until your cruel husband wipes them away, snickering.

“My little bitch. Such a crybaby.” He coos, a faux sweet tone covering his mean words.

“Sukuna…” You whisper, voice shot and body too tired to fight back against the onslaught of pussy destroying thrusts. Your breasts bounce with each thrusts, pulling whines out of your certainly bruised throat.

“Yes, sweetie?” Sukuna smiles mockingly, as if he was faring any better, sweat beading on his hairline as his hips struggle to keep up with the pace he set for himself. You shakily wipe a sweat drop on his eyebrow away, pulling him in to kiss him.

He groans in your mouth and softens just a bit to let you pull him closer. Tilting his head just to take more of your soft lips.

Sukuna grinds both of his cocks so good inside of you, two hands on your hips and two hands cradling your head and breasts. He thrust up, knowing you wouldn’t bounce on him on your own. You always needed his help.

The hands on your hips drift lower, down to your ass to spread your cheeks and jerk his lower cock up into your hole, making you mewl in agony.

“Fuck… Don’t ever hold out on me. I know you can take it, now.” The four armed monster licks a stray tear slipping out of your eye, pulling on your hair.

“Yes, Kuna-“ You sob, both of your holes twitching at the attention. His cocks pressed against the thin layer separating your cunt and ass, making whines and whimpers fall from your mouth like a waterfall.

Sukuna grunts, draping his arm over the small of your back and pressing you close to his chest.

It was too much, and you couldn’t help but beg your king to cum, both hands gripping his shoulders like it was your life’s support. In a way, it was.

“Please- Kuna, let me cum, pleasepleasepleasepleaseletmecumohmygodineedtocum!” You cry out at the harsh thrust he offered you instead, fucking you earnestly.

“You cum when I say, hah, so. Understand?” You nod fervently, clenching hard on Sukuna’s cocks, so hard, he felt like you were gonna cut them clean off.

You were going crazy, the stimulation was too much, and soon, your cunt stopped listening to you, and you came.

You saw white for a while, mouth agape and head thrown back in ecstasy.

When you regained your senses, you forced yourself to look at Sukuna, his eyes were wide, all four of them.

“I don’t know what kind of…” He pauses, panting, chest heaving up and down, almost painfully. “I don’t know what kind of sorcery that was, but don’t do that.”

“D-Do what?” You swallow, expecting him to yell.

“Making me cum so suddenly. I don’t know how you did it,” He stops, frowning while bringing you closer and shoving your head in his chest. “Just shut up and stay seated.” It’s only then do you realize that there’s cum sloshing around inside of you.

You smile, kissing your king’s tattoos, “I love you, my lord.” He grumbles and slaps your ass, making you jump on his cocks.

“Shut the fuck up.”

[reds-hoodies]

I feel like on icy-cold days Dick would be sure to pull his siblings aside and absolutely smother their faces with Vaseline before heading out. It’s something his mom used to do if they ever stopped somewhere snowy to perform.

But why is he so agressive with it?? It’s like a solid minute and a half of him just smooshing their faces around like he’s kneading dough or something😭

“Gotta make sure every inch of skin is covered!” He’d say.

It has to be a test of their abilities, they all think, because they nearly pass out every time. Dick tries to reshape their fucking skull with the grease and they’re holding their breath because they don’t want to accidentally get it up their nose.

When he was younger, Jason used to sit through it no problem. He’d whine a little at first, but he wouldn’t complain. He honestly was just happy to be doted on by his older brother. Now though, he snatches the tub away from him and applies it himself. Dick tries to get the places he missed, but his hand gets slapped. And then he swipes his hand down the front of Jason’s face and runs away lol

Tim knows this hack but hates the feeling on his face. He stops in his tracks as soon as he spots Dick standing at the door with the Vaseline tub. Should he sprint back up the stairs to his room and hide? It’s tempting… But ultimately he just sighs in defeat and makes his way over to Dick.

He knows if he tries to run away, all that’ll come out of it is a broken chandelier, a torn jacket, and a greasy face. Might as well just get the greasy face without the broken stuff.

He’s learned.

Now Damian, he loves his brother, he does. But there is no way in hell he’s having that petroleum jelly touch his face. Try as he might to get away, bobbing and weaving out of Dicks reach, he always gets snatched up by one of the others (Jason) and is held down as he gets smothered. It’s all “Pthbt pthbt ptthhbhth” because he wouldn’t stop yelling and got some of it in his mouth 😔

He comes out of it looking like a wet, grumpy cat.

Dick is satisfied his brothers are ready for the cold. Shiny faces and all.

[comicaurora]

I've started making my way through the playlist hbomberguy made of actually good video essays by queer creators and spotted a comment of yours on the one about the relationship between Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, which was fun xD red in the wild!

Anyways, just wanted to appreciate how both you and Blue and you are very good at showing your sources! It's always nice to know that the people you've watched for years have good habits after an event like this, and I hope you guys are among the people that get some new fans after this whole debacle, because your channel definitely qualifies for "good educational videos made by queer people"

I'm glad! Blue's much better about listing his sources and follow-up reading than I am.

To be honest, I loved the video, but my imposter syndrome always flares like crazy when I watch an essay like that. It might be the ADHD or it might just be who I am as a person, but I feel like I've lived my whole life striving to make everything I do the best it can be, and still managing to fuck up and get criticised for things I could've done better if only I never missed anything. It's an actual gut-drop when it turns out a source I used wasn't trustworthy, or when in older videos I only went wiki-deep for some claims and didn't check every source to be 100% sure I wasn't being goat-fish'd. And this being the internet, I can get criticized at any time for things I've gotten wrong years ago, since it's evergreen online and to the new-viewing critic it's as fresh as yesterday. It makes it hard for me to stay proud of my work past the first moment of "oh I would've done that different now". There's a cocktail of complicated, scary feelings around this space, no matter how little I actually have in common with the bad guys of this scenario - it's less about the reality and more about who my imposter syndrome tells me I am. I saw several people saying that the video actually made them feel much better about their own work because it made it clear that accidental plagiarism on that scale is impossible, but if my anxieties listened to reason I would've successfully machete'd them out of my skull years ago. I just hope I never fuck up badly enough to deserve an hbombing of my own.

But my own stress aside, the hbomb essay exposed a level of laxness, laziness and entitlement on the part of these plagiarists that I think is almost incomprehensible to people who actually create for a living or even just the joy of it. How hollow do you have to be to take in someone else's writing and not consider it, digest it, let it reshape your views and then formulate your own interpretation on it, but instead to file off the serial numbers and pretend it's yours, trusting that the person whose thoughts and words you valued enough to steal will never be powerful enough to call you out on it? I go down research rabbit holes because I love the frustration and thrill of putting something together! How joyless it must be to skim the surface and borrow someone else's conclusions!

I've sometimes had people email asking for sources on parts of my interpretation of various myths, possibly in the interest of source-citing for school papers (a nightmare concept in and of itself) and with very few exceptions I usually have to tell them "the only sources were the english translations I used of the primary source where the myth was originally written, like I said in the video, and the part where I said I was conspiracy-boarding has no source other than my own analysis of the given source, which is why I called it conspiracy-boarding" and I was always a little baffled by those emails - half the videos are introduced like "this is The Prose Edda" or "this is in Ovid's Metamorphoses" or "this bit is Hesiod" so what else could they want - but seeing the hbomb of the week made me realize that truly original analysis might not be what most people are expecting from a "thing summarized." They might be expecting a compilation of other people's summaries instead.

[squeakitties]

"How can you talk still? It sounds like your voice is being run through a filter."

"Due to the very intensive operation required to reshape the skull and neck, preserving a natural voice box is impossible, and most rubbermon are simply gagged to dispel the urge to speak since it's impossible anyway; however, some will opt for a (very expensive) vocal cord implant that reads and synthesizes speech through speakers placed on or near the face. Technically, I'm also gagged underneath this mask."

[pretzel-box]

Heya! It’s me again, so I was playing pressure with a friend to yap about the lore going on there and showed them that you can die to Sebastian and was reading my death file when I saw that the recover or rescue team came by to pick up our bodies (my friend died as well to get the badge LOL) So being a person who runs on caffeine and 4 hours of sleep, How about a Experiment reader (Anytype of monster and gender) gets caught by the recovery team, gets experimented on again so they’re pretty much brainwashed to take out Sebastian and/or get the crystal? Angst ending or Fluff ending is fine! You might be hearing me yap about the lore LOL

🍀

Tags: GN!reader, mentions of experiments and drugs, Reader is brainwashed against their will.

Words: 1,1k

The facility's cold walls pressed in on you, the sterile air thick with the metallic scent of blood and chemicals. Your last memory before this suffocating darkness was of Sebastian. His face, twisted with anger—or was it sorrow?—was the last thing you saw before everything went black and your mind shut off completely.

But now, your body aches. Something had changed, yet you failed to pinpoint it directly. Based on your view, you were in a pristine lab again, hooked up to machines, wires connected to your arms and chest, pumping something into you—something that made your mind foggy and distant, as if it didn’t belong to you anymore. The recovery team had found you, and instead of rescuing you, they brought you back into the nightmare you had once escaped as if your life was a tape that ran on repeat. It all felt so sickening familiar and at the same time so strangely because of the mysterious medication they gave you.

You tried to focus, but your thoughts slipped like clear water through your fingers. Every time you tried to grasp at a memory, it flickered out of reach. A dull pain echoed in your skull, reminding you that they had been tinkering with your mind—reshaping it, rewiring it. Urbanshade was doing what they did best: using you, turning you into something else. Something that isn't supposed to exist.

They had injected you with something, a serum meant to restrict your personality, to make you loyal, silent, more compliant. But the worst part wasn’t that type of change—it was the mental fog they forced upon you. They weren’t just changing a piece of your personality. They were changing your mind. Slowly, you could feel yourself slipping away, the edges of your personality dissolving into something more mechanical, more obedient. You were becoming their weapon, molded for a single purpose.

And that purpose? Sebastian.

“Target: Sebastian Solace. Mission: Retrieve the crystal. Kill on sight.” The robotic voice from the intercom echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of your new objective. It wasn’t you, but it felt like it was. The brainwashing had worked, at least partially. You wanted to resist, but every time you tried, pain shot through your head, and the objective reasserted itself like a brick wall blocking your escape.

They had turned you into a weapon to take him down.

Days, maybe weeks, passed as you walked through the hallways of the blackside, sharpening your new instincts, your new state of mind. Each mission drilled into your mind left you more detached, more focused. Every muscle in your body responded to their commands, every thought sharpened to fulfill the one goal: track Sebastian, retrieve the crystal. It was all you knew anymore.

But deep down, something still clung to life inside you, like a flickering ember of who you used to be. The memories of Sebastian—his voice, his calm determination, and the fleeting moments of connection you shared before it all went wrong. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or something else, but it kept gnawing at the corners of your brain, threatening to tear down the programming.

And then, finally, the day came. You met again.

The facility’s doors slid open, and you stepped out, breathing in the fresh, crisp air that felt almost foreign now. The world outside had moved on while you were trapped in Urbanshade’s clutches, but for you, time had frozen. Your eyes scanned the horizon, senses on high alert as you tried to track Sebastian down as best as you could without any helping tools. He wasn’t far. The crystal wasn’t far.

Your body moved like a predator, silent and swift through the shadows as you made your way to his hideout that served as a small shop. Urbanshade’s command echoed louder with every step: Kill on sight. The words pulsed like a heartbeat in your skull, tightening their grip on your mind.

And there he was—Sebastian. His tall, lean figure stood in the dim light of the facility’s lower levels, his back turned to you. He didn’t see you yet. You could feel the crystal’s energy pulsing from somewhere nearby as well, drawing you in like a beacon.

Your muscles tensed, ready to strike.

But then, something in you cracked. That flicker of memory, the ember of who you once were, flared up. Images flashed before your eyes—Sebastian smirking at you in some shared moment, his voice calming the chaos around you, his hand brushing yours in quiet moments that neither of you acknowledged aloud. The mission screamed in your head, demanding you act, but your heart thudded louder, pushing back. You fought the control, teeth gritted, hands shaking.

“Don’t do this.” It wasn’t your voice, but it was a part of you. The real you.

Sebastian turned, his eyes locking onto yours in an instant. For a moment, surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by something darker—recognition. He knew what you were here for.

“Of course,” he muttered, his voice cold, though his eyes softened for a split second as they traced your form. “They got you, too.”

You stood frozen, torn between your orders and the memories fighting to resurface. The sharp edge of the mission still lingered in your mind, urging you to finish it.

But the way he looked at you—so familiar, so human—made it hard to move. This was Sebastian. Not just the target, not just the mission. He was something else to you, something more. And Urbanshade couldn’t take that away, not completely.

“Are you really gonna go through with it?” His voice broke through your haze, slicing through the confusion in your mind. “After everything?”

Your hands trembled. You were so close. The crystal was there. The mission screamed for completion.

But you dropped your weapon.

Sebastian didn’t move, didn’t rush to you, just watched as you struggled, the conflict playing out on your face. For a moment, you were sure the pain would split your mind in two, the commands so deeply embedded that disobeying felt like tearing yourself apart.

Finally, you spoke, your voice strained. “I… I can’t.”

Sebastian’s eyes softened, though his posture remained guarded. “Then don’t.”

There was a silence, heavy with tension and something unspoken. You had disobeyed. You had failed the mission, but it didn’t feel like failure. It felt like freedom, even if just for a moment.

The pain in your head began to recede, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you felt like yourself again.

But you knew it wouldn’t last. They would come for you. They would fix you, break you down, rebuild you into their weapon again.

Sebastian seemed to sense it too. He stepped closer, his hand brushing yours for the briefest moment. “We’ll figure this out,” he said, voice low. “But we have to go.”

You nodded, though a part of you knew there might not be a way out. But for now, you had one thing—Sebastian—and that was enough.

As you turned to leave, a weight lifted from your chest.

[artifacts-archive]

Human Skull With Mosaic Designs

Mixteca-Puebla, Late Postclassic, 1300-1520 CE

This skull apparently belonged to a middle-aged adult, possibly a woman, between 30 and 40 years old at the time of death. The skull is broad and seems to have been subjected to intentional reshaping, but irregular flattening is perceptible only on the occipital bone. Reshaping caused the formation of a noticeable bun at the bregma. The lack of visible cut marks implies that no defleshing preceded its decoration. Diego de Landa provides a tantalizing account that may hint at the origin and function of some decorated skulls in Mesoamerica: In antiquity, they cut the heads of the Cocom lords when they died, and once boiled, they defleshed them, sawing half of the skull at the top and leaving intact the face with the mandible and teeth. To these half “skulls” they supplied what was missing in flesh with a certain resin, and they sculpted it very faithfully as the original face, and they kept (the decorated skulls) with the wooden statues (containing the cremated remains of ancestors), all of which they displayed in the domestic altars, together with their idols, in great reverence and subservience; and on every festive occasion they offer them food so that they will not be in need of anything.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith clenches the flower crown in his hand, breathing heavy. The delicate petals of the not-daises crumple and crush in his fists, blue pollen smearing on the leather of his gloves. Half of the crown sits perfect, intact, unblemished and unbroken. The other half is miserable and unfixable, destroyed by something bigger than itself. He stares at it, hard, at what it is and what it represents, until his eyes sting from the dryness and begin to blur.

“Lance, I —” His voice comes out raspy, crinkled as the flowers. He swallows. “I’m never really going to — to love you. You know that, right?”

Lance’s quiet humming never stops, never hesitates. He continues to carefully poke the not-daisies onto their stem-string, building another crown, a new one, just as beautiful. “I know.”

Keith frowns. “You…know?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why do you…” He glances down at the crushed flowers again. Suddenly he wants to straighten them, desperately, fix their bleeding creases, their crumpled pieces. He tries, a little. He takes a broad petal from the biggest of the delicate flowers and smooths it against his thumb, again and again, trying to fix the brokenness. The crease disappears, but the petal lays flat against his skin; translucent, soaked with its own oils, bending to the shape of the pad of his thumb. It droops when he peels it off, worse than before. He feels something gentle touch on his head, a barely-there weight around the crown of his skull, and he smells something floral, aside from the flowers, like shampoo. Lance settles again beside him, second flower crown gone from his hands, now searching for a long enough not-daisy stem to start a new one. There’s a lump in Keith’s throat.

“Then why do this? Why —” He sweeps his hand out, broadly, gesturing the the not-daisy field before them, gesturing to the picnic blanket and the basket of food, gesturing to the castle in the distance, to the room they’ve shared more often than not lately, to their lions, to them, to them, to them. “Why do you hang out —” his voice cracks on the term, the blasé-ness of it, the fib, the hiding from the truth, the softer word to replace the truth — “with me like this? Why do you spend so much of your time with me? Alone? Why do we do what we —” He stops for a moment, finding himself short of breath suddenly, more feeling than the situation calls for crashing down on him at once, crushing his windpipe, making it hard for him to breathe, harder to speak. “Why do you stay with me like this, if you know?”

“Well, because I love you.”

He does not hesitate to say it. He does not swallow harshly as if the words are acid in his throat, as if they are too heavy to be spoken aloud. He says it easily, steadily, wondrously, as if it’s painless. As if Keith had said it first, and he’s simply responding. As if it’s something he says often. As if the words were not hard to find, were already heavy on his tongue, as if it was easier to say them then to lock them behind his teeth, choke them down. Maybe they are, for him.

Lance picks his head up from where it was hunched over the not-daisies, tying off the chain and lifting it, resting the crown gently on his own head. Coronating himself, with soft flowers, with the strength of a thousand men. He flicks his gaze to Keith, then, brown eyes wide and soft and glassy, slightly, shimmering in the orange sunlight, dark despite it, heavy and light alike. His expression is open, earnest. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

Keith doesn’t understand him. He knows Lance, knows how things eat at him, how small rejections build and build from the centre of his chest down his spine and wrap around each of his nerves, lighting him up inside. He’s seen how the doubt shapes his words, reshapes his sentences, clouds his thoughts. He’s seen how Lance pulls away from people before they can pull away from him. He’s seen the same ache in the Blue-turned-Red Paladin that he has, the same black hole in his own chest; the pain of the one left behind.

How is it so easy, then, for him, to say — it?

Keith holds his gaze, heart pounding, breathing short and shallow, as long as he can, as long as he can bear. He is the one to look away, in the end, and Lance soon after, looking for yet another long-stemmed daisy. It is only then that Keith realises that his second crown is crushed, too, in his other hand, stained with oil.

“Reason enough,” he echoes.

Lance hums affirmatively, absentmindedly lifting his legs and placing them on top of Keith’s, casual. Keith can’t tell if the move is deliberate or not, if Lance is genuinely oblivious to the intent of Keith’s sentiment or if he’s choosing to ignore it.

Either way it doesn’t matter. Lance slowly works his way through a good chunk of the flowers surrounding them, cheekily ordering Keith around the field, instructing him on what flowers to pick, how many, how often. Lance claims he just doesn’t want to move, but Keith is sure he just likes bossing him around. He organizes them in small piles by size as Keith gathers them, favouring the wider and fluffier ones, working with his tongue out in concentration as he carefully makes one, two, three, four, five more crowns than the two he’s already made, not including the two Keith destroyed. (Those were carefully scooped up from where Keith had discarded them, placed gently in the bottom of the picnic basket. Lance hadn’t said anything nor had he made any particular face, except that there was determination in his eyes as he held the crumpled flowers, defiance, almost, as he lovingly placed them among their used dishware and leftovers.)

Once he finishes the last knot — one crown for each team member, plus one to hang on Shiro’s doorknob — he swings his legs off Keith’s lap, sighing as he gets to his feet. Keith sees a sliver of brown skin as he stretches, a flash of his hip as his shirt lifts with his raised hands. It is the same temptation it always is, although it makes Keith more nauseous than usual.

“C’mon, you lump,” Lance says, holding out a hand. “I call dibs on not carrying anything back to the castle.”

Keith stares at his offered hand for a moment. He gets the same feeling in his belly that he used to get before walking into his final exams. Like he is being tested, like he is unprepared, like he is going to fail.

He stands on his own, quickly busying himself with gathering up their blanket and basket.

He follows just behind Lance as they walk through the field, back to the castle. They take their time — no one else will be back yet — and Lance stops every three seconds to coo at a beetle, take a picture of a plant, draw a heart in the dirt. Keith finds himself smiling without permission, struggling to school his face when he realises.

Keith has never met someone who is so unapologetically himself. He knows Lance has struggles, knows he doubts himself more than anyone on the team, probably. But so much of him is just a blatant adoration for the world around him; an obsession with the stars, an affinity for speed, an ataraxia in water, a blatant delight for any critter. He loves so much so often he bleeds with it. Keith has no idea how he survives, how he protects himself. It terrifies him. How is he supposed to protect Lance if Lance refuses to wear any armour? If he flays himself open and trusts everything and anyone? It’s as if he hasn’t yet learned to be wary, even though he has been hurt. Keith cannot fathom how he’s like this, how he’s survived like this.

Later, that night, he lies awake and counts Lance’s breaths as he thinks.

This wasn’t meant to last.

He doesn’t mean that they’re doomed to fail. They are, probably, the same way most things are (his mouth twitches on reflex as he hears Lance calling him emo in his head), but he hadn’t meant to start anything, with Lance. He doesn’t think Lance meant to start with him, either. He certainly never anticipated Lance, head pillowed on Keith’s chest, drool gathering on his ribcage, leg flopped over his and hand twitching in his face and hair. He never anticipated hearing his name muttered in Lance’s sleep, or watching him shoot up from a nightmare, wide-eyed and terrified, only to relax immediately back into sleep when he sees that it’s Keith who’s holding him. He never anticipated his own hands combing through Lance’s hair, his squeezing of Lance’s feet in between his thighs to keep them warm, his boots at the end of the bed, gloves on the nightstand. He never anticipated the way the smell of Lance’s shampoo would help him breathe again when he shoots straight up in terror and forgets where he is. He never anticipated the softness, the quiet smiles, the feel of his nails on his back, the press of his lips to his neck, the taste of his sweat on his skin, the breathiness of his hitched throat in his ear.

It started with a fight.

Of course it did, really. Why they were alone in the training room, Keith cannot recall, and why they turned to sparring with each other rather than staying at separate corners of the room he is at a loss. (Well, he does know. He knows he watched the litheness of Lance’s body as he bent and and contorted it and felt the swoop of his belly at his smug grin every time he landed a shot. He knows he watched sweat bead up on his forehead and drip down his face, burning a trail down his long neck. He knows he watched Lance bend over to set up shots, stretch, anything. He knows all that. But he thought he had restraint.)

He knows at one point they were snarling at each other, arguing over who had cost them a match with the gladiator, and then he knows that Lance had brazenly challenged him to a fight, and Keith had laughed in his face. He knows that they lunged at each other. He knows that he intended to give it to the smug asshole who had refused to leave him the fuck alone for even one fucking second since they got stuck in space. He knows he had Lance pinned to the ground, because Lance may insist that they’re neck and neck but Keith sure as shit had the upper hand in hand to hand.

What he doesn’t know is who kissed who. He doesn’t know who bit whose lip or who gasped or who shoved whose hand under whose shirt. He doesn’t know. He knows it escalated, he knows he felt fucking drunk on the taste of Lance’s skin, knows he felt like devouring every sound that came from that smart fucking mouth. He knows they didn’t even bother moving from the training mat on the floor.

He does know that he was the one who knocked on Lance’s door first, the next day. But when they fell into bed again Lance was the one who was prepped and ready, who opened the door within half a second and yanked him in by the collar, smirking.

Lance shifts slightly, muttering something as he turns his head. Keith freezes, barely daring to breathe lest he wake him up, waiting until after Lance has settled again, after he’s gone heavy on Keith’s chest.

In the beginning he’d convinced himself it was physical. Lance is objectively fucking hot, anyone with eyes can see that, and it’s not like Keith has any other fucking options here. But tonight, after everyone had split off after dinner and they’d landed in Keith’s room, again (is it really even Keith’s room, anymore? Lance’s hand is keyed to the lock. His products line the bathroom counter. His clothes are intermixed among Keith’s. He can’t remember the last time either of them had been in Lance’s room, let alone Lance by himself), as they always do. They’d gotten ready for bed without even talking, slipping in pyjamas and brushing teeth and running through a ninety four step skincare routine. They’d laid next to each other on the bed, Keith working through a random novel he found in the library and Lance breezing through some kind of math game on his tablet, before Lance had sighed some time before midnight, kissed him gently on the mouth, whispered “I don’t feel like doing anything tonight,” and then flopped on top of Keith’s person, wiggling until he was comfortable, passing out as soon as he was.

Keith’s hand curls around the curve of Lance’s shoulder.

Physical, physical, physical, he chants to himself. You have ruined every single person you have ever loved.

Lance groans slightly again, clicking his jaw.

“Keith,” he murmurs, accent heavy in his sleep. His lips twitch up in a smile.

Keith’s stomach turns.

———

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