#you’re just used to this flavor of misery

[writtenbylenora]

don’t know who needs to hear this, but trying to smush your hopes down won’t make you less hopeful but it WILL make it so you can’t enjoy the good parts of hope and feel only the bad parts

[thebearer]

I can see Carmy loving when you cook for him, even if you’re not the greatest cook. You could make grilled cheese and tomato soup and he’d devour it

oh god non, i'm having big thoughts about this one.

it's close to mikey's death date, and carmy always gets a certain way. either he buries himself in work to the point he can barely breathe bc he doesn't want to think about it, or he just refuses to speak to anyone. just recluses himself to be in his own misery and depression.

this year was the latter.

carmy had called out of work- well, not called out. he just didn't show up, which was unusual. you'd texted richie that morning and he understood entirely. the bear was successful, he was making mikey's dream a reality, and still, it hit him hard this year. he stayed in bed, just rolled on the side to look out the window, watching the rain pour down over the city.

carmy wasn't great with words, truly. he struggled to tell you how he felt, find the right things to say, so he would always bring you food as an apology or a way to show you he loved you. you recognized the gesture as an act of love, one that was constant. making your favorite meals, cooking for you in a celebratory way, "i made that recipe you sent me", or when you were sick. it was his love language, what he loved to do and what he was certain in.

you, while you were far from skilled the way carmen was, wanted to show how much he meant to you back. you knew he wouldn't want to talk, he would talk to you if he wanted, but you didn't want him to feel so alone. so you made the one thing you knew to make- a grilled cheese and tomato soup.

it was juvenile, a little silly. you used the sour dough bread and the three layers of cheese- a far cry from the white and american you always made before carmy- and heated up a campbell's soup on the stove, adding your own spices to try and spruce it like carmy would. it wasn't great, you knew that, not close to what he could make, but you put it on a tray anyways, making your way to your shared bedroom.

"carmy," you called softly, peeking into the still dark room, illuminated only by the grey skies spilling in from the window.

he rolled over, dull, blue eyes meeting yours in a half lidded, sullen expression. your heart fell. "i, uh, i made you some lunch, baby." you hummed, moving closer, the spoon rattling against the bowl.

carmen sat up slowly, looking at the contents on the tray carefully. you rolled your lip under your teeth. "it's, uh, it's not like fancy or anything." you said quickly. "it's just... when i used to feel bad, i-i would always make this and, um, i just thought you might like it too. or-or it might help but-"

"-thank you." carmen's eyes shined, looking up at you sweetly. "this is... it looks great." he swallowed around the lump in his throat, thick with emotion.

you beamed, looking down at your feet. "thanks. it's nothing, really. i just thought you'd want something." you muttered, running a hand over his greasy curls. "i'll, uh, i'm gonna finish the laundry but i'll-"

"stay with me." carmen looked up at you, eyes rounding so sweetly how could you possibly say no? "please?"

so you did. sitting next to him in the bed, stealing nibbles of the grilled cheese, muttering sweetly next to him. was it the best? to you, no. it needed more flavor and was not even comparable to anything carmen made. but to him? it was perfect. the best meal on earth. he'd eat it every single fucking day if he could because it came from you.

[matcha-milkies]

MARRIED LIFE

Summary: Bill Cipher gets everything he ever wanted, including (especially) a “marriage” to his favorite human. Ford and Stan disagree about where to go from here.

Relationships: Bill Cipher/Ford Pines

Content Warnings: Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, (Forced) Alcohol Use

Tags: Triangle Bill, Canon Divergence - Weirdmageddon, Bill Cipher Wins, Collars

Word Count: 1,556

Link to AO3: Here

A/N: I don’t know yet whether I’ll post a second chapter. Perhaps! These gay little cartoon characters sure are fun to write.

Ford looked out over the sprawling destruction that was Gravity Falls. One arm crossed over his abdomen, in the other he nursed a cocktail glass topped off with swirling golden liquid. Bill was none too pleased if he came back and there was ever any left, but Ford could only stand so much of the stuff in one gulp. Besides, if he drank too quickly, the toll on his body was nothing to scoff at. He still had no idea what was even in it. Every time he had asked, Bill’s eye had simply creased in silent amusement, or else he had gone on talking like the man had never said anything.

Little fires dotted the landscape all over. Well, they weren’t so little, were they? Ford always made himself sick with these viewing sessions, but it was the only stimulating thing to do around here, aside from pinging out notes on the piano. And besides, why should he be spared from all the misery? If he was sheltered from it, up in his obsidian tower, the very least he could do was feel bad about it. He took another sip from his glass and grimaced. Great Scott, that was disgusting.

“Sixer?” The name sent unpleasant ripples across Ford’s nerves, but when he turned and saw his twin’s face, he let himself relax. A little.

“Stanley, you’re alright.”

“I better be. That was part of the deal and all…” Stan dusted off the sleeves of his suit, looking around. “Wouldn’t want you, uh… suffering for nothing.” His eyes traveled from the painting over the fireplace and then to the lavish, dark red robe Ford had cinched around his waist.

“Bill had a different flavor of suffering in mind for me.” As if to punctuate that statement, he tilted back his drink and nearly coughed it up again.

“Yeesh.”

“It tastes like bitter defeat,” Ford explained. He saw the face his brother was making. “I’m not being poetic, Stanley. He somehow made it taste like the actual poignant sting of failure. I would offer you to try some if I didn’t think it was slowly poisoning me.”

“Yeah, pass on that one. Why don’t you just dump it out in the sink? You do have a sink in here, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes, of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Ford’s expression softened, and he sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be snippy. It’s just… He would know. By the time I’m to the bottom of one of these, I’m… different. For quite some time.”

Stan seemed to be snapping these pieces together in his head, the drink, the robe, the golden “wedding band” around Ford’s throat. Clearly, it was forming a picture he didn’t like. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”

Ford eyed him and then let his gaze drop.

“Poindexter? You’ve been thinkin’ up a plan, right?”

“Of course I have! Every second of every hour, and I just keep hitting dead ends. He’s virtually omnipotent. I’m bound by contract to him, and even me thinking of ways to get out of it could give him a reason to renege on his end of the deal and hurt you! Or worse, the kids!”

“So that’s just it?! We lie down and roll over?!”

“I-I don’t know, Stanley. I’m mated.” Off his brother’s look, he added, “That’s a chess term.”

“I-I know it is! But could you not use it next time?”

Ford sank down onto the flesh couch. He hated that it hardly bothered him anymore. “Maybe this is it. Maybe… I’m meant to accept this fate, as punishment for—”

“Stop! Stop that! Do you hear yourself?” Stan strode forward until he was in his brother’s face. “You’re this pathetic? You hand the universe over to Bill Cipher on a silver platter and then give up?! You’re probably the only one smart enough to think up a way out of this mess, so how about less wallowing and more scheming?! Who cares what happens to me?!”

Ford screwed his eyes shut as he was berated. “I do! What kind of idiotic question is that?”

“And the kids, you want them to grow up in a world where Bill Cipher is king?!”

“Of course not, but you don’t know the things he’d do to them if I acted out, Stan! He’s not going to spare them because they’re children! He will torture them!”

Stan smacked the glass out of Ford’s hand. It shattered on the floor. Ford gaped. “Stan, you shouldn’t have—”

“I don’t care what he thinks! Neither should you!”

“Stop framing it like I’m on his side!”

“Aren’t you, now?!”

“I’m only trying to be pragmatic about our options! And thank God I am, or who knows where we’d all be right now?!”

Ford froze then, his muscles tensing at a familiar presence in the room.

“YIKES. Who knew the family reunion would get this VOLATILE?” Bill circled them with glee, his eye trained on them all the while. “HEY, I guess I’m part of the family now too, isn’t that right, Fez?” He looped an arm around a growling Stanley and wiggled his ring finger. “We’re brothers-in-law! Ha! Who would’ve thought?”

“Bill.” Ford’s breaths were painfully shallow. “I—”

“And Sixer!” Bill was suddenly in his face, his eye taking up the majority of Ford’s field of vision. “I had NO IDEA you thought about me this much when I’m away! That’s so sweet!” With no warning, his eye turned to a mouth and trailed saliva up Ford’s cheek and temple, leaving his glasses askew and his face scrunched up in distaste. The demon’s eye blinked back to normal. “WELL? Where’s my WELCOME HOME KISS?”

Once he had gathered himself enough, Ford leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on Bill’s face, near the corner of his eye. Bill giggled like a little schoolgirl.

“OH NO. It looks like somebody was REAL CLUMSY! Let me refresh your drink, doll!” The shattered glass reassembled itself and floated into Ford’s hand. The liquid leached out of the carpet, pouring itself back into place. “You hardly drank any! Here, let me help with that.”

“Bill—” was all Ford managed before his head was tilted back and about half of the glass’s contents were dumped down his throat. He gagged and almost choked, but somehow got it all down. When he was allowed to hold his head upright again, he found it quite the effort to do so. His brain felt fuzzy and full of cotton. There was a weird glittery filter over the world. He felt far more relaxed, despite the pounding point of tension persisting at the back of his mind. Any worry was now faint, like a distant star.

“Ford!” Stan shouted, but it was difficult to care that that was happening.

“Mhm,” was all he said in response, finally letting his head loll and his eyes close. “Mmm.”

“He’s just so TENSE all the time,” Bill explained casually. “This is how I get him to LOOSEN UP. And hey, I guess it makes it harder for him to YELL at you too. You’re welcome.”

“You’re sick, you three-sided freak!” Stan shook his fist, almost like a threat, as if he could do anything to the dream demon. “I’ll end you!”

“DOING AWAY WITH THE PRETENSE, HUH?”

“Pretense,” Ford laughed for some reason, stretching himself across the full length of the couch and propping his head up with his forearm. This seemed to delight Bill, who began petting through the man’s hair.

“IT IS A PRETTY FUNNY WORD, ISN’T IT, IQ?” The demon swirled the drink a little and then brought it to Ford’s lips.

“Mhm,” Ford agreed, his response partially muffled by the glass as he sipped down more of the mysterious golden liquor.

“SEE? I enjoy the MENTAL SPARRING, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes that big brain of his gets in the way.” Bill affectionately tapped the side of Ford’s head as he let the quarter-full drink hang in midair. “ANYHOO.” He rotated to face Stan head-on; the movement was uncanny. “You should get back to the twins! Cook up another adorable scheme that’s doomed to fail! Sixer and I will watch from up here!”

“S’anley,” Ford slurred, shaking his head in protest, but he didn’t get very far in his thought before Bill pressed the rim of the glass to his lips again. “B- ill– please- I-I can… can’t…” The room was spinning now, violently, and he felt like he was going to be sick. It was like he was speedrunning a very bad hangover.

“SURE YOU CAN! Don’t worry, I won’t let you throw up.” Another pat on the head, and Ford groaned his distress as his throat bobbed and the last of the liquid disappeared down his esophagus.

“Unh… S’an… Stan…” His head dropped onto the couch, eyes struggling to focus.

“Sixer.” Stan started towards his twin, but before he could make it more than two steps, Bill snapped his fingers and Stan was gone, returned to where he’d come from. The demon sank onto the couch and arranged Ford until his head was on his lap (however much of a lap Bill had), fingers continuing to card through his hair.

“Come on. Don’t look at me like that, Fordsy. The relatives can come to visit another time.”

[sleepyfan-blog]

Food

Author’s Note: This is the second part of Joth’s adventures in the Husbandry AU. Previous. Next. 

Tagged: @bleedingichorhearts @whorety-k @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @whorety-k 

@gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Warnings: body horror

Summary: Joth watches his foster human cook. 

Joth warily watched the human he’d been assigned to prepare food as he stood in one of the corners of your kitchen. You’d agreed to foster him,and given that it was either play nice with you for a handful of weeks or get locked against a wall by irritable corpse worshippers, he’d chosen you. He wasn’t sure what what he was going to do once the mandatory probationary period was over. He knew that he wasn’t the only Chaos Marine - nor the only World Eater on ancient terra… But integrating into a new warband was a risky and exhausting affair… and one that he wasn’t sure he was going to be in the mood to attempt once this was over.

The house was sized with Astartes in mind, though clearly meant for baseline inhabitation.  It was… More spacious and comfortable than Joth had been expecting. You had a house with several bedrooms, mixed-use rooms set on a  quarter-acre of land that had a temperate forest inside and surrounding it. Considering how many baselines lived on ancient terra at this time, he was mildly surprised you had so much space… Though he was delighted as well. 

The last thing he wanted was to be crammed into a hab-block on a hive world. Or anything close to it. He shuddered a little before refocusing on what you were doing. He could practice the heady blend of spices and herbs you were using to flavor the dish you were making, along with the savory sizzle of some sort of terrestrial mammal. The vegetables you were adding to the dish were fresh and earthy… And the bread that you’d put in the oven earlier had notes of toasting grain and melting butter. All of it smelled incredible and he was trying hard not to start drooling from his mouths.

His treacherous tail had yet to stop wagging as he slowly approached you. The standard ration bar he’d been eating had never been more bland and tasteless… And you’d promised that you would share… Joth cleared his throat, demanding gruffly “I want some. When it’s ready.”

You blink up at him, a small spoon part way to your mouth, steaming gently and filled with some of the cooked and flavored vegetables and meat. You’d been about to taste it to see if you needed to alter the spice balance… But you’d long since learned how to read Chaos Astartes. It really helped when they had something like tails or expressive ears that you could see. That tail of his had been thumping steadily for the past half hour you’d been cooking. You could hear the plaintive whine in his voice and you were briefly reminded of one of the large, formerly abused foster dogs that your parents had taken in as a child. This grizzled, wary marine felt much the same to you, though you mentally shook yourself into focus. “Sure. Do you want to try a little now? Tell me if it needs anything?”

“... The way I eat will distress you. While I do want to try your offering…” He gestured to the helmet that had long ago fused to his head. “My anatomy is… Different than corpse-worshippers, though I was once like them.”

“You’re not the first Chaos Marine I’ve fostered, Joth. I’m guessing the seam on  your mid-chest is a mouth of some kind? Just because you’re a bit different than most marines doesn’t mean you’re a monster.” You respond resolutely, waiting for his answer.

Joth cocks his head a little to one side, stunned by both your dizzying naivete and boldness. “Ah, but the blood that will never dry on my hands, the miseries I have inflicted on countless beings - xenos and human alike - do. That and the Chaos that has long tainted and warped my flesh and soul. But I will choose to see if you do not scare easily, little mortal.”

He stepped into your personal space, opening his chest mouth - a toothy maw over a foot wide when it split open, three tongues lolling outwards before wrapping around the wooden spoon and lapping at the bits of cooked vegetable and sauce. 

You’d seen weirder mouths. Mostly on Death Guard, though the occasional Emperor’s Child had spectacularly strange orifices they’d shown off occasionally. You don’t so much as twitch as you ask him “What do you think?”

He’s visibly taken aback, and he answers slowly after several moments of contemplation “I would like a little bit more salt and sour, but it tastes… It tastes very good as it is.” Considering that, as a chaos marine, even standard rations could get hard to come by, and he ate literally anything that wouldn’t actively make him sick, or poison himself to the point of incapacitation, this was truly divine.

“Alright, I’ll add a bit more salt and a little more vinegar into this. Would you like to help?” You ask, a small smile on your face as you watch him fidget a little.

He’s been tense and borderline verbally hostile since the Ultramarines had released him into your care, but that’s nothing you weren’t expecting. The way he fidgets with his hands a little as he thinks, however, is almost criminally adorable. “How may I aid you?”

“If you’d set the table for the both of us, I’d be grateful.” You explain what to grab for this meal and where everything is stored, inviting him to explore your home to his hearts’ content.

You watch him tentatively wander around the kitchen, dutifully acquiring the items you’d asked for, handling the plates with incredible gentleness, clearly worried they’d snap in his enhanced strength. He meanders off, likely to explore your house, tail still wagging.

[slamminslamminmcgill]

Perrito Chapter 3: Position - Lalo Salamanca/FTM Reader (NSFW!)

your first 24 hours on the job. you're starting to adjust to daily life as lalo's puppy, though there's a feeling of dread that you can't quite shake. tags/warnings: oral sex, vaginal sex, petplay, humiliation/degradation, exhibitionism, stalking, non-consensual body modification, gaslighting, psychological abuse, intoxication (weed and cocaine) anatomical terms: cunt/hole, t-dick word count: 9,139 (most normal lalo stan) ao3 link author's notes: we're so back (in all /srsness thank y'all for supporting me these past few months as i have been Going Through It. i promise the next chapter will not take this long) como siempre no soy un hablante nativo pero estoy aprendiendo. entonces por favor corríjame si se encuentra algo de errores :3

This was not the first morning you woke up feeling like a complete and utter dumbass.

And it probably wouldn’t be the last. 

Though as you prodded the bruise on the underside of your bicep, you struggled to think of a time that you’d fucked up even half this bad. 

The only thing that came close was the day you got arrested. You remember it in flashes. First, you were in the passenger seat of a car, nothing fancy. You couldn’t recall if it was a Honda or a Hyundai, but you were never much of a car person anyway. Whatever it was, it was blue, and parked in a seedy alleyway. You had your mouth on a cock, one of many you’d taken before, thinking about what you’d get for lunch after this. Anything that would get the taste of cherry-flavored condom out of your mouth. Suddenly, there was a knock on the window, and you and your client were dragged out of the car by two nosy officers. Handcuffed, bent over the hood, and trying your hardest not to cry, one of them patted you down, and reached into one of the small pockets in your denim booty shorts.

“Yep. Cocaine. So now we can add possession of a schedule two narcotic to your charges.”

Just your fucking luck. That morning, a client had given you an 8-ball in exchange for a discounted blowjob. It would’ve been cheaper to just pay your normal rate, but he said he was trying to kick the stuff and it was just collecting dust in his possession. You had no interest in trying coke for yourself, but you figured you could sell it pretty easily. After all, what’s one illegal trade versus another? Plus, the guy had said it was high quality. Allegedly, it was the good shit from Mexico. 

Mexico. 

Maybe it was Salamanca product. 

Maybe Lalo had been controlling your life for longer than you thought. 

The next thing you remember was crying in the interrogation room. 

You’d refused to talk to the pigs, as you should’ve. You weren’t that stupid. You knew nothing good would come of it. They could just lie and say whatever asinine thing they felt like to get you to snitch on yourself.

“We just want to know what happened, kid.” Bullshit. 

“We’re trying to help you.” No you’re not. 

“Cry all you want, but you got yourself into this mess. If you talk to us, we can find a way to get you out of it.” Fuck. You. 

Blubbering, choking on snot and tears, more scared than you’d ever been in your entire life, you stood your ground.

“I’m… *sniff* I’m invoke- invoking my… *sniff* right to remain s-silent and my right- *sniff* right to c-counsel… P-P-Please…” Breathe. Just breathe. In, then out. Innn, ouuut… Okay. You’re okay. You can do this. What’s the next line? “P-Please provide me with an attorney.”

To their credit, they did. The next person you spoke to was a public defender, a guy in his 40s who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. You remember what he said when he saw you.

“Oh jeez, you poor kid. Hey, hey. It’s gonna be okay. Please, please don’t cry. I, uh… I think I got some napkins you can use.” He’d opened his disheveled briefcase and handed you some thin fast-food napkins. As you mopped up your misery, he took out a pen and paper, and sat down across from you. He wanted you to be as comfortable as possible. Also, he was a sympathetic crier, so he didn’t want to make things harder for himself. “My name’s Jimmy. I’m gonna be your lawyer. Can you tell me your name, bud?” 

Jimmy tried. He really did. But the best deal he could get for you was 6 months. You remember the look of sadness on his face when he told you that you’d be going to prison. You broke down, sobbing violently into your palms. You heard his voice crack under your heavy burden. 

“I know… I know, kid. I’m sorry. Just let it out.”

“I’m gonna die in there… I’m gonna die…”

“No, no, no! No, you’re not! Keep your head up, okay? 6 months will be over before you know it.”

“No, you don’t understand…”

You came out to him, and his face contorted in horror when he realized what you’d be subjected to. Jimmy felt like the worst lawyer in the world; he somehow managed to get a client the death penalty for prostitution and a few grams of coke. He had never felt so fucking guilty. At least he gave great hugs. 

The cops who did your strip search did not. 

Your memory got hazy from this point. You dissociated through the entire intake process, mindlessly following directions. Stand here, turn, turn, face forward. Walk. Stand here. Take your clothes off, oh dear god. Run your fingers through your hair. Open your mouth. Squat. Cough. Put your new clothes on. Take your stuff. Go to your cell. You were lucky to not have a cellmate assigned yet. You could spend your first few hours of incarceration crying in your bed alone.

At lunch, you went to the shower, and the rest was history. 

And a few weeks later, you were laying in a luxurious bed, waking up well-rested from the amazing sex you were being paid $10,000 a week to have. 

And you had a microchip in your arm. 

This wasn’t post-nut clarity; this was post-nut psychosis. No, post-nut divine revelation, like God himself had come down from Heaven just to call you a braindead dipshit who should’ve seen this coming. Like the 2nd-generation cartel boss that paid you to live in his house and drain his balls wouldn’t find a way to track you wherever you went, dumbass? What were you thinking, huh? Are you fucking stupid? Huh? Are you? Are you stupid?

Probably.

You probably were stupid.

But you definitely were hungry, and hell, Lalo promised you breakfast once you woke up and came down to the kitchen. If there really was a microchip in your arm, it wasn’t exactly going anywhere. You might as well enjoy the perks of your situation, of which there were many. Maybe a full stomach would empty your head.

Having completed your morning routine in Lalo’s master bathroom, you threw on some casual clothes, stared at the dog collar your reflection wore, and headed downstairs to the kitchen, where Lalo was eagerly waiting for you, with an apron tied taut around his slutty little waist. 

He gasped in delight when you finally graced him with your presence. “¡Buenos días, perrito! (Good morning, doggy!)” He ran up to you and gave you a warm, tight hug, one that could’ve lulled you right back to sleep if he kept it up for long enough, especially with such soothing puppytalk. “Ay, mi chiquito lindo, te quiero muuucho. Te quiero, te quiero. (Ay, my cute little boy, I love you so muuuch. I love you, I love you.)” But instead, he eventually broke the hug to kiss your forehead and pat you on the shoulder. “You sleep okay?”

You slept fine, but waking up was another story, a story that you didn’t tell. “Yeah, I’m good.” You yawned and stretched once he let you go. “That bed is super comfortable. Way better than what I’m used to.”

“Well, get used to it! It’s definitely a step up for you. Good for your back too.” Lalo laughed, patted you once more, and opened up some of the kitchen cabinets. He kept talking as he grabbed a frying pan and some mixing bowls. “Now that you’re up, I thought we could cook breakfast together. You down?”

“Yeah! Sure. I’d like that. I’m hungry.”

“Figured you would be. I gave you quite the workout last night, huh?” Lalo winked at you over his shoulder as he started to position everything on the counter. When he turned his back to you, you couldn’t help but ogle his ass in those insultingly tight jeans he always wore. “Can you do me a favor, actually? Can you grab the eggs and chorizo from the fridge? Should be on the second shelf.”

His question took a second to finish buffering in your distracted mind. “Hm? Oh, yeah! I gotcha.”

You walked over to the fridge and opened the double doors. It was bigger than the fridge you’d had at your apartment in Albuquerque. A lot bigger. Your eyes scanned the fully stocked second shelf, searching for what you had been instructed to find.

Your back to him was the perfect opportunity to strike. Lalo snuck up behind you, snaked his arms under your armpits, and clipped the leash to your collar. Thank god you hadn’t grabbed the eggs yet, because he yanked the leash back and knocked you off your balance.

“¡Siéntate! (Sit!)”

You turned around and dropped to your knees, looking up at Lalo with a face of pure confusion, which he found incredibly amusing.

“What? What are you looking so surprised for?” He reached over you to shut the fridge. “On-call means on-call, puppy! That means if I need you, you gotta be ready for me, yeah? Any time, any place.”

Right. That was what you signed up for. You just went expecting it to be so… sudden. “Okay, yeah, sorry, I just thought that-“

“Ch.”

What? What the fuck did he just do? It was like he shushed you, but it was a ch rather than a sh. Sharper, and with a more distinct bite to it, like a threat. It shocked you into silence, which is exactly what he wanted.

“Good boy.” Lalo balled the slack of the leash in his fist and crouched down to your eye level. “Now, you gonna be quiet? You gonna be a good doggy and do what you’re told?”

Son of a bitch. You really were his dog. The puppytalk, the headpats, the commands, the microchip. His commitment to the bit was honestly impressive. You nodded, ready to listen.

Lalo smiled and tousled your hair, recreating the bedhead you’d so carefully combed away. You would have been annoyed if it didn’t come with some intoxicating praise. “Good boy! Such a good boy! Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes you are! You’re a good boy!”

His sweet words soothed your mind. You could feel your thoughts, reason, your very humanity melting away with each strand of your hair curled around his fingers, each repetition of “good boy” that left his lips and emigrated to your ears. Degrading? Yes, but that was part of the fun. It was nice to not have to think for yourself. You could just close your eyes, sit back, relax, and let yourself be spoiled. Lalo would take very good care of his dog.

Lalo could see the transformation, the shift from person to puppy at the very second you stopped thinking. Having you exactly how he wanted you, he smoothed your hair out to something almost as tidy as you’d had it before. “That’s it… Good boy… Good doggy…” To snap you out of your daze, he snapped his fingers in front of your face. “¡Ay! Mírame. Look at me, puppy.”

You did as you were told, gazing up at Lalo as he stood upright and let the chain leash jingle as the excess fell from his hand.

“Good boy.” Lalo held his hand out for you. “Shake. Dame la pata.”

Assuming a dog wouldn’t have the same dexterity for a handshake as a human would, you laid your limp-wristed hand in his, and let him grab it and shake it.

That was the right move. “Perfect! Good boy!” He let go of your hand and you placed it back on your thighs alongside the other. “Habla. Speak.”

You’d learned your lesson last night, and told him what he wanted to hear. “Woof woof!”

“Ha! Aw man, I never get tired of hearing that.” Lalo’s hand found its way to your hair again and he asked, “Good boy! You want a treat? You want a treat, boy?”

You weren’t entirely sure what a treat would be in this context, but you guessed it’d be something good. You nodded once more, accepting whatever blessing he would bestow upon you.

Lalo’s smile dropped, “I need to hear you, puppy. I need to hear you if you want your treat. C’mon,” and pulled the leash hard enough to gag you a little, “Speak!”

“Woof! Woof, woof!”

“Gooood boy.” Lalo purred and slipped the leash’s handle onto his wrist. Now having both hands free, he went to untie the apron and unfasten his belt. 

Should’ve seen that coming. You thought to yourself, though your self-contained sarcasm went out the window once his cock was out. You’d seen it a bunch by now, but it never failed to make you drool. You licked your lips in preparation. 

Lalo slooowly pumped himself in front of you, watching you squirm anxiously. His foreskin retracted and slid back so easily, and the overhead kitchen lights illuminated the single drop of precum leaking from his slit. It felt like ages before he finally said to you, “Come get your treat, doggy.”

And your mouth was on him in a flash, an instinctual response to a simple command. You were so well trained. Such a good dog. You reached up to squeeze his ass and push him further down your throat. Even with your mouth plugged with cock, you found yourself moaning in pleasure. 

Your voice vibrating his shaft inspired Lalo to speak up, through a deep, rich groan. “Ooh, yeah, that’s it… That’s a good puppy. I almost think you enjoy this more than I do!”

Possibly, but with how obnoxiously loud he was moaning, you thought it was pretty balanced. You pulled his cock out of your mouth to spit all over the tip and spread it down. Once you’d soaked his entire length, you lifted it up to slurp on his balls. 

 “Yeah, yeah, there you go… Good doggy. Good-“ Lalo went still and unnaturally stiff for a second. Then, he started laughing. Hard. 

You pulled back to check on him. “Uh… you good?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. Just…” Lalo braced himself against the fridge to catch his breath, “Just thought of something funny is all. Y’know… dog playing with a ball? Fetch, boy!”

As stupid as it was, you couldn’t help but laugh, too, though you only got 3 or 4 “ha”s out of your system before Lalo yanked the leash and impaled your mouth with his cock. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Lalo’s spontaneity was definitely something you’d have to get used to. His ability to make you laugh, drop your guard, and then sneak up on you meant that you could never truly relax around him. But hey, that’s what you’re getting paid for, right? Plus, it’s kind of a thrill to be taken by surprise. You continued to service him, wet and sloppy, spit seeping down your face, until another sound stalled the scene: your stomach growling. Loudly.

But Lalo didn’t mind. In fact, he thought it was cute. “Oh, pobrecito (poor thing), was that you? You’re hungry, huh, boy? Well the sooner you get me off, the sooner we can cook, okay? Here…” He held onto you tightly by your hair and began thrusting into your throat. “I’ll help you speed things up.”

You gripped his thighs to brace yourself, knowing exactly what he meant by that.

Lalo fucked your throat with reckless abandon, savoring all the obscene gawkgawkgawk type sounds it made. His breath shuddered as he neared his peak. “Ay, te pinche puto, oh… Oh, sí, como eso. Buen chico. Qué- ngh… Qué buen chico-oh, mierda, estoy… Estoy cerca… Voy a venir… Voy a venir en tu boca de puto… ¡Carajo! (Ay, you fucking slut, oh… Oh, yeah, like that. Good boy. What- ngh… What a good boy-oh, shit, I’m so… I’m so close… I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna cum in your whore mouth… Fuck!)”

And once more you were shoved all the way down. Your nose nestled into Lalo’s bush as he ejaculated down your throat. Without any options otherwise, you quickly swallowed it all. You didn’t get to taste his cum, but the feeling of his aching cock throbbing on your tongue was delicious in and of itself. 

When he was finally empty, Lalo sighed and pulled you off. You coughed as the oxygen rushed you, forcing down the last few drops of his cum. The both of you were disheveled, sweaty, flushed-face messes. What a way to start the day.

“There. Little snack to hold you over before we cook, right?” Lalo tucked himself back into place and unclipped the leash from your collar, signaling that your job was done. He gave you a warm smile and finger combed your hair back into place. “Good boy! Oh, that was good. C’mere. Lemme help you up.” He extended his hand for you to take, lifting you up onto two legs. You were a person once more. Now you could think rather than feel, and speak rather than bark. “You alright? You did great. As usual.”

You chuckled, the warm and fuzzy feeling of puppymode still lingering behind. You were in no rush to let it pass, anyway. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Thanks. Glad you liked it.”

“Good!” Lalo was back to his normal, energetic self. He grabbed his apron, clapped you on the shoulder, and said, “Now, go get me the eggs and chorizo.” 

And with that, he strutted back to the counter, business as usual.

You would definitely have to get used to his spontaneity.

…

Breakfast was delicious, so much so that you wondered why he bothered having Yolanda cook at all. Oh well, not your place to judge. His cooking was phenomenal, but maybe hers would have you exploring a different plane of consciousness. After breakfast, Lalo saw it fitting to give you a proper tour of the house.

“Okay, so, you’ve seen the living room, the kitchen, and the master bedroom. There’s a couple more bedrooms downstairs, at the other side of the house. One of them is Yolanda’s, and another is Cecilio’s. The rest are for guests. There’s 2 more bathrooms down that way, too.”

“Mm, okay, got it.” You nodded, making a mental map of where everyone was in the house, though you noticed a pretty substantial gap. “What about all the guards?”

“Oh, they kinda have their own base outside. Makes it easier for them cause they gotta wake each other up to switch shifts. I’ll show you in a bit.”

Honestly, for a cartel boss’s estate, you weren’t expecting it to feel so… homey. Your vision of a drug lord’s mansion was something akin to a fever dream that you’d have after bingewatching MTV Cribs. Everything either marble or gold-plated, 15 Lamborghinis in the garage, and a pet tiger that somehow has its own Lamborghini. But no, Lalo’s place was decorated like people actually lived here. Barring the concrete gate topped with barbed wire, it was like any other family hacienda. Though instead of multiple generations of one family, it was just Lalo and his staff: his cook, his gardener, his guards…

And of course, his dog.

You tried to ignore that nagging feeling under your bicep as Lalo walked you up to a bookshelf. “And so this, oh, you’re gonna love this, just watch.” 

One of the books caught your attention. It was bright red, and its spine said “Hiding in Plain Sight by S. P. Onaj”. How clever. Actually, it was clever, because he reached for a plain-looking blue book on the shelf below it. He pulled it back, and the bookshelf opened like a door, revealing a dimly lit staircase heading downward.

“By the way, pulling that red one sounds an alarm. Just in case any intruder thinks they’ve got me all figured out. Made it obvious on purpose.” Lalo winked at you. “So! Guess what’s down there.”

“Is it a sex dungeon?”

Lalo froze, his facial expression that of bewilderment. You’d got it in one. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed. “What gave it away?”

You shrugged. “I mean, you’re rich and kinky enough to hire a live-in sex puppy, I’m assuming you’d have your own dungeon. Plus, why else would you be showing it to me?”

“Fair point.” Lalo shook his head and chuckled. “Since you wanna be a smartass, though, I’m not taking you down there now.” He shut the bookshelf door, and the ominous staircase was gone, as if it was never there.

“Aw, boo.” You pouted. “Just cause I guessed it right, you’re not gonna show me?”

“No, I actually gotta run out in a little while, and I’m not gonna show you until I have enough time to give you an extensive tour.” Lalo smirked. “There’s a lot down there. Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait.” He leaned down and brushed your hair away from your ear, making sure his whispered words hit you dead-on. “There’s so many fun things I can do to you, puppy.”

Before you could even whine, grovel, bitch, or moan, Lalo slipped right past you and beckoned you forward. “Alright! Now, I’mma show you outside. C’mere, boy!”

What a fucking tease. You thought, rolling your eyes and following behind him. He held the backdoor open for you to step onto the patio, but before your other foot left the threshold, Lalo grabbed you.

“Hey! What the-”

You were stopped mid-sentence by the sound of jingling metal. 

The leash.

Lalo had clipped it to your collar again and led you onto the patio, like it was the most casual fucking thing in the world, and he didn’t just accost you into a near chokehold. No warning, no red flag, nothing. You didn’t even hear the damn leash before it was on you. You were stunned. “Were you just keeping that in your pocket this whole time?”

“Well, yeah. Where else would it be?” He stepped out in front of you and pulled the chain. “Sit. And don’t talk ‘til I say so.”

You let your snarky comments simmer on the backburner and did as you were told, dropping to your knees on the patio. You felt a slight tinge of embarrassment as you took in your surroundings: the golden midday sunlight, the warm air, the sounds of birds and a lawnmower running. Oh, god, is he gonna make you blow him out here? Out in the open? Well, you’d done worse. You’d even done worse with him, but the spontaneity was gonna stop your heart one day.

Lalo gave you more of those cloyingly sweet headpats. “Good boy. Good boy. There you go, that’s it. Just relax. Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. Be a good puppy. Be a good puppy for Don Eduardo.”

You gradually synced to his rhythm. He’d ambush you with the leash, then coax you into pupspace with petting and praise. Once you were warmed up, you’d do whatever he wanted. It was easier to adjust the second time around.

And as predicted, your master gave you a firm pull of the leash and an even firmer command. “Cuatro patas. All fours, c’mon.”

You shuffled onto your hands and knees, waiting for your next order. But it didn’t come. Instead, Lalo just started walking, expecting you to follow suit. But you didn’t. You were mortified by what he was implying. 

When you didn’t move with him, he turned around and glared down at you. “What? I can’t take my dog for a walk?” Lalo clicked his tongue and yanked the leash. “Come.”

What was usually your favorite command to hear was now suddenly your least favorite. Lalo was going to have you crawl on your hands and knees, through the grass and dirt, in broad daylight for anyone to see. You kept your head down, staring at the blades of grass that stained your palms and knees green. You weren’t listening to Lalo’s tour.

Knowing damn well he was talking to himself, Lalo still pointed out every landmark that you passed, the first one being right ahead of you. “Pool’s right here. It’s heated, just in case you were wondering. And at night, the lights change color. It’s really pretty. Been thinking about getting a bar out here, too.”

As you approached the perimeter of the pool, the cool grass turned to burning tile. You winced and hissed in pain as your bare palms touched the hot surface. “Ah! Shit…”

To your surprise, Lalo actually showed some concern for your situation. “Too hot?”

You grit your teeth and grimaced, still not looking up at him. “Mhm…”

“Here, c’mon, stand up,” He tugged the leash up, “Two legs.”

You hopped up onto your feet, grateful that you were allowed to keep your skin from melting off your hands. You went to brush yourself off, but Lalo grabbed your wrists.

“Let me see.” He checked your palms for any injuries, and finding that you were alright, released you. “Okay, good. Vamos (Let’s go).”

You walked like a person past the edge of the pool, yet once you stepped onto softer ground, you felt a pull of the leash.

“Cuatro patas (All fours).”

And you were back to walking like a dog, hanging your head in shame as you were paraded around the ranch. 

Lalo kept blabbing about whatever building you passed by, his garage, the guards’ house, the shed. You still weren’t listening. You barely even looked up. You were more intently focused on how the beads of sweat dripped off your face and onto the grass below you. And even though the sun wasn’t directly shining down on them, your cheeks had never felt hotter. This was a level of degradation that you did not expect to come with this job. What was he even getting out of this anyway? Did he like showing you off? Having you jump through hoops? Making you whore yourself out to him and debase yourself for his amusement? Was this even getting him off, or was it just for shits and giggles? And why so heavy on the dog motif? And why was there a fucking microchip in your arm?!

Your mind kept repeating one phrase, one sacred mantra that pushed the bad thoughts away and helped you keep going, one paw after another: $10,000 a week. $10,000 a week. $10,000 a week. 

As you kept internally chanting your mantra, a loud voice derailed your train of thought, and to your shock and horror, it wasn’t Lalo’s.

“¡Patrón! (Boss!)”

Your neck snapped up, shifting your gaze from the ground to the gardener, Cecilio. You hadn’t exchanged more than a wave when you met, and now here you were, being walked on all fours in front of this nice old man. You had never felt so thoroughly humiliated. All you wanted to do was dig yourself a nice little hole to die in, but that’d just make his job harder. It’d be rude of you to mess up his meticulous groundskeeping. Maybe if you asked him nicely, he’d simply bludgeon you to death with a shovel instead.

Lalo waved at him and shouted back. “¡Cecilio! ¿Qué tal? (What’s up?)” He dragged you behind him as he approached his landscaper. “Un buen día para dar una vueltecita, ¿verdad? (Nice day for a little walk, right?)” He knelt down on the grass and ruffled your hair with the same informality as petting an actual dog, one that didn’t understand the abstract concept of embarrassment. “¿Necesitas algo? (Need something?)”

Much to your surprise and relief, Cecilio didn’t seem at all fazed by the spectacle in front of him. He didn’t even acknowledge you. “Sólo tengo una preguntita. ¿Usted quería los arbustos altos como estos o más bien como los en frente? (I just have a quick question. Did you want the bushes tall like this or more like the ones out front?)” He asked, gesturing to a tall shrub that had a stepladder beside it. 

Lalo hummed and scratched behind your ears as he thought about it. “Hmm… Pienso que como ellos están ahora está bien. Déjalos altos. (Hmm… I think how they are now is fine. Leave them tall.)” 

You couldn’t understand much of the conservation; it had gone by too quickly for you to translate. What you could understand was how nice his hands felt, how they scratched every itch you didn’t even know you had. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Now knowing that Cecilio didn’t care, you were able to relax. You sighed and leaned into Lalo’s patronizing touch.

“Pero… ¿qué piensas, perrito? (But… what do you think, doggy?)” He yanked the chain leash hard to get your attention. “¡Habla! (Speak!)”

And your base instincts reacted quicker than your brain. He’d trained you well. “Woof!” you barked. Upon realizing what you just did, you blushed and pressed your face into him, attempting to hide from Cecilio.

“Oh, good boy. That’s my good boy.” He kissed your forehead before he stood up, and tugged the leash to get you on all fours again.”Come on, puppy. Let’s get you back inside.” And as he walked you toward the house, he called out behind him. “¡Bien hecho, Cecilio! ¡Sigue así! (Good job, Cecilio! Keep it up!)” 

Cecilio called back, “¡Sí, señor! ¡Gracias! (Yes, sir! Thank you!)”

Lalo took you back to the house, again letting you walk on two legs past the pool. You started to crouch down once you made it onto the grass, but he stopped you.

“Nah, that’s okay. You’re done for now.” He unclipped the leash from your collar and stuffed it back in his pocket. “How was that? You okay?”

“Yeah, uh… I’m fine.” You replied, brushing the grass off your knees and pondering what the fuck you just did. “Just, uh… Was that, like…” You didn’t even know where to begin, but your most pressing concern was the mental well-being of the innocent bystander. “That wasn’t weird for him, right?”

“What, Cecilio? Nah.” Lalo waved off your concerns. “He’s fine. Listen, everybody here just does their job and minds their own business. No one’s gonna say anything about you doing yours. And if they do, you tell me. Okay?” 

That was actually reassuring. After all, it was just a job. You were just doing what you get paid for, same as everyone else. “Okay.”

“Good!” Lalo smiled, “So, I gotta run out for a while. Gotta handle some business stuff with a few of my guys. You remember Tuco?”

Thinking back to that one time he broke a dude’s nose in the prison cafeteria for spilling a soda on him, you answered, “How could I forget?” 

“Yeah, so it’s gonna be him and his buddy Ignacio. He’s cool. I’ll have to introduce you sometime.” Lalo went to grab his going out essentials that he left on the counter: his phone, his wallet, his keys, and a 9mm handgun. “You’ll probably be asleep by the time I get back, but if you’re not, I’ll be outside on the patio. Just in case you get lonely. Oh, and feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” Having everything he needed, he gave you a tight hug and a smooch goodbye on your forehead. “Be a good puppy while I’m gone, okay?”

You giggled playfully. “I will. See ya!”

…

The rest of your day was uneventful without Lalo around. You wandered around the house looking for ways to keep yourself entertained. Part of you thought about sneaking down into the alleged sex dungeon he had, but you decided against it. You didn’t want to 1.) spoil the surprise, and 2.) trip any unexpected alarms or booby traps without him to guide you through them. Instead, you went for a dip in his pool, made yourself something to eat, and took a shower before bed.

During your shower, you dragged the soap across the underside of your bruised arm, wincing when you felt the skin roll over the microchip like how a tire does to a speed bump. There was definitely something under there. There had to be. You could feel it. It was a tiny stick, about an inch long. You could even jostle it around with your fingers. No bruise or vaccination moved like that. And it all made sense, too. Why else would the doctor have to numb you? Why else would he make sure you had your eyes closed when he stuck you? “This is how we do it in Mexico.” Bullshit.

Unfortunately, Lalo did not have any medical books in his possession, nothing that would reveal his tricks. So, all you had to go on was the injection site. All you could do is poke and prod at it helplessly as you laid in his bed, wide awake.

At least the bed was comfortable.

If you had to be kept prisoner somewhere, this was definitely a step up from MDC Albuquerque.

That’s what he was doing, right? Keeping you prisoner. Why microchip you if not? You could rationalize that this was a job; you’d be free to quit any time you want. But that was wishful thinking. As if you’d ever be allowed back to civilian life knowing what you know. Putting in your 2 weeks notice would probably result in Lalo calling in the doctor to put you down. That’s what happens when dogs bite.

No. No. Stop thinking like that. Stop thinking in general. Just go to sleep! Just go to sleep. It’s not that difficult, right? You do it every night! Here, let’s count some sheep. Maybe that’ll do the trick. 

A sheep jumps over the fence. Baa! One. 

Another sheep jumps over the fence. Baa! Two. 

Another sheep jumps over the fence. There’s a microchip in your arm. 

“Goddamnit!” You grabbed one of the spare pillows by your head, screamed into it, and tossed it onto the floor. Having finished with your brief temper tantrum, you stared up at the ceiling, tense, wide-eyed, and fully cognizant. You sighed. You weren’t going to sleep anytime soon. 

Though you probably knew someone who was in the same boat. Someone who you knew would be good company. 

No. No, no, no. Do not go out to him. You cannot be dependent on him emotionally, too. Physically and financially is more than enough. You catch feelings, and that’s how Stockholm syndrome starts.

…

Then again, does anyone know when they have Stockholm syndrome? Is it like anxiety or depression, where you’re aware of your symptoms and yet they persist no matter how many times some asshole tells you to just try yoga? Or is it more like addiction, where you can rationalize anything to avoid facing the problem that you refuse to accept? 

…

Fuck it.

You tiptoed downstairs and out the back door, and sure enough, Lalo was outside on the patio, right where he said he’d be, sitting by the firepit. On the table next to him was a rolling tray, and on the tray you saw a jar, a lighter, and a hemp wrapper. Next to the rolling tray was an ashtray, a tiny golden tool that looked like a shovel for ants, and a baggie of white powder. In his hands, he was twisting a grinder. When he saw you out of the corner of his eye, he perked up. 

“Hey, puppy. What’re you doing up? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep…” You rubbed your eyes and yawned. “Can I join you?”

Lalo’s smile radiated the same warmth as the fire pit. “I’d like that. Could probably use the company.” 

You approached the chair adjacent to him, when Lalo raised his hand to stop you. 

“No, no, no.” He slapped his thigh and wiggled his eyebrows. “Right here. Best place for a lapdog, right?”

Unable to argue with that airtight logic, you sat down on his lap and settled in. Lalo hooked his arms around you, kissed your temple, and said “See? You fit right in. Good boy.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned back against his chest as he continued to grind what you hoped was weed. You glanced over at the table and asked, “You rolling a blunt?”

“Yep. You want some? It’s indica. Helps me relax.”

“Sure, thanks.” You sat in silence for a moment until he reached towards the table. He took the jar and lighter off the tray and set them aside, next to the bag of what was probably cocaine. No harm in asking, right? He must have had it out for a reason. “So, uh… is that coke?”

“Yeah. I’m not letting you have any, though, so don’t ask. Especially if you’re trying to sleep. It’s the last thing you need.” Lalo’s voice was tender, but firm. You knew better than to question him on that. It seemed like a hard rule. 

“That’s fine. Wasn’t gonna anyway.” There was a drop in the conversation, until you thought of a way to pick it back up. “So, like… do you do it often?”

Lalo unscrewed the second chamber to the grinder and dumped the weed on the rolling tray. “I guess you could say I do it more than most people, but I don’t always use it to get high. Most of the time, I just do little bumps to keep me awake.”

Granted, you didn’t have any experience with actually trying coke, but you didn’t think you could do it so casually. You’d always thought of it as an extreme thing, something you do lines upon lines of and have either the best or worst night of your life. But no, Lalo was calm and collected, as usual. You never would have guessed if it wasn’t just chilling on the table next to you. Next to that weird little shovel. “What’s that for?”

“What, the spoon? Oh, it just measures a bump for you. Here, watch.” He set the grinder down and picked up the coke and the spoon. He cracked open the baggie and dug the spoon in, retrieving a tiny little pile of coke. “See? Just a little bit.” He brought it up to his nostril and sniffed up the powder. His face crinkled up, and then he exhaled. “And that’s it!” He closed the bag and set it and the spoon aside, sniffling up the trace amounts stuck inside his nose. “That’s all you need to keep you up.”

“Interesting…” You pondered, having gained a new perspective on cocaine. Still, that couldn’t be healthy, right? Why not just, y’know, go the fuck to sleep? “Why, uh… Why do you wanna stay awake?”

“Couple of reasons.” Lalo replied, leaning over you to roll the blunt. “First, sleeping is a waste of time. I got more important things I could be doing. You’re supposed to sleep, what, like 8 hours a day? That’s one third of your life you miss out on. ‘S too much.” His calloused fingers curled the hemp wrapper around the weed so dexterously, like a true professional. You’d expect nothing less from a cartel boss. He probably had decades of practice. “I’m lucky, though. I don’t really need much sleep. I’m good with just an hour or two.”

“Mm.” You concurred in as few words as possible. None, actually. You weren’t cosigning the delusional things he said, just acknowledging that you were listening.

“Second, sleeping means you’re vulnerable. That’s something my tío taught me. People can ambush you in your sleep, and you won’t see it coming. They got a head start if you’re knocked out. That’s why you wanna be up as much as possible. Don’t let them get you.”

The most normal advice to give your nephew. You didn’t want to think about what his childhood must have been like, growing up with lessons like that. You answered with a noncommittal “Ah, gotcha.”

Lalo licked the edge of the blunt to seal it, then flicked the lighter. He singed the tip and took a big puff, blowing out a pretty decent cloud. He sighed, then said, “Your turn,” and the blunt was passed to you.

“Thanks.” You graciously accepted the blunt and took one puff, then another, and passed it back to him. Having both hands free, you scratched your neck absentmindedly, just above your collar. 

You didn’t notice what you were doing, but Lalo did. After taking his hit, he set the blunt down on the ashtray. “Let me get that for you.” Before you could ask what he was getting for you, he unhooked your collar and set it on the table. It wasn’t asphyxiating you by any means, but the fresh air on your neck was a shock to your system. You’d forgotten you were wearing it. It just felt so natural.

“Wait, but… aren’t I supposed to keep it on?”

Lalo’s voice was rich and sweet, honey sticking to the sides of your brain. “I tell you when to have it on, I can tell you when to take it off, can’t I?” One of his hands caressed your bare neck, and you whimpered at the feeling of something besides leather. “And besides… not everything has to be about work, right?”

“Right, yeah… Thanks…”

“Of course. I care about you, y’know.” He picked up the blunt and brought it to your lips. “Take another hit for me.”

You wrapped your lips around the blunt and inhaled until Lalo pulled it away. You coughed, just a tiny bit, and he was there to pat you on the back.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay, puppy. You’re okay.” He cooed, gently stroking your hair. He then brought the blunt to his own lips, took a hit, and blew out the smoke. “Sooo, how was your first day? You like it here?”

The weed was starting to cloud your mind. It took you a moment to realize you were just asked a question. “Huh? Oh! Yeah! Yeah, it was…” Your mind stalled, trying to string some words together as you relaxed into his body. “Mmm, it was good…”

“Yeah?” Lalo chuckled. “I’m glad to hear that.” He reached over you to ash the blunt. “What was your favorite part?” He relit the blunt, took a quick puff, and passed the baton to you. 

You didn’t even have to think about your answer. It was instantaneous. “Blowing you in the kitchen, obviously.” You took your hit and handed it back to him. 

“Ah, yeah, I figured. I can tell you really put your heart and soul into it.” He tousled your hair for the 400th time today, and said “Such a good little slut.” He took a long drag and let the smoke drift lazily out of his mouth. “Did you like being walked?”

Looking back on it through hotboxed windows, you did enjoy the exhibition. How vulnerable and open you felt, How Lalo, no, your master Don Eduardo, clicked his tongue at you and told you to walk, and you crawled through dirt to please him. It was kinda hot in retrospect. “Yeah… Hm…” You tapped the unlit end of the blunt against your lips and thought it over, trying to do your duty as a sub and give feedback. “I think, like… I was a bit nervous at first, ‘cause I was worried about getting caught. But I mean, if Cecilio didn’t care, it’s not really a big deal, then, I guess.” You gave the blunt to your boss. 

He took a hit, and asked “Would you do it again?” 

You took your hit, “I think so.”

“Okay, good. Good to know.” Lalo put the blunt out in the tray and squeezed you tight against him. “You feel high yet? This is strong stuff, baby boy.” 

He was right. It was some strong stuff. A drug lord wouldn’t half ass his weed. None of that pussy bullshit from a medical dispensary that gives you the most limp-wristed handjob of a high so you can fall asleep without nightmares for once. This was a heavy, soul-crushing indica, the kind that has you couchlocked for hours and makes a Crunchwrap Supreme taste like the pinnacle of humanity’s achievements. Taking the time to pause between hits meant that you could actually feel yourself getting high, as if the weed was somehow catching up to you. As if for the past 5 minutes, you two had just been pumping a balloon full of helium, and now you could watch it fly away. Half the blunt was left, but your brain cells were already sizzling away one by one. His big, strong hands rubbed your shoulders, jiggling your limp body around.

And his pinky finger nudged your microchip bruise. 

You locked up. Going from warm and fuzzy to tense and cold at the drop of a hat. You had no words you could use. You were an animal, reduced to base instinct. Panic. Panic. Panic. 

Lalo could feel it. “Hey. You okay?”

Now having been asked another question, you switched from animal instinct to robot programming. What just happened? What did you feel just now? How do we approach this question? You came up with this as a plausible response: “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

Feel what? What did he feel? What was it that triggered your rigid demeanor? You stared off into the distance, dissociating into the program, and lifted your arm. “There’s a stick in my arm.”

“A stick?” 

His tone was unclockable. 

No need to panic. Just tell him what happened. “There’s a stick. In my arm. I just felt you move it.”

“What… right here?” His thumb tapped the bruise dead-on. Bullseye. 

“Yes. Right there. I can feel it moving. Push down on it.”

Lalo did as you requested, digging his thumb into your inflamed skin. He nudged it back and forth, jostling the microchip around. 

“There.” You said, no humanity or warmth to your tone. Purely indicative facts. “It’s moving.” And a simple question. “Do you feel that?”

Lalo pulled his thumb away and sighed. “Honey, I don’t feel anything moving. It just feels like a normal bruise to me.” He hugged you close and gave you a tender kiss, just above your ear. “Maybe… Maybe just give it a few days for the swelling to go down? If it’s still bothering you in a few days, we can call Dr. Cruz to look at it.” He caressed your shoulder. “You’ll be okay. I wouldn’t worry about it, baby…”

“Okay…” You sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was just swelling. Maybe it was just a normal tetanus shot. Maybe the stick you thought you felt was just your latent regret manifesting into somatic delusions. Maybe your body was trying to trick you. Maybe it couldn’t accept how lucky you were, and it was trying to give you a reason to doubt this whole arrangement. 

Or, maybe there really was a microchip in your arm. 

You tried not to think about it. You didn’t have to try very hard. The weed made it easy to forget.

And besides, Lalo’s touch was giving you plenty to focus on. 

“You smell so nice, puppy…” He dotted kisses along your now accessible neck. “I was hoping you’d come out here… Share this blunt with me…” He snuck his hands up your shirt and pinched your nipples. “It’s such a great body high, isn’t it?” 

“Yeahhh…” You mewed softly as he rolled the sensitive buds between his fingers.

“You want more?”

“Mhm…” 

“More what?” Another kiss was planted on your neck. “More of the blunt, or more of me?”

“...B-Both.”

“Both? Aww, haha… So needy…” Lalo slid one of his hands out of your shirt to grab the blunt and the lighter for you. When he gave them to you, he said, “My kinda man…” 

Your clumsy fingers fiddled with the lighter, taking a few tries to get a good burn going. When you had it, you inhaled it, and Lalo started sucking marks into your neck. You choked on a moan and coughed out smoke. “Ahck! *cough* *cough* Oh… oh, fuuuck…”

“You’re okay, puppy. You’re okay.” He took the blunt from you. You whined, but he shut that down quickly. “No, no. You can have it back in a second. Take your clothes off first.”

You panted and nodded, trying to translate his direction into action. “Ah… Okay… okay…” He helped you tug your shirt off over your head and toss it aside. Now, you just had your pajama shorts.

“Can you stand up?”

“I… I think so… Lemme…”

Considering that you stumbled the second your feet touched the patio tile, no you could not. Thankfully, Lalo was there to catch you.

“I gotcha, I gotcha.” He held you up by your waist and slid your shorts down to your ankles, and you stepped out of them with his guidance. “Good boy.” He kissed you again on your temple as he undid his belt. “You wanna ride me?”

And here you were again, a warm, fuzzy, happy, high, dumb little puppy. No need for thoughts. No need for words. Just instinct. Just do what you feel. And right now, you felt like that was the best fucking idea anyone had ever come up with. Your stupid little doggybrain responded with “Uh huh…”

“Good boy…” You heard the telltale sound of denim bunching up as Lalo tugged his jeans down below his cock. He quickly stroked himself up with one hand, keeping you steady with the other. “I’m gonna sit down. Then you get on my lap with your back to me, just like before, okay?”

“Okayyy…”

Lalo took his seat and spread his legs. “That’s a good doggy.”

Without looking behind you, you backed yourself up into his lap, holding your lips open to find him. Eventually, his tip poked your hole. Jackpot. And with that, you sunk down, letting him fill you to the brim. “Ohhh, oh my gahh-ah!” 

He held you in place, shushing you and talking you through it. “Shh, shh shh shh, take it. Take it. Take it.”

And you did, you took it so well. He bottomed out, and you babbled, “Mmmm, iss so deeeep…” 

“I know, right? You’re so tight, baby boy. You always are.” He grabbed the blunt, lit it, and hit it as you purred nonsensically, squeaking when his cock would throb and send a pulse through your whole body.

“Mmm… ah! Ngh…”

“Take your time, puppy. I’ll follow your lead.” He put the blunt between your fingers and kissed your hand. “You’re in control.”

What? You’re in control? Since when? Wasn’t the whole point of this arrangement that you were not in control? Oh well, you weren’t one to squander an opportunity like this. You took a puff for courage and held it between your teeth. With all the strength you could muster, you gripped the sides of the lounge chair, hoisted yourself up, and then slammed back down. You did it again, and again, establishing a rough, relentless pace. You were gonna take him for a ride.

And although you were in control this time, you were still the whiny little bitch you always were, especially when Lalo grabbed your hips and began guiding your movements. You took the blunt out of your mouth to let your moans . “Mm! Ah! Ah, gah! Oh my g-god! F-Fuck! Fuck me! Fuck me-e-e!”

Lalo growled some words of encouragement. “Goooood boy. Oh, you’re doing so good. C’mon. Just like that.”

Having a flashback to the night before, you remembered what you were supposed to call him at times like this: his title.“Ohhh, Don Eduardooo-oh!”

“No, no. Just Lalo. Just Lalo. You’re not-ngh…” He grunted. “You’re not working, baby. Just call me Lalo.”

You were grateful for that. It was certainly easier to say over and over again. It rolled off your tongue so nicely, though the rest of your words were starting to slur. “Lalo! Lalo! Lalo! Ohhh, fuuuck, La-lo… I’m… I’m’onna cuuum… I’m’onna cum, Lalooo…”

Lalo nuzzled his face into your neck, humming and kissing your bare skin as he pleased. “Mmmm, that’s okay, puppy. Go ahead. You can cum.”

Now more motivated and more riled up than you had ever been before, you frantically bounced on his cock, determined to find and feel your release.

“Yesyesyesyes, fuck! Fuck!!!”

You squirted hard enough to push him out of you, completely drenching both your laps and even seeping through the lounge chair. A noticeable puddle had formed on the tile below you, but neither of you cared. 

Well, neither of you cared about that, at least. Lalo had other concerns. “Aww, you kickin’ me out, baby?” He asked teasingly as he lined his cock up with your unacceptably empty cunt. “That’s not nice.”

You started to apologize, but the words got caught in your throat as he sunk you back down onto his shaft. “I’m s-sorry… I’m so-ohhh, fuuuu-ah, y-yesss…”

“Shh, sh, sh, don’t worry. Oh, there we go...” He grabbed your hips and stroked his cock with your person, now chasing his own climax. “You’re being so good for me, baby…”

“Mmm, thank youuu…” You whined. 

“I’m-mm, I’m getting close, baby boy. Hah… ah… You want it inside? All nice and warm for you, yeah? You want me to fill you up?”

“Y-Yeeeah, f-fucking fill me uuup… fuuuck…”

“Okay, baby. I got you. I’ll fill you up.” Digging his nails into your handlebar hips, Lalo huffed and gasped as he thrust up into you. His balls slapped against your t-dick, making you scream as his hips moved faster, rougher, meaner, until they went still. He let out a primal groan and slid his arms up to your chest, pressing your body to his as he unloaded inside, rambling some sweet nonsense in his native tongue. “Mmm, buen chico… Qué buen chico… Mi chiquito lindooo… (Mmm, good boy... What a good boy… My little boy’s so cuuute…)”

It was serene. Peaceful. The most gorgeous night one could ask for. The fire pit was crackling. The crickets were chirping. The cum inside you was warm and fulfilling. It was honestly breathtaking. Sure, some strong weed and an even stronger orgasm could make any night seem beautiful, but no matter. It was beautiful nonetheless. A perfect end to your first full day. And if every day were to end like this, you’d be more than happy to keep them coming.

You both panted heavily as you gazed up at the stars in reverie, high out of your minds. It felt like eons before one of you broke the silence, and it wasn’t you.

“Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

[jujutsukatsuki]

Misery falls down from the nearly black clouds as you sit on your covered balcony. The air is cold and thin, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders that were swimming in one of his long sleeve shirts, a pair of sweats that belonged to him, helped to shield you from the brisk air.

The wind blew causing you to smell his cologne that was permanently embedded into the fabrics.

Everything smelt like him.

A warm cup of coffee sits in your hand. The bitter black liquid gently shakes with the hand that’s holding it, wether it’s nerves or the cold, you aren’t sure. You take a sip, the liquid scalds your mouth but you can’t find it in you to care.

It reminded you of him. Scalding hot. A fire work that went off to soon. A summer bonfire crackling in the dead of night.

The rain seemed to rage on as you thought about him.

He hated rain.

The night he packed up and left was one similar to this. Rain thudding against the windows of your apartment, thunder and lightening commanding the sky like a symphony.

He was a blur as the dark duffle bag was thrown over his shoulder, the door gently latching behind him, it made you jump out of your skin worse than if someone had slammed it. The bed reeked of him, you use to find it endearing, but that night, it made things worse.

Two years had came and gone since last you saw him shoot your heart out. You tried to move on, you really did. But bandaids don’t fix bullet holes.

You had written him countless tear stained letters, none of them were ever sent. It’s hard to send a letter without an address.

The hope he’d walk through that door kept you going. It’s why you never moved. You’d always keep the light on outside the door just incase he’d return. The answer on why he left was a mystery. His last words to you were ‘I can’t do this with you.’

She always kept hope that Suki would come back to her. Y/n was never giving a direct answer on why he left. He gave her a small ‘I can’t do this’ and was gone.

A small sniffle escaped you as you took another sip of the Bakugou Katsuki flavored drink. You set the mug down and picked up a notebook and a pen.

‘K, it’s been two years since you left me. I’ll never give up hope that you’ll come back home. Sometimes I think I can hear your voice when I wake up or go to sleep. Sometimes I can’t stop myself from imagining my favorite memories of us. All the late-night talks, all the jokes, and half asleep laugh sessions. The hugs you’d give me, the kisses we shared. It always ends with you walking out that damn door like I was nothing to you. In my fantasy world, I imagine that you start to leave but realize the mistake you’re making so you’d shut the door. You’d drop your bag and tell me you love me, and kiss me gently. It’s a long shot, I know. I hope you’re out there somewhere and you’re happy.’

The first few months of him being gone were the worst. Learning how to breath without him. Laugh without him. Smile without him. Live without him.

The way your mornings went from quiet snores and handsy touches to his side of the bed untouched and freezing.

You started to move on from Katsuki. You had too. It was hard. Everyone you seemed to go for just wasn’t him. That was the biggest problem you couldn’t solve. Nobody looked like him, felt like him, smelled like him or even acted like him.

For now and forever you’d have to live with knowing that you and Katsuki could have continued to be happy, but now all it was, was something that could have been.

[ardentpoop]

just the samcrowley and sastiel pieces of this fic I wrote :)

“I have to say… For all my tasteful jesting, I didn’t know you had it in you,” Crowley said, his eyes riveted to Sam as he stalked around the dungeon, rummaging around in all sorts of nooks and crannies in the dark. “No talking,” Sam spat, the picture of misery from what Crowley could see of his side profile. He was, as usual, covered up in what might as well have been four blasted layers of shirts. The younger Winchester’s body was absolutely wasted on him. 

“No looking at me, either,” Sam said, somehow discerning Crowley’s gaze while his back was turned to him. “Eyes on the floor.” 

“You could engage in a bit of foreplay, Samantha darling. I’m doing you a favor here.” 

“Oh, sure,” Sam scoffed, “Out of the goodness of your heart.” 

Just like his brother, Crowley thought. Except Sam had always been… quieter, and deadlier for it. He was harder to toy with, this one. Delightfully less so in the present moment, however, considering the circumstances. Sam was standing before him, then, his head washed in fluorescent light from the single bulb flickering above and a deep frown carved into his face. “Hands,” Sam said, and Crowley was late to respond, witlessly enchanted by the perplexing color of his eyes. Variegated blue-green blooms flecked with brown and gold. He would’ve made a resplendent demon. It was a shame Crowley had to bet on the other one now. “Fucking focus,” Sam growled, grabbing each of Crowley’s wrists and manipulating them onto the armrests of his chair. “The bad-cop act doesn’t suit you, you know,” Crowley observed, as Sam restrained his wrists with leather cuffs, applying more force than was strictly necessary. “Your boyfriends make you look like you’re trying on Daddy’s worm-eaten skin in the mirror.” To his credit, Sam ignored this, pulling an empty syringe out of his pocket and holding it up to the light. “Speaking of,” Crowley continued, “How do I know your little feathered paramour won’t walk in on us? Would hate for Dean to catch wind of this moonlit tryst of ours when the state of your union is so dire.” 

“Cas is running an errand,” Sam said, fingering at the veins of his own forearm until he found one that was apparently satisfactory. “He won’t be back for hours.” 

“Hours. Fascinating.” 

Sam made eye contact with him so fiercely and unexpectedly that a frisson of glee shot down Crowley’s spine. “Don’t read anything into it. I just… couldn’t take the risk.” He’d put more thought into this arrangement than Crowley had initially assumed. Perhaps Sam had walked away from that church with a puncture wound that matched Crowley’s after all. Crowley watched as Sam filled the syringe with a dose of his blood, his mouth watering in anticipation. “It’s not purified,” Sam reminded him. 

“Whatever you say, Moose.” 

“You might not feel it at all.” 

“Now you’re just being coy. The stuff in your veins must be sterling compared to your egomaniacal brother’s. Hell, compared to most human vino. Trust me, I’ve sampled plenty.” 

Sam stared at the syringe like he was inspecting its contents for something. “You are the patron saint of bad taste.” 

“I resent that,” Crowley said, because he’d definitely expected that line to get a proper reaction from the boy. That barely-there smirk that hinted at the same flavor of aberrant affection that Crowley harbored, if he was lucky. The haughty narrow-eyed glowering thing he defaulted to, at the very least. Without warning, Sam was bending down to feel for Crowley’s jugular, a gust of his breath caressing the top of Crowley’s head. “Don’t move,” he said, and plunged the needle in. 

A sigh hissed through Crowley’s teeth as Sam’s blood met his own in a jolt of pleasure, making his organs quake with an exquisitely alien sense of mortality. He squinted up at Sam once the shockwaves had petered out, his frustration feeling bigger and louder than usual when he said, “Well? Your turn. Or are you planning on standing there all night like an uppity schoolmarm?” 

Stone-faced, Sam unsheathed his precious demon-killing knife, shuffling closer until Crowley could smell the sweat pooling in the hollows of his body, snuffing out the more delicate scents of his woodsy deodorant and his sweet shampoo. Crowley had to consciously monitor his own heightened physiological responses, dangerously excited before Sam had even touched him. He’d assumed Sam was going for his exposed neck, but he unknotted Crowley’s tie instead, slipping it from the collar of his shirt with a forceful snap that made Crowley’s wrists buck against their restraints. Sam made quick work of unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt to just above his navel, and then he took a step back to wipe his own forehead with the base of his palm. He offered no explanation when he shrugged off his flannel, letting it fall to the Devil’s Trap on the floor in a crumpled heap, exposing the dark patches of sweat staining the gray cotton stretched over his underarms, and - more importantly - the gorgeous swath of muscle he was typically mysteriously keen on hiding. The moment was so electrifying that Crowley suspected he wouldn’t especially mind it if Sam did an about-face and stabbed his knife directly into Crowley’s drunken heart, consequences be damned. What a way to go, his envious underlings would prattle on amongst themselves when they got the news, Murdered by Sam Winchester, the one true heir. Some say His Royal Lowness came in his pants like a total rube before his soul was dissolved into the ether. 

“Eyes on the floor,” Sam barked, and got up close again, holding the blade aloft, baring his teeth; this boy whose face could launch a thousand ships and burn the topless towers of Ilium. 

Crowley’s euphoria had started to really spill out by the time Sam administered his third injection, staccato laughter wheezing out of him with every stinging cut Sam carved into his chest in the interim. “What would Dean think,” Crowley sputtered, struggling to breathe through his outsized amusement. “Can you imagine? His p-perfect darling Sammy, gettin’ - soiling himself with the likes of me.” 

Sam gouged his fingernails into one of the cuts, making the millions of tiny fires blazing within Crowley leap in delirious unison. “I don’t need to imagine,” Sam said, dark, empty. For all his slicing and dicing, he hadn’t had a single taste yet. It was driving Crowley a bit mad. He tucked his chin to inspect Sam’s handiwork across his torso, blood from the freshest wounds dripping sluggardly into his pants. It took a second for Crowley to register that Sam hadn’t been indiscriminately hacking at him, but had in fact been drawing a familiar sigil. It was the one the Winchesters busted out whenever a member of the Heavenly host was getting a little too handsy. A staggering wave of sympathy knocked Crowley’s heart off-course. “How have you been, really?” He asked, the words tumbling out of their own accord. “Since Dean, and your Elysian squatter’s explosive eviction.” Crowley intentionally left off the supporting role he’d played in said eviction. Sam twisted the knife between his hands. He was anointed in Crowley’s blood from head to toe. Crowley couldn’t wrap his mind around the self-restraint required to withstand the enormity of such a craving. “Can’t complain,” Sam said. 

“Really.”

“Yeah. It never helps.” 

Such a shame, Crowley thought again. Such a shame that this glorious night of indulgence was merely a momentary lapse in judgment on Sam’s part. If not for Dean, if not for Castiel, if not for the rules and restrictions God had hardcoded into his failing universe, Crowley could have had a shot with this kid. He could’ve taken everything he had to give. As it was, Crowley was nothing but a blot on Sam’s escutcheon, and therefore needed to keep certain boundaries in place to protect himself. 

Crowley watched as Sam dragged his thumb through the blood coating his blade and lifted it to his mouth, his eyes glazed and distant as he sucked on the digit, tasting Crowley at long last. 

“How is it?” Crowley asked, too eager, too curious about whether the marriage of his and Sam’s blood in his veins had altered its chemical composition to a detectable extent. “Is it… different?” 

But all Sam said was, “I don’t know.”

-----------------------------------

“You’ll be completely healed in a few more sessions. Four at most,” Cas said, smiling kindly back at Sam from his chair facing the TV. They’d stumbled into a bit of a routine over the past week; Cas meeting Sam in his bedroom every evening to look him over and work on the detritus Gadreel had made of his insides; staying afterward while Sam tried to sleep, or read, or beef up Cas’s pop culture lexicon as the two of them took turns flipping through channels. Today, Cas had landed on an old episode of Hell’s Kitchen. Gordon Ramsay was a whirlwind of wrathful energy on the screen, shouting censored expletives at the kitchen staff, smashing an unsatisfactory plate on the floor to the dismay of the two sous chefs cowering behind him. A sad state of affairs, the narrator overemphasized in a jolly newsman’s drawl. Will Chef Ramsay manage to whip this crumbling team into shape before their time is up? The theatrics onscreen segued into a commercial for antidepressants that featured a little girl spinning through a field of white flowers while a more bubbly narrator prophesied her deterioration and death via a sprawling list of possible side effects. “Uh, Cas,” Sam said, “Can we turn that off? It’s making my head hurt.” It was actually his shoulders that hurt; strung together with a tension that he hadn’t been able to shake since Dean left. 

“Of course,” Cas said, obliging him right away. The absence of fight between the two of them physically itched. Spit it out, Sam demanded of Cas where he couldn’t hear him. Tell me how you really feel. Except Sam’s thoughts never ran totally freely, anymore - you never knew who might be listening in. There were places in his mind that the threads of his consciousness snaked around like diverted streams, instinctively safeguarding him against an ever-looming danger. He always wondered how much of him Cas could see, when he stuck a probing finger into his molecular makeup to suss out the damage. He wondered whether Dean ever interrogated him for details. “It’s really gone, right?” Sam said out loud, keeping his eyes fixed on the blank TV screen. “You weren’t just saying that?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam.” 

Cas couldn’t read Sam’s mind, although his body’s oldest secrets were most likely exposed to him. Sam wondered whether he preferred it this way around. “Gadreel’s… ” Grace. Such a nice word. 

“Ah. I’m sorry,” Cas said, misunderstanding as he often did, “There’s truly none left. I wouldn’t lie to you about that.” 

Wouldn’t you? If Dean asked? 

“Okay,” Sam said, and, unthinkingly, “You don’t need to sit all the way over there.” 

A cartoonish expression of bewilderment came over Cas’s face, and a part of Sam that rarely saw the light of day writhed with vindictive pleasure in response. Dean can’t teach him this. 

“Here,” Sam said, clearing his books and laptop off the bed and stacking them on the nightstand, patting the space next to him invitingly. “If you’re gonna spend the night with me, you might as well be comfortable.” 

“I have only waning memories of what it means to desire comfort,” Cas intoned, but he took a seat on Sam’s bed anyway, copying his posture; back to the wall and legs stretched out over the sheets, his shoulder brushing Sam’s. “Normally I’d kill you for not taking your shoes off first,” Sam said. 

Cas shot a startled glance at him. “Oh. I’m so sorry. Had I known I was being rude - ” “It’s alright,” Sam said, smiling, hopelessly endeared in spite of everything. Picturing Cas fumbling through the worst of his human phase on his own made his heart ache. “The rules are different for you.” 

Cas’s eyes narrowed to pensive slits. “Why is that?” In lieu of an answer, Sam drew him into their second hug in as many days, letting it last this time. Cas felt like a man. Cas was so much bigger than a man. And yet, Sam breathed easier, touching this body that had suffered untold indignities but was still somehow carrying Castiel, who could resurrect the dead and command the overtaxed thrombocytes in Sam’s bloodstream to march at the exact speed of light, who had probably watched the earth turn for thousands of years before he was permitted to experience it for himself. If Cas’s body was nothing to him, then maybe… maybe…  

“How did I look?” 

Cas’s hands fluttered awkwardly over Sam’s shoulders. He wasn’t quite hugging back, but he wasn’t pulling away either. 

“You’re getting better, Sam. I promise you, the neurodegenerative changes I observed after Gadreel discarded your vessel have nearly - ”

“No,” Sam cut in, viscerally affected by Cas’s clinical wording but unable to tell whether he wanted less of it or more of it. Our vessel, his deficient blood crooned. His and Cas’s, at the moment. His and Dean’s, forever. Sam turned his face into Cas’s neck, a wretched animal mouthing sloppily at the root of a sky-scraping edifice of gold and glass, and clarified, “When you were human. How did I look to you then?” 

One of Cas’s hands settled on the back of Sam’s skull. Still awkward, like he was imitating something he’d seen on TV. Gently support Baby’s fragile head so it doesn’t fall. 

Cas’s mind whirred and clicked for a moment. Then he said, “I suppose the sum of your parts was… nice.” A bitter little laugh leaped out of Sam’s throat. “Ouch.” 

Cas’s hand slid from Sam’s head to the nape of his neck. Baby’s neck muscles are very weak. Keep it under control to avoid incurring serious brain trauma. 

“I meant,” Cas said, clearly trying for a reassuring tone, “that I prefer your complete form. All your rhythmic cycles and interlocked structures. Your distinctive patterns. It’s… hm. What would you call it? Bingeable.”

Sam thought about the discomfort Cas had projected as he mechanically chewed his mouthful of peanut butter and jelly, the wistfulness with which he’d recalled his normal human tongue and normal human stomach. “Bingeable,” Sam echoed, ending their embrace, tethering himself to the dead TV screen instead. “Sure.” 

-----------------------------------

[Scene that takes place before this one excluded]

Don’t cry, Sam, Cas kept saying, while Sam dabbed at the wreckage of his face with the cuff of his jacket. We’ll find him. We’ll save him. Sam’s ability to speak had deserted him the moment he found Cas in the library, lying there motionless and bloody, surrounded by three other bodies, a monument of violated books erected over them like a tombstone. He’d believed - for a horrifying, earth-shattering second - that Cas was dead. That Cas was dead because of Sam. The reality was only marginally less shocking, accelerating Sam’s heartbeat to a hysterical sprint while his own throat attempted to strangle him unconscious. It was Cas. Dean wasn’t supposed to be able to hurt Cas like this. One of the corpses was a teenage boy. Sam had found a backpack drooping by the front entrance, containing sheaves of loose paper and several books. Pages of incomplete school assignments. Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Ellison’s Invisible Man. An anatomy & physiology textbook. A TI-84 Plus graphing calculator and a green PSP. Cyrus Styne, the blocky print at the top of a graded test revealed. Dean was in the wind, and there was a bloodstain in Cas’s pristine white collar that would never come out, and an A-student was crumpled on the floor of their library with a bullet in his brain. Because of Sam. His hydrogen peroxide solution burned the paper cuts along his fingers as he scrubbed at the tacky blood seeping into the hardwood, his eyes puffy and sore. He’d sent Cas up to their bedroom to recover, but not before he pulled him close and pecked him on the forehead, then again on the cheek. I’m sorry, Sam had said, bemoaning the poison in every breath he took and every move he made. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

[galadae]

the well-being of friends

rating: G characters: calantha lenn, estinien varlineau words: 1489 notes: occurs mid HW (a few weeks after the vault) ao3 link

The night is gray and dim, with no moon or stars in sight. A thick cover of gray clouds rests over Ishgard. Estinien stands with his hands on his hips, near the firepit across from the Holy Stables. He’d rather not be out in the cold at this hour, but he promised Alphinaud he’d look for her. 

“There you are,” he says, looking down at the figure hunched against the wall.

“What do you want?” Calantha glares at him. Her words are slow, barely running together. She sits with her back to the stone, leaning her arm against a stack of crates pushed into the corner of the wall. Her coat is unbuttoned and the wind has made her violet hair even more disheveled than usual. He can’t tell if she’s tired, angry, drunk or perhaps all three. With my luck, probably all three.

“It’s customary to approach one’s friends when one sees them.” He stands next to her. Why isn’t she sitting near the fire pit? he thinks. Is her sense truly so far gone with drink already?  Alphinaud’s worried face appears in his mind. Damn him for putting me up to this.

Calantha scoffs. “So we’re friends, are we?” She glances up at him, smirking. “Why do you still wear that armor at this hour? I see no attacking dragons." She snickers at her own poor excuse for a joke. 

He stares at her. What does she know? There could be a dragon attack, at any moment. Better to be prepared. He pushes down the retort. He notices a clear bottle, mostly empty, clutched in her gloved hands. "I will not ask why you’re here, but I’ve been sent to bring you back. Let’s go.”

Her giggling stops. She glares, half annoyed, half defiant. "Why don’t you go? Stick your spiky face somewhere else. I can manage alone."

Estinien rolls his eyes. “Can you? You’re drinking in the cold street hours after midnight. I would have to be an utter fool to believe you.” 

She looks down and takes another swig. “You don’t have to believe me. You just have to leave. Easy.” 

“Hm. No. You might do something regrettable.” 

Calantha grunts, holding the bottle close. “I suppose you're here to tell me about how I can’t let myself be consumed with anger and revenge, how it was empty for you in the end, blah blah blah. Sod off.” 

The bottle is the problem, clearly. He grabs it. “I have no intention of doing so. Give me that.”

“I’m using it,” she hisses. He can smell it on her breath. She clutches it tighter, pulling it against her chest. He tries to yank it free. She jabs him with her elbow and loses her balance, flopping to the ground. 

“Ugh! Fine,” she snaps. “If you’re so bent on bothering me, sit down. We can share. I can spare some for a friend.” 

Estinien shakes his head. He had hoped he could simply talk her into returning. If he has to sit with her in her misery, so be it. He sighs as he lowers himself down next to her. His armor clinks on the stone. 

Calantha stares ahead as he takes a sip of what has to be the worst brandy he’s ever tasted. He spits it out.  

“Where did you get this?” 

“Gibrillont,” she says. She reaches for the bottle. “Or maybe one of his friends. Give it here.”

“This is abhorrent.” 

She snorts. “It’s cheap. Takes the edge off. I don’t care about the flavor.” 

“I can see that.” Estinien holds the bottle away from her. “You’ve had enough. This edge is too strong for spirits.” He raises his arm and tosses it over the wall into the ravine below.

She reaches for it with an indignant squawk. “Hey! Why’d you–”

“The others are worried, Calantha,” he says. She stops, eyes wide at the intensity of his tone. “I won’t pry, but you are clearly not well, and I mean to see that you make it home in one piece.” 

Her lip curls. "Really? You’re afraid I might not get back safe, because I’m a bit downhearted?” 

“Downhearted is one way of putting it,” he mutters. Why does she have to make this so difficult?

She ignores him. “You think I’m incompetent after all we've done together? I’ve all but matched you in combat, and you tell me I can’t fend for myself?" 

"That wasn't–" He grits his teeth. This petty argument she wants to start isn't important right now. He takes a breath. "It's also customary to check on the well-being of friends, Calantha. Moreso, after–"

She turns away before he can finish, looking towards the silhouettes of the bridge in the distance. She curls her arms around herself, her breath misting in the cold air. “Didn't think my well-being would matter to you, of all people.”

Estinien is unsure how to respond, so he watches her, waiting for her to say more. As much as it annoys him to speak with her at times, he doesn't enjoy seeing her like this.

“Well. It's been awful, if you must know,” she says, finally. Her words come out halting, as if she’s trying to figure them out as she speaks. “It’s so– empty. Without him.” She clutches the fabric of her sleeves. “Everything I’ve had to do, it’s…too much. Sometimes. For one person.” She sniffs. “He knew that. Understood. Not everyone does. And now he’s- he’s gone.”

 Estinien nods, even though she’s not looking at him.

"And I-I would march up to the vault and kill all of them for what they did. If I could. But I'm here instead." Her voice is shaking. Her hands are in fists now, balled in her lap. 

"He wanted me to smile." She laughs bitterly. "Easy for him to say. He dies in my arms and I'm supposed to smile?" 

She clutches her coat buttons, wringing them between her hands. The words fall from her lips faster, rushing together in a stream of sadness. "He didn’t need to shield me. He could have shoved me away. I might have lived. He didn’t need to–He–" She covers her face and leans onto the crates, dissolving into quiet sobs. 

He’s taken aback by her sudden tears. He understands all too well the grief that troubles her, but he’s unsure how to help her, or if he should. Estinien contemplates patting her on the shoulder, but decides against it. Nothing he can say will fix things but there’s little else he can do.

"Indeed, you might have lived. And you might not. You know he would never have taken that risk. Not for you. Not for anyone."

She raises her head and takes a shaky breath. “I should’ve done something. I could’ve tr–”

“What would you have done?” He cuts her off. “Now is not the time to place blame on anyone but those who struck the blow.” 

She swallows and stares at him. Her expression flashes from anger to bitterness to tired grief. She hangs her head. 

“You are not the only one who mourns him. To think you’re alone in this is foolish.” 

Calantha stares at the ground. They sit in silence for a moment that stretches on longer and longer. Estinien shifts on the cold cobbles. He’s glad she’s stopped crying, but he can feel his impatience returning with every second of awkward quiet.

The wind picks up, and the clouds start to shift. Calantha looks up at the sky. She speaks just as he starts to wonder if he should give up and go. 

“Do I have to admit that you’re right before you’ll leave me in peace?”

He lips curve into a small smile. “You could tell me that I'm right, but I cannot leave you in peace. We should return to Fortemps manor, or Alphinaud will faint from worry." 

She groans. "So that’s what this is about. I should have known." 

She wipes her eyes on her sleeve and stands, using the crates for support. She sways less than he expected. Perhaps the bad booze has worn off. 

Estinien rises. "Calantha, I have a favor to ask.”

“Hmm?” 

“If you must drink the pain away, do so with something more pleasant. No more of Gibrillont’s friends’ brandy.”

She scoffs. “I’ll consider it. You owe me for the rest of that bottle,” she says and steps forward. Her boot catches an uneven stone and she trips into him with a yelp. 

He catches her by the shoulder. Not worn off enough, sadly. “Fine. I will find you something myself, if need be. The drink must be at least palatable if we're to share." 

“I never said I’d share.” 

He snorts. “Then perhaps I won’t repay you after all.”

Calantha rolls her eyes. “Such generosity. Come on.”

They walk slowly up the street. The clouds part for a moment, and the moon lights their way.

[yrrebulb]

story time : phone calls

Keys, litter, kitten vitamins, young cat supplements, grocery essentials to replace the ones used for thanksgiving, and paper towels. Blu counted all her things before hip bumping the door of her baby blue ‘58 impala. Trenching out of the parking garage and into the elevator of the apartment building she didn’t live in, she mindless scrolled through her phone. This routine of picking up the missing things for his apartment, going to work, getting off work, stopping at home for extra jewelry or clothes, then driving to his place had become so normal, she didn’t even notice it anymore. Stepping into the resident’s only lobby, she waved to the doorman before being let onto the elevator. The semi-luxury high rise wasn’t far from her condo and yet she still like it better.

Taking the elevator up, she wasted no time getting to the door and letting herself in. Kicking her shoes off into the corner of the coat closet, she dropped the bags off and released the kitties from their temporary captivity. The smallest of the felines circled her ankles as she mushed their cute little faces. “Missy, treat time,” she called out. The biggest little fur ball poked her head of the bedroom. Her judging eyes waited curiously. “Come here, you big baby. I brought snacks since you were nice enough to watch the little ones,” Blu bribed. Holding out a small fish flavored snack, Blu waited for the little orange princess to take it. Sitting on the floor, Blu played with the cats. Her two and Kei’s one, ounces and played with each other merrily.

Getting up, the 20-something year old engineer put away the things she bought and prepared for dinner. Turning Spotify on and connecting to Kei’s tv, she jammed. Mindlessly going through the motions of his kitchen as if it was her own. “Alexa, play Blu Light District,” Blu called out from inside the fridge.

“Now shuffling playlist: Blue Light District,” the tv echoed. Just as she got into it, Blu’s phone rang. “Alexa, pause the music,” she sighed, picking up the phone.

“You’ve got five minutes, make it worth my wild”.

“First off, fuck you. Second, where you at?” Souya’s voice vibrates from the phone. Kawata twin #2, Blu’s confidant and voice of reason, echoed through the open floor plan. His restaurant screams of head chef misery were screams Blu was all too used to. “I’m at Kei’s. Feeding the cats, making dinner, watching his Netflix. The usual,” Blu replied. At this point she was in the cabinets, pulling out ingredients and sorting steps.

“When did being at his place become your usual?” The twin questioned.

“What happened to ‘separate space separate lives’? And ‘ain’t no ngga finna turn you to a housewife,?”

“I ain’t a fucking housewife,” she barked back. “He’s busy and his cat needs someone to cater to her needs. I need mini vacations in the day and his building has a pool”.

“Your buildings has a pool”. Souya didn’t sound impressed by her excuses. His background quieted as she stood in silence.

“Fuck you call me for? You shouldn’t have enough time in the day to judge me,” she hissed. Leaning over the countertop her phone sat on, she could feel his sigh of frustration through it.

“I called to check on you. And not for some bad reason you’re making up in your head,” he commented. He wasn’t wrong. Blu had a habit of coming up with the worst case scenario and running with it. Not to be self destructive but honestly cause she was usually right. “Kei and I have been homies longer than you and I been runnin’ together,” he continued.

“I just wanted to know how you were feeling and talk it about, you know, the elephant in the room”. Souya and Blu went as far back as Blu’s street racing days. They met after she jumped the fence of a mechanic shop and socked Nahoya in the face when they tried to stop her from stealing some parts.

“I’m fine, Sou. Serious,” she reflected.

“Fine don’t cut it, B. You said you were fine last time and you almost went to jail”. Souya’s concern was valid and Blu knew that. Her dating history was sketchy in the best of terms. From street racers to ball players to actual criminals. She had a taste for the dangerous and dominant. Her love for the thrill made it hard to settle down and even harder to control her emotions. “I know you’re antsy. I can feel it whenever we all get together. He’s not gonna flip a switch on you, you need to be okay with that,” his voice was almost a scold. His brotherly tone, beating into her conscious like a mallet.

Taking a deep breathe, Blu bite her lip in the sudden onset of reality. Her knees weakened and she slide down the cabinet to the floor. “Sou, I know. I’m not fucking stupid”. Her voice let out a thread of vulnerability. A thread she believed she couldn’t afford to have. “Tell him, B. Tell him what happened, and tell him your fears. He’s not gonna suddenly see you different,” Souya reassured.

“I gotta call you later. Tell the nigga you like him before he assumes you’re just there for something casual. Just like you can’t wait forever, neither can he”.

“Fine,” she surrendered, “I’ll try”.

“Good. I’ll talk to you later”. The phone beeped as he disconnected. Blu sat, leaning against the cabinet door. Burying her hands into face, she let out the most miserable sigh a human could. “Why does he have to be,” she whined. Kicking her feet out of frustration, she stood up. Dusting her jeans off and rolling up her sleeves, she took a deep breathe and turned to her delayed meal project.

“Alexa, play Body Race”.

[electricbluebutterflies]

“ i’ll sit here, with my arms wrapped around you, all night. “

Roughly mid-era Joel/Tess, PG-ish, also on ao3.

Tess can’t sleep.

It’s one of those weird nights, too quiet for just a couple days too long, enough that she starts wondering how the actual hell she is still alive. Not because she has any irreplaceable value to the wider world, she’d accepted that well before everything went sideways, and probably not because she’s a pawn in some cosmic long game either, and… probably just really weird luck, when she bothers to think about it, and a little bit of being able to improvise whenever she has to, her most defining talent, and-

Honestly, if the actual end of the world is somehow just her and the cockroaches, if things somehow get even worse than they already are, she wouldn’t be surprised. That really does seem to be where her thirties are headed, and at a certain point a woman just has to shut up and accept the inevitable.

Tess can’t sleep, and lucky for her, her partner can’t either. She suspects the reasons there are a little darker than an existential crisis – something happened today, she can guess that much, something of a flashback-inducing flavor, but she won’t even ask that let alone-

Clearest proof she has a heart is when it’s breaking. She can’t take whatever this is, but she can take up space and be a distraction and-

If she weren’t also a little gone, she’d move her body on top of his and take, and that’d work well enough. Get her out of her head too, get her back into this mess of a body, get her-

No. Not like this. She’s still got some judgment left in her, and sex only solves most of her domestic problems, not all of them. Not this one. Dammit.

They’re curled up on opposite sides of the bed, and she knows this is how shared misery is supposed to work, but… goddamn she is not good at any of this. Can’t talk or fuck her way out, can’t make herself useful, can’t-

She’s hurting too, she can’t forget that, and she knows she could take advantage of that part. Something about that man needs something to take care of, and he should’ve gone and tethered himself to about any other living thing but instead he got her, self-sufficient feral cat of a woman and-

“Okay if I touch you?” she asks, because sometimes it isn’t, because sometimes the dark moods are-

“Yeah.”

She has this, she thinks as she drapes her body around his, as she slips an arm under his torso. She has… whatever the actual hell this is, too much and not enough, and-

“What are you up to?” Joel murmurs, not concerned just curious, that’s a good sign, that’s-

“Don’t know what else to do,” she counters – it would be more effective if he could actually see her dramatic facial expressions, but she’s working with what she’s got here. “Can’t take your pain, can’t take mine, but… I’ll stay here with my arms wrapped around you all night and-“

“You do that most nights anyways.”

“Don’t try me,” Tess laughs. “Don’t matter. Right now I…”

Maybe this is why her past relationships never worked out, she can’t help thinking. Maybe this is why she’ll never actually be anyone’s girlfriend. She doesn’t do the emotional side beyond the whole unspoken committed love problem, and now is really not the right time to make eye contact with that elephant, and-

“You’re good to me.”

She’s not sure if she’s getting anywhere on him, but at least she’s distracting herself. That feels like a win. Anything to get her out of her head, anything-

“I’m trying,” she says after a few heartbeats, leaning in to kiss his neck, far as she’s going to escalate this set of intimacies. “Don’t know what I’m doing, but-“

“Don’t let go. All I can ask for, okay?”

“Never do.”

That feels like enough closure to get her eyes shut, and… she drifts, eventually, well after time stops mattering. Hopefully he does too. Hopefully…

They both deserve better, maybe. They’ve got each other. Better than nothing.

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[amphibious-thing]

#not to be that personTM#but didn’t hhbomber just make a video about how citing things like this is improper#and if you do it it’s misleading your audience at best and plagiarism at its worst?#I can take a quote from any historical figure/celebrity and manipulate it to push a certain narrative#but if I cite where the quote was from then people can check that source and see how much I’ve removed it from its context#or as op said - I can just say that d’Eon hated being referred to as a woman when there’s mountains of evidence to the contrary using a#quote that’s been removed from its wider context at best. or just by simply saying ‘she wrote in her letters’ without referring to which#letter at worst.#im not saying this YouTuber is as bad as Somerton (for example) but this is what the whole hhbomber fiasco was about!!!#you have to properly cite your shit. otherwise it looks like you’re either intentionally misleading people (at best)#and plagiarizing (at worst) and both make you a shitty YouTube essayist#ESPECIALLY for queer history which already has enough misinformation floating around as is

I don't think what Kaz Rowe is doing really qualifies as plagiarism. They're not reading Kates book almost word-for-word the way hbomberguy shows iilluminaughtii, Internet Historian and Somerton doing in their videos. Certainly some things Rowe says are similar to what Kates wrote in Monsieur d'Eon Is a Woman for example (emphasise mine):

Although d’Eon wanted to be known as a woman, he was having trouble defining the kind of woman he might become. Patriarchal France was intent on forcing him to accept a narrow gender role that meant giving up his military and political career.

~ Gary Kates, Monsieur d'Eon Is a Woman p28

This wasn't really just a result of the royal decree. d'Eon really and truly wanted people to believe that they were a woman, and on a spiritual and internal level, they really and truly felt that they wanted to be a woman. But what kind of woman they wanted to be was a much more difficult issue to overcome. The flavor of womanhood that d'Eon craved was not something that would be won in the 18th century, even less so as a noblewoman. They wanted something more... Amazonian.

~ Kaz Rowe, The Chevalier d'Eon: the Trans 18th Century Spy, (17:02)

But when it comes to history the facts are the facts. There are only so many ways of wording things and misgendering aside I think both Kates and Rowe's descriptions here are pretty accurate. I'm reluctant to call this plagiarism. The only thing I think is arguably plagiarism is using translations without properly crediting the translators.

The real issue is the lack of proper citation. As you said I could say anything in a video and then vaguely claim that so-and-so said it in a letter. Sure Kaz Rowe has a source list but unless I painstakingly work my way though the entire list its hard to really verify the claim and even then I might not be sure what they're referring to like with "prisoner of war". I don't even think Rowe is necessarily lying about d'Eon describing her "situation as being forced to take on womanhood" because that fits d'Eon's fictional narrative of her life. I suspect Rowe is taking something d'Eon said out of context but I can't say that with any certainty because they didn't cite their source!

Whether intentionally or not Kaz Rowe presents things in a misleading way. For example this is a quote as presented in their video (17:35):

This is the full quote as it appears in Kates book:

“I would prefer to keep my male clothes,” he told Douglas, “because they open all the doors to fortune, glory, and courage. Dresses close all those doors for me. Dresses only give me room to cry about the misery and servitude of women, and you know that I am crazy about liberty. But nature has come to oppose me, and to make me feel the need for women’s clothes, so that I can sleep, eat, and study in peace. I am constantly in fear of some sickness or accident that will, despite myself, allow my sex to be discovered. ... Nature makes a good friend but a bad enemy. If you chase it through the door, it just blows back in through the window. “On the one hand,” d’Eon continued to Douglas, “my goal is to succeed in a diplomatic career so that I can help my mother and sister by paying off debts that my father incurred before his death. Without male clothes, how can I perform such a noble project? But on the other hand, my love for studying, my desire to finish books that I have started and many other projects push me to take dresses for working, living, and sleeping peacefully. Here are the two passions of my heart. The one moves me to the right, the other to the left. I do not know how to escape from this Cretan labyrinth.”

~ Gary Kates, Monsieur d'Eon Is a Woman p71

Rowe just cuts out two parts in the middle of this quote with no indication that they've altered the quote at all. Most notably the following section is missing:

But nature has come to oppose me, and to make me feel the need for women’s clothes, so that I can sleep, eat, and study in peace. I am constantly in fear of some sickness or accident that will, despite myself, allow my sex to be discovered. ... Nature makes a good friend but a bad enemy. If you chase it through the door, it just blows back in through the window.

Now in this section you'll notice that Kates has also left something out (indicated by the ellipsis) however he at least is clear that he has done this and cites his source (Papers of d'Eon, Brotherton Collection, University of Leeds Library, Box 6, p.66-68). Rowe on the other hand leaves no indication that they cut anything out and then vaguely cites it "Le Chevalier d'Eon to le Chevalier Douglas". The only indication they give as to the source of this quote is saying that d'Eon said this to Douglas "While spying in Russia". They do not include the fact that this is from d'Eon's autobiography even tho Rowe just said that d'Eon's autobiography is "only moderately useful today" because "much of the details are entirely fictitious". In fact d'Eon likely never said this to the Chevalier Douglas in Russia but instead probably wrote it later in life. The quote is still interesting and worth including in the video but the lack of clarity in regards to the origin of the quote is a problem. I only know the context of this quote because I've read Kates book!

This might seem harsh considering Kaz Rowe's video is pretty standard for pop history content and I do think they have some interesting and worth while points but those points are really undercut by the misleading information and blatant misgendering. If you're going to present yourself as an authority on a topic I think you need to do your due diligence and comprehensive citations are a really important part of this.

While I don't think this qualifies as plagiarism per se I do think the hbomberguy comparison is really interesting because I do think its all symptomatic of a bigger issue with video essays in general. hbomberguy gets to the heart of the issue in his video Iilluminaughtii and the perils of lazy video essays. In one part of the video hbomberguy explains how in her video How Power and Control Changes People Iilluminaughtii repeated long debunked information about the Stanford Prison Experiment that she got from a New Yorker article. He sums up the issue nicely:

this is a massive problem with media platforms right now YouTubers who know nothing about anything can misunderstand a bunch of Articles and spread lies to millions of people

~ hbomberguy, Iilluminaughtii and the perils of lazy video essays (7:45)

Kaz Rowe's isn't on the same level as Iilluminaughtii, they make about 1-2 videos a month compared to Iilluminaughtii who at one point was apparently making 3 videos a week. But whether you're making 1 video a month or 3 videos a week making a lot of videos on different topics in a relatively short amount of time means that the research is, more often than not, going to be lazy. I don't know how long Kaz Rowe spent researching d'Eon but I've been researching d'Eon since 2019 and I don't think I know enough to make good 30min video on her. Sadly its often the people who know the least who are the most confident in their knowledge.

One thing Kaz Rowe does, which is not unique amongst youtubers, but still annoys me, is that they will tell you who said a quote but not where they got the quote from. For example this quote is simply cited "Le Chevalier d'Eon".

Misgendering aside this doesn't tell us where or when d'Eon said this. Or whether this is a direct quote or a translation of something she wrote in French. You might think this information would be in the description but no there is just a list of sources not specifying where any quote or particular piece of information is from.

Now in spite of Kaz Rowe's lack of proper citation I can tell you that this quote is actually a translation from Gary Kates book Monsieur d'Eon Is a Woman. Kates citation for this quote is "Préface général de l'éditeur de Paris, qui en 1798 ...," Papers of d'Eon, Brotherton Collection, University of Leeds Library, Box 7, p. 59.

There isn't anything wrong with Rowe using Kates rather than tracking down the original source from the University of Leeds but I do think they should have cited where they got this quote from. There is no mention that this is a translation by Gary Kates. And this isn't just about crediting Kates for his work but also about historical accuracy. Understanding that this is a translation is important. Knowing when and where d'Eon said this is important.

When it comes to a quote I can easily write out that quote and paste it into google and voilà its from Kates book!

But when it comes to claims made in Rowe's own words I have no idea which of their sources they got that information from. In a section of Rowe's video where they explain their choice to use they/them pronouns for d'Eon (in spite of the fact that d'Eon used she/her pronouns) Rowe states:

They also disliked wearing women's clothes in general, as well as the narrow social restrictions that came with being a woman. In one letter, they described themself as a prisoner of war. And in another letter, they described their situation as being forced to take on womanhood.

These are some pretty significant claims so I'd be incredibly interested in what Rowe's sources are. I know d'Eon talked about disliking women's formal dress and preferring women's informal dress, she wrote; "The informal dress suited me very well, but when I had to wear the formal dress with accessories and jewels, it was a great torment for me". (translated in Dressing d'Eon by Kimberly Chrisman-Campbell) But to say she "disliked wearing women's clothes in general" seems to me a bit of an overstatement.

While I'm lost as to which letter in particular d'Eon talked about being "forced to take on womanhood" the words "prisoner of war" certainly rang a bell for me. My initial assumption was that the "letter" that Rowe was referring to was probably not a letter at all but d'Eon's autobiography in which she writes:

It was then that a new theater of confusion and glory opened before me and swallowed me alive in my skirts at Versailles, where I was kept as an honorable prisoner of war in the household of Madame and Mesdemoiselles Genet, ladies-in-waiting to the Queen, who endeavoured to have me emulate their dress, their work, their conduct, and their virtues. They had to please both their mistress, who was a sovereign, and their husbands, who dominated them. For I who have neither husband, nor master, nor mistress, I would like to enjoy the privilege of obeying only myself and good sense.

~ The Chevalière d’Eon, The Maiden of Tonnerre p16

However considering that Rowe doesn't cite The Maiden of Tonnerre as a source its probably actually from Kates who writes:

A few weeks later, d’Eon’s mood had grown even worse. “Don't remind me, Madame,” he wrote to his closest new friend, the Duchesse de Montmorency-Bouteville, “about the errors of my youth, nor the happy follies of my military career, for the problems found in the midst of a war were more pleasing to me than the tranquillity of being in the midst of the Court during peacetime. In actuality, I live here in the respectable home of Mme Genet as an honorable prisoner of war.” Although d’Eon wanted to be known as a woman, he was having trouble defining the kind of woman he might become. Patriarchal France was intent on forcing him to accept a narrow gender role that meant giving up his military and political career.

~ Gary Kates, Monsieur d'Eon Is a Woman p28

Or maybe Rowe is thinking of the following conversation between d'Eon and Marie Antoinette that Kates includes in his book:

“Madame,” d’Eon responded, “today I realize that the death of my past condition gives life and glory to my present state and to the future for eternity. Allow me to swear that I will remain a prisoner of war in skirts, in faith and in homage to the law. For faith is the first theological virtue; without it we are but a drum echo in the air.”

~ Gary Kates, Monsieur d'Eon Is a Woman p31

Or perhaps Rowe is thinking of something else entirely there really isn't any way for me to know because they don't clearly cite a source.

None of this is unique to Kaz Rowe. This criticism could be made about numerous video essayists. Its a symptom of pop history content in general where people who do not have the expertise in a topic attempt to summarise it for people who will likely never do any further research into it. Rowe doesn't have to cite their sources in a comprehensive way because their fans are never going to do in-depth research on d'Eon in the first place. So they can say that d'Eon "described their situation as being forced to take on womanhood" in a "letter" without ever saying which letter they're referring to.

[ofallthingsnasty]

ok ok but when I think monster kidnappings I always think fae, especially for the dark forest aesthetic. They're so varied they can fill just about any kidnapping niche.

Like a forest spirit could easily snatch you and hide you away in the darkest corner of the woods. They're big enough to restrain you, but they can also turn the environment around you into a perfect prison just for you. Twist vines and branches to keep you safe and close to them at all times.

They have so many ways to discipline you ranging from the good ol fashion way to sweet, whispering mind magics that'll make you see sense. I mean how can you argue with them? You're the one who gave them your name, don't you remember?

And if they ever decide that you're getting too comfortable or maybe you just need some exercise...well the wild hunt is famous for a reason.

ugh i'm so jelly of anyone who grew up with some decent (as in lowkey sexy) folklore 😂 I grew up with three different flavors of turnip-growing, child-drowning, soul-stealing water/forest/meadow spirits and water witches... I don't know a whole lot about fae (we don't have them like that over here), so when I first read this I went 'ohhh Waldschrat' (but the sexy witcher 3 version, the english translation is 'leshen' or 'spriggan' I believe?) oh well i’m rambling hjjdskjn tw.yandere, kidnapping, monster fuckery, just some thoughts, really + minors dni!

I really like the thought of something without a proper face, something that might not even be able to really, really speak to you (apart from little, warbled words here and there- or maybe more of a telepathic connection even?), but something that is definitely conscious. Maybe they’re just as old as the trees themselves, maybe they aren’t... but they’re terrifying and they crave you. Don’t you just want to be coddled by something you don’t understand? To be cooed over, to be adored by something at least twice your size? Maybe they don’t get your terror, especially not whenever they come home (’home’... home is something that barely qualifies as a hut made from their magic-) with gifts they caught specifically for you. Maybe they don’t even want to harm you- maybe they’re just a big confused idiot underneath all that... And it would probably be kind of heart-warming if you weren’t kept against your will. The thought of being courted by some tall, ancient and clueless forest spirit could be so adorable, really. But, you know... I didn’t grow up with cutesy monsters. I grew up with the child-eating kind, like most of us. And one of those would be terrifying- I imagine they know very little about your needs. Probably feed you once a day, something fresh and bloody - if you’re lucky they found some berries too, but only if they’re in season. You’ll have to beg and cry for some proper food, for some fresh clothes, a bath, some warmth- a bed, too. It’s all rudimental and you’re on thin ice. Misbehave? See how you like it when they don’t feed you for days or let you sit in your misery while you aren’t allowed to bathe. They can be very vindictive, very driven by their emotions. There would be a learning curve here; they’d have to figure out how to take at least adequate care of you - because I don’t see them tending all that much to you, at the end of the day. You have all the things you need, what else could there be? Enrichment isn’t a word in their vocabulary. You’ll have to make do with what they provide. And like some pet, they’d expect something in return... Maybe it’s simply your company, maybe it’s something entirely different. And as an aside, if we go the whimsical ‘Rübezahl’ route (the more classic fae variant, basically) - then they’d know exactly how to take care of you, they’d have a face, a voice - they’d look human, sure, but there would be something so off to them. They’re as whimsical and volatile as they can be terrible and they play their games with you as with any human. It’s probably how you ended up in their clutches in the first place; got off the beaten path and asked some friendly stranger for help. I think they’d be unnecessarily cruel at times, like a cat playing with its meal. You’re nothing but a possession, a toy to them...

[senjuushi]

Whumptober 2022 — Day 1

Prompt: Adverse Effects

Character: Kirsch

They made him swallow something. That isn’t too unusual on its own— the handlers drug him from time to time, to make him sweet and compliant and eager for whatever they want to do. Kirsch is used to sugary pills being placed on his tongue when someone wants to use him. 

But this pill was different. The bitter edge to its flavor was new, and there was no immediate rush of heat like he’s used to. Barely minutes passed before his stomach felt twisted up in knots, and after that, one too-rough bit of manhandling ended in him vomiting all over the handler’s shoes when the sudden movement made his head spin a little too fast. 

After that, no one was too interested in using him. No matter how much he sobbed and begged (more waves of nausea hitting every time he opened his mouth), they all left, shaking their heads at the mess he is. 

“Wait it out,” one of them said, sighing when Kirsch keeps clinging to his leg. “No one will fuck you when you look like you’re gonna puke.”

And then, Kirsch was alone. Alone, and so hard it hurts. 

The drug still did its job. He’s achingly aroused, but untucking himself from the tight little ball of misery he’s curled into makes his stomach clench dangerously. He’s sweating, shaking all over, vision blurring dangerously. 

It’ll pass. It has to pass. This is awful, but—, he’ll be good again soon. The dirty feeling will go away. As soon as it’s over, he’ll drag himself to the showers and scrub all of the filth away so they’ll touch him. It’s just—, a little bit longer. A little bit more suffering here by himself, punishment—

Kirsch sits there for longer than he can keep track of. At some point, his pulse starts throbbing in his dick, demanding in a way that leaves him almost gagging on it. He wants to be touched, but he’s gross. Dirty. Bad. 

He’s so delirious that he doesn’t hear you approaching him.

“Kirsch...?” He does, of course, hear his Master’s voice perfectly well. 

Instantly, his heart all but leaps into his throat— pounding at double speed. Snapping his head up makes the world do something spinny and awful, and nausea threatens at the back of his throat yet again. Kirsch slaps a hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. You can’t see him like this. Not you. Not the Master who means everything to him. He whimpers something like go away behind his clammy palm and tries not to puke—

But you’re not leaving, and Kirsch finds himself sobbing in seconds. His heels scrape against the floor as he tries to squirm away—, but in the end, even that much movement betrays him. His stomach lurches, and he has to roll over fast to heave up what little is left, a thin spatter of liquid hitting the floor. He sobs and claws at the tile and gags over and over again. 

“L-Leave me alone—!” he pleads when the spasms ease enough to get words out. You have to leave. Master can’t see him like this. You can’t. 

You don’t. Instead, the next thing Kirsch knows, you’re sitting down beside him on the grimy linoleum and placing a hand on his trembling back. The touch drags a shudder all through him, and his dick twitches hard enough to strain at the front of his shorts. Suddenly, he wants again. 

His arms give out without warning. You catch him by his shoulders and roll him away from his mess before he lands in it. Kirsch winds up sprawled over your lap, ears ringing, longing to wrap his arms around your waist and cling, to bury his face against your stomach and cuddle close to his Master until he stops feeling like he’s gonna die. But he’s gross, and bad, and—

He struggles. It feels wrong wrong wrong, but Master can’t see him like this. Master can’t touch him when he’s dirty and disgusting and so desperate it’s seizing up his insides like he’s dying right here. 

But you just keep telling him sweet things. “Kirsch, shhh, come here. Come on. Don’t fight me, please,” you say, like he’s not being bad at all, not drooling on your pants and digging his nails in a little too lightly when reflex makes him cling. You don’t push him away even when he starts rutting against the floor like an animal in heat, too desperate and sick to stop himself from taking that small amount of stimulation on his aching nerves.

His face is a mess of tears and snot and salvia dripping from his slack mouth. Now that he’s grinding on something, pitiful little whimpers spill out of it as well. His eyes close all on their own, so there’s nothing he can focus on but your gentle voice and your warm palm rubbing circles on his back. 

“Master,” he finds himself whining. Then, over and over again— begging for things that he’s not coherent enough to know what they are. You keep talking to him, even when Kirsch can’t make out your words.

He vomits again, twice. Both times, you roll him over again when he starts to gag, then when he starts to sob harder, you promise to clean up the mess before anyone sees it. That part makes his chest do something tight and awful, and takes away all of his will to hold himself up. Kirsch lies in your lap like that for longer than he can keep track of. You don’t leave. 

At some point, probably when you’re sure he won’t puke just from being moved, you scoop his shaking, miserable body into your arms and stand up. He’s still achingly hard; the jostling drags his dick against the slick inside of his shorts, where he’s leaked a wet spot through the cloth. Kirsch whimpers and clings to you a little tighter. Maybe you’ll fuck him soon. He’s sweat through his shirt and would probably throw up again if he moves his head too quickly, but he wants Master’s touch more than anything.

You tell him you’ll stay with him until he’s better. Kirsch muffles a pained moan by pressing his face against your shoulder. Even if he wants to scrub his skin off to make the bad feeling go away, Master isn’t leaving.

[giuliettacapuleti]

French: Romeo, I love you too much for the day to end without the taste of you on my lips.

French: Romeo, Romeo, I’m coming, wait for me up there. Romeo, I love you too much for tomorrow to begin without the taste of you on my lips.

Dutch: My darling Romeo, I want you to hear me. My darling, I hope that you wait for me to come - my whole body begs for it.

English: Rivers ????? What.

Hungarian: My love, my love, just wait and I’ll follow you. My past is just a dream. I’ll leave this world with the taste of your kiss on my lips.

Russian: Romeo, my love, we are inseparable. My love, Romeo. Since the thread of life has broken, death must unite us.

German: Oh Romeo, my Romeo. Wait for me, because I’m following you! I’m not staying here alone. Nothing helps me in my misery. Only death can release me.

Spanish: Romeo, breathe (?). Romeo, tomorrow (something about life)

Korean: Romeo, Romeo, wait, I’ll be there soon. Romeo, my love, I can’t see the sun without your sweetness (taste?? scent?? savour???? bro idk)

Japanese (Toho): Romeo, Romeo, your lips are still warm. Embrace me with that warmth. You’ve gone to our paradise ahead of me - I will join you soon. We will build our fortress of love as promised.

Italian: Romeo, my love, I will be by your side soon. Romeo, I’ll die if the dawn comes and you’re taste isn’t on me. 

Ok SO I couldn’t find the Spanish lyrics and my Spanish isn’t good enough to know what she’s saying (also in my defense I can’t really hear her that well). Also, for the Korean - every translator I’ve run through gives 향기 as ‘scent’. That doesn’t sound right but I don’t know enough about Korean to dispute it. Only one translator gives the definition as ‘flavor’ or ‘sweetness’ so I think that’s what it means?? At least that’s what I’m guessing considering the lyrics of other languages. And I did my best with the Dutch but idk - I’m uncertain about the ‘my body begs for it’ but that’s all I could get. Big shout out to adorare for the Japanese translation!

I know Juliette means like ‘I want the taste of your lips on my lips’ but I wonder if it’s meant to sound THIS sexual because they usually just use ‘your taste’ and not like. ‘The taste of your lips’. Especially the Dutch..I know Shakespeare used the whole phallic imagery with the ‘happy dagger let me die etc’ but it’s a little distracting ngl. So the Hungarian lyrics are my favorite. And the English lyrics are…

RetJ One-Line Multilanguage: “Sans le goût de toi sur mes lèvres” from “La mort de Juliette.” 

[purplekiwis]

OMG YES! Damaged goods blurb! Can you do a fluff one where one of them is sick with seasonal flu and the other has to take care of them, but they're being stubborn about it because that's just what they do and how they are 🤧

Okay, okay... here she is! It's a bit meh I think, but I hope you like it! 🥰

*

Harry is sick and grumpy, and Y/N takes care of him (from the Damaged Goods AU)

Harry feels miserable.

He’s worse than miserable, really,

because he has a cold… or is it the flu?! He has never known to spot the differences between the two, but he recognized all of the early signs, of course...

As per usual, it started with nothing but a sore throat one morning when he woke up, that ended up lingering throughout the whole day, then came a headache, and the tiredness, and the chills…

It wasn’t so unbearable at first… but the symptoms only kept getting worse and worse as the hours went by, to the point of leaving him with no choice but to skip his classes in favor of staying in bed… suffering.

The worst part about it? He wasn’t even suffering at home – where his mom could be taking her lips to his forehead every so often to see if he had a fever, and bringing him bowls of soup and fruit cubes on that same familiar bedtray that had accompanied him throughout all his periods of sickness.

Mom would also be making sure he stayed hydrated and took his medicine in time... which by the way, he wasn’t taking any. Logically speaking, Harry knew he should have gone to a pharmacy by now, to get something to make him feel better, but how? When he couldn't even muster the will to get up and go downstairs to fill the empty water bottle perched on his nightstand.

He couldn’t move.

Every single inch of his body hurt.

And now he was starting to get shivery under his bedclothes... for fucks sake.

If only he had Pepper, his spaniel mutt puppy, around to snuggle and keep his body cozy and warm like a hot water bag... then perhaps Harry would've been in a better mood. Yeah, definitely. Pepper would've let him bury his snotty face into its soft fur, and not even think to complain if its owner left a puddle of guck all over said fur.

But well, Pepper isn't there.

And being sick sucks.

Especially because Harry really wants some cuddles... and it hasn't been helping his case whatsoever that in this trying day of illness, his mind has done nothing but think of Y/N.

Pondering over what outfit she must have worn that day and what she might be up to while he’s laying there on his deathbed. He also wonders if she has noticed his absence, and if so… if she’s worried about him.

He huffs once he checks his phone again and realizes there are still no messages from her. She doesn’t have to check on him. He knows that, but he can't help that he likes to be cared for sometimes… and as it turns out illness has a tendency to turn him into a big, needy baby... who really wants to have Y/N taking care of him. It would be so good. She could play with his hair the way he likes, give him forehead kisses, hold his hand…

Harry sighs out loud. Her company would be even better than Pepper's, he believes... although Harry isn't so sure Y/N would enjoy having his snot on her as much as his trusty pup would, but that’s beside the point.

It’s even more beside the point because he knows she's not coming to see him.

She’s mad at him, he recalls now. Stupidly so, if he's allowed to think that - he did nothing wrong, after all. She asked him for a “brutally honest opinion” on a design work she was doing for one of her classes, and he simply gave her what she asked for, plain as that. But of course, then she didn’t like what he had to say and got sulky. Just girls being girls, he guesses…

Harry should've known better than to think that would stop her from coming to see him, though. His girl was a little box of surprises, after all... a true master in the art of keeping him on his toes.

She showed up only half an hour after she was done with her classes... softly knocking on his door before poking her head inside with a smile, only for her jaw to drop in shock at the absolute misery that oozed from his pores.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked sickly, almost comically. Harry could have laughed at it if he wasn't so utterly lethargic. “What- what are you doing here?”

“Well, what do you think?” The girl huffed, shutting the bedroom door behind her and heading towards the end of the bed to get a good look at him, hands on her hips. “Why didn't you tell me you were sick? Here I was, going about my day thinking you had slept in for being a bum, only to find out through your friends that you were unwell.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, trying to hide his downright amusement at her worried state. Y/N was worried about him? Well then, perhaps her irritation had passed and she had forgiven him… which meant maybe he’d get to have those cuddles he wanted so bad. “I thought you were mad at me?” He poked, eyebrows arching teasingly the best they could with the little energy the muscles on his face could muster.

“Well, I was and am now even more.” She punctuated. “But I still care, obviously. How am I supposed to leave you by yourself when you look like that?” She put down the bag she was holding at the edge of the bed and kneeled next to it on the floor.

“Look like what?” He frowned again. “All snotty and gross?”

“Precisely… and an awful lot like Rudolph the reindeer as well.” Y/N added, with a soft pat to the tip of his swollen, red nose.

Harry smiled at that, right before his eyes fell on the bag over his bed. “Did you go to the store to get those creepy sheet masks you wanted?”

“Huh?” She muttured confused, before noticing where he was looking at. “Oh no, um… these are just some things I got for you. Just vitamins and those gummies for when you have a sore throat, and also uh…” Y/N's cheeks went a little hot. “I got some chicken soup from the buffet restaurant as well, you know… the one next to the drug store. I thought it might do you good…”

“You went to get all that stuff for me?” Harry asked, Y/N hummed happily in confirmation, her eyes gleaming with tenderness. “Y/N... you shouldn't have. That shit is so expensive, and I'm fine, really. It's just a cold. You dont have to worry, let alone take care of me.”

“No offence, but I think I do.” The girl challenged his statement, picking up the halfway used toilet paper roll placed on his nightstand. “For a start, you shouldn’t even be using this to blow your nose. It’ll only irritate your skin and make it more sore.”

Harry rolled his eyes playfully. “That’s such a mum thing to say…” He grumbled in attempt to mask the fact that the secret big, needy baby in him was loving every single bit of the mom talk, and the same applies to when Y/N clicked her tongue chastisingly once he stubbornly snatched the roll off her hand and pulled out some more paper.

She took the chance that he had moved his arm to move a bit closer, sitting on the edge of the bed next to his pillow. “Is there anything else I can do to make you feel better?” She asked, lovingly running her digits through his unwashed curls. They felt a little waxy and knotty in her hands, but she didn’t mind it in the slightest. She just wanted to make him feel better in any way she could. So she kept playing with his hair, scratching at the roots and combing her fingers through his strands just the way she knew he reveled in - only breaking contact once she was almost certain that he had fallen asleep on her... However, as soon as Y/N began to pull her hand away to check her phone, Harry let out a whine and bumped his forehead against her wrist, in a silent request for her to keep going. “You're such a baby sometimes…” Y/N whispered, proceeding to fulfill his wish.

“Mhm... your baby.” He sighed happily.

Y/N smiled to herself at the state of pure bliss Harry was in. So utterly distracted by the slow puffy nature of his breaths, that she almost didnt notice that his droopy eyes had opened and were now fixed on her. He cleared his throat painfully. “Y/N... can I have one of those gummies you got? My throat hurts and I really want to try one.”

Y/N let out a tiny chuckle at the pleading tone he'd used, nodding as she got up to grab the bottle from the bag. She threw it at him playfully to catch midair, knowing that his reflexes were outstanding. “Ohh these seem nice. I love lemon and honey flavored shit.” He told her whilst inspecting the label.

“Yeah?” Y/N couldn’t help but to grin, feeling quite proud of herself for picking the right flavor. But her smile quickly melted into an expression of concern once she watched Harry crack open the bottle and carelessly throw a bunch of gummies into his mouth. “Harry! What are you- that’s not candy! You can’t eat them by the handful!”

“Oi, chill out… it’s just gummies. What wrong could it do?” He asked as he blithely chewed them. Words coming out garbled since he was speaking in between a mouthful.

“Oh, I don't know, perhaps there could be anesthetics in them... but who knows? It was just a thought.” Y/N ironized.

“Really?” He made a wry face similar to hers, inspecting the label closer. “Do you think we can get high on this shit?” He smirked, still chewing as he rolled the container around to check the ingredients in the back. “Cause I'm not gonna lie, that sounds like a pretty good afternoon plan to me...” He half joked, cracking the bottle open again and dropping a couple more gummies in his palm.

Y/N heaved at the suggestion. “I think it’s more likely that you get a terrible bellyache, and we end up in the ER...”

“You really think so?” Harry asked teasingly, taking another gummy to his mouth.

“Okay, that's enough. Give me that.” Y/N demanded, pushing for him to pass the container, but all he did was shake his head with a mischievous, defiant smirk. The girl rolled her eyes at him. “You know what? Fine.” She shrugged. “Eat as many as you want. Can't wait to watch you shit the bed once those anesthetics give you a loose bottom.”

He chuckled at the warning, amused. “If you’re so bothered, why don’t you come get them from me?” He questioned, but before he could prepare himself Y/N jumped on the bed to try and take the bottle away from his hands, what forced him to abruptly sit up and hold it over his head just so she couldn’t reach it from where she sat. “That was... real cute. Is that all you got, hm?”

Y/N huffed and crawled over his legs until she was practically on his lap. Seeing right through his facade once he happily handed off the gummies without putting up a fight and wrapped his arms around her middle to pull her in for a hug instead. “You must think you're so sly, don't you?” She mumbled in question, going back to petting his hair. “If you wanted a cuddle, you could’ve just said so… I don't mind your germs.”

“I was trying to behave to avoid getting you sick, actually…”

“Yeah right...” Y/N grumbled, dropping her head on his shoulder for a moment. “But I guess, since you've already passed me the germs and all... might as well just give me a kiss, no?” She proposed shyly, waiting for Harry to make the move. He did, pulling away slightly and placing his lips in hers softly. “Mm, more.” She pouted.

“Greedy.” He joshed, pecking the girl's lips again, and again... and once more for good measure. The damage was already done, after all... they might as well just keep doing it. “I feel disgusting, though. If I knew you were coming, I would’ve at least taken a shower and brushed my teeth. Can’t believe you still want to kiss me when I am like this.”

Y/N scratched at the frizzy hairs of his nape. “I promise you don't smell or look nearly as bad as you think you do… and you taste like lemon and honey so, that’s nice.” Harry distrustfully scrunched up his nose at her allegation, sniffing up some in the process before his digits rushed to grab some more toilet paper. He took it to his nose, blowing noisily. “Alright, snotty boy…” Y/N laughed, swiftly crawling off his lap. “How about I go downstairs to plate up our soup while you pick a movie for us to watch as we eat? It can be one of those “guy movies” and all, I promise I won't complain... today only, cause I'm giving you privilege for being sick.”

His eyes strayed towards you with interest, the lower half of his face still covered behind the poorly ripped toilet paper sheets. “I was actually thinking more like a musical or a pixar movie, maybe?”

“God, Harry.” Y/N gasped in awe. “I swear I've never felt more attracted to you in my life. Snot and everything.”