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lovesickeros · 3 months

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☆ decadence divine [ act I ]

{☆} characters arlecchino, neuvillette, furina {☆} notes yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings yandere content, stalking (implied), kidnapping (implied) {☆} word count 2.3k

ARLECCHINO

Arlecchino was wont to leave social gatherings to her subordinates– the private meetings were where she thrived. It was so much easier to lure your prey into a trap when you didn't have prying eyes and ears waiting for the barest hint of blackmail.

She clicked her tongue in distaste, her eyes narrowing beneath the mask of the fox as she set down her cup sharply. It was difficult as it was to draw them from the safety of their bubble– at the slightest hint of danger, her quarry would run. A chase would be fun, but she couldn't risk getting caught here. The political nightmare it would cause..it already gave her a headache. She had to be discreet.

They weren't making it easy, however.

Which is why she never liked crowds. But this chance didn't come by every day. She wasn't going to simply let it pass by because of a little danger. She'd have them eventually, it was just a matter of how. There were already numerous of her own lingering in the crowds, hidden beneath the masks that every patron bore. It was difficult to stand out amongst the flurry of masked patrons constantly shifting around the room, moving from one conversation to another, gliding from one dance partner to another.

Her heeled boots clicked sharply against the tile as she stalked through the crowds, keeping a wide berth yet always lingering nearby– she was sure they could feel the vague sense of being watched, but with the huge crowds..her lips quirked into a grin with the barest flash of teeth. There were a great many ways to break them in– she'd spent a great amount of time and mora to get anything she could for blackmail, if she so wished. She had the backing of the Fatui as well if she played her cards right– it wouldn't be difficult to convince them that they were a valuable target, and none of them would dare to question just what she did with them afterwards.

Perhaps a bit of play, first. Test the waters. She was familiar with playing the polite gentleman, despite her status as a Fatui Harbinger. Stage something for her to intervene, perhaps, to look the hero. The look of shock when she revealed the wolf beneath the wool..she could see it already. That wide, doe-eyed look as they realized the monster they've followed blindly like a lost lamb..she was beginning to see the appeal.

All it took was a few hushed words and subtle signals before the tiles started to fall in place, her hand gliding along their lower back as she leaned over their shoulder with a thin, predatory smile. She'd have to organize for the agent to be released later, her eyes following as the Gardes dragged him out of the room in a flurry of curses, but for now..she tilted her head to peer down at them, polite and almost apologetic.

"You aren't too startled, are you? Now now, there's no need to look so..scared, poor thing. I won't let another lay a hand on you," She cooed in a sickly sweet tone, the husky rasp of her voice whispered in their ear like dripping honey. "You have my word. Now, why don't we get you some fresh air? Come. Allow me to escort you."

Her lips pulled into a jagged grin at the relief in their eyes– the blind lamb following the shepherd as it led them into it's maw. Just a little longer, and she could finally have her own caged bird– a pretty thing to admire, to protect, to possess.

Something no one else would ever touch again. Something hers.

NEUVILLETTE

Neuvillette was not one for parties. The intricacies and delicate handling of public relations he oft left in the capable hands of Furina, rather then himself. It was only at her behest he even attended at all, but he still felt rather..out of place amongst the bodies constantly shifting through the ballroom like a constant rush of water from one end to the other, no rhyme nor reason to the flow. The only thing that kept him afloat among the tides was the mask of the deer obscuring his face– even if it was exceedingly difficult to truly hide himself among the crowds, most passed over him without second thought.

Though he had to be honest with himself, even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it to Furina despite her insistence that his attendance was mandatory. He had his own reasons for coming– selfishness that left a sour taste in his mouth. It was purely by chance he'd seen the briefest glimpse of them prior, and he..was intrigued, that was all.

He refused to let his thoughts linger on the sleepless nights he spent prying every piece of information he could from loose tongues and obscure documents, every moment he managed to squeeze in between trials spent lingering in their most favored locations– cafes, stores, restaurants, the like.

Now a masquerade.

He tried not to let the guilt gnaw at his conscious, but it lingered like an age old scar that still ached.

So he relegated himself to simply residing in the further corner, nursing a goblet of water like a fine wine, trying not to let his eyes stray to the brief glimpses of them through the ever moving bodies filling the center of the room, dancing like puppets in music boxes.

Still, his hand twitched in an instinctual desire– a need to clasp his hand in their own, to touch his lips upon their knuckles, to indulge in a moment of reprieve and unshackle himself from the mantle that bears heavy upon his shoulders. He seeks reverence, worship, but not of himself– but towards the one who had drawn the eye of the dragon amongst the waves of humans he'd seen come and go for a great many years.

No one could compare, he is certain. None have left him as breathless, as hopelessly infatuated, as the one who made him wish only to kneel at their feet in senseless reverence until he could no longer speak. A hopeless man, indeed, if he has never even truly met them.

Instead he's spent his time prying into their life from the shadows. Caution, or simple cowardice?

He dares not ponder.

Yet in his ceaseless pondering he'd blocked out the world without, failing to notice the figure stepping up beside him until their hand brushed against his elbow– just the briefest touch, but it had his pupils narrowing and his entire body tensing like a coiled spring. That touch..bliss. It left him breathless and lightheaded as he tilted his head to regard them, his lips parting in a shaky sigh. They are as beautiful as he remembers– even with their face obscured beneath the mask, he would never forget them.

"Greetings, Monsieur– I hope I didn't frighten you too much." Their laugh made him feel rather faint, just the sound of their voice making his hand tighten around his cane. "..Not at all. I was simply lost in thought." He admitted apologetically, trying to reign in the urge to cup their face between his palms. A dangerous thought. He didn't want to scare them off when they'd provided him a priceless opportunity.

"My apologies, you must have needed something. It was rude of me to have been so absorbed in my thoughts to have ignored you." He continued, gently turning to set his goblet down– offer them his full attention, be a gentleman. The words rang in his skull like a ceaseless alarm, blaring and rattling his thoughts as he gently took their hand in his own. It was a split second decision– an indulgence, but he could simply not help himself. Even with his gloves between them, he felt like he was going to lose his composure just from such a brief touch..

He truly was a hopeless man before an altar, praying for a salvation he intends to bury deep beneath the waves– to keep it hidden in the darkness of the depths that only he can reach. A selfish man, he must be, to even think of it, but it is an itch that he cannot scratch. A need that must be satisfied. He cannot allow any hands but his own to tend to them, to know what it feels to touch them, to hear their voice and see their eyes as he prays– prays like a man starved, devotion born of desperation.

"I hope I did not make you wait too long." He smiles, soft and affectionate, like the bloom of spring beneath the winters chill– yet just as deadly, only masked by the sweet fragrance of flowers.

He had waited too long.

No longer.

FURINA

Furina was right at home amongst the crowds– where the masks obscured the identities of most, it was impossible to not recognize the charming banter of the Hydro Archon beneath the mask of the lamb as she graced the masquerade with her presence, speaking with a silver tongue to any who would listen. A truly enthralled audience fitting for the grandest of performers in Fontaine.

But her eyes lingered not on the people who's praise dripped from their lips like honey– yet so very bitter upon her tongue. Even the mask obscuring her expression did little to hide the longing that had her visibly deflating like a popped balloon. She hated all the eyes on her, really– it was suffocating. She was only putting on a show in the foolish hope that they'd finally pay attention to her. Just her luck, she supposes, that instead she's had to throw herself straight into the role of Archon without a pay off..

They hadn't even spared her a glance! It would be infuriating if not for the fact she couldn't even keep her composure just seeing them across the room. They didn't even have to look at her and she could feel the heat rush to her ears as she forced another smile at the crowd gathered around her. It was unfair how easily they could fluster her without even knowing it– her heart was thumping so hard against her ribcage she felt like it might burst.

Her only solace was the fact none of the patrons seemed to realize she'd clocked out of the conversation, her thoughts and eyes lingering on the distant figure– what a lovestruck fool she makes..it was a chance encounter she'd seen them during one of her outings. That was all it took to enthrall her, evidentially, try as she might to have ignore it for months.

They never left her mind for longer then a day, in the end, and she had to face the fact they had managed to enrapture her so deeply she felt like a newborn lamb learning to walk whenever she so much as thought of them. What an embarrassment! She..she was the Archon, she had a reputation to maintain, she couldn't be seen fawning over a human.

But oh, she still longed for it, beneath the veneer of a God. She'd watched them more times then she'd admit even to herself, wishing to find herself in place of those who'd hands were cradled so casually in their own– to hear their voice, their laughter, as often as she pleased..like a fine delicacy she so badly wished to taste, yet so far from her reach.

Would they think her pathetic for her infatuation? She pursed her lips at the thought, trying to bury the sour mood beneath her faux image of the Archon. Yet it lingered, and with only the quietest of excuses, she slipped into the crowd like a ghost– she needed to leave before she did something..stupid. Neuvillette would surely have a few choice words with her if she did, and she was inclined to avoid such a fate.

She..she just needed a moment to collect herself was all. That was it. She could go back to playing Archon for a little longer, she just needed a moment to herself. At the very least, the balcony had been regarded as off limits so late into the party– which gave her an opportunity to slip out of the public view for the briefest of moments. A welcome reprieve– she was starting to feel suffocated amongst the crowds.

Perhaps on instinct, she reached for the mask, lifting ever so slightly away..only to let out a startled yelp at the touch of a hand on her shoulder, the mask slipping back into place far too easily. It made her lightheaded, even now, but she dared not to dwell on it.

But when she turned sharply on her heel to chew out the person who'd followed her and had the gall to scare her..oh, she was done for, her ears flush with heat. The brief glimpse of their eyes beneath the mask, the curl of their lips as they smiled– her heart stuttered in her chest, and she was certain it had stopped all together when they clasped her hand.

"Y–you.." She wanted to be angry, to brush them off and leave with her rationality in tact, but the warmth of their hands on her skin rendered her speechless. She was no better then a fish on land, struggling to fill her lungs with air as she drew in a shaky breath. "Ahem, you caught me off guard. That's all. Surely you do not make it a habit to sneak up on people?" She huffed in indignation, trying to mask the fluster that threatened to break through her carefully crafted facade.

Ah, what a cruel twist of fate..she'd slipped away to escape their allure, but here they were, dragging her back into their orbit without even knowing how deep her infatuation ran. They were alone, too..it was a chance she wasn't sure she'd ever get again.

Maybe, just this once, she could do something for herself rather then everyone else.

She buried her guilt, the fear– buried it beneath the need to be seen.

"But if you want to make it up to me.."

#genshin impact #genshin impact yandere #genshin yandere #neuvillette x reader #yandere neuvillette #yandere neuvillette x reader #arlecchino x reader #yandere arlecchino #yandere arlecchino x reader #furina x reader #yandere furina #yandere furina x reader #fic tag #pats neuvillette this noodle dragon can be so pathetic #aiming for pathetic desperate and slightly guilty. it gnaws at him knowing he's keeping you like a bird in a cage #esp if you react extremely negatively hes like a kicked puppy #not outwardly but internally hes a MESS. sobbing crying wailing #furina and neuvi sopping wet kittens u found in a cardboard box in an alley #vs arle thinking abt all the crimes shes going 2 commit in the process w/o an ounce of guilt. blackmail? check. kidnapping? check.#a little murder for flavor. as u can see im coping horribly w being practically snowed in rn i need 2 be put down #its like 4 degrees out rn (fahrenheit) and getting colder ueueueue i am dying..........#only thing keeping me going is my furinameow plushie coming. eventually. staying strong just for her.................#also needs 2 be mentioned all the stories r separate ksjfkhdsf #no not everyone in fontaine is yan and trying 2 kidnap sorry for getting ur hopes up..#yet #anyway u cant convince me arle isn't bribing (or just straight up forcing) her agents into doing stupid shit so she can “save” you #and make you owe her #two silly goofy little creatures vs the personification of gaslight gatekeep girlboss (heavy on the gaslight)#also split this up in 3 parts bc. lol. lmao. im not writing 9 characters at once goodbye #also all the masks do actually have significance i have an entire essay on why i gave each animal to specific characters okay

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johnslittlespoon · 11 days

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plsssss can we talk about bucky getting his revenge and edging gale

gale edging john post | yes we cannnnn !! eta: ykw. i need to just turn this into a proper oneshot since this ended up being over 1k words. new wip created </3

john may be a man of little self control, but after that incident, he decides he can be at least a tiny bit patient so he can catch gale off guard with it when he gets his revenge. because the next few times they're fooling around, gale's expecting a retaliation, john can see it in the way he tenses up and glances at his face before he comes like he's waiting for it, but john never follows through with it. he wants gale to let his guard down, and that he does.

so a week or so later when john's kissing him and feeling him up and asks ever so sweetly if he can tie gale's wrists behind his back, gale doesn't think anything of it. john likes to take control occasionally and gale sometimes likes the feeling of not having to worry about making decisions, getting to let john call the shots, and john always puts extra time and effort into the way he touches gale when he's restrained because he likes to watch his darling blondie squirm.

john has him sit in his lap facing him, letting gale lean against his shoulder to take the pressure off his legs while john works him open on his fingers, already riled up from the pretty gasps gale's making against his neck but reigning himself in because he's gonna need to have some self control for once.

he sweet–talks gale through it, telling him how good he sounds, how well he's doing as he sinks down on his cock, guiding him with hands on his hips so he doesn't unbalance himself without the use of his own hands where they're tied behind his back with a belt. he stays still at first, letting gale ride him slowly, keeping his hands loosely on his waist while praising him and talking him into that foggy needy headspace until gale's thighs are trembling and john takes pity on him (and frankly is so hard he doesn't have the patience to keep his own hips still anymore).

so he runs his hands down from gale's waist to his ass to hold him in place while he rolls his hips up into him, watching the way gale's eyebrows pinch and his pretty lips fall open in a silent oh as john angles himself in a way gale couldn't with his own movements. lets his mouth run as he slowly picks up his pace, all the coos of "so pretty", "you're taking me so well", "you feel so fucking good", loving how reactive gale is to every word and every thrust.

he moves his hands to gale's hips to get a better grip, can tell gale's getting close because he gets noisier, losing his filter and letting out breathy little "fuck"s and "john"s, head rolling back on his shoulders to bare his neck, rocking his hips down to meet john every time he fucks up into him. and then just as he gets the warning of "close", he pulls gale down by his hips to bury himself deep in him and stops moving completely.

the whine of desperation that tears out of gale's throat when he lifts his head has john knocking his skull back against the wall, cock twitching hard enough inside gale that he's sure the blond can feel it. he watches gale's biceps flex when he instinctively tries to get his hands free, feels his hips try to squirm out of his hands to keep moving, but he keeps him pinned firmly down, dizzy at the way he clenches down around him.

a plaintive "john" pulls a groan from him, but he composes himself, lifts his gaze back up to gale's face and lets the corners of his lips quirk up, purrs out a "yeah, sweetheart? something wrong?"

laughs at the way gale cusses him out, a rare sight of his little spitfire with a mouth on him, though the effect is a lot closer to being hissed at by a kitty than actually being convinced to move. john lets him run his mouth, murmurs a "cute" once gale's done, and then promptly hammers his hips up into him just once, swearing under his breath at the way it punches an open–mouthed moan from gale. rocks his hips up into him a few times before going back to a quick and rough pace, the sound of skin on skin getting both of them flushed.

it only takes a minute before gale's hips are twitching into his hands and whispered pleas are falling from his mouth and john thinks he's never had to use as much self restraint in his life as he does when he forces himself to stop moving again, once again yanking gale down against him, holding him still in his lap.

gale really fights it this time, enough so that it's a merciful distraction for john from how close he himself is (trust his idea to backfire as he ends up edging himself along with gale, he thinks) when he has to use proper strength to keep him in place. any blood that might've still been lurking around his brain rushes south the moment he sees gale's eyes getting shiny with frustration, cheeks all pink and lips red and flushed from biting down on them.

"not so fun, is it?" john taunts, but his voice comes out a bit more raspy than he would've liked, evident how much the stop and start is getting to him too. it's probably karma, because he knows he's being more mean than gale was to him, but he can't help it; those blue eyes look so pretty when tears are threatening to spill over when he's desperate and needy like this.

gale wriggles in his lap the best he can, still furiously chasing his orgasm, head finally falling back in frustration before he lifts it again, looking john in the eyes, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and letting it go. he whines quietly and whimpers out the sweetest "please, johnny," almost crying in his impatience, and fuck.

john doesn't mean for his hips to twitch up at that, but they do, hard. gale sobs out a broken sound at the way john's cock hits just where he needs it to in his accidental movement, and gale spills over his stomach completely untouched, just like that. john swears and drives his hips up into him in an attempt to quickly amend his slip up, moaning loud at the wrecked noises that immediately start bubbling up out of gale as he fucks him through his orgasm.

he tips over the edge himself from the desperate sounds the blond starts to make as he crosses the line into overstimulation, feeling gale's hips jerk frantically in his hands, fighting to get away from the incessant rhythm of his cock inside him as john shudders through his own orgasm, fingers digging into gale's sides.

he slows down to a gentle grind of his hips when gale collapses against his chest, face pressed to his neck, shivering at the slow drag inside him and whining pitifully when john eventually pulls out, settling him down on his thighs while he reaches around to undo the belt and free his hands. his heart bursts at the way gale instantly wraps his arms around him, clinging to him as they both catch their breath, john petting his hair and showering him with praise.

he eventually huffs out a laugh, murmuring a "sorry buck. payback's a bitch, but that was an accident, i swear." gale groans against him in complaint, lightly nipping at his shoulder in retaliation, too tired to fight back, but john's sure he'll pay for it eventually.

it's confirmed with the "better watch your back, darling" that he gets when they're both pulling their clothes back on, but to john, that sounds less like a threat and more like a good time, and he shoots gale a crooked grin to let him know as much.

#bruh this was 1.3k i did not mean to get into so much detail #the keep reading button has never been more necessary #i wish i could crank out long drabbles like this for all the asks #but they take sooo long for me to write i am NOT a fast writer lol hence why i post a fic like once a month #but sometimes certain asks just itch my brain some type of way and then boom i've thrown up onto a tumblr post #anyway dacryphilia my beloved <3 #in any other scenario john hates to see gale cry. but i think in bed he would have an affinity for making him feel so good that he cries #have i thought about this extensively? perhaps.#i just think that pretty boys with pretty eyes and pink lips deserve to cry during sex sometimes. as a treat #johnslittlespoon asks #johnslittlespoon brainrot #johnslittlespoon spicy #buck x bucky #buckbucky

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starry-bi-sky · 1 month

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more cfau miscellaneous things because Childhood Friends Danny and Jason have my head and heart always and I need to finish rewriting chapter two dammit (and redo the half-finished chapter 4 because its just Not The Vibes). i'm almost through I need to get through the graveyard scene. (i just stubbornly refuse to have it be shorter than the original chapter and thats the little death. that is the mind killer.)

Danny and jason’s ghost forms both smell faintly like burnt flesh and cigarettes. However, Jason has a more smokey smell while Danny’s smells almost,,, electrical? In a sense? Like he just straight up smells like burnt flesh and sulphur while Jason smells like someone put him in a smoker first.

It’s very much an unpleasant smell but Danny finds an odd comfort in it just as much as he finds a comfort in the smell of nicotine.

(Jason post-revival smells burnt flesh once and is immediately offput by the fact that it brings him an instinctive comfort. He doesn’t realize its because it reminds him of Danny, and is uncomfortable by it.)

In an au of an au, Danny’s altercation with Rath ends with Rath regaining enough of his sanity to snap out of the grieving state and ends with him breaking down. Instead of being souped and imprisoned, Rath, who is permanently 14, decides to Move On into the unknown. He’s exhausted, heartbroken, and tired.

(Is this influenced heavily by the ParaNorman scene where he talks to Agatha and helps her move on? Yes. But it doesn’t fit with the Original Storyline so im shoving it into an Au of an Au.)

Rath tells Danny that Jason lied to them (which he genuinely believes), and that he’s tired of waiting/looking for him/grieving. Jason is gone. He isn’t coming back, he abandoned them. And he wants his mom and dad, and his sister, and his friends. And he’s ready to join them.

He leads Danny out to Gotham, which other than Amity Park might’ve been the only city left untouched due to Rath’s own mental block on the place. They go out to the park he and Jason used to frequent or up to one of crime alley’s rooftops, and there Rath lies down and goes to sleep. Only to never wake up again, materializing into nothing as his soul moves on.

Before Rath leaves, he forces Danny to promise him that he’ll only wait for Jason for ten years. After that if he doesn’t find him, or if Jason doesn’t show, then Danny has to move on. Whether that be like how Rath does, or if its inly mentally/emotionally, doesn’t matter. He has to move on. Don’t wait for him. Don’t waste his time any more.

(“Oh, and if you find him, kick his ass for me.”)

Danny reluctantly agrees, and Rath lies down. Danny sings to him as he falls asleep.

(Angsty points if the vigilantes including Red Hood caught wind of their presence and were silently watching from the shadows. Rath might know they’re there, but Danny’s too focused on Rath to notice.)

(If only so that Red Hood realizes that this is what happened to Danny, and that Danny is gone before he can make things right. The tragedy, folks. The angst. The initial realization that Danny was Rath, and then also that Danny was dead and has been dead for years, and that before he moved on, he moved on believing that Jason abandoned him.)

(like i said it doesn't fit in the original timeline/storyline hence why its an au of an au and isn't nearly a fleshed out, but i was largely just focusing on the tragedy of Rath moving on and Jason being alive to see it and realize just who Rath is.)

Just like how the Lazarus pits shot Jason's twiggy 4'6-5'4 (depending on what you find) feet tall and 86lb ass up like a tree an essentially fixed his malnutrition, the portal did the same thing for Danny.

(granted i forgot about malnutrition and danny's likely stunted growth at first -- his family lived in crime alley and despite both his parents working, I don't think they had enough food all the time. He probably wasn't as badly malnourished as Jason was, but he wasn't healthy either.)

Granted his ghost in its "natural" state (14) is short, and his growth spurts were slow at first, it did result in him reaching his dad's height. There were points where it just happened overnight, like a baby. He went to bed one night 5’6 and woke up the next day 5’10.

Jazz is shorter than him. Although I have't decided if she's even liminal at all (and if she is, it didn't cure everything because she would have also suffered childhood malnutrition, and since in au canon their parents didn't get their hands on physical ectoplasm until after they got to Amity Park. So the exposure is less.)

Danny's voice absolutely sounds like canon Dan's. It kinda just dropped one day when he was 16-17 and never went back up. Sam and Tucker sometimes ask him to just talk about anything because they find his voice soothing.

I'm not sure yet how Danny would feel about it at first considering Rath, but I imagine that Rath, when he did speak, would have had a quieter and scratchier/weaker voice considering he's spent the last decade shrieking and crying.

(and i suppose technically that shouldn't have any effect on his throat considering he's a ghost and idk if that would actually affect him, but i like the idea so im keeping it)

In the beginning you could hear him from a mile away by the sound of his loud, echoing wails, but ten years later you can only really hear him by the soft, shuddering sobs he makes. Like he's gasping for air that isn't there. The future is full of very quiet survivors.

And it's much easier to speak when you pitch your voice upwards (especially when whispering/speaking quietly) so he might've spoken in a higher, airy pitch in order to be heard. So Danny might actually find a comfort in having a lower voice.

#tw mentions of gore #cw gore #i suppose this counts as gore #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #dpxdc crossover #childhood friends au #cfau #really leaning into the idea of rath just being a horror. the horrors! i am delighted in the horrors!#im having fun with it #i swear to god turning 19 turned a switch on in my brain because i am much more comfortable with gore and heavy injury now than i was l #literally a year ago. the urge to write about some of danny's most horrific injuries in his fights is STRONG #like the hORRORS folks. *th horrors*. i dont think i'll ever write a dissection fic because that icks me out but the idea that danny's had #to stitch up his own throat because it got slit in a fight nd he cant shift back to human until he's done because his ghost will survive bu #his body wont #the idea that he's been impaled multiple times before and it hurts each fucking time but he still gets up and hurls the hurt right back in #equal measure. because that's how you wanna play? okay. lets play. he's 14 and his best friend is dead. he can play.#and the idea that all ghosts have 'corpse' forms where their ghosts look exactly like how they died. and danny is utterly unrecognizable #jazz being liminal or not just isnt important to me because she's barely gonna show up in the story anyways #same reason why i hardly use the headcanon that ellie becomes danny's daughter because what use is she to me like that? she'll hardly have #an impact on the story and i refuse to treat characters like props. if they can't help progress the story then they aren't included

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hotcheetohatredwastaken · 1 month

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Local writer bullied into drawing, it is now 11 so you get the full story.

Anyways the prompt was draw your blorbo looking in a mirror before and after trauma. I drew fanart of my own fic in the hopes that it would motivate me to write (it did not). Anyways, in BDOR, Wild already had trauma, but he gets more trauma by the end of the story. So uh, spoilers? He smiling now he eventually becomes happy. Probably.

Anyways, here it is. Might color it one day if I figure how to color digitally. I don’t draw XD I was told to scan it, and I did, but I don’t know how to upload the scan itself so I took a screenshot of the scan, sorry for the bad quality. Wow, that is blurry fr XD. If anyone knows how to upload a scan to tumblr, tips are appreciated

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theminecraftbee · 4 months

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A codfolk is fished out of the water in New Pixandria with extremely spotty memory, a lack of ability to comprehend speech, a certainty everyone is dead, and a certainty that's all his fault. These are the first few days after that.

here's the first of the fiab fics i wrote! this is a fic about an amnesiac jimmy solidarity washing up on the shores of a society that was made several decades after the rapture, but still well before empires season two. it is honestly largely a worldbuilding endeavor as much as anything else, featuring me building that hypothetical society, sign language, and a very confused fish. give it a read!

#a bee fic #empires smp #jimmy solidarity #this one was VERY FUN TO WRITE THANKS DOVE #...dove is definitely the only person who might be following my tumblr from this exchange which is why i am thanking dove here.#anyway the concept of new pixandria and some of the stuff i touch on here. VERY dear to me. enjoy.

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grishaverse-chaos · 4 months

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hmmm something about dominik haunting the narrative in king of scars. everything nikolai does is at least a little bit for him. he learns about the life of average ravkan people by meeting dominik's family. he starts gaining influence in politics just so he can improve dominik's life. and then he promises dominik that he won't let ravka break him.

that promise fucking haunts him. it follows him wherever he goes. it's the driving force behind everything he does, every step he takes to heal the centuries-old wounds in ravka. it's what drives him to do better, be better.

dominik is always there, in the back of his mind: this country gets you in the end. always pushing him to do more, because he couldn't save dominik and so he has to save ravka (for dominik) (because he promised) (because he loved him)

#my spicy hot take is that nikolai's relationship with dominik actually affects the narrative of the duology more than -#- his relationship with zoya does #you could argue that *none* of the events of the duology would have happened without dominik's influence #and honestly zoyalai as a relationship doesn't really affect the narrative/plotline all that much #which is One of the problems i have with it being endgame #anyway yes i am writing an angsty nikolai backstory fic why do you ask?#it's mostly about how he reinvents himself at every minor inconvenience (but also how incredibly fucked up his childhood was)#and if i have the energy it might turn into a rewrite of the ending of rule of wolves #bc him giving up the throne just plays into that pattern of running away #so honestly i think it's not a great ending in terms of his arc and character development #this may just be a me thing idk but i just feel like he doesn't actually get that much development in the duology #bc there's this idea of him as being Perfect and Invulnerable and Not Affected By His Trauma #which. is not the case.#it's all very dear reader (taylor swift) imo #ANYWAY #mayhem.txt #mayhem grishaverse originals #nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone #king of scars #grishaverse

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

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part one

———

Lance wrinkles his nose, turning the device around in his hands. “This thing? It’s really going to help you evaluate my fighting style?”

“Absolutely,” Coran says, gently plucking the device from Lance’s hands and fixing the electrodes to his temples. “Like the headsets you use occasionally with the team, this device will access your brainwaves. Only this time, it’s goal —” he runs the wire across the back of the boy’s skull, under his hair. Once’s he’s sure it’s properly affixed, he pats Lance’s shoulder, guiding him towards the ring. “It’s goal is to make you afraid.”

“That does not sound good,” Lance says warily.

Coran winces. It probably would have been more prudent to be clear rather than dramatic. “Allow me to explain. When you’re afraid, your brain sends specific electrical signals that induce certain responses, yes?”

Lance nods. “Yeah, fight-flight-freeze.”

“Exactly. And there are certain levels as well, to differentiate from anxiety and true fear. Now this device —” he taps Lance’s temples gently — “is not meant to terrorize you. All it will do is access your fear response and cloud your senses.” He puts three deliberate strides between him and Lance, standing on the opposite side of the ring. He shifts his weight to balance on the balls of his feet, holding his hands protectively in front of him — relaxed, but ready to tense and strike at any moment. “You, my dear, are going to fight me — only you won’t think that it’s me you’re fighting.”

Lance is silent for a moment as he processes, and then he brightens. “Oh, like that dorky book! The one Keith pretends he isn’t obsessed with!” His brows furrow as he tries to remember the name. “Delibera — no, that’s not — detergent? No, obviously not — oh! Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Divergent!”

Coran can’t help his small smile.

The opportunity is right there.

It would almost be irresponsibleto ignore it.

“Paying close attention to Keith and his interests, hm?”

Lance splutters, going bright red. “I do not — what! Excuse me! I beg your pardon, even! How dare you — black paladin or no he is my rival, as I have explained —”

“Moving on,” Coran interrupts smoothly. “I am going to activate the sensor with this remote. As soon as it’s activated, you are not going to see me. I don’t know what you’ll see, but whatever it is, you are going to want to fight it, and you will not hold back. You’re not going to be completely terrorized, but you’re going to want to fight with all you have. Are you ready?”

Lance hesitates. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Positive, lad,” Coran says, smiling gently.

Lance does not look reassured. “But what if it doesn’t work? You’ve been training for longer than I’ve been alive, more than that. What if you kick my ass and I don’t learn anything?”

Coran snorts. “Lance —”

“Or what if this thing overloads my brain! I’m not wired the same as most humans, you know, I process emotions differently —”

“I know, dear —”

“—and I hurt you because my brain is all terrorized! And then I’m too batshit with fear to get the device off and things get worse —”

“Lance,” Coran says loudly, finally getting his attention. “I promise you that all will be safe. You trust me, yes?”

“Yes.”

Lance didn’t hesitate for even a millisecond. Coran blinks for a moment, then smiles, touched.

“I’m glad. I promise, Lance. Everything is fine. This will help.”

“Alright,” Lance says reluctantly. He mirrors Coran’s stance, bayard held loosely in his hands, then nods. “I’m ready.”

Coran gives him a second to gather himself, then presses the activator button.

For a second, nothing happens — then Lance’s pupils dilate so wide they swallow the brown of his irises, and he lunges.

Coran throws himself out of the way, using his training staff to keep the space between them. Lance doesn’t let that deter him, stalking after Coran with silent, deliberate steps. He doesn’t seem to have any intention to attack again, merely waiting for Coran’s reaction, evaluative.

Coran gives him something to evaluate.

Lance was correct, earlier. As the royal Altean family’s closest advisor, it was understood that his role was a protector as much as anything else. He was trained as extensively as the strongest bodyguards, and then some. He knows how to defend himself.

He can hold his own.

He spins the staff in his hands, so quickly it whistles through the air. As expected, Lance’s focus is on the weapon, so Coran tosses it in the air, splitting Lance’s attention just long enough for him to spin into a kick aimed at Lance’s stomach, incapacitating him.

Only, the kick doesn’t connect.

Nanoseconds before Coran’s foot knocks the red paladin’s breath out of him, his body seems to crumple backwards, as if someone cut him at the knees. He catches himself as he falls backwards, flipping upside down to stand on his hands, doing some kind of twisting motion that spins his body like a top, right out of Coran’s reach. Nearly unable to account for the sudden shift in his weight, Coran stumbles, managing to shift his feet at the last second to stay upright. He scoops up his staff, pivoting a quarter turn to face Lance again and brandishing his weapon. Lance is upright again, bouncing from one foot to the other, almost as if he’s keeping a beat.

This time he doesn’t wait for Coran to attack first, bayard glowing in his hand and turning into his blaster. He shoots a myriad of shots, aiming for Coran’s joints — but no kill shots.

Coran deflects the hits with his staff; most ricochet out of the ring and dissolve in the training room walls, but one heads right back for Lance’s head. He cartwheels right out of the way, and when he’s upright again his bayard has changed forms — a dagger?

Coran did not know they could do that.

Fluidly, without pause to straighten himself out or re-analyse the fight, Lance throws the dagger with deadly accuracy. Coran has to duck to avoid a surprise haircut.

Coran smirks despite himself. The dagger was the closest Lance has been to deadly force, but he’s just thrown his bayard — all he has left is hand-to-hand. Coran has the advantage.

He thrusts forward at inhuman speeds, intentionally faster than Lance can react, swiping his legs out from under him. He hadn’t intended to fight Lance with his full abilities — this session is, above all else, evaluative. He wants to see what Lance is capable of doing. His goal was to get an idea of how Lance fights, and end it after half a varga.

But that’s no longer viable — Coran is completely blindsided.

It’s his own fault for underestimating Lance, truly. Coran is not usually guilty of such, and frequently watches in amusement as Lance leans into others assumptions of him to give himself the upper hand. Clearly he is not immune, however, because while he knew Lance was beyond capable, he didn’t know just how many bayard forms the boy could make. That will be good information for the future, however — four so far, and possible more depending how long this fight lasts.

He pins Lance to the ground when he falls, one leg keeping both of his immobile and staff pressed to his shoulders to keep his arms stuck. Lance struggles, trying to buck Coran off, but Coran is stronger — there’s nowhere for him to go.

Lance’s pupils are still dilated. It’s still a mix of fear and fury that dominates his face, fight mode activated. Quickly, almost faster than Coran can track, his eyes flick to the left, just beyond his shoulder.

It’s a trick, most likely. It will be foolish to look. This is likely the paladin’s last-ditch effort to weaken Coran’s hold.

But he’s pinned so tightly. And Coran has always been weak to his curiosity — he was an explorer before he was ever an advisor.

He glances over his shoulder, trying to find what Lance was looking for. All he sees is the red bayard.

The shaking red bayard.

Coran whips his head back to Lance, jaw dropped. The Cuban’s hand is outstretched, tense, fingers spread. The bayard shakes uncontrollably.

“It’s not possible,” Coran mutters.

He was there when the lions — and their bayards — were built. He helped to build them! He should know what is and is not possible, regardless of how skilled their paladin be.

But the bayard shakes faster, and then it moves.

It shoots forward, slamming into Lance’s waiting palm. His fingers wrap around it immediately and it glows, transforming into his broadsword. He jams the blade under Coran’s staff and levers it right off, freeing himself and scrambling to put space between them. Coran barely has time to react before Lance is swinging again.

From then on, Coran barely has the processing space to register what’s happening. He almost feels like he’s the one with the headset, fighting for his life.

Lance is quick, never staying in one place for more than a second. His movements seem rhythmic at times, like he’s following that same beat, but then he switches it up halfway through so Coran can’t predict what he’s doing. He has no trouble with predictions, however — on more than one occasion, Coran just narrowly misses a hit when Lance manages to guess which way he’s feigning. He doesn’t unlock any more bayards than the four he’s already done, but he cycles through them with ease, incorporating whichever one works best with a specific move, rather than a fighting style. He’s flexible, using it to his advantage, and he rarely uses weapons correctly — sometimes he uses his broadsword like a stick to beat with, or his blaster as a baton. If there’s a way to use a weapon he finds it.

He is, and pardon Coran’s profanity, a fucking menace of a fighter.

He has no idea how to fight properly. He’s more reliant on evasive manoeuvres, and he is slippery. Even in Coran’s tightest holds, he manages to twist his way out of it, landing a good hit or two on the way out. His weapon use is unconventional and frankly insanity. He can summon a bayard without touching it.

Coran cannot wait to train him further.

The third time Lance manages to knock Coran to the ground, the advisor doesn’t fight his way back up. They’ve been fighting for what must be at least two vargas, nonstop, and it’s already late. Coran is exhausted. He’s had ample time to evaluate.

Lance’s pointed broadsword to his throat, Coran deactivates the headset.

It takes a second, but Lance’s eyes eventually clear, pupils shrinking to show the warm brown again. He shakes himself, taking in the scene in front of him; Coran, panting, smiling up at him, Lance tense and victorious.

Lance scowls. “You let me win on purpose!”

“That was the original plan,” Coran agrees, holding up his hand. Lance clasps it tightly and helps him up, clipping his bayard to his belt. He’s still scowling, stubborn and a little betrayed.

Coran grins brightly, clasping the boy’s shoulder. “We’ve been fighting for over two vargas, lad, and I’ve yet to subdue you. You are nothing like I’ve ever seen before, in all my years of living.”

That gives Lance pause. He narrows his eyes at Coran suspiciously. “Promise?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Of course.”

Satisfied, Lance finally lets a smile light up his face. He unclips his bayard, holding it as it glows into his sword.

“I guess I can get used to a new bayard form, if I have to. You’ll help me?”

Coran throws an arm over his shoulder, guiding him out of the room. “Lance, lad, you have more to get used to than you thought.”

#why am i incapable of writing small things. anyway #vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #coran #coran coran the gorgeous man #coran & lance #bamf lance #bamf coran #brown-eyed lance #pining lance #pre klance #my writing #fic #autistic lance #longpost

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crybaby-bkg · 11 months

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sorry I’ve been on such a Dabi high lately but I almost croaked earlier at the thought of being his college gf and just being so opposite of each other!!!!!! you’re all good grades and perfect attendance, easily approachable and sweet smiles. and he’s all grumpy faced and dark clothing, makes people nervous whenever he stands outside smoking right by the doors.

who the hell would’ve thought you two would end up together? it just didn’t make a lick of sense seeing you two from the outside. but when they get a glimpse of you guys together, alone, everything just falls into place.

he’s so supportive of everything you do, no matter how dumb or nerdy he thinks it is. he keeps count of your stitches for you when you crotchet, doesn’t mind being your model for a cropped hot pink sweater you’re creating, wears the knitted beanie around campus that you made for him. he hates not having your attention but he takes some of the same classes you take so that he can help you study, quiz you when you’re not too sure of the subject, maybe even help you cheat if you want (you don’t, but he always offers).

he buys you your favorite drink at the cafes and always carries an extra laptop charger in case you forget. he helps you pick out your outfits when you’re unsure, and loves the opposite aesthetic whenever you stand hand in hand with him. he praises you when you succeed, and comforts you with your failures. he looks like a dirtbag that hangs around campus to be a creepy bum, but he’s there for you through and through <3

#sorry I just cannot get enough of him #I wanna write another fic for him which is terrible #bc I already have like 8 on my list :(#but he’s just so :(((((#I want him to be my opposite but so supportive bf so bad #he’s all cigarette smoke and I’m all strawberry scented lipgloss :(#why is talking about self shipping so hard for me AKSJDKDJDJ #I changed I’m to yours and back to I’m like nine times lmfao #BUT SERIOUSLY I need him so bad or else I’ll combust #I don’t need to write another college bf touya au I DONT!!!!!!!(?)#I’m being tempted……..he is my temptress in my hero journey……….and I am weak……#okay bye I wrote this at midnight but didn’t think anyone would see it until this morning anyway lol #I will attempt to do my own cluster lashes so wish me luck #if they fuck w my sensory issues then they are immediately coming AWF #—new treat in the streets! 🍫#dabi treats! 🍬

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wisteriagoesvroom · 1 month

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one like and i'll work on my florist!au @f1playlistficexchange fic

#i mean i'll work on it anyway cus the deadline is literally tomorrow #but something about the serotonin helps my wretched brain #the fic is literally becoming so much moodier than i anticipated like why am i like this #i will go back and filter lando's pov through a sunshine flare lens or something #anyway #wisteria's endless writing problems

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marimbles · 7 months

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at the risk of sounding like really entitled….

does anyone else have a fic that is their most popular, but you don’t want it to be, because you don’t think it deserves it, and you have better stuff, and while ofc you are grateful that people like something you wrote, it’s almost annoying that for some reason That one is the most popular. lmao

#for me it’s this like time travel shenanigans ml fic called Why Are You Like This #which I had a ton of fun writing and I like the fic #but I also tend to forget about it lol #and then I see that it’s my most popular one and I’m like ‘not but this isn’t even in my top 5 favorite fics I’ve written. why’ hdjsjs #it’s probably closer to the bottom of the top 10? and I do not have that many fics hahaha #I remember rooting so hard for tell me something I don’t know to surpass it in kudos #which it eventually DID and I was so happy #but then later WAYLS passed up tms again lol #and I was slightly annoyed to realize that WAYLS was my first to break 5k kudos #while tms still hasn’t #it’s very close tho I need like. 2 more #ok ok sorry this definitely sounds super entitled DHDKDK #I promise I am VERY grateful for every fic interaction!! every kudos or comment I’ve ever received!!#thank you thank you to anyone who has ever read my stuff💜#I just think this is kind of funny #cause I keep scratching my head wondering why that one is the top fic #I think ppl just rly enjoy time travel stuff?#also I did it as a gift for yunyin based on one of her comics so that probably boosted it haha #anyway

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lizstiel · 1 year

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Dean’s sitting at the kitchen table eating meatloaf when it all sort of hits – and he’s desperate to remember it exactly how it happened.

With his fork raised halfway to his mouth, a dollop of meat and sauce perched precariously on the tines, his eyes wandered over to where Cas stood by the sink in a pair of ratty pajama bottoms and one of Dean’s old t-shirts. (One of Dean’s old t-shirts, because once Cas gets his shoulders into them they never really sit the same way.)

He’s got soap up to his elbows, scrubbing methodically at the dishes Dean just dirtied, his brow a taught, concentrated line. He’s bringing the same kind of meticulous focus to the dishes that he used to bring to leading the armies of Heaven; that singular kind of attention, both unnerving and admirable. (Dean had once tried to explain that he didn’t need to wash them quite so vigorously, to which Cas had deadpanned, “Do you know how many food particles remain on the dishes you wash, Dean?” It quickly became his job, after that.)

It’s early July. About 6:30pm. The window over the sink is cracked, and the front door is wide open, letting the sound of cicadas and crickets drift in with the summer breeze. The sun’s starting to set behind the field, casting the world in that particular orange glow that has always made something in Dean ache. In the other room, the record player Sam got them for Christmas plays a beat up Janis Joplin record he’d found at a secondhand store in town. The opening chords of Me and Bobby McGee have just started, and the cicadas are humming, and the crickets are singing, and the sun is setting, and Cas is standing in old pajamas washing dishes Dean just used to make them dinner and –

Cas tilts his head.

This isn’t revolutionary. He does it a lot. A very ingrained behavior, some might say. But he isn’t confused, he’s reacting. To the song. He doesn’t react to music the way Dean wants him to, never has, but in his own way, it’s almost like he’s leaning closer to hear it. An infinitesimal thing. The smallest gesture. The corner of his mouth twitches, and Dean has never loved him more than he does at this moment: backlit by a summer sunset in their house in the middle of nowhere, hand washing dishes and listening to Janis Joplin.

Cas turns when the sound of Dean’s fork clattering on the plate sounds, but Dean just scoops him into his arms, chases any worries away with a kiss, and then another, and then one more for good measure. Cas laughs against his mouth, desperately trying to keep his soapy arms away from Dean’s dry clothes. “Dean,” he chides, squirming and chuckling, trying to extract himself from Dean’s grip. “I’m not finished.”

“I’ll get ‘em tomorrow,” Dean promises, peppering sweet little kisses down the line of Cas' throat. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. It tickles all the way down. “Love you so much,” he says, because he wants to. Because he’s so full with it he’s overflowing. Because if he doesn’t tell him right now, in this moment, and every moment after this one, he might die. He needs him to know. It’s vital that he knows.

Cas’ laughter warms, and he slides one soapy hand to the back of Dean’s neck, eyebrows raised in challenge when he shudders at the sensation. When Dean doesn’t immediately shoo him away, he slides the other soapy hand up Dean’s arm. “Dean?” He’s not worried, the timber of his voice is honey-smooth and light, but he’s confused. Not that Dean doesn’t tell him often, and loudly, how much he loves him, but to be fair this did kind of come from nowhere, so he understands. It’s just much too much. It’s not enough and it’s everything. It’s everything in the world Dean has ever wanted.

Janis Joplin is singing freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, and Dean’s arms are loose around Cas’ waist, and he loves him, god he loves him so much, so he kisses him on one corner of the mouth, and then the other. Janis says, nothin’, don’t mean nothin’ hon’ if it ain’t free, no, no – and he rocks their bodies together, slow, to the beat of the music. Cas’ arms come to wind around his neck automatically, and his smile starts to sprawl into something reserved for only the really good moments. Wide and gummy and for Dean – and feelin’ good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues. He presses his forehead to Cas’ and they just sort of sway there like that, smiling at each other like this might be the last chance they ever get.

Cas says – “I love you, Dean,” just as Janis is singing, you know feelin’ good was good enough for me – and it occurs to Dean that he’s dancing in the kitchen with the love of his life. He thinks back to the longest, loneliest nights he spent staring up at the night sky, believing wholly he’d die bloody and alone on the backend of some random hunt, and how the smallest (but loudest) part of him had wished for exactly this. For someone to hold him and see him and dance in the kitchen with him, barefoot and covered in soap.

He kisses the tip of Cas’ nose, the lines under his eyes. Doesn’t realize he’s crying until Cas is wiping tears away with the pads of his thumbs and soothing hands through his hair. He’s crying, too. Laughing and crying and telling Dean he loves him, he loves him so much, he’s loved him from the first moment he saw him.

It settles in Dean then – really settles deep, and true, and good – that he was meant for this. He wasn’t born to be a weapon. Wasn’t born to be a son, or a father, or a brother. Wasn’t born to save the world or to end it – was just meant to dance. His arms were meant to hold. To sway them both around the cheap linoleum floor, to sling low around Cas’ waist and spin them both ‘til they were dizzy with it.

They laugh and kiss and Janis is saying – good enough for me and Bobby McGee – and Dean is thinking – Yeah. Yeah, it really is.

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tiny-chubby-bird · 5 months

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So like a normal person I got kind of curious and looked at the names of the petrified drow so I could try looking for possible name meanings, but I'm no drow expert. I could only look at the Drow Names site and hope for any similarities. These are my best guesses:

Dhourn (Dhaun: infested, plague. Houn: magic, trail, way)

Izwae (izz: hidden, mask, masked. Wae: heir, inheritor, princess)

Moy (May: beautiful, beauty, silver. Mol: blue, storm, thunder, wind. oj: aura, cloak, hide, skin)

Arcagh (word arc: curve, bow. Akor/Alak: beloved, best, first. agh: breaker, destruction, end, omega)

Tecothy (like Timothy? Teb: blade, sharp, sword)

Artimezt (Inspired by Artemis maybe? zt: finder, hunter)

Important to note that some of the similar words/names I found and used here are the feminine versions, and I remember seeing a detailed post somewhere in which someone took Kar'niss' name and tried to translate it, in which they also mentioned what it means if a male drow uses a feminine name version, but I forgot...

#drowposting #bg3 drow #dnd drow #my personal favourite has to be arcagh #that's a great name lmao #like gagging and exclaiming “argh!”#i rlly wanna write a fic with these guys some day :(#no idea what but i'm kinda getting attached #why am i always like this #i always pick out some npcs that barely have any lines or info about them #and then get sorta obsessed #maybe because it's fun to interpret?#like it's fun to take a character with barely any info and just make up your own shit based on the little info you have #anyway i'm super normal about this

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astrodances · 2 months

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Z for...Zella!! 😜😄🩵💙🖤

I grew up with horses, and definitely wanted to be a cowboy or something horse-related growing up (one of my school mascots was even the Cowboys, so bonus points to that!), but Zorro was like, my first hero. He's the guy I always imagined myself as when I was sitting in the saddle (except when I had my Batman costume on), and looking back, he's influenced so much of my life and love for stories (especially a lot of favorite character aesthetics 😜). And he had the coolest horse (which is my dream horse, just with a different name)!!

All that said, I'm going with Zorro Della for Cowboy Della. I think she would've loved the character, too. 🖤

This was a bit rushed, admittedly, but I got to play with some perspectives, clothing choices, and shading, so good exercise! ^_^

+ bonus Della sketch though, bc I also loved this idea:

Young Della's trying on Scrooge's old cowboy clothes (from Life & Times of Scrooge) - they're still just a pinch too big for her. 😝🥹🤠

#DuckTales #Della Duck #cowboy Della #my art #for the sketch though can you imagine Scrooge's reaction?#maybe a moment of 'why are you going through my stuff?!'#but then he sees the outfit and the nostalgia and the paternal/uncle instincts kick in and he's so proud and amused and 🥹🥹🥹#and then Spear of Selene happens and all the memories ambush him including this and now it's 🥺🥺🥺#sorry for the angst ;P #just imagine their first cowboy adventure after her return and Della being all I'MMA SPACE COWBOY #anyway it's 2:30 am if I don't watch myself I'll be writing a whole fic here in the tags so bonsoir mes amis #but also! thanks for all the love on knight Della!! really proud of her! :D

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baronessblixen · 6 months

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Little Sanguinarium prompt whenever you feel like it: Mulder to Scully: "Well, not everyone can say they're the most beautiful wherever they go."

UST-filled post-ep fic: Mulder thinks Scully is the most beautiful person wherever she goes. She doesn't believe him so he tries to make her see it his way. (wc: 1,258)

Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2023

Fictober Day 18: Beautiful In My Eyes

They’re working on their case report. At least in theory. Mulder is clearly not typing, his thoughts elsewhere. She’d like to be elsewhere too. It’s after 4 p.m. and she’s tired and hungry. Maybe a bit cranky. And much like Mulder, her thoughts aren’t at all on their most recent case. The one Skinner wants a report on. She sighs and Mulder’s head shoots up, his interest immediately piqued.

“Bored?” he asks.

“Tired,” she says.

“We can finish up tomorrow.”

“Something else might come up tomorrow. Mulder, I hate this as much as you do, but procrastinating is not going to help.”

He makes a noise and leans back in his chair, his hands behind his head.

“Have you ever thought about it?”

“Thought about what?” she asks, trying to make sense of what she’s already written.

“Getting plastic surgery.”

“Not seriously,” she says, thinking about the time she wanted to have bigger boobs. She was younger then. Much younger. “Have you?”

“With a nose like mine? Of course.” He holds his pen up to it as if trying to see how the two compare. She narrows her eyes, watching him.

“You surprise me sometimes,” she says. “Have you looked in a mirror?”

“Every once in a while,” he replies with a grin. “Are you saying I’m good-looking?”

“You know you are.” She clears her throat and hopes she’s not blushing too furiously. With her complexion, the slightest flush of her skin can reveal her true feelings. In high school, she could never keep her crushes a secret for long. Melissa always got it out of her because eventually, little red splotches would appear on her skin and make it obvious.

“And anyway,” she goes on, hoping Mulder will just let it go, “I think everyone wonders sometimes. What would it be like to be more beautiful? Just look at the cosmetic surgery industry. For some people that’s all that matters: to be the most beautiful person wherever they go.”

“Well, not everyone can say they're the most beautiful wherever they go,” Mulder says, cracking a sunflower seed between his teeth. “Not when they’re in a room with you.”

“Right,” she says, not taking him seriously at all. “We really need to finish this report, Mulder. Otherwise, we’ll never leave this office.”

“Did you hear what I said?” he asks. She’s staring down at the file, so she hears rather than sees Mulder round the desk and stop in front of her. She gets a whiff of his scent and wonders for a moment how he can still smell so good after a day at work.

“Scully? Did you hear what I said?” He’s not letting it go. Sometimes he’s more stubborn than a mule.

“I heard you,” she says, but doesn’t look up.

“You don’t believe me.” He’s not even asking; he knows.

“Mulder, I know I’m an attractive woman.” She finally meets his gaze. “But the most beautiful person? That’s a bit much.” He shakes his head, not once looking away from her.

“You are.” There’s more to what he’s saying, but it hangs in the air between them. She’s scared to reach for it.

“Can you drop this? Please? We need to finish this report.” That damn report. That damn case, too. That’s what brought his question on in the first place.

“In a second,” he says. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“I believe you, okay? Can we work now?”

“Your eyes,” he says, his voice so soft that it takes her breath away. “Before I knew you, I’d never seen eyes like yours. They’re so big and round. And Scully, they’re so blue. When I first met you, I thought of ice. But your eyes aren’t ice at all. They’re the color of the ocean you love so much.” She swallows hard, her mouth hanging open.

“Then there’s your nose. Did you know that the tip of your nose moves when you talk? Sometimes I can’t listen to anything you say because of it. But that could also be because of your lips.” He’s come closer and has crouched down. He’s level with her now and she feels frozen in place. For a moment she thinks, almost hopes, that he’s going to touch her. But the only part of him touching her are his eyes. She watches him as they wander to her lips. Instinctively, she licks them and sees a smile appear on his face.

“Hmm, yeah. That’s all I’m gonna say. And that’s just your face, Scully.” His eyes meet hers and she sees the honesty in his. Vulnerability. He’s letting her see a side of him she hasn’t seen before. He’s opening his heart to her. “If I wrote poetry, I could fill volumes with how beautiful you are. Your face, your body, and your mind. Oh, your mind. That might be the sexiest of them all."

“Because men are so attracted to intelligence."

"Well, I am." He's looking at her and not even blinking.

Mulder,” she whispers. “What are you doing?”

“Telling you the truth.” He shrugs. They don’t do this. They never do this. There have been moments when she thought about the two of them as more than partners. Sometimes out of fear or desperation. Many, many times out of sheer attraction. She knows they’re attracted to each other. She’s seen him look at her from time to time. But mostly, she’s chalked it up to her being around him every day.

She knows about the videos he watches and has seen the actresses that star in them. They’re tall and brunette. Sometimes blonde. Not once has she seen a redhead. She’s also seen him check out women while they were having lunch, or on case. Never a redhead there either. All of that makes her want to dismiss what he’s saying. Maybe he’s only doing this to flatter her so she’ll write the report on her own. If it weren’t for his eyes. She knows Mulder. Has had years now to study and get to know him. More than that, she knows the tell-tale signs of attraction. And right now, while Mulder is looking her in the eyes, his pupils are dilated.

“Are you doing this to get out of writing this report?” She just has to know.

“That thought never crossed my mind,” he says with a sweet smile. “Would that have worked?”

“No.” Mulder laughs and she’s tempted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Because she, too, could compose sonnets about how beautiful he is. Starting with his mind. Beautiful, brilliant mind. Then there are his puppy eyes, and his pouty, luscious lips.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“The case,” she lies.

“Liar," he says, his face so close that the tip of his nose touches her. "Why would that case make you blush?” Now he's grinning at her. “Don’t worry,” he says, moving in even closer so that their mouths are only a hairsbreadth apart. “I won’t call you out on starting at my lips.”

“I wasn't,” she says with a gasp, despite having done exactly that.

“If you say so.” The moment breaks and he gets up to return to his own chair, to his part of the report. “Let’s finish this and I don’t know about you but I’m starving. Wanna join me for dinner?”

She’s definitely hungry. And she knows her hunger could be dangerous. Especially after everything he’s just said. And yet, she doesn’t even need to think about her answer.

“I’d love to.”

#fictober23 #i'm under 200 prompts with this one #i will never answer all of them huh?#anyway enjoy this ficlet written by someone who hasn't been sleeping much and hopes it still makes sense #why am i talking about myself in the third person omg #msr #xf fanfic #my writing #my fic

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