#thinking a lot of unholy thoughts

[halosmoon]

YALL HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD I MALFUNCTIONED WHEN THIS HAPPENED JCJDKSKSHCJFDKSXJSJSCJDKSKSHCJFDKSXJSJSJCJDKSKSHCJCJDKS

[toxickeyboard]

Guys. Guys. Guys.

[bookwyrminspiration]

classmate started code switching with me today have I? succeeded??

[margridarnauds]

So Malla might have. Killed. Astarion.

In her defense, he did technically start it.

Iconic Minthara clown moment is her telling Astarion to embrace his destiny...only to be the first to get bitten in the fight.

[emmriches]

really love rogue haella but i think she’s probably a cleric of lolth tbh

[darkdragon768]

Was taking a look into the zelda botw masters work book (or whatever it's called) again to look for my silly guys and...

I'm really fucking disappointed that the yiga got only like half a page. "Oh yea, here are the designs of the novice, officers and their leader, and a few fun facts, haha. That's all. Take it or leave it" Some concept art would have been cool, man...

Anyway, what's funny is that the creators were like

"Hey look, I designed those really cool ninjas that are out to kill Link!"

"Cool, but uh... why tho?"

"Uhh I don't know, I haven't thought that far."

I mean, I see a lot of people having the same kinda struggle with their OCs so it's not that weird but still funny to me.

[ebodebo]

Ghost Garage

—mechanic!simon riley fucking you in his car garage because you couldn’t afford to pay for his services:(( MDNI ofc

“You’re lookin’ at six thousand for a new engine,” Simon says thoughtfully, scribbling a collection of messy additions in his notebook. “And if you’re lookin’ to do just one set of brake pads and rotors,” he says, scribbling some more, “lookin’ at six hundred even for those.”

Your eyes widen at his words because how the fuck were you ever going to be able to afford this? You swallow hard, pondering your following words. “Do you do discounts or something?” You’re sure you sound like an idiot, but you’re desperate.

The corner of his lip quirks at your question as his eyes stay glued to the notebook paper, still scribbling. “No. Still no discounts ere’,” he says, capping his pen, finally looking at you.

You fidget with your hands, eyes on his. “I—um…there’s no way I can…” you begin, turning your gaze away from him, feeling bashful, “…afford that.” Even though you had come to Simon’s garage before, this was just the first time you outwardly told him you couldn’t afford his services.

He leans back in his chair, the base squeaking a little. “Do ya’know how dangerous it is to drive with worn-out brake pads?” he states, placing the pen in his mouth, awaiting your response.

“Yes. I’m aware, but—” you begin, only for him to interrupt.

“But nothin’,” he calmly says, shifty in the chair, eyes shamelessly dragging down your body. You pretend not to notice even though it invokes an immeasurable amount of wetness to gather in your panties.

He can tell you’re nervous—your body language says it all. Clammy hands you wipe off on your jeans every so often, you’re avoiding direct eye contact with him, and the fact he can hear your heartbeat from where he sits.

He shouldn’t even have unholy thoughts of you come across his mind. But, shocker, he did. Every night from the time you first went to the shop all of those four months ago, he would fist himself in the shower thinking about you.

You, who always had that doe-eyed, glossed-over expression. You, who always had to bring Simon a sweet treat when you came, whether it be candy or some fresh-baked cookies you prepared. Oh, and you, who would hug him after he did your car inspections. Ya, he thought about that one a lot.

He considers your predicament. He has a solution, but it’s risky—perhaps too risky?

Eh, Fuck it. What’s he got to lose?

“Tell ya what,” he starts, standing up from his chair and grabbing the notebook paper with the numbers. “I’ll throw this ere’ piece of paper in the trash—hell, I’ll burn it,” he cocks a brow, “If you do somethin’ for me.” He hovers the small, intimidating piece of paper over a small trash can.

“Anything,” you say, desperation coating your voice. He hums, ducking his head to stare at the trashcan.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, followed by a gravelly laugh. You gulp, waiting for him to explain.

“I want somethin’ from ya,” he finally looks up at you, wiping his mask-less jaw with his hand. “Somethin’ that isn’t…money.”

You slightly confound your head. “Like I said…anything,” you amend.

He sticks his tongue in his cheek, drops the tainted paper into the trash, and then takes slow, deliberate steps towards you.

You inhale as he stands before you, unsure of his intentions. Exhaling sharply only when he brings his thumb up, dragging it delicately across your jaw, tilting it up so you are looking at him.

“I think we could figure out a way for you to get that work paid in full,” he rumbles, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip. “And a way I could feel that pretty pussy around me.”

Your eyes widen at his words, dumbfounded by his sheer bluntness and vulgarity. Though you admit, you feel a knot start to form in your lower stomach and more wetness pool between your thighs.

“Unless you don’t want to?” His tone his monotone, no signs of resentment as he drops his hand from your face.

“No—I do,” you affirm, even grabbing his hand and then dropping it from embarrassment. “I just didn’t think…you, uh, liked me like that,” you mutter, shifting on your feet and shifting your gaze to the concrete floor you both stand on.

“Oh, trust me. I like you like that,” he laughs lowly, stepping closer to you, bringing his hand back to the same spot to brush his finger against your pouty lip. “Can I?” He questions his gaze on your lips. You nod, standing on your tiptoes, gripping his neck, and bringing his lips to yours. You could taste remnants of cigarette smoke and the icy tang of Nicorette mint gum.

The kiss quickly became full of fervent urgency. Sloppy lips sucking your own, hands aimlessly gripping any piece of flesh it could, and teeth frantically clashing with your own.

“You do this with all your clientele?” you tease as Simon grips the bottom of your shirt and quickly pulls it off your head.

“Nah,” he coolly says, hands palming your breasts over your bra. “Just the ones I jerk off to.” You gasp at not only his hands on such a sensitive part of you but also his confession.

“You jerk off to me?” you tentatively ask, bringing your hands to grip the hem of his shirt, slipping it off his head. His lips instantly connect with your neck.

“What about it?” he murmurs against your skin, dragging his tongue from the side of your neck to your lips.

“I just…I finger myself thinking about you,” you admit in between his feverish kisses, which are apparently taking away your sense of shame. He pulls back only a little.

“You’re tellin’ me…” he reaches down to bring your hand up, grazing your fingers with his own. “You plunge these in your pussy, thinkin’ about me?” he stares at your fingers, unable to comprehend what he’s hearing. He darts his eyes to yours. “I get you off?”

“Of course you do,” you attest, dragging your hand so it rests on his cock that is tucked away in his greased stained jeans. He groans at your touch.

“Now let me see what I’ve been imagining.”

He wastes no time stripping you bare, throwing your bra and panties off to the side, before he unlatches his belt, roughly yanking his jeans and boxers down just below his thighs.

He grips the back of your thighs before hauling you over to a wood table that currently holds some pens and a toolbox. His lips connect with your collarbone, then to the fat of your breast, as you lazily stroke his cock.

“Little smaller than I imagined,” you cheekily say before Simon lightly nips at your nipple with his teeth, making you moan. He laughs against your skin, sending vibrations throughout your entire body.

“And yet it still makes you fuckin’ wet,” he cockily says as his hand slips to graze your glistening cunt. You don’t even talk; you have no breath left to speak. So, you let out a pathetic noise instead—somewhere between a moan and whine.

“Let me play with ya for a minute,” he murmurs into your ribs, pointer finger brushing against your labia. You squirm at his touch.

“Simon. I just…I need you in me,” you beg, pulling him by the hair so his ear is by your mouth, rocking your hips against his finger in you.

“I’m gonna come as soon as I’m in you, Sweetheart,” he says honestly, pointer plunging into your cunt, gently touching your clit.

“I don’t care…just…just,” you rasp, unable to speak with his hand plunging into you.

“Fine, fine,” he says. He gives his cock a tug before he pokes your entrance with the head, gripping your hips before he pushes inside you a little. He grits his teeth at the sensation, and you whine at the slight pain.

“Open up for me. Come on,” he hisses, throwing his head back as he sinks deeper into you. “There she goes,” he praises, gripping one of your legs and positioning it so it lies straight up against his body. You both groan at the deeper contact.

“Shit,” you curse as Simon starts up a good pace. His cock managed to graze you in all of the right spots—reaching places you didn’t even know was possible.

You knew you both wouldn’t last long at this pace—you’re honestly not so sure he would have lasted at any pace. He was painfully hard when you hadn’t even whipped your tits out.

Though you thought the jokes were on him, as soon as he brought his thumb to stimulate your clit, you were skewing curses, tightening around his cock.

“Fuck. That’s it…that’s—” he panted out as he felt you clamp around him, hearing you yell, ‘Coming,” before he followed with his orgasm.

Once both of your orgasms have subsided, he helps you off the table to grab your clothing. You gently tug on your lip before you speak.

“Also…about the payment?” You shyly question as he pulls his jeans up.

“Consider it handled,” he says with a smirk as he zips up his jeans.

a/n: bye once again i abused the italicized button

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[enderlovez]

Germs

Spencer Reid x Female BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 719

Summary: Everyone is shocked when the genius germaphobe drinks directly from your water bottle, you even more so when it was actually just a plot.

Content Warning: Mentions of germs and being a germaphobe, reader has some slightly unholy thoughts, slightly suggestive at the end

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

It's just a normal day in the BAU. You're silently sitting at your desk, scanning through the paperwork from the case you and the team just closed. It was a hard one, and you had to spend close to three weeks across the country, so it's a relief to be home.

Only problem there — the case was located in Arizona, a state commonly known for being hot. So you, and everyone else, got into the habit of drinking extensive amounts of water, a habit that's surprisingly hard to kick now that you're back in Virginia.

Not to mention how it feels so much colder here now.

You shudder and pick up the water bottle you picked up from the gas station on the way here, pulling up the top and drinking deeply from it. It's not like you're even really thirsty, but you just can't help it!

"Y/N?" someone asks from behind you, making you jump and let out this embarrassing squeak. You turn spin around in your chair to find the one and only Doctor Spencer Reid, standing in front of you with his hands clasped, nervously twiddling his thumbs.

"What can I do for you, Handsome?" you ask teasingly, fighting back the goofy smile that threatens to take over your face.

Embarrassed, his face turns a delicious crimson, hands moving to clasp together behind his back. He's so freaking adorable, all you want to do is eat him sometimes.

"May I please have..." The rest of his sentence is lost in translation as his voice trails off into something you can't hear, but you're sure that no matter what he was asking, you'd give it to him in a heartbeat.

"M'sorry, what was that?" you ask, relaxing back into your chair as you observe him. He really is the prettiest boy you've ever seen, with his glasses and puppy-dog eyes. It's a miracle you can even form a , coherent sentence when he's around.

"May I please..." he starts again, pausing briefly to look around, "may I please have some of your water?"

Your eyes widen at his request, but you smile and nod nonetheless, staring at the bottle in your hands as you pass it up to him, the top already popped up.

You're not sure what you really expected him to do with it, considering Spencer Reid would never put his mouth where someone elses was, especially not when he saw it there less than a minute ago.

But here he is, drinking from your water bottle like his life depends on it. He doesn't realize just how many people are watching him — the pretty germaphobe who doesn't even like shaking hands with people — doing something as simple as drinking.

It's not the drinking that they're watching.

You're definitely not thinking about the fact that he's drinking most of your water, just about the fact that he's indirectly touching his mouth with yours, and to say you're mesmerized is an understatement.

"Thank you," he murmurs when he's finished, a guilty yet somehow mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks between the almost empty bottle and you. "I'm sorry for drinking all your water. Maybe I could take you out to dinner to make up for it?" He pauses for a second, leaning slightly forward so only you can hear him. "As a... date?"

Mouth agape, all you can do is nod as he hands the bottle back to you and makes his way back to his desk. It's entirely unprofessional for the work place, but you can't exactly make yourself care.

"Reid, you know there's a place you can get your own water, right?" Morgan questions, eyes glued to Spencer as if he'd grown a third head.

"I do," he says as he sits back down at his desk, "that just felt a whole lot cleaner."

A breath you didn't realize you were holding escapes you as you slump down into your chair like a ragdoll, looking down at the still-wet nozzle of the bottle. With your face blushing madly, your put your mouth over the very place his was barely thirty seconds and down the rest of your water.

Since when was Spencer Reid so smooth?

Since when was he interested in you?

You have to get onto that man.

[solxamber]

This is a funny lil idea I just had but have you ever thought about rook and a reader that acts like his behavior is normal? Like, they know he's literally stalking them but is perfectly fine with it for some strange reason.

And when they finally do start dating, everyone is either

1. Convinced that he’s threatening your life

Or

2. Judging you like crazy because WHY

Totally Normal Romance || Rook Hunt

You've fallen hard for the hunter and you're dating! But when you tell your friends the good news, they immediately try staging interventions. Huh, I wonder why?

thank you for waiting! I loved the idea a lot and it became way longer than I expected but I hope you like it!

You’ve somehow managed to fall into a relationship with Rook, the Academy's resident “Hunter” and renowned tracker of students who can't even attempt to hide without him finding them.

Most people would be a little alarmed—okay, extremely alarmed—by Rook’s knack for showing up whenever you breathe a little too loud. But you? You’re weirdly, unapologetically chill about it.

The day starts as it usually does. Rook is outside your door bright and early, practically sparkling, ready to report how many steps you took in your sleep, how many breaths you exhaled, and what percentage of your dreams contained images of his dashing silhouette.

You nod, acting like he’s merely sharing the weather, and go about your morning. People are whispering in the hallways; they’ve noticed that the school’s “greatest hunter” is now your personal shadow.

Some think you're being held hostage in an unholy union. Others are convinced you’ve cracked under the pressure of Rook’s endless poetic monologues and have, in fact, lost your mind.

When the two of you officially start dating, the rumors take a delightful nosedive into the surreal. Rook is, naturally, over the moon, reciting sonnets about your “captivating acceptance of his pursuit.” Friends beg you to “see the red flags.”

You just smile as Rook emerges from behind a tree on your morning jog to hand you a flower he found “radiant with the essence of your aura.”

Intervention Attempt 1: Adeuce

You’re just sitting down to lunch when Ace and Deuce suddenly approach you with identical expressions of horror and determination, like they’ve somehow stumbled into a horror movie and taken it upon themselves to rescue the clueless protagonist. Ace, as usual, decides to take the lead.

“We need to talk. About... him.” He jerks a thumb toward Rook, who’s lurking—quite visibly—behind a tree, watching you with a delighted grin as if the entire world is his favorite reality TV show.

You shrug. “Rook’s just being his usual sweet self.”

Deuce’s mouth falls open. “That’s... sweet? The dude’s literally hiding in a tree to stare at you.”

You wave a hand. “He’s just thoughtful, you know? He knew I needed a pick-me-up yesterday, so he waited in my closet for two hours just to surprise me with a motivational haiku.”

Ace’s expression is somewhere between pity and disbelief. “You’re serious? That’s... sweet?”

“Uh-huh.” You pop a fry in your mouth, unfazed. “Honestly, it’s kind of nice to have someone that dedicated.”

Ace and Deuce share a silent, horrified look, one that clearly says, Our friend has lost it. Then, Ace leans in close. “You know, if he’s threatening you, you can blink twice or something. We can handle him.”

You burst into laughter, almost choking on your fry. “Guys, come on! Rook’s harmless. It’s just his way of showing affection.”

Behind the tree, Rook notices you laughing and beams even wider, waving with both hands like you’re his entire world. Ace sighs, looking like he’s just signed up for an impossible mission. Deuce’s brows knit together in concern, like he’s mentally preparing himself to guard you from the “danger” Rook apparently presents.

Intervention Attempt 2: Leona

Leona lounges on the couch as you walk into the room, looking way too relaxed—except for the sharp glint in his eye as he watches you. You know that look; it’s the we need to talk look, though Leona would sooner eat his tail than say it outright.

“You know that guy who keeps creeping around you?” he starts, his tone casual, as if he’s talking about the weather. “The hunter dude?”

“Oh, Rook? Yeah, he’s great!” you reply with a smile, clearly missing his hint.

Leona raises an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Great? The guy basically tracks your every move like a lion on a hunt. He’s probably memorized your breathing patterns by now.”

You laugh it off, waving a hand. “Leona, you make it sound creepy. Rook’s just… committed.”

Leona smirks, leaning back with a lazy yawn. “Committed to what, stalking you?”

You shrug. “It’s romantic in its own way! He writes poetry about me, makes sure I’m always safe... It’s kinda nice knowing someone’s always watching out for me.”

“Watching out for you,” Leona mutters, barely concealing a snicker. “Sure. Or just watching you.” He tilts his head, examining you as if you’re some rare species that’s suddenly shown up in the savanna. “You sure he hasn’t put a spell on you? You sound completely out of it.”

You smirk. “Leona, you’re just not used to people showing appreciation.”

Leona narrows his eyes, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You keep saying stuff like that, herbivore, and I’m gonna assume you’ve completely lost it.” He yawns and flops back onto the couch, muttering under his breath, “That crazy hunter and his weird haikus…”

You walk away, oblivious, and Leona just shakes his head with a smirk, quietly wondering if he’ll end up having to pry Rook off of you someday.

Intervention Attempt 3: Riddle

Riddle stares at you over his teacup, his brows knit with concern as you talk about your latest “date” with Rook. You've barely started describing his newest poetic declaration when Riddle sets his cup down, looking thoroughly alarmed.

“I… don’t understand,” he interrupts. “Did you say he was waiting in the shadows outside your dorm window at midnight? And he… recited sonnets?”

You nod, completely unbothered. “Oh, yes! And he was so sweet about it. He even had a rose between his teeth, Riddle. He really went all out.”

Riddle’s expression looks like he’s been hit with cold water. “And you… didn’t feel unsafe?”

“Why would I?” you laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s Rook. He’s just being his passionate self.”

Riddle’s face hardens, and he stands up, clutching his teacup with barely contained fury. “This is unacceptable! You must report this immediately—stalking is a severe issue! You don’t have to tolerate this treatment, no matter how he frames it!”

You blink, surprised. “Riddle, it’s really okay. He’s not stalking me; he’s just… really attentive.”

Riddle’s lips thin, and he looks at you with pity, as if you're just too naive to understand the danger you’re in. “It’s worse than I thought,” he mutters, eyes blazing. “He’s… he’s manipulating you into thinking this is acceptable!”

Riddle finally sighs, shaking his head. “If you’re too afraid to tell him off, I’ll do it for you. As a dorm leader, it’s my duty to protect students in my care.”

“Riddle, I appreciate it, but I don’t need protection,” you insist, patting him on the shoulder. “Rook is harmless.”

Riddle huffs, looking like he’s already planning out the verbal lashing he’s going to deliver to Rook the next time he sees him. “You’ll see,” he says. “When you realize the danger, remember I warned you.”

You just smile, and he glances at you like you’re a sheep walking happily into a lion’s den.

Intervention Attempt 4: Malleus (And Lilia?)

When Malleus summons you to Diasomnia for what he calls an “urgent matter,” you’re intrigued. However, when you arrive, his expression is downright grave. The flickering candlelight gives his face an eerie glow as he looks at you, his usually calm demeanor laced with worry.

He leans in close, and his eyes narrow. “I understand you… spend much time with Rook,” he says, voice almost a whisper.

“Uh, yeah? We’re dating,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Malleus blinks, clearly taken aback, as if he was expecting an entirely different answer. “So you willingly… permit him to lurk in the shadows around you?”

“Well, yes, he’s got that whole poetic ‘silent protector’ thing going on.” You shrug, but Malleus doesn’t look any less alarmed.

“I see,” Malleus says, more to himself than to you. “So he’s already gained control over you.” He sighs, looking deeply concerned. “Fear not. I will protect you from him.”

Before you can respond, Lilia, who’s been silently watching with a smirk, bursts into laughter.

“Oh, Malleus, you’re taking this far too seriously,” he cackles, clapping a hand on Malleus’s shoulder. “Rook isn’t dangerous—well, unless you count bad poetry as a weapon.”

Malleus doesn’t look convinced. “You find this funny?” he asks, frowning.

“Of course I do!” Lilia grins, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. “They’re dating, Malleus. Rook doesn’t even know how to scare a fly when it comes to them.”

Malleus turns back to you, still worried. “Are you… certain you’re safe?”

You nod, but the look of pity in his eyes says he’s clearly unconvinced, as if he thinks you’re only defending Rook out of fear. Meanwhile, Lilia gives you a wink and a mischievous grin, enjoying the absurdity of the whole situation.

Intervention Attempt 5: Azul

You’re strolling past the Mostro Lounge, hoping to grab some food, when Azul intercepts you, looking unusually serious. He gestures for you to follow him into a private corner, glancing around as if he's worried someone might overhear.

“I understand you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Rook,” he says, his tone grave, though there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s already calculating something.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, we’re dating.”

Azul’s expression shifts to something between shock and pity, as if he’s just heard you’ve taken up with the Grim Reaper himself. “Dating? So… you’re aware he’s stalking you?”

You shrug. “He’s not stalking—he’s just keeping an eye out. Very vigilant, actually.”

Azul’s face darkens. “Right… vigilant.” He clears his throat. “In that case, allow me to offer the services of Floyd and Jade for your… protection.”

You blink. “Protection?”

“Yes. For a reasonable price, of course,” he says with a smooth smile, back to his usual self. “Consider it a sort of… insurance in case this arrangement with Rook takes a… dramatic turn.”

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Imagine if you had two skilled guards who could tail him as closely as he tails you.”

Before you can respond, Floyd appears out of nowhere, draping an arm over your shoulder and grinning. “We could totally scare him, too. Make him feel like he’s the one being hunted!”

Jade nods from behind him, his smile too sharp to be comforting. “Yes, we’re more than happy to shadow Rook if you’d like.”

You stare at the twins, whose predatory smiles seem to stretch further the longer they look at you. “Guys, I appreciate the offer, but Rook’s fine. I’m not being held captive.”

Azul raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push, instead sighing in that dramatic way of his. “Very well. The offer stands should you need it. Just remember: one word, and we’re at your service.”

As you walk away, you catch a quiet exchange between the twins.

“Do you think we’d even get the chance to tail him, Jade?”

“Hmm… I’d say it’s more likely he’d follow us, Floyd.”

You shake your head, amused. Only Azul would find a way to capitalize on your love life.

Intervention(?) Attempt 6: Vil

You’re backstage in Pomefiore, helping Vil with his costume adjustments for his latest role when he pauses, hands on his hips, giving you a long, evaluative look.

“So… you and Rook?” he finally says, an eyebrow raised with an almost resigned air.

“Yeah.” You grin, shrugging. “I mean, he’s… intense, but it works.”

Vil sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple as if that would ward off the headache he’s certain to get from this conversation. “You realize that most people would find his behavior concerning, right?”

You wave him off. “He’s harmless. Just… expressive.”

He gives a soft, humorless laugh, as though he’s not sure if you’re just that naive or that confident. “You’re both completely mad, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you say, leaning back with a shrug. “But I like it that way.”

Vil sighs again, and there’s a glimmer of a smile, even if it’s hidden behind a look of sheer exasperation. “Well, at least he won’t make you look bad. He’ll be too busy swooning in the background to do anything truly reckless.” He adjusts your collar with an air of finality, giving you a nod. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

And with that, he returns to his preparations, mumbling something under his breath about how only you could take Rook’s intensity as a “feature” rather than a “warning sign.” But you catch the faint smile on his face as he walks away, leaving you feeling oddly reassured.

Final Intervention: Idia

Idia’s “intervention” is the sort of spectacle that would probably have your other friends dial emergency numbers if they walked in. He's got his laptop perched on a stack of comics, his tablet propped up, and an honest-to-Seven laser pointer he’s brandishing like it’s going to physically ward off any poor life choices.

He points at his first diagram, titled in neon-green font: "Why Your Boyfriend Should Not Be Tracking Your Every Move Like a Supervillain”. It's complete with cartoonish red arrows and diagrams that could pass for an undergrad thesis on questionable behavior.

Rook’s sitting beside you, nodding along with a strangely approving look, as if Idia's crude drawings are just part of the "unrefined genius" he'd expect from mere mortals.

When Idia clicks to his next slide—a very intense pie chart on “Reasons You’re Definitely in Danger"—you shrug. “Look, Idia, everyone’s got their quirks, right? He leaves poetry scrolls for me; you send messages only through encrypted text channels with six layers of memes as the header.”

Idia stares at you, blinking, and drops his laser pointer. It rolls pathetically across the floor, and he looks like he’s two seconds away from fainting. “Th-This isn’t the same! I don’t leave my IP address in your flowerbeds!”

Rook, thrilled, interjects. “Ah, but would you not feel a poetic stirring in your heart if you did, monsieur? Every new line I compose is a love letter to the chase!”

Idia sways. You’re genuinely worried he might black out.

Life, as it turns out, continues with a healthy dose of Rook’s “love language,” which to everyone else looks like the dictionary definition of a security risk.

Yet, you find yourself smiling every time he swoops in with that glittering look in his eyes, poetry scrolls under his arm and a thousand strange ideas.

And even if everyone around you is either looking into exorcisms or planning escape routes, for you, it’s just another day of living your best life.

Masterlist

[misaerabl]

Pierced

CONTENT: wc…3.7k ✦ vampire reader x vampire hunter vi, vi being a good girl for reader teehee, biting, tit-sucking, a lot of sexual tension, vi calls reader a monster, reader calls vi a good girl (multiple times), vi was drinking a bit but she's still completely sober and aware, bloodsucking (not proofread at all, SORRY) SUMMARY: Vi has spent years hunting you, a vampire as beautiful as you are dangerous. She swore to put an end to your existence, yet every encounter ended the same—you taunting her, slipping through her grasp like smoke. But tonight is different?

She had been hunting you for years.

Vi didn’t know when it became an obsession—when the chase stopped being just about duty and started sinking its claws into something deeper, something darker. At first, it was simple: a vampire terrorizing the city, leaving behind bodies drained and discarded. A job for a hunter like her. But then she saw you.

Demonizingly beautiful. Unholy in the way that no creature should be. A face carved by something cruel, something that wanted to see men—and hunters—fall to their knees. Vi wasn’t weak. She told herself that every time she tracked your movements, every time she found herself too late, standing in the aftermath of your existence. She should’ve hated you. And she did.

But hate didn’t explain the way your voice haunted her long after you disappeared into the night. The way your taunts replayed in her head like a song she couldn’t shake.

“Poor Vi,” you had once cooed, perched on a rooftop above her, lips stained red. “You chase me like you don’t already belong to me.”

She almost got you that night. Almost. But you were always just out of reach.

Until now.

She was alone in her apartment, the silence pressing in as she nursed a drink and thought of ways to trap you, to finally end this sick game. But the air shifted. A prickle ran down her spine.

And then she saw it—your figure standing on her balcony, illuminated by the faint moonlight.

You had come to her.

Vi didn’t hesitate. The moment she saw you, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, she reached for the dagger at her belt. Silver. Blessed. The only thing she trusted against something like you.

She rose from her chair, movements fluid, controlled—only the sharp inhale of breath gave her away. She stepped outside, the night air cool against her skin, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her weapon.

And there you were.

Beautiful as ever. Too beautiful. Your crimson eyes locked onto hers, piercing, knowing, as if you could see straight through her—through the anger, the obsession, the flickering, unspoken thing that lingered beneath it all.

And you smiled. Gentle. Soft. So out of place on something as monstrous as you.

Vi’s grip tightened, but her feet felt heavier than they should.

"You’ve been thinking about me," you said, voice like a whisper, like a lullaby meant to ensnare. "I could feel it."

Vi exhaled through her nose. "Shame. I was hoping you’d feel this instead." She lifted the dagger just enough for you to see, the silver catching the moonlight.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move at all.

"You won’t use it."

Her jaw clenched. "You wanna test that theory?"

You tilted your head, amusement flickering across your face. "If it helps you sleep at night."

Vi hated the way your voice slithered under her skin, the way the space between you felt unbearably small despite the distance. She had spent years trying to kill you. So why did it feel like you were the one in control?

Vi’s voice was steady, sharp as a blade. “You’re a monster.”

You didn’t react. Not at first.

“You kill,” she continued, taking a slow step forward, dagger still poised. “You prey on people—innocent people. You feed on them like they’re nothing.” Her voice turned to steel. “And you expect me to believe that smile?”

A gasp left your lips, soft and exaggerated. You pressed a hand to your chest, fingers splayed over where your heart should be beating. The movement made Vi’s eyes flick down, just for a second—just long enough to notice the dried blood beneath your nails.

“Oh, Vi,” you sighed, tilting your head. “You wound me.” Your lips curled into something almost pouty, but the amusement in your eyes was undeniable.

Vi clenched her jaw. “You don’t get to act innocent when you still have someone’s blood on your hands.”

You glanced down at your fingers, examining them as if you’d forgotten. Then, you dragged one nail against your palm, smearing the blood slightly, before meeting her gaze again.

“I was hungry,” you admitted with a shrug. “Can you really blame me?”

Vi’s breath came a little too fast, her body too tense, her grip on the dagger too tight.

God, she hated you.

Or maybe—maybe she hated whatever it was you were doing to her.

You took a step forward, slow and deliberate, your gaze never leaving hers. Vi’s fingers twitched around the hilt of her dagger, but she didn’t move.

Didn’t run. Didn’t strike.

Didn’t do a damn thing as you closed the distance between you like a shadow creeping under a door.

“I bet you taste so good,” you murmured, voice low, dripping with something too dangerous to be called teasing. Your eyes flickered down, tracing the curve of her throat, the rapid pulse beneath her skin.

Vi swallowed, her grip tightening. "Try it, and I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever do."

You only smiled, stepping even closer. She could smell you now—something faintly sweet, something intoxicating, something that made her head feel too light.

"You say that," you mused, tilting your head. "But your heart is racing, Vi. Just a little."

Her jaw clenched. "You don’t scare me."

"No?" You reached out, fingers ghosting over the collar of her shirt, and Vi flinched. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. Because your touch was light, deliberate, like you were savoring the moment. "Then why haven’t you stopped me?"

She should’ve shoved you away. Should’ve driven the dagger straight into your ribs.

Instead, she stood there, breathing too hard, letting you lean in until your lips were just barely brushing the air between you.

And then you whispered, “I wonder if you’d let me.”

You moved even closer, so close that Vi could feel the faintest shift in the air between you. Your lashes fluttered as you took a slow, deliberate inhale, letting her scent fill your lungs.

And she just stood there.

Frozen. Like she hadn’t spent years chasing you, swearing she’d kill you the second she got the chance. But here she was, dagger clutched tightly in her hand, and she wasn’t using it.

Vi exhaled sharply through her nose. “You really don’t value your life, do you?”

You let out a low hum, tilting your head. “Oh, I do. I just know you won’t take it.”

Vi let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think I won’t kill you?”

You grinned, fangs just barely peeking past your lips. “I think you’d miss me too much.”

Vi scowled, but you saw the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed. The tension crackled between you, thick and electric, coiling around her like a serpent waiting to strike.

And then, with the slow grace of something that had all the time in the world, you leaned in—your lips hovering just above her pulse.

Vi sucked in a breath, muscles locking, but she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t stop you.

Your tongue flicked out, warm and deliberate, tracing a slow, languid path along her neck.

Vi shuddered.

Her grip on the dagger faltered, just slightly.

And you—oh, you smiled against her skin.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes again. They were darker now, filled with something you couldn’t quite place—something she probably didn’t want to name.

“Is that what you really think of me?” you asked, voice smooth, velvety. “A monster?”

Vi’s jaw tightened. “You kill people.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “So do you.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, maybe. Her breath was uneven, her pulse still hammering beneath her skin—so loud, so alive.

You leaned in again, not bothering to hide your smirk as your tongue flicked out once more, dragging along the spot you’d just teased.

Vi exhaled sharply through her nose, a muscle in her jaw twitching.

Your voice was barely a whisper against her skin.

“Funny,” you murmured. “You taste like you don’t want me to stop.”

Her entire body tensed when you leaned down, her heart skipping a beat at the feel of your nose brushing against her neck. It was embarrassing—how her skin tingled at the simple action, how her breath hitched against her will. She forced herself to look at you, to keep her head straight, when every part of her wanted to tilt—wanted to give you more access.

Your voice was a purr against her ear. “Do you think you could quench my thirst?” Your lips barely grazed her skin, your breath warm, teasing. “Darling, you just look so good…”

Vi shuddered. She hated this. Hated how her body responded, how she wasn’t pushing you away, wasn’t lifting her damn dagger to stop you.

“Stop.” Her voice came out strained, uneven. “Please… stop.”

Yet she did nothing.

And neither did you.

Your hand rested on her shoulder, your fingers curling slightly, grounding her in something that felt like both comfort and possession. And then—soft, barely there—you kissed her neck.

Vi let out a sharp exhale, her fists clenching at her sides.

God, she already tasted so good.

You hummed, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of her—warm, alive, something utterly intoxicating.

“Stop,” she whispered again, weaker this time.

You pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Do you mean it?”

Silence.

Then—so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it—

“…No.”

Vi exhaled shakily. “Don’t stop.”

Your grin was slow, fangs glinting in the dim light.

You were both vulnerable, at each other’s mercy. It was almost ironic. You could tear her apart, sink your fangs into her skin, and drain her in mere seconds—and she, she could ram her dagger into your heart without hesitation. But for some reason, neither of you moved.

Everything was so messed up, yet, in a twisted way, it made perfect sense.

Vi swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. She looked up into your eyes, her own filled with something she refused to admit—something she couldn’t hide. The need. The desire.

It was all there.

"Will you let me… taste you?"

Your voice was a whisper, smooth and intoxicating, wrapping around her like a spell. Vi hesitated—just for a moment. She shouldn’t want this. She couldn’t want this.

And yet… she did.

“Yes,” she breathed.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across your lips. “Good girl.”

You leaned in, your breath warm against her skin, savoring the moment before finally sinking your fangs into her neck.

The moment your fangs pierced her skin, warmth flooded your senses—rich, intoxicating, utterly consuming. Her blood was unlike anything you’d tasted before, sweet with a hint of something electric, something alive. It burned as it slid down your throat, like the finest of wines mixed with the very essence of her—strength, defiance, and something dangerously close to surrender.

Vi’s breath hitched, her body going rigid beneath you before melting, a sharp gasp slipping from her lips. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as if she could fight against the way her body reacted—the way heat coiled low in her stomach, the way her pulse fluttered under your lips.

You drank slowly, savoring every drop, your tongue brushing against the wound as if soothing the sting, as if pretending this was something gentle. But it wasn’t. It was possession. It was hunger.

And God, she tasted divine.

Her head fell back, her body going limp against you, and you caught her with ease—one arm wrapping around her back, the other cradling the back of her head. You held her like something precious, like something yours.

“God…” she moaned, voice breathless, the sharp sting of your bite mixing with a pleasure she didn’t dare name.

You pulled back after a few seconds, your tongue sweeping over the fresh wound, lapping up the remnants of her blood. Some of it still dripped from your lips, warm and rich, and you swallowed it down as you stared at her.

She was panting, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The look in her eyes was a tangled mess of disbelief and want, like she couldn’t comprehend how much she had needed your touch—how much she still craved it.

When you leaned in again, dragging your tongue slowly over the bite, she let out a soft, helpless whine. Her neck stung, her body ached, but none of it mattered.

You’re a monster.

The thought rang in her head, clear and sharp like the blade she still grasped in her trembling hand. She should drive it into your chest, pierce through flesh and bone, end this before she lost herself any further. It’s what you deserved. It’s what she had sworn to do.

And yet… she couldn’t.

Her grip on the dagger tightened, but her other hand—traitorous, desperate—clung to you instead. Her body burned where you had touched her, where your lips had lingered, where your fangs had torn into her. It should have made her sick. It should have filled her with rage.

But all she felt was need.

She needed more of you.

The beautiful, haunting creature before her—so utterly inhuman, yet so devastatingly real—had her wrapped in something she didn’t understand. You were terrifying in your power, in your hunger, in the way you smiled at her like you knew every thought racing through her mind.

And God, maybe you did.

Vi swallowed, her breath unsteady, her body betraying her as she leaned into your touch instead of pulling away. You were beautiful. Beautiful in a way that was wrong, that was twisted, that was broken.

And she wanted more.

Maybe it was the blood loss. Maybe it was the heat still pulsing through her veins from where your lips had been. Maybe it was the way you looked at her—head tilted, eyes glowing, licking her blood from your lips like she was the finest thing you’d ever tasted.

Oh, God, forgive her. She wasn’t thinking straight.

Her dagger still sat heavy in her grasp, her fingers curled around the hilt like it was the last thread tethering her to reason. But reason felt distant now, slipping through her like sand, replaced by something darker. Something warmer.

“You did so well for me,” you purred, your voice dripping with satisfaction, with something she couldn’t name. “Such a good girl.”

She shouldn’t have felt that shiver down her spine.

She shouldn’t have been staring at your lips, still stained with her blood.

She shouldn’t have wanted to hear more.

Her hand slipped beneath the fabric of your elegant, long dress, fingers trailing over the bare skin beneath your low-cut top, feeling the cold skin of your breasts.

You gasped, caught off guard by the sudden heat of her touch. The dagger she had held so tightly fell from her fingers, clattering to the ground, forgotten. In that moment, you knew—she was yours.

Her guard was completely shattered. She no longer cared about the blade, the danger, or the consequences. All that mattered was you.

Her hands roamed over your skin, pulling you closer, every touch telling you what words could not. She was lost, consumed by the need you had sparked in her. And you could feel it. Every tremor in her fingers, every breath she took, spoke of a desire she couldn’t fight anymore.

She was completely undone. And she didn’t want to be saved.

She pushed you gently, the sudden pressure forcing you backward. Your lower back collided with the cool railing of the balcony, the edge digging into your spine, but you hardly noticed.

Now both of her hands remained on your skin, trailing with deliberate slowness beneath the cloth of your dress, exploring, caressing. The sensation was electric, every touch setting your nerves on fire as she grew bolder, her fingers brushing over every inch of exposed flesh.

You could feel the heat radiating from her, the desperation in the way she touched you, as if she couldn't get close enough. The world around you faded, leaving only the sound of her breath and the feeling of her hands, relentless and tender at the same time.

And still, she didn't stop.

You could hear her heavy, desperate gasps, each one shaky and uneven, but she didn’t break the kiss. Not even for a second. Her lips were pressed to yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation, no space for restraint.

Every breath she took mingled with yours, each one more desperate than the last, as if she was trying to inhale all of you, trying to drown in the very essence of you. Her hands continued their exploration, her touch frantic now, but still gentle—like she was afraid of breaking you, even as she pulled you closer.

But you could feel it—the hunger. The desire. It was raw and uncontained, and you couldn’t deny that you were just as lost in it as she was.

Her skilled fingers traced patterns on your bare skin, moving up to cup your breasts perfectly, causing a whisper of a moan to escape your lips. She broke the kiss only to trail her mouth along your jawline, nipping gently at your earlobe before moving down to your neck.

Her lips found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, soft at first, then slowly growing bolder as she began to suck, the pressure sending waves of shivers through your body. You gasped, your spine arching slightly at the sensation, every nerve on fire as she worked her way down your neck.

Her hands, relentless and sure, continued their path, moving over your chest, massaging your breasts with a delicate yet insistent pressure. Her thumbs circled over your hardened peaks, each motion slow and calculated, driving you to the edge of madness. She was so careful, so deliberate, it was as if she was savoring every second.

You could feel your heart racing beneath her lips, pounding in your chest as her kisses grew hungrier, more urgent. She nuzzled against your collarbone, breathing you in, her scent mingling with yours in the air. Then she kissed her way down your collar, open-mouthed, leaving heated trails of pleasure behind.

Her fingers tightened possessively around your breasts, and it felt as though she was claiming you, marking you as hers.

For a moment, the roles seemed reversed. She was the hungry one, the one consuming, devouring every inch of you with an intensity that made you dizzy. And you couldn’t help but let her.

Vi's hands left your breasts to tangle in your hair, holding your head still as she continued her kisses down your collar, leaving a trail of warmth against your skin. She buried her face against your chest, breathing in deeply.

Her mouth moved lower, capturing one hard peak between her lips and sucking deeply. You moaned, your fingers finding her hair and pulling slightly. She released the first breast only to capture the second one, her tongue flicking against the hardened nub before she sucked again, alternating between your breasts hungrily.

One hand remained on your other breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between her fingers as her mouth moved from one breast to the other, alternating between gentle sucking and tender biting. The sensation made you arch your back, pressing yourself further into her mouth as one hand found its way into her hair, pulling her closer.

You tossed your head back, your hair flying behind you as she continued to worship your breasts. Her free hand roamed your body, feeling your curves, your waist, before settling on your other breast, squeezing and kneading it as she sucked hard on the other, making you cry out in ecstasy.

You were panting now, your chest heaving as she continued her dual attention on your breasts. She looked up, seeing your face contorted with pleasure, your mouth open in a silent 'O' as she alternated between sucking and biting gently, her hands never stopping their kneading and squeezing.

The cool night breeze was a sharp contrast to the heat that simmered between you two. It swept across the balcony, tousling your hair, the wind grazing your skin like a tender, fleeting touch. The chill seemed to only intensify the warmth that pulsed between your bodies, an electric tension that refused to dissipate, no matter how soft the breeze was.

Suddenly, a rustling sound from just outside snapped you out of the moment. You instinctively pushed Vi back, and the look she gave you was almost childlike—a mix of confusion and disappointment, as if you had taken away her favorite toy.

"Do you hear that?" you asked, your voice low and tense.

She grunted, clearly frustrated at the interruption. "It’s probably just an animal," she muttered, but before you could respond, she quickly leaned in again, trying to close the distance between you.

You stopped her, lifting your top back up with a teasing smile, as if reminding her of the world outside the bubble you’d both created. Her eyes flashed with a mix of irritation and desire, but you could see the fight leave her as she stood there, waiting for the next move.

"God, you taste so good," Vi murmured, her voice desperate, and you smirked, enjoying the praise. "As did you," you replied smoothly, savoring the moment.

But just as you were about to lose yourself in the moment with her, a voice called from the hallway. "Vi! Are you with someone up there?"

Vi didn’t answer, her eyes still on you, but the voice repeated, "I’m coming up!" Footsteps could be heard approaching the stairs.

Her face twisted in frustration, but her desire for you was overwhelming. "It’s nothing. They’ll leave eventually." She tried to reach for you again, clearly not wanting to be interrupted.

You stood firm, cold and unyielding, watching the door as you said, "Go."

Vi hesitated, the want in her eyes clashing with her need to keep you close. But eventually, reluctantly, she left to answer the door. You could hear her barely muffled voice as she spoke to the person on the other side.

The loud knocking sounded again, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone stepping inside. And then the voice—sharply—spoke, "Is that a bite mark on your neck, Violet?"

You knew it was time to disappear.

Without another word, you slipped out of the balcony, vanishing into the night, your figure swallowed by the shadows. You didn’t look back. You never did.

Vi, however, would be left with nothing but her own confusion and desire, and you knew she would find her way back to you.

[steddieasitgoes]

Eddie helps Jeff and Grant move into their freshman college dorms. Eddie's not going to college; it took him six years to graduate high school. He's not about to put more time and now money into a dead-end education, but he respects the guys' decision.

They're upset the university's stupid roommate questionare didn't pair them together. They answered everything exactly the same, and yet they still got split up. It's bullshit. Eddie knows it, they know it, everyone knows it. But it is what it is. Jeff doesn't want to make waves with the school, and Grant's just happy they accepted his sorry ass, so they'll have to live with it.

Jeff, Gareth, and Grant are currently figuring out how they're going to smuggle a microwave into Grant's room. Eddie leaves them to it, already holding a box marked for Jeff in his hands. He saunters out of the elevator and down the hall toward Jeff's room, nodding his head at anyone who does the same to him.

College is weird, he thinks. No one has sneered at him -- not even the frat dude bro type who checked Jeff and Grant in earlier. Maybe it's true what they say, college is full of open-minded people. He'll let the boys be the guinea pig on that one.

Jeff's door is half shut when he gets there, which is weird because he knows they left it wide open. They still have to bring in his record collection, and even though he ditched hundreds at home, the box is still way heavier than it should be. Having to put it down to open the door is a no go.

Thankfully, the box Eddie is carrying now is rather light so he turns and uses what little ass he has to bump the door open before sliding inside.

He stops dead in his tracks as Jeff's roommate turns to meet his gaze.

Eddie doesn't believe in God, doesn't believe in angels -- he likes to think Demons exist, but that's more of an aesthetic thing than anything else -- but he's pretty sure he's in the presence of an angel.

No, he's certain he is.

The large window between the beds shoots rays of sunshine through the horizontal blinds, painting the guy in beautiful shades of yellow and orange. And jesus h. christ the shadow gives off the illusion of a halo around his gorgeous, lush, perfectly styled hair.

He's wearing a sweater -- how he's wearing a sweater in the sweltering heat, Eddie doesn't know, but he is -- with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Eddie can't help but let his eyes take in the miles and miles of sun-kissed skin, unmarked with ink like his own but decorated with freckles and moles that Eddie wants to trace, connecting them like constellations he spent decades staring at on the roof of the trailer back at home. And, okay, maybe a few other unholy thoughts also pop into his head -- sue him.

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at that. Of course Eddie's first thought upon stumbling on an angel is to wreck them.

"Hey, I'm Steve," the man says, extending a hand out to Eddie.

Jesus H. Christ, it's bigger than any hand has any right to be. Eddie's mind immediately wonders what else might be bigger than most. He can't help it.

"You must be Jeff," he smiles. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Yep, that's me!" Eddie says without thinking it through. He scrambles to put the box down and reaches out to shake Steve's hand.

It's a firm handshake, what Wayne would call "business-like," but it sends a burst of electricity coursing through Eddie's body. It's silly, really silly, but Eddie doesn't think his hand has ever fit so perfectly in someone else's before.

Maybe they're soulmates. He doesn't believe in those either, but he could if this Steve guys is his.

Steve smiles and drops his hand a second later and Eddie tries his best not to buckle under the loss of touch.

"What do you think of the place?" Steve says. His hands shoot to his waist, settling there as he gives the room a bitchy glance over. "It's a lot smaller than I was expecting."

"At least it's only a double," Eddie says. "My friend's stuck in a triple."

Poor Grant. As if losing out on rooming with Jeff isn't enough, he really got fucked.

Steve whistles lowly. "Damn, man, that sucks."

He squats then, digging through an already unopened box, and Eddie feels faint. His jeans were already tight, but with his new angle, they're stretched to the max, leaving very, very, very little to be imagined. And Eddie has no problem imagining anything, much less what the skin under those pale blue jeans looks like.

Steve's shirt rides up a bit as he leans over more, really sifting through the box now, and the tiny sliver of skin above the waistband of his boxers is enough to send Eddie into full-blown gremlin mode.

Maybe he should have applied to college.

"So, Jeff," Steve says, standing again and glancing between the two beds.

Neither has seemed to claim them yet. Jeff -- the real Jeff -- didn't want to be rude, and judging by the single box Steve's been looking through, he's only just started the move-in process.

"Got any bed preferences?"

Sharing it with you.

No, no! he scolds himself.

"Nope, have at it," Eddie says, casting his arms out wide and bending at the waist. He's not sure why he's done it, but by the time he registers how weird it might be, it's too late. So he commits to the bit, and it's worth it when Steve chuckles.

"Cool, cool," he nods. "I'll take this one, then." Steve shuffles over to the bed farthest from the door and tests the firmness with his hand. It gives just enough to make Steve smile. "I can work with this, if you know what I mean."

Eddie thinks he's really gone and died then because Steve honest to god winks at him.

Winks!

At. Him.

Eddie!

What the fuck.

"Yeah," he croaks, a little awkward and a whole lot aroused. He needs to get out of here before he jumps Jeff's roommate and accidentally gets him kicked out. Better yet, he needs to figure out how to get enrolled and kick Jeff out of his room himself. "Alright, well, I've got more shit to bring up, so I'll be back."

"I'll be here."

Eddie nods then bolts, ditching the elevator altogether and taking the three flights of stairs two at a time. Jeff's still arguing with boys when he gets down there, sweaty and out-of-breath.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" Gareth snaps.

"Oh no," Jeff winces. "Is my roommate a dick? Did he chase you out?"

"No," Eddie pants, shaking his head widly. He reaches out with both hands and slams them down on Jeff's shoulders way harder than he needs to. "Your roommate, Steve-- he's-- I think I'm in love."

The guys burst into laughter.

"Here we go again," Gareth says, rolling his eyes.

"You just met the guy," Grant adds. "How could you possibly be in love?"

"You can't be in love with my roommate," Jeff scolds, shaking Eddie's hand off of him.

"Jeff, Jefferson, Jeffery," Eddie rambles. "I am in love. He is the man I am going to marry. The one who will father my children. The one to tame this wild horse--"

"You've slept with two dudes, Eddie. I don't think that makes you a wild horse," Gareth scoffs.

Eddie ignores him. He doesn't have time to deal with Gareth. Not when Steve is upstairs waiting for him.

"I need to go back to him."

Eddie moves to step around the three, eager to grab another box with Jeff's name on it and get back to Steve. Back to the love of his life. But Jeff blocks him.

"No. No. Absolutely not," Jeff says, reeling Eddie back in. "I have to live with this guy for a year. You are not going back up there and making it weird."

"Well then I have good news for you," Eddie says, wicked grin already breaking out onto his face.

"This can't be good," Grant mumbles.

"You don't even have to go up there. He thinks I'm Jeff."

"Okay, but you're not Jeff," the real Jeff says, crossing his arms. "I'm Jeff and I'm going to go to my room and introduce myself to my roommate and you're going to stay far, far, far away from him."

Eddie shakes his head. "You can't do that! He'll think I'm a liar."

"You are a liar," Gareth butts in.

"Eddie," Jeff groans. "I have to go up there! I live here. I'm Jeff. He needs to know the truth."

"Or, or!" Eddie shouts, full of frantic energy now. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, mind reeling a million miles an hour as the plan starts to form in his head. This could work. It could totally work. "How about I pretend to be you for the next year and you can be me."

"Dude, no!" Jeff scoffs. "I worked my ass of to get here. I'm not trading lives with you so you can try to fuck my roommate."

"Oh, I won't have to try," Eddie says. "He might have already offered."

"Oh my god. My roommate thinks I want to fuck him."

"Your roommate doesn't even know you exist," Grant corrects.

"What were you thinking?" Jeff shouts.

"He clearly wasn't thinking with his head," Gareth says.

"This is a disaster."

"No," Eddie says, shaking his head. He doesn't know why they're being so catastrophic about this. It's fine. It's all going to be fine. "Okay, new plan, I'll pretend to be you but only in your dorm. You can still go to class and do all the college shit. I'll only be Jeff to Steve."

"And where am I supposed to live?"

"With Grant."

"Asshole! I'm already in a triple! We can't house another person."

"And you're not even enrolled!" Jeff adds. "What happens when the RA finds out? I'll get kicked out and you'll--"

"Go to jail."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "I don't think people go to jail for impersonating college students, Gare."

"They might!" Gareth says, throwing his hands up. "Are you really going to risk going to jail just for a chance at fucking Jeff's roommate?"

"Well, I hope it would be more than fucking. I did say I was in love."

Gareth doesn't get it. The only thing he's ever loved is his drum set -- and he can't marry that. Not even in bumfuck Indiana.

He goes back to ignoring Gareth and focuses on Jeff. He braces his hand on his shoulders again and slinks down to his knees. He's not above begging. Not for this. Not for the angel that is Steve who is probably wondering where he is right now.

"Jeff," Eddie says, hitting the pavement. He retracts his hands from Jeff's shoulders and clasps them together in prayer. He's making a scene.

"Get up, you're making a scene," Jeff hisses, yanking him back to his feet. Eddie goes willingly and Jeff huffs. "Alright, alright. Let me think."

"You can't seriously be considering this," Grant chimes in. "Eddie's plan is shit. It'll never work."

"I know that!"

Eddie watches as Jeff paces in a circle with his eyes closed. If he wanted to, he could bolt right now. Grab a box and make a run for it. Lock himself and Steve in the room and not come out until he's sure Jeff won't rat him out. Holding Steve hostage might not be the best impression to give Steve though, so he stays put.

"Okay, how about this," Jeff says and Eddie gives him his undivided attention. "The two of us are going to go back to my dorm and we're going to set the record straight--"

"No! That's--"

"Eddie," Jeff says, firmly. "If you really do love my roommate or well, you want to eventually love him. You have to tell him the truth."

Jeff's right. He's always right that's why he's going to college on a scholarship and Eddie's not. But he doesn't like it. Steve's going to think he's a total weirdo and he'll never get a chance to see what's actually under those tight ass pants.

Still, Jeff's right.

"Fine."

Steve really is an angel because he doesn't even bat an eye at the truth. He does laugh, but Eddie doesn't mind that. He wishes he had his cassette recorder and a mic so he could record it. It's music to his damn ears, and he knows a thing or two about music.

Jeff and Steve hit it off and Eddie tries not to pout about it as he continues lugging in box after box. When Eddie's van is finally empty, Grant and Gareth meet up with them in Jeff's room. Steve introduces himself and Eddie can tell they're both silently judging him.

Yes, this is the dude he would risk going to jail for, Gareth. Eddie thinks, he hopes Gareth gets the message in the glare he shoots his way. He thinks he does.

It turns out Steve also has a best friend who just moved in, too. She's in a different building than them, but he's meeting up with her for pizza at the parlor down the street. He invites them all to go and Eddie says yes on behalf of all of them a little to quickly.

When they get there, Steve introduces them all -- Jeff, Gareth, Grant. He gets all their names right, even Gareth, but when he gets to Eddie, he smirks. "And this," he says, smiling as he slings an arm around Eddie's shoulder. "This is not-Jeff my not-roommate."

"Hi, Not Jeff," Robin says.

Eddie laughs and introduces himself to her with his real name and Robin nods before her eyes lock on with Steve. He can tell they're non-verbally communicating with each other. It's not unlike the way he is with the boys. One look is all it takes sometimes for them to know what he's thinking.

It's weird watching it happen from the outside and especially difficult when he's still stuck under Steve's arm. Not that he minds that part not at all.

Finally, her lips quirk up into a smile and she pulls her gaze from Steve, letting it land on Eddie. At the exact same time, Steve's name gets called and he excuses himself to get pizza, leaving the two of them alone.

Robin's smile falters just a bit as she takes a step closer to him, replacing the spot where Steve just was. "Just so you know, I'm obsessed with Murder, She Wrote. If you hurt him, I know where to hide your body."

Eddie doesn't have time to even think of a retort before she's scampering off to help Steve with the pizzas.

He might not be enrolled in college, but he has a strange feeling he's going to spend a lot of time up here from now on.

[auteurdefeu]

I keep thinking a lot about Alastor’s wound from an angelic weapon… that’s not meant to heal on its own, and Lucifer knows it. Those things are meant to be fatal, and it’s by some unholy miracle that the Radio Demon is still standing and pretending that nothing was wrong. But of course, Lucifer knows. It’s hard to ignore when he reeks so strongly of angelic energy.

He swears to himself that any act of kindness he shows Alastor is to spare Charlie, but he’s noticed that most of the hotel’s residence seems to have a growing fondness for him, aside from maybe Husker. So perhaps it’s to spare them all the worry that he ignores yet another pointed comment on his height to instead call out the injury.

Alastor denies it. Not that he thinks he could convince the devil himself otherwise, but it was always fun to get under his skin, be as frustrating as possible. He insists he’s perfectly fine, that looking for his weaknesses would be a bad look on Lucifer if Charlie found out. As much as he hates his daughter being used against him, Lucifer reminds himself that he’s doing this for her to begin with.

Alastor doesn’t move when he steps closer, though, baring his teeth with his signature smile as his eyes narrowed in warning. Lucifer cocks his head to the side, eyes glossing over with a golden glow as he feels the remnants of a holy injury, how wide it stretched across his torso and how deep of a laceration. If it wasn’t so infuriating that Alastor thought himself better by just pretending to be uninjured, lying to the very girl that welcomed him in with open arms, it might’ve been impressive how long he stood in his current state.

When Lucifer reaches out, sharp claws wrap around his wrist in a warning, not yet breaking skin or pushing him away. Lucifer just stared back at the Radio Demon, knowing that no civil words would be said if either of them opened their mouths. They were both stubborn. Eventually, Alastor’s grip slackens and the King’s hand pushes closer until it’s pressed flat against his chest. Though bandage and cloth remained between, a light started to shimmer, seeping out of the sinner and into the fingertips of Lucifer, where it dispersed into his natural glow. Any further mending went unseen, but a well-masked tension seemed to have left Alastor soon enough.

Upon pulling away, there was an unspoken agreement that they weren’t to discuss what had happened here. Alastor having a moment of weakness and Lucifer showing mercy upon him were not narratives they wished to spread. If Alastor became just a tad less bitter in each conversation he shared with Lucifer after that, it could easily be blamed on the fact he was no longer bleeding out, rather than any genuine appreciation he might’ve had for him.

[holybibly]

I've been nice to you little bunnies and let you rest, but mommy's coming back on the air. And since you've been asking about Yunho a lot lately, here's a sweet treat for you.

Unholy thoughts of the day, my sugar bunnies:

You hated your company's New Year's Eve parties, and it seemed that they hated you back. The past few years had been truly memorable for you: a broken leg, an ice angel falling on you (although you're not entirely sure it was an angel because winged creatures just can't have huge dicks and big balls, but everyone in the office loved it and even rubbed it for luck, but that's not the point), and last year your boss threw up on your vintage Chanel shoes, so this year you were ready to say a definitive "no" to the company New Year's party. But as it turned out, your "no" to the party was tantamount to a "no" to your job at the company, and as a result you found yourself huddled in a dark corner of the strip club, choking on tasteless canapés and not sharing your colleagues' puppy-like glee at the fact that someone's dick, albeit a very nice, thick, sinewy dick, was dangling in front of their faces. Although, with a heavy heart, you had to say that the thick, juicy ass of one of the guys that now shamelessly twerking on stage was a real treat, hell, you could swear you saw a butt plug between those delicious cheeks.

Anyway, you didn't think much about it, preferring to concentrate on the cocktails, and damn, you should have thought twice before ordering a "Dirty Santa", because it wasn't a cocktail at all. So here you are, on all fours on the floor of a private dance room, while a gorgeous, incredibly sexy guy in the sluttiest Santa suit is pounding you from behind with his huge cock.

"You've been such a naughty girl, doll, and you know what Daddy does to naughty girls, right?" Yunho slaps your ass cheek with his big palm, leaving a bright red mark on your soft skin. "Come on baby, tell me, or is your throat still sore from sucking me off? Maybe I should let you drink some of my cum to ease the discomfort? You know it'll feel so much better with my thick, warm sperm running down your throat."

You hum something incoherent in response, too caught up in the feeling of his cock trying to squeeze into your tight little cunt. And it seems that your condition only excites him more and making him giggle in entertainment.

"Well, well, well, darling, I see that daddy has to answer for you after all, because you are already so fucked that there is only air left in your pretty head and you can only think with your pussy, but I don't blame you, no, because all this is because of daddy's cock, I can't blame you for being such a slut for me. But, doll, like I said, you were such a bad girl. Yunho purrs, pressing his hot, oily body against your back and wrapping one of his hands around your throat to smother you slightly. "So, doll, all the naughty little girls daddy always fucks raw."

[maximumzombiecreator]

Since I've had a few people asking about megadungeon stuff recently, and I am an avowed megadungeon megafan, I thought it might be fun to walk through an actual example of megadungeon play that exemplifies what I like best about it.

This post is going to be the first in a series talking about a room from a megadungeon that I ran over 20 years ago (brushing past that fact quickly lest the horrors set in.) It was a major room, probably the most complex and important in the dungeon, and the players passed through it frequently throughout the campaign. In this post I'll introduce you to the room, and then in later posts I'll talk about what it does well and how to use that lesson more generally. Below the cut is a reproduction of the map as I remember it.

Without getting into The Lore too deeply, some dwarves accidentally dug into hell, as one does. Classic trope, nothing wrong with using them. They quite sensibly shut the mine down and sealed if off, but word got out. A human king heard about this, and took over the mine, expanding it into a temple complex to curry favour / barter with hell. It went badly, as such things do.

This concourse connects several wings of the dungeon, spanning several floors. An enormous devil face statue emerges from the northern wall, above the second floor balcony and below the fourth, and a column of light shines through a hole in the ceiling onto the center of the floor. Several floors of balconies overlook the chamber, though the stairs to the fourth floor balcony have long since collapsed.

This chamber was not too far from the main entrance, with the party first encountering it on their second delve into the dungeon, though it would take two more delves for them to gather the courage to enter it. At the time they first encountered it, it was swarming with imps and other little devils worshipping the big face.

I'll summarize the key:

A. Hallway from the Entry Chambers, the first and easiest section of the dungeon.

B. Doorway to the Pilgrim's City.

C. Doorway to the Unholiest of Unholies. Sealed and warded against simple spells.

D. Doorway to the Old Dwarven Quarters.

E. Doorway to the Nobles' Section. Barred from the far side.

F. Portcullis to the Pilgrim's City. The mechanism has rusted out and no longer functions.

G. Doorway to the Halls of the Clergy.

H. Doorway from the King's Inner Sanctum.

I. Doorway to the Archive.

J. Doorway to the King's Inner Sanctum, locked.

K. Doorway to The Indulgences.

Stairway from floor 1 to floor 2.

Light from the hole in the ceiling.

Broken stairs from floor 2 to floor 4.

Big ole devil face. Its eyes are a one-way illusion, allowing anyone within the face to view the room below.

Okay that's a lot, thanks for sticking it out. While I don't want to wander too far off topic into the rest of the dungeon, I'll just briefly note that the Pilgrim's City and Old Dwarven Quarters are easier sections of the dungeon, the Nobles Section and Halls of the Clergy are slightly more difficult, the King's Inner Sanctum, Archive, and Indulgences are very dangerous, and the Unholiest of Unholies is, as one might expect, where the worst things (and best loot) in the dungeon are. This was 2nd edition AD&D, so there was not a presumption of fights being balanced, and traipsing through more dangerous sections of the dungeon at lower levels wasn't uncommon. The players also understood the varying levels of danger fairly implicitly, since the custom at the time was that any time you went a level further away from whatever the ground floor was, things got more dangerous. The only exception to this is the Unholiest of Unholies and I think we can agree that when it's beyond a magically sealed door under a giant devil head the danger is telegraphed.

Next post I'll start talking about what made this room work so well in practice.

[vanessagillings]

I’m posting the ever-so-rare photo of myself alongside one of my characters based on my childhood because today is World Autism Acceptance Day, and I wanted to show my little corner of the internet who this particular autistic person is:  

I was officially diagnosed in February, at age 38 (I’m now 39). A lot of people thought I couldn’t be autistic.  Some people who know me in real life still don’t.  And until around 10 years ago, I didn’t think I could be either, because I was nothing like the stereotype media portrays. I was told that autistics lacked empathy (untrue), and never played make-believe (also often untrue) and only enjoyed STEM.  I was — and am — an empathetic artist -- and make believe?  I can spend days sketching finely bedecked bears brewing tea or carefully choosing the right words to weave tapestries of fiction — though perhaps my hyper focus was a bit of a red flag.  Even so, how could autism describe me?  I was a good student.  I got straight A's. I didn’t act out in class.  I can make eye contact…if I must.  And lots of girls hate having their hair brushed with an unholy passion, right?  Clearly I swim in sarcasm like a fish, so autism couldn't be why I was so anxious all the time, could it?

If someone had told me when I was younger what autism ACTUALLY is — instead of the nonsense I’d seen on screens — I would have seen myself in it.  I didn’t hear that autistics have sensory issues until I was in my mid-twenties, which is when I first began to really research autism symptoms, and I had almost all of them:  sensitivity to light, smells, fabrics, temperatures, textures, and certain touches, all of which make me feel anxious, I fidget (stim), I never know what the hell to do with my hands or where to look, I talk too little or too much, I have special interests, I have entire animated movies memorized shot-by-shot and can remember the first time and place I saw every movie I've ever seen but I often forget what I'm trying to say mid-sentence, I echo movies and tv shows (my husband and I have a whole repertoire of shared echolalias, making up about 20% of our conversations), I was in speech therapy as a kid, I have issues with dysnomia and verbal fluency, I toe-walk, I can't multitask to save my life, I like things just-so, I’m deeply introverted but not shy, I need to recover from all social interaction — even social interaction I enjoy — and I find stupid, every day things like grocery shopping, driving and making appointments overwhelming and intensely stressful, sometimes to the point where I struggle to speak.  It turns out, I am definitely autistic. My results weren't borderline. Not even close. And while these aren’t all of my challenges, and not everyone with these symptoms is autistic, it’s definitely something to look into if you present with all of these things at once. 

So why did it take me so long to get diagnosed? The same bias that exists in media threads through the medical community as well, and because I'm a woman who can discuss the weather while smiling on cue, few people thought I was worth looking into. Even after I was fairly certain I was autistic, receiving an official diagnosis in the US is unnecessarily difficult and expensive, and in my case, completely uncovered by my insurance.  It cost me over $4000, and I could only afford it because my husband makes more money than I do as a freelance illustrator — a job I fell into largely because it didn’t require in-person work; like many autists, I have been chronically underemployed and underpaid, in part due to physical illness in my twenties, which is a topic for another day.  But it shouldn’t be like this.  It shouldn’t be so hard for adults to receive diagnoses and it shouldn’t be so hard for people to see themselves in this condition to begin with due to misinformation and stereotypes. Like many issues in America, these barriers are even higher for marginalized groups with multiple intersectionalities. 

It’s commonly said that if you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person.  This is why it’s called a spectrum, not because there’s a linear progression of severity (someone who appears to have low support needs like myself might need more than it seems, and vice versa), but because every autistic person has their own strengths and weaknesses, challenges and experiences, opinions and needs.  No two people on the spectrum present in the same way.  And that’s a good thing!  No way of being autistic is inherently any better than any other, and even if someone on the spectrum struggles with things I don’t — or can do things I can’t — doesn’t make them more or less deserving of respect and human dignity.

But speaking solely for myself, the more I learn about autism, the happier I am to be autistic.  I struggle to find words and exert fine motor control, but my deep passion and fixation has made me good at art and storytelling anyway.  I find more joy watching dogs and studying leaf shapes on my walks than most people do in an entire day.  More often than not, the barriers I’ve faced weren’t due to my autism directly, but due to society being overly rigid about what it considers a valid way of existing.  My hope in writing this today is that maybe one person will realize that autism isn’t what they thought — and that being different is not the same as being less than. My hope with my fiction is to give autistic children mirrors with which to see themselves, and everyone else windows through which to see us as we actually are.

If you’re interested in learning more about autism or think you might be autistic, too, I recommend the Autism Self Advocacy Network  autisticadvocacy.org and the following books:

What I Mean When I Say I’m Autistic by Annie Kotowicz

We're Not Broken by Eric Garcia

Knowing Why edited by Elizabeth Bartmess

Unmasking Autism by Devon Price, PhD

Loud Hands edited by Julia Bascom

Neurotribes by Steve Silberman

(trigger warning: the last two contain quite a lot of upsetting material involving institutionalized child abuse, but I think it’s important for people to know how often autistic children were — and are — abused simply for being neurodivergent).

Thanks for reading 💛

[ozzgin]

Imagine if there was a fanfic author who slowly amassed a following of monsters.

They’re just writing for a cool show they found on a definitely-not-illegal-site, could be x reader or a couple they like a lot.

The show was monster made, human didn’t think there was anything odd about it except that one human character that acted suspiciously like a commercial retail sailer. They thought it was kinda like a joke.

Monsters get more intrigued when they add a few human characters/ reader insert is human with details they thought were imaginative about humans. Offhandedly a commenter asks where they came up for such a cool understanding/headcannons for humans.

“Personal experience?”

“You’ve met a human?”

“Well, that’s just rude. I may write a lot but I do have somewhat of a social life”

Next day they wake up with so many comments and kudos they’re genuinely confused but also super happy.

(Also, imagine if they were roommates with the streamer reader 😂)

Human author who unknowingly ends up writing for a monster-only fandom.

It's been bothering you for too long: no one in your friend circle has ever heard of your current obsession. You've scoured the Internet, searching for any content regarding this mysterious show, to no avail. Thus, you've decided to write your own fanfiction.

You weren't expecting much. After all, it must be some obscure interest few people know about. Yet the very next day, after publishing your first piece, you awaken to hundreds of messages from intrigued and baffled users.

"This is so OOC. No human acts like that."

"Don't be rude," another account comments. "Maybe they're not familiar with human lore."

You scan the walls of text in utter confusion. What on Earth are they talking about? Have you been caught in some elaborate joke? Mildly irked by this bizarre humor, you decide to respond sarcastically:

"Right. Humans should refrain from writing about humans, noted."

Perhaps this mere observation has made matters even worse. Your notifications flood with new followers and strange inbox messages. Are you truly a human? Can you prove it? Will you be continuing the story?

Exasperated, you look for your roommate, showing them this unfolding absurdity. They stare at your screen, then flash you a pitiful smile.

Good luck getting out of this, they almost tell you. You can't just tempt monsters like that and expect them to get over it.

The unholy creatures have just found their new favorite pastime.