#this was very messy i wrote this on a whim

[yangcherie]

mating season

𐀔 pairings: astarion x reader. karlach x reader. halsin x reader. background cast (wyll, shadowheart, lae’zel, gale) x reader. background rolan x tav.

𐀔 content warnings: tiefling!tav, LITERALLY PWP, alcoholic consumption, brief sexual memory (halsin), heavy petting, noncon to dubcon (with astarion only), slight slutshaming, oral (f!receiving), mentions of breeding, afab anatomy but g/n pronouns. astarion is very slightly, slighty mean, up to you if he is ascended or not.

𐀔 sypnosis: you, a tiefling, go through your first heat cycle around your companions. some are willing to either indulge you or take advantage of you.

𐀔 author’s note: hoppinh on the bandwagon of tieflings having heat / rut cycles. astarion, briefly halsin, ROLAN and karlach get some action, teehee. and don't worry. everyone is a pervert and thinks about it. everyone will get a chance. someday. merry christmas!!

The first thing everyone wakes up to is heat. Sweltering, palpable heat, pervading the air up to the point it felt like it was trying to smother them, casting annoying, relentless burnishes of perspiration on their skin.

It couldn’t be the sun, no. The warmth felt too close, within of reach – but even then, it was no lively and unextinguished campfire, no engine out of hand nestled within Karlach, Shadowheart concluded.

They’d all been taking turns the entire morning seeking cold relief in the stream. Thankfully, as the day prevailed, the sun was no longer so glaring, the heatwave lessening by a tad bit, the rest of the party excluding a certain Ravenguard had found it now bearable.

It wasn’t until Wyll was fed up with the sweat that would inevitably come no matter how much he wiped at it, marching towards where it felt most blistering, most fervent; the intense source.

It had led him to your tent — and without doubt, the demon believed the source was your tent; your fucking otherworldy furnace of a tent. Even as he stood from outside, the heat was practically choking him. He wouldn’t be surprised if he took a look inside and finds out you, little fiend you, stuffed the entire Nine Hells inside. And take a look inside he does, peeling away the entrance, a delirious but polite request to turn down the heat ready on his tongue —

But it isn’t the Nine Hells’ heat and musk that slaps him to his face, to his utter surprise.

It’s you; trembling, flushed raw and in all of your fiendish glory, naked. Tail loud and thumping on the floor as your whimpers permeate through the air, legs spread and — No!

Somewhere in the back of his horned head, he wonders if it’s the heat, the shock, or simply his building arousal that has rendered him stuck to his position. It takes Wyll all his strength he can muster to tear his eyes away; what was he doing? He was intruding on your tent— your privacy! How could he forget basic etiquette, so much for being a noble-!

(Without a doubt, he’s ruined his chance of any traditional courtship.)

“Sorry.” The Blade himself awkwardly coughs before pushing himself out of your tent with an inhuman force, slamming the fabric entrance shut and tripping on his own two feet on the way out. “It’s Tav!” He shouts, sprinting with little idea on where to; the heat is unbearable and by the gods, he isn’t so sure anymore if it was coming from your tent or if it was simply his body. His commotion with Tav gathers the attention and eyes of his fellow companions, and it is both Karlach and Shadowheart that push at him to settle him down.

“Hey, hey. Calm down, you!” Karlach, ever the concerned companion with her furrowed brows, assures him like steed. “Tav, you mentioned?” Shadowheart, upon quick confirmation that he was not injured, is quick to coax him for answers of his behavior. He’s a bit mortified as his little flustered fit had everyone around him.

“Tav, they’re– get this–” Wyll swallows, tense with the image of you squirming and dripping still on the front of his mind. “T-they’re hot.”

It’s a dreadful thing, he realizes later a split second more than he’d like, the silence that follows. Through the tadpole, they’ve seen what he’s seen; and judging from the atmosphere, they’re chalking it up to an active imagination. All but loud, with a lone cricket chirping in the distance. He shoots up to in an attempt to explain, but wordlessly splutters instead.

“So you’ve had your first wet dream, I take it?” Astarion scoffs, finding the dirt under his manicured nails more interesting than what the fiend had to say next. “Had an issue with morning wood, perhaps– or should I say, a hardened blade?”

“No!” Wyll refutes, now standing up with the help of Shadowheart. “I-I meant to say they’re hot, literally. They’re drenched with sweat, lookin’ like they’re about to keel over. You saw it, in my head, what they looked like!”

“Ah, yes.” The vampire recalled that vision. Though brief and concerning, yes, it was also undeniably delectable. What he wouldn’t give to have seen you writhing with want up close. But still, he slips his desperation behind a theatric mask. “Like a mutt in heat, how hilarious.”

“In heat.” Karlach had repeated Astarion’s words and bristled, her muscles twitching once but violently enough that it had them staring at her like they had been with Wyll. The look on her face tells everyone she’s had her eureka moment, a light flickering beside her head. “Tav is in heat. Of course they are; it’s breeding season!” She guffaws then, disregarding the disbelief of the party — save for Halsin, who simply nodded.

“So what you’re saying is we have a feral, unspayed animal amongst us for the time being?” Lae’zel grunted, though she certainly did not mind if the blush on her face was anything to go by.

“Mating season is upon most of the forest.” The druid responded, crossing his thick arms, ever the calm elf. “Given the... more animalistic features of some cambions, it is not entirely unreasonable. Given the intensity, it must be their first heat since you’ve all been on this journey.” The party gapes; Karlach nods, and though she does not mention it, she’s mildly disappointed your heat had not aligned with her rut.

“So, what you’re both saying is that they need to breed – or be bred?” Though the vampiric rogue balked, he was unable to deny the inkling of lust that washed through him at the idea. You, and your all proud visage crumbling into one of a desperate, slut of a fiend.

“Well, when you put it in such a frank and vulgar manner...” Gale coughs, flushed, Astarion notices, inwardly grimacing. The wizard’s never been discreet about liking your musk – and today, it is especially honeyed and heavy around the campsite. “Yes.”

And that’s when it hits the rogue, the shared tension and ignited lust in everyone – not just Gale. It’s a slow and heavy shift, like puffs of smoke. The current of lust in the air runs deeper when a small, inviting moan permeates from your tent. The sounds of heavy breaths and trousers shifting from around the party, it all goes unobserved to any eye that doesn’t belong to an experienced rogue.

Still, the rest would’ve been fools to think only one or two of them would be intrigued, he thought. It was with a silent agreement amongst them that by the end of this week, you’d be thoroughly savoured.

The first thing you wake up to is a dull ache across the expanse of your stomach, and a pool of your own arousal drenching the bedroll between your legs. Your bed-kissed face tightens, glaring down at the growing tension in your belly. A groan is torn out of your dehydrated throat – and if the obvious lack of sun on your tent was anything to go by, you’ve slept through nearly the entire day.

Fuck, what was going on? Distoriented, you attempt to sit up only for the dull ache to morph into heated convulsions that immediately spread like wildfire around your weakened body. It was then that you realized that to your utter horror, you were burning hot, to the Nines and beyond — as if you were forcefully thrown into an early heat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. The edges around your vision blackened for a split second before you violently lurched yourself out of your too-warm, too-cramped tent, slamming your palms and knees into the dirt ground and digging your nails in, your mouth open to welcome the hot pants stuck in your dry throat.

You spat out a vicious string of Infernal curses, your focus blurring in and out of itself. You shut your mouth, biting your lip to keep in whimpers, sweat trickling down from your forehead as your mind fought in vain against the primal urges now closing in on it; the feral ache for relief deeming itself more important than reason.

Relief. Fuck, it sounded good right now. You hissed, your mental resolve crumbling, tail furiously lashing against the dirt. Relief. Your eyes darted around the camp anything that could relieve the heat in your loins; Shadowheart and her healing hands or a cool river stream to let the water wash over you, but fuck, you needed real relief. A body you could sink your teeth into and ride until the next morning – preferably Karlach, or Halsin–!

Thick, strong Halsin.

“You feel good, little one.” Halsin quietly groaned up from above you, touching you as if he’s been longing to.

He moves inside you; thick cock bruising your insides. Every open-mouthed gasp and hurt or pleasured cry was eagerly welcomed into his own mouth with wet kisses. He was unrelenting, but kind. Full of sinew your hands could run across or scratch in slight distaste if the fat tip of his length pressed a sensitive spot deeper than you’d have liked. And without fail, he had laughed everytime, gentle and light, even if his deep thrusts into your spent hole were anything but.

He must have been trying to burrow in you with how deep he was inside, letting you raggedly cry into the slope of his neck meeting the thickness of his shoulder. Halsin set out to plant an apologetic kiss into the crook of yours, fucking you deep until you fluttered around him, dragging him to his peak alongside you.

No, you winced, tearing your eyes open and your mind out of its lust-ridden gutter, the burn inside you relentless. No Halsin nor Karlach, not a single soul that could provide you relief to be found around camp — and damn them all, you were in no state to be crawling around searching for even the slightest whiff of their scent in gods know where.

Relief.

Yet another infuriating wave of heat rolled through you, forcing you to clench your hands and drive dirt beneath your nails. What remained of your rationality sought out to the crevices of your memories, ones that weren’t flooded of nightly trysts with the druid elf or — Rolan.

Relief – Rolan. A drop of your drool hitting the ground; Rolan with his horns you could grip and sharp teeth that could sink into your shoulder. No doubt warmly cooped up in Ramazith’s Tower, signing trades or shoving his nose in dusty books. He’d do, for tonight – he’d understand, indulge you and lift you from the unbearable heat clouding your head. He wouldn’t mind, you know it, because you’d be a blind fool to not see the way his eyes would fondly trail over your face, or the dips in your body.

He wants you, and for tonight, you will do him a favor and want him back.

You urge your trembling body to stand up and begin the treacherous trek from camp to the Gate’s city.

It was only the next night, moon high, that you sauntered into camp instead of out your tent, sporting a relieved glow, a fresh set of bites around your throat, a heavy limp, and of course, the hands of a flushed Rolan around your waist.

Your ragtag party watched from their campfire logs, a petty and envious air about them whilst the winsome smile on your face turned into an airy laugh as Rolan tenderly cupped your jaw with his hands, whispering something that had you curling your tails together. You shook your head and sweetly pecked his cheek as he nodded and bumped your horns together like lovers as a bid goodbye before stepping back to part ways.

“Well?” Karlach greeted with an amiable smile as you joined the group’s circle, having been worriedly sniffing around and asking for you the entirety of the morning; your scent lingering faintly around the air but with no continued path as to exactly where you were. She knew firsthand the extent of pain and delirium heats could bring, and god forbid you had fallen in the wrong hands.

(And thankfully, you hadn’t. She was simply glad you found someone trustworthy to mingle with instead of being alone.)

You scooched near her with a charmingly teasing grin, matching her liveliness, turning a blind eye to the tension in the air. “Well, what?” And before the red-skin tiefling could play banter with you, a certain rogue had pettily overtook the conversation.

“Well, did you enjoy your little fling?” Astarion dryly teased, a goblet of wine in his spindly hands and a sardonic smile on his face. He let the wine swivel for a moment. “Enjoyed playing charity, whoring yourself out?”

Karlach quietly called out his name in a disappointed manner, either to scold or deter him from what next he could say.

“What can I say?” You entertain his snark, peeking around the campfire logs for a bottle of blingdenstone blush wine; grabbing ahold of ot and pouring yourself a goblet. Taking a gracious swig, you allow the fruity taste to melt on your tongue. “My company is sought after.”

“Sought after? You amuse me,” The pale elf laughs, dry in a manner that has you eyeing him, his hand tightening around the rusted goblet whilst you set down yours. “Are you sure?” He asks, glaring. “I’d say it’s desperation, on your side of the coin – you’d spread your legs to anyone asking politely, darling.”

You scrunch your nose at that, the warmth and flavor of the wine turning cold and bitter in your throat.

The silence is almost hostile around the campfire – the crackling of it serving to make it less awkward. “Take that damn wine out his hands,” you hear Wyll whisper to a reading Gale and a Lae’zel sharpening her dagger – but both the wizard and githyanki don faces that tell you they aren’t approving of your escapade either. You allow your eyes a brief roam around all their faces; finding it tightened in displeasure.

You don’t feel so well, all of a sudden. Some part inside you chalks it up to the wine.

Save for Karlach who was nudging you with her tail, pleading you from the corner of her eye; asking you to back down from Astarion. Considering it was an option until he opened his mouth once again, his breath smelling of merlot wine. “You’re missing out, you know.” He hisses when you raise him a brow.

“These flings you have,” he eyes around the party, making sure to pointedly look at Halsin for a second longer. You’re half-sure he’d vex Rolan if he was here. Slurring, he pauses again to savor another sip from his wine. “They can’t give you something real.” Your eyes meet his, hesitant, reading the unsaid but he can in them.

“You...” You’re not sure if it’s a trick of the light, the fire shedding a hopeful glint in his eyes for a split second at your tender tone of voice, face softening at the way you curl in yourself. “You’re drinking too much.” And just as quickly as it came, it left.

Something heavy twists in your gut; and you can’t quite decide if it’s from the wine, the second wave of your heat, or distress. Silently pushing yourself off the log, you might as well to take that soak in the river that you’d been dying for.

(You’re not very surprised to feel the many eyes piercing through you.)

Shortly after you left the circle, Karlach had followed you, indiscreet. It’s a game of chase, really – and she’s hot on your tail but you just keep evading her when she thinks she’s got you, a hairsbreadth away from her hands. The way your shoulders tremble with little laughs from your lips are not missed by her, and if she were any closer she’d chase it with her own.

(She smiles, not seen through the dark mouth of the night. Was it her presence or the alcohol that has made you soft?)

It’s not a long trek to the lake by any means, the path obscured by dense foliage she’d occasionally lose you in. Within moments, she’s at the edge of the water with the gravel crushing beneath her boots, overtaking the slow stream of water you’re delicately undressing by. Her longing gaze lingers on the slope of your jaw, the fullness of your lips and the fresh, deep indents of teeth along your shoulder. She’s unsure of whether it’s from Astarion’s feeding or Rolan.

It’s only when you’re fully bare that you turn to face her, that same plush smile that’s melted the hearts of hundreds.

“Are you joining me?” The sweet lilt of your voice makes the gears stop turning in Karlach’s nodding head, her body moving before her mind to start peeling away at her own clothes at the appealing invitation; wading into the water with you as soon as she’s done. A snort is pulled from her when you playfully splash at her with your tail when you hear her behind you.

“Don’t play a game you can’t win, you little...” Karlach jovially returns the splash, inwardly rejoicing at your giggle; this little, shared intimacy is nothing new, but it makes her heart lurch all the same. What she wouldn’t give to have more time with you.

By the gods, she could never get enough of that you and your joy. Some selfish, unbidden part of her hopes you’ll take her up on Wyll’s offer on the path to Avernus, for the sole reason to see it just a little longer.

She shifts around for a topic to hear your voice a little more, “How is your heat coming along?” The smile on your face falters slightly at her choice of inquiry – but you relax instantly. She’s one of your dearest friends, concern is her second nature.

“When is it never dreadful?” You shrug, casual though your words ring true. An unmated tiefling’s pain during a rut or heat was nothing short of agonizing. She watches the nervous swallow bob in your throat. “But I had a little bit of help- from Rolan.”

“Ah, the new master of the tower, was it?” You nod at her, and it comes to you once again that Karlach was no jealous woman. She was glad you had your fill of enjoyment. “He looks smitten with you; are you courting him?”

“Huh?” Your tail whacks against the relaxed surface of water in disbelief, a flush festering on your disgruntled face. “It’s more like the other way around, he bumped his horns to mine earlier.”

Karlach guffaws at your distress, tearing up with her joy until her breath catches on a sweet aroma. She squints, cautiously sniffing the air, once, twice – and she looks to you, pursing her lips when she realizes it isn’t the fragrances you’re washing over yourself; it’s just you, or rather, the second wave to your heat. She hopes the hunger welling in her isn’t clear in her eyes.

You smell really good, she thinks as she chews on the inside of her cheek, staring at the dip of your back as your turn around. And you’re a really good friend, too good, maybe. She feels what she’s about to do isn’t very good.

Karlach doesn’t know what compels her to do what she does but she follows like it’s law; catching your wrist in her hand, capturing your jaw in her other and kissing you tender, swallowing the gasp that comes out.

It’s only when the air starts to feel thick with your heat and her lust that she pulls away, a string of spit following you both – and she’s already pulling away, horror welling up in her eyes but before she can grovel with apologies, you’re reeling her right back to your spit-slick lips with a moan so utterly full of want it has her pulling you closer.

“I can help you,” she murmurs against your taste before pulling away, your want reassuring her she’s got nothing to be sorry for. Your heaving breasts press against her face when she dips half of herself in the water to wrap her arms around your legs. She pleads. “Let me help you. Please.”

Karlach carries you with her muscled arms and settles you on the edge of a rock, softly parting your legs for you and making herself a warm home between them. The way she looks up at you gives you a bashful knot in your stomach.

“Do you want this?” She swallows thick, as if to wash away the heavy weight of her need, eyes situating her hands on your hips with a trembling but still dominant grip. “Use your words.”

You nod, frantic. Breathy pants now visible in the hot air. “I do,” your tongue feels weak when you speak, looking at her with dazed eyes. “P-please, I- I want it, Kar.”

It’s all the push she needs to lick a stripe up your slit, rendering you still when she wraps her lips around your clit and sucks. It drags a heavy moan out of you and it’s nothing but music to her ears. She hopes it’s the sound that greets her in the afterlife instead of angels with their harps or trumpets.

“Ahah,” Karlach pants, hot against your clit, and you look down to see your slick running down her chin, her tail pulling you closer by your calf while yours whips around. “You taste so fucking good.” She murmurs against you, sending an arrow of pleasure straight through your trembling spine that makes her dive right back in, tracing your fluttering hole.

She tongues inside your hole, moaning when it tightens around her, fucking and writhing it around in response.

If the heat wasn’t so heavy, you’d think she was tracing her name on your cunt. You huff, rocking your hips into her face as much as you can with her hands firmly clasped around your hips. Your hands find themselves around her horns and they gently pull her head closer to you, riding her face as if to help brace you for the knot snapping in your stomach.

Karlach takes a moment to pause, smiling with your heady flavor on her lips, chuckling against your core. “So needy.”

You don’t last long, not with her smile and teeth and tongue around your folds, no, and it’s a blind rush of time and hot white when your thighs tremble around her head, mouth dropping open in a silent scream.

“Karlach...!” You cry her name, cumming and convulsing around her tongue with open-mouthed moans. Her grip on you tightens, an Infernal curse leaving her as your slick taste floods her mouth. Her hands run over you, the small of your back, your hips and then to your ass, gripping the fat of it to keep you still while she laps at what little you have left to give; only giving in when you whimper and try to kick her away.

(In the rational crevices of your head, you’d hate to prove Astarion right about being a whore but fuck, does she make you feel good.)

It’s soft silence that fills the air, after you both cease your panting. You stare at the stars, head foggy with the orgasm that racked your body, humming when Karlach gently sets you in her arms again to wash your arousal away in the water while your head contentedly lies against her shoulder.

“Let’s get you to your bed, hm?” She coos, bumping her horns against yours – only letting you go to stand up again when she finishes washing and drying you, allowing you to clothe yourself. Time is a blur then, as you spend it aided to walk by her warm arms, staring at the intricate maze of foliage you’re surrounded about.

You’re snapped out your limping daze when you look around to see the foliage isn’t dark anymore, lit around by hues of oranges from a familiar campfire. Karlach grins, closed-eye as she squeezes you and kisses you warmly before nudging you towards the direction of your tent, quaintly lit up by a candlelight lamp you set inside earlier.

“Go inside,” she coaxes you, all-kind. It’s a certain emptiness you feel when you peel yourself away from her warmth with a whine that has her chuckling and pressing her lips against yours again. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You do as she says, stumbling inside your tent and falling with a thud to your soft bed – but not without curling your lips into a loving smile, savoring the memory of her. It’s the last thing you see before you succumb to the hands of rest.

Fuck.

It’s the middle of the night when you’re next startled awake.

And it’s no surprise when you wake up to yet another surge of dull aching and your own arousal just starting to drip out of you. You waste little time; stumbling like a fawn out your tent, movements laden with the remnants of sleep –

You’re halfway out when your face slams against a body; lithe and cold, and in your sleep-ridden state, you could be convinced you just bumped into a slab of ice draped in flesh. But you urge your heavy lids to open up, to see the man, well, vampire you’d bickered with earlier, staring down at you from the very opening.

“Astarion,” you state, bleary-eyed and fisting your nightshirt closer; the fleece of it grounding you under his piercing gaze. Your heart is beating quick; a brief thought hopes it stays beating, and you will it away. You have half the mind to ask what he’s doing in front of your tent, but you have no time. The air is thick. The heat inside you is boiling. You need relief – Rolan.

“I...” Your words crawl in your throat, the line of your brows furrowing when you feel the familiar pinpricks of your heat pressing into you. “Please, move. I have somewhere to be.”

You almost feel small under the depth of his gaze; everything about him reeks of fury mingling with need.

“Off to find another bed to warm, I assume?” Astarion hisses with the slightest slur, the breath which he speaks out carrying the scent of fine wine – the air around him dangerous. Starving. He moves closer, and you, in all your confusion, slowly crawl back into your tent, unsure on what to fight first; the heat that consumes you or the danger you feel is about to overtake you.

“Astarion,” you mumble, this time with a bleat to your voice and your eyes wide like the lamb to be drained and slaughtered you feel you are. The air is heady; laden with fear and need thick like honey. Everything around you is too much. Where is Rolan? Karlach?

A hand tightens around your ankle, refusing to let go even as you yelp and watch Astarion force his way inside your cramped tent and crawls himself between your legs to nestle his face in the crook of your neck.

“No, no,” You whisper to him, shifting under him in a panic when you feel his familiar lips on your neck. “I’m sorry but you cannot feed from me tonight, Astarion. I need to leave, now.”

“I’m not here to drain you dry, silly.” Astarion’s voice is husky, breathy. It has you clenching your thighs around his hips; his hands clasp around yours in return. “Though, I am starving, I have something else in store for little you.” You grit in discomfort, the unease and desire a blend that you feel entirely drunk on.

(He would never admit it but that tender pit of terror in you has him salivating.)

“Leave...!” You hiss. He chuckles at that; the sound velvet-rich and grating, and does exactly the contrary – pushing himself closer to you until you’re chest-to-chest. You hate that you cannot see him tucked away to your neck. It does not help he is close to your raw, still-sensitive core; you have nothing on save for a long, flowy poet’s shirt thanks to a certain crimson tiefling.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I can’t have you running off to somebody else.”

It’s then that you feel it; the press of a cruel, toothy smile against your throat and something of leather, something of warmth digging into the meat of your thigh. He is not here to drain you out of his anger, rather, he’s here to devour you, prey on you. You fear you’ve catched on belatedly.

“Mfh. I don’t want–” Your late, futile resistance is met with a finger to your lips, flushed thighs being pushed further apart as his hips slot between yours. Somewhere in the back of your muddled mind, you hear yourself keen with delight at the friction before he hushes you.

“You’re right, you don’t want it.” Astarion croons, watching as you writhe your hips against his for friction, as your bare cunt instictively grinds against the hot imprint of his still-clothed cock even as your head grasps for even a thread of coherence. “You need it, need this - need me.”

Your body does not deny his claim, arching your hips to meet his grinding, swollen folds clinging to his leather trousers – the pit in your stomach and the crawl up your spine indistinguishable between dread and ecstasy. The line of reason and morals are once again blurred in your head.

You curse yourself for having indulged in the alcoholic delicacy earlier. He’s emboldened by the wine; you’re weakened by it. The finger on your lips slip inside your mouth, firm on your tongue. You gag on it when his other hand clasped on your hip reaches down in between your legs and feels around for your, unsurprisingly, dripping vulva, the both of you gasping in delight.

“You’re soaked. What a fine surprise!” He chuckles, continuing to buck his clothed erection into your heat, petting your hair when you moan around his fingers. “I hope it’s because of me and not just your little heat.”

Your body is transparent, visceral with him, loyal to the promise of pleasure he can give you – even if your mind, what is left of your rationality indignantly fights tooth and nail to convince your body to stop giving in to animalistic pleasure.

It’s not long then, until Astarion becomes impatient, always having been; unlacing the ties on his trousers with one skilled hand and leaning over you to toss it off – it’s all too quick for your swarmed mind to catch up to, and the next thing you see and know is that you’re hissing through your teeth and thrashing while he pushes the burning head of his cock into you, hushing you as if you were a distressed animal. Your muscles tense, jerking away, a feeble little no on your lips—

But it’s an easy intrusion, a quick thrust into you is all it takes to bury himself deep with the help of your slick and his pre. He groans as, eyes rolling back as yours start to prick with tears, hold tightening on you as you whimper and turn limp like a ragdoll to his experimental thrusting. Some part of you wants to preen at the pleasure; the honeyed heat inside you pleased.

“Good- fuck, good pet.” He breathily murmurs, clasping a hand around your hip again; alternating between sensual grinding and abruptly slamming into you. All while he laughs and watches with a vicious smile as you’re torn between pathetically moaning and crying, the fingers in your mouth helping to muffle the sounds.

“See? Not so bad if you just close your eyes and give in.” He presses down particularly hard on your tongue when you wail at a sharp, unexpected thrust. He couldn’t have someone from the party playing hero. “I’m trying to help you.”

Tears sting at the corner of your eye, and you have no doubt you look pitiful right now - but fuck, he feels good. You don’t want to admit it, but you won’t deny it either; you needed this. And though you would have preferred to have it be Rolan, all gentle, rutting into you with sweet whispers and even sweeter promises, the heat in your body cannot be satiated with the tenderness he can give you. But you would rather stake him first than admit he’s helping you fill that gaping need in you.

“Astarion...” You furrow your brows and swallow around his fingers, your own life clinging to the back of your throat. It’s with a certain horror and desperation that you realize you’re approaching the edge faster than you’d like – and you know he knows, because he pulls his fingers out your mouth and presses a warm, spit-slick thumb to your aching clit. Your hole flutters around him, and you writhe around, the tightening burn of your incoming orgasm too much to handle. Pleasured, honeyed mewls are wrenched from you as his hips snap, driving his cock deep.

Astarion purrs – a hand on your thigh to help him slam into you, gripping hard enough to form bruises whilst the other was relentless at your clit. It’s with a shriek that you fall apart, seizing on his thrusts that only seem to quicken, the wet sound of skin on skin and your crying permeating through the entire camp, no doubt. He coos when a whine slips out of you, a tear gliding from your eye.

You’re seeing fucking white, blots of black dotted along your vision by the time he greedily slams inside you a final time with a low groan – something pleasingly warm filling you up, satiating you. Astarion holds your face and tugs it meet his for a breathy, passionate kiss whilst he twitches seed inside you - smiling in delight against your lips when you melt.

Relief is found; a warm glow settling on you despite your lids fighting their damndest to stay up. You’re a soft, slow little thing now, all but warm and ready to be taken by approaching slumber. Astarion gladly takes the chance to lie on his side and gather you in his arms, lips curving sweet yet again, but with less threat, as he watches you contentedly curl yourself up against his side. He sighs at the warmth that washes over him, thankful that fatigue has tamed you and fanned out that little spark and scratch you had earlier.

“Happy?” The smitten vampire asks, cheeky, smug as he pulls you closer into him, massaging your sore hips. “No need for you to go looking around for victims when you have me at your disposal, darling. I’d hate for you to lose sight on what really matters.”

You hum as if far away, you’d slap him in the morning that comes, but for now you’d let yourself be lulled into a soft, gentle slumber. A kiss on your head is the last thing you feel, a feeble little goodnight whispered.

[kazumist]

THE WAY THINGS GO .ᐟ

✩ — being petty with each other is simple how the way things go between you and your boyfriend, itoshi sae.

✩ — includes: itoshi sae x gn!reader. fluff. cw: ooc sae (bear with me i havent read bllk in a while and just wanted to give it a shot). wc: 395. reblogs and feedback are appreciated !! ouhhh first time actually writing for bllk,, i dont rlly feel good abt this one but i hope this was ok

during the ten months, six days, and thirty-two minutes that itoshi sae has spent with you, he only found out now that you were actually a big fat liar.

"did you eat my snacks?"

"uhm, no?"

"you don't sound sure about that."

sae wasn't necessarily a fan of sweets (which you found quite despicable of him; who wouldn't love at least a bit of sweets every once in a while?) but there's one snack that you did manage to get him fond of—hello panda biscuits.

it wasn't too sweet, nor was it too bland either; it was perfect for sae's taste. unfortunately for him, you were also a fan of those snacks. which brings you to the confrontation that's taking place now—because apparently, the hello panda biscuits you had in stock ran out just when sae was about to eat them again.

lying wasn't the best choice; of course it isn't, but you were curious to see how sae would react once he found out that you (accidentally) ate the last pack. there are three outcomes for this:

a.) sae lets this slide and just buys another box.

b.) sae will act petty around you until you get him another box (most likely to happen).

c.) sae moves on with his life and acts like it didn't happen at all.

much to your dismay, none of these happened. there was, in fact, a fourth outcome that you weren't able to consider: sae gets his revenge on you by eating up all your snacks as well. going to the living room, you stood in front of him with a hand on your hip.

"you ate it, didn't you?"

"ate what?"

"sae, don't act dumb on me."

he raises an eyebrow at you, acting like he has no clue what you're saying. after a few attempts at pressing him about it (all failed; he just wouldn't admit it), you soon gave up and were about to leave the room before sae pulled you onto his lap.

"do you really think being affectionate is going to make me forgive you?"

"i didn't say anything when you ate my hello panda biscuits."

"so you did know about that."

"you aren't really the best at lying, you know?" he replies, pressing small kisses onto your neck.

"let's just go buy some more snacks later."

"i like the sound of that."

[plantsjustwannahavefun]

I keep seeing so many people here getting angry that this season is "vilifying Ed", and it's depressingly fascinating to see how others can watch the same show and somehow see something completely different. Is it simply the lack of media literacy? Is it the inability to appreciate and enjoy complex, nuanced, morally grey characters without willfully blocking out anything even slightly unpalatable about them to the point where the character they think they love isn't really that character anymore?

Because, uh... Season 1 already "vilified" Ed plenty. Except "vilify" is the wrong word, of course. It wasn't in any way malicious or mean-spirited, quite the contrary, it was often played as comedic (until the end of episode 10 when it was anything but) - Ed was always meant to be a sympathetic character, he's a protagonist after all, and the show's portrayal of him is very compassionate. It merely refused to sugarcoat or shy away from his darker side. He's literally history's most famous pirate, you don't become one by being nice and treating everyone gently. He ambushed and strangled his own father to death when he was like 9 years old (100% deserved and justifiable ofc, but it still bears saying it out loud like this just to comprehend how unhinged this actually was). He loves torturing and maiming people for fun, and sometimes even animals (that scene with forcing a turtle to fight a crab). He didn't give a fuck about his crew members dying to satisfy his whim to meet Stede. He entirely failed in his role as a captain in ep 4. He effectively played a double agent with Izzy and Stede for a while before changing his mind. He attempted to murder Lucius. And while you could try to argue his punishment of Izzy was at least to some degree deserved, not only cutting Izzy's toe off but forcing him to eat went beyond punishment, it was sadistic torture.

So, yeah, please just read all that and take it in. And then remember once again that Ed is also a traumatised, lonely, depressed, sensitive, creative, curious, deeply passionate person yearning for true love and for something different in life... just like Stede. He loves music and can play the piano. He wrote a very vulnerable song and sand his heart out. He likes his tea with seven sugars. He enjoys fashion and dressing up. He has such a limitless sense of wonder for the world. He went on a trek with Stede just to make him happy, even though he hated nature and was in a shit mood that day. He wants to host a talent show. He wants to become free. He's clever and funny and fascinating. I love Ed.

Yes, it's possible to reconcile those two sides of him and accept both sides as the "real" Ed. You have to reconcile the two sides if you want to enjoy him as a character, because if you don't, you're going to either detest him to the core (which would make enjoying the show practically impossible since he's sort of a main character...), or you'll only be able to enjoy a diminished, crippled, cardboard cutout version of his character, which would be such a pity and a massive disservice to the creators of this show who worked hard to create interesting, multidimensional characters.

Not to mention you'd be missing one of the core messages of the show - the idea that people still deserve love and can be loved even if they're imperfect, or not necessarily good people. Because love is a human condition. It's not a sole dominion of "good" people. "Bad" people can fall in love too - even if, just like them, that love isn't exactly "nice" or "pure", and neither are the relationships that stem from it. They can be messy and exasperating. But "bad" people can also grow and change because of it. That's what OFMD is ultimately about - growth and change, learning to accept yourself but also become better. That can't happen if the character is already 100% perfect the way they are.Ed is far from that. So is Izzy. They can both become better, and they both still deserve compassion and understanding, because that's the environment people need to become better.

So, if you're mad that at the start of S2 the crew are sympathetic to Izzy's suffering and want to help him instead of kicking him when he's down, and what Ed did to him is being acknowledged as cruel and wrong... congratulations, you have completely missed what OFMD is all about.

[azurevi]

anchor

pairing: leona x gn!reader

summary: promise rings, some backstory i sprinkled on a whim, a few stuff from the tamashina-mina event. 3k

note: diversity loses! tormented writer posts more leona fluff despite being consumed by angst ideas. @twistedchatterbox gave me the idea of promise rings a while back then so here’s something i made! it’s a bit messy cz i wrote most of this on bus rides lol

This day couldn’t get any better, Leona thought, putting aside the fact that he was at a festival he really didn’t want to attend, and that he had been surrounded by his curious schoolmates the whole day, forcing him into the role of a tour guide. At least he got to show you around the place he’d grown up in, shower you with cuisine after cuisine that you couldn’t find anywhere else, and bring you to a hot spring that made him feel that his bones had been broken down and resembled again, all of which you responded with the utmost enthusiasm and amazement. Despite the love-hate sentiments he held for this place, knowing that you enjoyed the tour put him in quite the good mood.

Also, he was definitely putting ‘roadtrip’ on his non-existent bucket list now.

A content sigh slipped out as he sat sprawled out in his seat, head resting on his fist, a single strand of hair falling over his attentive gaze. Everyone had had their fill at dinner and was enjoying the dance show. Melodies swirled and clashed in the air, accompanied by the soft fluttering of the dancers’ outfits. His focus was, however, not on their flawless performance, but rather on the giggling group in front of the stage.

You were linking arms with Kalim, following his ecstatic steps with a touch of clumsiness. Lilia was linked to your left, even though he was just doing his weird moves that somehow resembled a bird. Grim was somewhere else, struggling to mirror the dancers and trying his absolute hardest not to get kicked at by accident. Once in a while the music would speed up, and you would all scramble to match the tempo, laughing when your legs bumped into each other.

The unbridled bliss on your face was as bright as the afternoon sun. Amidst the collision of songs, he made out your laughs as though they were a melody written especially for him. If the hotel was vacant but for the both of you, he would’ve jumped out of his seat and danced with you just so he could see how much you were enjoying yourself up close. Ideally he would have the song changed to something much gentler for him to soak in the moment under the glorious starry night. 

“…Leona, are you listening?” Vil’s voice dragged him out of the little fantasy he was conjuring in his head.

“I stopped listening the moment you brought up your something-something products.” He said, which was only half a lie. Even when he was distracted, he picked up a few lines, like how the climate here could've very well ruined Vil’s skin without the lotions he’d brought and how all the sweating could’ve melted his makeup had they not been waterproof. Basically just different words to show that he’d come prepared.

“Of course you did,” Vil rolled his eyes. Following Leona’s gaze, he glanced back and forth between the trio and the man beside him. “Lilia is quite good at dancing, isn’t he?”

“Yea.” The answer came mindlessly. By the time Leona realized himself, Vil already had that annoying smirk on his face. 

Darn you for distracting him. 

Vil took a sip out of his glass, letting the fresh juice swirl in his grip. “Even to this day, I still can’t believe that they are into you of all people.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?” 

“Not in a thousand years.” He put down the drink. “It’s just that they’re bright and easy-going and all, and you’re… well, you’re you. You act like you don’t want anyone breathing near you most of the time.”

That’s true, to some extent. Leona had found your presence a handful at first, but you managed to sneak into his life anyways.

“But there are times when your feelings become painfully obvious,” as if remembering something, Vil’s assumed an accusatory tone. “Like today, when you made all of us feel like third wheelers while you went on this lovey-dovey date with them. But really, that just proves my point. Whatever doubts that I initially had about you two… they’re wrong.”

“Do you have a point?” Leona frowned. As much as he would like to call him out for sticking his nose into his business, he knew that he was just looking out for you. Ever since VDC, you two had got on friendly terms, and that meant he was going to care for you anytime he saw fit. It was his way of showing his love.

“If you’re really serious about them, you should put a ring on it.”

He’d never turned his head this sharply. “What?”

“Well, not to straight up propose, just get promise rings or something. A lot of my co-stars wear them to show loyalty and devotion. It’s a good way of telling someone that you’re committed.”

“I am committed.” He shifted in his seat. “And they know that.”

“It’s just a suggestion. Take it or leave it.” That was the last thing Vil had to say before Lilia proposed having a karaoke session, forcing him to intervene. 

…Of course you knew that he was committed. He’d made it abundantly clear, from remembering every little thing you’d mentioned in passing to showering you with gifts. He showed up to most school events for you, and he stood up for you whenever someone was dumb enough to pick fights. The list went on— surely he’d made it apparent enough how much you meant to him.

So why were you knocking on his door at 2 in the morning, with a hesitation that reminded him of when Cheka would stick his head into his room in the morning to see if he was awake? 

“Hey. I know you’d rather sleep by yourself, but I can’t really fall asleep, so I was wondering if you’d have space for one more?”

He rubbed his eyes, brain still a bit fuzzy, and moved to one side of the bed. You scampered inside with the blanket wrapped around you like a cocoon and dipped your weight into the mattress.

“Was the bed uncomfortable?” He asked, spreading his arm so you could roll right next to him. 

“No, I just can’t get used to new ones.” 

And with that, you were off to dreamland in a few minutes. 

The patterned ceiling stared right back at Leona. Where he’d just fallen asleep effortlessly, there was now a recurring thought romping in his mind. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d shared a bed with you. As a matter of fact, Ruggie often found him hogging you while he’s napping in the botanical garden, clinging to you like you were a life-sized plush. But most of the time, he was the one initiating it. He’d thought that it was enough of a demonstration of how he wanted you around, but in reality—

“I know you’d rather sleep by yourself.” 

Just how did you come to that conclusion? It wasn’t even the first time you’d said something similar. You’d always been on the cautious side, tip-toeing around the topic of intimacy like you were afraid that you’d be ‘too much’. 

Perhaps worse still was the fact that he’d never been straightforward about his feelings. They had always been wrapped in other gestures, hidden under layers of seemingly ordinary words. Who was to say that they couldn’t have been lost on you? 

“Put a ring on it.” 

At the end of the day, it was Vil’s fault for planting the idea in his head.

—

Sneaking around the palace was child’s play to Leona. He’d mastered the art of hiding in dark shadows and unseen corners since a tender age, when the guards and chamberlains would talk behind his back. Plus, nothing much had changed inside the palace. They were really driving home the idea of preserving the past.

Minor changes had been done to his room from the weekly cleaning, but otherwise everything was as he remembered. He made light steps to his empty desk and pulled open the drawer, searching for a jewelry box. Within were dozens of trinkets that would make Ruggie’s eyes twinkle like stars, from pendants to bracelets, all of which Leona had no interest in wearing. 

All except this. He fished out a brown pouch and flipped it upside down. Two identical rings fell right into his palm. Each was a bit chunky, with an untainted emerald embedded in the golden shank. He pulled out his hair tie next, checked the mark he’d made in the middle, and compared the circle it formed with the size of the rings. It was a perfect match, as he’d suspected.

Leona recalled the day he’d gotten them. He was sitting at his mother’s bedside, hands balled into fists on his lap. He recalled her fragile, glass-like smile, recalled the shake in her hand as she removed the rings from her fingers. He was still too young and naive to know what was going on, but he had a hunch.

She had placed them in his parched, dry hand then. His knuckles had been cracked and bruised from earlier that day, when he’d lost control of his unique magic during training. With a wistful sigh, she ran feathery touches on the cuts, as if she was trying to heal them. But no dice; she would’ve healed herself had she possessed that sort of power.

“What are these for?” He clenched the golden rings in his chubby fingers. They looked ordinary, just like any other accessories the chamberlains like to throw on him before grand ceremonies. The only thing that stood out were the stones, which seemingly matched his eyes.

“When you find someone who feels like home, and they feel the same about you, give them the rings to show your feelings.”

“Do you mean I have to marry��them?” 

She laughed at his uneasy grimace— a sound that had yet to be lost in the currents of time. “Of course, or else they’ll go away forever.”

Young Leona immediately stuffed one of the rings back into her hand, “Then you must keep one! This way you’ll never go away from me, right?”

It would take a few more years down the road for him to understand why her eyes welled up at his words, or why one day Kifaji lifted him up in his arms and rushed him to her bedside, why that was the only time he would ever see her again. It was then that he realized that those rings were not charged with magic or blessings. They were just gold imbued with grief. 

“What are you doing here, Prince Leona?”

Kifaji was standing at the doorway, hands hidden behind his back. God knew how long he’d been watching. Leona must’ve been so absorbed in his little treasure hunt to have not picked up his footsteps.

“You sound awfully accusatory. This is my room, isn’t it?” He slid the rings back into the pouch and pulled at the string to seal it.

Kifaji watched him pocket it. “Those are your mother’s rings, aren’t they?”

It seemed like his keen observation hadn’t been lost in time. “So what if they are?”

“Well. I can’t and won’t say anything since they’re your possessions. But curiosity beats me, so I must ask: what do you intend to do with them?”

“I intend to wear them, cause that’s how rings are supposed to be used,” Leona nudged the drawer shut with his knee, feeling a bit irritated by the questions.

“Yes, but it’s certainly been a while. Why your mothers’ rings in particular, and why now?”

He sighed. Nothing ever went past Kifaji’s eyes. “Fine. It’s because I’m gonna give one of ‘em to someone else, okay? End of story.” 

He strode past the chamberlain out of the door, but the latter persisted, catching up rapidly. There was a moment when he was side by side with Kifaji, and was a bit astounded by the height difference between them. He never really noticed it before. To think that there was once a time when Kifaji could pick him up like he was nothing but a sack of rice.

“It’s that friend of yours that’s been tagging along, isn’t it?” 

Leona decided to focus his efforts on walking.

“I was skeptical at first when you showed up with a bunch of guys that claimed to be your friends. Except for that kid. They seemed different.”

He scoffed. “Why, because they were hugging a cat the whole time?”

“No. Because of the way you treated them.”

“Oh yea? Enlighten me.”

“Remember the mangoes at the Raintree Market?”

And then Leona was strolling through the lively bazaar again, watching his schoolmates try out local fruits. The vendor had planned to give you one half of a mango as he’d done so for the others, but Leona asked for the whole fruit and a knife instead.

“The right way to eat a mango,” he sliced the mango in half, and began cutting squares on the one without the seed. Then he held the fruit on its two ends and pushed the pieces out. “Is to cut it into bite-sized chunks.”

“Don’t you remember? I used to do that for you when you were young. You’d cry and thrash because you despised fruits, so I decided to cut them into tiny pieces and have you eat them while we played chess. You cleared the plate in no time.”

There was a certain tone to Kifaji’s voice that Leona couldn’t quite recognize. All he knew was that he was suddenly aware of the aged hunch of his back. Where he used to race him through the palace with ease, he was now panting with the efforts to keep up with his long strides.

Leona slowed down a little to let him catch his breath. 

“As the chief chamberlain, I do have the duty to ensure the integrity of anyone affiliated with the royal family. But I’m guessing you’ll do anything to get me off your back, so there’s no point anyways. Plus, if you’re taking out your mother’s rings for them, I suppose there’s no point in doubting your decisions.”

“Good.” Leona’s voice came out quieter than he expected. “I didn’t need you meddling in my business anyways.”

Some guards shot him confused glances when he passed by, but he ignored them. The two of them walked in silence until they arrived at the entrance. The sun had just emerged from the horizon, and was marking the land with a warm tint. 

“I’m glad you found someone, Prince Leona.”

“Yea, yea. I got it,” he waved him back into the palace, but stopped just before he could turn around. “Thank you for escorting me.”

Kifaji froze, then let out a light laugh. 

“That’s what I do.”

—

Securing the rings turned out to be the easy part. The challenge was in how to present them. Whatever plans Leona had been brewing in his head vanished thanks to the mishaps during the festival. By the time he remembered the rings in his pocket, you were already on your way back to the school campus.

Fine. He just had to adapt. He could book an expensive restaurant and do it with a band playing in the background. He could do it unexpectedly, in a totally unsuspecting occasion. He could recruit help from his dorm members to build a fitting venue.

But somehow, he just couldn’t do it. He’d had everything planned out in said restaurant, but he just couldn’t pull out the rings. He’d brought you to the beachside to watch the sun set, but he couldn’t make out the words. He’d prepared time after time what to say, but they never managed to untangle the feelings inside him.

The longer he held it off, the more he felt that it was a bad idea. What if you didn’t like rings, or what if you didn’t like him enough to dedicate yourself to that kind of promise? Even though they weren’t engagement rings, they still had a certain weight to them. Not to mention they were not any rings, but the ones his very mother used and left in his care.

He should really stop ruminating about this whole thing before he brought the rings back to the palace.

A crunch prompted him to look in your direction. You were lazing on his bed, back turned to him as you binge-watched one of those boring reality shows. There was another crunch.

“Are you eating chips?”

You froze in place. The video on your laptop went on, the audience’s laugh piercing the silence. “No?”

“Show me your hands.”

You shifted, and slowly raised them where he could see. There was salt on your thumb and index finger. He moved forward instantly, nevermind the chessboard next to him. After a bit of wrestling, he snatched the packet of chips from your hold.

“I said no eating on the bed!”

“Oh, so now you can eat on your bed but I can’t?” You argued.

“Yea, that’s the point.” He read the favor on the packet before reaching in to grab one for himself. 

“Hypocrite.” You rolled your eyes and held your hand out. As he gave it back, you caught a glimpse of something red on his finger. “Hey, what’s that?”

It was a cut, shallow but precise. It must've happened when he was pulling at the packet. He hadn't even realized it at the moment, but now it was starting to sting a little, with a bit of pink smeared on the flesh around it.

“A papercut,” he shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t papercuts sting?” You paused the show and leaned in to check its depth. 

“A bit. I’ll just avoid wetting it.”

“Nah, you should put a bandaid on it.”

“It’s a teeny cut.”

“My point stands.” Seeing as he wasn’t planning to do it himself, you sighed and threw your torso off the bed. "This is why you should never steal my chips, you know."

His steely eyes followed as you reached for the desk, or specifically, the drawer on the bottom, where he’d been keeping the rings. You didn’t seem to notice the addition of the porch to the miscellaneous mess inside, as you soon pulled out an unopened box of bandaids.

“May I have your hand, your majesty?” You gave him the best smolder you could muster, which just looked absurdly humorous. He complied regardless, letting you have your fun. 

“Mm. I’ve never seen a cut this deep in my years of being a healer, your majesty,” you nodded meaningfully and ripped the box open. “I must subject you to the most effective medicine I have here: a magical band-aid.”

“You’re ridiculous.” He said despite stifling a smirk at the name you'd been using on him. 

“And you’re in a life and death situation here, so I prefer that you don’t take this lightly.” You peeled off the seal and lined up the cotton with the wound, acting with a meticulousness that mismatched the insignificance of such a small injury. Strands of hair cascaded down your face, and he pushed them out of your face.

Well, wasn’t it just wonderful to have your attention solely on him. He wouldn’t even have batted an eye at something as trivial as this, but you took it upon yourself to care for him anyways, like you always did.

His gaze fell from your face to the band-aid around his finger. Had he been more distracted, he wouldn’t even have noticed that you’d been working around his ring finger, on his left hand no less. And he knew it wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but as you smiled proudly at your flawless work, he couldn’t help but feel warmth crawl towards his heart. 

It dawned on him then: the only thing more wonderful than having you pamper him over a tiny papercut, was to have you do it for the rest of his life. Even on days when he couldn't care less about himself, to have you look after him all the same. The knowledgedidn't come as a spike of adrenaline or in the form of an epiphany. It felt like a moment of clarity, like the wind's kisses against a wind chime.

“Y’know what this looks like?” He asked as you threw the band-aids back into the drawer. 

“What?”

“A ring.”

You shot him an incredulous look. “It looks like anything but a ring.”

“Touché. It did feel like you were putting one on me though,” he stopped you just before you could shut the drawer, and rummaged through the mess blindly. Finally, his hand grasped something velvety. “To prove my point…”

The light-hearted smile fell from your face as you watched him take the content out. It was a bit ludicrous now, to think that after all the time spent creating the perfect atmosphere, he was just going to basically-propose-to-you on a whim, but there was no moment better than this. The gold weighed like rocks in his hands, but heavier were the words brewing in his chest.

“My mother left me these rings and told me to give one to someone I want to spend my life with,” he gauged your surprised reaction, “And I know it’s still early for us to even think about stuff like this, but I haven’t been this sure of anything for a while, so I gotta say it now. You’re the person I want to grow old with, and this will not change no matter if it's a good day or a bad day. I want to go to sleep and wake up to you every day, and I want you to know that there’s nothing that I want more than to be with you if you'd let me.”

He took your left hand in his, his thumb instinctively running over your skin. “So, would you let me take care of you for the rest of time?”

Your bewildered expression slowly shifted, and your mouth curled into a bright beam. “I say, that sounds like a wonderful future.”

The band fitted around your finger so flawlessly, it could’ve been made with you in mind. You planted a kiss on the ring on his hand, and the gold seemed to glimmer, now coated with not just his mother’s, but also your love. 

As you pulled him close, a gush of warmth seeped into his heart, claiming its spot in the depths of his feelings. Perhaps this was exactly where home was— with your arms wrapped tightly around him. Maybe one day, he could even build a home of his own, rooted in nothing but the certainty you'd given him.

[duskandcobalt]

stargirl

Elain and Azriel are spending a bit of time together when she has a vision, a vision of her nails in the kitchen...

surprise! I wrote this little quickie on a complete whim over the last couple of days because I think Elain deserves to have a sexy little vision that isn't about cassian dying

1.7k words ft implied sex via prophetic visions

Read on AO3

inspired by....

It’s a crisp Autumn morning in Velaris but the River House kitchen is toasty, the fire from the brick oven warming the space. The sun is only just beginning to rise, vibrant colours seeping into the otherwise dark sky outside the large picture window that overlooks the garden.

Most of the house is still asleep but Elain is already hard at work, the sleeves of her pale yellow dress are pushed up to her elbows as she puts her heart and soul into rolling out dough for the cinnamon rolls that she’d woken up extra early to make… all because a certain someone had mentioned in passing that he had a particular penchant for them a few days ago. 

That certain someone in question is the only other person awake. He’s perched on a stool across the counter, nursing a steaming cup of black coffee as he watches her work with eyes that are still bleary with sleep. His dark hair is messy - strands going in every direction. He’s in a white t-shirt, a few tiny holes around the neckline indicate that perhaps it’s his preferred sleep shirt. A pair of heather grey sleep pants are slung entirely too low on his waist. 

Not that Elain had noticed. 

He’d come downstairs half an hour after she’d started puttering around the kitchen, quietly mumbling a ‘good morning’ before he made them both coffees and began his “interrogations” as Elain had lovingly come to call this ruse of his. A routine he’d developed where he’d find an excuse to be wherever she was and ask questions about whatever task she was working on that particular day.  

She’d held back a smile when he’d asked her what her preferred type of flour was this morning. Knew that this was his way of finding reasons to talk to her, to spend time with her - just the two of them and these quiet moments before anyone else had woken up or long after everyone had gone to bed.

Elain didn’t mind. Quite the opposite actually, she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit to the warmth that built in her chest and low in her stomach whenever he approached her. She always answered his questions, asked him a few of her own just to keep him around longer. 

Afterwards, when time caught up with them and they were forced to go about their days or nights separately, she’d think of his small smiles, the way he blushed each time she looked at him a little too long. And sometimes, more often than she’d ever admit, she allowed herself to think of the smattering of dark hair under his belly button that travelled down under the waistband of his pants, visible only when his shirt would rise as he reached for the mugs that she kept unreasonably high in the cupboard for this very reason. 

…

Elain is explaining the merits of grinding her own cinnamon to Azriel when it happens, that familiar haziness clouding her eyesight as everything fades and she’s whisked into some sort of alternate space.

The vision comes in stages, as it always does. 

The sight in front of her is the first to transform.

The dough she’d been rolling out is gone - the counter clear except for the rag that she uses to wipe it down. Azriel isn’t sitting in front of her anymore and the rising sun is nowhere to be seen. A sliver of moonlight and a few flickering candles are the only things illuminating the otherwise dark kitchen. 

Her yellow dress and apron have been replaced by a thin cotton nightgown that’s currently bunched up around her waist, one strap hangs off her shoulder. Her hands are splayed out on the counter, fingertips spread wide as her nails desperately scratch at the surface for leverage. 

She glimpses the golden arms on either side of her body, the dark swirling tattoos. Recognises the pair of obscenely large hands braced on the countertop directly next to her own, notices the distinct scars that cover them.

Before she can wrap her head around what she’s seeing, she begins to feel it. 

She feels the strain on her calves from being raised up on the very tips of her toes. The cold granite of the benchtop is agonising against her peaked nipples as her breasts brush roughly over the surface. She’s conscious of the heavy weight of his strong body over hers, the glide of his bare chest against her arched back - the friction eased by the thin sheen of sweat covering their bodies. 

The last thing she feels before the sound fades in is the delicious burn in between her legs, the blissful stretch of her body around him as he sinks deep into her.

She’s just caught on to exactly what this is when she hears it all - the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin at a punishing pace, the rumble of his low voice in her ear saying things that are so unbelievably filthy she’d never dream of ever repeating them out loud. She hears her own voice but the rasp in it is unlike she’s ever heard it before as she screams. Actually screams . 

It’s Azriel’s name she’s crying out, over and over. It’s his name that echoes through the kitchen, punctuated only by the primal moans escaping her lips as she pleads for more. Begs him to go harder, faster. 

His name is halfway out of her mouth again, a wave of unfathomable pleasure just beginning to crest within her, when the haze lifts and it all changes back as quickly as the vision came.

The rolling pin has dropped from her hands and is laying at her feet. Her fingers are wrapped around the edge of the countertop, knuckles white with the force of her grip. The morning sun is shining bright through the kitchen window, the soft golden light matching the colour of her dress. 

Elain’s chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath. The only thing that lingers from her vision is the desperate ache between her thighs. When she dares to look up, Azriel is staring at her - hazel eyes wide with shock. She wonders if maybe she’d said his name out loud. Prays that the way she’d been screaming it had occurred solely in her vision.

She looks away from his gaze quickly, her face heating as she glances at his hands only to remember how they’d been positioned on either side of her body. Flashes of what the two of them had been doing play on repeat in her mind.

It was only a few months ago that he’d noticed that she was a Seer and since then she’s had a number of visions. But none like this, none directly about herself . And certainly none like this - so visceral and explicit that there were no hidden meanings to be found, no need to decipher what she had just seen. 

Never in her life had she felt like that before, not that she had much experience. She just never fathomed that it could be that good. All she could think of was the feeling of him inside her coupled with the glorious weight of his body pressing hers into the benchtop. All she could think of was how much she wanted that vision to come to life, how much she wanted to hear him whisper all those filthy things again.

“Elain?” Azriel’s voice cuts through her racing thoughts. Had he been saying something to her this entire time? 

She lifts her eyes back to his, watches as his eyes scan her face… her throat. Watches the way they drift down and linger on the rise and fall of her breasts as she attempts to slow her racing heart. 

“Are you alright? Did you see … something?” He enquires, voice gentle although she doesn’t miss the heat in it. She doesn’t miss the shift in his scent either, the heady musk of it intermingling with the sweet scent of her own arousal.

Elain nods slowly, searching for anything to say. Any lingering hope that he hadn’t picked up on exactly what type of vision she just had is immediately dashed when his eyes lock on hers again and she sees the way they’ve darkened - sees the desire in them that she’s sure matches the desire in hers. 

She thanks the gods above when they both hear the sound of creaking floorboards at the top of the stairs. Azriel’s shadows come out from wherever they’ve been hiding, whisking away the scent of arousal in the air, just as Cassian appears at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Morning Elain, Az.” Cassian greets them as he saunters into the kitchen. “How are we ruining my diet today, El?”

“Cinnamon rolls…” Elain’s voice is traitorously breathy. She turns to face him, releases a deep sigh and attempts to plaster a smile on her face as she runs her sweaty palms over the front of her apron. She’s still flustered even with the distraction of a third party. “I just forgot I needed to do… something. Do you think you could finish grinding this cinnamon for me while I run upstairs?”

“I’ll do it.” Azriel speaks up before Cassian has a chance to reply. She doesn’t even look back at him before she nods and practically flies out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Elain curses under her breath as she quickly shuts the door to her bedroom and collapses on her bed. She tries to ignore the relentless need coursing through her body as she stares up at the ceiling and contemplates how months of this unspoken slow growing tension between them has suddenly culminated into something so tangible.

She wonders how she’ll be able to ever look him in the eye without thinking of him inside of her. Wonders how she’s supposed to continue with life as normal while knowing that this vision would stay embedded in the forefront of her mind until it came to fruition. 

After all this time spent fighting thinking of Azriel in this way, now that she’d gotten a glimpse of what could be, Elain thinks she may just go insane waiting.

[eryingsfate]

Koby has driven me to the level of feral where I draw art for him.

I apologize for the messy art, drew this on my phone with my hands 😭

(Lil story idea under the cut)

As there is in every fandom, I want Koby to be turned into a cat and fall into a true loves kiss situation 🥰

It probably happens during a fight with a df user that he was hunting down. I can see Koby panicking while wandering around a town and getting used to actually not being able to talk and trying to walk and keep balance like a cat. I can see this going two ways

A. Luffy finds him and somehow immediately recognizes Koby and brings him back to the Sunny

B. Sanji sees this weird cat and assumes this is a starving cat and brings Koby back to the Sunny to feed then release him. (Koby is very much panicking in this scenario)

From there I think it would be funny if either Chopper could understand Koby or someone catches sight of Helmeppo looking frantically for him. I haven’t really thought too much abt this and am posting it on a whim,

buttttt if someone wrote this I would worship the ground they walk on. I am not nearly confident enough to write anything myself lol

[astolfofo]

bruh i wrote this on a whim. but it needs to be said.

tw: manipulation, yandere. Nothing too much. It’s pretty mild, but it’s dazai so idk what to say. 

bruh if this flops im gonna actually cry tho. I actually used my brain to write this. even tho I used causual language and this ain’t that formal ughsdfhlkdsj. but also sorry if it’s really bad. I didn’t even proofread this I just copy and pasted it into tumblr. Also, if the ending’s kinda messy or if there’s like grammar mistakes... pls tell me I literally am so braindead rn i can’t read

would also tag people this was inspired by but this is actually half shitpost and that would be hella rude of me to do that so. lmfao. (translate: i don’t have the balls)

===

I see so many people thinking that Dazai would fall for someone cheerful, and bubbly, who would approach him first.

Honestly, I disagree.

I think the opposite. Maybe it’s because I see part of myself in Dazai (and Yozo from the No Longer Human), or maybe because it’s simply because I’m not a bubbly, happy, person in general (but i wanna be with him jkjk unless… ) but. I personally disagree with that headcannon, I don’t really see it happening. Obviously, there are cases of characters liking an innocent, sweet, bubbly darling (cough. Nikolai. Chuuya. Akutagawa. Atsushi.) But, for Dazai… I feel like that would be too boring for him. Not as in he wouldn’t like it that way… but it would be too easy for him, ya know? Like there’s no challenge, there’s no… interest in doing that. Why would Dazai want someone so open, so innocent, so bubbly and kind, who would listen to anything he said? That’s not even genuine, that’s fake. Everyone has their own secrets, their lies, and they create a fake mask for everyone else to see. They wouldn’t want to show their true self… because it’d make them not only look bad… but also we’d all be extremely vulnerable. And violent.

Dazai knows this better than anyone else. I’d like to think, anyways. And innocent people like that, whether genuine or not, usually would deter him because they’re… too easy to pursue. Despite being a good liar himself, I don’t think he’d want someone who would fake the niceness, because it would be obvious from the start. Dazai doesn’t strike me as someone who would enjoy breaking his darling down (that’s Fyodor’s thing bro would definitely like someone who is fake). He has some morality, he doesn’t like using mind break. After all, that goes against what Oda told him to do. However, he’d definitely enjoy mind games, he’d like to pick you apart to get to know you better. Better than you know yourself. And once he does, he can leverage you however he likes to be his ideal woman. Even that manga q and a (I’lll find the link later) said that Dazai likes all women because he can make them into what he wants. Someone who’s outright innocent and kind wouldn’t be able to achieve that effect for him. It doesn’t offer him the challenge, it doesn’t offer him any kind of challenge in just manipulating someone innocent who barely hides anything. That would be a bad thing, and even his skwered sense of whatever morals he has would disagree with it. He wouldn’t even be able to fall for someone like that. Simple-minded people, just aren’t for him.

So, in prose, I’d like to offer an alternate idea: Dazai would like a darling that’s, obviously to a similar intelligence as him (otherwise they’d be… too easy), but very distant. Not as in a “they have a mask on”, kind of way. But in a. They’re apathetic, cold, and aren’t great at communicating kind of way. I think it’s an interesting dynamic. The first time when Dazai sees them, he may not even think much of them. Neutral cold face doesn’t say many sentences and wants him to leave. Maybe a slight fear of him, that he approached them. However, as time passes by, Dazai realizes he likes them. He genuinely craves their presence. He notices the way you don’t exactly know what his motives are, he enjoys the way you flinch when he touches your hands, or blush and do not know how to respond to his comments.

He sees all of it. And he wants to see who you really are. Behind your true mask. Maybe you’re a narcissist. Maybe you’re just a kind innocent person. Or maybe… you’re just as empty and lonely as he is. Whatever you are, he’ll eventually turn you into what he wants. It’s just a matter of time.

It’s like he’s looking at a Christmas present, and trying to guess the contents inside. The curiosity kills him. He wants to look at what it is now, but he can’t. He can’t. Until it’s Christmas day. So in the meantime, he’ll do everything except pull down the thin wrapping paper, and the apathetic, cold face you put on for everyone around you. It’s rather difficult actually, you do a pretty good job at covering your true self. You’re a skilled liar, you can control any physical reactions you have towards his questions.

But that just makes it all the more addictive.

The second you slip up, even just for a tiny. Little. Bit. Dazai is able to pinpoint a lot about you. It’s almost like he tore off a corner of the wrapping paper on his present, and he’s knows a lot about what it is. It’s more than he expected. It was just one facial expression. A face of shock, to anger, and then you calm yourself to the best of your abilities again. It’s barely noticeable to the average person. But that’s the thing. Dazai isn’t average. 

He’s the smartest man you’ll ever know.

It makes you feel conflicted. And you’re aware this is probably where Dazai wants you to be. And it is. Dazai finally was able to make a dent on the thin walls inside your mind. The walls that separated your true self, from others. And he’d pick and tear down these walls continuously until he was able to see inside.

But for Dazai... it’s his Christmas day. Dazai felt like his efforts... his waiting, his long awaited efforts were finally rewarded. All it took was one little slip on your behalf, one tiny little tear, for the wrapping paper to completely fall off. And as it lays discarded on the floor, Dazai admires the gift. He admires you. Your mind is such a vulnerable place. Yet in its own way, it’s beautiful and fragile. He feels like he physically cannot tarnish it. Yet... you’re so much more different than he thought. 

You’re niether a kind person, nor a violent one. You’re not broken, you’re not depressed nor anxious nor scared. You’re not nearly what he idealizes so much, and you’re not some insane slave to your ideals. No... what was inside that box and wrapping paper all this time was similar to a piece of piece of glass. Plainly boring in its own way... yet beautiful if shaped in the right hands. 

You’re a blank slate. Sure, you have your own trauma, your own struggles, desires, and wishes but... he’ll still do as he wants to you. 

And you won’t have a single say in it. 

You’re a blank slate. A canvas waiting to be drawn on. And draw on you he will. 

He’ll admire you, he’ll protect you, he’ll... do anything and everything to make you love him. You’ll.... you’ll learn to love him.

And in return, you’ll be the only one who will see and understand his true self.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Can I have more of Bucky ordering Hypnotized Steve to cum in random places? Whenever he wants, as often as he wants. And Steve can't do anything to stop it. He just has to take it. Left to watch as his body empties itself because of a single word whispered in his ear, or texted to his phone. He's not safe when he's not with Bucky either. Sometimes Bucky will make him do it with a text just because he can. To hammer in the point that Steve is *his* and that his body is *his*. 🐍

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

also, related to this original ask, this follow-up, and then another additional follow-up (that includes selfcest)

Ooh, yes, you can have more of hypnotized/well-trained Steve. I do enjoy him, lmao. I love the idea of it not just being a trigger attached to Bucky's voice specifically but the word generally, enough that it can be texted to him and he'll obey.

How.... interesting 👀

Plus, that little part you wrote about Steve watching himself obey. That's so 🤌🏻good🤌🏻 It really speaks to how fucking involuntarily it happens for him. How helpless he is. It's an out of body experience, really. Hot damn.

(Hypnotism kink, slight humiliation/embarrassment kink, public/semi-public kink, and also slight dubious consent vibes here, like, Steve is a neon sign flashing that he fucking wants this, but there's so much control given up, that some of my words read as dub-con.)

Let's start with a bonus thought because as I thought about this, the first thing I thought of was actually nice and sweet. Go figure, lol. There's a first for everything.

As evil as Bucky can be with the power he holds over Steve's big, dumb body and its most vulgar responses, you know what?

This is also great for Steve.

Of course, it works out terribly when Bucky wants to play with him and fuck him up in the head making him get hard, go soft, or orgasm completely involuntarily on Bucky's whim, simply because he can. Yet, the control Bucky has is also fucking great when Steve (embarrassingly) can't control himself anyway.

'Cause all too often, Bucky will do something that's not supposed to be erotic but it is, it really fucking is, and so Steve's big, dumb, hyperresponsive body will go zing! twitch! flick! pumping rushes of lust hot blood through his veins, crackling down his spine, and suddenly, he's on his way to popping wood--or is already popping wood--in very inappropriate places. Just because Bucky looked at him at the wrong moment, Bucky pulled a face when eating some food, savoring the flavors, Bucky made a sound when he was stretching, trying to ease the strain his heavy prosthetic puts on his body, moaning in relief for a moment, Bucky will bend over in tight pants, okay, sometimes not even tight pants, his ass is just that good, Bucky will dare to gather his hair into a messy bun, or Bucky will do anything and Steve finds that he just can't help but rush to get hard.

Unfair.

Now, usually, something so simple as Bucky giving him a dirty look, unless it sends him into a spiral of need (like it would after days of Bucky using his power over him for evil, commanding him to get hard to use him as a living dildo only to finish, pulling an orgasm or multiple out of himself using Steve's filling dick, and then make him go soft before he can have his own orgasm), is not even enough to get him fully hard. So, the problem isn't an aching, erection. The problem is that, often, the rush of heat he feels is just enough of an outpouring for his dick to be visibly pitching a tent whatever pants he's wearing.

He doesn't need to be fully hard to look obscene, though. Not with a dick like that.

Big and thick and dumb.

Whereas before Steve was hypnotized and gave his body away so willingly, Steve would have to deal with the embarrassment of being erect, scrambling to try and distract himself by himself, an effort all his own, now he doesn't have to. So... why try?

There's no point.

Plus, normally, Bucky is so aware of Steve, always keeping tabs on him to keep him out of trouble (justice-wise or bratty-submissive-wise), that he's already on it. And Bucky won't hardly blink before calmly strolling up to Steve's side, whispering in his ear the magic word, or staying where he is but casually pulling out his phone to text Steve, staring him down until he opens his phone, and gets his body to stop. That way, with Bucky helping him, it's so easy. It can be dealt with no problem.

Sometimes, though, Steve does have to ask for what he needs--he needs someone else to take care of him. He needs someone else to make decisions for him. He needs someone else to take responsibility for and control of his body. It's all too much for him. He shot up to six feet in a blistering hot, painful flash, and it's so much, sometimes, that he can hardly function.

He's so weak.

And that's the most embarrassment he gets concerning those random, helpless erections these days--hypnotized as he is. It's so fucking mortifying when he has to pull a pillow into his lap and clear his throat to get Bucky's attention, flicking his eyes down into his own lap when he has Bucky's attention, indicating his rogue dick that he needs help with to calm down. When he needs to excuse himself to the bathroom to readjust himself, pulling his dick up to conceal it in his beltline, but really not planning on doing that and instead just brushing past Bucky so he knows what's going on with him, whimpering softly for help. When, sometimes, he just has to fucking walk straight up to Bucky and ask, quietly or outright, for him to just say that fucking word so he can have some relief from his own body with a mind of its own. He needs to be reined in.

Please.

Okay, back to the evilness now, lol. We're bored of such niceness, so let's get down to business.

The setting is a conference room, one of the many in the Tower, and it can go one of two ways between them. Either way, there's an invisible push-pull that would horrify their coworkers if they knew what "boring" "elderly" activities their two resident "granpas" were getting up to on and off the job.

One) If Bucky isn't feeling totally drunk on power, relishing in the erotic knowledge of just how implicitly Steve trusts him, giving himself over to him, but still wanting to play, then he'll text that little word to Steve when he's sitting down. And, naturally, Steve will choke. He'll fumble to grab his coffee cup to cover it, and if he's especially not expecting the suddenness of Bucky's text popping up as a push notification (that he'll pretend again and again to not understand to turn on, inept at technology at his advanced age, just because he likes knowing when his man needs him) that will have him spilling hot coffee all. over. himself.

Spilling.

Spilling and making a mess all over himself. Wet and hot and sticky. Fucking up the outside and inside of his uniform. The dark navy kevlar covering his crotch now stained and the jockstrap and athletic cup beneath just as soaked.

God.

There is no time to prepare for the sudden influx of pleasure, making it all the more devasting. He's has no time to duck and cover. He's hit like a sitting fucking duck. Oblivious.

Badly wanting to curl up into a ball around the pumping, gut-deep waves of pleasure rolling through him but, instead, Steve can only allow himself to clench his jaw and groan with "frustration." If he's lucky, he'll be able to play his reaction off as being startled by a noise a few doors away that only his enhanced hearing can pick up. If he's unlucky, he'll have no excuse and barely avoid wearing his bliss all over his face, biting his lip, eyes rolling back into his skull, riding out the sudden orgasm in front of everyone he works with on the daily. Bucky just an innocent bystander to it all.

Fuck.

Steve wants to dig his fingers into the conference room chair until the leather cracks apart, giving him something to hold onto while grinding up against the harsh, unforgiving material of his athletic cup. He wants to gasp through his gritted teeth.

He can't.

Two) If Bucky is feeling totally drunk on power, though, or if he's trying to make a point after Steve was a disobedient boy or an obstinate fuck during a mission, taking unnecessary risks, oh boy, then, chances are he'll lie in wait. Unbeknowst to Steve, Bucky has an attack planned. He's ready to launch whenever he sees fit. He just has to stretch it out a little longer. A little more. Just a tiny bit more until...

Steve is standing at attention in the center of the room, all eyes on him, as he crafts some booming-voice speech, using that Captain America, alpha-male voice he has to get a point across or boost morale about a grim situation. And, exactly then, that's when Bucky will let Steve in on his little plan.

This plan doesn't involve a sudden, involuntary orgasm to bring him to his knees in front of everyone with a sweet, pathetic little moan. Nah. This time, Bucky wants to drag... the... experience... out...

Bucky can't be too easy on him, now can he? His boy does well with rules and expectations and reward and punishment. Bucky is simply helping him be is best. Mouthing the word to him from the other side of the meeting, looming in the back of the crowd, locking eyes with Steve and filling himself with the dirty, hot knowledge that Steve is filling out his uniform a little snugger now.

Bucky wants him hard while he does this.

He's smart enough, he can think while his dick rises in his stars and stripes uniform. He doesn't need all of that big brain to make one little speech. Right?

Steve trips a little over his tongue.

Oops.

Quickly guiding himself back on track, Bucky watches Steve start to blush under his heavy gaze. Pretty pale skin pickening with... passion. A certain type of passion.

Bucky knows while Steve's mouth runs speedy laps, his mind is reeling just as fast, maybe faster. There's no doubt that he's desperately trying to read Bucky's purposefully disinterested expression. Are you just gonna have me hard like this? Or are you gonna take it further? Will you make me cum like this? In front of everyone? Really, Buck? What's the plan? Is that the plan? What're you gonna do to me? How good, how bad am I about to feel? I know I can't do anything about it, but what am I supposed to do to play along right now? What can I do? What do you want?

Bucky let's him spin his wheels, keeping him hard, getting him harder, repeatedly mouthing the word whenever Steve's eyes dart back to him, finding him in the crowd.

He has no intention, this time, to make him cum like this. He just wants Steve on edge, knowing he could make him. If he wanted to.

Bucky wants the anticipation to build like a storm on the horizon. Just wait until the lightning strikes Steve.

Oof, it's gonna be fucking good.

Working Steve up until he's blushing to the tips of his ears, biting his lip, and slipping once they're alone again--thinking, silly boy, that he can use that Captain America tone with Bucky and get what he wants. He can't. He won't. He gets what Bucky gives him and nothing less. Nothing more.

That's what he's for.

He's Bucky's.

He's Bucky's perfect toy. A doll. Something to use. Something to be ordered around, the weight of the world taken off his shoulders so he can be simple and air-headed for once in his fucking life, feeling nothing but pleasure, spoon-fed to him.

And speaking of mouthing words, texting, or other ways than just speaking the words to make Steve go soft, get hard, or cum...

They go further and get real inventive with it.

Like, okay, how else can they push it? How can Bucky specifically push it because, let's be real, Steve isn't doing any of the fucking thinking here.

So, Bucky makes the decision and he begins to put effort into learning some sign language. Just some basic things including learning what the commands they've trained Steve are, then teaching Steve the commands, too, so he can keep their loooong rides back from missions in the middle of fucking nowhere on the quinjet interesting.

Bucky will start tapping his toes, jiggling his leg as if he's impatient and not a trained fucking sniper, to call Steve's attention to them without the others noticing. It's not especially tricky with them all tired out and slowly nodding off to sleep, but the thrill is still alive within them--scratching that deviant fucking itch both Steve and Bucky have.

With Steve's eyes on his legs, Bucky will sllllowly, casually rub his hand up and down his thigh, pulling Steve's gaze from his foot against the floor to his upper leg where he can covertly curl his hand into shapes with obscene meanings.

Hard, Bucky will sign.

And Steve will get hard. Perfect. Just like that. He doesn't have to think, his body simply does. If Steve does dare to think, it's wishful thinking at best, there's nothing he can do to stop his body. He is a dog salivating at the sound of bell, no intelligence to make him stop and wonder why he's slobbering when there is no food in sight. He is all instinct with Bucky--primal instinct.

Hard, Bucky motions again.

And Steve will grow harder, smothering a whimper down in his chest. They've been on mission for over 72 fucking hours with no time to blow off any steam. So, Steve's serum hot, thick blood is all too eager to rush into his cock, fattening it up so quickly he's left in a daze. Light-headed, eyelids drooping, getting dumb.

Hard.

Steve's pulse pounds through his very fucking hard dick. If Bucky tells him again, he feels as though his cock will burst through the seams of his uniform. It's so tight.

The jockstrap he's wearing beneath his suit must be disgusting with sweat from the monsoon of fighting and the drought of showers, but that's not his biggest problem with it suddenly. Rather, he's too focused on how restricting his underwear is, not how dirty it is. How dirty he is. Dirty because of Bucky. Bucky is doing this to him. Bucky makes him want to rip his hair out at the same time that he makes him want to moan until his throat is raw and hoarse.

Steve's cup is no better than his jock, it's digging into him.

Oh. my. fucking. god.

He needs out of his clothes.

Goddd.

He needs to crawl to Bucky and whine at his feet, staring up at him through heavy lashes with big, watery eyes, begging with a clumsy, blubbering tongue until Bucky gets him out of his clothes. They're too tight! The pressure rising inside him is so much. It's hot, sweltering even, and it's unbearable. It'd be so much fucking easier to take each subsequent hard if Bucky would let him out of his clothes.

Steve would do anything to get it! He would!!

He'd crawl back to his seat and just sit here if Bucky stripped him. He would! He would sit and endure through a hundred more signs of hard if he weren't chokingly trapped. He would crawl and squirm and writhe across the floor of the quinjet with his cock hanging so heavily beneath his clenching tummy, if only Bucky would release him from the prison of bullet and fire and knife and everything proof material he's chokingly swathed in.

Please.

There is no relief, though. Just again: hard.

Every fucking sign--hard, hard, hard--Steve's body obeys like its the first. Despite the fact that the word has been used so much now that the meaning has thinned into nothing, it's the same pent-up rush each time. It's white-hot heat crackling down his spine from his tingling scalp to the deepest pit of his belly, tugging on him like a rope, knotting him tighter, tighter, tighter as his body clicks into its arousal like a switch has been flicked.

A switch flipped, or, maybe a trigger pulled 'cause Steve feels ready to combust. How in the fuck is he supposed to make it all the way back to the tower?

He can't.

He'll shatter, he'll burst into flames, he'll wail so loud he'll wake everyone up.

He can't.

Bucky is terrible.

Steve loves it. He doesn't spend a moment of the flight replaying a single second of their mission, over-analyzing every move he made, torturing himself by telling himself everything was a mistake and he could've saved one more person had he done that instead of this. Rather than killing himself over the guilt, ripping his own big, big heart to shreds, he agonizes over pleasure.

Eye-rolling, toe-curling, teeth-gritting pleasure that rises to such an overwhelming flood that just as he's sure he's about to cum despite his only command being hard--the pleasure is just that pressurized and rich it's going to combust--Bucky perfectly, calmly signs soft.

And Steve is soft.

He doubles over as much as he can, strapped into his quinjet seat. He can taste his peak, that's how fucking close he was to tipping over the cliffs edge. It's spread across his tongue and dripping down his throat, snatched away just before he was able to swallow and take it into his belly. Steve squeezes his eyes shut to keep the tears from coming, whining underneath the roar of the engines as they start to land, and he's hit with, all at once, acceptance.

He should want to bitch and moan and plead for a different outcome, but he doesn't. This is how it is. This is what Bucky is giving him. This is what he'll take.

This is submission.

This is what he wants--what he needs more than anything.

[hyacinth-sims]

La Campanella

Summary: A character study of Tybalt Capp as he reflects upon his relationship with his late mother and his place in the Capp family. 

Warning: None, VERY SAD :(

Pairings: None, Implied Past Tybalt Capp/Mercutio Monty

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: The formatting/style is a little messy since I really just let everything go and wrote what I thought of Tybalt and who he is in the moment. I’m really happy with what I came up with but also quite sad because he really needs a hug :( Also link for a piano rendition of La Campanella I think it really ties everything together 😁

His mother began to teach him piano before he could form a coherent sentence. She would sit on the bench and invite him next to her, his bright eyes watching intently as her slender fingers danced across the keys. He would attempt to imitate her whenever he could, his little hands smashing down on the ivory keys in an attempt to make music. Instead of scolding him for the awful slam of notes he let out, his mother would simply laugh and wrap her arms around him—stroking her fingers through his red hair as she whispered the nickname she’d called him until her very last breath. 

“My sweet boy.” 

Tybalt was 9 years old when he had his first piano recital. He was set to play Für Elise, the only classical piece he knew by heart. He cried and cried backstage until the tears had run dry, only leaving heaving sobs and stinging eyes. Performing in front of his grandfather’s coworkers was one thing; performing in front of an entire auditorium full of people was something else entirely. But even from a young age, Tybalt did as a Capp always would, wiped the wet streaks from his cheeks, and walked onto that menacing stage.

He played as if nothing bothered him, refusing to let anyone see him sweat. His sisters like to say that he changed the day their parents died, but the stubborn boy desperately seeking approval always existed under the surface. Once finished with his performance, he stood up from his bench before taking a bow. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists behind his back, an anxious response as he desperately searched for his grandfather in the crowd. He was there, seated with an unchanging expression as his hands quietly clapped together in the sea of applause. 

Grandfather had told him that one day, he would be the man of the family. It meant both a lot yet very little in a matriarchal hierarchy, as his role in the family would never be to take over—but rather protect his sisters as they would eventually find suitors of their own to bring into the Capp family. However, even if Tybalt was married off to a woman of riches and good social standing, even if his last name was stripped of him, he wanted to make his grandfather proud until the very end. 

It was a point of contention between his mother and his grandfather. While Grandfather had many expectations of who Tybalt would eventually become within their family, his mother wanted him to follow his own path. She never wanted him to marry for money or power, and even as a child, she made him promise he would marry somebody he loved. He never knew it as a child, but marriages for love were uncommon in his family. His parents were the exception, not the rule. 

His mother and father had met as young adults, he was in attendance of a piano performance of her own. They were both students of an arts university, with his father being an aspiring stage actor who’d attended the recital on a whim. She gushed that he was captivated by her rendition of Nocturne No. 8, finding her after the show to commend her on her beauty and piano skills—and to ask her on a date. Grandfather and grandmother were not happy about this, seeing as though they had already planned a potential husband for her to marry once she was out of university. 

They eventually found his father to be suitable enough for their heiress, although it meant that the Troy family was guaranteed to marry into the family the following generation—which meant Juliette. 

It wasn’t set in stone until their parents had passed, as the importance placed on true love and the happiness that came with it faded with them. As long as grandfather remained alive, Juliette’s hand was guaranteed to the young heir of the Troy family and it had become Tybalt’s job to make sure all went well. It also meant that his happiness would forever take the back burner, although it wasn’t as if that meant much.

Once his parents died and his grandparents had taken in himself and his sisters, his happiness very quickly revolved around what use he could provide for the family. If it meant marrying a woman he could never love, he would do it. If it meant automatically hating anyone who had ever possibly slighted his family, he would do it. If it meant killing that little boy who listened intently to his mother’s stories of love and what it meant to be happy…

He’d do it without much thought at all. 

His grandfather seemed to be the opposite of his mother, as his advice to Tybalt was that love is the destruction of man. He said love could make even the strongest man alive crumble down without much effort. Tybalt had asked how he remained standing and was not given much of an answer other than a glance that told what words couldn’t. It was then, at age 13, that Tybalt learned his grandparents had not loved each other—at least not in the traditional sense. 

Certainly, those premonitions had to come from somewhere, but Tybalt just wasn’t sure where. 

What his mother would likely find heartbreaking if she had been alive is the fact that Tybalt understood his grandfather’s words. He had never been in love, it would be silly to call a childhood infatuation love. He was 7 years old, standing off to the side as the other children played on the playground. He didn’t want to get his uniform dirty; his grandmother hated it whenever he did. A boy came up to him with a monarch butterfly resting on the tip of his finger, a grin on his face that was missing a few teeth. In fact, he had just watched one fall out only the week before. His friend had dared him to bite into a rather large jawbreaker—of course, that did not end well. The boy told him that the orange hue of the small creature reminded him of Tybalt’s hair. 

It was nice to fantasize for a few years, to tell his mother that he was following her stories, to insist he was in love as she responded with cooing and warm hugs. But everything came to a halt after that fire, not only in his life but for the entire town. His grandfather insisted on the theory that the rivaling Montys had caused it—and tore apart his already battered heart in the process.

That anxious yet curious little boy was laid to rest with his parents on that day, leaving only the hardened shell carefully curated to guarantee he would never hurt like that again. At least, that was what Tybalt told himself—a mantra repeated to convince himself that there were no feelings left to feel other than vengeance and rage. As always, though, the truth lay somewhere in the middle. Tybalt would never be the same as he once was; that much was very true. He could never listen with wide eyes and a bright smile to fantastical fairytales of happiness or flush and stammer in response to something as stupid as a butterfly. 

But deep inside, there was still a desperate vying for approval from his family. There was still a craving, a need for someone to simply say they were proud of him. There was still a part of him that wanted to be loved, to be told that everything was going to be okay in the end. Tybalt hated that part of himself, it would never see the light of day if he had anything to do with it. 

He’d abandoned his mother’s stories, her gentleness, her wish for her children to have something better than feuds and arranged marriages. All he could keep of her memory was the grand piano that had been in the family for generations; it had become his sole comfort when repression and denial failed. 

The sheet music of La Campanella had sat on the music shelf in front of him for nearly a month. He’d turned it around this time, only allowing his eyes to see the blank back of the thick paper. He wanted to completely memorize it before his grandfather’s next party for his business associates and where he would likely meet the girl he was set to marry once he completed his education. He hoped she would at least be decent company, somehow his grandparents seemed to enjoy their time spent with one another—perhaps he could have the same. 

Oh, his mother would be aghast to hear of that. The argument between his mother and grandfather would be one for the ages, he had to get his temper from somewhere after all. Perhaps she would understand if she was here to see the worsening tensions throughout town. Even if he was going to eventually be part of another family, he wanted to ensure that the lineage of the Capps was secured. 

The palms of his hands began to sweat as he could feel his grandfather’s narrowed eyes watching him—waiting for him to make a mistake. Tybalt could only furrow his brow and stare down at the keys in front of him, watching as his fingers rapidly pressed against them as the song sped up. He wanted to make his grandfather proud more than anything, he was all he had left after all. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect for this party—including his own musical rendition. He needed it to be perfect. There was nothing else he could do for his family, he was one of few men born into the name after all. All he could do was ensure his sisters were perfect, their marriages were perfect, and he needed to be perfect—

One of his fingers slipped as he was nearing the end of the song, an off-tune note ringing out through the air as his grandfather softly shook his head. Tybalt stopped in his tracks immediately, a final slam of the keys before bringing his hands back to his side. The older man leaned forward in the living room chair that they’d all referred to as his chair. He picked up the handle of his teacup and his newspaper from the coffee table before leaning back once again. “What a shame,” His grandfather commented before taking a sip of his tea and putting the cup back down on the table, “You were doing so well too.”

Tybalt could do nothing but stare down at his lap, clenching his fists until he could feel the pain of his sharp nails in the middle of his palms—a habit he’d never quite broken. He took a deep breath in, releasing his hands as he put them up to the keys again as he shakily breathed out. He played and played until his fingers began to cramp and every note was ingrained in his head. He finished the song on his 8th try, but to himself—it still wasn’t good enough.

It would never be good enough.

[idyllic-affections]

the contract's cycle.

summary. changsheng's contract is a cycle.

trigger & content warnings. angst angst and more angst on the side, mentions of death & chronic illness.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. angst, hurt/slight comfort. baizhu & reader. 0.7k words. they/them pronouns for reader. this post is an expansion of invisible disability? it's rather visible to me. this post contains spoilers for baizhu's story quest.

author's thoughts. i did baizhu's story quest (i am telling lies. i did not do it, i watched someone else do it on youtube. genshin burnout is REAL i swear). got fic inspo. wrote fic. this is a little messy but please spare me i wrote this on a whim at 10:30 at night HSKSHJFGFGD

baizhu, who does not want anyone else to fall victim to changsheng's contract, yet also does not want her to die as a consequence of having no host.

it takes time, but despite this, he eventually realizes that what he has with junior herbalist [name] is the virtually the same as an apprenticeship—it is the same as what he had with his master before him, and what his master had with his own master before him, and so on. baizhu only refused to label his relationship with [name] as such for fear of them becoming the next in line, should he fail to attain immortality.

he does not intend to fail, but he cannot deny that he may not be able to succeed, either.

he suddenly finds himself scared, because if he's become so close with them without even consciously realizing it... that means that something drew him in, that he is endeared with them like a parent would be to a child because they are undoubtedly very much like him—a selfless, gentle soul void of ill intent. that fact simply scares him. they're so young, too young. maybe they'll change as they get older. maybe they'll become less selfless and kind. maybe he should encourage them to be more selfish? perhaps that might change something?

(he is only fooling himself.)

[name] is a viable host for changsheng; she herself has confirmed it, albeit a little reluctantly, upon baizhu's request. "it is a matter of my host's natural temperament," she reminded, "and that does not change as someone gets older. you know this, baizhu."

baizhu is now terrified. his fear has increased tenfold, because they are already chronically ill. he was not necessarily so weak before taking on changsheng's contact; his current state is a consequence of transferring countless ailments onto his own body. if he is fated for an early death... archons, their death would be even earlier. his heart drops at the thought.

briefly, he wonders if his predecessors ever felt like this—did they, too, fear the deaths of their apprentices, or is it different in his case because of how young his is? is it different because, even though he hesitates to say it aloud, he thinks of them as his own child? or were all his predecessors the same way?

he doesn't realize it, but gradually, the liyuean doctor begins withdrawing from them.

[name] notices that baizhu seems to be engaging less with them, that he's less involved with them overall, and they worry about if they've somehow disappointed him. they become more fidgety and distressed during their work hours, always trying to understand what it is that they did wrong, and trying to amend it without even knowing what they did.

changsheng eventually exposes hers' and baizhu's shared secret because maybe she's seen a teacher and their student fall out and maybe she doesn't want to see it again. who knows? but baizhu sure as hell won't tell them, so she takes it upon herself to do so, and the doctor is helpless to stop her because she... is stubborn.

[name], though very worried, expresses little surprise once changsheng finishes her explanation. all they do is peer up with gentle sincerity directed mostly at baizhu. "changsheng isn't normal—no offense, changsheng, don't get mad—so... i somewhat figured that something like this was going on. it's not exactly uncommon in liyue. this is the nation of contracts, after all, but... why didn't you tell me sooner? are you worried that i would be her next contractee? is— is that why you're ignoring me lately?"

(changsheng forces baizhu to apologize to them for that. he didn't offer much resistance and was quick to console and reassure them.)

baizhu is now even more set on his quest than before, because he will not let another person fall victim to the contract's cycle, "fate" be damned. he will not let [name] fall victim to the contract's cycle.

([name] knows that deep down inside, if something ever happened to baizhu... they would take on changsheng's contract, because like all those before them, they do not want to see her die, and changsheng has, albeit begrudgingly, accepted that they are just like all their predecessors.

if there is a life in front of them that deserves to be saved, why shouldn't they do everything within their power to save it?)

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

[wisecrackingeric-2]

‘Lulu’

Summary: One morning, when Luis is being especially difficult to get out of bed for work, Leon decides to take it upon himself to give his boyfriend an embarrassing nickname. Hijinks ensue as more and more people start calling Luis ‘Lulu’. Three-In-One style fic

I wrote this fic as apart of a trade between myself and @alitan99 based off of a moment from André Peña’s (Luis Serra’s voice actor) Twitch stream on the 16th July, 2023!!! Alita wrote and preformed a song, and I wrote a fic!!! I took a lot of inspiration from their song in particular, so please please PLEASE go check it out!! It’s SO GOOD!!!! https://m.soundcloud.com/alitanightsbane/lulu-serra-original?ref=clipboard&p=i&c=1&si=C86CE333D8EF4106B7232ADDD32C114F&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

Trigger warnings: Canon-typical mentions of blood and guns, brief description of a deer being injured in the final story

A/N: The first ‘Story’ was written when I had MAJOR writers block, so it came out as being very clunky and not up to my usual standards. I was planning on scrapping and rewriting it, but I didn’t want to waste anymore time!! So please ignore how poorly written the first part of this Fic is, I promise it gets better the final two stories!!!

Also, this isn’t proofread, and I don’t actually know a lick of Spanish, so please feel free to correct me if anything is out of place!!!

——————————————————————————————

“Luis?”

Luis didn’t wake up.

He had a special knack for that; pretending to be asleep when he was needed. He called it a talent, Leon called him a nuisance.

“Luuuiiiss?”

Luis felt Leon’s hand press against his side through the double-layered duvet covers, nudging him as gently as possible for any sign of life.

Unbeknownst to his partner, though, Luis was grinning wolfishly against his pillow- burying his nose further into the cold fabric and unconsciously curling up into himself, bringing the blankets along with him.

Leon gave a defeated huff at the sight of his unmoving partner, only just being able to spot the top of his messy hair poking out between the blankets and the mountain of pillows.

As much as he knew it was impractical and only further aided in his procrastination, Luis couldn’t force himself to unfurl from the cocoon he’d crafted, no matter how hard he tried. Besides, how was Leon supposed to expect him to get up at 5-goddamn-30-AM in the morning? Especially when his pillow was just oh-so soft enough for his head to practically sink straight down into, and the duvet covers that engulfed Luis in a small, triangular cavern reminded him of being a little kid in a blanket fortress again. Dark, quiet, and protective.

(Besides, it was cold. And the sheets were just so warm. Probably from Leon sleeping in them overnight.)

All jokes aside, however; Luis genuinely wished he was able to show his gratitude towards Leon for giving him a second chance in a more meaningful way than just wasting his so-called ‘precious time’ playing around like this in the mornings- not that Leon ever minded these small moments of domesticality, though.

It was one thing to save Luis from a knife to the back- literally- but it was an entirely other thing for Leon to have graciously opened his home, his love, and his affection towards the man he’d met on a whim in nowhere-Spain. And Luis had no idea how to repay Leon in a way that felt equal to his gratitude.

Even just being able to wake up in a warm, comfortable bed, safe next to a person he loved like he was a kid again; it was a luxury Luis hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. Not since his Grandfather passed away. So he treasured these moments as best as he could, and let Leon know as much, too. The blonde reassured him countless-a times that he expected nothing in return, though; he just appreciates Luis’ love.

And Luis appreciated his love in return, too.

Leon repeated another loud, dramatic sigh as he shifted his weight off of the bed. Luis couldn’t help but let out a quiet and involuntary giggle at the sound of his characteristically melodramatic boyfriend.

It must not have been quiet enough, though, because he could practically hear the smirk in Leon’s voice as he began to speak;

“I can hear you, y’know. I know you’re not asleep”

Ah, caught red-handed. And here Luis thought he was a professional.

The sound of soft footsteps muffled by his own pillow were followed by the metallic screech of their clothing rack, and Luis swore he could hear Leon hum a little tune from above his duvet-cocoon as the blonde undoubtedly started to pick out his work clothes for the day.

Leon had work- sporadic hours, and been more sporadic dates- that early Sunday morning. And although Luis wasn’t obliged to go to the Lab on weekends.. He’d prefer to make a good impression on the U.S government. Especially after they had so graciously (Said internally with plenty of sarcasm) lent him his freedom in exchange for his knowledge in their laboratories.

Luis had no choice but to agree, even though he hated it. It felt like he was just being put into yet another inescapable work environment with an unending quest for knowledge and power. One he was all-too familiar with at this point.

Regardless, though, Luis- ever the linewalker- still tested his luck by making one request; He’d be allowed to follow Leon around on his missions in exchange for his expertise.

Leon had called him crazy, but Luis just pointed out that he was still rolling with him regardless.

Leon would playfully call him helpless, and Luis would point out he had his own Príncipe to save him if the situation ever called.

A comforting, reassuring, regular back-and-fourth.

“I’m gonna leave for work, soon, love, soooooo….”

“Mmmmno,”

Luis finally spoke up, but wasn’t totally ready to expose his fully-awakeness just yet.

“No te vayas… Mí amor…”

His feigned sleepy-voice must have worked, because from above him, Luis heard Leon huff a sympathetic laugh from his nose.

“Luis, doll, I’ve gotta go into work.. n’ so do you, I think”

No matter how put-together Leon made himself out to be, Luis could still occasionally catch those moment of vulnerability and tiredness in his voice. He’d hear it after especially rough missions, or just after a long day at work. And now he heard it here, too. Truthfully, neither of them wanted Leon to go into the office.

So Luis just shook his head in response, letting out a series of displeased noises instead of words. And judging by the sound of the floorboards creaking slightly, he could guess Leon had crouched down beside the bed. And his suspicions were confirmed the moment a familiar hand tangled his way into his long, messy hair.

Luis hadn’t gotten a haircut in… god, how long was it now? His hair easily reached almost to his shoulders (In his own defense, though, having a hole in your lung and not being able to walk for two months didn’t exactly leave much time for a routine haircut). Usually, Luis prided himself on his appearance; it was one of the few things in his life he had control over, and gave him self-confidence in. He was a good-looking guy and he knew it. But around Leon, he could let his guard down. He still liked dressing up pretty for him, sure- but he wasn’t as uncomfortable with letting the blonde see him purposefully messy and sleepy. Luis trusted Leon, and he could tell Leon appreciated it.

“Loooooeeeessss…”

Luis’ grin widened as he heard the purposeful mispronunciation of his name from under the blankets. He squeezed his T-Rex positioned hands closer to his chest, trying his hardest not to laugh and give into the feeling of Leon gently playing with his hair.

“Lewis?”

Still no response.

“Looooow-eez..?”

Again, just teasing silence.

When Luis was met with stillness, he assumed he had one the war of attrition- outsmarting his partner and earning himself just a couple more minutes of warm, blissful rest. Maybe he could even convince the Lab that he was sick and needed a day off, who knows. But regardless, Luis smiled victoriously against his pillow; shuffling down further into his sheets just to rub his own win in.

At least, he thought he had won.

“Alright, then,” Leon let out the words in a faux, breathy sigh. The sound of his work jacket being slipped over his shoulders followed.

“I guess I’ll just have to go to work…-“

Luis was about to mentally reward himself, until…

“-Without you, Lulu.”

Lulu??

“Lulu?!” Luis made a weird noise that sat in-between a snort of laughter and genuine shocked surprise. Without even realizing he’d just given up his only chance at sleeping in, Luis practically shot up out of his spot under the covers in surprise. He blinked like a newborn deer at Leon, who had a giant, victorious grin plastered on his face.

Luis wasn’t sure wether to laugh to be mad.

“Where the hell did Lulu come from?!”

“Ha, so you are awake. Knew it” Leon just continued to give him a toothy smile, buttoning up his collard shirt and jacket all the while ignoring Luis’ question. Who had now resorted to pouting cross-armed on the bed.

“What about me, a grown man, screams the nickname ‘Lulu’ to you, Sancho?”

Leon looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as if he was genuinely considering his answer. Luis knew he was just faking it, though, and continued to mentally curse himself for giving up his position so easily.

‘‘Lulu’. What a dumb nickname. Not that I’m embarrassed by it, or anything. Nope. I just.. Hope it doesn’t stick.’

“Hmmmm, well… I dunno actually,” Leon winked at him, so nonchalantly and easily it made Luis blush a little. Oh how the turned had tables, or something like that.

“I just think it’s cute, I guess. It suits you.”

“It does not!,” Luis shouted back defiantly, his face now definitely a shade darker than before. “Not in the slightest! Esto es una blasfemia!!”

“Uh-Huh. Whatever you say, Lulu”

Leon rubbed the embarrassment even further in when he leaned over to kiss his partner on the crown of his head, ruffling the Spaniards hair up for the added effect. Luis begrudgingly kissed him back on the lips before he heard the blonde mutter under his breath;

“Hah. Lulu. I like it.”

“Don’t you dare keep calling me that,” Luis growled playfully, giving his partner as much of a grumpy glare as he could muster. Internally, though, his heart was fluttering; it took every ounce of strength in him to not smile at Leon’s teasing. It wasn’t often he was so forward, even if Luis hated the reason as to why. It was nice to see.

“If you make that stick, I’ll start calling you… uh… Déjame pensar…”

As Luis stammered over himself and tried desperately to come up with an equally as insulting nickname, Leon held his unbreaking eye contact; so nonchalant and languid with it all the while.

It was almost painful, the way he waited so patiently and expectantly with a little smirk on his face- Luis couldn’t even make eye contact back at him he was blushing so hard. But at the same time he wanted to kiss that smile off of Leon sooooooooo badly.

“Go on?”

Oh ese bastardo.

“U-Um- Scotty. Yeah. I’ll call you Scotty”

Luis knew the ‘S’ in Leon’s name (unfortunately) didn’t actually stand for Salmonella like he’d joked about, and that most people probably didn’t even know his middle name was ‘Scott’ at all, not even his close friends.

So Luis hoped that by calling Leon a name he hardly identified with, it would provoke at least some kind of equal reaction.

But, of coarse, to no avail; his attempts were just met with a bark of laughter from Leon.

“Scotty?! Seriously?? Yeah, sure, let’s see how that one goes down with everyone at the Lab. I’m suuuure it’ll stick”

Luis’ voiced lowered to a playful growl, “Sancho, you’re not implying what I think you’re implying, are you?”

“What if I am?,” Leon leaned into Luis, pressing his hands on either side of him on the bed. The brunette tried his very best to keep his composure and not back down. But it was getting increasingly difficult.

“What if I, very nicely, and in private, asked Rebecca to start calling you Lulu from now on, hmm? Would you be upset?”

“You wouldn’t”

The thought of Leon quietly sneaking up to Luis’ coworkers- who he had dedicated so much time and effort into getting to even like him, let alone respect him- and asking them to call him ‘Lulu???’

If it was any other situation, he would’ve laughed and said; ‘Go right ahead, Cariño. Let’s see where that gets you’, but his dignity was on the line, ¡por el amor de Dios! And Luis certainly wasn’t about to give Leon the satisfaction of a smile or a laugh. It would only encourage him.

“Oh I would, Lulu.”

Leon reached back and grabbed Luis’ hand, pulling him up onto his feet with a dissatisfied grunt. He wanted to complain about the cold, and the fact that he’d just been forced out of bed- but the second Luis opened his mouth to speak, Leon’s lips were on his own in a heartbeat.

Luis didn’t have enough time to register what was happening and kiss Leon back before the blonde had already pulled away. Staring him up-and-down in such a way that made his heart beat up into his throat chaotically.

“Um- y-yeah, no, I, uh-“

“My, my, call me crazy, but I think you like being called Lulu, don’t you?”

Luis tried his best to scoff indifferently at the statement, maybe even roll his eyes a bit- but it just came out looking like he couldn’t make eye contact from the embarrassment, and his ‘scoff’ sounded more like a sheepish giggle than anything else. He bit his lip in desperation,

“Nooooooo, I do not like being called ‘Luu-Luu’, thank you very much”

Leon placed his hands on his hips.

“Nuh-Uh. Look at your face. You totally do”

“You’re de-lu-sional, Muñeco”

This finally caused Leon to break his composure, letting out a genuine laugh as he gave Luis a more gentle kiss on the lips. The brunette felt his chest warm up as he couldn’t help but chuckle along involuntarily. The more time they’d spent together, the more he’d been fortunate enough to hear Leon genuinely laugh. Not just that weird, half-chuckle he did to impress politicians or to make his rescuees feel better about themselves, no; his real, honest-to-goodness, full-body laugh. It was beautiful, at least to Luis.

And Luis secretly made it his life mission to get Leon to laugh as often as he could. Wether that be with bad flirting or with equally as bad jokes, it didn’t matter. Even if it meant he had to be called ‘Lulu’.

Which he was slowly growing to both despise and appreciate at the same time. Luis couldn’t tell which it was.

“Well, I’m gonna be late to work if I don’t go now, soooo….” Leon began to recollect himself, coughing as he awkwardly sidestepped away from their interaction and brushed down his expensive suit.

“Oh, and remember that mission to Papua New Guinea we were scheduled for in a couple days?”

“Sí?”

“Let the Lab know that that’s been pushed to later this evening, cuz the DSO wants us gone earlier. For some godforsaken reason.”

Even though his back was turned at this point, busy putting his shoes on- Luis could hear the tiredness in Leon’s voice. The Government was far too lax with their times and dates for missions and departures when it came to the DSO’s-Golden-Boy, at least in Luis’ humble opinion. And it meant Leon was often thrown around countries without warning like a ragdoll.

He made the conscious effort to not complain about the sudden time-change, though. It was difficult for him, yes, but Luis knew Leon often carried a lot of guilt for ‘dragging him around’, in his own words. (Even though he had, on multiple occasions, reassured Leon that it was in fact his choice to stick by him)

And Luis was proven right once again when the blonde finally turned around to give his boyfriend the biggest, most sappiest puppy-dog eyes he had ever seen on a single human being ever.

“I’m sorry, love..”

“Don’t be,” Luis gave him his signature, lopsided grin, cupping Leon’s cheek in his hand. He tried to keep his voice steady as Leon closed his eyes and gave his palm a light, apologetic kiss.

“What do you Americans say, again? ‘It is what it is’?”

“Something like that,” Leon huffed a dry laugh and pried himself away from Luis, much to his dismay. The blonde snapped his work watch on and finally turned to leave.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, Lulu. I love you.”

Luis just rolled his eyes and smiled. “You too, Cowboy. Te amo”

—————————————————————

Luis hadn’t even noticed Rebecca entering the Lab at the crisp hour of 6:30 AM. He sat hunched over at his desk- completely fixated on the task at hand- with his hair falling over his face like a curtain as he methodically drummed the tip of his syringe into a small glass plate. This was Luis’ fourth attempt at trying to examine the fluid inside of said syringe, but everytime he went to dab a droplet onto the glass plate, he always seemed to squeeze just a little too much out and cause it to overflow.

Luis chalked it up to his hands being cold and shaky as he let out a defeated sigh, once again squeezing the liquid out too fast and causing the glass plate to turn a sticky-yellow color. ‘Gracias a dios no soy cirujano’, he thought to himself as he cleaned off the glass and repositioned the needle back over again.

Luis had no idea Rebecca was practically sneaking up behind him, totally unaware that she’d slipped her oversized lab coat on just to add a bit of height as she stood directly behind him. Biting back her grin as best she could.

When Luis still didn’t acknowledge her presence, totally engrossed by his own failure- Rebbeca took it upon herself to cough comically loud, before saying;

“Good morning, Lulu!”

“¡MIERDA-!”

Luis kept about three feet into the air out of fright, instinctively throwing his arm up to cover his face protectively. The needle he was holding clattered loudly against the glass plate, and Rebecca made a winced face at the sound.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!! I didn’t see you were working!!”

“Nonono, está bien, está bien, you just gave me frig- wait a minuite,”

Luis’ clutch on his own pristine white Lab coat loosened as his beating heart slowed down. He was used to being jumped- a little more than the average person- and was accustomed to the quickened heart rate that followed.

Usually, when somebody snuck up behind him, Luis expected to hear his name being cursed with a fervor so unmatched with an honestly decent reason to hate him. But this isn’t what he was expecting. Like, at all.

“Señorita, I think I misheard… Did you just call me Lulu?”

“Mmmhmm!” Rebecca pressed her lips into a smile, the corners of her tired eyes crinkling as she nodded her head and hummed.

“Leon called me on the way to work and specifically asked me to call you that today. I’m not sure why. Oh, he also told me not to tell you he said that”

Luis felt his heart drop to his feet.

‘Leon, que hiciste…’

He immediately tried to save-face by laughing Rebecca off, waving his hand languidly and collecting the dropped medical equipment scattered over the table.

“Oh, psssshhh, please, Lulu? Seriously? Señorita, I wouldn’t have picked an esteemed scientist like yourself as the nickname type. Much less something like L-“

“I think Lulu’s pretty cute,” Rebecca smiled, completely unaware of Luis’ plight. She wasn’t taking his hints, and the scientist wasn’t about to spell out his own embarrassment for her to take advantage of. ‘How many people has Leon told so far??’

“It suits you”

“So I’ve been told” Luis grumbled. The microscope was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world to him as he tried not to meet Rebecca’s eye contact. But that was becoming increasingly difficult as she fluttered around him like a curious moth to a lamp.

“Oh, ‘So you’ve been told??’ Is this, like, an inside joke between you and Leon, or something?”

“Let’s go with that, Mariposa” Luis didn’t mean to sound so dismissive on purpose, but the further Rebecca tried to pry, the more his walls were starting to break down.

Nobody ever said he was resilient! Just persistent. At least that’s what Leon said. And a lot of other people, too. But those people hated his guts so it didn’t count.

Rebecca clearly wasn’t taking ‘No’ for an answer, and if Luis had eyes on the back of his head, he would have definitely seen that she had the biggest, most cheekiest smirk imaginable on her face.

“Oooooooooh, I get it. It’s a cute little nickname, huh?”

“Ah-ah, I see what you’re trying to do,” Luis swiveled around in his office chair, waving his index finger at the brunette with a sheepish expression. “You’re trying to get me to embarrass myself. Well, sorry to disappoint, mí amiga, but I’m not admitting anything to you”

“But you just did,” Rebecca folded her arms and rested her weight on one foot, cocking her head a little like it was obvious.

“I never even said anything about embarrassing you. You just outed yourself, smartass!”

Luis loudly and dramatically gasped to try and distract from the fact that his face was now definitely two shades darker than it was before, grasping at his lab coat like he’d been mortally wounded.

“I did not! I was framed! Set up for disaster, even!”

“By who?”

Luis immediately went silent.

Caught red-handed. Again.

Rebecca’s smug grin turned into a full-faced smile as she practically strolled across the room with a self-satisfied stride, shoes clacking obnoxiously loud against the ceramic while shaking her head and tutting ‘Leon, Leon, Leon…’ under her breath all the while.

Luis kind of wanted to tear out the concrete beneath them and dig himself a hole to live in forevermore from the sheer embarrassment of it all. He tried his damnedest to return back to the task at hand- ‘¿Qué estaba haciendo? Ah yes, testing!’- but no matter how busy he made himself out to be, the Spaniard would still occasionally catch Rebecca’s knowing smirk from across the room. Chin placed on her hand, she’d sigh wistfully like a damsel lost-in-thought every now and then.

This was appalling! Blasphemous, even! Luis Serra Navarro had been called many-a things- some words were probably best left unsaid- but his name being boiled down to a cutesy nickname like Lulu was not going to be one of those!! He could ignore a one-off, sure; retort back with a flirty remark, a wink, and a smile- but it was purely just the way Leon had held it over his head the way he had that got Luis acting so….

Bashful? Flustered? No. Totally not. Never. The fine knight Don Quixote did not get ‘Embarrassed’. He was a smooth-talker, a self-proclaimed ‘ladies and gents man’, and he had a reputation to uphold.

But that ‘reputation’ seemed to be slipping out of his fingertips like molten gold the longer Rebecca was around. Luis downright adored her at the worst of times, but Dios mío she was determined to get Luis as out-of-his-comfort-zome as humanly possible that afternoon, it seemed.

“Lulu, can you pass me the butterfly syringes while you’re up? I’m trying to count something and I can’t- oh wait nevermind I lost count anyways”

“Hey, Lulu, do you still have those reports from our last extraction, by any chance? I lost mine”

“Oooooooh Luuuluuu!!! I got you some coffee!! You said you like it with cream, right?”

“Alright, Lulu, we’ve gotta focus now,”

Coming up eleven whole hours later and the pair of them were still the only people alone together in the Lab. Which made sense, considering it was a Sunday and all- but that meant they were working overtime, which also meant Luis’ back was especially sore (more than usual, at least), his head ached from just how hard he’d been focusing, and Rebecca was still calling him Lulu goddamnit!!

He thought by now she would’ve given up on it, but nooooooooooo- everytime Luis gave her the silent treatment, it just encouraged her more.

She reminded him of Leon, in that way.

Man, he really missed Leon. ‘Me pregunto cómo está…’

“Terrasave told me this was their last sample of the blood cells they found in Papua New Guinea, so we can’t screw this up- Lulu, are you even listening to me??”

“Wh-huh- ¿Qué fue eso??”

Luis blinked out of his window-staring induced trance to face Rebecca, who was unsurprisingly faring no better than he was- dark circles painted her lower eyebags and her eyebrows remained permanently scrunched. The pair of them stood in front of a robotic, almost dystopian-looking machine; a pin-perfect needle was controlled by a metal arm, one that was positioned carefully over a small, round glass plate.

Luis would have offered to do it by hand, but Rebecca pointed out that inhaling zombie blood probably wasn’t good for either of their health. If Leon was there, he’d probably disagree.

The pair of them had been working on a new type of vaccination for a few common Virus’- Luis cringed internally at the fact that such horrific stuff like the T-Virus were now considered common- that could be redistributed through oral means like water or food, rather than injections. Sure, injections were easier, but screaming

children terrified of them were not. (And, again, much to Luis’ dismay- children being infected were also becoming a lot more common).

“Lulu, I need you to focus,” Rebecca sighed, resting her arms on the inactive keyboard in front of her.

“I don’t wanna have to explain to Terrasave that we ruined their last zombie blood sample”

Luis just sighed back and rubbed his tired eyes though his glasses, which at this point had slipped down the bridge of his nose. He stretched and yawned out loud;

“It’s kinda hard to focus when you’re still calling me ‘Lulu’, señorita”

“Wow, Rebecca really did commit to my request, huh, Lulu?”

Luis instinctively whipped his head around to the entrance of the lab where the voice was coming from; only to be greeted by a very familiar, smiling face.

“Leon!!”

Completely throwing all self-awareness to the wind, Luis practically ran across the lab to engulf Leon in the biggest hug he could manage without hurting him. It might’ve just been his tired brain making him feel sentimental, but seeing a familiar face he loved after a long day of work made him soft. Leon rarely ever stopped by to say hi at the Lab, their break schedules simply just never aligned- so this was more than a welcome surprise.

Luis buried his nose into his partners shoulder, ignoring the fact that he was probably wrinkling his nice expensive work suit in favor of the feeling of a warm hug.

“¡Dios mío, te extrañé tanto!” He felt Leon wrap an arm around his waist, squeezing him back as tightly as he could manage and giving the top of his head a quick kiss. The blonde chuckled dryly,

“Ha, looks like I’m not the only one whose had a long day at work, Lulu”

From across the room, Rebecca shouted;

“You have no idea, Leon! Lulu over here has been asleep on his feet for two hours now!!”

Luis felt his cheeks and the back of his neck heat up at the sound of the two’s back-and-fourth banter; again, he thought that by now, one or the other would’ve forgotten about calling him that embarrassing nickname! But ¡no, claro que no! Luis resorted to unintentionally burying his face further into the crook of Leon’s neck to save himself from facing the two of them with a madly blushing face; but that only caused Leon to laugh and coo at him.

“Awwwwwe, what, is my Lulu getting all shy on me now? You still don’t like my nickname?”

From over his shoulder, Luis heard the crackle of a phone speaker;

“Oh my gosh, is that Luis?? Wait wait wait hang on- Hiiiiiiii Luluuuuuuu!!!!!”

“Is that Ashley?! Dios mío…”

Leon just laughed at the disappointed sigh Luis left out when he heard Ashley calling him that nickname, too; he forced himself out of Leon’s arms for a moment to look at the caller ID on his partners old work phone.

Sure enough, ‘Baby Eagle’ was shown off front-and-centre.

“Leon,” Luis tried his best to sound intimidating, but it fell flat.

“How many people have you asked to call me…”

“Lulu?” Leon finished his sentance with a grin.

“Only Rebecca and Ashley, I swear on my life”

Leon was notorious for being a horrible liar. So Luis was almost immediately able to tell he was telling the truth, but still; he wasn’t about to let Leon get away with it Scott-free. He snatched the phone out of the blondes hand in one swift motion,

“¡Mí Señorita! ha sido tan largo, how’ve you been? Rebecca says hi,”

“Hi Ashley!!” Rebecca waved from across the room.

“Hiya Miss Chambers, hiya Lulu!! I’ve been good! Sorry I haven’t been able to visit you, I’ve got, like, extra bodyguards or something and they’re reeeeeeally annoying”

“It’s for your safety, Ashley” Leon huffed a half-laugh.

“So Leon’s tricked you into calling me that nickname too, I see?”

“Tricked me? No!! I’m calling you Lulu voluntarily!! I think it suits you!”

Luis groaned in defeat, hiding his face in his hands both out of sheer embarrassment and tiredness.

“¡¿Por qué todos dicen eso?! It does not suit me!!” He threw his hands into the air for extra emphasis, “I’m a grown man! What about me gives off ‘Lulu’ vibes?!”

“You’re cute,” Leon pointed out flatly with a smile on his face.

“And ‘Lulus’ cute”

“You have a short attention span!,” Rebecca shouted from across the room, “You probably need a nickname to keep focused anyways!”

“You have the soul of a Grandfather. And I feel like ‘Lulu’ is the kind of nickname I’d hear from, like, my Grandma in the White House or something”

“O-Oh yeah, Mí amiga? Well, if you all want to call me Lulu…” he practically had to force the nickname out of his mouth.

“Then I suggest you all start calling Leon Scotty from now on”

This, thank god, actually got a loud laugh out of Rebecca and Ashley- and Leon clearly wasn’t far behind, biting his bottom lip desperately to keep himself from letting even the slightest noise out. Luis felt his grow warm with a little sense of pride- He’d managed to make Leon laugh. Almost, at least. But that was good enough for him.

“N-No offense, Luis,” On the other end of the line, Ashley sounded like she was trying her damnedest to keep her voice steady after her burst of laughter

“But Scotty doesn’t suit him as much as Lulu does for you”

“Besides, it’s weird calling your friend their middle name!” Rebecca was equally as doubled-over with laughter, clutching the side table with her red hand that wasn’t covering her mouth in a balled fist.

Leon gave Luis a look that screamed ‘I told you so’

“Well, fine then. Dios Mío you three are persistent. But I will not be entertaining this nickname, I will simply be ignoring you”

“Whatever you say, Lulu” Leon smiled, taking his partners hand and bringing it up to his lips for a kiss. Luis really needed to stop being so blushy for ten seconds please.

“All jokes aside, though- Rebecca, I’ve gotta steal Luis for that mission….”

“Damn, you’re leaving me high-and-dry already?” Rebecca did her best to give the two men a confident smile, but Luis could practically see the exhaustion in her eyes. Not to mention just how generally disheveled she and the rest of the lab looked- the brunette man winced at the realization that he’d be leaving her all alone to finish their assignment and to clean up the entire laboratory.

“Mí Mariposa, I’m so sorry-“

“It’s fine Lulu, honest,” Rebecca gave him a genuine smile, the corners of her tired eyes crinkling. Luis felt his own guilt claw at his chest like nails against a chalkboard.

“I know better than the both of you how these missions are set up”

“At least let me help clean up!”

“There’s no way we’re just gonna leave you to do… whatever you're doing all by yourself,” Leon added, backing his boyfriend up. Even if he had zero clue what kind of ‘sciency-nerd-stuff’ (His words, not Luis’) the pair of them got up to during the day.

Luis looked back-and-fourth between Rebecca, Leon and the mess that was the Lab tables. Books, computers and medical equipment were scattered around as far as the eye could see- but Rebecca just shook her head and shooed him off.

“Like I said, It’s fine you two. I’m probably just gonna grab a late-night coffee and head home anyways. The students coming in tomorrow can clean all this up. I’ll call it work experience” the brunette gave him a wink as she began to practically shove the pair out of the lab.

“Now go! Vamos! Before the president or whoever gets mad at you or, something”

“My dad would never!” Ashleys voice crackled defiantly over the phone. Leon just shook his head and laughed as Rebecca dragged the pair out the doors almost by force.

“Oh trust me, he would”

—————————————————————

The loud, shrill screech of the helicopter propellers combined with the rumbling vibrations against Luis’ back were the only things keeping him upright at this point.

Luis was exhausted; beyond that, even. How he was even sitting up straight, let alone how he had his eyes open at all was a complete miracle. The thin helicopter seats underneath him left no room for relaxation, and forced Luis’ back up against the curved edge of the metal chopper walls- sending uncomfortable rumbles down his spine adjacent to the feeling of resting your head on a bus window. Only this was a full-bodied experience.

No matter how many times he did it, Luis never got over the feeling of flying in a helicopter- the first couple times he was practically ecstatic, staring out of the window as the ground beneath him shrunk into an oil painting-like splotch of greens and browns. The sudden jerk and lift-off never became familiar to him, either; he lost his stomach everytime, without fail.

Overall, kind of a miserable experience once Luis got used to the six-hour long trips filled with nothing but loud rumbling that left his ears ringing for weeks. Not to mention, it was cold. The BSAA’s Donation helicopters were, much to his surprise, nothing fancy on the inside; just cold metal as far as the eye could see. And metal got cold easily, believe it or not.

Luis sighed defeatedly as he did his best to shuffle into a more comfortable position- with no luck- and resorted to just hunching over himself. Screw future-Luis’ back problems, he was tired, damnit.

The only thing keeping him awake was Leon sitting right beside him. Arm-in-arm, the blonde was doing just as bad as he was. Worse, even.

Their trip to Papua New Guinea went… Not to plan.

They were instructed to go undercover with fake names and try to infiltrate a container ship supposedly full of T-Virus samples- but they were ambushed. Not by human beings, no; rather, a giant, fleshy, still-beating creature clawed it’s way out of the Oceanside jungle, unhinging it’s jaw to let out a loud, grotesque screech before launching itself at the pair of men.

It reeked of something Luis could just barely recognise as coming out of a Lab most likely, and it’s eyes- or more accurately, it’s three eyes- glowed a bright, fluorescent orange that screamed ‘Hey! I was a totally normal guy before I most likely injected myself with some miscellaneous alphabet-organized named virus and turned into this ugly creature!! Which means you have to kill me now, teehee!!!’

Luis looked down at his own bloody hands shakily at the memory. Neither him nor Leon had gotten the opportunity to change before they evacuated.

He rubbed the flaky, dry blood off of his hands as rigorously as he could. The smell stinged his nose still.

Him and Leon, by some miracle, had gotten the upper hand; the container ship was large and void of people, which meant they could spend as many hours as needed running around the small, shallow halls to avoid their oncoming attacker- who was much too large to fit within the confines of the many engine rooms they traversed.

But it was never that simple, as Luis had learnt. The Bioweapon had practically teared the container ship in two, and despite it looking like it’d have- at max- maybe three brain-cells, it still efficiently snatched up Leon and crushed his rifle under its feet within seconds, hoisting the blonde up into the air and crushing his body agonizingly slowly.

The pair of men were strictly instructed to not shoot the Bioweapon- the man underneath all those mutations, a Doctor Emmet Rupert Brown, was still showing clear signs of sentience and could theoretically be reverse-engineered back to his normal state.

But in that moment, when Leon was on the brink of death and without a weapon to defend himself…

Luis had no other options.

And the guilt of his actions ate away at him each passing second on their helicopter journey home.

Luis knew what he was signing up for when he joined Leon on his missions. He had heard tall tales about the kinds of monsters Leon S. Kennedy had faced bare-handed, and even saw plenty of them himself in Spain-

But what he wasn’t expecting was to be met with the harsh, cruel humanity that lay underneath those Bioweapons.

Luis turned to his partner, whose eyes remained unfocused and foggy, toeing the line between asleep and wakefulness.

‘Díos mío, how does he do it….’

In that moment, with the sound of the helicopter whirring drowning out any other outside noises; Luis remembered an experience he had while he was still living with his Grandfather in Valdelobos.

The late afternoon air was crisp, and Luis felt his small chest tighten from the cold. His legs sunk almost up to his knees as he struggled to keep up with his Grandfather. Huffing and trotting along behind him in a snails-trail.

Luis held a large hunting rifle with both of his hands- the sheer size alone engulfing almost half of his body.

In front of him, his Grandfathers shadow blocked the reflection of the sun against the blinding-white snow, letting Luis walk along with larger, more confident steps.

The Village Priests truly were right; Winter silenced everything.

There were no songbirds fluttering about Luis’ feet, no echoes of children playing just beyond the woods- nothing. Just the his own heavy breathing and his Grandfather's heavy footsteps. He was tired. They’d been walking in circles for what felt like hours, looking for anything to bring home to the table.

Luis was practically ready to fall asleep on his feet, the silence filling the air like his own lullaby, until…

SNAP!!

Luis almost lept out of his skin in fright as his Grandfather instinctively raised his gun up to his eyeline. They stayed still for a moment, before the sound of groaning followed the air.

Luis couldn’t see his Grandfathers expression, but instead was met with a familiar whistle-call that meant Luis was being told to follow him as closely as possible.

He wrapped a tiny hand around his Grandfathers coat sleeve, following every large step deeper and deeper into the woods until….

“A deer,” His Grandfather pointed to a large, brown lump lying in the snow.

“It’s gotten caught in the Bear traps. Stay there, Lulu”

Luis did as he was told and waited as quietly and stiffly as humanly possible- as if any sudden movements would break the watch below him.

He watched as the deer began to struggle and wail the closer his Grandfather got to it; he heard the older man murmuring a familiar lullaby, resting a hand on the big animals face. Even from so far away, Luis could see it’s terrified expression; wide, white eyes and a quickly rising-and-falling chest. He felt his heart crack a little in sympathy.

In one, swift motion, Luis’ Grandfather unbuckled the Bear Trap and the deer was gone within the blink of an eye; spraying up snow as it honked and wailed loudly into the silent air. Slipping around on its own gangly legs as it flicked snow straight into the older man’s eyes. Luis felt his chest loosen with relief as his Grandfather just laughed, watching the deer run off into the distance.

“Grandfather, why didn’t you kill the deer?” Luis asked, confidently trotting up to his side to investigate the Bear Trap.

His Grandfather kneeled down to his level, which only meant one thing; Whatever he was about to say next was extremely important.

“Because, Lulu, killing that deer while it was already mortally wounded would be a dishonorable murder. The Bear Trap wasn’t laid for it, so it shouldn’t have died by its jaws.

Understand this, Lulu; you only ever kill when it’s absolutely necessary and honorable. The most morally reprehensible action a knight can preform is taking a life while they’ve already been beaten down. Do you understand?”

Luis had held that sentiment with him his entire life.

Through working with Umbrella, experiencing the horrors of the Nemesis project, all the way to fighting against Krauser- Luis did his best to uphold his Grandfathers wishes.

But life wasn’t always a fairytale book.

And how Leon was able to live with that kind of guilt… He had no idea.

“…MmmLuuuis?”

As if reading his mind, Leon lulled his head over to face his partner with a slightly concerned expression. The little wrinkles on his forehead exaggerating as he forced his eyebrows up higher to keep himself awake.

“Are y’alrght?”

“I’m fine, Mí amor,” Luis reassured him, hoping his voice was audible over the roaring of the helicopter. He leaned over to kiss Leon on the sides of his temples,

“You, however, don’t look fine. You should be asleep, Cariño”

“Can’t,” Was all Leon was able to mumble out, his eyes dipping slowly.

“You’re still ‘wake…”

Looking at just how exhausted Leon was seemed to be contagious, because Luis’ own fatigue creeped up on the corner of his mind like weeds in no time. His entire body ached, his head throbbed, and the clothes against his skin felt itchy. Luis could have sworn right then and there that that was easily the most tired he had ever felt in his entire life; every limb was like lead, yet at the same time, his bones felt as liquid-y as jello. And every tiny cut, scar and bruise they had gotten from the mission seemed to be exaggerated in pain by 10000%.

But, once again, Leon just looked so much worse altogether.

Besides, Luis would feel a whole lot better knowing Leon had gotten some rest. Maybe he’d even join him later on if they were still up in the sky, who knows.

“Leon, I insist you fall asleep”

“But whu’ if we land…?”

“Then I’ll wake you up,” Luis did his best to smiled before running his free hand up through Leon’s stringy blonde locks to encourage his head down onto his shoulder. He played with his locks a bit before moving down to caress the bridge of his boyfriends nose, gently laying a kiss against his wrinkled forehead and eyelids.

“Ve a dormir, mí amor. I’ll protect you, I promise.”

That seemed to be the final straw for Leon. Luis felt his chest glow with warmth as the blonde sighed contently and finally shut his eyelids, head bouncing occasionally from the helicopters’ movements.

Luis could easily watch Leon sleep like this for ages, no matter how uncomfortable the conditions were; it was rare he ever got to spy moments of pure relaxation from Leon like this. So he well and truly appreciated it.

And although Luis had promised he’d stay awake for Leon…

The exhaustion, guilt and general jet-lag of their whole journey caught up to him in no time.

Luis surrendered to his own blissful rest, letting his long, dark locks fall over his eyes as he rested the side of his head against the top of Leon’s.

He was just on the verge of sleep, until…

“Goodnight, Lulu…”

Luis laughed.

Over the coarse of the last three days, he had totally forgotten about Leon’s little nickname for him. And he just assumed Leon had forgotten about it, too.

But clearly not.

And, hell, he couldn’t even stay mad at Leon for it.

In fact, Luis was indeed starting to warm up to the nickname Lulu after all.

He kissed the top of Leon’s head,

“Goodnight, Cowboy…”

[spacedoutman]

【𝕻𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕮𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖆𝖘 𝖆 𝖘𝖕𝖞 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖉 | 𝕬𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖑𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖆𝖚 】

(𝕺𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙)

Description: Brigadier general Criss is paying for the consequences he very well knew could be dished out to him for spying. What he didn't expect? For his love madame Ace Frehley to be the one to turn him in.

♥ Peter Criss x Ace Frehley

Notes: I wrote this on a whim and I don't even know what the fuck it is all I know is that Gel Gibson's face is now haunting me like a ghost and I'm upset (Art is a self portrait by John Andre)

Warnings: Crackfic | satire

!𝖆𝖔3

Bright green grass as vibrant as a portrait blew behind the field locked away by thin row of trees. A soft breeze rolled through, pushing the clouds through the vivid blue sky. The leaves shook, interrupting the singing birds. Peter smiled. His heart slowed as his shoulders fell. The sun shone lightly, yet left a slight haze where it touched.

Peter turned. He couldn’t wipe away his smile though his heart twisted inside. Two continental soldiers pulled him back gently. Peter took a deep breath. The smell of wildflowers and savory roasted meat filled his lungs.

“Come on, sir Criss.” Gene Simmons said solemnly. “To the gallows with you.”

Peter kept his head high as every accomplishment he made flashed not only in his head, but on his ocean blue coat. Gene and Paul took his arms and walked him forward. The trees almost made a path leading to the solemn thing. Wooden planks pasted together to make a platform. The rope swayed from side to side as the wind puffed against it, seeming to glint in the sun.

Peter’s legs stiffened as he walked up the stairs. Every deep breath he took fought his growing tenseness. He kept his eyes in front of him. At least he got to look at the faces he loved one last time. His nerves were calm as a river after a storm. Gene helped him onto the stool. There wasn’t an angry face in the crowd, just distraught. Peter wore a straight face.

“Why don’t you untie me so I may die like a dignified man and with a fixed cravat?” He said solemnly, keeping his chin high.

Gene walked around to the back of him and pulled the rope from his hands. Paul came around with the wheat sack. Peter scoffed. Paul’s eyes widened slightly. He wore a tight frown. “What is this?” Peter sneered, sweeping his arms out beside him. He looked around, raising an eyebrow.

“You wish to put that thing over my head and smother my legacy? Let me die like the man I was and am. Ye shall rid of it.” He growled. Paul backed off.

Peter looked out at the distant tents. It was almost like a set up for the toy soldiers he used to play with as a kid. His pearly grin glistened.

Gene stepped back, grabbed a paper and holding it in front of him. The sun touched the crystal tears trickling down his cheeks. He shrunk like a mouse.

“G-George Peter John Criscuola,” Gene’s announced, breaking through a shaky voice. “Or brigadier general Criss.”

Peter opened his coat a bit, displaying the sash hanging from his shoulder and swooping around his waist. “You are to be hanged for your offense of giving valuable information to the British.” Gene’s voice was as formal as he could get. “And now you shall perish with the burden of shame on your shoulders while our God looks down upon you and shakes his head.”

Peter took a deep breath. Gene stepped back, dragging himself to the noose. Peter scanned the faces in the crowd. His eyes shot wide for a split second before he straightened himself out and dusted his shoulders.

“Frehley.”

His eyes stopped at the man who stood at the front, staring up with tears sparkling in his large brown eyes. His white bonnet hid his messy brown hair. The salmon dress he wore was dotted in beautifully embroidered flowers. He dabbed his eyes with the handkerchief. The soldiers snapped to face Ace, who whimpered.

“My last words go to you, my beloved.” Peter Criss said calmly, disappointment strong in his voice. “I may have found my peace, but know I cannot forgive you for the pain you alone have brought upon me.”

Ace sniffled. His shoulders tensed. Peter dug in his pocket. “Catch, my dear.” Ace gently looked up. Peter flipped a silver wedding band like a coin. It spun through the air and into Ace’s open hands. “I was going to ask for your hand in marriage as you were quite the woman.” Ace went back to dabbing his eyes. “But do understand, all good things must end even if it’s rather… grim.”

Paul and Gene pulled Peter back. He stepped onto the stool. Paul blew his nose on his handkerchief. “I’m so sorry.” Paul whispered, tying the noose around Peter’s neck.

“Look into my eyes, Frehley.” Peter said sternly. “Look at what you have caused, my sweet little dove.”

Ace’s eyes flitted to Peter, who stood, shoulders squared, chin up and chest out. His hands were jammed neatly behind his back. He looked regal in his black bi corn hat. A long white ostrich feather hung from the expensive pin on the front. Badges decorated his new, spotless uniform. His champagne breeches were as clean as his white stockings. His leather shoes shone like new.

Peter savored the sight of Ace, who flung his handkerchief over is shoulder. A few soldiers fought like cats to grab it. Ace’s eyes shot ungodly wide. He threw his hands together and fell to his knees. “Oh god, please no!” Devastation made his voice raw. “Peter Criss—My Criss-kitty! I have a deep regard for you!”

Peter nodded again. Paul kicked the stool from under him. Peter fell and started strangling to death. “NOOOOOOOO!” Ace cried, collapsing. He beat the ground with his clenched trembling fist. “Oh g-god!” He wept “Please, please switch me out for him! I would do anything! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

[kkbardd]

hello! i haven’t sent an ask in a while because schoolwork has been piling up infinitely :[ , but your recent posts have been really interesting to me! i really liked the room sketch one, I can’t exactly explain why but there’s something so indescribably human about it. i love spaces that looked lived in, that have personality, and I think that your room (current one? made up? old one?) has done a great job of showing that. and I’m not very good at giving advice— I can hardly follow it myself, but if you don’t know something, don’t know what you want to do, try things. it’s okay if you don’t like them. i recently found out I’m more competent in languages than I thought! i can already read and understand simple sentences in german.

there’s always more to yourself than you’ll know, I think, but the world is kinder than people think. If anything, everyone is still very new at this. we’ve never lived before. do the things you like, branch out, don’t become less of yourself for other people. everything has a place, and my best advice is to treat life as you would a vacation. do all the things you can while you’re here. build a life that makes it worth it. (sorry for the long ask and my rambling, or if this is overstepping in any way. i just read what you wrote and kind of related to it in a way. thank you for continuing to create art, it brings me a lot of joy! :] )

hey isopod!!! thanks for the ask & I wish u good luck with ur school work!

Thank u so much for the compliments, im really glad the vibe of my room was conveyed in those doodles. i absolutely looove drawing my room! It’s extremely small (a renovated utility closet) and just barely fits a bed + my desk but its packed full of the things i love. It’s very lived in and I feel like it reflects my character well.

when i drew that page I was in my senior year of high school and pressures to decide my future were overwhelming. I never thought much about it until then and I didn’t have any idea of what I was going to do. The only thing I felt I had going for me was art but I didn’t want to turn my only hobby into a job I hated. I remember going through a master list of majors on random college websites and one-by-one asking myself if I’d be okay doing it. In the end I had nothing. I was really crushed about it and felt stuck. This was right after the covid quarantine too so focusing in school was difficult & I couldn’t bring myself to apply for scholarships. I started skipping classes, smoking weed, and pushing off my assignments. All of this only made me feel more miserable, of course, so everything seemed pretty bleak at the time.

But luckily I had the support of my family and especially my mother. She would always remind me that “we have option”, “we always have options”. Because I did! This was a fresh start to try my hand at a totally different experience than what I’ve done so far. I ended up choosing my major on a complete whim after hearing my aunt had a job in an adjacent field. I was pretty sure I’d drop out after a semester, yet here I am about to graduate soon & I’m having a ton of fun!! (Hell, I’m 10 hours out in the middle of nowhere right now for my Field Methods class!) It’s not that I had a knack for Geology that I just never tapped into, or that i secretly had a passion for rocks this entire time; I just found something that seemed like an okay fit and grew interest from there. I think that a small level of commitment like that is more than enough to get you going. I had a ton of ideas in my head about how I needed to have a perfect fit major that would connect every dot I’ve laid out in my life thus far, but that’s not true at all. Life is much more messy and unpredictable than that.

But enough of my rambling!! That time of my life may have been stressful but I’m very grateful that I went through it! It changed how I viewed problems and it taught me to always look for other options when everything seems helpless.

Thank u so much for ur encouragement, I really appreciate it <33 I completely agree with everything u said!! Life is an ever changing experience & often leads u in unpredictable directions!

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Mandela Prophet AU: Intuition

Thatcher Davis awakes in the middle of the night to his intuition telling him to find the source of a strange noise he hears somewhere in the neighborhood.

TW: Suicide ideation, blood, body horror, vague mentions of spiders, spoilers for new TMC upload, holy shit Adam’s having a bad day, please listen to the warnings.

Notes: this is 2777 words long I think. Don’t know if this is canon to the au or not, as I wrote it on a whim and don’t know if it fits the au timeline very well just yet. I just went a bit crazy seeing how perfect the end of Mandela Catalyst worked for this au so. Yeah. Here’s this thing :)

-----

Screaming.

Screaming is what awoke Thatcher in the middle of the night. It sounded like someone was calling for help nearby, yet it almost sounded…dreamlike. As if it was nothing more than a hazy hallucination from while he was half asleep. Something else within Thatcher’s mind told him to follow the noises, despite the pit in his gut whenever he heard it. He shifted in his bed, being nothing but a couple mattresses on top of one another, shutting his eyes even tighter as he tried to ignore the loud screaming he heard in the back of his head. It was no use; he needed to wake up.

Thatcher’s eyes flicked open, the screaming ceasing as soon as he did so. He sat up, brushing his straight, long, dyed blond hair out of his face before looking around his room. His thin body was covered by a pair of sweatpants and a faded “The Exorcist” shirt. His scruffy facial hair was unkempt, and he had bags under his eyes. He noticed the stillness in his room, with nothing making a single sound; not even the wind outside blew against his window. Thatcher sighed deeply, his brows furrowing before he stood up out of bed, his curiosity unquenchable.

He threw on a leather jacket, replacing his sweatpants with a pair of dusty jeans before glancing towards his nightstand, seeing his pistol and flashlight. He stared vacantly at both of them before grabbing them, placing the pistol in his belt and holding the flashlight in his hand. He felt something in his gut, but something was telling him to look for the source of the screaming, no matter how he felt about it.

He could only hope he wouldn’t regret it.

 Adam could feel it again. It wanted out, like it always did at the worst times imaginable. He stumbled around the abandoned home he found to be all too familiar, clutching his stomach as he wandered into one of the bedrooms, shutting and locking the door behind him. He trembled, muttering thoughts that weren’t his own as he sat on the bed, his wide, dilated eyes staring at his bare feet. He was woken up by the parasite that night, not having time to put on shoes before he was out the door.

His breathing was heavy before he grimaced, his thin, bony hands grasping his shirt before sliding it off, tossing it to the ground; he didn’t have it in him to sacrifice another T-shirt. His ribs and spine poked out from under his thin skin, and his blue eyes were sunken in. His arms were longer than typical human arms, along with his legs. He felt like complete shit, reflected by his messy, pale brown hair and the bags under his eyes. However, he would’ve taken the permanent exhaustion and lack of an appetite if it meant he didn’t have to go through it again. Alas, he knew what was to come in the next ten minutes.

Adam laid on the bed, convulsing slightly as he grimaced, feeling the parasite shifting inside of his stomach and chest in an all too familiar way. He could feel tears falling from his eyes, despite the pain only being minimal at that moment, but he could hear the voices in his head, screaming at him as if wanting him to let it out and accept it. He was tired of feeling this pain and soon-to-be agony over and over again, like a morbid record on repeat. He had begun to forget when the first time the parasite took over his body, only remembering the pain it caused him. Adam didn’t know what he did to deserve such a cruel fate, but he supposed curiosity in fact killed the cat.

Adam wanted to tell Jonah he was sorry; sorry for ignoring his concerns, sorry for pushing him to the side, and sorry for acting as if Jonah wasn’t the only true friend he’s ever had. He wished he could find Jonah again, sewing the remains of his head and body back together, just to hug him one more time. He wanted everything to be over, and to be free of this disease he’s been cursed with. He wished he never spoke to the false angel, and that he just kept walking instead of taking a bite out of the rotten apple of knowledge. He wanted to be human again, despite knowing that would never be the case again.

He wanted to die.

As the discomfort slowly turned into pain, all he wanted was to be put to sleep. He wanted someone to jab a needle in his neck, or shoot him in the head; anything to not feel the agony and mental anguish he knew was coming. He wanted to believe that he was still human, and to go back to living in blissful ignorance of the true nature of his being. He wished he felt connections with his friends before it was too late, but more than everything, Adam wished he had died, just like Jonah did. The only coward was Adam. The one who was too afraid to show he cared. Jonah didn’t deserve to die, but Adam did. Perhaps Adam deserved to suffer.

 Thatcher’s car radio blared as he drove down the suburban street, basing every turn on his own intuition. He felt as though he was growing near to wherever he was supposed to go, drawn by an inaudible sirens call. Something in him wanted to know where the screaming came from, even though he could no longer hear them. Perhaps it was his own guardian angel, leading him to the answers he wished for. He could only hope.

Thatcher’s subconscious told him to stop outside of one of the abandoned homes, seeing that none of the lights were on except for a single bedroom window. Thatcher sighed heavily through his nose, his hands clutching the steering wheel tight before letting go to grab his pistol and flashlight. He exited his car, noticing the BPS van sitting in the driveway, barely illuminated by the nearby streetlights. He slammed his door shut, pointing his pistol and flashlight in front of him as he approached the home. Hopefully the pit in his stomach would start to fade away.

 “I-It’s…only…tonigh…t.” Adam whimpered in between breaths. “O-Only for a-a-a little…while.” He clenched his jaw, growling and groaning loudly through grinding teeth as he felt his ribs shifting inside of his torso, all while shutting his eyes tight. He was splayed out on the bed, drenched in his own sweat, merging with the tears pouring from his eyes. “God…F-F-FUCKING GAH!” He curled in on himself, shifting to the side before falling off of the bed, narrowly missing hitting his head on the nightstand. He sobbed and yelled, pressing his bare back against the cool wooden table, the force of doing so causing the lamp on top of it to shake slightly.

His legs kicked, sliding against the dusty carpet as he uncontrollably shook, convulsing as he felt the parasite pressing against his back, only to hit the wooden nightstand on the other side of Adam’s skin. He hated the parasite more than anything he’s ever experienced before; only rivaled by the Angel that gave it to him and himself for even taking its offer. He felt so cold, yet overheated all at once, with his entire body crying out. He could hear inhuman murmuring and squealing inside of his chest as the parasite continued to scratch the underside of his back skin. He no longer cared if he was heard. He needed to scream.

 Thatcher flinched at the front door when he heard the loud, agonized yelling from the other room, his flashlight barely illuminating the living room, which was littered with junk and strewn around items of all kinds. Thatcher’s gaze pointed towards one of the doors as he inched closer, narrowly avoiding tripping over everything around his feet. He heard faint sounds from a radio in the living room, seemingly having been turned on right before he entered. It played a version of Amazing Grace, nearly consumed by the static that drowned out most of the vocals. The music made him sick; too many memories of choked singing and hijacked radio signals.

He trained his gun at the door ahead of him, continuing to hear the gut-wrenching screaming that made him want to puke. Nevertheless, he proceeded towards the door, reaching for the door knob before slowly turning it, realizing it was locked. He thought silently to himself before backing up, taking in a deep breath before kicking the door right beside the door knob.

 Adam flinched at the sudden noise, feeling his heart sink as he realized it only meant that there was someone on the other side. Adam wanted to call to them; to yell for them to run, but the only thing that came out was a pained whimper, as pathetic as a dog’s. He could only listen and watch in horror as the door shook with every kick, soon finally opening, slamming against the wall beside it. Soon enough, a figure emerged, and seeing who it was only made Adam feel even worse.

Thatcher stared into the room, his eyes eventually fixating on Adam’s body, seeing his chest heave and hearing his harsh, choked breathing. He slowly lowered his pistol, yet something in him couldn’t let him return it to its holster. Adam’s gaze was haunting, staring at him with pleading, terrified eyes. Adam’s pupils were extremely dilated, nearly completely covering his irises. His hands grasped at the shaggy carpet below, clasping onto it as if he’d fly up into the ceiling if he let go. He looked as if he ran four miles, sprinting away from something that was planning on killing him as soon as it reached him.

Thatcher thought for a moment, remembering the young man’s name before swallowing hard and speaking. “…A…Adam, isn’t it?” Thatcher stated. “What the hell are y—”

“Kill me.”

Thatcher froze when he heard the begging sob before sputtering out a response. “W-What?”

“J-Just fucking kill me, please,” Adam curled up in his body, feeling the parasite growing restless inside of him. “O-Oh God…I just c—” His plea was interrupted by another heart dropping scream, his mouth opening further than most human jaws can go.  His eyes darted around, struggling to see Thatcher in the other corner of the room through his tears. He slammed the back of his head against the nightstand repeatedly, Thatcher watching with awe and horror as he watched him thrash around against an unseen force.

“I’m…Listen I-I’m not…going to hurt y—” Thatcher started, being interrupted by Adam once again.

“FUCKING SHOOT ME!” Adam begged in between groans of pain, his voice beginning to distort as if he was speaking through a tape recorder. “SOMEONE FUCKING KILL ME, PLEASE!”

Thatcher was frozen, unsure if it was wise to do as Adam wished or try and get him out of whatever situation he was in. It looked like a case of M.A.D., yet he felt too…in physical pain to only have that condition. Thatcher had no clue what to do, only able to sputter half words he could barely form before Adam suddenly became silent. His harsh breathing caused his chest to move, but he seemed surprised. He looked down at his body, swallowing hard before continuing to breathe heavily.

“…Adam.” Thatcher saw Adam’s head snap towards him as he took a step forward. “…I have some questions for you.”

“Wh-What?!” Adam whimpered, wondering why the parasite abruptly calmed down. “You need to go—”

“Listen.” Thatcher stated. “…I’ve been having…dreams; dreams involving things that I can’t even…begin to describe, and I know that your group knows a lot about the things that hide behind the veil. I need you to answer some questions for me, can you do that?”

Adam remained silent, still visibly panicking before he looked down at his chest. “You…y-you don’t want to be here.” Adam stated, sounding at least mostly calm for the first time all night.

“…Why do you say that?” Thatcher asked.

Adam went to answer, though his words got caught on his throat when he suddenly gagged and coughed up a small puddle of blood onto the carpet. “Oh God, OH GOD, FUCKING—” Adam began to scream once again, though this time his crazed stare was focused on his chest and stomach, his clammy, shaking hands grasping onto it. He let out even more horrified screams, causing Thatcher to back up a few steps.

“NO, NO, PLEASE GOD JUST FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY! SOMEONE—” Adam felt the parasite clawing at his ribs, scratching the skin and muscle underneath his chest and stomach as he screamed as loud as his throat would allow. For the first time however, Thatcher could see what was going on; seeing things wriggling around underneath Adam’s skin. Thatcher’s gun lowered, him slowly backing away as Adam’s thrashing became even more violent, with him hitting his head on the nightstand and slamming his arms against the walls. Thatcher could only watch as something began to dig out of Adam’s chest.

Adam could hear his ribs cracking and shifting as he looked down at his bare chest, screaming as he saw one of the parasite’s fingers poking through his skin. The rest of the blackened hand followed, pushing through the new wound until the entirety of the impossibly long, mangled arm was out in the open. Thatcher’s eyes widened in shock as the arm laid itself on the bed to Adam’s right, seemingly unaffected by Adam’s thrashing and ear-splitting screaming.

Adam watched in horror, seeing the limbs begin to forcefully push out of his body one by one. Thatcher wanted to help, but seeing no way to do so, he backed away a few steps before turning around and running.

“NO, NO, GOD PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME—” Adam begged, outstretching his own arm before one of the parasitic limbs covered his mouth, smearing Adam’s own blood on his face. Thatcher was already out of the room, tripping over the junk on the floor before stumbling towards the front door. He slammed against it, fumbling with the door knob before realizing it was locked.

“Damn it, damn it, FUCK!” He shouted, turning back towards the bedroom with his back pressed against the door. He swung his gun up, hearing the sound of muffled screams and struggling through the wall, all before everything became silent. Thatcher watched in anticipation, wondering what was going to come through that door before he glanced to the side, seeing that there was a chair in the living room, and a window leading outside. He began to plan something in his head, though was distracted when he saw something coming from the bedroom door.

A hand grasped the doorframe, leaving a bloody smear as it slid down the wood. Thatcher watched as “Adam” came through, his limp, paralyzed body hanging from the arms like he was the body of a spider. Four limbs “walked”, being two long, mangled limbs and two more looking, albeit forcefully stretched out, arms that helped stabilize it. Adam’s face was covered by three of the eight hands, covering his mouth and his eyes, at least until the one covering his mouth moved away.

“…Da…vis.” Adam’s voice sounded choked, as if he was being forced to speak against his will. “The…fool.”

“…What do you want from me?” Thatcher questioned, his gun trained on the thing in front of him.

“You…left her…all f…or what?” The prophet continued. “This town…is in…shambles because of you.”

Thatcher felt his heart sink, all before he furrowed his brows and pointed his gun towards Adam’s head. However, before he pulled the trigger he swung it downwards, shooting it towards the main arms holding his body up. Thatcher heard high-pitched, inhuman screeching as he ran for the chair, feeling a sense of déjà vu as he threw it through the window. He vaulted over the broken glass, choosing to ignore his bleeding hands as he ran for his vehicle.

The prophet’s arms pressed against the window sill, uncovering one of Adam’s wide eyes just to see Thatcher driving away. The parasite let out another screech, forcing mandibles out of Adam’s mouth as it wriggled around in a display of anger. Adam could feel it ripping his skin the more it writhed, unable to do anything but cry as it began to crawl out of the window, deciding to find another target if it couldn’t get to Thatcher on time.

Adam hated that Sarah is who came to mind.

[perplexingluciddreams]

i am up to halfway through S16:E6 of Grey's Anatomy. and have come to the realisation that i really mostly don't like the newer/more recent seasons of Grey's Anatomy. at least not enough to have the motivation to keep on watching.

part of the reason i really liked it in the earlier seasons is the nostalgic-ness of it! the clothes and technology and the music on the soundtrack. it was all very true to its era, and i love that.

and the slang and dialogue and the way characters interact just felt better and more enjoyable to watch. yes it was always a drama, but not absolutely everything was the hugest biggest deal in the whole world all blown out of proportion. yes there was always drama, but there was still a sense of level of intensity and some lower stakes things to balance out the higher stakes things. can't explain all the reasons fully, but i just have the feeling about it.

and everything seemed to be lit with a warmer yellower light?? even in the hospital scenes where it is supposedly under fluorescent lights. it felt more safe and cosy and nostalgic. (<- don't know if that makes any sense but it feels sensical to me).

i just really want to go back to the beginning and rewatch for the nostalgic-ness feelings!! and because i remember how amazingly bingeable it was in those early early seasons.

i am a tiny bit torn, because i love to complete and finish things. so i have warring instincts... one part of me very strongly wants to just rewatch from the beginning again. the other part wants me to stick it out just for another few seasons until i am "caught up" with the most recent stuff.

but the stronger instinct is to go back to the start. because while there is still some good parts and certain specific characters that i want to keep watching, for the most part i find it really hard to care about anything happening. and there is certain characters and storylines that i simply can't stand, to be honest. those parts i don't like or don't have interest in seem to be piling up and up the further i watch.

i used to really love the atmosphere of the show. even the scenes in the hospital felt kind of warm and fuzzy and safe. now it feels sharp and bright and overly clean and white. it has lost its warm yellow glow.

through writing this post i have almost made my mind up to simply rewatch from the beginning... but my stubborn completionism makes it really really hard to do that!!!

also it feels like a commitment to start from the beginning, and i get anxious about it.

even though i know it is supposed to be a thing to just enjoy and it doesn't matter if i don't finish or i don't watch it the "right way" (like being on phone playing a game with it playing in background and splitting attention, or fast forwarding or rewinding or skipping parts).

i just seem to get anxious about pretty much everything, even when it is supposed to be just enjoy and relax and distract. and no stakes, no pressure, no "rules".

this post is really just a big messy ramble. i don't know if i even mean everything i wrote here. or if i did the words correct for what i meant to say. no energy to reread and edit and fix and whatnot.

as i press post, i have decided to be brave and press play on S1:E1 of Grey's Anatomy. it is extra extra brave also because i started rewatching some Torchwood and i am leaving that for now and trying not to worry about not finishing or the amount of watches of each episode being "unbalanced" etc. etc. AND i still haven't watched any more The 100 and i am trying not to stress over that either. because it is supposed to enjoy!! so Ezra enjoy - that is most important. and brain wants early Grey's Anatomy, that is the urge and the whim, so brain can have Grey's Anatomy. so, i am brave and generous (to brain) 😆.

[spaceorphan18]

Hi! For the fandom ask: 2, 8, 11 :)

2. headcanon you weren't sure about at first but have come to like!

This is going to sound weird, but it's the first thing that popped into my head, but Kurt and Adam having sex/more physical relationship. (Honestly, Kurt and Walter, too). My thoughts about Kurt and sex and sexuality have changed a lot since I've started fandom, and I'm really happy he's had other experiences so that he can really appreciate what he and Blaine have.

8. you hope more people will come to appreciate ___ (a ship, a trope, an episode, etc)

For Glee : Season 5 in general. There were a lot of wacky things, but the story telling was much better than people sometimes give it credit for

For Bridgerton : Look, if you like Klaine, and don't mind historical romance, there's a good chance you'll like Polin, the characters and dynamics are actually very similar.

For Marvel : Chris Claremont's original X-Treme X-Men lay in the shadows of Grant Morrison's infamous run. It's not a perfect run, but it's very special to me, and I think more people should give it some credit, because while it was a little messy, it had a lot of heart, and was what really made me fall in love with reading comics.

11. if you're a writer or artist, what fic or piece of art are you proud of making?

While I've always said With Every Broken Bone is my favorite piece I go back to, I think I'm ultimately more proud of the epic feat that was 99 Perspectives on a Single Love Story.

Also shout out to my X-Men fic Toys for being something I wrote on a whim and became internet famous for a hot second

And my Bridgerton fic Twenty-Four Moments which I wrote in 24 hours and I feel like I'm just now starting to come into my own as a writer.

Thanks for the questions!! <3