#they still need to work through their issues you know.

[gyubakeries]

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 | j.ww

a/n: so ! don't question where this came from LMAO. serena ( @gotta-winwin ) please accept this as an apology for the wonwoo angst u read before this and the one you will read afterwards. i love you i promise 💗 also this is just really badly written smut i apologise i just went with the vibes. shoutout to june ( @junkissed ) for helping me find pics for the banner!

word count: 1.6k contents: NSFW content , wonwoo x afab!reader , established relationship , morning cuddles , nsfw warnings below the cut!

nsfw warnings: mdni! 18+ , unprotected sex , thigh riding , breast play , creampie , cockwarming , nicknames (f. princess, baby)

one thing you can say about yourself is that you are a morning person. you’ve always enjoyed waking up to see the first rays of light streaking across the dark sky. the sounds of birds chirping, the cool breeze, and the soft glow of the sun in the early hours of the dawn always manages to put you in a good mood for the rest of the day.

you can’t say the same about your boyfriend.

wonwoo, a self-declared ‘anti-morning person,’ is the complete opposite. he sleeps at an ungodly hour of the night and doesn’t leave bed till noon. thankfully, his work schedule allows him the leeway to sleep in that late, or else he'd be having some serious issues with his boss.

so, here lies the issue.

it’s 6:15 in the morning. the sun is barely out, but you’re already awake. it wasn’t your alarm that woke you up, but the restless feeling in your stomach. at first, you woke up thinking that maybe last night’s ramen didn’t digest well, but when you turned to look at your boyfriend sleeping next to you, hair messy and torso bare, you recognized the feeling in your stomach all too well.

you’re horny. at 6:15 in the morning. the sun is barely out.

“what the fuck,” you mutter to yourself, trying to close your eyes and force your brain to shut down, but it seems like all the energy in your body has been diverted to your core. 

the visual of wonwoo in front of you doesn’t do too much to help your situation. neither does his morning wood, which is currently pressed against your hip.

“fuck me,” you whisper to yourself, lamenting this stupid situation you’ve gotten yourself into, when you get the scare of your life.

“this early in the morning?” a groggy voice chuckles, and it takes you a few moments to realize that it was wonwoo speaking.

wait, wonwoo?

“how are you awake this early?” you gasp, mortified that your boyfriend has woken up six hours too early and heard you spiraling into a horny mess.

“i was asleep, but i woke up because i could feel how needy you’re being now,” wonwoo explains, voice still raspy from just waking up.

you’re about to argue and tell wonwoo that it’s his arousal that you can feel very clearly, but wonwoo seems to predict your next move, because he decides to throw you off with his next words.

“you’re dripping with need, baby,” he mutters. “you’ve soaked through your panties. i could feel it on my leg.”

you belatedly realize that at some point during the night, wonwoo’s thigh got wedged between both your legs, which explains how your arousal seeped into his sweatpants, leaving a dark patch on the grey fabric.

“oh god,” you wince, embarrassment coloring your cheeks red. “wonwoo, i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean for that to happen. you can go back to sleep, yeah? i’ll take care of it-”

“why do it yourself when you have me?” wonwoo cuts you off. “you really think your own fingers are enough to make you cum?”

you know that wonwoo already knows the answer to that question. ever since you started dating wonwoo four years ago, you’ve been unable to give yourself an orgasm with just your own fingers or toys. only wonwoo’s touch helps you reach that climax, and he often calls you his ‘spoiled princess’ for it.

“no,” you mutter. “need your help, wons.”

“i’ve got you, baby,” wonwoo smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before grabbing your hips and pulling your body closer, his thigh still wedged between your legs.

“i want you to ride my thigh first,” wonwoo whispers in your ear, his hands slowly guiding your hips in a back and forth motion. “i want you to show me just how desperate you are for me. can you do that, love?”

you nod immediately. the friction that his muscled thigh is creating against your clit has already rendered you speechless, and soon, you’re rocking your hips against wonwoo’s thigh without his hands needing to guide you. you bring your hands up to clutch at his shoulders as you quicken the pace, chasing your release.

wonwoo helps by slipping his cold hands under your shirt, gently squeezing your breasts. the action makes you moan, and you arch your chest into his touch. “more, wonwoo, please,” you request, your voice strangled with pleasure.

“i’ve got you, baby,” wonwoo complies. he’s quick in tugging your shirt off all together, groaning slightly as he gets a full view of your bare chest. one hand goes to the back of your neck to pull you into a dizzying kiss, while the other massages your breast, squeezing harshly than before. he tugs and pinches at your nipples too, making you whine into his mouth.

“wons, it’s not enough,” you cry against his lips. “need your cock in me, please.”

and who is he to refuse you?

“turn over to your other side for me, princess,” wonwoo says, his voice deep and raspy. with the way the bulge in his sweatpants has grown bigger, you can tell he’s just as affected as you are. while wonwoo is taking his sweatpants off, you quickly flip onto your other side, your back coming in contact with wonwoo’s chest.

it’s like your usual spooning position, except for wonwoo lifting your leg and hooking it around his hip. the feeling of his tip nudging against your aching core is enough to make you go crazy, and you rut your hips onto his length, craving for more.

“aren’t you impatient today?” wonwoo chuckles into your ear. one hand is splayed across your abdomen, while the other nudges the fabric of your ruined panties to the side to finally slide his cock into you. as he slowly fills you up completely, the both of you let out similar groans of pleasure.

“fuck, feel so full,” you gasp. “wonwoo, move now, please. i can take it.”

wonwoo doesn’t need much more of a signal to start finally thrusting into you. you know that he’s just as desperate for release as you are because of the relentless pace he’s picked. you feel the breath get knocked out of your lungs as wonwoo snaps his hips into in fast and hard movements.

“you’re so tight around me, princess,” wonwoo rasps, his hand moving from your stomach to your breast, cupping and kneading the soft flesh. “can you feel how tight you’re clenching around me right now?”

“‘m close, so close,” you pant. “faster, wons, please.” you don’t pay any mind to how desperate your pleading sounds, not when all rational thoughts have completely left your mind with how good wonwoo is fucking into you as he leaves bruises on your neck and shoulder with his teeth.

the pressure in your core is rising rapidly, and somewhere between wonwoo’s fingers rubbing at your clit and his cock hitting your most sensitive spot, your climax hits you out of nowhere. you feel your walls gripping onto him as you’re finally pushed off the edge. wonwoo’s release follows soon after, his cum painting your insides white.

when you’ve both caught your breath, wonwoo releases the hold he has on your leg, and you wince at the soreness in your lower back. his hands go back to being wrapped around your waist, and he nuzzles his cold nose into the back of your neck, the action lodging him deeper inside you.

“do you wanna go shower now?” wonwoo whispers, and you shake your head.

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask, basking in wonwoo’s warmth. “it feels really nice like this.”

“don’t have to tell me twice,” wonwoo agrees with no hesitation, and you laugh. in retaliation, he playfully pinches your hip. “hey, you were the one who woke me up six hours before i actually wake up.”

“at least this way you’ll see the sunrise for once,” you bite back, and wonwoo looks outside the window, his face lighting up when he sees the streaks of orange in the sky.

“it’s really pretty,” he admits, and you rest your hands on top of his, loosely lacing your fingers together. “but i’m still really sleepy. can i go back to sleeping now? you kinda interrupted my really awesome dream.”

you can’t help but snort at how groggy his voice sounds from the lack of sleep. “what was the dream about? one of your video games?”

even though you’re not facing him now, you can tell he’s smiling from the way his lips press into your skin. “nope, i was having an epic dream in which you and i save the world from jelly monsters.”

“that’s too bizarre for me to even analyze,” you sigh. “just go back to sleep, baby. i’ll wake you up in a bit.”

just as you make a move to slowly slip out of bed, wonwoo’s arms around you tighten. “no,” he mutters, now sounding even sleepier. “sleep in today, i know you don’t have any work.”

“just say you need your personal heater next to you,” you roll your eyes affectionately but don’t protest any further. you snuggle back into wonwoo’s chest, and the comfortable heat the closeness of your bodies brings you is enough to lull you back to sleep.

wonwoo stays awake for a little longer, memorizing how the emerging sun slowly covers you with its golden glow.

as he falls asleep, he finds that he wasn’t too upset about being woken up early in the morning, because mornings are the best when they’re spent with you.

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[niccolites]

febrile (or; input vs output)

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

-

or: Simon is a member of the Night City Police Department and you're a ripper doc. It is his job to catch criminals, but even he can admit, he's taken a different approach for you. CYBERPUNK!AU

TAGS: Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Size Kink, Unhealthy Relationships

read here on ao3

Simon’s got a bug in his system that is turning his vision white at the edges when he finally visits you.

Not that he has much of a morality regarding visiting ripperdocs. Sure, they’re criminals and as a member of the NCPD, it is his job to arrest and charge criminal activity, but that was a rigid rule set decades ago. These days, the split between the NCPD and a common gang is that the rules the gang lives by aren’t written into the law. But, allowances are allowed on both sides.

Simon has never cared much to think about it. He sees some other officers have that blank look in their eye after they finish a shift, others who seem to revel in being able to do whatever it is that they want. Simon just does as he’s told. If he’s told to save the woman who survived a cyberpsycho attack then she is tossed over a shoulder and brought to the ambulance. If otherwise, a nod is all he needs to know that there are no witnesses. Finger, gun, trigger. The explosion in the palm of his hand, kicked back and caught. Delivered.

Maybe it has left a screw loose in his head. Not his job to analyse that.

Flouting the law as and when it suits the law is a part of the job. Not one that Simon has much indulged in, he must admit. Any murder, extortion, crime that is involved in the ‘etcetera’ part of his work, has been asked of him. His fellow officers flout the law as and when it suits them. Illegal weapons, killing a perp who gets too mouthy, maybe getting a bit too handsy with a victim. Simon hasn’t been much interested in the ‘benefits’ he can reap with his badge.

However, after a job where the NCPD took down a group of scavengers, Simon’s vision starts getting spotty. He’d had to jack into one of the victims to see if they were still alive. Horrible static, bad channel. They hadn’t been. And seemingly willing to haunt him from the afterlife, leaving a pesky virus in his system.

There are NCPD designated docs that he could go and visit, but the idea of letting one of their starched, freshly pressed hands go worming around in his cyberware makes his skin crawl. Years before his official service, he’d had all his kit installed by a ripperdoc, and he hadn’t had an issue he couldn’t fix himself since.

He spends a few days just trying to deal with it, still able to hit his shots using the noise that all criminals insist on making. He can still mostly see, even a few days in. Maybe not make out features, but people are blurry and morphed shapes that approach him and he puts them down with the same accuracy as before.

It’s not long before his captain pulls him up, though. Forces him to admit the bug, and issues a new command. Sort it out.

Standing in the doorway of your clinic, hidden in his civvies, here he is. Sorting it out.

You’re in the middle of muddling around with some of your equipment, humming to yourself before you must catch sight of him. The blur of your figure jumps, as your face comes into profile. You must be intimidated by the sight of him, something that he registers with a cool type of pleasure. Even not in his uniform and clearly strapped with all of his weapons, he blocks the light coming in from your doorway. You must see the metal of his left arm, nothing human left there. The gas mask that covers half of his face, black and stark against the pale of his skin.

“Hello. How can I help?” you ask, shifting something up your forehead. It distorts ths shape of your head and he realises that they must be massive goggles. Ridiculous, he imagines you must look like the image of the crazy scientist from old stories; you probably have a lab coat on. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your reputation, known as one of the best ripperdocs in Watson, even if you are as cheap as they say.

Ripperdocs are the gray area in Night City. Criminals, yes, but the hassle of actually taking down ripperdocs is more than it’s worth. Not that Simon tends to give a fuck about the politics, or the give and take of crime vs law. He is a bullet, pointed in a direction and shot out.

“I got a bug in my system,” he says, taking another step into your clinic.

You nod, gesture for him to take a seat on your bench. Something out of a dentist’s nightmare, he imagines, but he takes a seat nonetheless. Despite lying down, everything in him is as tense as a straight line. Gaze landed and caught on you, lazy as he watches you drift around your clinic. His vision is filtering your clinic as starkly white, the outline of your light grey. You both may as well be in void, he can only see the outline of objects as they get close to him.

You swing your chair around and pick up a wire. “You cool if I take a look?” you offer, gesturing with the wire. His forearm is already tense with the instinct to catch your hand before you can plug that into the side of his neck. His metal gasmask covers the slot anyway.

A beat, in which you look back at him. He considers making it awkward, telling you no or something. Settles on nodding and watches the way you flounder for a moment when you realise you can’t reach the slot. You’re paused, flatering in the space between the two of you.

“Can you take off your mask?” you ask. Your voice is deliberately light, but he can hear the catch of annoyance underlying your tone. It makes him want to grin, wonders how you look right now, if you’re frowning at him or trying to hide it with a smile.

“No,” he tells you. A beat. You don’t move or attempt to say anything else. Stalemate, when he can’t see how you look. “There’s a catch on the side, you unlatch that to reach the slot.”

You don’t say anything else, and he’s irritated by that. Relying on noise when the other individual doesn’t want to make any noise just leaves him listeless. You reach up, click open a section of his mask and plug in. You turn away, pull what must be a tray towards yourself. You must have plugged him into your laptop, your figure hunched towards it.

You cluck your tongue, goggles shifting across your brow as you gaze at your screen. “This is a nasty one, how’d you catch this?” He decides that’s not relevant and watches you instead. You give him a quick glance, head tilting his way, but decide to shrug off his strange silence. “I’ll just be a moment while I clear it. Seems to have caught onto a lot of your neural sensors, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

His chest doesn’t puff out with pride, but it’s a close thing. You tinker away at it, finally clearing it from his system. The whites that had clouded his vision clears, and he can see you in high definition finally. Can see the pores next to your nose, the frizz around the strap of your goggles as it disappears into your hair. You’re giving him an evaluating look, your eyes intent even as the rest of your body is deliberately loose. You don’t seem to have much chrome on you, thin lines of metal around your eyes, and a scanner on your right palm. He doubts you have much more.

“There we are, good as new,” you tell him, leaning back in your chair with a pleased huff. You give him another long look, but this time he can see the widen and pinprick of your retina. He wonders how he comes up in the scan that you must’ve pulled up the second he was in your doorway. Cop, ex-army, de-commissioned, KIA but here, in the (mostly) flesh. You don’t give any of it away, just shut your laptop and unplug him.

You hadn’t asked for payment upfront, and he imagines just walking out. Wonders if you would scowl at him, if you would expect it, maybe scowl for once. Drop that calm look on your face in exchange for something a bit uglier.

There is a long beat that he draws out to see what you will do, but you only sit patiently. You turn back to your laptop, tapping away on something else now. It’s not fun if you’re not biting, he sends you what he decides must be your standard fee, watches you tilt your head to the side at the chime of money exchanged.

He doesn’t thank you, just gets up and leaves. You didn’t close the latch on the side of his mask, and he considers marching back and making you do it, but decides to save it for another day. He closes it himself for now, and fancies that he can feel the finger print that you left behind on it, evidence.

-

The first warrant he comes back with is legitimate. Cyberpyschos are going mental over the bridge, and they have a faint enough lead that shows some of the cyberware tracing back to yourself. He knocks on your door and watches your face when he presents it to you.

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

He imagines reaching over and holding his hand over the soft column of your throat. You’ve left it bare, you’d likely barely have any time to start flailing before he’d squeeze with intent and you’d drop, caught in the palm of his hand. If you can sense his thoughts, you don’t give it away, just watch him in return, blinking like a stray cat. Curious but wary.

“You know, Officer Riley, if you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to bring the official signed document,” you say, gesturing with the hologram that was on the chip he presented to you. It’s slightly flirty, but cautious, like you’re padding around an interrogation room, but you don’t know what he’s done yet.

He doesn’t say anything. You smile back, as if he had responded, and let it lie. Your eyes are sharp, he imagined he could hear the whir as you scanned each of his men as they came in, but your smile and limbs are loose, like you are unaware of everything. Your teeth are blunt, but he imagines the cut of one against the metal of his forearm.

They don’t find anything, and one of his men huffs, giving you a dirty look. You’re asked what you work as and your smile doesn’t slip. “I help those with addiction, this is a place for them to speak, to be treated,” you answer.

“Treated?” one of his men pushes, giving Simon a look. It’s a terrible lie, so bad that Simon reckons they’ll have a hard time proving it’s not true. This is a shitty area, there’s likely 3 gonks in the alleyway outside lying in the gutter, high. You’re also liked enough that they could grab a random off the street and they’d lie for you easily enough.

“Simple brain dances, meditations,” you explain, rolling your head back to give Simon another look. The smile is gone, eyes gone guileless. He squints at it, suspicious and the corner of your mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Honestly, officers, whatever it is that you’re looking for, I’m sure I would not be of any help.”

One of his men steps forward as if to grab you by the arm but Simon barks at him to step back. You haven’t looked away, but you look analysing again, like you had looked at the virus in his system. “We’re done here,” Simon announces and steps back before you can say anything else. Leaves you with your trashed clinic and his warrant on the chip he gave you.

Simon falls asleep later and dreams of you with a scalpel in your hands, and when you cut into him, there is no blood.

-

Simon sees you again, but this time you’re outside. It bristles him, seeing you standing on an open street. Your sides are bare and before he can think about it too much, he’s cut his eyes around every alleyway around you. Making sure that there is no one on the rooftops. Traffic roars past and he grits his teeth. There's been a spike in drive-by shootings, gangs nipping at each other’s heels in a show of territory.

He’s over to you before he can stop himself, a hulking mass at your back, shielding you from the view of the road. He would tell himself that he is doing his duty as an officer, but he has always been a self-interested man, and never cared much to lie to himself. 

You startle as his shadow swallows you up, turning around to blink up at him. You squint at the sight of him. “Officer,” you greet. He grunts in response, which makes you almost roll your eyes.

You turn back to the stall you were standing at, humming over some mods for sale.

The man at the stall is terrified at the introduction of Simon, pale and nodding mindlessly as you start to barter. Simon imagines if he flashes his holster then you would even get the mod for free, a thought which amuses him. You'd likely get even more annoyed, which he does want to see.

As if you can sense his thoughts, you wrap up the exchange quickly and step away, Simon following at your back. “There something you want from me, officer?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder. He stares back at you, unyielding.

He’s unsettled suddenly, imagining how often you must be outside of your clinic. He hadn’t thought of it, had only imagined you were constrained in those four walls. The door had shut behind him and he had left you there, a still picture until he would return eventually. Waiting, like a good girl, sat by the door.

“You going home?” he asks you. Tells you.

You give him another look. He wants the crack of your skull in his palms, like the clean split of a watermelon. Wants to parse through your thoughts, wants to have them before they even fully form on your own.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” you reply. He grunts, follows you until you tilt towards the side streets that lead back to your clinic. Barely any safer, but at least it’s not the open street, and he has his orders to patrol here. He watches you as you disappear around a corner. His gums itch, his tongue flexes in his mouth. He is a wild dog held back with a tattered leash, but he respects it all the same, heads back to his post, but keeps his ear tilted in the direction you went in.

-

He comes back again, and the warrant isn’t even real. He stares you down, wants you to open it, wants the reaction to his baldfaced lie. You take the chip and step aside to let him in. There’s a cut across your brow, purple bruising around it and he can’t look away from it. White in his vision again, he’s starting to suspect you’ve put another virus in his system, infecting him. He blinks and it clears, but the distrust stays like a rotting in his core.

He wants to dig his teeth into the edge of the metal in your palms and peel it up, wants the imprint of his teeth somewhere on you that you couldn’t replace with technology. He thought about you while he fucked his fist in the shower, and you had been beneath him, teary-eyed as he broke you in on his cock. He wants to fuck you until you drop that questioning look in your eye and bare your throat for him again.

“Look at the warrant,” he tells you. You smile up at him, like he is someone charming. He’s not, and he wants the reaction that he has sought out of you.

“Won’t it just say what all of them say?” you point out, leaning back against your desk. “Something that may have something to do with me, and here you are.” He stays silent, stares you down. “Do you want me to be a criminal?”

“You are one,” Simon rebuttals. That’s why he’s here. You need to be, he needs to catch you. He dreamt of chasing you down a network, jumping between wires and static until he caught your hips in his hands and crushed them. His desire for you is entwined with the dichotomy of your identities. He isn’t much interested in forcing you to become a legal law-abiding citizen, as he is pushing the two of you further into the roles that you are in.

“You know what I mean,” you add, pushing off of your desk and stepping towards him. A step away and he reaches his metal hand out, clamps your jaw in his palm. You let him, like you always seem to do, and it’s like pure heroin, lights something up in him.

“Who did this?” he asks, your chin in his palm, his thumb on your eyebrow. Right on the cut. He thinks if it was him that put it there, he might dig in a little, but he wasn’t. It’s hidden from view like this, with the edge of your eyebrow, disappeared behind his ugly, metal thumb.

“Got jumped by some asshole who thought he was hot shit,” you say, easily. The way you say everything, no pit-stop between your brain and your mouth. He wants to dig his tongue into the back of your throat and catch the words there, drink them down.

“Who?” he asks. You shrug and he shakes your jaw like a bad dog. “Who?” he repeats, tone biting. There’s a twitch in your eye at being roughhoused but you don’t step back.

You give a name, raising an eyebrow at him. He vaguely recognises it, some asshole who’s been causing trouble in Watson. Some wannabe gangbanger. He butts his head against yours, too hard to be truly affectionate before he leaves. His gas mask bumps against your cheek, leaves a red mark on your jaw from where his metal fingers dug in.

He shoots the fucker who jumped you, and dumps his body in the river. He watches it float, knowing it’ll be found. When they see the NCPD bullet extracted from his brain, he’ll be dumped back out again. Simon thinks about allowances, thinks about ropes of wire and how they snap. Rubber ripped, coil exposed.

-

He comes to see you again, this time in the middle of the night, wanting to see what you look like when you’ve just woken up. He imagines you’ll be pliant, let him shift you around as he wishes, sleep in your eye and a dream still dragging on your limbs.

You open the door and rub your eyes. Your hair is a little ruffled from your bed, blinking up at him with thick-cottoned eyes. He smiles with teeth beneath his gas mask at how awareness flickers into your eyes before you force a yawn. You’re so quick, which is why it’s always so satisfying to catch you.

“Something I can help with, officer?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Let me in,” he tells you. Demands it of you. It would be so easy to force his way in, but he likes it when you do as he tells you to.

“You got a warrant for that?” you ask, scrubbing a hand over your jaw. Eye him like he’s your patient again, like you’re finding that virus in his system and cutting it out.

“No,” he replies. Watches your expression, the subtle tick of your brow at his bold-faced honesty.

He wonders if you’ll shut the door on him. Make him peel the metal back to get in anyway. He would, he’s saved up his allowances and he plans on cashing them out on you.

You give him another long look before you step to the side and let him in. The door slides shut with a wheeze and a soft thunk.

“Is there something that you would like to say, Officer Riley,” you say, as if it’s a question but your voice doesn’t lilt at the end. He wants to catalogue every one of your reactions and keep them to himself, squirrelled away, out of the sight of anyone else. That is something beyond liking you, beyond attraction. Simon feels possessive of everything about you, like he might cave someone’s skull in if they saw too much of you.

Simon’s never been too much of a talker, he steps forward and crowds you into the desk that has all of your equipment on it. You blink up at him, perfectly still in the way that prey animals are, when they know they’re caught. The rabbit-like flutter of your heart, caught in the palm of his hand as he cups your neck. Thumb against the soft give just beneath your chin. “Simon,” he tells you, although he knows you already must know. He never told you he was Officer Riley, knows that you must have pried your way into whatever confidential information that you could find on your scan of him.

“Well, that doesn’t feel appropriate, Officer Riley,” you point out. Your calm tone is undermined by the kick of your pulse. His fingers flex, held back with a trained restraint. He likes knowing you’re afraid of him, like that you talk back to him anyway. Like watching a kitten yowl at a beast. Cute.

“Simon,” he repeats, bending his head closer to you, A hunch in his shoulders, and his face still isn’t that close to yours.

A quiet beat. “Simon,” you repeat. Your voice is flat, as if you’re trying to take the enjoyment out of it for him. He huffs with something like amusement. He gets his rocks off here, having his way in your clinic, the feel of your skin against the scar tissue of his human hand. You could be scowling or smiling, and he’d like either once he’s got his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches his other hand up and undoes his gas mask, lets it drop off and sets it on the desk next to your hip. Hoists you up, catches the kick of your leg, steps into the cradle of your thighs. “There we go,” he tells you. Your eyes have taken in the exposed section of his face. Ripped skin, some replaced by chrome, most of it left to heal as is. He knows that he is an ugly sight, a hulking, horrible man, hunched over you. He doesn’t care much what you have to say about it.

He ducks his head and looks you in the eye, even playing ground. You glare back at him and he grins with teeth. He hopes that you bite him, seals his mouth over yours. Your tongue is wet and he tilts your head back, wanting to get into your throat. You bite his tongue and he groans, his other hand pushing your hips into his. He grinds into you, huffing into your mouth. He memorises each point of your teeth, sucks your tongue into his mouth and blinks at you with half-closed eyes.

He pulls back with a wet smack, which leaves your cheeks flushed. “Show me your tits,” he tells you, hands flat on your desk, framing your hips. You don’t move, glaring up at him again. He gives you a lazy look, like you’re boring him now. If anything, the hateful look in your eye has made him even harder, if it were possible. “Now.”

“Such a dick,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama shirt and slipping it off. There’s a fine tremble in your hands before you still them with a calming breath. He was right on his first impression of you - that you barely have any chrome on you. Your skin is soft looking, no harsh metal on your torso. Restricted to the framing of metal around your eyes, your right palm. 

He smooths his metal hand up your side, watches gooseflesh and vellus hair raise in its wake. Cups one of your breasts in his cold metal palm. Almost coos at the sight of your nipple pebbling as his thumb swipes over it. Restrains himself at the last second, but gives into the urge to give you a mean pinch as retribution for your filthy mouth. You jump, a hitch in your breath. He smirks at you, hopes you can see the chip in his canine. “Behave,” he tells you, reaching for the waistband of your bottoms. Maybe once he’s drunk his fill, he can indulge the bite of your mouth, but his skin feels stretched thin over chrome and bone, and he wants what’s his and he wants it readily.

There’s a jump in your abdomen as his hand dwarves your hip, tugging your pyjama bottoms off and tosses them behind him. He spreads your thighs, peaks at the curls the cover your sex. All of the dolls in Night City are clean shaven. He likes this better, likes that you hadn’t been expecting him, and here he is anyway. He makes a mental reminder to bin all of your razors if he gets a chance.

He parts your sex with two fingers, huffing at the sight. So sweet, even with your strange looks and your filthy mouth. Sweet as sugar down here, your hole fluttering, your clit hidden under its hood like it’s shy. His hands are a cage around the span of your waist, squeezes in warning before he thuds to his knees and flattens his tongue against you. You whimper at the contact, manage to strangle the noise just barely. When he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, you yowl, thighs kicking out. He squeezes them in place over his shoulders, barely jostled.

He brings one hand down from your waist, lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting him to your clit. It’s out now, throbbing and awake. He spits on it, watches you flinch with it. Spittle drips down, sits on the slick that has gathered at your hole. He feeds you one finger, groans as he watches your flesh part for him, and feels how hot you are inside. You're tight, he can feel muscle clamp down around his index, clinging to him. “Need to relax, sweetheart, or my cock’s gonna break you,” he tells you. It almost feels like a struggle to even feed you one finger, something that leaves a strangled feeling in his chest.

“Do one,” you reply, eloquently. But you don’t kick him off you or anything, so he just gives you another look. He’s being too indulgent with you, he knows. But, it’s better to let a puppy misbehave so they know what’s not tolerated. Training for another day, he lowers his head and licks at the stretch of your pussy around his finger.

He slides his finger in and out of you, gives you another when your panting starts to hitch up, rubbing his thumb over your clit when you whine at the stretch. You start whining out swears, hips jolting forward and then back again as if you want to come, but don’t want him to give it to you.

His third finger is pushing it, he knows because you start clawing at his scalp, sharp little nails. He groans hot onto your clit, which has you shaking. You’re wet with sweat, he can see the shine of it on the curve of your belly, on the strip of skin between your tits.

He slows the pump of his fingers, idly toying your clit with his tongue. He debates if you should be allowed to come. He doesn’t want you knowing that he finds your pissy words amusing, doesn’t want to overly encourage it. However, you haven’t tried to run, or punch him or anything of that ilk. He knows that you can’t help the kick of your hind legs. He pinned you down with teeth at your throat, and he knows that you’re trying so hard to behave. Besides, sinking his cock into you is already going to be a struggle, nevermind if you aren’t loose and pliant for him.

He curls his fingers, sucks your clit, chasing your orgasm like it’s his last meal. A test in his restraint. He thinks that he wants this more than you do. Your lungs stutter, shaking as your hands cradle his head. You’re muttering to yourself, ‘please’ spilling out of you, again and again. Another mean suck and your shriek, back bowing and he feels the clench of your cunt around his fingers.

He fingers you through it, until you are almost sobbing, trying to crawl away from him, but held in place with his metal hand that has slipped to the small of your back. He gives your clit a kiss, mean and hard just to watch it throb before he gets up off his knees with a groan. He;s getting too old to be kneeling on tile like that. He’ll fuck you in a bed next time, if you’re good.

He slides his fingers out of you, unbuttons his trousers. You stare at him, vaguely out of it as you try to catch your breath. Awareness seems to slam back into you as he fishes his cock out. He’s big, he knows this, but the way your eyes widen like he’s pulled a gun on you has him chuckling to himself. “That’s not going to fit,” you tell him, tone dead.

“Enough flirting,” he tells you, catching your legs over his forearms and dragging you to the edge of your counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snark. He’s amused, watching the anger tugging at your scowl, naked beneath him, and your slick caught in the curls between your legs.

He gives the side of your thigh a firm smack, catching the jump of your body. “Watch that mouth, or I’ll put it to use,” he warns you. You glare up at him, but don’t say anything else. A shame, but he does have to have a firm hand with you.

He takes his cock and grinds it against you, parting your curls to get to the hot, wet flesh beneath. He catches the head of his cock against your clit, slicks himself up, knowing that he’ll need it if the greedy suck of your cunt around his fingers is any indication. He pulls back and lines himself up. He understands what you’re saying, the mushroom shaped head dwarves the small hole that flutters as he presses against it lightly. It’s hard to imagine fitting in there, even given that he has tried to prepare you.

You don’t seem to understand how bullheaded Simon is, though. He hasn’t chased anything that he hasn’t caught yet. A tense of his wide bicep and he starts to push into you, metal hand on the base of his cock, the other lightly rubbing your clit in circles to get you to give way.

There’s a moment where he thinks it might not happen, you’re starting to flush, face shining with sweat. Then there’s a shudder and your cunt parts, splits, sweet fruit halving and the head slips inside. You both groan, his head dropping onto your collar as he pushes further into you. You’re slick, he can feel your cunt sucking at him.

You start to whimper as he pushes further into you. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit, insistent even as if you try to cringe away from him. Shallowly thrusts, keeps pushing until you start to give way. You thump your fist against his chest, the impact bouncing off of chrome. He barely acknowledges it, and continues grinding into you.

He bottoms out, groans into your collarbone. “There we go, there we are, sweet girl,” he tells you. The muscles in your back loosen at the praise, feels tense flesh give out into his metal hand.

He pulls fully out and slams into you, and you whine, hands on his shoulders and clinging. “Simon -” you start, but he shifts both his hands onto the back of your knees and pushes them up to your shoulders. He can see the stretch of your cunt around him like this, the spread of your legs for the monstrous size of him. He feels dizzy with it, can’t stop himself from pulling almost all of the way out of you before slamming inside. His eyes almost roll back into his head, and you sob, nails digging into the flesh that he has on his back.

Your knees over his forearms, he braces his hands on your hips and he starts thrusting into you, pleasure zipping up his spine. Breathy sounds are punched out of you each time his thighs slap into yours. There’s a heat rising in him, catching and flaming.

He lifts his torso up, looks down on you. It’s like he thought, the prick of tears in the corner of your eyes, the swollen spread of your pussy around him. He drops one of your legs in favour of flattening his palm against your throat. Your pulse is fat in his palm. He catches it there, feels the ricochet into the meat of his hand.

You clench down on him and he groans, bares his teeth at you. “You like that, huh?” he asks you, flexing his fingers over the tendons of your neck. Your mouth is open, he can see the pink flash of it in your mouth. You try to shake your head but another hard thrust just sends it rocking back instead, another moan gritting through your teeth again.

He digs into you, flexes the metal in his legs to thrust into you hard and fast. Exertion is an old friend, and he takes it into his stride. He is only starting to pant a little, but you’re running hot and have been for a while.

Pleasure is molten hot at his pelvis, and each time his hips meet yours, cock kissing your cervix, his vision whites out at the sides. The virus that you must have planted in him is deteriorating in his system, leaving him almost mindless. He’s chasing you, still, even with you caught between his body and your desk. Breath like steam pouring out of his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue as he realises that you’re within reach.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. The vision of your head held up by his hand is enough to finish him off. He slams into you a few more times, groaning deep in his chest while you squeak, spills hotly in you, grinds to draw out the spark that glares in his vision until he stills.

A moment of quiet, air thick with sex and sweat. He drops his head against yours with a thunk as your skulls collide. Feels the buzz of your grunt in your throat with his hand still nestled there.

“You got a bed back there?” he asks, temple against yours.

“Not telling you,” you mutter, sounding wrung-out and gutted. He snorts, scoops you up in his arms, stepping back from your desk, holding you up. Still have a smart mouth. But, he has the patience to get that out of you. Not all of it though, but he won’t tell you that.

-

A week later, a missing report for a ripperdoc in Watson hits Simon’s desk. He shreds it, and it sounds like the chime of an allowance, cashed in.

[solbaby7]

High For This

pairing: eris x reader

warnings: jealous!eris, swearing, another overindulgent ball hosted simply for conspiratorial purposes, sexual themes, wrote this with the implication of Beron being dead, abrupt ending bc if i didn’t stop there i prolly wouldn’t stop at all, not edited

summary: Eris is a jealous man and you’re determined to see exactly how hot his fire burns for you.

—

“Excuse me?”

Your eyes roll on their own accord, hands fluffing through fresh curls as dark mascara dries on thick lashes. A tinted gloss stains full lips and Eris hates the way his lungs greedily gulp in the sensual oud permeating the air.

Everything in here smells like you and he doesn’t resist the indulgence of looking around to take in the fluffy duvet sheets neatly strewn over the mattress and the cream throw pillows tucked near your headboard. The canopy drapes are tucked to each post, the middle dripping dreamily like clouds hovering in the sky.

You’re meticulous, he notes; every item you own continent in their convenient little homes. “I said,” The tone you hold makes his jaw clench, his body visibly perturbed by your nonchalance while he felt himself slipping deeper into your pull. You barely spare him a proper glance—too occupied in looking over yourself in the floor length mirror. “I have a date so you don’t have to wait for me. We’ll meet you there.”

“A date?” Eris repeats sharply, staring at you through the mirror.

“Is there a problem with that?” You know the answer before the question is even fully spoken, a smug little smirk ghosting in the corner of your lips as you sift through your jewelry box. Rings are slid onto your fingers, gold bands and pretty emerald cut jewels glittering in the faelight. “I specifically remember you saying that you didn’t need a plus one.”

“Because,” Each syllable is drawn out, his restraint slipping as you pushed his buttons with such expertise. “—I already had one.” You read between the lines, a brow raising as you settle in the knowledge that the High Lord had expected you to hang off his arm.

“I don’t recall you asking.”

“It was implied.”

Dark kohl lines your eyes and accentuates full lashes, a pretty blush placed on the high points of your cheeks and such beauty seems lethal when you stare through the mirror. “You’ve never had an issue articulating your wants before—if you desired it bad enough, of course.”

You leave room for a response, trying desperately to mask the flicker of hope beginning to drudge to life within the embers. Centuries of waiting for Beron to no longer be an issue, no longer looming over both of your shoulders and destroying every meaningful moment.

Things were supposed to be different when he was finally dead.

Easier.

Only, Eris had grown more guarded. Terrified that showing a hint of affection would backfire as it had so many times before. He takes his time, smoothening out his tone and compulsively straightening out the neatly folded handkerchief sticking elegantly from the breast pocket of his perfectly tailored suit. “This is not up for debate, bunny. Turn your little friend away and let’s go before we’re late.”

“No.” You shove past him, clutch tucked under your arm and high heels clicking furiously against the hardwood.

It stuns him for a beat of time but he recovers far quicker and Eris all but barks out your name as he exits your door, following a few paces behind with a snarl working its way up his throat. “Get back here!”

“I am not some object that you can just command when you please.” Elegant curls bounce angrily with your every step, jewelry chiming with each little bounce down the stairs. One hand grips at the banister for balance, the tight fit of your dress forcing you to move slower than you’d like. “You do not own me.”

"You're right, bunny. I don't own you but I am your High Lord and you will stop walking this instant."

The immediate fae-like stillness of your form has Eris’ heart thumping with excitement against his ribcage. A perfect mask is painted across your features when you slowly turn on the balls of your feet to face him but nothing could ever quench the fire that burns behind your retinas. “My Lord?”

A noise is hummed low in his throat—pleased or patronizing?—you weren’t sure but judging by that leisurely stride and the special time he takes in looking you over, it has to be a mix of both. “I like that tone much better.” Eris’ hands are warm when he brushes a lock of hair away from your face, fingertips grazing against your neck with such care that you have to suppress the shiver threatening to rake up your spine.

You refused to allow him the satisfaction of knowing how his touch affected you.

Not when he was acting like such an entitled toddler.

“Wonderful,” Venom burns under every word, even if it is wrapped in a sickeningly sweet tone. “I aim to please.”

A smile bleeds its way onto his face, the faelight casting shadows over the handsome contours of his features and frustration forces your fingers to fidget when the intoxicating oud of his cologne engulfs your senses. “I’m thrilled to hear that, bunny.” Eyes narrow up at Eris as you clock that tone of voice—that devilish look burning behind amber irises. “Let’s hope all that enthusiasm helps you survive the night.”

“Funny you should say that,” The way your hand elegantly rests in the crease of his extended arm feels utterly natural, no matter how much contempt is quivering behind the movement. “It’s not me who needs to worry about surviving the night.”

—

Playing the part of the demure, doting date is a million times more difficult than you make it look. Sweet smiles and the inviting shape of your figure brings in more attention than normal—or maybe it was because of who’d been permanently fused to your side since the second you’d arrived.

Eris had never been so on guard, amber irises raking over anyone who came within a five foot radius and most of your time is spent wading the rigid line of his shoulders. “Quit it,” You snap through your teeth, concealing the bite if your words with a bright grin. “You forced me to be here with you and now you’re scaring everyone off.”

“Forced you?” He doesn’t even sound offended—just smug as he motions to your hand curled comfortably around his bicep. “Is that the narrative you’re running with tonight, bunny? How unoriginal.” The body language portrays anything but ‘forced’ and once he’s pointed it out, you’re quick to pull away, snatching your hand back and grumbling profanities under your breath.

“What else would you call it?”

Eris feigns aloofness when responding, refusing to grant you the decency of his gaze and your spine goes ramrod straight when his words sink in. “I’d say it’s no different than when any of the other High Lords attend with their plus ones—though it seems theirs are more well behaved.”

“I’m not some hound who submits to your every command, Eris Vanserra.” Hurt lingers in the words you spit out just loud enough for him to hear. “What the other High Lords have are wives, partners—mates. They’re not cowards; wanting someone and stringing them along.” Tears well in your waterline, grip shaky around the flute of champagne until you abandon it altogether. “You’re wasting my time and I have little patience left to offer.”

You’re forced to walk away before the dam breaks, refusing to wear your heart on your sleeve for it never worked well before. Makes you too vulnerable; too tethered to a male too afraid to return the sentiment.

Balcony doors creak under your touch, opening just enough for you to slip through and close it behind you. For once, you’re grateful for the solitude. Basking in the cool breeze and the comforting smell of fresh flora, you let your eyes slip closed, a single tear falling free and your back bows as you sag against iron railings.

Just a single moment of weakness.

And it’s completely shattered by another presence.

“Want me to kill ‘em?”

You snap up like a spring, neck nearly snapping with the force it takes to turn so quickly. Palms wipe at your cheeks, straightening out the fabrics of your dress. “Sorry,” You quickly flush the moment realization sinks in, eyes taking in the towering Illyrian standing just a few feet away. His hair held in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, burly form slouched in a lounge chair, wings stretched high behind him. “I thought I was alone out here.”

“Looking how you do, I doubt you’re ever really alone.”

You scoff, this hateful, bark of a noise that refuses to be tampered down or subdued. “Not everyone shares your sentiment.”

“Date ditch you?”

“A girl could only dream. No, my ‘date’ is spending his time being a grade A douchebag—needed fresh air before I did something stupid.”

He hums in acknowledgment, a chilled glass of amber liquor dripping condensation down the thick stretch of his forearm. His head cocks to the side when he looks you up and down, making note of that forlorn expression casting shadows across pretty features. “Want to make him jealous?”

You should be ashamed for how abruptly the notion piques your interest. For how quickly satisfaction settles within your bloodstream at the thought of Eris watching you waltz around with this brick wall of a male and his effortless presence. “What’s in it for you?”

“Pretty thing on my arm is prize enough, even if it is just for show.”

There’s a pause where the Illyrian can literally see the gears turning in your head. Outweighing the risks. Mulling over potential consequences.

He can tangibly grasp the exact moment you shove all that aside—too scorned to give a shit about retribution. Too much time had gone into getting ready to waste it all on a male too prideful to cherish the gift wrapped before him. You head nods with finality, one hand outstretched before him. “It’s a deal.”

His hand is warm against your own, significantly larger and riddled with callouses. Tattoos the shade of obsidian is etched into tawny skin, arms rippling with muscles that bulge against the tight fit of formal leather attire. “I’m Cassian.”

“I know who you are.” Hesitation lingers in the set of your shoulders, spine not fully lax though Cassian doubts that’s fully possible with the skyscraper for heels adorning your feet. “Do you know who I am?”

His grin only grows when he stands at full attention, so tall your neck cranes just to meet his eye. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Ice clinks against his glass as he offers it to you, lifting the rim to your lips and muttering a soft praise when you drink obediently. “There’s a girl. Drink up, you’ll need the liquid courage.”

Liquid courage. Makes sense when it burns on the way down, easing frazzled nerves and a short temper until your arm slips in the crease of Cass’ elbow like it was a regular occurrence.

He’s confident. Borderline cocky with the way he urges you closer, hips bumping into one another with each step. The closeness does the trick though, a smoldering set of sandy eyes fall on you the moment you’re thrusted back into the fray. “Chin up,” Cassian murmurs softly, lips barely even moving over the words.

You’re led to the dance floor, situated smack dab in the middle. It’s a spectacle but something tells you that’s the whole point when Cassian circles a hand around your waist. The other reaches for your free hand, easing your fingers against his own until you’re palm to palm. “Do you even know how to dance? I don’t recall that being apart of Illyrian curriculum.”

It’s a harmless tease—the jab earning you a laugh so organic that it shows both rows of shiny teeth and a pantydropping set of dimples in his cheeks. “Pretty and funny. You really should consider not being so charming, I have an awful habit of hoarding treasures like you.”

Your head dips, a blush growing along the apples of your cheeks that only grows when Cassian is emboldened, ushering you in closer until you run the risk of stepping all over his toes. If he cares, you can’t tell, too washed up in the feeling of being shown off—proudly at that. “I appreciate you doing this for me. Even if it doesn’t work.”

“Trust me,” Cassian drawls, his gaze far off as he focuses on something behind you. “It’s working.”

He doesn’t elaborate, though he doesn’t really have to when you pick up on a familiar step pattern. Nose catching the earthy scent of spicy cinnamon and nutmeg. Of pine trees and bonfire smoke. “Bunny,” Eris fixates on the Illyrian’s hold on you, the corded muscle in his jaw jumping with the effort it takes to restrain himself from burning Cassian’s hands to a crisp. “Mind if I cut in?”

“This dance is nearly done.”

“And you’ll be finishing it with me.” It’s sick how desire pools in your belly at the possessive tone. How pleased you feel with yourself when Eris all but pries you away from Cass and into his own arms. You barely have enough time to say thank you to the Night Courts General before the eldest Vanserra has whisked you far, far away from those giant wings and the enigmatic wearer of them. “Where’d you run off too? I was worried.”

“Worried about what? That someone else was cherishing what you neglect?” You hum to yourself at the raw guilt that screws up the handsome pout of his mouth. “What’s that saying? One males trash…”

“You aren’t trash. You know I don’t think of you as trash.”

“No, you just treat me like it.” The chattering of guests drowns out your words from prying ears. “Hiding me at the bottom of the bin like you’re ashamed of me or something.”

You’re working yourself up again. Overthinking. Self-depreciating. Resenting. Digging a hole with no means of pulling yourself out but Eris halts that train of thinking with a hand to your jaw. The grip is gentle but firm, guiding you to look him in the eye; insisting you see the seriousness that swirls in the copper tones of his iris. “You are everything to me,” His confession stops you in your tracks. Steals your breath away at you hang onto every constant and vowel like a lifeline. “I wake up everyday just so I can see your face and I lay my head down every night praying that it’s filled with dreams of you—of us. Everything I do, anything I’ve ever done is to ensure your happiness. Your safety.”

“Eris..”

“No, listen to me.” Both hands cup your cheeks, all space eaten up until each breath he exhales in the air you inhale. Two halves of a whole slowly sliding into place. The final pieces of a puzzle connecting as one to fulfill the bigger picture. “You are mine.” Thumbs brush over the curve of your cheekbones, tracing at the slope of your nose and memorizing the shine of your lips. “My woman,” Tenderness leaks from every syllable, sincerity bleeding from every pore until you’re unable to fight back the rushing currents of your tears. “My love, my mate and while I can never promise to be a perfect male, I can vow that I am thoroughly vested in all things categorized as your best interest.”

“If I’d have known dancing with another male was all it took for such a confession, I’d have done so long ago.”A breathless laugh emits, one that softens the stern line of his brow and eases the fear his father engraved in his soul.

Noses brush, lashes kissing until your lips meet his own and all of your doubt is washed away. “I love you.”

“All I’ll ever love is you.”

[tedsies]

i caved and bought the legacy collection out of curiosity

i bought it on steam by the way, no way am I going anywhere near the ea app

random thoughts as i go along:

game loaded up straight away with no issues (what a strange feeling)

got into pleasantview within 2 minutes (obvs I have no cc installed right now so its gonna be faster anyway)

a bit of a jumpscare to see the game again without reshade ngl

straight into the lothario household. don you look... different without all my defaults

screen resolution defaulted to the right size without me having to change anything by the way, which was nice

turned up all the graphics setting to max and going to visit the goth household as that always gives me lag, even vanilla

this experience is already making me realise I need to cut down my 12gb downloads folder, cos man this is so smooth and fast without all of that in my game

well everything is working perfectly straight out of the box. had no issues with multiple sims on the big goth lot

going to quit and load up again with my ui mods and defaults next (along with hugelunatic's ikea pack as cc)

legacy collection has an entirely different file path by the way, so won't mess with existing ultimate collection installs (i wouldn't have dared to do this otherwise)

okay all my defaults, ui mods and some others are now in (downloads folder is up to 3.64gb now) and everything is working fine still

ikea items as cc don't seem to be fully appearing in the catalog though? that might be a me problem but i dont know

adding in all my cas cc now, along with hood defaults and hood deco cc (downloads folder is up to 6.5gb now). i'm also adding in anything else I can think of like camera mods, user startup cheat etc etc

getting into pleasantview in less than 2 mins still

heading into cas for the first time now...

... and it loaded up within 10 seconds even with ALL of my cas cc? and this is the first time too so I would've expected major lag. normally cas takes about 60 seconds to load in my game

update on the ikea pack as cc... the build items are definitely there, but not the buy for some reason?

biting the bullet and adding in the remaining 6gb of my 12gb downloads folder

all of my cc is now in the game and loading times were about 30 seconds longer than before. still no issues

took darren dreamer to a community lot and there were no crashes/issues/lag. normally going to a community lot is very dangerous for me cos its where I get the most crashes or issues, its why all my community lots are incredibly small lot sizes

also I have the hood deco view set to extra large... normally I have to have it set to extra small just to play in a small household

i dont think I'm being delulu here to say things are running better

next up is adding in all of my mods, then after that I might dare putting in my mega populated uberhood save, and try reshade?

another ikea update: everything is showing up now. it was me being an idiot

so all of my mods are now also in (so my entire downloads folder now) and i haven't been able to trigger any crashes or pink soup yet through normal gameplay? even with extra large hood view from lots

reshade keeps crashing my game on startup... damn, what am I doing wrong

RESHADE IS NOW WORKING (ver 6.1.1)! thanks to this guide

I finally added in my uberhood save (which is packed with hood deco and and has 35 playable families).... and it's working! I also played with a household for a bit and everything was working fine

final update before I go to bed (as its gone midnight here lol)

i now have all of my mods, cc, saves, and reshade installed, and I've yet to have any pink soup or crashes (apart from the crashes when I was *incorrectly* trying to install reshade). honestly... i'm surprised. i dont want to speak too soon obviously, but things seem better. i was just playing in a household with extra large lot view on and that would usually IMMEDIATELY crash my game, but nothing happened. tomorrow i'll actually play for an extended period of time, so i'll be able to tell more for sure then.

i hope this has been helpful to at least a couple of people, and i'll leave with you a shot of my pleasantview newly loaded up in the legacy collection 😅

[meazalykov]

car girl

jill roord x reader

the dutch needs her car fixed, and luckily she found the perfect person to do it for her

warnings: there might be incorrect information about cars on here, since I am not a mechanic. I had to do some research for this one <3

the air smells of oil and warm rubber, the scent of your garage always lingering on your skin no matter how many showers you take. 

the radio hums in the background, some soft rock playing through the speakers as you apply a smooth layer of tint onto a customer’s car windows, your movements precise and careful. 

your blue levi overalls are already stained with grease from an earlier job, but you do not care. it is part of the work, part of who you are. its come with the job i guess.   

your hair is tied up in a sleek ponytail, keeping it out of your face as you concentrate. your hands, skilled and steady, press the tint firmly onto the glass, smoothing out any bubbles with practiced ease. 

just as you are finishing up, the sound of a car pulling into the lot catches your attention. you glance up, wiping your hands on a rag, and immediately recognize the blue-gray mercedes. 

vivianne.  

she steps out of the driver’s seat, stretching slightly before shutting the door. the footballer’s blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she is dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans. 

it is not vivianne who captures your attention…it is the brunette stepping out of the passenger seat.  

she is tall, with piercing eyes that sweep over your garage like she is taking it all in. the woman’s posture is relaxed but confident, and she carries herself with the kind of ease that tells you she knows she is attractive. this could be a good or a bad thing but you do not know yet.

your eyes briefly drop to her toned arms, the way her fitted top clings to her, before you look away.  

vivianne smirks, immediately picking up on where your attention went.  

“y/n,” she calls, walking over. 

“this is jill.”  

you wipe your hands on your overalls again before offering jill a nod. 

“nice to meet you.”  

jill’s lips curve into a smirk. 

“i’ve heard about you,” she says, voice smooth. 

“didn’t expect you to be this—” she pauses, her eyes dragging over you shamelessly, “—fine.”  

vivianne groans. 

“jill, for fuck’s sake!”  

you let out a small chuckle, raising an eyebrow. 

“this how you always introduce yourself?”  

“only when the person is worth it.” jill grins.  

vivianne rolls her eyes. 

“anyway, we came here to you because jill’s got some issues with her car. i figured i’d bring her to the best.”  

you tilt your head, glancing toward the sleek black audi parked next to vivianne’s car. 

“what’s the issue?”  

“been overheating like crazy,” jill says. 

“i barely made it to training yesterday without it acting up.”  

you nod, already suspecting the problem. 

“bring it into the garage. i’ll take a look.”  

jill drives it in while you grab your tools, pulling on a pair of gloves before popping the hood open. steam hisses out, confirming your suspicions. vivianne and jill stand off to the side, watching as you move with confidence, checking each component. 

jill’s eyes never leave you.  

“it’s your radiator,” you finally say, pulling off your gloves. 

“it’s in bad shape. you’ll need a replacement.”  

jill sighs, running a hand through her hair. 

“great. how long’s that gonna take?”  

“a few hours,” you answer. 

“depends on how cooperative your car wants to be.”  

vivianne groans dramatically. 

“i was hoping we could go somewhere.”  

“you still can,” you tell her. 

“i’ve got this.”  

jill smirks. 

“you sure? wouldn’t want to leave you here all alone.”  

you huff a laugh, shaking your head. 

“i’ll be fine. go grab some food or something.”  

vivianne and jill exchange a look before jill shrugs. 

“guess we’ll be back later, then.”  

as they leave, jill casts one last glance over her shoulder, her smirk widening when she catches you looking. you shake your head, turning back to the car, but you cannot help the small smile that tugs at your lips. 

a few hours later, just as you are tightening the last bolt, the sound of footsteps echoes through the garage. you glance up, expecting to see vivianne and jill together, but it is just jill.  

“viv went home,” the dutch woman says, leaning against the nearby tool bench. 

“said she was tired. figured i’d come pick up my car myself.”  

“convenient,” you muse, wiping your hands again.  

jill grins. 

“very.”  

you pull off your gloves, tossing them onto the workbench. 

“your car’s good to go. radiator’s replaced, and i checked your coolant levels too. shouldn’t give you any more trouble.”  

jill nods, taking out her wallet. she pays without hesitation, but instead of just handing you the money, she also slides a small card across the counter.  

you pick it up, frowning slightly. 

“what’s this?”  

“my number,” jill says simply.  

you blink, glancing at the card, then back at her. 

“you need me to check your car again or…?”  

jill laughs, shaking her head. 

“no. i want you to take me out.”  

your eyebrows shoot up. 

“oh.”  

“yeah,” she continues, crossing her arms. 

“figured since you’re single and all, i should take my chance.”  

you huff a small laugh, shaking your head. 

“oh my days…vivianne told you, huh?”  

“yup.”  

you exhale, staring at the card for a moment before slipping it into your pocket. 

“alright, jill.” you meet her gaze, a smirk playing on your lips. 

“guess i’ll be seeing you soon.”  

jill grins. 

“can’t wait.”  

with that, she gets into her car, starts the engine, and pulls out of the garage.

you let out a breath, running a hand through your hair as you watch her leave. 

maybe working late was not such a bad thing after all.

masterlist

[bomber-grl]

— Robin is Totally Cooler

Pairing(s): Damian Wayne x Gn!Red Hood Fan!Reader

Word Count: 1456

-

You and Damian were lounging around after school. It was one of the rare chances you got to hang out at Wayne Manor and spend time with him. You were sprawled out on the floor near a beanbag in his room, and he was on his bed, chilling with Titus. You were scrolling through your phone absentmindedly, while Damian worked on some school assignments in the background.

It was nice—quiet. You didn't always need to be talking to enjoy each other's company. But then, as you were mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, you stumbled upon an edit of Red Hood. You were, without a doubt, one of Red Hood’s biggest fans. You couldn’t lie, the guy was definitely hot—even with that mask (maybe especially with it). There was something about him that was just... Well, y’know. And, of course, you couldn’t ignore how, despite his connection to Batman and the Batfamily, Red Hood always seemed to be working on his own terms. He definitely had a different way of fighting crime, and there was something so intriguing about that.

Damian seemed to notice the audio looping on your phone, and after a second, he sat up, prompting Titus to leave the room (sadly). "Let me guess," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "An edit of your latest celebrity crush?"

He raised an eyebrow, already knowing the answer. It wasn’t like he didn’t know you well enough at this point to predict what you were up to. To be fair, Damian didn’t really care about your celebrity or fictional crushes. He was used to you being... Well, you.

You laughed awkwardly and nodded, showing him the screen. The video was a montage of Red Hood clips, ranging from news footage to civilian-captured videos of him taking down bad guys with his signature ruthless style. As soon as Damian saw the screen, though, his face immediately dropped—and you weren’t exaggerating when you thought it soured so much, it was like you’d just mentioned his worst enemy.

“Really?” Damian’s tone was sharp, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the screen. “Him? Of all the—” He cut himself off with a frustrated sigh, clearly trying to hold back his irritation.

You raised an eyebrow, a little confused by his reaction. “What’s wrong with Red Hood? He’s amazing” You grinned, scrolling through more clips, shamelessly gushing about how cool and badass Red Hood was.

Damian scoffed and threw himself back onto his bed, arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face. “He’s reckless. Uncontrolled. And he’s basically a criminal, for God’s sake.”

You shrugged, still not seeing the issue. “He’s just—he’s different. I mean, who else is out there giving Gotham the middle finger and still getting the job done? He’s like... a darker Batman. That’s so cool.”

Damian, clearly bothered by the way you were swooning over his older brother, gritted his teeth. “Robin is cooler. He’s disciplined, strategic. And he doesn’t go around causing chaos like Red Hood.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Are you… Are you a Robin fanboy or something?” You couldn’t help the teasing tone that slipped into your voice.

Damian flushed, but it was hard to tell if it was out of annoyance or embarrassment. He scoffed, turning away from you. “I’m not a fanboy. I’m just saying Robin is superior. His methods are better. More effective.”

Before you could respond with something snarky, there was a knock on the door. “Dinner time!” Duke’s voice filtered in from the hallway.

You sighed and set your phone aside, standing up. “Guess we can argue about this later.” You shot Damian a playful smile, then made your way down the hallway to the dining room, your heart still racing from your silly teasing.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was warm, and the table was full. Tim, Dick, Jason, and Stephanie were all gathered around, chatting and eating. Damian followed you in, still sulking a little, and sat down, glaring daggers at anyone who looked at him. Very much leaving everyone confused.

It wasn’t long before you casually brought up the subject again. “So, Damian hates Red Hood. Isn’t that weird? I mean, the guy’s a huge badass, and he can’t stand him.”

Duke, who was sitting next to you, raised an eyebrow. “Why does he hate him so much?”

You smirked. “Because he’s jealous,” you teased, leaning into the statement. “He knows I love Red Hood. You know, I think it’s funny that he gets all jealous about it.”

Tim almost choked on his food as he tried not to laugh, his face turning red. Dick just looked at Damian with an amused smile. Even Jason seemed to lean into the whole thing. “I mean, Red Hood is way cooler than Robin anyway,” Jason said with a smirk as if the words were the most natural thing in the world.

Damian’s face turned into a perfect storm cloud, eyes rolling back as he muttered under his breath. “Ridiculous.”

“Hey,” Jason said, leaning forward. “I’m just saying, Red Hood’s got the whole ‘gritty anti-hero’ vibe going on. The whole ‘I don’t follow rules, I make my own’ thing? Much cooler than Robin’s boy scout routine.”

Damian let out a loud exhale, slouching in his chair as if the conversation was physically exhausting him. “You’re all insufferable.”

Dinner carried on, but the teasing didn’t stop. It was all in good fun, and it made the meal more entertaining for everyone else—except, of course, Damian, who barely touched his food. You were pretty sure he was planning out a murder plan for everyone there.

-

A few weeks later, things hadn’t changed much. You were on your way to school with Damian, and Alfred behind the wheel of the car, driving through the streets of Gotham. Damian had been going off for what felt like hours about how "unusual" you were for being so obsessed with Red Hood.

“Do you even know how many teens have crushes on Robin?” he asked, voice dripping with frustration as he stared out the window. “Why can’t you be normal and like him?”

You turned to him with an innocent look. “I mean, I do think Robin’s cool, but Red Hood? Way more interesting. You know, with the whole redemption arc and the fact that he’s just—” You shrugged. “I dunno, cooler?”

Damian looked like he was about to say something, but Alfred chuckled softly from the front. “Master Damian, I don’t believe normal is quite in your vocabulary, is it?” His voice was playful, though he clearly wasn’t trying to get involved in the sibling squabble.

Damian shot a glare at Alfred, but the older man just smiled and mindfully kept his eyes on the road.

You couldn’t resist the urge to tease him a little more. “Besides, I’m way more into Red Hood than Robin. I’d never choose between you and Red Hood, though. I mean, we both know who I’d choose.” You gave Damian a nudge, knowing it would get under his skin.

-

Later that afternoon, you found yourself back at Wayne Manor, idly chatting with Duke while Damian was nowhere to be found. You made your way up the stairs and just as you stepped into his room, the door slammed closed with Damian standing in front of you, wearing Robins's signature hood and mask.

You blinked, a little confused. “Uh... what’s going on?”

Damian froze, caught off guard for a split second before the mask came off, revealing the smirk on his face. “Surprised?”

It only took you a moment before the realization hit you like a freight train. “Wait... are you—” You gestured at his outfit, the familiarity of it dawning on you.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but you interrupted him with a smile. “Robin?”

Damian’s face twisted into a slightly amused but still annoyed expression. “Obviously.”

You were silent for a moment, your brain catching up. “So... Robin is you?”

Damian just stared at you, his expression unreadable for a split second before he sighed. “Yes. But don’t get too excited. I'm the coolest, I know.”

You blinked and smirked. “Well, well. I still like Red Hood better, though.”

Damian groaned in frustration, but you added quickly, “But I like you more than him.”

Damian seemed flustered for just a moment before he huffed. “You’re impossible.”

And, despite all the teasing and arguments, you couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe Damian had a bit more in common with Red Hood than he was willing to admit after all.

-

Word spread quickly about Damian’s jealousy pushing him to reveal his secret identity to you, and before long, he became the target of relentless teasing. Even Bruce couldn't help but give him a few scolds for being so reckless.

[imoncloud7]

love

sunarin x fem! reader note: short rushed drabble-y thing i wrote while procrastinating homework. this is so self indulgent lol #freeme #ihateschool wc; 485

you could feel your boyfriend’s glare behind your back, staring at you from his place in your bed. choosing to ignore him, you turned on the noise canceling setting on your headphones as you scribbled furiously in your notebook. his sharp gaze soon became too much, causing you to finally take off your headphones and turn around to meet his eyes.

“what is it now?” 

he kept his silence, still staring straight through your soul. you sighed, and then turned back around to continue working on your homework. as you were sliding your headphones back on, he shot up and grabbed them off your head. 

“what the fuck rin? give it back!” 

“no, not until you close your damn notebook and come to bed.” so that’s what it was about.

“it’s due at 11:59, i need to finish it.” you fired back. 

“11:59 when?” 

“...sunday.” you admitted, looking back down at your notebook. he snatched it from you, simultaneously shutting your laptop as well. you sighed, and got up from your desk chair for the first time in hours. 

suna was by no means a star student, giving just enough effort to get by since high school, those habits continuing through now, as a university student. unfortunately for you, you were conditioned to get ahead with schoolwork, especially now with your major being one of the more difficult ones in stem. you two had met through a mutual friend, osamu miya, who you had tutored first semester freshman year when you were both in the same chemistry class. he had dragged suna to one of your tutoring sessions, as he was sick and tired of hearing him complain about his “terrible” calculus professor and how boring the class was. 

that changed real quick for him, now that you both were in the same lecture. he was a lot more motivated to come to class, and not because he was intrigued by derivatives. he would spend most of the hour observing you as you took notes, periodically showing you some stupid post on his instagram explore page, or random photos from his camera roll. one thing he could conclude for certain; you were the prettiest girl he had ever been blessed to cross paths with. 

you both were not ones for dating, never really having been in a serious relationship before, but suna could’ve sworn he was in love after a mere two weeks of knowing you. things moved pretty quickly after that, and you two didn’t have many issues in your relationship. other than the current predicament you were in. 

“babe, that is 5 days away. it is 11:23 pm. it is time for bed.” he wrapped his arms around your torso guiding you towards the bed. 

“rin i really wanted to get it done tonight.” 

“too bad, i’m tired and i can’t sleep without you.”

“that’s called codependence.”

“it’s called love.”

[awyeahitssam]

Travelling back in time is an accident. Harry isn't going to waste it.

Harry glances at the calendar and grimaces. He can't go to Knockturn today. Hogwarts just let out for Summer holidays, and he's already decided to avoid the alleys until school term starts. Just in case... well. Just in case.

He never thought there would come a day that he missed Voldemort's soul pressing alongside his own, but it would make things simpler. If he could peer into Voldemort's mind, he wouldn't have to go about things the old fashioned way. As it is, one of his spies is twenty minutes late, and he can't snatch him from work on the off chance that children are wondering around places they shouldn't be.

Burke's still alive, at least. Harry would feel his death.

It does nothing for his current situation. There will be an attack today. 3 July, 1973 was significant. The day Voldemort's attacks went from targeting the Knights of Walpurgis' political opponents to involving the public.

He just can't remember where.

He knows this. He knows he does. But the time magic takes knowledge, seemingly at random, until he's left with bits of the puzzle. Harry knows Voldemort's broken his soul into pieces, but he no longer remembers what those pieces are called. He doesn't know what they're contained in, either, except one: Slytherin's locket.

Harry really needs to get a move on with this whole defeating Voldemort early thing before he forgets who he is. Forgets why he needs to.

He takes a deep breath. There's nothing for it. Diagon and Hogsmeade are the most obvious places to stage a first attack. Diagon is the more dramatic option, though Hogsmeade would strike fear, especially just a day after the children have left the station. Which one...

Fuck. He's got no time for guessing games, for hoping he knows Voldemort well enough to predict him. The Voldemort of this time is more politically minded than the one Harry defeated, and he's losing information by the day. Who knows how much he's forgotten about his Voldemort.

He needs Burke. He needs the bloody information.

Snape would be home, wouldn't he? His mother's still alive. There was no chance Lily Evans would be sulking about Knockturn. And the Marauders? No...

It should be safe enough.

It's a risk. If he sees one of them, he's going to screw up spectacularly. He has to steer clear.

Too bad he's still got a saving people thing.

He twists through the wards and lands at the apparition point. A moment later, the screaming starts.

Turns out he doesn't need his spy for this after all.

He runs towards the shouts, wand at the ready.

He puts it to good use.

"Evans?" Charlus calls out. "Is that you?"

Harry grimaces and keeps walking. Ever since he saved Charlus's baby brother in the Dark sects first Diagon Alley attack, Charlus Potter has been dogging his steps. The very last thing he wants is the be associated with this family. He already only manages to avoid being labeled a Potter by virtue of using the Sleekeazy's hair potions to settle the characteristic chaos of his hair.

If anyone can recognise its use, it is the inventor. Charlus dared to call him "cousin," before Harry sharply corrected him. He hasn't tried since, but he still has that gleam in his eyes. That set to his jaw.

The famous Potter stubbornness. Harry would be warmed by the fact that it exists outside of himself (and he is, truly, because even if he will never claim them as such, he has family here), but it's causing issues.

"Is that him, darling?" Another voice rings out, clear and lovely. Harry keeps moving along, heedless.

"Yes love, that's our errant Potter-"

Harry spins with a snarl. "I told you," he says, stepping forward to stab his wand into Charlus' chest, the threat bald, "my name is Evans. I want nothing to do with you or your family. I'm a muggleborn, for Merlin's sake."

The woman beside Charlus looks at Harry with wide grey eyes. Aside from their shade, she looks a great deal like Bellatrix LeStrange one day will. Her hair is carefully controlled, brown rather than black, and she's dressed conservatively, as is appropriate for the time period, but. She's certainly a Black.

"Are you quite sure he's yours, darling?" she near-purrs, meeting Harry's burning gaze with a fire of her own. Like recognises like. Black madness sparks in them both.

It has to be Dorea Black. Her arm is linked with Charlus', and she calls him darling. His grandmother.

He turns on his heel and flees.

Pretends the lump in his throat is from fear instead of longing.

Voldemort's yew wand twirls through his fingers as he considers the man on his knees.

Octavian Nott has always been reliable, yet...

"Are you the only one alive?"

Nott's shoulders draw tight.

"No, Vo-" Voldemort presses his magic around the proud little pureblood who dares think to say his name after he's failed. As if he's earned the privilege. "My Lord."

"And where are the others, Octavian?"

"I don't know, My Lord," Nott tells the ground. It's clear from his inflection that his teeth are gritted.

"Oh?"

"The... the vigilante put something around each of their necks. Portkeys. He said the activation phrase when I was the only one left. They... vanished."

Voldemort's methodical movements pause. The mysterious new player on the board has kidnapped his soldiers?

Well. It was an effective tactic, to be sure, but why not simply kill them? Was it weakness, or strategy?

He couldn't help but assume it was the latter. The man - and he was that from the many memory's Voldemort's stolen, though he remains cloaked - was always a move ahead. He met Voldemort's attacks each time.

It was exhilarating. Infuriating, too. The only way his every move could be so neatly countered was a spy. Yet even after he began limiting plans to his Inner Circle, the Knights, this man still knew what he would do...

"What else?" he presses, impatience growing.

"He knocked out five men with a single stunner. It... it seemed to split, my Lord, midcast. And..."

Nott truly is testing his leniency tonight. "You will not like what happens if I have need to prompt you again, Octavian."

A shudder. How positively plebian. "I apologise, My Lord. I simply do not wish to give you incorrect information."

"It just... sounded as though the portkey passphrase was in parseltongue."

Voldemort stares down at his head. Nott's been with him for a very long time. He knows what parseltongue sounds like.

Still, Voldemort must be sure.

"Look at me."

The man does speak parseltongue.

The words "fuck you" spill prettily past concealed lips.

Voldemort obsesses.

The more he learns, the more his fascination grows.

The man performs feats of magic that surprise and delight. Simple things, weaponised. Magical control the likes of which Voldemort has rarely sought to achieve. From fiendfyre, yes, but basic spellwork...

He tries to split a stunning spell. He can still only manage three branches, and they're difficult to aim.

Voldemort keeps trying.

Keeps hunting, too.

The first time he meets him on a battlefield, Voldemort shreds the spell that normally hides his vigilante. The haze cloaking features fractures.

His eyes are unforgivably green. Voldemort almost wishes he would cast the killing curse, just to see how the shade compares side by side.

Victory. He hadn't even had to fight for the other's identity. He tells himself it isn't a disappointment. He can feel the magic this man radiates. Lord Voldemort does not need to be convinced he isn't weak.

He dips his head politely, never letting his eyes stray from that brilliant shade. "Lord Voldemort," he introduces.

One beat.

Two.

Manners, he thinks mildly.

"Harry Evans," his opponent rasps out. It sounds like he hasn't talked to anybody in some time. Voldemort notes the name. Muggleborn, perhaps? Or a half-blood, like him?

Voldemort is hungry to know more. He licks his lips. Bright eyes dart to the motion, then rise back to meet his. A silly mistake. Voldemort tears into his mind.

Or, he tries to.

Blankness meets him. Not fog. Not a wall. Nothingness.

After some heavy-handed prodding, Voldemort pulls back before he is lost in the abyss.

An occlumens as well, then.

He ducks a blasting curse shot at his head.

Time to play.

Thing is, as much as Voldemort likes to play with his food, he's always been a thief at heart.

He wants to steal this man - this Harry Evans - more than he wants to break him.

He leaves with wounds his healer must tend to. They require dittany not to scar. He accepts it for the two large, arched marks. The small one, though - a knife wound, of all things - he keeps. He can rid himself of it later.

For now, though, he has something to press when he thinks of Harry.

Besides, he's not the only one to have left with marks. If Harry is smart, he will bear his well. If not... well, Lord Voldemort is generous. He can always give him more.

His men have standing orders to flee when they see him. He's still down seventeen fighters, stolen by Harry. The next time they dare to linger, he gets three more.

It's annoying to have his pawns taken. Especially because he does not know why.

Harry could ransom them to their rich families. Could try and use them as leverage over Voldemort. Could even just kill them: but he doesn't. Voldemort can tell that much from the Dark Mark. The fact he can't communicate with them or plot their locations is interesting. Unsettling, too. The magic of his mark, circumvented.

It's been a long time since he has gotten stuck on a puzzle.

He thrills at the challenge.

He next sees Harry in his human skin. The other is in Knockturn, just coming out of a shop.

How rare. He's not often spotted in public unless he's dismantling Voldemort's plans.

"Hello," he greets politely. Those green eyes slant over to him, then catch. Like he recognises Lord Voldemort even in this pitiful mask. A part of him delights at the notion, even as he double checks his magic. It remains tucked tight to his body.

"Hello," Harry breathes back.

Voldemort barely suppresses a frown. Is the other attracted to him like this? A pity. He wouldn't think Harry one to fall for a pretty face.

Still, it could prove useful... imagine what information he could pull on a date...

Green eyes trace his features intently. Voldemort is no longer used to being examined in such a way. And then-

Then Harry's magic lashes out at him without the aid of a wand, and the glamour is ripped from Voldemort's skin. He hisses in discomfort at the sensation, taking a step forward and pressing long nails to Harry's throat.

Fingers catch around his wrist before he can make contact. Somehow, Harry is strong enough to hold him in place. Strengthening rituals rendered void. Just what was this man?

The hold does nothing to stop Voldemort from stepping into him. From leaning close to his ear once they're chest to chest and hissing, low in threat, "That was rude, Harry."

The chest pressed to his moves. A laugh trembles out of Harry's throat. He sounds a touch mad. Just look what Voldemort's reduced him to...

"Sorry," he lies. "Were you doing some shopping?"

"No."

Harry hums, disbelieving. Voldemort licks his lips and stares at the neck his fingers have been denied. He wonders how much blood he can draw with a bite before Harry manages to escape.

Harry has a habit of vanishing all the marks he gives him. Such an ungrateful creature.

If given half a chance, Voldemort will bite a collar around his throat.

Harry can't breathe.

He doesn't know how it's come to this. He doesn't understand.

Voldemort's mouth is hot and urgent against his. Nails dig into his hip and back. One of Harry's hands is angling Voldemort's chin.

Voldemort lets him. Tips into his touch. Darts a tongue out to taste him.

He shivers.

Isn't he meant to be destroying Voldemort?

A wicked thought catches in his mind.

Can I destroy Voldemort like this?

Long, powerful fingers trace a burning path up his thigh.

Undo him with my touch?

He takes Voldemort in hand.

Unmake him with my mouth?

Slots teeth against his neck when Voldemort jerks. Scrapes them down when the Dark Lord shudders.

Well. It's not a plan he's thought up, before, but-

It's worth a try, isn't it?

au where auror harry potter ends up in the marauders time period, right by the beginning of voldemort’s rise.

harry potter who avoids hogwarts by all means (the memories are too painful) and instead tries to take down voldemort and his death eaters by himself.

harry who drops his last name in favor of the common muggle last name “evans” to completely separate any ties to the potters (for their sakes.)

harry evans who keeps his distance from his mom, the marauders, and snape because he knows if he sees them he’s going to ruin something.

instead, harry evans catches the attention of the potter family (who is convinced he is a long lost heir), the blacks (who start to suspect he is a new up and coming darm lord), dumbledore (who believes the same), and the dark lord himself (who is intrigued by this mysteriously strong man thwarting his every move.)

i timetravelled to when my parents were still kids to destroy the dark lord but i became his lover instead!?

[cherry-romper]

Flirting Headcannons

+ Lui kang, Kung Lao, Raiden, Bi-Han, Kuai Liang, Tomas Vrbada, Johnny Cage, Kenshi Takahashi, Syzoth, Shang Tsung

Warnings; none

Contains; GN!Reader, fluff

Re-upload for anon <3

Liu Kang; 

Keeps it tame. Much prefers intimate moments over flirting. For example, he’ll say things to you in privacy so only the two of you hear it.

He’s most prone to calling you beautiful or just watching you, he is completely enamoured by you and can’t believe you exist, he didn’t really plan it so he just enjoys being in your company. 

Loves watching the sun rise or fall with you, he thinks you look etherial on the pinkish glow and will always remind you of that. 

Once you’re more official he’ll be more open to flirting in public, but he still prefers to keep things between the two of you. 

Kung Lao;

Back and forth banter is his way of flirting. 

He loves the little games of wit the two of you have. However, he also loves sparing with you, its a reason to be around you for longer and you get to through cocky insults at each other the whole time. 

When the two of you are alone, he’s still gonna be saying stuff to get you fired up, but on occasion he’s been known to go out his way to do things for you, its absolutely his way of flirting without words. 

Speaking of, will show off big time when he feels he needs to. He’s literally THE Kung Lao, he doesn’t often feel the need to impress people, he’s already pretty impressive, but when you’re around, he can’t help but go the extra mile.

Raiden; 

Tries his best, but his friends are normally the ones to help him along. 

Mostly because doesn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, he’s worried he’ll come off too strong if he starts to outright call you beautiful or say he likes your company. 

He will often bring you things that make him think of you, like a flower or a souvenir from Outworld. If he doesn’t bring you something, he’ll sit with you and tell you tales of how he saw something so extraordinary he couldn’t help but think of you.

Sometimes he can get a little corny, but it’s so sweet you don’t mind.  

Bi-han; 

His flirting is praise.

If you do good, or do something without him having asked, he’ll tell you how good you did and how much he appreciates it.

He’ll probably give you a promotion or something. Maybe he’ll upgrade your weapons or give you a squadron to command. 

Other than praise, power is his other love language. He’ll give you whatever you need to defeat whoever you need too, your enemies are his, and vice versa. 

Kuai Liang; 

He never really hid it. He knows what he wants and known that life is too short, especially in his line of work, to beat around the bush. 

He won’t go straight in with being overbearing, but will absolutely tell you how he feels. 

Has no issues flirting with you in private, but in public he’ll keep it tame. 

Prefers just being in your company than physical touch or even words of affirmation. He get’s kinda tired and after all the emotional trauma he’s been through he just needs someone he can exist with. No expectations, just being together. 

Tomas Vrbada; 

He’s super respectful. Almost to a fault. 

Johnny got him on romance movies so he toke notes from there, but they didn’t feel authentic, so he changed his approach to just getting to know you as best he could.

Offers you help with anything. Training, studies, even offers to go on hikes with you. 

He’s comfortable in the silence between the two of you, but he’s great at small talk, he loves talking to you and hearing how you see the world.

Johnny Cage; 

He thinks his presence is flirting. Why would he need to say a thing when the Johnny Cage is in the building?

However, he can be sweet, when he wants to be. Gives you gifts and makes sure you never have to lift a finger. 

Shows off all the time, with everything. Needs you to know how amazing he is at everything. BUT, he also likes making you feel like you’re also amazing. HE has taken an interest in you, so you’re the awesome by default. 

Secretly loves banter. As much as he loves praise, playing hard to get or insulting him in a playful manner will make him happy. 

Kenshi Takahashi;

He builds his relationship with you in private. When it’s just the two of you is when he’ll flirt, but its not super romantic, sweep-you-off-your-feet flirting, he’s subtle in the way he compliments you.

Can be sarcastic with his humour and likes it when you are sarcastic back.

Even though he can’t see, he uses his other senses more attentively, he almost always knows when something is wrong by the changes in your breathing patterns or the way you shuffle if you’re uncomfortable. He’ll always make sure you’re okay. 

Loves sparing with you. Is happy to see how you’ve improved and what’s to see you better yourself. However, is more than happy and willing to protect you if he needed to.

Syzoth; 

Can be kind of shy when it comes to flirting but he’s worried about the rejection. He’s lost enough and he’s really intrigued by you, so he takes things slow; he puts a lot of thought into what he says to you.

He’s incredibly observant. He picks up on everything. Sometimes it can be a bit jarring when you just want to keep something to yourself, but he already knows about it. If you’re not feeling well or something is bothering you he’ll always know.

He can be a tease at times. He can be sarcastic and might even laugh when you say something cocky but he’ll never overstep. It’s just the right amount to make you smile. 

He’s a fan of physical touch. Not too much to be overbearing but just enough that he can feel your warmth. Is different that what he’s used to, its such a strange sensation but a welcome one. 

Shang Tsung; 

Flatters you any change he gets. Is really good at seduction and knows the right thing to say all the time.

Part of the way he flirts is with keeping himself mysterious enough to leave you wanting to know more about him. It puts him in a position of control. 

Often will hold prolonged eye contact. It’s intense and he uses it to create a connection between you. Even though he’s sharp with his tongue, sometimes the eyes say more. 

Can be a tease, but never in a way that leave it open for you to tease him back. He always has the upper hand. Always.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart: Chapter 34 (Human Alastor x Married Reader)

CW: Blowjob, cum consumption, how many words can I stretch out a blowjob?, Alastor being confused about his feelings about sex

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“Kneel then,” Alastor said softly, “Between my knees.” 

“Will you teach me?” you ask, timidly looking up at Alastor from between his still clothed knees as he lifted his hips, shuffling the seat of his pants and the waistband lower, before he sent them to the ground in front of you.

“I will,” Alastor ran his hand over your hair as he took in the sight of you. It baffled his mind that he was here, loving you enough to allow this to happen, to want it to happen- though he’d loath to admit it. 

You were naked, legs folded under you as you looked up at him from between his legs. Alastor wasn’t one who found many things that stirred anything resembling sexual desire, but the sight of you was as close as it had ever come. 

He couldn’t explain what it was about the sight that did it for him. You were not the first he had seen kneel between his knees, intending to take his most sensitive part into their mouth. You were the first he wasn’t dreading it from, though. 

Oh, he was very much not dreading the feeling of your mouth stretched around his cock and that confused him. From you, he wanted it. He had nearly let you slip your core over him before you caught a grip on his sanity. 

He wouldn’t indulge in that until he solved the issue of your marriage, but this? This he could allow. Hell, he almost looked forward to it. Perhaps his Ma had been right all those years ago and all he needed was to find the right person. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong or different about him.

Reaching out, your hands came to rest on his shins as you scooted yourself between his knees. The contact drew him out of his thoughts. His eyes met yours as you shuffled, unsure how to navigate his pants pooled around his ankles. 

“Oh,” you pulled back from him as he worked a foot out of his pants, allowing him to scoot the fabric out of your way. With a clearer path, you inched closer, slotting your body between his knees. 

Alastor looked down at you, hair ruffled and eyes wide as you looked back at him. The desire to possess you burned in his chest with such fierce heat that he couldn’t fathom how he hadn’t felt even the embers of it a month ago. He was keen on examining why that changed, why it had snuck up on him. 

Now wasn’t the time, though. Now was the time to give you what you wanted, the one thing you had asked of him. He watched as you leaned forward, fingers trembling slightly as they ghosted the inside of his thighs. 

It was clear as day you did not know what you were doing, how to move forward as you looked up at him with those big, doe-like eyes. He loved how you submitted to him. You took whatever pleasure he gave you, learning to hunger for what only he could give you. 

The fire in his abdomen burned brighter, knowing that you hadn’t done this for anyone else. This was a first he was stealing out from under your fucking husband’s nose, just like every orgasm he had given you. Oh, what would the pig of a man think if he knew how you looked up at another man? 

“Take my shaft in your hand,” Alastor urged softly. “Remember, you can stop whenever you want.” 

Big eyes blinked up at him before falling from his face down to the rest of him, standing in front of your face. Nimble fingers wrap around him, encircling his shaft in a light grip. He fought to slow his breathing as it tried to spike, excitement coursing through him. He wanted to ensure this would last so you could find out if you would enjoy this. If you didn’t, he could put the silly notion to bed and not slave to his physical urges for you. 

You stroked up his shaft slowly, taking in the sight of him from a new angle. Never had you been this close to a man’s tool before, at least not face to… member before. It was a strange moment of examination as you took in the veins running up his length and the flair of the smooth head. The sack that hung from him was wrinkled and strange but soft to the touch as you braved stroking lower. 

“You can touch there too,” Alastor said reassuringly. “It’s sensitive, too.” 

“Do you like it when it’s touched?” You whispered. 

“A fair bit,” Alastor said in a tone that made you question the truth of that statement. “Do you still want to…?”

“I do,” you whispered as you scooted closer, “I just don’t know-” 

“Why don’t we start small?” Alastor said as he wrapped his forefinger and thumb around his base and pointed the head of his cock more toward your face. “Why don’t you just try licking along the underside of the shaft or at the tip?” 

You licked your lips as your eyes flicked up from his cock to his eyes before focusing on the sight in front of you. Your heart pounded in your chest. All you wanted was to do good for Alastor, to please him. 

“If you find it distasteful, you can stop.” 

With one last nod of your head, you leaned in. Bracing yourself against his inner thighs, you closed your eyes and stuck your tongue out, preparing for the worst. The skin was soft and smoothe over hot iron. He was salty and musky as you took a deep breath into your lungs. 

Neither the taste nor the scent was unpleasant, just… strange. You had expected far worse, considering your face was nearly nestled in his crotch and your wet slick had dripped onto him. As you reached the tip and your tongue retreated, dry now, into your mouth again, Alastor purred praise. 

“How did you find that?” Alastor asked as he ran his hand over the side of your head. 

“Not bad,” you whispered as you opened your eyes again, looking up at him. “But you didn’t-”

“All in good time,” Alastor said, “We’re only dipping your toes in before you try more. Why don’t you try that a few more times, get used to the feeling and taste and then you can decide if you wish to go further.” 

“Okay.” Small fingers wrapped around his base, overtop his as you braved holding him yourself. 

Swallowing thickly, you leaned forward and ran your tongue over him, getting more and more comfortable with the salty taste of him. Each time you finished a pass, you grew bolder. Your mouth watered as you wetted your tongue and repeated the process. The heavy shafted bobbed, bumping your nose and cheek as you worked your tongue over the length of him.

Lips brushed against the soft skin of his cock as you tried to wet your tongue. The action turned into a wet, open-mouthed kiss on his shaft that earned you the sound of him taking a deep, slow breath. One turned into another and then the muscle of Alastor’s thigh jumped under your hand. 

“Good,” Alastor murmured as you came closer to the head of his cock. “There’s more of your slick on the head and some of mine. It’ll taste different as you get more of it.” 

“Okay,” you whispered, lips moving against him. You had noticed the difference in salty taste of him and the heady taste of your dried slick. 

“There’s some of my essence at the tip,” Alastor directed as he caressed the wrist of the hand holding his base. “It leaks out when I’m aroused. If you’re feeling brave-”

Alastor’s sentence ended with a gasp as you pointed his head down and placed a wide lick over his head, gathering the fluid over your tongue and swallowing it. You didn’t know if it was the right thing to do or not but the way Alastor’s sentence ended; you thought maybe it was.

Alastor watched as you placed an open-mouthed kiss on his head before you ran your tongue around the ridge of his head, exploring every part of him. With each pass of your tongue, you grew bolder and bolder the longer you worked him. 

“When you’re ready,” Alastor waited for your eyes to meet his before he continued speaking. “Remember how you circled your hand around me, running it up and down?” 

“Yes?” You showed how you remembered by doing that very thing. He was wet, covered in your saliva. It wasn’t a feeling you thought you’d like, but it felt dirty in a delightful way. 

Women should be pure. They were vessels of goodness that were only good for caring for others and producing life. They were not for being dirty. You shouldn’t have been dirty. 

“Good, yes.” Alastor breathed. “If you want to do more, put the tip in your mouth. Only if you want to.” 

You hesitated for a moment before opening your mouth and licking up the length of him. One last deep breath filled your lungs as you open your mouth wide. 

“Stick your tongue out,” Alastor said, “Just over your bottom teeth then go slow.” 

You did as he said and then set the tip of his member on your tongue. Sliding it in, you wrapped your lips around him. 

“Good, suck on it. Take more in as you’re ready. Only as much as you-” You ran your tongue around his shaft as you pull him deeper into your mouth. He was thick, and it was a strain to wrap your lips around him, but you were determined to manage. 

The way his thigh twitched and jumped under your hand made you want to try all the harder. You pushed lower, taking him deeper into your mouth as you bobbed slowly. He felt good on your tongue, or did it just feel good to know you were doing something to make him feel good? 

Alastor watched as you worked down his shaft, saliva collecting around your lips as you sank down on him. You made a sight you he never thought he would enjoy, and he was sure you had no idea how men would kill for the view he had. It was something he only was beginning to understand himself. 

Your breasts were perky, moving with you. Big eyes glanced up at him for approval that he was freely giving. Oh, how he understood it now as you worked him closer. The needy coil in him wound more and more each time you bobbed. Reaching down, he softly grabbed your shoulder and pulled you off him. 

“Did I do something wrong?” You were quick to ask, licking your slightly swollen lips. 

“Not at all,” Alastor said, “I just wanted to check that you’re enjoying yourself.” 

You flushed and stammered, not sure how to answer. You were not sure of the answer, in truth. You were not not enjoying yourself. What you felt was something different, though. You felt powerful each time you pulled a sigh or groan from him. It was those sounds you were enjoying and wanted to hear more of. 

Was this what he felt when he gave you pleasure? 

“Can you lean up on your knees?”

“Like this?” You asked as you changed position, rising over his lap slightly, holding your knees tightly together. 

“Spread your knees,” Alastor directed, absently stroking his shaft as he watched you open yourself. “Very good. Do you want to continue?” 

“Is it feeling good for you?” You felt so timid about asking. 

“It is,” Alastor said as he curled in on himself as he pulled you higher on your knees. He kissed the lips you had just had wrapped around his cock hungerly, without the slightest hesitation, stoking his length as he did so. “But I want you to be enjoying yourself. Can I help you make sure you do?” 

“I- okay.”

“All you have to do is keep doing what you were doing and do what I say, alright?” Alastor asked as he kissed you again. “Can you do that for me?” 

You nodded and sank down. A soft, open-mouthed kiss burned the head of him. Before he caught himself, Alastor’s hips twitched up, and he thrust his head between your parted lips. Control. You were taking all his control from him, but he couldn’t manage to be angry with how you looked up at him. 

“So beautiful,” Alastor said as he ran his fingers along your cheek. “The hand you have on my thigh? I want you to take it and feel your chest.” 

Your already flushed face grew hotter as you tentatively touched the swell of your breast. 

“Good girl.”You felt his hips twitch with the praise. The head of his cock hit the back of your throat softly as you tried to take him as much as you can. You stroked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth while you watched every shift and twitch of his face and torso. 

Your breast was soft under your touch. Shame and something else burned in you as you mimicked how Alastor had touched you. You gasped in through your nose when you pinched at your nipple lightly. Never had you touched yourself as he would touch you. 

“Good,” Alastor breathed, “Run your hand down now, take your hand all the way down between your legs. Touch yourself where I touch you.” 

It felt good. You were slick and wet, dripping as you had been while you were on his lap. Alastor kept watching you as he directed you through running your fingers through your folds. 

Never had you felt yourself in such a way before, but each stroke of your fingers left sparks of pleasure through you. They were the same sweet sparks of pleasure that you felt when he would touch you.

“Very good,” Alastor’s voice was thick as he spoke. “Put a finger inside, like I would.” You moaned around his length as a finger sank down into your core. 

“Feel how you clench?” Alastor said as his hips twitched up, cock hitting the back of your throat again, this time harder. You coughed and gagged, swallowing around him. “How you squeeze around your fingers?” 

You moaned around his cock as he kept talking, instructing you through working the coil in you tighter and tighter. Each moan was met with praise and oh, how good you were doing for him. His voice washed away any shame you had, the way he gasped as you worked yourself as far down his shaft as you could and the way his body twitched and stuttered. 

Alastor couldn’t take his eyes off you. He didn’t want to miss a second of the show you were putting on for him. Did you know how good you were doing for him? He tried to tell you, but a moan stole the words from him. 

“I want you to come for me,” Alastor said, “Take yourself over that edge. I know you’re close. I can see it in your face.” 

You moaned deeply around his cock; the vibrations running through him as his balls pulled tighter. He was close now. Oh, how he didn’t want this moment to end. 

You choked as you leaned forward, the power of your orgasm washing over you and upsetting your balance, pushing his cock deeper into your throat before you caught yourself. 

“Ah!” Alastor cried out as he struggled to wind his fingers into your hair, pushing against your head as his hips bucked. He had intended to pull you back, but the situation had crept up on him. “I’m going to-” 

You gasped for breath as his cock fell from your lips, white hot cream shooting up from it as you did so. He bucked his hips, biting his lips and groaning as his cock thrust into the air, pumping his white seed out in pulses. 

Tired and spent, your head rested on his spasming thigh. Your hands never stopped, one working lazily through your sensitive folds as you felt the muscles under twitch with the aftershocks. 

Your other hand continued up and down his shaft, quickly covered by his as he guided you in a much tighter grip. The pace was faster as he exploded into the air, spilling sputtering cords of cream down his shafted and across his abdomen. 

Never had you seen what happened when a man finished and deposited his seed. You knew the general idea;, it came from their member and it was creamy but the force of it shocked you. It was a full body event.

“Are you pleased?” Alastor asked as he slowed his hand over yours, squeezing out a few last drops from his tip. “Now that you’ve gotten to see me like this?” 

He was flushed, breathing hard. Sweat dotted his brow as his seed glistened in the light. It was a beautiful sight. Vulnerable. Relaxed. Spent. 

“I am,” you whispered as your hand stilled, slipping from your folds.

You took your hand from his softening member and looked at the seed that covered it. He had tasted every part of you. 

“I’ll get you a wet towel to clean that up with,” Alastor said, not moving yet to get up. 

He watched instead, as you took your hand closer to your face. Your tongue darted out from between your lips. The salty taste of his essence filled your tongue along with something you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t pleasant, nor was it unpleasant. It was a taste you would learn to love if it pleased Alastor. 

“You don’t have to,” he said. 

You had grown tired of Alastor telling you what you didn’t have to do. Alastor never forced you to do anything, you knew that. Everything with him was your choice, though you saw how he would encourage you to step just a little further when you were too scared to take another step. 

For him, you would do anything because he never made you do anything.

He had eagerly devoured everything your body had to give him and yet every time he spoke, he was almost telling you to not do the same to him. Not even because he didn’t want it, but by his words, because he didn’t want you to feel forced. 

Don’t force yourself. Don’t force yourself. Being forced, having to do something wasn’t something you wanted to think about when you were with Alastor and yet he kept saying it. He would never, you knew that. 

It was time you put that idea to bed. 

Raising up on your knees, you grabbed his cock, currently somewhere between flaccid and hard, and ran your tongue over the slick seed that had run down his skin. Not breaking eye contact with him, you greedily licked up everything he had spilled over his head and shaft before cleaning what had run down his balls.

Alastor watched, smile twisted and mouth agape as you worked. Each pass of your tongue had him growing harder. Your nose tickled the skin at the base of his cock as you cleaned his balls. Every time your stomach turned, or you thought about the way you were behaving, like a dirty, loose woman, you reminded yourself of how he eagerly worked his mouth over you with no hesitation. 

You worked your way up his abdomen, cleaning him of his seed as your eyes fluttered closed, unable to focus on your task while looking into his intense eyes. The scattering of hairs on his stomach, the path that lead to his member. 

He watched you as you kissed and licked up his seed as you held his hardening cock to the side. The way you took in all he had spilled mesmerized Alastor, though you didn’t need to, and he hadn’t asked for it. It hadn’t been something he particularly found attractive, but with you, with the way you hummed at the taste of him on your tongue, he struggled to breathe and calm his body. 

Alastor fought the jerk of his hips and failed as you leaned up, running your tongue around his naval. You hadn’t intended to, but your hand had run up his shafted and you had brushed against his sensitive head. 

“Ah, wait.” Alastor panted, pulling you up, ensuring your hands were far from his cock and tucking you into his side. “It’s- I’m too sensitive.” 

That wasn’t exactly it but Alastor knew it was close enough to the truth for you. What he really needed was time to figure out what was going on in his head and why he was enjoying your touch so much right now. He needed a minute to get his head on straight. 

Alastor needed to prove to himself that whatever change you had triggered within him, he could still control his body, regardless of the way you looked at him with those big eyes. He would not have his control undone by the woman who already had to gall to steal his heart out from under his nose.

He could feel your body tremble while you were standing. Your legs struggled to support your weight, but you did little more than smile at him until he pulled you down to join him on the couch. 

With a hand under your chin to direct you, Alastor turned and kissed you deeply. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for entry into a place you seemed determined to keep him from. Sharp teeth nipped at your lips, bringing a gasp out from between your lips. As they parted, Alastor wasted no time tasting his seed on your lips, on your tongue. 

It felt dirty, to be kissed by him so deeply after what you had done. It stole the air from your lungs and had your head spinning. When had your arms wound around his shoulders? The hot skin of his body pressed into your chilled chest as he held you tightly to him. Who had been groaning, moaning into the kiss? Was it you? Was it him? Neither of you could be sure. 

“Ma cherie,” Alastor whispers as he pulls away, breathing hard. “We need to clean up and sleep. We’ve got a long day of travel tomorrow.” 

“I don’t want to sleep,” you whisper, tears threatening to gather in your eyes. The last thing you wanted to do was cry again, not on your last night with him. “I don’t want it to be over. I’m not ready for this to be over.” 

“This,” Alastor squeezed your hand as he ran his other hand over your thigh. “This will never be over.”

“But it will,” you whimpered, catching the sound in your throat before it gave way to a sob. “I’ll have to go back to him and-” 

“And we’ll still have this.” Alastor reached up, cradling the back of your neck in his hand. “We’ll have to be careful until we can find a way to get you out of your marriage, but I will love you after tonight. I will love you after tomorrow. I will love you after a month, a year. I will love you for a lifetime and then some.” 

“Alastor,” you sighed, melting into his touch. He said such sweet words, but could you believe them? “You deserve more.”

“I will get you away from him,” Alastor promised, “and then I’ll have what I deserve, what belongs to me already.” 

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

[cloverapple]

do you have anymore advice? your post helped me so much pls I need more

The Restaurant Analogy For Reality Shifting

Aghhh I told myself I wasn’t going to post anything else, yet here I am XD. Hopefully this is helpful.

You already know how to shift. “Oh, but I—” nope. Nope. You already know how to shift. How do I know that? Because shifting is simply the act of becoming aware of your desired reality. And how do you become aware? By focusing, by choosing what you want to become aware of. When your focus and intention are aligned with your DR, you’re already shifting.

“But the symptoms—“

Oh to grab and politely shake you until you realize that “becoming aware of XYZ” is merely focusing on that thing, becoming aware of it. Are you laying there focusing on your DR? Congratulations, you’ve become aware of your DR.

(There’s a very popular post on here (that I can’t find rn bc I’m rushing as I type this) that states your awareness shifts first and then your senses follow. I cannot stress enough how true that is.)

When you lay down to shift, you don’t need to overcomplicate it. Just focus on your DR and allow it to come to you. Let yourself shift. Sure, allowing it might involve slipping into an altered state of consciousness, using methods, counting or affirming—if that feels natural to you in the moment. But ultimately, it comes down to self-trust. Your mind already knows how to shift. Maybe your issue is that you just need to step out of your own way and let it happen. Which in that case:

Deciding to shift is like deciding to go to a restaurant and sitting down.

Choosing your DR is like selecting a meal from the menu.

Letting your subconscious do the work is like trusting the chef in the kitchen to cook your meal.

What happens next? Inevitably, the chef brings out your meal—you become aware of your DR.

Now, what NOT to do:

You don’t march into the kitchen and grab the ingredients from the chef. You don’t argue with them about how they’re making your meal. Your chef, your mind, knows how to cook. You don’t pace back and forth from the kitchen to your table, spiraling in doubt, wallowing in self-pity, or crying to everyone in the restaurant about how you’ll never get your food and how you’re doomed to starve. You don’t leave the restaurant altogether. You sit down, relax, and trust the process.

“But what if my meal takes a year, or two, or even more?”

Well, think about it—what have you been doing during that time? Have you been running into the kitchen? Losing faith in the chef? Accusing him of not knowing how to cook? Your beliefs shape your reality. What you believe—what you truly believe—is what manifests.

This even applies to the “restaurant.” If you believe your meal will take forever, it will. If you believe the chef isn’t cooking, they won’t be. If you believe you’ll never get your meal, then you probably won’t.

But that’s the beauty of going to the restaurant. No matter how much you doubt, the meal comes eventually. Why else would you have sat down at the restaurant?

And there’s another thing: some meals may take longer, and that’s completely fine. Even if you’ve been patiently sitting here waiting for it and it’s been taking forever in your mind, that’s completely fine. Let go of this atattchment you have to time.

So what if the meal took a year to reach your table? 2 years? 3 years? 4 years? 5 years? Has all that time passed since you’re reading this? Awesome! So why are you still focused on it?

All the time you’ve spent shifting, you will get back and more once you start shifting. 2 years? You gain it back. 3 years? Back into your hand it goes. 4 years? There it is again. 5 years? You got it back.

Focus on the now; sit at the restaurant, enjoy the live music, talk to other patrons, flip through the menu and browse because maybe you want to change your meal or try an appetiser.

“Changing the meal (my DR) means it’s going to take even longer!”

Who told you that? I don’t know what kind of cooking you guys are doing IRL, but afaik, if the stove is already on and the pan is warm, searing that stake is going to be just as quick.

“Clover, but you just implied that arguing with the chef messes with your meal!”

Arguing with the chef (your subconscious) is very different from politely poking your head through the kitchen doors and informing him that you want a different meal.

“But how do I focus on my DR?”

I love this question! When you’re sitting at the table, expecting your meal, what are you doing? You’re probably thinking about your food—imagining the flavors, the texture, the sensations of eating it, the satisfaction of finally having it. That’s how you focus on your DR.

When you’re laying there doing your shifting process, think about what it feels like to be in your DR. Use your senses. Imagine the smells, the sounds, the things you’d touch, the things you’d hear. Visualize, ground yourself, and do what feels natural for you. There’s no right or wrong way to focus—just let yourself become immersed in the idea of your DR and trust it’s coming to you.

What you need to do is simple: select your meal, sit down, and know that it’s coming. I’m not even telling you to wait for it—just know that it’s already on its way. The moment you ordered, it became yours. That’s all there is to it.

[julietvstheworld]

( yandere nsfw hcs ) bloody painter

nsfw - afab reader x bloody painter headcanons

╰┈➤ slight voyeurism, possessive relationship, overstimulation, obsession, eating you out (romantically <333), mirror sex

reuploadbc the last one was broken :/

Helen believes love is always ideal and fanciful, straight out of a fairytale. All of the cliches you see in Disney movies are a reality to him: Love at first sight, soulmates, first kiss, first time, and all the way till death do us part. He keeps his romanticized ideas of love everywhere he goes, especially in bed.

He tries his best to be soft when making love, he really does. He always starts off slow; giving you loving kisses on your palm, moving to your lips, your neck, your chest, your thighs, and finally your throbbing heat. He makes as much eye contact as he can when eating you out, absolutely relishing in your half-lidded look of lust. Using his tongue to explore your pussy walls and thumb to make small circles on your clit. Even while his mouth is working wonders on you, he’ll constantly ask if you’re feeling good. “Is this good?” “Do you want me to go harder?” “Tell me how you’re feeling?”. He knows that you can barely respond to him through your moans, but it never hurts to ask. He always prefers giving over receiving, his desire thrives on his partner's pleasure. He tries having this wholesome sex at least once a week, he normally doesn't have a high libido if nothing happens, but hey, sex is healthy! It always starts out with you guys just cuddling, watching a movie, after he's done with a mission, etc, etc. That’s all nice and good, but as I said before, Helen is heavily invested in soulmates. You are his only and he is yours only. This gives him major jealousy issues. Whenever he sees another guy giving you any form of slight romantic attraction, he sees that as someone trying to take his soulmate. He’ll want to go home immediately, if you can’t, he will pull you to the nearest closet or bathroom.

If you guys make it to his room? He has the freedom to do whatever he wants to you. He absolutely adores tying you up to the bed. Blindfolds, gags, and vibrators are coming out. Before he even thinks about taking out his cock, he wants you to know that before you see the person who flirted with you ever again, he wants to cover your entire body with love bites. He’ll always press the vibrator to your clit as he leaves small marks all over your body. You can feel him smirk against your skin once you get louder as he presses against your sweet spot. He will not take the toy away from your heat until your mascara is streaming down your cheeks and your body is shaking from orgasming over and over. Then will he take off your binds and move you in front of a mirror to raw-dog you with a leash tightly fastened around your pretty throat. He loves seeing you pant and drool as he’s fucking your brains out. He needs you to know that you’re his.

If you guys can’t make it home? He’ll still rail you to his heart's content in the bathroom. He isn’t the biggest fan of quickies but understands that it’s kinda rude to take up the only bathroom at a party. That being said, he still won’t have any mercy on your poor pussy. He’s the type of guy to bend you over the sink and fuck you like a horny virgin. Since you guys can’t use his specially made ropes, you use the second-best thing, his belt. While he’s pounding you, he’ll slap your ass until it’s raw and red. He’ll make you say thank you after every single spanking. Even though he knows the door isn’t soundproof, he prefers you to be as loud as you can. It turns him on when he knows that other guys can hear you moaning his name, especially other guys that caused his jealousy in the first place. You’re his princess, after all, he’s okay with that being known to the world by any means possible.

Aftercare with Helen is the absolute best. He practically worships the ground you walk on so he’s at your every beck and call. Want him to massage your ankles and wrists after being bound? He’s already done it. Wanna just stay and bed and cuddle while he whispers sweet nothings to you? Easy peasy, he already does it every night. Do you want to take a hot bubble bath together? The water’s already running and he’s lighting floral scented candles to set the mood.

Despite being a yandere absolutely enamored and obsessed with your every breath, he doesn’t murder most of the people who try to woo you. He thinks it’s annoying that they think that they’re good enough to even be in the same room as you, but they back off once they hear his name being screamed by you behind closed doors. The only time when he has a major issue with your admirers is when they get too touchy. His normally calm and sophisticated public demeanor becomes quickly enraged and unstable once he sees you becoming highly uncomfortable due to the persistent advances from a creep. Seeing Helen come home drenched in crimson blood with a rare mischievous smirk is a sign that he got rid of your nuisance. No matter how late in the night it is, once you see that grin on his face, you know he’s going to make your pussy sore for the next couple of days in one night.

Helen is totally into praising you. He is obsessed with everything about you and believes you truly are the perfect person in his eyes and wants to remind you at every chance he gets. Every second in bed he’ll shower you with compliments like, “God, you’re so fucking pretty with my cock stuffed in you.”, “Your pussy tastes so good.”, and “Louder, I love hearing you moan.”. His favorite thing to call you is ‘angel’ and ‘darling’

He finds it so hot when you’re wearing makeup. Not because he thinks you’re ugly, but he finds it so sexy when he sees your mascara running down your face and your lipstick is smudged all over your mouth. It’s a huge turn-on for him and he secretly has a picture of it as his wallpaper.

Helen doesn’t jack off that much, maybe once a week. He mostly doesn’t see the point in it because there’s nothing stopping him from just calling you whenever he’s horny.

When you guys had sex for the first time, both of you guys were virgins. Despite this, it wasn’t awkward because he just somehow knew everything that pushed your buttons. In reality, Helen paid BEN 10 bucks to hack into your search history to see what type of porn you were into.

[ghouljams]

I used to use c.ai to help me write when I went through a mental block. I didn’t see the harm cause I’d put in my own original characters to “speak” to. I wanted it to be easy and I’d just blab and talk to’em cause I didn’t want to write in my word doc. And then it started becoming more, I stopped writing entirely and stayed on c.ai. It gave me that rush you were mentioning and I couldn’t put my phone down.

It wasn’t until I saw writers talking about how their works were being screened and taken and then used for c.ai that I realized that I was part of the problem. I was one of the reasons why writers works were being stolen and taken and I felt incredibly guilty. Even using my own OC’s, even putting my own works into it, I was still stealing. I was still taking from real authors and real writers just so I could “feel” like I was speaking to my OC’s.

I’m glad to say that I quit and got out of it. I replaced c.ai with hobbies and spent my time creating instead of taking, you know? I still feel bad using it. I write every now and then but it just feels wrong to write now.

I think this shows one of the biggest issues with c.ai and generative ai: you STOPPED creating.

You weren't just stealing from other authors you were stealing from yourself. You were giving your art to the machine and it was grinding that art down to the base components so that it could put a bunch of ground meat on your plate and call it steak. Your art wasn't just being sold to you, but to other people, regurgitated into a slurry that leaves you starving for the real thing.

This is just my own opinion on the niche that "ai as a tool" is filling, but I truly think that this is a symptom of the loneliness epidemic. It used to be that if you were stuck on a story beat or needed to bounce ideas off something you'd go to your friend and word vomit on them until you reached a ping-pong-ing idea nirvana. Now you can just go to a robot and avoid talking to other people(avoid talking to yourself even!) because the robot will give you something that it thinks you might like.

It's nice being able to talk to your OCs, but (and this is truly the best advice I ever received about writing) they're not real people.

I was once at a book reading/Q&A with an author who wrote short stories, and a well meaning student asked him "How do you get your characters to do what you want them to do when they seem so determined to do something else?" And he said, "I don't make them do anything. They're not real, so they feel and act how I write them to."

Writing (any kind of creation) is a muscle that you have to work out in order to use it for long stretches. It hurts when you're not used to using it, and when you've gotten used to a certain kind of dopamine rush or style it feels bad to write. I had a human rp partner that I wrote with for years, I'm talking novel series length roleplays, and when I tried to write for myself it hurt. I felt bad, like it wasn't up to snuff, like I only knew how to write half a story, like they could do it better if I just could hop in a rp with them. It sucked. I wrote a horrible novel trying to cope with my rp withdrawals lol.

Using "generative" ai atrophies your creative muscles. It's not a tool so much as an easy way out. Creating is hard, it just is, it takes a piece of you and puts it out into the world. You don't always see the fruits of your labor right away, and that makes it feel like your effort was wasted, but just because the seed you planted doesn't sprout right away doesn't mean it's dead.

If it feels wrong to write then change how you write. Maybe you should try roleplaying with yourself like I suggested to the other anon. Write like a chat:

Soap: Hello Ghoul

Me: Back off freak.

Bring back the old fanfiction dot net style of authors interacting with characters directly. There's no rules to your art, write in a way that makes you happy because it's your writing and not an ai. Write yourself into your OC's stories as a random extra, write from that perspective. Make up aus for no reason other than you want to. Follow every plot bunny that catches your attention. Put one sentence in your notes app and forget about it. You're building creative muscles, it's not going to feel great, and maybe it'll take a while to get back to where you were before you started using c.ai, but if the time passes anyway then why not try?

[silentsneezes]

Heyy me again… ahahah

Do you have any silco with allergies hc’s or maybe a k!nk Silco/Vander Zaundads fic?

Totally asking this with normal intentions, completely not obsessed or anything!

(Im gnawing at the bars of my enclosure i love your writing)

thank you anon!! trust me when i say i'm also gnawing at the bars of my enclosure... so here's almost 3k of sick v/ander and kink s/ilco

i'll probably continue this in the future, but between university and life things i haven't had as much time to write... so we'll see

anyways, this is set pre-everything in the show. you could read it as an au if you want!

The Last Drop on a Saturday is no fucking joke. Vander knows that full well, always double checking his list of opening tasks to ensure things run smoothly. Only a few hours after opening, the dimly lit, smoke-filled haven is already filled to its capacity. Earlier that day, there had been a boxing match held in a nearby arena, and it’s safe to say people are still riding that high. Vander picks up on arguments over bets that were won or lost, prideful drunkards boasting about how they’d been rooting for the champion all along.

The bar practically roars with the infectious excitement, only encouraged by the drinks the patrons continue to slam back. Vander doesn’t mind, he’s quite pleased with how popular his bar is, especially on nights where boxing matches occur. Everyone needs a good drink after a match, he supposes. Plus, the influx in business never hurts– people typically become more generous tippers the drunker they get. 

Vander works mindlessly as he pours drink after drink, zoning out to the sounds of raucous laughter, the clink of glass against wood, and the quiet kshhhh of the keg. The conversations are nothing more than a full-on-chorus, which has its pros and cons. 

On one hand, it allows Vander to zone out to the constant noise, letting himself work without second thought.

On the other hand, Vander feels like fucking shit. He’d been coming down with something the past couple of days, but he’d figured it wasn’t anything a few DayQuil couldn’t fix. Now, he’s beginning to realize that he was sorely mistaken in his initial dismissal of the cold. His usual charming grin doesn’t come as easily tonight, and when he wipes his brow, it’s not just due to the heat of the room. His skin is coated in a feverish sheen, his cheeks uncharacteristically flushed as he forces himself to work through his rising fever. 

The frequenters of the bars notice– at least those sober enough to– but they’ve seen this before. Vander’s tough. He’s the kind of guy who keeps his bar open for better or for worse, so when he’s sick, they just give him a look of silent understanding: he’ll be fine, he always is. 

As ‘fine’ as Vander might be, his movements are dulled by fever. He keeps moving, keeps working—filling mugs, passing shots, refilling drinks– functioning as if he’s on autopilot. His work is only interrupted as he hears the familiar drawl of his friend’s voice. 

“Is anybody home?” Silco asks with a slight smirk, looking Vander up and down as he takes a seat on the barstool closest to the sick man, observing his absent expression. Vander opens his mouth to reply, pausing momentarily to clear his throat before gruffly responding, “very funny, Silco,” sarcastically. He starts making Silco’s drink wordlessly, knowing exactly what the other likes. Vander doesn’t bother filling the silence between the two of them, letting the steady roar of auditory input wash over him. 

“Long day?” Silco questions, frowning as a nearby customer lets out a howl of laughter at his own joke, “I’ll bet you 20 gold coins he soils himself by the end of the night.” 

Vander finds it somewhat amusing how Silco always seems to take issue with the other patrons of the bar, as if he finds himself somewhat above this crowd. “I’d be an idiot to take you up on that,” Vander says with a tired grin, his lips barely curling upwards as he leans in, resting his weight on the bartop. He places the drink in front of Silco with a heavy thud, the glass almost too solid in his grip, as if it’s an anchor to keep him from slipping under the noise and fatigue. “You know how they get after boxing matches.”

“Oh, do I,” Silco replies, the words clipped, his voice carrying an immense judgement of those customers who lack any semblance of manners or public decency. He doesn’t like them, doesn’t trust them, but he does like Vander. 

Vander struggles to think up a response, his usual charm and banter replaced with a steady painful thrum threatening to become a migraine. The noise of the bar presses against his skull like a vice, and just as he finally manages to think up an adequate response, he feels it coming. A tickle in his nose, faint at first, but enough to make his breath catch as it buzzes through his sinuses. 

At first he tries to fight it, swiping at his nose roughly with the backside of his hand. His other hand searches his pockets for a rag, a handkerchief, anything. Unfortunately for him, the sneeze builds quickly. His eyes are forced to scrunch shut as his chest swells with an urgent, “hhHHHH-” and for a half-second, everything around him goes blurry, the pressure in his sinuses making his head swim, “hHHRRZZSCHHH’HUw!!”

Vander turns away from the bartop just in time, snapping forwards into his elbow with a resounding sneeze, one that grates his throat enough as to where he has to blink away a few tears. Silco watches with rapt attention, his abdomen pooling with hot attraction as he observes Vander’s broad frame nearly bend itself in two with the force of the sneeze. 

“Bless you,” Silco purrs, his voice low and sultry. The blessing practically rolls off of his tongue, and yet Vander knows it’s not just out of politeness. You see, Silco doesn’t just bless anyone. For him, offering a blessing is somewhat of a privilege, something one earns through continuous affection, and he and Vander are nothing if not affectionate. 

“I’ve got the whole damn package today—head full of cement and a nose that thinks it’s spring,” Vander mutters, barely able to keep the irritation out of his voice. Had he not known about Silco’s kink, he would’ve been entirely fed up with his body's need to sneeze. Except there’s a sliver of him that can’t help but relish the fact that he can make Silco squirm so easily. If he has to feel so utterly miserable, someone might as well enjoy it, right?

And he is miserable, nothing short of it. Silco, however, seems to be basking in Vander’s sickness, finding it difficult to resist the sight of his friend turned fuck-buddy turned… whatever it is they are now. 

“Why is it you insist on working when you’re sick?” Silco questions, knowing full-well the stubborn answer he’s about to receive– it’s the same every time. 

Except Vander doesn’t answer, letting Silco’s question hang in the air as he raises a hand to his nose. It’s back again, that bothersome, tantalizing itch that’s been wreaking havoc on his nose all night, “hhHHH’uh-”

At the sound of Vander’s hitch, Silco prepares himself for the imminent sneeze. Vander has never been one to have dramatic build ups when he’s sick– though allergies are an entirely different feat– rather, his sneezes come on quickly with one to two hitches beforehand. 

Unable to find a rag in time, Vander settles for cupping a broad hand over his nose and mouth, “hHHMMPH’DSSXCHHhew!” The sneeze is barely muffled against his palm, and Vander can feel moisture threatening to slip through his fingers. He pinches his nose between his thumb and his forefinger, gathering the residual mess and moving to wash his hands. 

When Vander returns to the bartop, he sees Silco, his gaze intensely focused, waiting with that unsettling calm, as if he could pounce at any moment. Had the countertop not been separating them, Vander is certain Silco would be draping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. And god does he want that. 

Just as Vander moves to prop himself against the bartop again, he hears a drunken, “Oi! Vander!” and groans internally, straightening up and snapping out of his exhausted haze. The woman, a regular frequenter of the bar, leans against the other side of the counter with a casual air, “Get me something strong, but nice. I’ve got a lady to impress,” she says with a smirk. Usually, Vander would have the energy to engage in some sort of playful banter, perhaps asking the customer as to who she’s pursuing tonight. Instead, he rattles off a few drink options, giving her a sideways glance as she chooses the strongest of the drinks he’d proposed, “You sure? It’s got one hell of a kick.”

The customer dismisses his warning with a wave of her hand and a chuckle, “I’m feeling lucky today.”

“Liquid luck,” Silco tuts almost inaudibly from his seat, though it goes unheard by anyone aside from Vander, “what a foolish concept.”

Vander’s lips curl into a slight smirk at the sound of Silco’s words, but he forces himself to maintain focus. He has a job to do. With a sigh, Vander grabs a glass, still feeling the steady ache that only a cold can instill. As he’s about to start mixing, he feels that nagging sensation in his nose return, the familiar tickle building once again. He grimaces, trying to hold it back for the sake of not sneezing into a customer's drink, but his body has a different plan. His breath hitches involuntarily, forcing him to pivot away from the countertop without even setting the glass down first. He draws in a final, urgent breath before snapping forwards and spraying the tiled floor with an uncovered, “hHHRRRSSXCHHHh’eHw!” 

As the sneeze fades, Vander stays still for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, his body still catching up with the sudden burst of pressure. He forces himself to stand upright, tending to the moisture clinging to his septum with his sleeve. He’d usually have a bit more decorum when it comes to covering and utilizing his sleeve as a tissue, for the sake of germs moreso than any feeling of embarrassment, but he’s too fucking tired tonight. 

“Salud,” the woman blesses absentmindedly, watching as Vander composes himself enough to make her drink, “you look sick as a dog,” she comments. Vander just continues mixing the drink, replying with a halfhearted, “that’s never stopped me before.”

“Touche.” Luckily, the woman leaves the conversation at that, exchanging the drink for a few gold pieces and making her way across the bar back to the person she’s trying to impress. 

“She’s right, you look terrible,” Silco says matter-of-factly, drawing Vander’s attention back to him. His fingers trail along the rim of his now empty glass, his expression smug as he receives an eye-roll in response. 

Vander doesn’t have time to reply as another customer approaches the bar, and he internally curses as he turns away from the one person in the bar he actually wants to see right now. His head throbs, the dull ache in his throat turning into a tight, bothersome burning sensation. As he prepares a round of shots, every movement feels slower than his last, his limbs growing heavier as the evening progresses. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, there’s a lull in drink orders, and Vander has the opportunity to return to his conversation with Silco. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, instead saying, “you’ve got a handkerchief, no?”

“I always do,” Silco replies effortlessly, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he registers where this is going. Vander extends his hand wordlessly, becoming increasingly frustrated with his nose running like a faucet. 

“Use your words,” Silco tuts, though his eyes flick between Vander’s outstretched hand and his nose, reddened and irritated after being berated all day. 

“Silco,” Vander huffs huskily, evidently too exhausted to tolerate any sort of teasing, “give it here.”

“That’s no way to treat a customer.”

“Bullshit, you’re not a customer.”

“Hm, then what am I?” Silco asks, enjoying this far more than he should. His hand slips into the inner pocket of his vest, extracting his crimson red handkerchief from its resting place. He keeps it hidden in his lap, waiting for the perfect moment to submit to Vander’s request. 

“A brat.” 

Vander’s hand remains outstretched, waiting for Silco to drop the dominant act and give in. Fuck me Vander mentally curses as the itch swells in his nose again, forcing his wide nostrils to flare in protest. It’s like Silco was waiting for this moment—the vulnerability of Vander, flushed and slightly out of breath, his hitches almost an invitation. 

“I know you always hhhHave one on you. Give it to m-hHHH-me dammit,” Vander’s previously annoyed tone is replaced with one of urgency. Both he and Silco know damn well he can’t hold back for shit. 

Silco watches, waiting until the very last second before pressing the handkerchief into Vander’s palm. His fingers brush across the calloused skin of Vander’s hand, which is nearly twice the size of his. Vander clutches the handkerchief, turning on his heel and doubling over as a sneeze tears through him, “hHHHGGSXCHHH’Hh’ugh!”

“Bless you,” Silco purrs once again, silently cursing the countertop separating him from the sick man. He can feel his arousal making itself known, pressing against the tight confines of his pants, “You’ll be making that up to me, you know I don’t share–” he begins, but Vander cuts him off. 

“I’ve been pudting on a show for you all nighd. Don’d be so greedy,” he mumbles huskily, the congestion in his voice dulling certain consonants. Vander gives his nose a strangled blow. It’s unsuccessful at first, eliciting a huff of frustration from the man. With both hands holding the handkerchief over his nose, he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the next attempt. The second noseblow is much more productive, clearing his airways as best they can be with a cold ravaging his nose.

“That’s better,” Vander acknowledges, tucking the– already soiled– handkerchief into his back pocket and moving to wash his hands again. Silco, having been observing Vander’s every move, shifts to relieve some of the pressure in his pants. 

“It’s a shame you have to work,” he comments idly, knowing full well that Vander could’ve called someone in to cover his shift, “I’ve heard a good fuck is quite the cure-all for colds.” 

Silco’s bluntness never fails to catch Vander’s attention. People typically shy away from expressing their kinks, especially one as bizarre as sneezing, but Silco treats it as he does anything that can bring him sexual gratification: without shame– though don’t be mistaken, he’s eager to indulge in humiliation when given the chance. 

Vander knows exactly what Silco is alluding to, weighing the benefits of closing early or calling someone to take his place. His stubbornness and grit can only last so long, it seems, as he leans heavily against the bartop again. 

Grinning as he recognizes the slight defeat in Vander’s expression, Silco presses on, “Would it be so terrible to take a night off? I’d stay, of course, to attend to your needs.”

Vander looks up, his eyes traveling from the smirk on Silco’s face to his slightly unbuttoned top– had his chest been so visible before, so appealing? His view of Silco’s slim waist is blocked by the counter, but he’s almost certain Silco’s hard to some extent; it really only takes a few sneezes to get him going. After all, Vander’s are his favorite. 

“Fine,” he agrees stubbornly, glancing at the clock. Typically, The Last Drop would stay open well into the night and through the earliest hours of the morning, but it’s only 11:30 and Vander feels like dead weight. He leans down, searching for the bar-phone he keeps next to the especially expensive liquors. Upon finding it, he dials an employee's number despite the guilt ringing through his mind. He’s not one to give up easily, and he’s certainly given one hell of a fight to make it through this shift, but the promise of a quieter room and Silco’s attention is enough to sway him. 

“Jay? I’m sorry to ask, but–,” Vander pauses as his breath hitches, the itch suddenly returning with a vengeance. He holds the receiver as far away as possible, ducking to the side and clamping his other hand over his nose, “hhHHHGDTSCHHH’huew!” 

Apparently, Jay could still hear the utter desperation of the expulsion from over the phone– and was left to imagine the mess it made, and trust, it was messy– and is quick to say, “I’ll be there in twenty. Try not to drop dead by then.”

TBC…

as always, any reblogs, tags, and comments are very much appreciated!! i experimented with a different writing style with this fic, so any feedback is appreciated as well :3

[themoodyestj]

i doubt you actually know what it is like to live with a narcissist. i was in a relationship like that for a long time, he made me feel like i was nothing. i was fully convinced that i was completely useless and couldn't do anything right. i wasn't allowed to go out with my friends. i wasn't allowed to work, i had to depend on him. i wasn't allowed to have any hobbies. i was always the one who needed improvement, everything wrong was always my fault. everything always had to be spotless or else there would be dire consequences, i was so scared of him it made me sick. but in public he treated me different, he was the nicest sweetest guy, no one would have ever suspected. i honestly don't think this is Jensen's case, just look at him, he's a confident successful man with tons of friends, he gets to do what he loves for a living, he can have his music and go play golf whenever he wants, he's not afraid to be by himself for long periods of time, he's not afraid to call his wife and say "ups i messed up" and he always wants to come back to her. he's not scared.

Wow, we have an abuse gatekeeper here! Hi delulu! So glad to see you! Should I expect rain tonight?

I’m sorry you went through that, truly. And I'm not going to tell you where I have my experience from, I'm not an idiot. But your personal trauma doesn’t make you the human lie detector for abuse. You don’t get to point at a dude playing golf and go, “See? Not abused!” like that’s how this works. You think having friends, hobbies, or saying “oops, I messed up” means someone can’t be mistreated? That’s dumb as fuck.

Especially since, in this case, she needs his hobbies, his friends, his connections for him to WORK TO MAKE MONEY so she can get the lifestyle she wants!

Abuse doesn’t always look like black eyes and isolation. Sometimes it looks like constant belittling, having your achievements dismissed, your needs ignored, and walking on eggshells so much you don’t even realize it anymore. But hey, since you’re so sure, let’s flip this: if Jensen were a woman and zee kween a man, and he was being publicly humiliated, manipulated, and used as a TikTok aesthetic for “if men are easy to manipulate, they deserve it,” would you still be acting like this? Or would you be posting a whole damn essay about how “this is why women aren't protected”?

You don’t actually care about what’s happening. You just don’t want it to be real. Because if you did, you’d sit with those red flags instead of swatting them away like a toddler refusing to eat their vegetables.

And now, allow me to flip that pointing finger at you. If you were really a victim of narcissism, you wouldn’t be out here dismissing someone else’s experience. You know why? Because you’d know firsthand how painful it is, how isolating, how damn near impossible it is to reach out for help. Real survivors don’t gatekeep abuse, and they sure as hell don’t harass people for seeing red flags.

On a last note, I really hope you heal, but also learn to shut up and let others heal. Because the disgrace you just wrote, the lines you memorized from that old crumpled misogynistic evangelist pamphlet, basically forcing the idea that abuse victims have to fit a certain mold, is nothing you should be saying out loud, let alone to someone who may be potentially experiencing abuse.

It's a disservice to the people trying to survive/escape abuse. As if gaslighting and years of grooming weren't already a major issue for them.

YOU ARE PART OF THE REASON THERE STILL IS A PROBLEM.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 10 - I Won't Say It

The rogue has a sudden, horrifying realization.

On AO3.

Eleanor’s blood surges into Astarion’s mouth. It’s been days of nothing. A few remaining swills in old bottles, taken from vermin in the Underdark and grown tacky and coagulated. Days of uncertainty, the cold vice twisting in his guts, and the utter ruin and darkness around them. She would learn magic. She wouldn’t need him anymore. Would cast him aside.

But now she’s the first ray of sunshine after a terrible night. Pure, golden light burning away the haze of doubt, of fear, of everything that isn’t her warmth and her life. Even the acrid aftertaste of some worry in her can’t diminish the glory of her hot blood coating his tongue, his throat, his gullet.

She keens above him, grinds hard against his hand and rides her pleasure there. He tastes it. The height of her passion. The sweet, sweet ecstasy of her climax and he moans against her. Is barely aware of tugging his hand out of her trousers so he can clutch her, capture her to him.

The pleasure roils through them both. From her body and her blood into him. Their gasps indistinguishable. By the gods, he’s tasted her after, but during?

His cock aches, fully hard. Only marginally aware of how he ruts up against her. Both of them still clothed, but she’s so glorious, tastes so good. Her orgasm echoes back into him and he has to have more. Needs more. Grinds faster, faster against her, chasing after her even though his form is terrible, it’s hardly the practiced picture of eroticism and he must impress, must always maintain—

Her hand brushes his ear. It’s an accident, he thinks. He hasn’t told her about that. She’s simply got her fingers buried in his hair (finally), modesty abandoned as he laps at her neck. But her thumb brushes right up the side and it’s an erogenous area, certainly, but hardly enough to—

His belly pulls tight. Bollocks throb. Oh gods, he’s going to, can’t stop it, breaks off but it’s too late—

He spills right into his undergarments.

One moment of bliss. Hot pleasure snapping through him and the relief that follows.

And then the reality of the situation crashes down.

Eleanor straddles his lap. Her neck and shoulder smeared in blood. Iron and decadent life in his mouth, sticky over his lips and chin. She pants and shudders in his grasp, and he has both his hands on her plush hips.

The wet patch in his trousers.

Oh dear gods.

He barely restrains himself from shoving her off. Barely. Pulls back and she’s bright red. His own cheeks are…warm. He can’t remember the last time he flushed. Never had enough blood—just pieces of cockroach shell stuck between his molars. But now? Fed? Spilling into his trousers like an overeager, untrained boy?

“I,” he tries. “Ah.”

Untouched. Still clothed. Not even in service to a mark. He just…came.

Can’t afford that. Has never been an issue. A mistake. He’s made a terrible mistake and he cannot afford that. Not here. Not with her.

He doesn’t want to look at her. He usually prefers to do this from behind, so he doesn’t have to see their face, so they don’t kiss him more than he has to. Especially when they’re sweet. When they want to give back.

And now he’s made an utter fool of himself. She’ll know enough to work that out. She’ll be laughing at him. Which means all of camp will be laughing at him. The experienced lover, the seducer, the rake. With come in his trousers.

But he does. Look at her. Thoughts spinning, trying to come up with some excuse.

She…is not laughing. Still blushing. But almost, almost happy?

“You okay?” she says instead of hitting him or spitting mockery. He bites back a fake laugh. Instinctively smooths his face into something he hopes is pleasant. Chagrined, perhaps. “Terribly sorry, pet. I was, ah, overwhelmed, it seems.”

She does not sneer. She does not grab him by the throat and crack his head against the bed frame. She does not (cannot) summon Godey to teach him better manners.

She simply…smiles. Such a soft thing. Nearly bashful. Brushes one of his curls out of his eyes.

But he’s still sitting beneath her with come in his smallclothes. It’s going to become more disgusting the longer he sits there (the thought of her commanding him outside to show everyone what a pathetic mistake he is).

She does move, then, and he can’t help but tense. But she only leans in, and her soft lips brush over his forehead. She stays like that a moment, and he stares at the front of her throat. Then it’s her turn to pull away.

“Was that, um, okay? Me kissing you?”

It’s the type of thing lovers might do. Genuine. Tender.

He’s going to be sick.

“Of course, darling. But you should take a potion.” Because she’s still bleeding. “Because you’re still bleeding.”

Perfect. Something for her to focus on that isn’t him tucking his tail and getting out of there.

“Right.” She slides off and reaches for her pack.

He does not bolt (a near thing). Merely waits for her to find a potion and uncork it. And then gracefully (not at all grimacing) rolls to his feet.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says. Gods. Even his ears feel warm. He’s being pitiful.

She nods. Glances once to his groin and then away.

His insides are cold again. Despite all the hot blood he’s lapped up. It’s from her. The way she looks at him. Her…her softness at him.

He heads for the tent flap.

“Astarion?” she says. Quiet. Hesitant. When he turns, “If you want, you could always stay the night? After, uh. Or not! Whichever.”

His face feels made of stone, but he forces a smile anyway. “Of course, darling.”

She relaxes. Looks so small and young and innocent. Hopeful. Because he’s her first. Because she doesn’t know better. Because she thinks this is real.

“Do excuse me, however,” he says. Finally claws his way outside.

The rest of camp sleeps. Or lies awake on their bedrolls facing away. No one is around to witness his shame as he darts for his own tent.

He doesn’t need to drink water, but he does require it to wash up. He has a skin in there for that very purpose. He all but dives into his tent, and then nearly shreds his trousers getting them off.

Stupid. Stupid. Pathetic little boy.

And her. A besotted…cow. To be so soft with him. Like he’s a thing wounded. A thing frightened. Like she could see his shame. How dare she. He’s using her, by the gods. And she’s too stupid to realize it. Their illustrious leader, their tactical alien. Too foolish to know better than to let a vampire into her neck, into her trousers. To think he desires her. To think this could be anything but what it actually is: a meal and a brief fuck.

She’s the pathetic one. Being used. And trying to be, ugh, kind to him. She deserves this. Deserves to be humiliated. Used up and cast aside once he no longer has use for her. That’s her role, even if she’s too naive to know it.

He scrubs himself. Scrubs his clothing.

That she did this to him. He can’t stand it. He imagines the way this will end. They’ll slaughter this Absolute cult and remove the tadpoles. Somehow, they’ll have killed that bastard and he won’t need any of them anymore.

And then she’ll turn to him. Proud of herself. Thinking they’ve won. That he’ll sweep her off her feet and carry her into some sunset (that doesn’t burn him to ash). He will be her one, true love, happily for the ages like some cheap storybook.

But he’ll smile at her, on that day. And tell her everything.

Of course they didn’t have something more. That’s not who he is. This isn’t how the world works. And she’ll understand that all of this, all of it, was a lie. Her purpose will be served, and he’ll have no more obligation to her. He’ll be free.

And she…

Her face. Her dark eyes and the way they light up when she finds him. She keeps herself so carefully blank. Holds herself in so tightly, he’s not sure any of the others have heard her genuine laugh. Have seen that sparkle in her eye. Heard her voice lift as she talks about some catastrophe or horrific plague.

She keeps herself to herself. He’s seen enough of her memories (and has sorted them out enough by now) to understand why. It’s very sensible. She’s done it as long as she can remember because it kept her safe. Until now. Until she, like an utter fool, invited in a vampire.

She let her guard down for him. Let him see past that mask she wears. Because she trusts him.

He imagines the future in which he explains, in detail, his victorious plan, and he imagines the way the light in her eyes would die. The way that terrible stillness would lock over her features. Because she, too, knows that showing pain is a weakness.

And it would be his doing.

His chest is tight. He instinctively inhales. Or tries to. It comes out a strangled wheeze and he curls in over himself. It…hurts.

Why? Why should he hurt? That’s the way the world is. He knows it. He thought her sensible enough to know it.

He manages a weak gasp. The pain only worsens. What the hells is wrong with him. Why should imaging her pain cause him to…

The thought flits along the edge of his mind. A falling star against the cold, uncaring sky. Everything around him seems to still.

No. No, that’s not…it can’t be. Ridiculous. Impossible. Not even he is that stupid.

But the thought doesn’t go away. It branches out, roots finding all the little cracks in his mind. The weeks of wondering, the way his dead heart wants to flutter when her gaze seeks him out and finds him across the camp and she gives that tiny, shy smile. The way her skin smells. The way she finally allowed herself to touch him tonight, and she doesn’t touch anyone but the owlbear cub. The life in her blood and the way it calls to him. Just for him.

No. Absolutely not.

The taste of her mouth. The warmth of her tent and her touch. The way she watches him when he talks, doesn’t even look away in boredom, never rolls her eyes (unless he makes a bad joke). The way she asks him things. And then listens to him.

The gentleness of her lips on his forehead even after he failed her and made a spectacle of himself.

He…wants.

“No,” he hisses.

But it’s too late. The thought has wound itself deep into him. Slithered into all the broken corners of his mind and it will not be dislodged.

“No.” The word comes out a sickly whine. Which turns into a choked laugh. A wretched giggle.

Astarion claws his fingers into his own hair. Folds over his knees. Sinks to the ground. Oh gods.

Oh gods.