#solely self indulgent

[elixrr]

Xiao x Reader - a drabble on love.

ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴡʜᴏ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴏ ɪ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴡ.

➳❥ - no dialogue, just simple descriptions of a quiet, starry night spent with xiao.

The moon hangs over the night sky, and you are illuminated with the wonders of the night lights. Tonight isn’t special; it's simply like any other night, but you're here, Xiao's here, and it's peaceful. No words are exchanged between either one of you. It's a quiet night created and built to listen to the steady and rampant heartbeats of lovers. It's a silent night made for the midnight snores and late laughter of lovers who've awakened and been awake. Neither of you pays much mind, for nobody else lays on the roof of the inn.

A fair combination of yellow and white glow against your skin, and Xiao can't help but steer his eyes towards you. Love, he feels, is terrifying in the ways it can manipulate and capture his mind, seeping into each crack and crevice of his heart. The way his love for you sways and controls his lungs and how he breathes— it's abnormal. It's strange, and at first, he wanted it all out, for Xiao had wished to keep away from all that could strip him of his focused duties, but it crept in closer and took him by the hand, much like you do during those spontaneous starry days where the sun shines, yet you shone brighter in comparison.

That's you, simply. It's always you. You, the one who always catches his attention. You, the one who replaces the dull sun with a true, grounded star. You're special, you're different, and not because of the way you look. It's not just the hand that interlocks with his on evil nights full of comfort for karma; it's not the clothes you carry that sway around your hips and your arms, nor is it your silky, velvet sleeves that drag with the wind. You're simply special. You stand out to him far more than any person that any society norm could deem beautiful. He couldn't care less about how wide or thin your hips are; he doesn't even think once on what shape your face has taken. He never paid mind to the weight you carry, mental or physical. Xiao sees you for more than who you appear to be. He sees you as who you've shown him; he sees you as the one he loves, and that's all that will ever matter in his eyes.

Xiao used to dream of joining his friends. He used to dream of the delicate cottons and fabrics of the afterlife that he could feel when he sees his friends, albeit he might only see them once after death and never again— if that promised haven of peace, tranquility, and love is a promise that is honest and true. If not, that would've been fine for him, too, for he feels he wouldn't ever deserve the taste of a heaven. Xiao, simply, dreamed of dying. He wished to die a warrior, much like the rest of the yaksha. In his eyes, he had nothing to lose before. Rex Lapis is no longer the archon, and the people of Liyue don't seem to need him around anymore, so why bother?

But, he realizes that is no longer the case.

If he were to die, he would lose you. Not only that, but Xiao is bitterly familiar with the poisons of guilt, shame, and sorrow after losing someone he loves. He can't bear to imagine your tears or your sobbing if he were to give his life up for what he deemed as freedom. Besides, he is constantly reminded on quiet nights such as these that he has nearly achieved that complete freedom. Not freedom from his duties, not freedom from his karma, but freedom from loneliness. Ever since you arrived, Xiao has gained friends, he has a slight following, and he, ultimately, has you— and you are everything to him. There are rare times when he won't even think about Rex Lapis when it comes to you. Xiao has set his subconscious priorities straight, even if he hasn't realized it.

Even when years come to pass, even when decades and late centuries take over peaceful days like these, Xiao will never forget you. He will continue to cherish you long after your death, though he prays that the day will never come. Xiao, back before meeting you, would've only hung his head low for your family and friends if your death had passed and reached his ears. But now? He's afraid that he'll never be able to let you go— he may revert to consulting Hu Tao constantly so she could check and see if you'd still remain that ghostly realm of hers.

Xiao's hand twitches at the thought. He realized that he may end up mourning far more from your death than his own God's. He has never been vocal about his anxieties, but you're well aware that he'll sacrifice the whole world and even himself just to keep you alive and well. He recalls a time when you were bedridden, sickly, and in pain from a virus. You never allowed him inside your room during that, but he nearly cried himself to death, begging to the Gods and Celestia that you would come out of that room some day, alive, living, and free. During his nightly visits outside of your bedroom door, you would talk to him in spite of your coughs and sore throat. You would tell him about a particular northern star that shines into your bedroom window at the darkest midnight hour and how, when you recovered, you would love to see it closer on the roof with him.

Funnily enough, those words were spoken exactly one year ago from this day, and here you are. Northern star in view, galaxies hanging above, and you lay here on the roof with Xiao.

Tonight isn’t special; it was never supposed to be. But somehow, with you being here, Xiao being here, and with the moon illuminating the scenery around you two, it's safe to say that tonight and perhaps every night always ends up as a special occasion. He looks over at you. You're asleep, and you have the faintest smile on your lips, and it contaminates his with a smile of his own.

Maybe every night is a special occasion, long as it's spent with you.

[arealtrashact]

Were they animals, that music could move them so ?

[mrsoharaa]

Giggling while drunkenly, messily, making out with Miguel is what I could use right about now ngl. 😔

一 ✿

Like you both just return home from a vibrant, lovely fun night out. A few drinks in and neither of you can get your needy hands off from one another.

His large, rough palms would roam up and down the venture of your curvy body, while yours trace up and down the strut of his firm, wide chest to the vast structure of his broad shoulders. Eventually your little fingers would curl up into the back hairs of his beautiful chestnut tresses.

His hungry lips would messily lap over yours with such inaccuracy and drive, sloppily mangling over yours and tripping occasionally over his large feet while still latching onto your hips. You'd break out into small fits of genuine giggles, feeling his warm full lips constantly try to stick onto your own, only to feel them slip past the velvety skin on either onto your flushed cheeks or your cute chin.

Your nails would weave gently into his wavy strands, tucking and tugging playfully as his frustrated grumbles would seep against your warm, soft flesh. Adding on to the cute little chortles that erupt from you. He's too cute.

His looming body would pin your back against the wall by the door.

"M-Miguel- you're b-being too *hic* frantic" you'd hiccup a small chuckle, feeling the warmth of his plush lips crease into the juncture of your jawline and neck. His hot breath permeating into the lush of your simulated skin.

"¡Ay, coño!...n-not frantic enough" his words slur out into rambled mumblings, hands pushing you more steadily, firmly against the solidity of the wall behind you, hips connecting with yours as his lips gradually find their way to the corner of your own. You'd simply giggle at his retort.

Heaves out another heavy, hot breath as he ghosts his lips just centimeters away from yours. Lidded irises of deep scarlet lazily, longingly, gazing down at you. Watching and noting every simple, little detail that was you.

Raises his left hand up to drape steadily around the structure of your neck, keeping you still against his weighted figure and the wall nestled behind you. Your hazy eyes finally meet his, a shimmer of intoxicated desire and endearment drowning your beautiful optics.

"Such a pretty l-laugh...you're so p-pretty, mi araña bonita" his breath husks heftily, leaning in closer to you as he pushes at the back of your neck to mold into his fevered lips. Strongly.

With added friction and steady firmness, Miguel made sure that his lips stayed connected with yours at all times. Swindling his tongue into the moisten cavern of your mouth, as he hums in delight to your acceptance for his sudden intrusion. His heart plummets every time he listens to a genuine giggle or muffled moan resonate from the depths of your throat.

Makes him become more needy and touchy with you.

[sinisterexaggerator]

Hard Feelings

Hancock x Fem! Sole Survivor / Reader Insert

(AO3)

Summary: You are the General of the Minutemen. Hancock is your companion when out on missions. It's all fun and games until there are hard feelings at play, the ghoul thinking that one day you just might leave him.

Warnings: NSFW / 18+ for PiV sex, public sex (sort of), MAKEUP sex, switching, praise kink, heavy petting and kissing, fingering, biting, angst, a small domestic dispute, and negative thoughts and feelings associated with oneself (Hancock). In this fic, Hancock displays golden retriever boyfriend energy, and he is more submissive. He also experiences low self-worth, and feelings of inadequacy, which leads to doubt. At some point, he has a panic attack.

Notes: Another fanfic that is completely self-indulgent. I was inspired when I took Hancock to the Starlight Drive-In for the Minutemen mission. We were briefly separated when I (sole) climbed onto the roof of the movie screen. Hancock ran around down below in a panic, thus this idea blossomed; I mention it in this post. I stole Teeth's nickname for Hancock: Hanni. ;D )

Word count: 4.7k+

A gentle peal of thunder rocked the night, just hours from daybreak, the eerie green glow of your pre-war Pip-boy casting its luminescence across the present object of your interest: a sullied movie poster. It was curling at its edges, the faded face of a starlet frozen in time with her mouth agape having snatched your attention, for better or worse, as this potential settlement had yet to be explored—there was no telling what lurked out there among the shadows.

Rita Jean Scarlett was staring into the eyes of not man, but insect, The Barfly calling out to you from a bygone era. It was an Old World tale of weird science gone wrong, filled with hubris and lessons learned all too late. Not too far off from the reality of things, you mused, though meant as fiction, actor Chip Weathers having adorned the costume of the “ghastly” monster for his starring role. 

The creature had bulbous eyes and sticky clawed feet, yet wore a suit and hat. Once considered the stuff of nightmares, now things like this seemed to you like child’s play. You regularly joined in the company of ghouls; robots; synthetic humans, and even super mutants. You faced adversaries on the daily that would make prey animals of yesteryear look like teddy bears—an unnerving thought, but it caused you to smile regardless. 

“What are you grinnin’ about?” a curious voice asked, the creak of worn red leather signaling his closeness; two thin arms encircled you, pitted hands smoothing over skintight, extruded rubber, shiny as the ghoul’s black eyes.

“Just about how things that used to be science fiction are now science fact,” you offered vaguely, casting a glance downward to the sight of yourself being molested, Hancock groping your tit—like any typical man—before it maneuvered lower, gliding over your belly to dip between your thighs.

“Hancock!” you breathed, your pulse quickening, loins already beginning to throb as blemished fingers stroked the line of your vault suit, teasing you at its seam. 

“Hmm?” he hummed, ignoring the tone in which he had been addressed. He asked another question, even as he continued to fondle you sans mercy.  

“Things like me?” 

Hancock was unhurried, enjoying the sleek texture of the glossy fabric against the underside of his thumb. He was positive he was making you wet, wondering how long you might last before you were begging him to fuck you, just like a few hours previous.

However, his query caught you off guard, your mind preoccupied as your palm came to rest over John’s explorative hand, holding it firm, the ghoul taking liberty with your breasts again, cupping one’s shape to give it a squeeze.

“Things that shouldn’t exist? Like that monster up there who thinks he’s human,” he growled silkily, finely wrinkled digits pinching your pebbled nipple through that damnable suit that left nothing to the imagination, John’s prick hardening against the back of your leg.

“You might say that,” you replied without thinking, thoughts clouded with pleasure that would all too suddenly end, so careless was your answer that the ghoul recoiled.

“Really,” John flatly returned, as if for some reason not at all surprised, his warm, gentle touch leaving you longing, confused as to why he was beginning to walk away.

You turned from the ticket booth, staring after your lover as he kicked a loose rock across asphalt; it bounced, ricocheting off an overturned cigarette machine. Hancock pretended to be engrossed in the diner just up ahead, a part of the Starlight Drive-In theater, you both having been warned about raiders before traveling here.

“Hancock.” You followed closely behind; he did not pay you any mind, as if he had not heard you, acting about as mature as a spoiled child who was giving you the dreaded silent treatment.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you claimed, though it was the truth. To be asked that question to begin with seemed like he was fishing for flattery, but who were you to deny the charismatic Mayor of Goodneighbor a harmless stroke to his ego, especially when he meant so much to you.

“Is that where the “might” part comes in?” he snapped, his tone irritated; it was becoming obvious that he had not expected you to agree with him on such matters, the conversation quickly devolving. 

“Is this our first fight? Are we fighting?” you asked, Hancock’s beady eyes narrowing beneath his hairless brow at the flippant way you were brushing off his feelings, or so he thought. 

“Look, if you don’t want to travel with a ghoul, why didn’t you just say so— got better things I could be doing,” he groused, namely chems with his name on them. 

“Is that so? Well, far be it from me to stop you from doing those better things,” you returned, not understanding why he couldn’t just forgive you for something said in passing.

“Always a smart ass,” he complained, as if Hancock himself wasn’t guilty of using his fair share of sarcasm.

Had you not been so heated, you may have remembered just how self-conscious the sociable, charming mayor actually was. His confidence was partially a façade, though he wasn’t one to normally bring down a mood with his own insecurities. Being the introspective sort meant that Hancock wasn’t afraid to get to the heart of things, even at the cost of his own self-esteem. 

John had even allowed you in, being vulnerable by sharing details of his sorrowful past; it was no secret the ending had been bittersweet, if not unhappy. His own appearance had sickened him; he found it hard to believe a gal like you wanted anything to do with him, much less desire to share a bed together, especially since he wasn’t exactly a looker by human standards.

Perhaps you had failed to give him reassurance when it was needed, though temporarily blinded by your temper. Instead of trying to clear things up, you made it worse. 

“You’d be one to know,” you baited.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hancock shot back, droplets of rain beginning to descend toward the ground.

“You know what? Go over there, check that place out.” You gruffly dismissed him, pointing toward the diner. “I think we both need some time to cool off,” you added, voice sounding less than amicable toward the man whose forehead lurched, as if he had been punched in the gut. 

“Yeah? Fine.” John’s feelings were hurt more by this simple demand than anything you had said thus far, Hancock behaving like a scolded puppy whose owner had treated it unfairly.

You shook your head as you watched him march away, Hancock’s red frock coat glistening thanks to a now steady sprinkle. You sighed, turning toward a slew of rusting, run-down autos, spying a shed somewhere in the distance—you hoped it had a crafting station, as your orders from Preston Garvey were clear.

---

No raiders were present, only mole rats and radroaches. Hancock had kept his distance at your request, though you weren’t so oblivious that you failed to notice the way he routinely hovered only a stone’s throw away. The ghoul was caught basking in your shadow more than once, stealing glimpses, a frown pulling down the edges of his thin-lipped mouth. Yet he would move along the moment you laid your eyes on him, as if embarrassed, not wishing to be the victim of your ire.  

Overall, he seemed to be taking things about as well as you had hoped, though he had technically been the one to start it. You weren’t a mind reader, either, refusing to try and decipher his body language despite the moping, waiting for a time you felt more at ease.

Although, it undeniably tugged at your heartstrings—knowing he was suffering in some capacity—but you kept a clear head, focusing on the task at hand—building a radio relay tower from spare parts in order to reach out to others, reclaiming the theater in the name of the Minutemen with the sole purpose of making the Commonwealth a better place, one settlement at a time.

It was when another accursed mole rat burst forth from its earthy den that you yelped in surprise, drawing your double-action revolver almost a moment too late. With teeth nipping at your toes, you shot the beast, Hancock having dashed to your aid.

You glanced back at him, rattled; he seemed satisfied knowing you weren’t hurt, though his gaze lingered, as if there was something on the tip of his tongue. 

After a moment, he asked, “Can we talk?”

“Not right now.” You shook yourself off, taking a deep breath to assist in the slowing of your pulse. You returned to your workstation, deciding it wasn’t appropriate to address any more personal issues at this juncture—you both had a job to do.

“Sure, got it,” Hancock said grouchily, the ghoul wandering off to continue sifting through various piles of refuse for any usable materials to add to your haul, though inside it felt as if gnarled fingers were cinching tightly around his heart. Anxiety was welling within him, as not being on good terms with you did not sit right; beneath the surface, he was a troubled bundle of nerves, though he did not want to rush you by any means.

If only you knew about the disturbing thoughts that were crawling up John’s brainpan, slithering through the cracks to possess his mental faculties, feeding them fear; unsurety, outwardly expressed by way of a sour attitude. So involved was he with the many voices collecting in his head, that he failed to notice when you had finished installing the relay tower, your instincts guiding you to the Starlight Drive-in’s once magnificent three-story screen.

You took the stairs, moving past a shoddy door to climb to the top. The sun was newly risen, a fine mist hanging over the expansive parking lot, rays of light from your planet’s star casting a beautiful glow along remnants of grass, present in patches, though the area was plagued by the contamination of rads—another item on your to-do list. 

You were enjoying the view when you observed Hancock poking around the last place he’d seen you, determining you were in a better mood and willing to talk. You had planned to call out to him when you saw him run the other way, circling the diner, and then the first place you had gathered—the ticket booth where you had exchanged unpleasantries. 

Confused, you continued your study of his erratic behavior, wondering if there was some unknown enemy skulking about, yet Hancock had no weapon drawn, his gait all at once frantic and without rhyme or reason, the ghoul seeming to have no particular destination in mind. 

“Hancock?” you asked yourself quietly, baffled at how John was going insofar as to peek inside doorless cars, or even under them, kicking into a full-fledge run as he made his way toward your perch. He wasn’t paying heed to anything that wasn’t at ground-level, failing to notice you up high above.

“Han—” you were enthralled, the ghoul almost as fast as a feral, which was a less than comforting thought, watching as John ran a lap around the base of the screen. 

You followed, pushing off the railing to walk the few short steps to the opposite side, catching him turn the corner as he looped back around. It wasn’t until you heard his panicked breathing and the terrified whisper of your name that you completely understood, gut clenching as Hancock came to a disconcerting stop. 

The poor thing looked to be having a meltdown, head darting to the left and right, though the only thing visible to you was the top of his tricorn hat. He began to pace, first one direction, and then another, not keeping to east or west, but zigzagging as if he couldn’t decide where to go, or what to do. 

He called your name again, this time louder, sounding more distressed. You could not tear your eyes away as Hancock fell to his knees, fingers digging into soft dirt as the ghoul appeared to be in the throes of a panic attack.

Was he—

Spurred to action, you turned toward the way you came in, quick to rush down the stairs as swiftly as your legs could carry you. You sprinted around the bend of the building, nearly bumping into an abandoned cooking station off to your right, skirting it in the nick of time; you passed behind the structure, witness to a heartbreaking sight.

“Hey,” you whispered, Hancock having pushed himself back against the wall, knees to chest. The ghoul was tightly hugging his own legs, his marred face buried in the folds of his coat.

You weren’t sure what was happening, or why, only that he seemed deeply upset he could not find you, not expecting your brief absence would have such a negative effect. The ghoul was mumbling words you could not discern as you tiptoed forward, bending down to his level to address his huddled form.

“Hanni?” you asked gently, calling him by a pet name you had given him so long ago, John’s head shooting up, onyx eyes glistening, though you dare not think he had shed tears on your behalf. 

Hancock gazed at you, his expression a mix of sadness, incredulity, and stark relief. You placed a hand on his shoulder, concern marking your features, John not budging from his half-fetal position. 

“I thought—" he began, voice cracking, words quavering with an emotion you could not quite define, “—I thought you’d skipped out on me,” he offered pathetically, the amount of hurt present in his eyes enough to make you feel as if you deserved to die. So devastating was the look plastered across his handsome, ghoulish face that you wanted to cry, moving to cup his ruined cheek in the crux of your palm.

“Why would I do that?” you asked, tone soft but firm, staring at your reflection within gorgeous, dark depths, as if the answer lay hidden somewhere deep inside them.

“Because I don’t deserve you; because you can do better than me,” he answered without hesitation, “because who would want to be stuck with this ugly mug; wouldn’t wish it on my own worst enemy,” he finished flatly, Hancock’s dispirited disposition arising from being rejected—that’s not to say he blamed you.

“Didn’t wanna talk, ignoring me, couldn’t find you—just figured you were through,” he continued, tone solemn, making you feel awful. 

You had deeply sinned to make this man react in such a manner—that was your first thought, Hancock’s gloomy mood permeating your defenses. All the walls you had in place came tumbling down, feeling nearly sick to your stomach as you scooched forward, prompting Hancock to drop his knees, legs finding even ground.

“No,” you berated, “none of that is true.” You shifted, straddling the ghoul, your other hand joining its partner to cradle his jaw opposite. “I won’t leave you,” you pledged, placing a kiss atop his furrowed mouth. “The thought never even crossed my mind.”

Hancock searched your face; he expelled a dejected sigh, breathing out through the hollow cavity that once housed his human nose. “You—you’re the best thing I’ve got. I don’t want to lose you, sunshine. I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere if it weren’t for you, hopped up on chems,” he admitted, hanging his head. “But don’t think I would blame you for hittin’ the road. I’d manage, somehow. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to make do, so just say the word. Don’t feel obligated to stick around.” 

“Is that what you think? That I would abandon you? That I would get sick of you? That I don’t want you here by my side? Hancock—” you emphasized, running your thumb over the curve of his ear, forcing him to look squarely at you with a gentle redirection, “—I mean it when I say I love you,” you lamented, kissing his raised flesh. “Please, don’t doubt me.” 

John lifted his head with your help, the concave divot residing front and center brushing lightly across your cheek. He presented you with a kiss this time, his cock enlivening beneath you, unable to help his arousal at the admission of your heartfelt words. 

“I won’t, not anymore,” he promised, another kiss administered, and then another, returning each touch of his lips with one of your own until they picked up in fervor, Hancock’s sly tongue subtly snaking its way between your teeth. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” you cooed, warm, wet muscles intertwining in an orchestrated dance that rekindled the deep-seated ache of your loins. 

“You listen so well,” you needled playfully; you had the ghoul’s number, knowing just what made him tick.

Hancock moaned a sound of gratitude, your impromptu praise causing his prick to flex, lean, wilted fingers creeping forward to place themselves deliberately along your thighs; they ran up the dips in your hips, and smoothed over the shape of your waist.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hancock grated between avid swirls. His cock was riding up against your slinky blue vault suit—like liquid latex poured to conform to your body, it fit tight as a glove.

John held no complaints, only that you were still wearing it. Fortunately, you had ideas. 

“Being such a good boy for me,” you teased, your own hands roving, exploring the contours of his slender chest and waist, sweeping back and forth; you hooked his partially corroded throat, carefully capturing Hancock between the crook of your palm, thumb trailing his Adam’s apple in a light caress. 

“Not sure you know what that does to me,” he purred, the ghoul at your mercy as you gyrated your hips, your own sex succinctly aligned as you massaged his erection through faded black slacks.  

“Are you so sure?” you asked, grinning into your kiss, one of Hancock’s hands sneaking along synthetic fibers for three fingers to stroke the underside of your jumper. He pushed up only slightly, cupping your mound; you felt it in your core, a subdued moan breathed straight into the ghoul’s mouth—Hancock was so turned on, it was a wonder he didn’t just nut right then and there.

“You teasin’ me, sunshine?” John panted, groping your breast, digits fingering stitchwork; you bit down on your bottom lip as you reached for the clasp at the front of your collar.

“Get this off me,” you instructed, fumbling with the pull of your zipper.

“Is that a request?” Hancock asked cheekily, though he did not expect an answer.

“An order,” you responded, feigning authority, Hancock doing as he was told, though there was a hint of a smile crawling up the side of his face. 

“Yes, ma’am,” the ghoul chortled wryly, watching as you shed your suit like a second skin. You ushered it past the arc of your shoulders, the slopes of your breasts, to the base of your hips, leaving yourself half naked and assailable; John was unable to help his amorous stare.

“You’re so beautiful,” he declared, moving to knead doughy flesh, mouth finding your throat; Hancock sucked the sweat off your flawless skin, his other hand working its way underneath what was left of your vault suit, two fingers dipping into your already soaked cunt. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, slipping in and out, thumb pushing itself between the folds of your labia to rub your throbbing bud. 

“Yes, let’s,” you returned, swirling your hips, riding Hancock’s thick fingers as you clumsily moved to untie the flag wrapped about his narrow waist. 

“Right here?” he asked, perplexed. Though not one to argue, being out in the open without cover was dangerous; he knew better than anyone the risks of the Wastes. 

“I want you,” you answered, as if that in and of itself was all he needed to hear. You knew there might be consequences, but at that moment, your hormones were the ones in charge, a sharp gasp escaping as John’s fingers curled against the anterior wall of your sex.

“I’m all yours, love, forever,” Hancock vowed, following your example. He hastily unbuckled his pants after releasing your tit with reluctance, pushing apart the flaps to withdraw his glaring hard on; precum was already seeping out the slit at its head. 

“Promise me,” you insisted, lifting up off your thighs—and Hancock’s fingers—to shimmy the rest of your suit down toward your knees. It might be a little awkward, but you were too desperate to care, taking up the ghoul’s girth in the breadth of your palm.

“Cross my heart and hope to—” 

“Don’t you dare,” you protested, shoving your tongue back into John’s mouth, guiding his cock inside you. You sank down onto your haunches, inch by delicious inch, his variegated shaft filling you full up.

Then, the ghoul went rigid. “But sunshine, what about—” 

“Shhh, that’s it,” you whispered, though Hancock hadn’t done anything to warrant a reprimand. It was your own descent that had you crooning, dipping forward to feel that delightful pressure snug against your walls. 

“Not sure you wanna end up like—”

“—I took one a few hours ago, remember?” The darling man was more concerned with your well-being than even you; you could physically feel the tension leaving his body, John relieved to know you had things under control.

“You do love me,” you stated breezily, flicking the tip of your tongue inside the helix of the ghoul’s ear; Hancock shuddered, both his hands returning to your hips, touch featherlight, prompting you to press your palms against the partition behind him to prop yourself up on either side of his head.

“Wouldn’t mind you turnin’ Ghoul,” he replied throatily, thinkin’ spending an eternity with you sounded like the best damn thing a guy could ask for. 

Hancock watched with bated breath as you rose up to enshroud him in your shadow, breasts level with his eyes. He groaned his appreciation, seizing your right nipple between puckered lips, John’s bony hips pushing up against the round of your ass. The ghoul sucked diligently, dull nails clawing gingerly into supple, human flesh, incapable of keeping a straight face.

“What was all that about not doubting each other?” John huskily reminded you, the point of his tongue flitting against your sensitive skin. He returned to suckling, as if a babe latched to nurse, the hand left idle finally slipping down your thigh. Hancock spread your lower lips apart with the underside of two fingers, a third taking its place atop your thrumming clit, engorged with blood. 

“Shut up,” you urged, wanting him to belay speaking for fear the moment might spoil, Hancock grunting in indignation before he bit down lightly on your nip. 

You gasped a broken breath, cunt rising to the head of his cock. You dropped back down; Hancock bottomed out, sequestered in the deepest part of you, snug as anything, the ghoul hypnotized by your pretty writhing. 

“Why don’t you make me.” Hancock intensified the patient revolutions of blotched fingers, dragging you down by compressing your cheeks with his thumb and index; you slumped your shoulders just enough, angling to meet his current height, tossing your arms about John’s neck to humor him with another passionate kiss.

“Done.” You rocked forward, feeling Hancock’s sizeable member immured to its base. Indecent sounds kept each other company, the squish of your conjoined loins combining with the wet, obscene spirals of your whorling tongues. It wouldn’t take much longer to climax, your slick cunt tightening its grip on John’s rock-hard cock. 

The ghoul’s chest heaved between ragged breaths, Hancock practicing his self-control. He didn’t want to cum until you did, sliding his palm up to carefully cradle the small protrusion distending your lower abdomen. 

Feeling the outline of himself inside you was nearly too much to handle, a visible tremor preceding what was to be an early warning.

“I-I can’t hold back, angel.”

“Wait,” you countered, guiding the ghoul’s head toward your breasts, driving his noseless face into your cleavage; Hancock’s tricorn shifted backward as he followed your lead. He vested himself in the cocoon of your limbs,  moaning his approval, grabbing onto a fistful of ass as your back arched in pleasure. 

You opened your eyes to gaze at the sky—it was pale blue and cloudless, for once.

You came hard, the flat of John’s palm supporting your spine as you released your ecstasy to the heavens, the ghoul’s tepid seed discharging in spurts to paint your inner walls white; his ejaculate had been offered as payment for your lovely little song.

The ghoul felt overwhelmed and full of deep affection for you; Hancock’s teeth bore down on beautiful, unblemished skin; he broke capillaries, drawing your blood to the surface, leaving his mark in the form of a dark red welt. 

You gasped at the bite, Hancock ensconcing you tightly in his arms, both of you allowing your orgasms to run their course. His grip was a comfortable vise, brittle nails burrowing into lithe flesh with almost paradoxical tenderness; John was always so careful with you.

From an outsider’s perspective, the embrace of a ghoul meant certain death, with the expectancy you would be rent into unrecognizable pieces. Such a pose as you presented now was questionable, one that evoked alarm from bystanders, settlers who had followed the beacon to their new home, expecting to find the general of the Minutemen, but not like this.

“Ghoul!” someone shouted; you heard the shuffling of leather, the clink of metal.

“No!” you yelled, protecting your lover with the entirety of your body, encapsulating his slight frame. You shielded his vitals with your bare back, hunkering down to speak to these newcomers over the peak of your shoulder. 

“He’s not feral!” you growled, hating that you had to defend him, knowing how John must feel at this moment as he gazed up at you with surprised, wide eyes. You cared not that a horde of people had seen you naked; you only cared for Hancock, determined to preserve him and all his parts.

In reality, the ghoul was seconds from tears, knowing—without a doubt—that you had meant what you said. You were guarding his wretched life with your own without question, willing to die to keep him from harm, just as he gladly would have sacrificed himself to see you live another day. 

A day, he thought, that might have been better off without him, but now he was glad to be alive (in some form or another), swallowing hard against the knot in his throat, eyes never once leaving your impassioned face.

“We’re together; we came here together, and we will leave here together, do I make myself clear?”

A person stepped forward, separating themselves from the crowd. “Yes, General,” they said, having fortunately, or rather unfortunately, recognized you.

With a sigh of relief, those gathered departed. John practically smothered you, so forceful was his hug that it nearly choked the air from your lungs. 

Hancock didn’t know what he’d done to get someone like you, and he was afraid to ask. If there were any powers at be—something, or someone—watching over him, he supposed he’d owe them one, but for now he was more than happy to count his blessings. And the sad thing was, everything, all of it, could be a dream—or one long, hallucinatory chem-trip. If this turned out to be nothing but a fucked up Jet flashback, he’d just as soon never wake up. 

“I’ll follow you to the end of the Wastes,” Hancock blurted, voice strained and rasping, fingers; arms; chest tightening as he spoke against soft tufts of hair. “You and me together, the world ain’t got a prayer.”

Despite what had just transpired, you cradled him against the bow of your neck, oblivious to the inner workings of his mind, only wishing to absorb him, for him to live in the space between your ribs that stored your heart. All you wanted was to keep him safe for all time, knowing that he deserved the world, though the ghoul would most certainly outlive you. 

It was a melancholy thought, if ever one existed, but you did not allow your mind to dwell. “Sweet man,” you murmured, “it doesn’t stand a chance in hell.”

—-

Fallout Masterlist

[reunitedinterlude]

dan's bead story

bonus:

[not-with-you-but-of-you]

Milo Ventimiglia as Jess Mariano in Gilmore Girls | 4.21 "Last Week Fights, This Week Tights" (1/?)

[ghostedglitch]

some ywdmp because if you can believe it, i've been thinking about them a lot lately

completed august 27, 2024

[jamespottersmixtape]

rosekiller microfic: goldilocks 1,632 words

a bit of soft rosekiller!! this is inspired by @myrows rosekiller art which you can find here! it made me want to weep a little when I first saw it, so naturally I had to write something haha :) ngl this has been sitting in my drafts for a while and it's by no means perfect but enjoy!! <3

Barty has always cherished quiet nights at Hogwarts.

When the chatter in the halls finally dies down enough for his thoughts to come back to him and homework has been carelessly tossed aside to save for tomorrow.

There’s a sense of serenity to it all that Barty rarely finds elsewhere. A break that he craves most at the end of a particularly stressful day.

Sixth year courses have been—to put it lightly, beating his ass—no matter how well he does. Today, it had taken him ten tries to get the nonverbal spell to work in Transfiguration. Ten.

Usually Barty needs no more than six tries for complicated spells, less than that for complex potions. Disregarding that he still did it faster than over half the class, now he’s just fucking tired.

He groans and shoves his schoolbag off the bed, letting it hit the floor with a soft thud, then flops backwards dramatically onto his pillows. The dorm room is dim, save for a few small candles on his bedside table. Cloaked in various shadows that dance around the room from the flickering flame.

Barty closes his eyes, taking a spare second to just breathe. There’s the soft white noise of the shower running in the background—Evan is taking forever, as usual—and sometimes Barty imagines he can hear the push and pull of the black lake against their walls. Lack of windows be damned.

It isn’t long before the water shuts off, and Barty feels the smallest smile tug at the corners of his mouth. It’s just the two of them for now, Regulus off doing god knows what at this hour. So naturally, a lot of built up restraint is needed for Barty not to rip open the bathroom door. To go and take in the sight of a freshly showered Evan and gather him in his arms before he can be stopped.

He’s been in there for less than thirty minutes but fuck it, Barty misses him.

Grumbling, he goes to change into the first clothes he can find. Settling for some years old joggers and a loose tank top, the soft fabric already making him drowsy.

The bathroom door creaks open and his head snaps up, immediately catching Evan’s eye. Barty really can’t help it when his heart skips a beat.

Evan raises his eyebrows, chuckling when Barty takes no subtlety in checking him out. His hair is dry, most likely done by magic. A thin blue t-shirt hangs off his shorter frame and each step taken towards Barty casts golden shadows over his skin.

Looking like everything warm and comfortable; the smell of his shampoo in the air so familiar that it hurts.

Barty’s smirk is wicked when he tugs Evan by his shirt into a light kiss. He makes a startled noise but melts into Barty’s touch regardless, fingers cupping his chin. The kiss is short but effective in making Barty’s head go all fuzzy.

“What happened to hello?” Evan asks when they pull apart—though not very far—now standing chest to chest. Evan’s bare feet fit in between his socked ones.

 Barty makes sure to slather his words in extra charm, grinning. “Hello, gorgeous.” 

“Wow, smooth talker,” Evan deadpans.

“You know you love it, Goldilocks.”

Barty takes a blonde strand between two fingers, tugging lightly at the end and earning him a deep scowl.

“I told you that nickname is stupid.” Evan rolls his eyes but Barty catches the blush high on his cheekbones. A light dusting of pinks and reds that work to compliment his freckles. Barty pokes him on one cheek.

“And I told you I don’t care.”

“Brat.”

Barty hums noncommittally, threading their fingers together. Warmth settles in his chest from the steady weight of Evan’s hand.

He leads Evan past the emerald green curtains of his bed and down onto the soft mattress. It’s a routine they’ve created over the last few months, and every time Barty wraps the covers around them it becomes harder and harder to let Evan slip back into his own bed. Something about having him in his arms means a night free of restless tossing and turning.

They lie facing each other for a few minutes, minimal space between them and their heads resting on one pillow. Quiet voices and even quieter laughs, a sacred bubble that neither of them dare to pop.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Barty laughs, his voice barely above a whisper. “You told Cresswell what?”

Evan frowns, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “I told him…that if he feels the need to keep staring at you in class then maybe I should tape his fucking eyes open. You know, that way he wouldn’t miss it when I inevitably snog you right in front of him.”

“Evan!” Barty can’t help it, his laugh is loud when it bursts from his chest.

“Well, maybe I left out that last bit…”

It takes him a minute before his laughter dies down, the quiet settling back in. “You jealous?” Barty teases, raising an eyebrow.

Evan purses his lips. “No.”

Barty stares at him knowingly.

Silence.

Evan averts his eyes.

“Mhm sure, come here.”

He drags Evan in by his waist, the pair of them fumbling around until Evan’s head relaxes in the crook of Barty’s neck and his forearm rests over his chest. Their sides pressed together, Barty smiles—fully content now.

Wordlessly, Barty ghosts his hand over the warm skin, relishing in the way Evan shivers from the cold metal of the ring on his middle finger.

There’s silence for a few minutes. Evan’s hair brushes the side of his face and his warm breath fans across his chest, their hearts only slightly out of sync as they beat so close together.

It’s a lot for Barty to take in sometimes—the whole idea of them. Having someone so delicate, yet so utterly untouchable, be his. If anyone took the time to ask him, though, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Barty knows Evan’s eyes are closed, can see the shadow of his eyelashes. He takes the opportunity to trace over his freckles; a messy constellation that follows the high points of his cheeks, crosses sporadically over the bridge of his nose.

Evan scrunches his face up, which should not be so endearing. “That tickles.”

Barty turns his head, placing the quickest of kisses atop of Evan’s forehead, debating whether or not he should just give in and lick the side of his face. Then ultimately deciding against it—Evan did just take a shower—he’ll be nice for once.

“I wasn’t jealous. I don’t get jealous,” Evan mumbles, his voice lulled and tired sounding.

“Of course not, Ev.” Barty resists rolling his eyes, Evan can’t see his face anyway. 

“Besides,” Barty continues, “If you were jealous, I don’t mind you threatening people for me…it’s kinda hot.”

Evan smacks him lightly across the chest, but snuggles deeper against his shoulder. Which definitely does not do a weird flippy thing to Barty’s stomach. Nope, not at all.

“Mm okay,” Evan yawns. Which, Barty can’t blame him. Exhaustion is slowly taking over his body the longer they lie here. At this point all he wants to do is blow out the candles and fall asleep. Keep Evan next to him the whole night.

“Hey Goldilocks.”

“Mhm…” Evan must be too tired to even rebuke the nickname.

“Reg is going to freak out if he finds you here in my bed.”

Evan huffs, not very different from a petulant child. He makes no move to get up or even open his eyes. “I don’t care.”

This time Barty can’t hold back his yawn. He shuts his eyes and allows his body to sink further into the bed. Further into Evan. “Maybe we can tell Potter how madly in love with him Reg is. Then they can finally leave us alone.”

“Payback,” Evan snorts.

They both fall asleep without really meaning to. Tangled limbs beneath the covers and hands that aren’t inclined to let go. As his mind quiets down, something in Barty feels settled. A puzzle piece slotting into place after searching and searching for the edge that matches. Evan tends to have that effect on him, he’s come to notice.

All is quiet for a while, the whole school in a coinciding state of slumber. A time when portraits snore softly and only ghosts roam the halls, the usual lively presence of magic at bay for now.

But not even thirty minutes later they’re awoken with a loud thud and a significantly darker room—Barty had blown the candles out after all—just in case.

“Lumos,” someone whispers.

Regulus stands at the end of Barty’s bed, hands on his hips and a look of annoyance on his face. His wand is now lit and shining far too bright for Barty’s liking.

“What the fuck, Reg?” he asks groggily. Evan groans beside him and tries to hide his face.

“Not my fault I tripped over your fucking books, Barty,” Regulus hisses. “And you guys are gross. You said no PDA in the dorm.”

Barty squints and gestures for him to lower his wand. Regulus does so slowly. “Yeah, well I’m a fucking liar. Let us sleep.”

It’s with a lot of grumbling and a sharp glare that Regulus turns and stalks to his side of the room. When he shuts himself in the bathroom Barty reaches for his own wand and spells his curtains closed.

He has Evan back in his arms in no time, steady and real and here. Absolutely not going anywhere, if Barty has a say in it. His fingers resume their path over his arm, tracing nonsensical shapes that neither can decipher. Before they both drift off again a thought pops into Barty’s head.

“We are definitely getting him back for this.”

[derangedfujoshi]

You see I could never even begin to understand antis and the mentality of "only canon ships are good" some of them have because at 14yo I was shipping these three motherfuckers from three completely different anime WHILE MAKING THEM BROTHERS

I literally never gave a fuck do you Understand?

[onethousxndvoices]

whoaaaaaa omg they added a new hi fi rush character haha when did that get there (real) (not clickbait)

uhhh hi i finished hfr the other day and absolutely freakin loved it. chai stole my heart the minute he was introduced i couldn't NOT do some oc x canon shenanigans :] this is mocha she works for vandelay HR and pretends she doesnt hate it but shes probably exploding the nearest person with her mind always. i dont have much else for her (for now) but she comes in post-canon when chai's already working as the project armstrong ambassador

(close ups under the cut!)

[enswbl]

FOALS - RIP UP THE ROAD (2019) - Jimmy and Jez on a boat just off the coast of Auckland.

[rebelliousdandy]

WHO LET THEM COOK BC THIS SHIT IS FIRE 🔥🔥🔥

[spaceratprodigy]

[ 😇 ] — doodle dump from priv

just some smaller things while I have fun w friends and find my groove again :]

Commission Info | Ko-Fi | My Links

[fourfoldfires]

Entre la nuit La nuit et l'aurore Entre le royaume Des vivants et des morts

If this is heaven I need something more Just a place to be alone 'Cause you're my home

[girlkisserr]

hello!! i just found your 'child of void' skin for hollow knight, and it's AMAZING (like genuinely the coolest skin i've ever seen wtf) but also i wanted to ask - is it something like your oc or a character from a show, or was it just designed specifically to be a skin? thanks:)

hi! honestly i'll start with saying i never thought anyone would ever actually reach out to tell me they like my self indulgence of a creation and to that i say thank you so much! like, so so much genuinely (we ignore my potential cringe of said self indulgence in those in game dialogue changes.)

to answer your question though, its my personal gijinka of Ghost (ignoring the horns, i actually dont know how it got to that point stylistically) and a few other characters including BV/LK, Hornet, and Quirrel? i think?

THK was simply too big for me to draw (and did you know thk + pv has probably over 200 folders of animations lol) and greenpath vessel we just couldnt change it

i havent posted in a long, long time due to heavy art block + interest shifts but my dedicated HK sideblog (@little--ghost) has pretty much every gijinka piece i've created

and for fun, heres some extra skin creation memes/images below

this was getting the original sprites to dump

heres how tiny ghost is

i had one more but i cannot find it and im so sad

[hearteyedbunny]

Growing Pains

danse/art

wrote a lil thing of danse taking care of arty. i have bad pain days of my own so i wanted to project and vent thru arty. also for context they are at red rocket. enjoy <3

The wooden rocking chair creaked as Artemis plopped into it, the bottom of his cane clinking against the hard, concrete floor and echoing throughout the garage. He sighed exasperatedly, using his foot to gently rock himself as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. 

His peace was soon interrupted, albeit not rudely, as the ex-paladin passed by, poking his head into the open door of the garage to check on the other. Artemis thought it cute how Danse always seemed to end up in the same location as him, like he was a lost puppy following him around.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Danse,” Artemis rocked gently, his voice soft as he kept his eyes closed.

“Something the matter?” Danse had fully stepped into the garage now. If Artemis had opened his eyes he would’ve seen Danse looking at him concerningly with those big brown eyes of his.

“...’m alright. Leg is just acting up again.”

“Could I assist you with that?”

Artemis didn’t answer right away. His eyes slowly blinked open as he peered up at the other man, who was looking down at him with his usually stern face, although his thick eyebrows were scrunched in concern. Artemis smiled gently at that. Danse was always so charmingly expressive, even if he didn’t realize it most of the time.

“I’ll be alright, babe. It’s just one of those days.”

“I want to help,” Danse’s heart leapt at the term of endearment. He still wasn’t used to being referred to in such an endearing way, especially from someone like Artemis. He didn’t dislike it, he just needed time to adjust to it.

“I won’t stop you, but you don’t have to worry so much about me. Been dealin’ with it for years,” He shifted his leg slightly, wincing as pain shot up his body.

“I know,” Danse was already down on the ground, sitting himself comfortably on the cold floor as he started to work Artemis’ boots off his feet, “But we’re…partners. I want to help you. Especially considering everything you’ve done for me.”

Artemis chuckled at Danse’s hesitance to call him his partner. He supposed they hadn’t quite reached ‘boyfriend’, but he could settle for ‘partner’ for the time being.

“So you’re just paying back a debt?” He jested, watching as Danse slipped his boots off and tentatively placed them to the side, shoelaces tucked neatly inside of them.

“Not at all,” Danse pressed his thumb firmly into the sole of Artemis’ left foot, letting up slightly when he noticed Artemis wincing at the pressure, “I’m simply showing my appreciation.”

Artemis only hummed in response, fluttering his eyes shut once more and leaning back in his chair, relaxing as much as he could as Danse took over.

They stayed in relative silence for a few long moments, the only noises being Artemis’ soft murmurs of appreciation and Danse’s occasional ‘like this?’ as he worked his hands along Artemis’ leg. Every time Artemis would simply nod his head in response, the pain radiating along his leg and up into his thigh subduing slightly at Danse’s touch. It wouldn’t last long, but the short relief was more than welcome.

At some point, Artemis’ grip softened on the cane in his hand, causing it to drop to the floor with a loud ‘clang’ against the hard floor. He grumbled, cursing under his breath and beginning to adjust himself to pick it up.

“It’s alright. Don’t move,” Danse paused his massage for a moment, picking up the cane that had fallen to the ground and placing it neatly next to Artemis’ boots.

“Thanks,” Artemis mumbled, relaxing back into his chair with a sigh through his nose, “You know, I really like this chair.”

“You do?” Danse looked up at him, his hands resuming their work. His thumbs working themselves into his knee made Artemis hum in appreciation.

“Yeah. I’m glad you built it,” Artemis looked tired, but his words seemed genuine. 

Danse remembered when he had built it. He had been bored, seemingly having much less to keep him occupied since he left the Brotherhood. He had already done as many repairs on the little rest stop as he could, and he could only tinker so much with his power armor. His pacing must have annoyed Artemis, because the man had yelled at him to find something to do, anything but pacing around and making him nervous. So Danse had found some spare wood lying around and got to work. He hadn’t known at the time exactly what he was working toward, but a chair seemed like the best outcome. He figured it would be nice to have some more furniture around their makeshift home, and it occupied him enough to keep out of Artemis’ hair.

“I could build you another,” Danse finally smiled up at him, leaning forward and pressing a small, chaste kiss to the leg in his hands, the material of his pants bunching up where Danse pressed his lips.

“What, so we can sit in our rocking chairs on the porch like an old married couple?” His lips quirked up into an amused smirk as he glanced down at Danse.

“Do people do that?” Danse asked the question genuinely, tilting his head slightly to the side almost like a dog.

“Used to. In my time,” Artemis tentatively stretched his leg out, his pain dull for the moment. Danse was just softly running his hand over the underside of his leg, “Sounds nice, having nothin’ to worry about.”

“I suppose it does,” Danse agreed, although he didn’t enjoy the thought of sitting for hours on end. He was never good at keeping still for long, he always seemed to need something to do, “How is your pain?”

“Better,” He grumbled quietly, seemingly struggling to keep his eyes open, “Probably need to rest. You mind if I close my eyes for a while?” That always seemed to be Artemis code for ‘I need a nap.’

“Not at all. I’m sure Dogmeat and I can hold down the fort,” Danse gave Artemis’ leg one last little rub with his thumb before he rose to his feet, grabbing a nearby blanket hanging across the power armor workstation. Ever since Danse had built the chair and moved it into the garage, Artemis had taken countless naps here, so it was better to leave any spare blankets in here just for that reason.

“Thanks, Danse,” Artemis muttered as the blanket was carefully draped across him, the gentle motion making his chest ache in the best way possible. He still wasn’t used to the sort of loving, domestic relationship they had fallen into over time. It wasn’t perfect, they weren’t perfect, but he appreciated it more than words could express. He wanted to say more, to thank Danse for more than just the massage, more than just the chair, more than just the blanket, but his tongue always seemed to get twisted up. A simple thank you would suffice for now, it seemed.

“Of course,” Danse was smiling that sweet smile at him, the kind that made his eyes soften and his forehead crinkle up. The kind of smile that seemed so genuine and so specifically for Artemis himself, “Try to get some rest, Artemis. I’ll be here when you wake up.”