#but he hasn’t got any particular powers

[blindmagdalena]

The Drug In Me Is You

18+ 3.2k vampire!homelander x supe f!reader. dacryphilia, noncon, p-in-v, blood drinking, possessive homelander, vampire bites as an aphrodisiac, cunnilingus, fingering, kidnapping, reader is held captive, gaslighting, abuse. dead dove!

Ever since Homelander got his cold dead hands on you, you've been the answer to his every prayer. You exist solely for him, kept safe in his home, delicious to the point where he refuses any blood that isn't yours. He isn't conscious of the extent he's grown to rely on you until the day he comes home to find you gone.

written for Monsterlander Mania! thank you @staarboyyy for the incredible vamplander gif. 🖤

There are few things that Homelander despises more in this world than summer. While the heat doesn’t bother him even beneath the thick layers of his suit, the rest of the world isn’t so lucky.

The meet and greets are by far the worst; a crowded collection of sweaty bodies piling in against one another like directed cattle, stewing in their own filth just long enough to reek of their own humanity by the time they’re touching him with clammy hands.

He’s never more grateful for his suit–especially his gloves–than during these occasions.

On top of that, these sardine can buildings become an echoing cacophony of juicy, throbbing hearts, every single one of them pounding in eager anticipation. Indoor events are better for blocking out the sun, but worse for every other aspect when it comes to his senses.

By the end of the day, his skull is throbbing and his stomach is twisting itself into knots. He needs quiet. He needs home. He needs to eat.

It’s dark by the time he lands on his balcony, the hour late. While he does prefer flying at night, he doesn’t like coming home so late. He tugs off his glove to use the thumbpad, which unlocks his automatic door. Stepping inside, he then hits a switch that triggers his blackout blinds to close behind him alongside the door.

“What a fucking day,” he grouses, making his way to the kitchen. “Twelve hours of this shit. I hate summer,” he says, tossing both of his gloves onto the kitchen counter. He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water and a dark, thick green slurry in a tall lidded cup. It’s packed full of everything he both needs and likes, but perhaps most important is the iron content.

He goes through a fair amount of that.

“But I’m glad I’m home,” he says, carrying both beverages to his bedroom. “Because it looks like someone didn’t drink their shake.”

Homelander stops dead in his tracks, staring blankly at his empty bed. Standing perfectly still, he listens for the familiar cadence of your breath. The beat of your heart. Anything to tell him where the fuck you are. When he hears nothing, he drops the drinks unceremoniously to the floor and spins on his heel, instantly tearing through the penthouse.

He doesn’t smell blood or death, but the thought of you dead seizes him anyways, hurling him instantly into a panic. He scans through every wall and ceiling, but you’re not here. He calls your name, shouting it down each hall, but he’s met only with the reverberations of his own distraught voice.

At the front door, Homelander moves to input the code to open it, but halts abruptly. The panel is green. It hasn’t locked. Pulling it open, a thin piece of plastic falls away from the mechanism. It had been blocking the lock from securing.

Wednesday is grocery day, he recalls distantly. A staff member came to restock the fridge. They must have had the door propped open, and you…

Left. 

You left.

Homelander rips the door open, nearly yanking it off the hinges, and storms down the hall, fangs bared. You must have waited until it was late and the guard presence was scarce, otherwise someone would have reported you. You can’t have gone far.

When Vought realized that the continued development of Homelander’s powers came with a particular quirk that necessitated the consumption of human blood, they began the process of ensuring he always had a steady supply to keep him from eating his adoring fans. He never really cared about where the blood came from until he tasted yours.

Yours was special. It did something no one else’s ever had; it made him feel alive. He could taste the world in ways he never could before, and if he drank enough, he swore he could feel his heart start to beat. None of the scientists knew why. It didn’t matter to him. From that point on, he wasn’t interested in drinking from anyone other than you.

That was when he decided to keep you close at hand. Cut out the middleman.

You belong to him, and you have for months. He’s taken the utmost care of you, ensuring that you could have everything you need within the confines of his penthouse. The finest foods, every form of entertainment one could dream of, exquisite service at your fingertips and most compellingly of all, the love and adoration of the world’s greatest hero.  

So why the fuck would you leave?

Homelander rips through the tower. He’s furious, wounded and hungry. Those few security guards smart enough to get out of his way evade his rampage while a couple of unlucky ones wind up with their own personal craters in various walls.

He can smell the intoxicating allure of you trailing a path through the halls, but the combination of his hunger and his rage makes following it disorienting. He’s in no condition to hunt–he’s become sickeningly complacent in your time together, more reliant on you than he ever would have admitted freely. He’s grown to love the wait, letting himself feel his hunger so that you taste all the sweeter on his tongue.

Now the churn of it in his gut burns like fire.

Nevertheless, he is relentless, and within minutes he finds you in the garden just outside the tower, locked in by looming steel gates. You aren’t even properly dressed, garbed only in the thin loungewear he keeps you in, barefoot and combing your fingers through a tall hedge full of flowers just beginning to wither, their pink petals curled and browning.

You don’t even notice him until he’s upon you, snatching your wrist and whirling you around so sharply, the hedge behind you drops its wilting petals in a flurry. He must be a fearsome sight if your expression is anything to go by, your eyes wide and panicstricken.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” He hisses through his teeth, fangs fully protracted. You take a breath to speak, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He jostles you by your shoulders to cut you off, fingers biting into your arms.  “Do you have any idea how fucking worried I was?”

Your pulse is racing. He can hear it, feel it in your wrist beneath his thumb. The sound of it is nearly enough to throw him to the ground, to shred the thin veneer of humanity he wears and give in to the bloodlust. His thumbnail tilts ever so slightly, biting a crescent mark into the supple flesh of your wrist. Never have you felt more tender in his hands. Never has he come so close to tearing you apart.

One slip, and you would be spilling red all over his tongue. 

“I just–” you begin, but he pulls you sharply up into his arms, seething so furiously that he can’t stand to hear you speak. He’s too far gone. Too fucking hungry.

“We’ll talk at home,” he grits out, and with a sonic boom that rips the remaining blossoms from the hedge in a flurry, he launches into the sky, purposefully flying too fast to allow for conversation. He holds you to his chest as tightly as he dares, landing back on his balcony with a thud. He uses the thumbpad and damn near tears the door off the hinges pulling it open. 

Homelander doesn’t have time to waste. You bounce a few times with the way he drops you onto the bed. Glancing up, he catches sight of himself in the myriad of mirrors. No wonder you looked at him the way you did. He looks crazed, lips parted around his fangs, his usual bright blue eyes shining pure crimson.  

It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything will be fine after this.

You scramble up the bed, moving backwards on your hands, but he catches you by the ankle and yanks you back down it, climbing on top of you with a frustrated noise that fades off into a sigh. “Y’see what you do to me?” He asks, voice low and frayed. You yelp when he rips your shirt clean apart, exposing your top half completely.  Your skin is adorned beautifully with the history of your night.

You bruise easily for a supe. Your blood just loves to rush to the surface for him, vessels full and bursting under his grip. The memory of inflicting these marks is so intoxicating that even in his frenzy he can’t help but lean down and drag his tongue over one of the bruises that mottle the pretty skin of your chest. Under his tongue, you feel like ripe fruit yearning to be bitten into.

“Please, Homelander, stop,” you plead prettily. He can hear your tears in the tremble of your voice, practically taste the salt in the air.

Good, he thinks viciously. Cry. Regret. Never do this to me again.

“Played a dangerous game tonight, sweetheart,” he tells you, that pet name dripping with affection and venom in equal measure. He forces your legs apart and settles between them, tearing what little clothing remains on your body like paper and tossing it aside. He presses his palms down against your thighs, and the heat of you compared to the chill of his fingers nearly burns. He pushes your legs up and apart, soaking in the sweet smell of your cunt.

Sex and feeding have always gone hand in hand for Homelander. Vought tried for years to satiate him with plastic blood bags and artificial alternatives, but it never fed him the way a meal he could fuck does. Still, all of them paled in comparison to you. Your inner thighs are a mixture of both new and faded punctures that dot your body in matching pairs, scars that he hopes never fade. They mark you as his.

Neither of you will ever settle for another ever again. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, please–please let me explain,” you weep, trying to squirm out of his grasp. With a predatory growl he yanks you back into place, unwilling to listen.

The hunger is driving him to madness. He can feel your pulse like it’s his own, the sound of it thundering in his ears until it threatens to split his skull in half. His nails bite into your skin while he leans in, deaf to your begging as he closes his eyes and opens his mouth wide, sinking his fangs into the soft, succulent meat of your inner thigh.

Your blood spills into his mouth like rich ambrosia. He moans loudly, losing himself to the taste and the heat. Your blood is transcendent, going beyond nourishment. Your pulse reminds his heart to beat. The more he drinks, the more the warmth of you fills his frigid body, thawing out his sanity alongside it. Your heat courses steadily through him, the fervor of it vanishing that nauseating pound from his skull until the only throb he’s left with is the one between his legs.

He sucks in a wet breath when he breaks away from you, panting his delirious pleasure. There’s nothing in this world than the high that comes after being satiated from a frenzy. It’s like he’s floating, his tongue and throat tingling with your sweet nectar.

He isn’t the only one tingling. He can smell the heady musk of your arousal. Your fearful tears are no match for the effect his bite has on your body, how his saliva mingles with your blood and makes you ache for him.

Without his hunger deafening him to the world, he can focus again. He takes a moment to lap at where he’s bitten you, cleaning up the blood that dripped from the wounds. He trails his blood-warmed tongue inward, far from placated. 

He pins your thighs down flush to the bed and nestles into the sweet core of you, plunging his tongue eagerly into your cunt. Your body jolts, but he holds you steady, eagerly swirling his tongue, collecting the taste of you to drink down. He sucks hungrily at your clit, pulling off of it with wet little pops, kissing and licking and sucking until you’re writhing beneath him for all the right reasons.

Devouring you like this is working him back up into a different kind of frenzy. He slips one finger into you, then two, mouthing your clit while he fucks you with his fingers, coaxing more and more from you. Your walls feel so fucking soft and velvety around his fingers, and his need to feel you quivering around his cock is rapidly outpacing his hunger for the taste of your cunt. With one last deep plunge of his tongue, he lifts himself over you, reaching down to hurriedly unclasp his belt, staring down at you with lust glazed eyes.

You’re a mess. Your whole body is flushed with heat, and you’ve barely stopped moaning since he bit you. He’s heard the effects of his bite described like a fever, a delirious experience that robs you of your senses and leaves you desperate for more, for anything of him. Even so, you haven’t stopped crying. It makes you look sweet. Vulnerable. Fucking delicious.

“Mmm, you’re pretty when you cry, baby,” he says, running his tongue along his teeth, over the sharp juts of his fangs. He gets his cock free and adjusts himself between your legs, laying over you. “This your way of saying sorry? Because it’s working,” he tells you, bracing one hand on the bed next to you while he uses the other to hold the base of his cock, dragging the head of it up and down through the wet mess of your pretty pussy lips. “Show me how sorry you are, sweetheart. Be good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, nuzzling at your throat.

Opening his mouth, Homelander bites into your neck at the same time he thrusts forward, letting out a muffled, ragged moan as he sinks into you on both fronts, shuddering with how fucking good it feels, tight and wet and hot as sin. Between that and the fresh rush of your blood down his throat, he ascends to a state of goddamn euphoria.

You make a noise somewhere between a sob and a moan. He drinks you up, savors the sound of you as much as he does the taste. He snaps his hips, wastes no time fucking you deep, holding you still with the lock of his jaw while he pounds you into the mattress.

“Oh, ffffuck,” he groans, lips bloodied. He laps at the blood on your neck, the sound of it as wet as his cock hammering your cunt with the relentlessness of a machine, utterly inhuman in the way he takes you. “So good to me, aren’t you? Feeding me, taking me. Mmm, fuck, m’close,” he says, nuzzling at your skin, enamored with the warmth of you.

With the ravenous insanity of his bloodlust fading, his thrusts become less brutal. He hikes your thigh over his hip and holds it there, sliding into a rhythm that’s something closer to making love. Your cunt quivers all around him, and by the noises you’re making he knows you’re electrified, out of your mind with the haze of pleasure that his bite induces. “M’gonna take care of you, too. You know that, don’t you? Yeah, y’do, and you won’t ever fucking leave me again. Don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” he pants, mouthing at the shell of your ear.

It’s a lie. He knows what he would do. He would punish any world that dared take you from him. The thought alone would be enough to enrage him all over were he not so deeply soothed by your iron on his tongue and your soft body giving into him. If he had breath to give, it would be stolen by the way you seize up against him, orgasm taking hold of you like a possession, capturing your voice and rolling your eyes heavenward.

This is love. This undying hunger, this obsessive compulsion to keep you close. He craves you not just for the ambrosial taste of your blood, but for your soft lips against his and the timbre of your voice. He brought you into his life to satiate his bloodlust, but never could he have fathomed the greater emptiness that you would fill. Knowing you were here waiting for him has made him understand for the first time in his life what it means to come home.

He’ll ruin you before he loses you.

Homelander comes with a low, wrecked moan, kissing you fervently as he stops to empty himself into you as deeply as possible, forehead pressed to yours.

You’re panting, letting out pitchy little wisps of sound with every breath. He gently kisses them from your lips, hushing you. “S’alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, licking the salt of your tears from his lips. He cups the other side of your face and strokes it with his thumb. You’re shaking all over. He slips an arm around you to draw you close, to comfort you as you come down from your high. “Ssshhhh. Everything’s alright. M’right here, and I love you.”

That wrings a tight little sob out of you. He smiles, dazed on his own lingering ecstasy. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you,” he assures you, kissing your forehead. “Can’t imagine how scared you must’ve been, wandering alone in the dark like that,” he says, stroking your cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Just happy I found you before anything happened to you.”

What if someone else had found you like that? Confused and vulnerable. He would have found you eventually, but had anyone been unlucky enough to lay their hands on you before then, they wouldn’t have hands for much longer. He kisses you again, firmer, possessive. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re safe now. You’re home.”

Gingerly, he slips from the wet heat of your body and adjusts himself, getting you both situated under the covers. He spends a while soothing you, rubbing your back while you lay in his arms, kissing the top of your head every so often.

“You alright?” He asks eventually. You aren’t shaking anymore, but you haven’t said a word. It makes him a touch… anxious.

“Yes,” you whisper. It’s not very convincing, but he wants to believe it enough that he accepts the answer anyways.

“Good,” he purrs, slipping his hand over the back of your neck. His fingertips brush your menagerie of scars, each bite a reminder of how thoroughly you have allowed him to love you. “That’s my good girl. I love you,” he says with a smile, tipping your head back to kiss your lips.

He waits.

“I love you,” he says again.

“I love you, too,” you finally respond.

His smile broadens. He draws you closer to him, listening to the lively thrum of your body. You are the warmth in his own veins, the beat of his heart.  This, too, is love. Kissed lips, bitten limbs, hungering teeth and bodies intertwined. It’s sweeter than anything he has ever known. The need in him is a monstrous thing, he knows. He hadn’t known how monstrous it was until he thought–even for a moment–that he’d lost you.

It won’t happen again.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #terato #vampire x reader #monster romance #monster x human #it's late af but i FINALLY wrote vamplander!!!! special shoutout to non and calli for helping me with this one #my writing #dark fic

[moondirti]

11. SUCK IT UP

CHAPTER ELEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter ten / chapter twelve ⇀

summary: you aren't feeling too good. miguel helps you get over it, in more ways than one.

explicit (18+) | 6.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, smut, cunnilingus, face-sitting, fingering, squirting, power imbalance (everything is consensual), miguel is... sweet (?), mild fluff, angst, very little plot, mentions of death/gore notes: inspired by this hysterical ask. twas supposed to be a bit of short fun but i am a chronic over-writer. thus, i present to you – a week late tangent about miguel's magical tongue! enjoy

The night ends with you riding Miguel’s face, panties ripped and cartons of food waiting idly on your desk. If you could shatter the pleasure that seizes your brain with a vice-like grip, you would take a moment to admit one thing. 

You don’t know how you got here. 

It’s not the fact of it that’s got you fazed; no, you’ve long since come to terms with the new perimeters of your relationship. Really, it’s been the only active component in your life as of late, serving itself in all your food for thought. You’ve contemplated it before going to bed, upon waking up, during your lunches with Hobie – where the spider critiques your mentor so often that you’ve learnt not to mention your less-than-professional relationship out loud. 

And, well– For every moment in between, you’re caught up in this exact transgression. 

If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, it’s fruitless to attempt to rationalise it. The day’s happenings couldn’t have hinted towards this at all. In fact, your morning had started miles off from where you are now. Laying on the ground, ambition fried save for one goal: 

To take a break.

Your dreams still burn on your eyelids when you blink them open. They’re feverish, ochre and plum and sickly green, a little too blurry to make out the details that would’ve otherwise helped you decipher their meaning. It was something about blood, something about patchouli, and a conclusive explosion that fizzled with bright light. 

Though the latter might merely be ideation. You forgot to close your blinds before falling asleep – the only reason you’re awake being the sun bathing your room in white. 

A migraine strikes at your temple, rhythmic and reinforced with stainless steel. It’s vengeful. Your entire body is, actually. Sour aches run up your muscles, swelling around your joints, digging into your bones. When you attempt to readjust, your spine screams in protest. So does your stomach, gurgling for either food or relief. It’s hard to tell really; the pain is so profound that blaming a particular area would be dismissing the others.

You do know who to blame, though.

That asshole. 

He’s ruthless. An absolute implacable force that grills you almost every hour of the day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his concern with your training is due to a growing fondness for you. But you’ve seen enough evidence of his method to prove otherwise – he’s merely approaching it with as much dedication as he prescribes anything else. Like the fate of the multiverse relies on your betterment, like his seeing to it is some sort of commandment by God.

(Perhaps it is. 

But not even you take gospel this seriously.)

It’s been a couple weeks and you’re still not used to it. Over the year since gaining your powers, you’ve never exerted yourself this much. You’re so weak, you find, that your strength can be likened to that of a civilian. The constant wear and tear hasn’t pushed that front, either – the first few sessions, you’d come dangerously close to throwing up from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Your gut turned into itself, gags coated with bile as you ushered Miguel away from your perimeter. The only thing that held you back was a lack of energy to actually commit to the issue.

That, and the promise of his fingers buried deep in your cunt. 

You’ve begun to understand him, though. The scientist part of you can’t help but pick up on his patterns, storing them in one place for further analysis. Eventually, having enough data allowed you to draw up a trend. 

It tends to go something like this: 

He compiles an exercise to help you learn a lesson. It’s devised to push you both mentally and physically – a killing of two birds with one stone. To phrase it like that, plain cut and simple, makes it sound almost juvenile, like a look into a kindergarten teacher’s book of discipline. The punishment should fit the crime, or however it goes. But it isn’t easy, not by a long shot. He seems to see what you have trouble harrowing from yourself; those meaty flaws, fattened from neglect, maggot-strewn and pulsing with a verve of their own. They’re pinpointed, slated, and then he gives you the knife all expectantly, like you can kill it by yourself. 

The beasts’ name has been resilience lately. According to him, planking for two minutes wasn’t a sufficient enough appeasement to it. 

Because the next day, he always expounds upon the lesson from the last. The training is a developed form of the one that nearly just killed you, and he tests how you respond. Your enthusiasm or lack thereof doesn’t matter, it’s your perseverance despite it that he rewards. You can smile every time you fall, if you don’t get up, then he doesn’t grant you an orgasm. 

If you do, however–

Then, fuck. It’s so good that you often forget the struggle it took to earn it in the first place. 

A strict system. One with little room for loopholes or faults. You can tell he’s thought it through – every exertion is met with an upside, a failsafe tailored to the type of pupil you’re proving to be. It means that he’s done this before; is accustomed to the patience and regimen it takes to guide someone as wayward as you. 

You add it to your tally of proof that he’s a father. 

(He’s able to come up with detailed plans surrounding your weaknesses. 

You, on the other hand, have to resort to contrived assumptions to get a glimpse into who he is. 

The imbalance is present, glaring. Enough to irk you but not enough to implode just yet. You stuff it away for later.)

Solid system aside, it certainly doesn’t account for how much of it you can tolerate. You’re paralyzed, hollowed out by the endless workouts. And while, yes, you could go to the cafeteria to fill up with fuel that alleviates the effects, you physically can’t move out from under your sheets – limp as the mattress that cushions you. 

You wonder what he would say if he saw you like this. It’s become harder to guess now that you’re unsure of his true feelings towards you. A Spanish taunt, likely; something along the lines of have I worn you out already? And you’d huff but secretly squirm under the prospect of disappointing him, a scolded schoolgirl caught with a lame excuse between index and thumb. 

Hell, he’s not even around and you’re still plump with shame. Your room doesn’t feel nearly as comforting with the knowledge of what waits outside. Down the hall, up the staircase. Through the common room and across the lobby. In that little gym, hidden in a corner near the med-bay, where no one frequents when the more advanced training facilities are in another sector entirely. You check the alarm on your desk – 09:00. He’s probably there already, waiting on you with arms crossed. 

In your mind's eye, he’s wearing that black compression top he seems to resort to on laundry days. Grey sweatpants too. You don’t know what to call the passing reflection – fantasy is all too mortifying a word. Wish? Absolutely not. You wish for nothing when it comes to him. Except maybe–

Thighs squeezing, you brush the objection away. You could get it easily if you’re able to muster the energy. Take it one step at a time. Change into your athletic gear. Eat a light breakfast. Show up, if not a little late. Miguel would make a passing comment about it but nod at the fact that you came at all. And it would be enough, that little assurement, to motivate you through whatever gruelling exercise he has planned today. 

If you let him know, though – how hard it was for you to go – would he add to your reward? So far it’s only been his fingers on you, rubbing you while you run slick onto him. Deliciously thick as they fuck into you, long and perfect at pinpointing that one spot that makes you just burst. Certainly better than your own, but… 

His touch is beginning to lose its novelty. Increasingly, you’re left wanting more. You come down from your highs gaping, clenching around the memory of a length that’s only ever been in your mouth. And if he’s able to make you see stars with just his hand– 

Then you’d abandon the cosmos just to get him to fuck you. 

(A proclamation you’d never say out loud. Even your conscious cringes at just how depraved it sounds.) 

So, you try. 

Really, you do. With the fear of failing him and the lust that’s taken root in your core, you kick your legs off the edge of your bed. The air is frigid, biting at your heels as they press to tile, which is just as cold itself. You let it diffuse into your feet, getting used to it while bracing yourself for the pain bound to reemerge. Black broaches your vision, blotting its edges. You opt to ignore the blatant warning, sucking in a hurried breath – resilience – before rising to a stand. 

Two seconds pass. You go blind. Like a marionette with its strings cut, you tip over and collapse to the floor.

Whether a headrush or your muscles finally giving up on you, you can’t help but attribute the display to none other than your ‘mentor’ himself. Cocky bastard with his stupid fucking philosophies. Resilience my ass. Look where that’s gotten you now; capsized like a turtle with a shell too big for its own good. 

Groaning, you flip over to your side. Your elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, yet your head rings with alarm nonetheless. You’ll just… You’ll just stay right here. Yeah. 

He’ll understand. 

(And, if not, then you’ve dealt with him in poorer moods.)

18:00. 

You’re pathetic. 

So much more than that, actually. Pathetic is a description reserved for the pitiable. A person has to actually sympathise with you in order for it to be true, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you in this state – God forbid – then they’d convulse in disgust instead. 

You cycle through a list of viable synonyms. Miserable. Lame. An absolute tragic case of wasted potential. None quite fit like you want them to. They all feel wrong – mirrors so distorted you can’t make out your reflection in them if you tried. 

It’s just… becoming of you.

If there were a word that specifically meant befitting to Wraith, then you’d clutch it close to your chest for how validating it would read. It feels like all the work you’ve put in thus far was for nothing. Despite how it may seem, you didn’t just do it for Miguel. If it had been, then you would’ve given in half a year ago upon realising just how attractive your pursuer was. 

(You remember it, clear as a waxy moon on an ink-blot night.

He’d thrown you into dry-wall and you’d called him a coward for not looking you in the eye. It must’ve hit him where it hurt, because his mask drew back and before you knew it, you were phasing in and out to the beat of your fluttering heart. 

It was the first time you saw him. Once you managed to escape, your fist suffered through its duty in muffling your moans, cut by biting incisors as you rubbed one out in a hostel bed.) 

No. It was for you. To put distance between the inconsiderate menace you were before Earth-15 and the woman you desperately want to be. You’d started to notice the difference too. Mentally, sure – where your self-hatred was tamped to the background, and every action you took was opened with weighty contemplation. But even physically – your eyebags had faded and you looked much cleaner than you have in a long, long time. 

Where’s that progress now? 

Because you’re crumpled on the spot where you fell almost eleven hours ago, with the addition of a pillow to support your head. You’re much like a wad of chewed gum, spit out by some being greater than this dimension. Gross and regressive and littering this world with your very existence. 

It’s a close parallel to how downtrodden you’d felt in that convenience store bathroom, bandaging your forearm where Miguel’s claws had dug deep into the flesh. Your throat had been tight with suppressed sobs, both pain and primal fear replacing the pus that surged from your wound. The wash area was filthy. Dirt-packed grout and grey tap water. Paper towels balled in wet wads. But it felt right for you at the time, like you deserved no better. 

Of course, you didn’t. Don’t. You went out and got an innocent woman killed not much later. 

You still think about her sometimes. Her blood had been piping hot, almost bubbling from the yawning hole in her throat. The rescue was half-assed – you could’ve incapacitated the robber after knocking him out – but you’d been so filled with false bravado at actually having done something that it never occurred to you. The instinct lacking. Your spider-sense, absent. If you’d ever considered grasping the reins to your powers, you could’ve prevented the bullet from phasing through you and meeting her instead. You’ve always been short-sighted like that; prioritising the now over the what if. 

And that’s what you stayed here to remedy. But if the same thing happened tomorrow, what’s stopping you from repeating your mistakes? You’d been too broken this morning to process that. 

You should’ve just sucked it up and went.

From your place on the floor, out the window, only the top of Nueva York’s cityscape is visible. The sky has darkened to the colour of a bruised peach – an oxidised sort of orange that reminds you of last night’s dream – and the nightlights of some buildings flicker on cue when the sun dips below the horizon. You can see the ninety-degree highway up to Second Base from here. It’s been your entertainment for today, with its little commuting cars and the train that zips back and forth. 

If you focus hard enough, then you can trick yourself into believing that the space station is visible, floating just above the stratosphere – where gravity is weak enough to let it hold its place. But you’re a woman of science and you know that it's impossible, that the silhouette you’re picturing is a figment of your wild reverie and you’re still anchored to earth where dreams are just that. Dreams. Your eyes burn from attempting it, anyway, those damn dust motes cropping up again. 

Christ. 

Given that life’s slowed, you’re spotting them more often. Back in that empty storelot, right after being bit, you’d fixated on them for a brief instant. They fit in with the setting back then, lazy in a stream of sunlight. Colourful – pink, green, orange, gold – flipping through the shades in a way that made sense. But their appearances have lost that sense of cohesion. Now, they emerge when you least expect them. In shadows. Hovering in corners not too far away. Places where it’s unnatural for them to be.

You reach a hand out. There’s no purpose behind it. Just… an exploratory action. To test the unknown. Your shoulder aches when you do, and so you don’t notice how odd it feels at first. Like electricity, buzzing at your fingertips. The motes start to drift towards your skin, magnetised to something you can’t explain.

When you sit up to investigate it further, there’s a knock at your door. 

Hobie?

Couldn’t be. He mentioned he’d be away for a while last you talked. 

There are few others who know of your assignment. Reilly, but he hasn’t paid mind to you since introducing your room. Jess Drew, maybe, though that’s far-fetched. 

So– 

You look down at your dishevelled state. In just a plain shirt and your pair of oldest underwear, you’re hardly dressed for entertainment. Especially when it’s him. 

Is he checking up on you? 

It’s so stupid that even in a depressive slump you’re able to laugh at yourself. Check up is the only way you can put it without making things worse. If he’s passing by, then it would be in suspicion. You’re no idiot, after all, in spite of your dejection. He wouldn’t let you roam free without having measures in place to ensure you don’t leave. That may just mean looking in from time to time. 

Though it’s practically guaranteed that it isn’t out of concern. 

(You have to remind yourself; you wish for nothing when it comes to Miguel O’Hara.)

Another knock. It’s hastier this time. Three raps with sharp knuckles. Impatient. 

Panic overtakes all motor functions as you scramble to a stand. Yesterday’s joggers are thrown over your desk chair, in need of a wash with all the fluids secreted in them. They’re the closest in your vicinity, though, and will have to do for now. You briefly fuss over how your hair looks, whether your unwashed face is visibly oily – all fixable things that you dismiss while tripping to the doorway. The waistband is barely over your ass before you swing it open, greeting Miguel with a grimace. 

Idiot. You shouldn’t have opened it that wide. Now he can see your mess of a r–

“Bad time, I’m guessing.” Is all he says, voice lilting into a question. You can’t help but register it with a tone of condescension; the raised eyebrows certainly don’t convince you otherwise.

All you really want to do is tell him off for the impromptu visit. The chagrin is there, latched onto your throat. But before you can, and against your better judgement, you give him an extensive once-over, taking heed of his state. What’s ironic – a tranquillising point that promptly shuts you up – is that it’s worse than yours. 

In the complete opposite way. 

Three big rips run along his torso, interfering with the technology of his spider-suit. It glitches between static and a transparent condition, baring the bronzed skin of his chest. There’s blood there too, reiterating the crimson that peeks from beneath his floppy hair, which is sweat-drenched. Tousled. He’s tousled, like he waltzed directly from a fight. A particularly bad one at that. 

(And of course he still looks better.)

“One can say the same about you.” You bite.

“Don’t be smart.” He says. It isn't the snap you take it to be, more a mumble with consequence to his fangs. His mouth doesn't sit right when they’re withdrawn. You run your tongue along your gums upon remembering how they’d felt, pierced in your neck. “I couldn’t make our session this morning. An urgent issue came up.” 

Immediately, something fresh smooths over you, like a balm to the anxiety that’d been plaguing you all day. He wasn’t even there. You’re tempted to laugh, but your humour dims on its way out. And when all is said and done, you find the disquietude is still there, nestled between your ribs. 

You just blink in acknowledgement. 

His jaw tenses. “We can reschedule.” 

“You don’t have to sound so guilty about it.” The joke contains perhaps more sarcasm than you intend for it. It echoes, spiteful, and you at least have the sense to be ashamed, for you follow it up with a small reassurance. “It’s fine. I never showed.” 

“Sick?” 

“Something like that.” 

(Lie.

Look at you, just embodying ignobility today.) 

He nods, scanning your dishevelled clothing and chapped lips. Your only drink of water all day had been from the bathroom tap in an especially lamentable episode. It smacks, as though it were filled with cotton, the inside of your cheeks dry paper. 

You wait for him to say something, unease broiling in your core. He does the same, gaze shifting from the scars on your arm to your bedroom and everything in between. It lingers on the external hallway, scanning for passersby. You recognise the indecision. Deliberation. Still – the long stretch of silence that hangs between you is awkward, broadening with every passing second, a gluttonous sort of tension whose favourite meal is the undefined mess that is your relationship to one another. 

Finally, Miguel speaks up. “I’ll be back.” 

And then he leaves. 

He just… fucking– 

Walks away, off to whatever takes precedence over your less-than-invigorating conversation. Which, admittedly, could be counted as anything in the world. But seriously, where is the decorum? Showing up unannounced only to leave you waiting? You run through the various reasons he couldn’t stand to be in your presence any longer, and what he expects you to do before his return. 

The most plausible is that his injuries needed tending to. If they were that severe though, then why he saw stopping by first a greater priority is beyond you. In any case, he’ll probably return refreshed. But for what? Your response couldn’t have been misinterpreted to mean that you wanted to reschedule the missed session for tonight. You’re still sore, thank you very much, and in a much shoddier mood than you had been previous. 

(This is what you wanted though; a second chance. 

‘Just suck it up.’)

Steeling yourself, you shut the door and hobble down to the back of your room, stripping on your way. You’ll tidy up after your shower – it's bound to wash at least half of your self-loathing. 

You just hope your leggings are clean.

As it turns out, you were the one who misinterpreted things. 

Dressed in your athletic gear with damp skin and your sneakers primed to go, the dread had started to ebb away into a begrudging acceptance. Yes, your body still tenses with lactic-mutiny, raging where you’ve exerted it in the past, and your head still sings in migraine tones. But they all came second to the split-second fluster that had risen when he’d knocked on your door. That fear of disappointment returned with a vengeance, your worry for regression packing the final punch. 

And, really. What were you supposed to think? 

He left without so much as an excuse. It was up to you to decide what he’d see upon coming back. Just based on the nature of your prior meetings, the answer heavily leaned towards your own durability. Ready to face whatever exercise he has to throw your way, supposed sickness aside. You were actually quite proud of yourself for it, directing a heavy-handed pat on the back for the nail you ‘hit on its head.’ 

Never in your blurry dreams could you have predicted this. 

Your face burns hot with puerile embarrassment. 

“Um–”

“I figured you haven’t eaten.” Miguel explains, curling the plastic bags up in a gesture akin to surrender. They’re solid white, those thin types that bend under the weight of the cartons packed inside. You’re unable to process it before your stomach does, growling in suppressed hunger. 

“No.” You shuffle to the side to allow him in. He takes the invitation, carefully, traipsing within your quarters to place the food on your desk. “I haven’t.” 

The air resumes its resting level of edginess, however you’re far too wrapped up in your own head to buckle underneath it this time. It’s cold, you ascertain, your skin puckering in a gradient from foot to toe. His survey follows the same line, regarding your changed appearance in intrigue, cheeks sinking with a downward smile. It looks positively smug.

“Sorry, I thought… You’re not here to dole out another one of your lessons?” 

“You’re sick aren’t you.” He isn’t interrogative in the slightest. You can’t bring yourself to lie again, so you stay silent. “I see you got dressed regardless.” 

“Well, that’s me. Just a sucker for appearances.” You scoff, shutting the door behind you. The room appears infinitesimal in his presence, collapsing into those broad shoulders. “Tidied the space too and everything.”

Tall, packed with undiluted muscle. No longer in his spider-suit, but clothes more casual. A bandage stretched across his forehead. It’s stark against his skin, white on bronze and you can’t help but follow the way he gleams under the warm lighting. Fresh – he must’ve showered too, further evidence found in the way his hair curls, dips, drops of water rolling down his nape. You dig your teeth into your lip. Any closer and you’re bound to hit a wall of patchouli, that aphrodisiacal scent that triggers you like an animal in heat. 

“Is that so?” He prods, unconvinced. It’s dark outside and you feel confined to this box. “You weren’t just anticipating it?”

“Anticipation is a forgiving word. No one would look forward to torment.” 

His brows knit together, the creases between them playful, like the very implication is offensive on the same magnitude as a low-life’s taunt. 

“But…” There’s nowhere to back into when he takes a step closer, your bed hitting the back of your knees. “You got dressed regardless.” He reinstates, emphasising each word, syllables punctuated to make his point. If you weren’t cornered, snared in the clutches of a cat celebrating its next meal, you’d have been able to see where this is going. 

As it stands, you’re blind. 

“You know what I think?” He adds upon your reticence. You shake your head. “I think, it’s finally starting to hit you.” 

“Hit… Wh–”

“The point. These past few weeks have been tough, I won’t pretend otherwise.” Miguel clarifies. “But it was only the first part of it. Withstanding struggle, that torment you speak so… fondly of.” 

“Like you said,” You catch on, recalling the reality check he’d given you that day with the plank. “Y’know. Resilience.” 

“Remind me of the other half of it again.” 

“There’s… Withstanding struggle,” You repeat stupidly, working overtime to try and fetch his exact words. It’s an almost impossible feat, the gears in your mind turning on empty fuel. The initial lecture wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been intercepted by a million other philosophies. And he’s right there, ducked close to your level, keen eyes patiently waiting for you to continue. His breath fans across your cheek. The pressure worsens. You feel dumb. “And–”

You resort to context, then – grasping for the crux of his little tangent. What did you do to inspire it, anyway? 

It hits you so suddenly your neck twinges with phantom whiplash. 

“Recovering when you fall.” You complete.

“That’s it.” The whispered praise tickles you, like sand filling an hourglass. Your tummy sinks, heavy with it. It’s warm and dry and feels much like how his bare hand did, supporting your neck under rubble. Behind your back, your own wind together as you shoot him a vampish look. 

“Who would’ve thought.”

He shrugs. “Was your faith that lacking?” 

“There were a few times, yeah. You should’ve seen me this morning,” 

“Oh, I can imagine.” 

“Fell right to the floor. Almost died, I’m telling you. I stayed right here,” You tap the ground with your heel. “All day.”

“It was not that bad,” He insists, speaking with a levity you don’t often hear from him. It’s nice when he reciprocates like this. You’ve always reckoned that he took himself seriously one-hundred percent of the time. You find that you get along better when he doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, using the excuse to wet your lips. The guard you keep constantly raised bends to the contours of his face, curved elegantly around those high cheekbones and the jaw he must physically sharpen to get looking so pronounced. He’s studying you – you sense it, teasing your lashes, noting the way your eyes pointedly avoid his. They’re planted firmly to his neck, where corded muscles stretch under skin, so strong you can practically hear them creak. 

Your heartbeat skips from between your thighs. When you rub them together, they glide easily, lubricated by the slick pooling into your panties. 

“No logical reason you should continue putting up with it, then.” 

It could turn out that Miguel’s voice is modulated and you wouldn’t be surprised given how pleasing it is to listen to. Deep, controlled from a low point in his chest where smouldering coal chars it until it’s rugged. You always pay closer attention to the letters through which his accent comes through; short O’s and throaty D’s. His mouth hardly moves when he speaks. You wonder when he chooses to properly utilise it. Whether he does at all. 

Your kiss had been entirely one-sided. His rewards are so detached. There’s a lot you haven’t explored yet; with every passing second, the greater the urge is to push and find out. 

“Except we can both appreciate why I do,” You breathe, throwing caution to the wind and catching his stare. An irrepressible smile blooms at the spirited expression he gives you. Eyebrows raised in a thick arch, forming an amused look that only bolsters you further. 

“For your redemption?” He baits, only to interrupt your response. “Or…”  Your nerves spark. “For this–” 

And then he cups you over your leggings, pawing where you’re brim with molten arousal. Hips bucking, your jaw hinges to expel a high-pitched keen, pinched from the back of your gullet. You latch onto his wrist, eager to either neg him on or push him away – but with the torrid fuzz that gains control of your systems, you can’t work it out. 

“Do you deserve it?” His ask caresses the shell of your ear, a whisper, fingers slowing until you land on an answer. 

Distrusting yourself to verbalise it, you give a frantic nod, mortifyingly desperate. It’s as much of a revelation for you as it is for him, manifested with every needy rut you give his hand. Miguel lets you seek the pleasure, pinning harder to provide the pressure you need, before withdrawing just as assuredly. 

You could almost sob. Your nose is stuffy and your lips bitten and you so badly wish to be filled with anything to help you forget your miserable day. When he taps your ass, you assign every ounce of remaining intellect to decipher the vague gesture – eventually falling back on your bed in a close measure of what you assume he means. It’s a sterling guess. Your shoes are shucked off in the process and he leans over you, one knee anchored to the surface as he tucks into the waistband of your pants. They slide off with his help, separating from heated flesh like velcro. 

It occurs to you that this is the first time he’ll see you. So far, your body is familiar to him in touch alone – hurried, stolen and shoved under your panties in semi-public spaces while you fight to endure the conflicting sensations. There’s mind to currently faux humility – a game you liked to play with your college conquests. Batted eyelashes and babydoll modesty; a secret thrill present in watching them come undone at your relinquished control. 

But Miguel is no lover, and you’re far too gone to play nice now. 

You scoot back to your pile of pillows when he joins you. It’s unreal seeing him in such a domestic setting. Civilian attire, combed hair. In high nature. If it weren’t for the bandage on his temple and the shadows making allusions to the brawn he keeps at bay, then you could’ve fooled yourself into trusting his normality. That he isn’t larger than life – solely here because he’s like you, a person trying to make well for themselves. 

As it is, though, he’s still impenetrable. Fully clothed while you lay bottomless. 

(Again, you’re reminded that you don’t know him. The man sacking you of your underwear could have a spouse, for all you’re privy to. 

It just adds another layer of distance you should be thankful for.) 

Manic with lust, you’re barely enlightened to what’s coming when your mentor captures each leg in a separate grip. Big hands cradle their bends, under your knees where your skin is unconventionally soft. It poses a contrast to the calluses on his palm, worn by years of crime-fighting and swinging on reinforced webs. They’re warm and rough and scratch you, sending a nervous buzz down to your core. 

He guides your limbs up. Your ankles sway. Definitely strong; he almost syphons the breath right out through your stomach. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that this is just another exercise, a preliminary stretch.

But you don’t. Folded with your thighs pinned to your chest, you can only fluster with real self-consciousness. Your cunt is exposed to the filtered air, biting the heated centre with its opposite degree. Perhaps more wickedly, however, is the way you’re spread to Miguel’s hawk-like gaze. He inspects the way you glow, humiliated, the sticky confirmation of your desire smeared across your puffy lips. Is he turned off by the sight – your eagerness a violation of the pseudo-professional boundaries marked around your deal?  

No, you decide. He’s all too content when he ducks to face it, laying a heavy mouth to your throbbing clit. It’s intoxicating, the cool slice of oxygenated air after months of smoke inhalation. You forget your insecure tangent entirely, tipping your chin back to moan your encouragement. 

Fuck, he’s good. 

More than good. You scramble for a better description, hands clawing for purchase on your sheets. It’s indescribable in its obscenity – lewd and dirty and slow, mapping every fold and crevice with his tongue. The sweltering muscle, like velvet, swirls across your sensitive bud, taking in its high reactivity, before lapping at the hood above it. You hone in to every miniscule movement, raptured by its dexterity and unwilling to fully let yourself go. 

Miguel hums, low, tasting the agony that pours from his skill. His fingertips paint bruises where they dig, holding your thrashing hips still. You find there’s nothing else you can do to bear it, your arms flailing pathetically, toes curling. You pant and it doesn’t help dissuade the indulgence building up within you, crashing against a dam that’s starting to crack. It’s almost as though you’re doing too much to seek it out, afraid he’ll turn to ash at any second and leave you wanting.

“Oh– O’h… Shit, shit!” You whine, pounding your heel on his broad back. He barely notices, peering up at you through dark lashes. “If I had… Don’t stop! Please, p–” His crimson eyes gleam dark and bloody, obscured in shadow.  Sobbing, you suck in large gulps of heady air. “If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.” 

“Mmm-” He ignores your plea, breaking away to bring two digits to his mouth. Your right leg flops uselessly to his side. “Good idea.” One lick and they’re covered in spit. You can’t help but notice the discolouration on his knuckles, deep red and purple, as he uses his index and middle to fan out your lower lips. 

And then he’s back to eating you out. This time, though, he’s drinking from your weeping slit. Breaching it, exploring the perimeter that stretches to accommodate his pistoning tongue. Despite pursed lips, your scream still manages to sound through the way it vibrates your lungs. Rattling you, much like he does now, from inside out. His nose is pressed to your mound. You don’t doubt he can smell you, potent sex and clean sweat, contracting every joint until you’re an immovable board. 

“Don’t do that,” Miguel groans, scorching the space he creates to reprimand you. Crying, you obey what he says, melting into a puddle of nectar. He strikes a fair point; things feel exponentially better when you aren’t tense, nerve pathways unobstructed in sending pleasure signals to your blank brain. Discerning the shift, he huffs. “Good.” 

Stars and heaven above, your consequent wail is unhinged. Your hands fly to his hair, seizing the wavy tresses in a smarting hold. The praise serves as an amplifier to every sense. Hips bucking, free calf curling around his neck. His fingers plunge into you, scissoring your tight walls as he spits onto your pussy, gathering the pearlescent fluid with his thumb and using it as aid. Like you need the extra help. 

Because you’re soaked. The dam is broken. Everything gushes out of you in an ugly mess, glossing his palm and the duvet below. He nips your clit, grazing his teeth along the swollen sprout, teasing, then places his mouth back onto you. Brown locks curl to his brow. You brush them back, shoving him harder, closer. Sort of power-drunk at the sight of him succumbing to your command. 

It’s short lived. You’re about to cum when he chooses the inopportune moment to speak. 

Growls, actually. “Hold on.” 

Capturing you to his face, he makes sure you’re steady before relinquishing his fingers from your hole and upending you both. 

Suddenly, you’re on top and he’s the one framed by your pillows. Your back bends and you almost crumble on top of him – an old building met with a wrecking ball of celestial proportions. You can’t hold your weight on your haunches. They’re practically useless like this, quivering with suspense. Where guilt would be the appropriate response at such a prospect, you’re bound by awe instead. He’s no doubt suffocated by your squeezed thighs and seated pussy – the force of which aided by gravity – but something tells you that’s what he wants. For the first time, his eyes flutter shut. 

A sting – concentrated on the globe of your ass – registers only seconds later where he had slapped you. Go, it demands silently. You force yourself to muster the energy to do so. 

You can’t last very long, anyway. 

Pelvis waving, you ride his face, back arched away from his hand. It irons over your covered waist, wet and soaking the breathable material of your shirt. The position proves to be a workout in of itself, your core strength tested in the motions. For the first time, you find yourself thanking his training. You wouldn’t have persisted otherwise. 

Your orgasm rises again, faster now that you’re properly edged. It floods up from your feet like a high tide, sweeping all the seaweed and shells and stability from your abdomen. Lost at shore, a stranded sailor waking up from a tempests’ shipwreck; dazed, sun-blanched on splintered wood. There’s sand on your skin – it clears that too. You’re renewed in briny water. Freshened, addicted to the feeling of the sea pulling you back into its gentle but firm embrace. 

You take back what you said. About his mouth and how he chooses to use it. It’s none of your business so long as he keeps it on you, sucking and drinking the cum he milks for all its worth. It just keeps coming, no start or end in sight. It’s all you can do to withstand your weakened centre constantly clenching and still breathe, tears budding hot and heavy. Your nails scratch his scalp. Miguel gives a minute mmmm.

And in the wake of it, while he lays there and laps you clean, the echoes of your moans still rings from the walls.

Forget what you said. Technically, the night didn’t end there. 

Much later, you’re both washed and warm. It took you a while to wipe the slick from your folds. He used your bathroom to cleanse his hands and face. 

The same cartons of food now sit open between you, on the desk he’d manoeuvred off the wall to divide its chair from your bed. He’s much too big for the seat, but when you’d offered him the mattress, he brushed you off. You currently sit cross legged, cushions bare – sheets in the wash. 

And it’s quiet. The empty type, strangely enough. Devoid of any of your usual sarcasm or awkwardness. Sort of… suspended between both, in the foreign land of amity. 

Perhaps that’s what convinces you to ask. The inherent safety of the moment. There’s not much you can say to offend in the post-smut glow. Slurping the tail end of a noodle, you look away from your rapture with the illuminated highway outside to take him in. The train had just passed. 

“Are you married?” 

Miguel doesn’t reply immediately, chewing a mouthful of seasoned vegetables. Instead, he looks at you with mild amusement. Eventually, his adam's apple bobs in a thick swallow. 

“No.” He says.

chapter twelve

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[nyoomerr]

Another silly prompt if you’d like:

Shen Qingqiu starts exhibiting ‘symptoms’ of being some fraction Heavenly Demon thanks to every heavenly demon he’d met previously feeding him their blood.

(Maybe he and Binghe came across some artifact meant to ‘awaken one’s bloodline’ and/or Airplane had some cut plot-line about an artificial heavenly demon for Binghe to fight).

ok i said no more prompts for now but i've been thinking about a really stupid idea for this one and i couldn't stop thinking about it so dfkjh here it is!!

---

There’s no reason to suspect anything is out of the ordinary, at first. The visiting dignitary and his troupe are exceedingly deferential to both Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu in equal measure; not unusual, considering the amount of importance Luo Binghe places on having Shen Qingqiu treated well. 

Lesser demons have been beheaded for conveniently ‘forgetting’ to greet their emperor’s human spouse with enough respect. More politically empowered demons - the ones that understand just how important it is to respect a powerful demon’s demands for his wife - have had trade agreements stalled and family honor lost for being too nice to Shen Qingqiu, crossing Luo Binghe’s hair-trigger alarm for any potential competition to his Shizun’s attention. 

Taking both extremes into account, the safest bet is usually to treat Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu with the same level of esteem. Indeed, this visiting dignitary’s actions are very normal.

…Or they had started as such, and then Shen Qingqiu had let his guard down, and now they’re on day three of this particular political visit and things seem to have shifted ever so slightly to the left.

The little lordling is still plenty respectful to them both, of course, and he hasn’t started looking too long or too kindly at Shen Qingqiu, so it isn’t - erm, it isn’t any any sort of wife plot, trying to stir up jealousy with the stallion protagonist. 

Instead, it’s both more and less alarming than that: this demon has somehow gotten it into his head that Shen Qingqiu is in charge here. 

Never mind what Luo Binghe may or may not have to say about such a thing!! This is about the law of the land - the actual, real emperor between the two of them is Luo Binghe, if only because Luo Binghe knows well that Shen Qingqiu couldn’t tolerate the work of such a position. Part time empresses, part time peak lords got to have naps; Luo Binghe didn’t get those unless Shen Qingqiu thickened his face and made gestures from the bed that may or may not be construed as requests for cuddles. Shut up.

Anyway, the point is thus: Luo Binghe is emperor of the demonic lands. Shen Qingqiu is to be treated well when he decides he wants to participate in a bit of demonic politicking, but he is not supposed to be the one little visiting dignitaries look to for the final decision.

Shen Qingqiu tries to ignore it, of course. If he pretends he doesn’t notice, maybe Luo Binghe will do the same, and then there’s less of a chance of Luo Binghe being weird about it in bed later!

But as the days stretch on, the visiting dignitary seems to become more confident in his decision on which one of them is in charge, and it finally comes to a head during the feast on the final day: the little lordling seats himself to the side of Shen Qingqiu, rather than that of Luo Binghe.

Shen Qingqiu shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing over the top of his fan at the dignitary. Surely, he’ll realize his mistake here…?

“Lord Shen,” the demon lord says, seemingly oblivious to the tension throughout the banquet hall as everyone watches the political misstep in action. “Once more, our people can only thank you and your husband for the hospitality you’ve afforded us during this visit. The agreement between our lands will -”

Shen Qingqiu closes his fan with a snap, drawing himself up with a mental tirade of a thousand of his best curses. That really is the last straw - if he doesn’t correct this mistake now, Luo Binghe might really decide to do something petty and violent later to correct the offense!

“Lord Xia,” Shen Qingqiu says, voice perfectly level. “It appears as if you may have had one too many drinks this afternoon; your place is over there.” 

Saying as such, Shen Qingqiu gestures sharply with his fan to Luo Binghe’s other side. The dignitary pauses, glancing between Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu.

“...No,” he says slowly, “I’m - that is, this lowly one is fairly certain his loyalty is to Lord Shen…”

Shen Qingqiu glances up to the heavens, which have surely forsaken him many years ago. Oh, why did this stupid little man have to word it like that!!

“Xia Yang had best remember what is and is not his,” Luo Binghe says lowly. “The only one allowed to pledge such loyalty to Shizun is myself.”

Xia Yang once more glances between the two of them, his expression growing more confused by the moment. 

“Is Lord Shen… not the demon emperor of this realm?”

Shen Qingqiu stares at him. To his side, Luo Binghe is staring too, though with a far more shrewd expression; clearly, he’s trying to parse this response out as either an acceptable excuse for being too friendly with Shen Qingqiu or not.

“I’m afraid Lord Xia is mistaken,” Shen Qingqiu says when it becomes clear that Luo Binghe is busy being silent and brooding. “This lord is quite human.”

The visiting dignitary’s brows draw together, and then slowly he tilts his head up, scenting the air. 

“...Is Lord Shen sure?” Xia Yang asks, clearly uncertain. “Of course, I had heard of the tales of Luo Binghe and his human spouse, but Lord Shen is…”

“Speak plainly, or lose your tongue,” Luo Binghe snaps.

Shen Qingqiu sighs, reaching over to rap his knee under the table sharply. This sticky disciple of his, always so snappish when it comes to what others say about Shen Qingqiu, ah! This scum villain has had to tolerate far worse things said about him than this sort of mistake, you know!

“It is only that Lord Shen’s blood is clearly of heavenly demon origin,” the little lordling says, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny. 

Shen Qingqiu feels a bit mortified. Has he - has he really consumed that much of Luo Binghe’s blood??

“Xia Yang smells my own blood in Shizun’s veins,” Luo Binghe says, still looking a bit ruffled. “Shizun is human.”

“All due respect to Lord Luo,” Xia Yang says, “but Lord Shen’s heavenly demon blood is distinct from your own. It -”

Xia Yang cuts off, his mouth shutting so fast he seems to almost bite his own tongue right off and his cheeks coloring a scandalized pink. Shen Qingqiu feels a sense of great foreboding for what is about to be said next.

“Speak,” Luo Binghe hisses.

“Lord Shen’s bloodline is clearly the same as Lord Luo’s,” Xia Yang says in a rush. “This one isn’t sure how close, but it - ah, from the smell of his blood, this one thought Lord Shen might be Lord Luo’s father, or perhaps an uncle…”

The banquet hall is dead silent. Shen Qingqiu feels a bit faint. 

“Tianlang-jun,” he says, mostly to himself. 

“And that snake, too,” Luo Binghe agrees, his eyes flashing and his demonic qi writhing around him. “Shizun, you said they were dead.”

“They are!” Shen Qingqiu exclaims, still feeling a bit regretful about it. “But - well, it isn’t like I could siphon their blood out! It’s all mixed up in there!”

Luo Binghe gnashes his teeth, glaring down at the table. He looks very much like he wishes his parental family was still alive, actually, just so he could have the pleasure of serving them a beat down for putting their blood in Shen Qingqiu’s body and causing this misunderstanding in the first place.

“Lord Shen… has consumed the blood of several heavenly demons?” Xia Yang asks curiously. Shen Qingqiu almost wants to yell at him to read the room just a bit, ah!

“Indeed,” Shen Qingqiu says instead, his voice positively frosty. “So as Lord Xia can see, there has been a misunderstanding: this Lord is human.”

Xia Yang blinks, looks between Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe a final time, and gets up to exchange seats so he’s finally sitting in the proper location. Shen Qingqiu reaches blindly for his wine. Ah, that poor little demon, he really will end up on the shit side of things, after riling Luo Binghe up this much! And this political visit had been going so well, too -!

Shen Qingqiu glances over at Luo Binghe. He does not, in fact, look quite so furious as he had a moment prior. Instead, he’s watching Xia Yang with a look that is very, very concerning to Shen Qingqiu.

“...You said Shizun smelled like he could be my father?” Luo Binghe asks quietly, the tips of his ears pink.

Ah. Never mind. That poor little demon would see his end by Shen Qingqiu’s hand, for what he’s just done to their bedroom life!!

#OKAY BRAINWORMS FROM THE PAST FEW DAYS GONE i am so sorry sqq djkf #svsss #bingqiu #scum villain's self saving system #人渣反派自救系统 #fic drabble

[tswwwit]

Here's a thing! Reincarnation of Dipper who's not in the best of situations. (A Cult)

Got some gore and knives in here so watch out!

In the room of ritual, everything is ready. 

Off in that wide and majestic space, the candles are lit. The circle is drawn. The altar spread with gold and trinkets, little offerings of delight and whimsy, tomes of knowledge. Along with the remnants of the latest sacrifice, dried in long trails down the stone.

The tomes, though. If one looked closely, they would see mostly encyclopedia volumes from like, sixty years ago. Because, yeah, those are going to be so tempting for a being of infinite knowledge.

Long chanting rings through the hallways, preparing the way. The ritual is in less than an hour. In preparation for the service, the servants of their lord make themselves presentable. 

Dipper adjusts his robe - too big for him, by at least one size- and pulls at the neckline. It always drags up against his throat, in a tight, uncomfortable way. He tugs it down again, glaring into the small mirror on the otherwise bare wall.

Bill Cipher is the most powerful being in the universe, and his reach is infinite and his discernment of the mind and mastery of mysteries is unquestionable, yadda yadda yadda. 

Dipper just. Doesn’t know what everyone else here expects to happen. Especially with the setup unchanged from the one he saw last year. And the year before that. And the one before that. 

Odds are, this ritual is going to end up the same as every other one. 

Pointless.

Dipper adjusts his robes again, and smooths out the front with slow strokes. As long as this is going to happen, he might as well avoid drawing attention to himself. He’s had enough ‘attention’ for more than a lifetime.

There’s a rhythm to these ceremonies.  Dipper hears the footsteps, and easily tucks the hood of his robe up, only semi-stumbling as he joins the twin lines of robed figures leading into the ritual room. 

As he tucks his hands together, covering them with long sleeves - Dipper spends another moment to silently sigh. 

He joins the line, ducking his head as he joins in formation. The two lines of followers shuffle on with their long robes brushing the floor. He can hear them whispering to each other; varying levels of excitement, boredom. Talking about plans for after the ritual. He thinks he picks up one of the more devout members, almost humming with anticipation.

Despite the murmurs, the sight itself could be quite impressive. An all-seeing eye, if it was real, might even appreciate it.

Still, all these dramatics are so over the top. Just as fruitless and stupid as every other prayer, or ritual. Never worked before, not gonna work now. Dipper’s not sure why they’re trying the same freakin’ thing, over and over again.

For a bunch of people obsessed with the infinite power and knowledge Cipher represents, they haven’t accrued any. 

And for that matter! If Bill Cipher’s eye is truly all-seeing, why hasn’t he ever responded? His triangle is emblazoned on every wall, and on their robes. You can’t look at a surface without seeing it staring back at you, and there’s no short of devout worshipers, constantly praying and doing rites. 

Dipper dares a glance at one of the long scrawls on the walls, seething slightly at the handwriting. And the grammar.

If he was watching, surely he would have spoken up by now. Even if it’s just to critique the decor, which is tacky as hell.

The main ritual room fills up with warm bodies, and Dipper stands in an inconspicuous place. Just to the left, and not quite entirely in the back. At the front of the room, he can see the priest nodding approvingly, hands tucked behind his back. 

Hidden under the sleeves, Dipper clenches his hands together. Breathing out a silent prayer of his own, to nobody particular. He can stand stock-still through one or two more ridiculous rituals, if it means no more prayers to a blind idiot god.

A week. Maybe two. That’s it.

Then he’ll be out of these robes, and far, far away from here. He’ll never see these people again. He’ll never have to chant a single verse again in slightly incorrect Latin. He’ll never have to kneel, or go before that stone altar again, not even once.

The outside world is - there’s a lot of talk about it. There’s always a lot of talk, more or less colored by personal experiences and levels of permission to go ‘outside’. Dipper’s learned, now, that well over ninety percent of the gossip is lies. 

If his palms still sweat at the prospect, it’s because it’s… New. Different. But it can’t possibly be worse than here, and, like. Novelty is condoned by his not-really-a-god. Trying new things should be standard doctrine - if the priest wasn’t a total idiot.

Not much longer, now. 

Out there, things will be better. Out there, Dipper will have a chance at having a life. 

And there won’t be any trouble, since he’ll keep his mouth shut.

 “Children of Cipher!” The high-pitched voice of the priest rings tinnily through the air. “We are once again assembled!”

Dipper bows in concert with his fellows. Staring at the ground is a good way to not roll his eyes. 

A chant rises up, and he keeps his lips clamped together as he mirrors the ritual bowing and scraping and general genuflection. The priest will go on and on, no matter what he does. 

All it takes to get through this is time. Another round of kneeling, then standing, then kneeling, until they stand at the last word in a thronging chorus.

“Brothers!” A louder, shriller call, now that everyone has been drawn close to a fervor. For all his faults, the priest does know how to read the mood - “Tonight is a special evening!” His arms thrown up, spindly and bare as the sleeves drop near to his shoulders. “Who will bleed for our god?”

The only thing that prevents Dipper from flinching is how much attention that would draw.

He hardly dares to breathe, lest some wayward motion be taken as ‘enthusiasm.’ 

Dipper keeps his head bowed, as murmurs start up around him and  his forehead starts to prickle with sweat. 

Sacrifices happen all the time. Mostly animals. Last year they got a goat, and that was considered a pretty big one and the stew afterwards was filling, and probably tasted pretty good. 

Human blood, though. That’s - They haven’t done this in years. 

The susurration of voices in the background grow louder, and Dipper stays bowed in place. Of course nobody wants to volunteer; ‘willing’ isn’t easily found when it comes to getting a knife in your flesh - but someone’s going to bleed, tonight. The ‘volunteer’ bit will be justified by whatever’s convenient.

Around him there’s murmurs, a few, low arguments. Tension is starting to rise, but for the most part, he’s being overlooked.

He nearly thinks he’s gotten away with it, too, when a hard shove on his back sends him stumbling forward.

“Here, brothers!” The voice rings in Dipper’s ears as he tries to backtrack, slipping on the robes of the person in front of him and dropping painfully to the floor. “The provider!”

Shit, shit, shit. 

Dipper tries to glance back at whatever asshole pushed him, but the crowd’s already grouped together into a bunch of faceless clumps, drawing back from his fall. 

He levels the worst glare he can manage, even as both his arms are seized by two of his so-called ‘brothers’. The big ones. 

Gritting his teeth, Dipper digs in his heels. Struggling’s ineffective, protesting’s impossible. Gesturing wildly, including a raised finger in the general direction of the asshole who pushed him, Dipper gets dragged to the foot of the altar. 

“See how he offers his flesh! See how he shakes with joy!” The priest jogs his arms in the air. Dipper shakes his head rapidly holding up his hands. “His arms, already offered!”

And for a moment Dipper’s simply annoyed at how obvious it is that the whole damn ritual is a farce. 

“Tonight, we call upon the god! Tonight! We-”

Whatever else he’s yelling about, Dipper doesn’t pay any mind. He’s busy trying to use the loose robes to worm his way out of the guards’ grip. It halfway works, until one of them gets him by the bare wrist and painfully pulls it out.

The cold stone hits his waist. One of his sleeves is drawn to his shoulder. His arm pinned, bare and wrist upraised, on the stone. 

Damn it, if he finds out who shoved him, he’s going to - he arches up, but firm hands hold his shoulders. There’s little time to think about revenge when he’s trying to find a way out of this. Arm, stuck. Shoulders, held. The exits, totally blocked by a bunch of crowded figures. 

In a way, Dipper can’t truly blame them. After all, if the current sacrifice got away, who knows? 

They could be next. 

The priest seems pleased, at least. He paces in front of the altar, gesticulating wildly, and rambling on about god and blood, and other nonsensical bullshit.

Great. They have their ‘sacrifice’ for tonight. So, so super ‘willing’ too, what with how he, quote ‘rushed to offer himself’, end quote. 

Dipper takes a long breath, holding it for three beats. Then he lets it out. 

Okay. If this follows most other ‘human sacrifices’, it should be bearable. Some bloodletting, a nasty scar. Maybe a missing finger, but he’s learned to deal with worse. Push through the moment, wait for it to be over. Soon enough, he’ll be on the other side of this entire godawful situation.

Focusing on the transitory nature of pain helps him steady his breathing. And more importantly, slow his heart rate.

Calming meditation. He can work on that. Though it’s difficult, with the way the priest keeps going on and on about an ‘auspicious night’. Also, the very large, curved, very sharp-looking knife.

Dipper tries his best not to stare at it. Or to linger too much on the thought of knives and flesh and blood. If he could stop thinking, for once in his stupid life, it’ll be over before he knows it.

That’s totally not not the usual knife, though. He wonders where the hell it came from.

Last time, it was some basic utilitarian repurposed chef-thing, with a crudely engraved triangle on the hilt and the blade. This one’s much more… Ceremonial. Sharper, too, with a wicked curve and a gleaming edge, and covered in runes that Dipper’s never seen before.

He mouths a swear as one guard uncurls his fingers from the edge of the altar, turning his wrist back upright. The priest waves the very, very sharp blade around, yelling something that Dipper doesn’t bother parsing, even as his mind races. He can tell it’s definitely not Cipher runes on that thing, and not the old Latin their god prefers. Did someone go outside to find this? Another random artifact that the priest got his hands on? Seems like he’s always picking up useless semi-magic items.

The knife doesn’t feel ‘useless’, though, even from a glance. It radiates a pure and terrifying purpose. 

Especially as it comes down, and rests against his wrist. Almost gently, its point bites a drop of blood from his skin.

The fetid breath of the priest pants over the altar. Dipper turns away, neck twisting as far as he can manage, eyes shut.

Please let this be just a bit. Just a drop. A small, tentative cut to fill a bit of the channels on the stone. There’s a sting to the metal, a slight burn, and though Dipper’s not one of the main Holders of Mysteries or anything, he feels like that’s a very bad sign.

Then he feels. Cold.

It runs down his inner arm, lingering for an instant before blossoming into sharp, bright pain. He nearly chokes on air, cringing into a hunched position as he feels the knife slide.

The catching drag of the old knife would have been painful, but that was mostly used for taking a finger, or maybe dragging across the back of the arm, in a more decorative than productive way of drawing blood. 

The ease with which this knife cuts sends a deep, swirling nausea straight to the pit of his stomach.

“Behold, the flow! The magic gathers, my children!” THe priest’s voice warbles a bit as “With this tool, with this magic, our god will hear our call! He will behold our devotion, and raise us to glory! He will answer-” More and more words, variations on encouragement. Zero substance, all hype. A fanatical motivation speaker, Dipper thinks, half-hysterically. 

Vapid or not, the result is effective. The sight of blood has certainly spurred everyone into a kind of frenzy, whether from fear or fervor, Dipper doesn’t care.

And they’re certainly getting a lot of blood. More than required.

Dipper struggles up against the hold, but it’s pointless. He ‘s stuck there for a few long minutes, oozing out for an audience that can’t even see half the damn thing, and it hurts. 

The red trail gathers, slowly pooling down and into the engraven triangle. Enough to fill the shallow channels easily, which, uh. Dipper’s never seen before. With the other sacrifices it kind of stopped and clotted, but this moves like it’s being wicked along the surface.

He makes a face as  his blood slowly travels through the lines, but can’t see any surface changes, or feel anything that might have been put on the stone.  

Until it connects at the top point. Then it meets, completing the image of Bill with a strange, too-bubbly ‘blorp’. 

Okay. Weird. But that’s plenty, right? Ritual done, blood offered, and now, he should get going.

Lurching upward gets the grip to loosen up on his arms, as the guards loosen their grip a bit. They already have what they need, and hell. Dippers deserves a friggin’ break. With the immediate attention off him, he can dare a glance at his arm - 

And instantly averts his gaze to absolutely anything else. 

The priest turns around, arms raised. Pumping them  in the air, knife glinting in the candlelight. “Yes. Yes!” He swings the blade around, nearly catching one of the big brothers in the side. “See how easily the liquid flows. The power builds! I can feel it - the summoning, in this room tonight!”

The crowd calls out their enthusiasm, a high rising ‘oooh’ noise. 

Dipper sighs, and tries to scoot back away from the altar. It’s done, at least; he’ll just have to cope with the aftermath. Could be worse.

“The other arm, brothers!” A loud, clarion call. Dipper whips his head around,  as the priest lowers his arms - and turns back around. Pointing at Dipper. Again. “I feel the blade crave more!” 

Uh, hello? What?

Dipper glances up at the knife. At how the slight sheen of blood has dipped into some of the runes, the faint glow -  and goes ‘huh’. 

Alright, he’ll admit. It’s definitely magical. 

But he’s beginning to suspect it has less to do with Bill, and a lot more to do with other forces. Ones that might, say, make a ritual flow smoothly. Or make a fanatical asshole even more bloodthirsty.

Behind him, he almost feels the guards shrug, right before he gets shoved against the altar again. One of the assholes even dares to pat his side, in a brief bit of unexpected sympathy. Not that it means anything. 

Dipper longs to curse them out, to scream at every single one of these absolute jackasses. Every one of them is just watching this happen. Nobody thinks about what happens next, ever, including - 

He grits his teeth instead, hard enough that he thinks something might crack.

Everyone follows orders. The words of their supposed ‘god’, filtered through a man who’s fallible and frail and frankly fucking stupid.  Always getting stupid magical trinkets. Always trying to find a link to that demonic god, constantly pursuing magic, and power, and influence. No matter the cost.

Why would he care if one of the too-few worshipers pays the price?

And fuck that.

Before, Dipper struggled as much as he could. Partly from fear, sure. But mostly to make a point. That this was stupid and painful, and wasn’t going to do anything anyway. Knowing that with enough kicking and protest, he might get them to cut things short.

Now, seeing the priest whip the blade back around, raising overhead with both hands - he fights.

A solid kick lands in the left guard’s groin, and he gets his wounded arm back. Dipper clutches it to his chest, but the other’s still pinned and being twisted, now. Another kick gets something softer, and he hears a huff from the priest. Then a loud, angry order to ‘Hold him down!’.

Dipper’s shoved into the stone, stomach digging into the edge of the altar hard enough to make him gag. His head hits the surface, more dizzying than painful. There's a hand gripped in his hair. Then his other sleeve is drawn up, his healthy arm extended over the table. Bare skin exposed, lying over the bloody surface. 

He breathes heavily, nose nearly against the altar. It quickly grows hot from his breath, and moist, too, which is probably why his face feels wet. He doesn’t hear anything but his own harsh panting. 

He never wanted to be a part of this, he never wanted to grow up like this. In a week or so, he was going to get out, and now he’s going to get hurt again, so soon, and he only has so much blood in him. He doesn’t want to die. He shuts his eyes, tucking up against himself. Hoping the weight of his body will drag his arm away where his own strength couldn’t, choking back a tightness in his throat. He was nearly out. He was nearly safe.

He was almost free. 

He breathes harder, shutting his eyes tight. He presses his forehead against the runes, and the blood, and just wishes he wasn’t here. 

Metal clangs on the floor, ringing bright as a bell. 

There’s a sudden intake of breath. Dipper feels the hands release him, a shocked sound. Then the ‘flump’ of a lot of draped fabric, all at once. 

Dipper keeps his face against the stone, breathing slower. That’s. That’s not how any ritual goes.

He can’t waste the opportunity, though. Now that his arms are free, Dipper pulls his sleeve back up, bundling it around the cut. Shit. Does he clench his fist or leave his grip loose? Which one slows blood flow. 

Whatever interrupted this isn’t going to last. He’s only got a few seconds before everyone comes back to whatever passes for their senses, and tries to ‘complete the summoning’, or whatever the hell they were after.

Gotta act. Gotta - Dipper wheels around, panting for breath. 

In front of the altar, all the robed figures in the room have fallen to their knees. The priest’s dropped the knife. Dipper scoots it a little closer to himself with a foot, watching as the zealot raises his arms in devout praise. 

Dipper pauses. Still clenching tight on his wrist, though his sleeve is starting to feel damp. Things don’t just stop like that. The ritual has to continue. People should be surging up to keep the momentum, but the entire room is -

Oh. 

Yeah, now he sees it. 

All the candles were lit before. They give a little light to a room that’s never seen electronics in its life, dim as it is. 

Right now, they’re bursting with flame, rising high enough to cast weird shadows over the cavern - 

And it’s a very bright blue. 

Shit.

Dipper whirls around, unsteady on his feet. Staring at a long, long trail of rising blood. Almost a string, or a reverse droplet, floating up from the triangle carved on the stone. In midair it spreads into a thin web, shapeless and vaguely pulsing. 

Okay. That is definitely magical. And absolutely up to no good. 

He fumbles around - where did he kick the knife? Maybe if he breaks it, it’ll interrupt this whole thing. Who knows what the hell that idiot priest did, or where he got the artifact, or what it does. 

Dipper doesn’t know much about gods, or spirits, or demons, but anything that gets pulled in by a blood sacrifice can’t be a good sign. He spots the damn thing near the opposite corner, and braces himself on the altar. It he’s careful, he can reach it without alerting anyone. Maybe.

Which is when the entire hall fills with bright, loud laughter.

“Well, well, well, well, well!” The voice rings just as brightly as the laugh. Dipper jerks towards the sound, involuntarily, only to see a single eye open inside the breath web of blood. “What do we have here?”

There’s a resounding groan from the crowd. Various people start chanting, but they’re all using different verses, and the priest starts his own, presumably improvised, wail of praise and devotion. The end result is an ear-rattling clamor. 

Dipper looks back at the altar. Watching the blood twist in this way, and that. The eye alights on him for a moment - he freezes - but it moves on from him quickly, examining the room.

There’s a lot to see, too. Maybe terrified, devout worshipers isn’t weird for a supernatural entity, but it’s thoroughly freaking Dipper out. Even the priest is on his knees.

“Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve had this kinda summon!” The net stretches, almost elastic; twisting into limblike shapes, and fractal forms. The slit-pupiled eye rolls back and forth. Then it blinks twice. “Might as well get dressed for the occasion! Hold on a sec.”

The eye shuts into nothingness. Moments later, the blood starts getting really active, pulsing faster, twisting into shapes like it’s alive.

Dipper spares a terrified check on his wrist, but. No, he’s not feeding it, or anything. This is something else. Someone else, taking the material and lending it power enough to grow. 

Even as he watches, there’s a spreading arch of bone and the twist of veins. A fairly glorpy assortment of something between and below what looks like ribs, a strange thick blackness tinged with yellow…

He cringes back, and shuts his eyes. Shit, watching this is deeply unsettling. 

Not that it’s gory, per se - that would imply that something’s being taken apart, when it shouldn’t be. This is something being put together, a way that it shouldn’t ever be.

He backs up a step from the writhing mass, getting more fleshy by the instant. Then grimaces, teetering in place. Blood loss, right. From the asshole who started this whole thing. He levels a glare at said asshole - 

But. Beside him, the priest is quivering with tension. Trembling like he didn’t expect this to happen.

Frankly? Neither did Dipper. For all the times they’ve done a ritual, there’s never been a reaction like this. 

This insane mass, forming insanely out of nothing. Or well, from blood, that spread out in a weird three-dimensional - triangle, oh shit -

He should have known. Should have noticed. This was a summon, and while the object used wasn’t for the right being, maybe that doesn't’ matter with so much gathered intent. 

This is….

Dipper falls, awkwardly, to his knees. Then ducks down in as low a bow as he can manage, pulling the hood of his robe back over his head.

Part of him thought Bill didn’t exist, or at least not in the way these guys talked about him. Maybe they’d latched onto some other spirit or deity, and completely misinterpreted everything. Maybe they’d made it all up, including some of the really old texts. There was never any evidence that their lord and master was real.  

But given what’s happening here…

Like hell is he gonna look like the only person who doesn’t. 

Something - two things - go ‘clack’ on the altar. A few series of taps. 

Then a long, pleased sigh, and the sound of soft movement, like cloth.

Dipper keeps looking down. The hood keeps him anonymous, another faceless shape in the crowd. Just one more figure genuflecting before his - 

Before a god. 

One that might not even deserve a capital letter on the word, perhaps, but still an entity that he should not, under any circumstances, piss off. 

There’s a tap that sounds like a shoe, and a low hum. Something lands beside him with a thud. In the brief moment that he raises his head, Dipper catches sight of black loafers, and long fingers on an oddly human-looking hand. 

He quickly lowers himself more towards the floor, holding his arm tight. 

Yep, just one more super-devoted believer, same as all the others. Super not important enough to notice.

“You know, blood’s usually for blood gods!” Bill Cipher’s voice rings through the room. It’s higher than Dipper expected it to be. One of the fancy-looking black shoes kicks the knife up into the air, where it’s caught by the long fingers of that hand. “Pretty wild for you guys to pull this. With another guy’s artifact, of all things!” A chiding tut, and the knife twirls. “And pretty disrespectful, I gotta say.”

“My lord.” The priest’s voice is dry, even for a guy who already sounded half-dessicated. He rises to his knees, hands clasped together. “We meant no disrespect. We are here to serve you, master. As we always have.”

“Uh huh,” Bill says. In Dipper’s limited sight, he toys idly with the knife, pressing the tip against the finger of an opposite hand. A bead of something dark wells up, and he rubs his fingers together. 

The priest recites several lines of a chant, making a triangle with his fingers. So eager, and so totally missing the disinterest in Bill’s tone- “We have always been searching for you, our worship unending! You honor us with your presence. You shine upon us your infinite glory!”

“Sure you have,” Bill says, sounding, if anything, bored. The blade in his hand flips around between his fingers, then back again. The motion reminds Dipper of a very deadly fidget spinner. “Do tell.”

Which is when the priest surges up, nearly grabbing onto Bill’s thigh. He’s only stopped by a rapid sidestep. 

Dipper cringes back out of secondhand embarrassment. Bad move. Dumb move. ‘Devoted’ or not, Bill was bored already - and infinite beings of pure energy do not like being manhandled by mortals. 

“Let us use this connection, and the blade! Let us complete the sacrifice.” The priest continues, undeterred. Shuffling closer on his knees, he spreads his arms wide, inviting and eager. “The blood could grant you all your power, that you might grant us-”

“Pass.” Bill says dismissively. The knife flashes, and there’s a wet, solid ‘thunk’. 

Dipper catches a brief glimpse of the priest’s face - stuck in shock, pale and lined with age - just before his body falls to the floor, as limp as a ragdoll. The knife handle in his chest props him up at a weird angle, before a swift kick from a black shoe sends it tumbling down the short three steps of the dais.

Dipper cringes into a smaller ball, trying to scrunch himself into invisibility. He watches Bill pass in front of him, standing in front of the crowd. The hand rests on a hip, while the other is raised out of site. Still far, far too close.

On the one hand, Bill’s examining the congregation. Distracted, for a moment. Staying out of his attention is so, so great. 

Dipper curls up in a much, much tighter ball despite that. 

In every single one of his plans to get out of here, Bill Cipher existing wasn’t a factor. Much less his actual, physical presence. All he’d ever thought about was how this was bullshit, that the people he knew were awful - and how hopefully, nobody would notice if he left. Now the ‘god’ himself is here. Standing so near Dipper he could, if he wanted, stupidly touch the hem of his pants.

A distant, insane part of him chimes in with the stupid idea that it’s nothing to really worry about. 

Like, compared to how he’s still losing blood, for example. 

Right. Staunch first, panic later.

Dipper wraps his sleeve around his arm, as subtly as he can, teeth gritted. His first priority is to stop bleeding. No escape plan - or any plan for that matter - is going to be useful if he dies. 

The immensely powerful nightmare god is also a problem, obviously. But in this moment he’s not the immediate threat. 

“Hmmm.” Bill lets out a low, contemplative hum. It resonates in the room, with how deathly silent things have become. “Let’s see here…”

After a pause, he snaps his fingers. “Stand!” 

The entire congregation leaps to their feet. One of them stumbles and gets a swift kick in the side.

“Sit!” Bill commands. Everyone drops to the floor. A low chuckle, then, “Turn around three times and bark like a dog!”

Oh, now that won’t - 

Or maybe it will. Dipper cringes, back pressed against the altar. Don’t just comply, what the hell. Sure it’s a magical god-being, but - fuck. He watches the scene with a grimace. 

Bill, though, seems to be having a great time. He’s bouncing in place, voice bright with enthusiasm. “Do a little dance! Twist yourself until your joints snap! Hell, start a fight with the guy next to you!”

There’s havoc in the room of ritual. Robed figures practically fall all over themselves, and Dipper notes with a nauseating turn that some of them have drawn knives of their own. Chaos reigns; an entire scramble to do each possible thing, all at once. 

And Bill’s laughter rings out over everything, clapping his hands in delight.

Dipper’s trapped in this room with an insane madman, leading a horde of equally insane idiots, and he doesn’t have a way out. He hopes he’ll stay out of notice. He hopes that he’ll live through the next five minutes.

There’s no controlling the situation, but he can improve his odds.

The altar’s pretty close, and Bill’s turned away, for the moment. Dipper scoots back, inching himself towards the corner. With enough shuffling, he might be able to move behind it and get out of sight. 

“Welp,” Bill claps his hands again, this time with finality. Some of the chaos stills. “You’re all annoying, boring little vermin, but maybe you guys could improve. I noticed the blood you used to summon me was real choice stuff!” The exaggerated sound of a kiss. “Very nice.”

Dipper feels sweat building up in his robes, and tries to be very still. Basically part of the ritual scenery. Anonymous furniture, at best.  

“In fact. It was so nice.” The voice continues, at a lower tone. Almost a purr. There’s a clack of shoes on stone. “Let’s see who this little treat is!”

The god seizes Dipper’s wrist - the wounded one, sending a bolt of pain down his arm - and clamps his palm around it, incredibly tight. 

Before he knows it, Dipper’s standing again, involuntarily, staring past his hood into a bright, glowing eye.

He’s meeting his god. He’s been noticed by Bill Cipher. 

So far he’s not trembling, so. That’s one thing he has going for him. 

Bill’s eye flicks down, then up again, almost thoughtful. Any question about his power is quickly tossed aside, because holy shit; the magic is nearly palpable, thrumming into Dipper’s skin and making his heart race. 

He’s also sporting a bright, wide grin, in a face that makes Dipper do a double-take.

Like. He thought - he glances at the triangle on the back of the wall, then to the person in front of him. 

Okay, it’s said that Bill Cipher can take any form he wants, human included, but, like. What?

Thankfully, Bill doesn’t seem to notice any of the insane, stupid things Dipper is thinking. All he does is raise his hand, and with one quick motion, sweep the hood off of Dipper’s head. 

Dipper flinches back. Jaw clenched, eye shut. 

Shit, shit, shit. Special attention. All the scenarios he can think of say ‘not good’. Best case scenario, it’s because Bill wants to thank him, for... Whatever his blood did. The rest of them involve increasingly terrifying ideas about what ‘nice blood’ means, and how much of it Bill might want. All of it, say. Maybe immediately. 

Dipper can’t pull away, not with such a strong hold on his arm. Fighting is downright dumb. Trembling’s happening, despite his best efforts, and the intrusive thought bubbles up that, hey, at least there’s lots of pressure on his wound. Could be worse.

Nothing happens. For several seconds.

Eventually, Dipper peeks an eye open. 

There’s Bill Cipher, looking back at him. His eye is literally lit up, the pleased grin wide on his face. 

Dipper waits for an order, but the god doesn’t speak. He just wiggles his eyebrows. If anything, he looks oddly… expectant?

Fuck. Dipper has to do something. 

What the hell, there isn’t any doctrine for this.

Sure, he knows all of the catechism, and each chant he was taught. He’s got an encyclopedic memory of everything he was taught about this powerful interdimensional god-being, he knows every ritual back and forth. The tenets spring to mind, unbidden: Be obedient, speak his words, serve him in all ways - and most of all, don’t think. 

But Dipper can’t chant. He hasn’t been told to do anything yet. And though it’d be a death sentence, if serving involves more bleeding he’d be tempted to kick again. Hell, he literally just watched everyone else trying the other bits. They did exactly what they were supposed to, and that was ‘boring’. 

He never could stop thinking, though. 

Now, his mind is racing.

A little-known and never-preached fact about Bill Cipher is that he doesn’t, actually, like rules all that much - 

So. 

Dipper offers a hesitant, closed-mouth smile. He wiggles the fingers of his free hand, a bit awkwardly, in greeting. 

Then ducks his head again, wishing he still had a hood to cover his face.

That didn’t make it weird, right? That’s a normal, devout thing to do. Coming from a totally religious guy, who’s only slightly damp from all the sweating.

“Oh.” Bill’s voice lowers to something like a purr. He tucks a knuckle under Dipper’s chin, lifting him to meet his single eye again. An eye that’s glowing now, bright gold and  half-lidded. “Ten outta ten on the offering, guys. Very cute.” 

Which is a little weird, but probably - 

“Y’know what?” And Bill’s grin widens, bright and wild, as his thumb strokes Dipper’s chin. “I like this one.”

Uh oh.

Dipper tries sinking down into his oversized robes, but Bill just fishes around inside them until he can pull Dipper up again by his undershirt. 

“In fact,” Bill declares, sounding proud. He pulls Dipper in closer, hand still clamped painfully tight on his wounded wrist. “I’m gonna keep him.”

What?

Immediately after that declaration, Dipper’s tugged in close, thumping against his side. Bill turns to start barking orders at the congregation, a sneer in his voice and a 

Dipper can’t quite parse it. He’s still running over the words in his head. 

In the ritual room, the candles flare even higher, temperature rising to an uncomfortable degree. Dipper watches two worshipers collide with each other in their frantic obedience, and can’t even laugh about it.

‘Keep’, Bill said. 

What does that mean? Everything here is already ‘Bill’s’, in a way. But the way he said it sounded… oddly specific. 

A hopeful part of Dipper chimes in that it might just mean ‘not let him bleed out’, but he’s never been that lucky before, and there’s no reason it would start now.

With everything else going on. With the presence of a god. e. 

The cultists are bustling about; a few of them deposit things near Bill���s feet, like gifts upon the altar. Boxes, totems, more lit candles that Bill idly kicks over onto one of their robes, watching them flail at the sudden burst of fire. 

Eventually, Bill considered the task ‘done’, or close enough. He sighs, shaking his head. “About time, guys! Talk about slow. Hard to get good followers these days.”

Bill clicks his tongue in distaste, then snaps his fingers.

Dipper hears a weird ‘zmmm’ sound to his left. He notices that Bill’s suit is really soft material, and also that he probably shouldn’t be grabbing it like this. 

He doesn’t dare look at the sound. Not when Bill’s turned towards him with smug pride, like he’s pulled off a plan without a hitch. 

“Man, it's only been fifteen minutes, and I’ve had it with these losers.” Bill gives the congregation a look of disgust, then turns back to Dipper. That grin reemerges like the sunrise. “Screw these guys, am I right?”

This time, Dipper’s smile is involuntary. He quashes it fast, but not before Bill notices.

“That’s what I thought.” Bill says, with deep pleasure. He takes a step closer to the altar, pulling Dipper along with a surprising lack of force. “So! What’d’ya say we ditch this joint?”

Dipper doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what’s been happening, either, other than it’s all been going way too fast.

But Bill Cipher is looking at him, still. Present, powerful. Eager for a response. 

Dipper just shrugs.

He wouldn’t know what to say even if he still had his tongue. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Bill says, eminently pleased. Pulling Dipper in closer, with an arm suddenly around his waist. “Hold on tight! It ain’t a bumpy ride, but it’s a weird one.”

Dipper follows as he walks. Partly on automatic, and partly because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

About three steps in, he realizes they’re both walking on thin air, towards and over the altar. 

He jerks his head over, blinking at the source of that ‘zmm’ sound. 

Because of course summoning am interdimensional god-being would leave a remnant. He had to come from somewhere. 

Like, say, a weird red-yellow gap in space, with nonsense things flung around in a black and bizarre starscape. Dipper catches a glimpse of something with two many limbs, and of a series of screaming mouths with no bodies, and a duck and a grandfather clock, tumbling through the air. 

It’s almost like it might be a nightmare dimension. Who could have thought.

With nothing else to cling to, his free hand clamps Bill’s shoulder, tight. 

“You’re my guest for the next while, sapling.” Bill says, squeezing him tight in return as he steps in - and drags Dipper alongside him, stalking into the portal. “Glad to have you!”

#Let's see if I have any fun facts here #I am very tired! #I meant to sit on this and edit it more but I am Posting because of Reasons #Blame one of my cats for this #Sorry about all the setup #The next chapter which I have already started is where the REAL fun happens #In that whenever I think of some of the plot points I cackle and think 'Get Loved On Idiot' #So that's a hint as to what happens #Man I can never think of fun facts while I'm posting. Only afterwards #Anyway I hope this was a reasonably enjoyable read!

[lilacs-and-vanilla]

@shslsimpette commented on a different Spot post that they want an N$FW alphabet for the Spot 😈

Honestly I was thinking of making one of these because they seem very thorough. Great way to make a guideline for smut writing.

First one I’ve done before, and it was hard to get all of the words for the funky letters like Q and X. But anyways…

(god this took so long…)

N$FW Alphabet for The Spot/Johnathan Ohnn

All of the writing beyond this point is smutty

A - How good is he at aftercare?

He’s very doting.

“Did that feel good?” “Are you alright?” “Do you need anything?” “Let me get you some water.” “Do you want to rinse off?”

If you decide you want a bath, he will use his portals to (haphazardly) run you one so he doesn’t have to leave your side.

Cuddles and pillows and blankets galore, trying his best to make you comfortable.

B - What’s his favorite body part on you?

He likes looking at your face, studying your features and committing them to memory. Especially your eyes.

It completely stumps the both of you as to how he can perceive things like sight, scent, and sound without normal features like a nose or eyes or ears, but you won’t question it.

He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. You can always tell when he is though, because the his face portal swirls in a different kind of way. What an interesting way to read someone.

He just likes your eyes, your freckles, your birthmarks, your scars, the features that set you apart from everyone else and makes you you.

The fact that he’s missing his own face adds to this little obsession. He misses his old body, but that doesn’t mean he can’t love you for yours.

It’s not entirely sexual, but he does like watching the way your face looks when you’re.. ahem. Enjoying yourself.

The way your eyes roll back, or the way your mouth hangs open, the drool and the tears. He loves all of it and he loves that he’s the one making you look that way.

C - Cum. Anything to do with that particular liquid.

He doesn’t excrete normal bodily fluids like saliva or semen. At least not anymore. Anything that comes out of him is dark and oozy.

If he’s overstimulated, all of his holes will start leaking. It can get a bit messy, especially on the sheets. Thank goodness it doesn’t stain fabric or skin…

He gets very embarrassed whenever he starts leaking (or sees it leaking out of you).

D - What’s his dirty secret?

He won’t admit it, but he’s stolen a few pieces of your clothing.

It’s proven that he can eat through the hole on his face and taste and sense spice. So I want to assume that he can also smell.

He likes to hold your clothes or your sheets over the hole in his face while he touches himself, sometimes even slipping some of the fabric in to get a taste.

But there was one time he got a little too carried away and now one of your favorite hoodies that you thought you lost is floating around in dark matter space somewhere.

He’s too ashamed to tell you.

E - Experience. How much does he have?

None. None whatsoever. At least not any hands on experience with partners other than you.

He’s seen enough p0rn (the good stuff, none of that over dramatic acting crap) to know what’s good or not. He knows what to look for, signs your close or if you’re uncomfortable.

In typical scientist fashion, he has his strategies and, in theory, he could easily keep you on the edge for as long as he wants or absolutely wreck you.

He just hasn’t mustered up the courage to put his plans into action though…

F - What’s his favorite position?

Ride him. Ride him. He likes seeing you on top of him.

He’s very vanilla when it comes to this. He doesn’t want you to twist or bend in uncomfortable positions.

But with that power of his, the ability to stick a limb through one hole and make it appear somewhere else? What else could he do…?

G - Goof or aloof? His general attitude.

He’s a goof. A whole nerd. What else would you expect of a scientist?

The only time he’s not is when he’s brooding, focused on revenge, on proving himself.

He wants to prove he’s not just some “Villain of the Week.” He wants to prove to you that he’s all you need.

H - Hair. How much does he have? Is he well groomed?

The poor man misses his hair, so he lives vicariously through yours.

He’s not particularly into hair pulling. He does enjoy this though:

Your head leaned back against a pillow on top of his fist as he grips the back of your head, holding it in place as he… (insert smexy scene that I can’t put into proper words right now).

When you’re both finished he likes to run his fingers through it, play with it, braid it, just touch it in general.

I - Intimacy. How is he in romantic aspect?

He tries to be romantic, and sometimes it works. Other times it comes off cheesy. That just makes you love him more though.

He’s a bit traditional. Flowers, candle light, cute little picturesque date night set ups (away from onlookers, obviously)

Secluded spots around the city like rooftops or museums and restaurants after they close.

And when you tell him it’s goofy shit like this that makes you want to absolutely destroy him in the bedroom, date night is normally cut a little short.

J - Does he jerk off?

He prefers to do it with you, but if he’s alone he’ll make do with his hands.

K - What are his kinks?

Edging. Edge him until all of his holes are leaking black ooze (call me weird, I have a vision). Edge him until he whines and cries and begs to cum.

Degrade him, but in a nice way. He won’t let anyone do it but you. Don’t call him pathetic. Don’t make him feel bad about himself. Make him feel like you’re in control. Like he can let himself go.

L - Location. What’s his favorite place to do it?

He’s down to do it anywhere as long as no one else is around.

And he can really go anywhere. Anywhere in your dimension or any other. Pick a spot, and he’ll take you there.

M - Motivation. What turns him on?

The edges of his holes are sensitive. If you touch the place where spot meets skin, he’ll squirm.

It feels like a tingle to him. A localized one.

Run your fingers along the inside of a hole on his palm and the feeling will shoot up his forearm. Do it on his stomach or his thighs or god forbid between his legs when his cock isn’t in use (he keeps it somewhere), and you’ll work him up real quick.

N - No, absolutely not. What turns him off? Something he won’t do?

He won’t participate in exhibitionism. He wants to be the only one to see you come undone. It’s all because of him after all. He should be the only one to witness it.

O - Oral. How does he feel about it? Giving? Receiving?

Seeing as though he doesn’t have a mouth anymore, he can’t eat you out. But he really, really wishes he could.

He was reluctant to let you put himself in your mouth, seeing as though he wasn’t sure if his strange ooze could be safely digested.

You were confident though, insistent you wanted it.

P - Pace. Fast and rough or slow and gentle?

It depends on how he feels.

If he’s feeling intimate and romantic, laid back, he’ll take things slow.

If he’s trying in that state of mind where he’s trying to prove himself to you, he will give it all he’s got to the point where he wears himself out.

Q - Quickies. How does he feel about them?

If you work him up in public, he will find somewhere in an alley or rooftop to bang one out. To bang you.

R - Does he take risks?

What’s a good villain without a few risks? And he wants to be a good villain. He just doesn’t think that applies to the bedroom.

There was the time he got a bit carried away, and in the middle of a particularly intense love making session, one of his portals opened involuntarily.

You immediately recognized your apartment building’s elevator. The mirrored walls, the carpet, the sliding doors closing behind a neighbor as they were leaving.

He apologized profusely and said he’d close it, but you told him to keep it open and he was too riled up to stop now. He was so close. Maybe just one more minute…

It was a sick, nerve-racking game of elevator roulette.

S - Stamina. How many rounds will he last?

He can last maybe two or three rounds when he’s on top. If you want more, you’ll have to take over, climbing on top of him and pressing him into the bed as you pull more out of him.

T - Toys. Does he use them? On you? On himself?

He’s a big fan of vibes. Whether it’s something that goes inside either you or him or something that slides around his cock.

Anything that gives off that extra little buzzy feeling.

He doesn’t like fleshlights. He’d rather be inside you.

U - “Unfair!” How does he feel about teasing? Giving? Receiving?

He’s absolute shit at dishing it out. He gets too flustered to tease you, even when he’s on top.

He’s also the “don’t bully me, I’ll cum” type. Tease him, degrade him (but be kind), call him your little cum puppy (Dalmatian comment reference?) and he will pass away.

V - How vocal is he? What sounds does he make?

Johnathan has a tendency to ramble during love making. One moment he’s drilling you or getting drilled by you, and the next he’s telling you fun facts about whatever comes to mind.

He doesn’t do it on purpose. His brain simply short circuits at some point. He goes with what he knows.

(Why don’t you turn it into a game? See how many facts he can name about a specific subject before he cums…)

In general, he’s very whiny. That coupled with all of the begging creates a perfect symphony.

Exhibit A: “Ohh fuck! Ah, youfeelsssoosogood.. please, (Y/N) please. m’ so close, please. don’t stop dontstopp aaahhn~”

W - Wild card. A miscellaneous headcanon.

As a part of the monster fucker fandom, of course anything that doesn’t have a standard cock has a tentacle one.

Anyways. Portal cock…

Enough said.

X - X Marks the Spot (kms for this joke). His favorite place to be touched.

Anywhere! He just wants you to touch him.

So many people think he’s scary or creepy. When you touch him, all of that goes away.

Y - Yearning. How high is his sex drive?

He’s not insane about it to the point where he constantly craves sex but when he gets in the mood he can be very needy.

Z - ZZZ… how long does it take to fall asleep after the deed is done?

If he’s been thoroughly fucked beyond his limit, he will pass out almost immediately after (after cuddling up beside you and making sure you’re comfortable)

Feel free to ask for different characters to write these for! (but maybe limit it to 4 or 5 letters…)

#spider man across the spider verse #the spot #the spot x reader #i want him inside me #or i want to be inside him #me when #when he #when #portal cock

[clementine-thedestroyer]

Hello, *sigh* I keep upsetting myself with these made up situations in my head, I’m in need of some serious angst to fluff right now 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ (only if you want to write it of course🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️) a miguel x reader where reader’s in love with him and reader doesn’t want children, but assumes mig eventually does. Is already heartbroken and hasn’t even told him yet, they’re probably over, right? What if he finds another variant of Gabriella who needs a father? He’d obvi choose her 😵‍💫…….. 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ angst 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ to fluff please 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ happy endings only haha

Obvious conclusions - Miguel O’Hara x reader

Warnings/tags: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader. Reader does not want kids. Angst, fluff, mentions of breaking up. Miguel and reader are in an established relationship. Mostly what you would expect from this. Very hurt-comfort.

No, I didn’t scream over someone requesting something and actually wanting to read my writing- you did.

You had always assumed Miguel wanted kids. Because… well- obviously.

You’d walked in on him watching the old videos of him and Gabriella one to many times to just…write it off.

And- yeah. It got to you.

You love him. You love him so much. You’d move mountains for him, you’d do any and everything in your power for Miguel. This is the man you want to spend your life with…

And it was easy to forget that you couldn’t. It was easy to block out the dark voices in the back of your head reminding you that it would never work. It was easy to just love and be with him for a night.

But for every night you did, your guilt only grew.

You were misleading him- practically playing with him. you were going to break his heart. You knew he loved you too, you’d seen how he’d linger by the engagement bands any time you two were near a jewelry store.

Because one day, you’d have to tell him. One day, you’d have to tell him that you… just didn’t want kids.

Maybe he would end things right then- immediately. Or maybe it wouldn’t happen right away. Maybe he’d try to convince himself he was okay with it at first. But you knew that feeling- that dark, creeping sense of wrongness. You knew that it would build- slowly and steadily until it was too much. Until he’d finally break and tell you that he couldn’t just be okay and accept not having kids.

But either way, you’d have to tell him… and it was probably best to do before he got even more attached.

Of course, you’ve been saying that for the past two years, and it’s yet to happen. It’s easy to make excuses, and you have a lot of them… but they won’t last forever.

It all came to a head one particular summer’s night.

It had been a… rough day. Miguel had been working more than usual lately- and you had worked yourself into a bit of a fuss. It had all just- built up. And now you were face down on you and Miguel’s bed, sobbing your heart out as your mind ran wild- creating worse and worse possible reactions for when Miguel found out you didn’t want kids.

One of your friends had brought it up, actually. The two of you were talking over the phone, and they brought up you and Miguel having kids.

They weren’t trying- but their words had weighted heavy on you the entire rest of the call. When you two finally said good bye, you couldn’t do anything but collapse and sob.

Full-on ugly crying. Your pillow was soaked in tears, snot, and a bit of drool. You laid there and bawled, mourning the loss of a relationship you hadn’t even lost yet.

You hadn’t heard Miguel get home from work, you hadn’t heard him call for you as he set down his stuff, and you didn’t even hear when he tentatively cracked the bedroom door open. You only, finally, noticed his presence when he came up behind you and pulled you into a massive bear hug- his calm, soothing voice rumbling through you. “¿Amor, qué pasa?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to put up a fight and try to convince him everything was okay- the words “it’s nothing” died immediately on your lips. Because it wasn’t nothing. Miguel deserved to know- he deserved to know the truth and be allowed to move on- to move on to a woman who would happy to give him the children he so desperately wanted.

You took a second. Relishing in the love and warmth of being held in Miguel’s arms for possibly the last time. You wanted to freeze time on this moment- because you wanted anything but for Miguel to leave you, but you couldn’t keep… pretending that you wanted the same future he did.

“I-I don’t want kids!”

Once you started talking, you couldn’t stop. It was like a dam had burst inside you, and all the pent up pain was coming rushing out.

“I love you so much- I love you more than anything and I’m so sorry- I’m a liar- I led you on. I-I always knew you wanted kids, and I knew it would never work between us, but I never told you- I-I just let you assume that I wanted that too. I’m sorry Mig- I’m sorry! I-I couldn’t tell you! I didn’t know how! I-I wanted to keep you and pretend it would all work out!”

Miguel let you finish your break down, stroking your hair and holding your from behind as he listened to you lay your heart out bare for him. Once you finished, you were only crying harder. You were practically shaking in Miguel’s arm as he held you close. You were too choked up on your own tears to notice but, Miguel was looking a bit shocked.

“Sweetheart… first of all, I love you too. Second of all, where is all of this coming from?” He asked, his brow furrowed as he continued to stroke your hair.

You sniffle- coughing wetly as you choke on your own tears before managing to respond.

“I-I’ve seen you- watching t-those videos-“

Miguel cut you off, pulling you tighter against his chest and burying his face in the crook of your neck as he reassured you.

“The ones with Gabriella? Oh love… you thought I was gonna leave you if you didn’t want kids?”

You nod weakly- sniffling as Miguel continues.

“Of course not- if kids were non negotiable for me, I wouldn’t have gone nearly three years dating someone without even bringing the topic up!” - Miguel kissed you cheek, wiping away a few of your tears before nestling his face back into the crook of your neck and continuing- “I’m not going to leave you because you don’t want kids, sweetheart. Hell, I don’t even know if I want kids in the first place at all! ¡Estás trabajando sobre nada!”

“B-but Gabriella-”

Miguel once again cuts you off, giving you a quick squeeze and moving his hand to hold your waist- the other one still stroking your hair soothingly.

“But what? Gabriella isn’t my kid, and never was or will be. When I took her father’s place… it wasn’t just for her. It was what came with it… not being alone, being happy.” -Miguel pauses for a moment, swallowing thickly before continuing- “You know how all that ended… but that was a long time ago, and I’ve found that same happiness with you. I don’t need a kid to be happy- especially not if that kid doesn’t make you happy or would mean loosing the love of my life.”

You couldn’t help but feel shocked. You could hardly stop crying- let alone process what Miguel had just told you.

“Y-you…”

“Sí, amor. I’m staying right here.”

You squirm in Miguel’s arms, turning around so you were now laying on your side facing him- looking up into his loving eyes as he tried to wipe the tears from your face- only for you to bury your face into his chest and give one final sob. This time, one of relief.

Because your world wasn’t falling apart- because everything was going to be okay- because Miguel was here and holding you and he wasn’t gonna leave.

You feel his lips on the crown of your head- hear the sound of him pressing a kiss to your head as he strokes your back and holds you close.

“I love you.” He says, tugging the comforter over you two and making sure your head had a pillow beneath it.

“I-I love you too.” You respond- still hiding against Miguel’s warm chest.

“I want to talk to you about this a bit more later, just to make sure there’s no other misunderstandings or worries eating away at you, okay? But for now, how about we take a nap, alright?”

You sniffle, nodding weakly as the warmth of the heavy blanket and Miguel’s body pull a haze of drowsiness over your senses.

“I love you.” You say, mostly into Miguel’s chest rather than to him.

“I love you too.” He responds, gently petting your head once again as he presses yet another sweet kiss to it- cradling you against him tight as you doze off. As if, if he could hold you close enough, you’d be safe from all the doubts and worries he’d only just noticed that plagued you.

#miguel o’hara x reader #hurt/comfort #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara fic #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #miguel x you #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel 2099 #miguel x y/n #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara fanfiction #fem!reader #fem reader

[seiya-starsniper]

For the angst prompt list: “I’m sorry, have we met?”

Oh I absolutely ADORE this particular prompt, I'm so glad you've picked it. I'd previously done a fill for it [here], but this one's an entirely different premise all on its own, I hope you enjoy it!

angst prompts list

cw: memory loss -----

The man standing across the bar is dangerous.

Rob’s gained an appreciation for dangerous creatures, ever since he woke up in the middle of what was effectively the aftermath of a bloodbath, with no memory of who he was or how he got there. All he knew was that something bad had happened, and somehow, he’d survived it.

He’d fled London shortly after, when he’d discovered that while he didn’t know who he was, it seemed other more powerful and dangerous creatures did. Rob realized fairly quickly that if he had any hope of living a normal life, leaving the continent was probably the best course of action. He’d barely had time to investigate the life he’d had beforehand, only knowing that his captors had tracked him down under the name Robert Goldsmith.

That had been over 20 years ago. Rob hasn’t aged a day since then, and he’s also unfortunately never been able to fully shake attracting the supernatural. There’s something about him, the demons and the fae and the vampires tell him. Something old, something covetous. Rob knew he was older than he looked, he could feel his age in his bones, and one too many close calls with death all but proved he was some sort of immortal.

And now he’s caught the scent of something even older than him. The man (no, he’s not a man, he only wears the skin of a man) is stunningly beautiful, with wild dark hair and eyes bluer than the sky. If Rob didn’t know any better, he’d swear the man was an elf or some other type of fae, but no. He’s older than that. More powerful than that.

An angel, perhaps? He’s certainly beautiful enough to be one. Rob’s only heard rumors of their existence, but he’s also heard looking upon them would burn your eyeballs right out of their sockets. He tries not to appear wary and guarded as the creature locks eyes with him, but he can’t help but let out a small gasp, heart thundering in his chest, as the man-shaped being begins to approach his table. 

“Hob Gadling,” the creature addresses him. “I have been searching for you.”

The declaration hit Rob like a hammer to the face. Something inside him is howling, yes, that is me, I am Hob, and it’s almost as terrifying a feeling as when he first woke up in that bloodied basement, his memories wiped clean from his mind. Somehow this creature knows him, not in the way the others have known of him, but actually knows who he was before his memories were stolen.

“I’m sorry,” Rob (no, not Rob, he is Hob) says, trying hard to keep his voice as light as possible, even as he feels his entire world shift sideways. “Have we met before?”

The creature rears back as if Hob had slapped him across the face. His pained expression grips something in Hob’s heart, something old, something achingly familiar. Hob knows then, in this exact moment, that this creature is something precious to him. A companion. A friend. His heart yearns to reach out this beautiful being, to touch, to hold, anything to reassure him that finally, he is no longer alone in this world.

But then the man’s eyes narrow, pain now replaced by unmistakable fury, and it is Hob who rears back now, a deep seated fear he knows but does not remember rising to the surface. 

“A memory demon has taken your mind,” the man growls, his voice suddenly octaves deeper than it had been when he had first greeted Hob. He stands suddenly, and moves to leave the bar.

Absolute terror grips Hob then, and he shouts, “Wait, don’t leave!” before getting up himself to chase the man.

The stranger (his Stranger?) is fast, but Hob manages to catch him just outside the door. He grips the other man’s arm tightly, hoping and praying that somehow he won’t disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Please don’t leave me again,” Hob begs. Again? Hob thinks to himself. Has the stranger left him before?

The man’s expression softens instantly.

“Had my hubris not gotten the better of me,” the Stranger says, all righteous fury gone from his voice, “I would not have allowed this to happen. My imprisonment has taken far more from me than I ever feared.”

Imprisonment?

“You were captured?” Hob breathes, shocked.

“I was,” the Stranger replies. “I did not miss our appointment in 1989 intentionally.”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about,” Hob says, practically in hysterics. “Will you tell me? Everything I’m missing? I…I haven’t been back to London since…”

“I had planned,” the Stranger interrupts him, “to seek the demon who stole your mind.”

“I’ve been without my memories for 20 years now,” Hob replies. “I can go on for a few more days. Just. Stay. Please.”

Something in his tone must appeal to the Stranger, because he sighs and then nods his agreement. 

“Have you a place where we may speak in private?” he asks, and Hob nods. 

“Not too far of a walk from here,” Hob replies, before he realizes he still has a death grip on the Stranger’s arm. He releases it, slowly, still not totally convinced the other won’t disappear if he lets go. When he does not, Hob jerks his head in the direction of his apartment, and then they begin to walk. 

“I guess we could start with names then?” Hob asks. “You, uh, you seemed to know mine. My true name anyways. I’m sorry that I’ve forgotten yours.”

The stranger huffs, and shakes his head, as if recalling a particularly humorous memory. Hob wonders if he’ll hear what it is in their talk tonight.

 “My name,” the man says, voice lowered to almost a purr, “is Dream.”

#dreamling #dream x hob #the sandman #sandman fanfiction #seiya writes #seiya drabbles #this was so much fun to write #thanks for the request! <3 #seiya writes dreamling

[completeoveranalysis]

[6]

In the most shounen way possible Evil Wolverine SURE DID launch into four pages of evil speeches COMPLETELY UNPROMPTED and for no reason in particular. 

YES EVIL WOLVERINE WE KNOW THIS MOMENT IS CUT OFF FROM TIME. WE KNEW THIS ALREADY. 

Perhaps it’s the translation or just his wording in general but I’m not sure what the four pages to establish “Divine Providence” doesn’t work here actually means? He says at first that it doesn’t work for Space and Time in general any more, both past and future, but then specifies that this moment specifically is also cut off from "Providence", because it’s cut off from the rest of space and time. (But if "Providence" already didn't work in the past and future, why would it NEED to be cut off in order for providence to ALSO not work here?) And yet I’m not sure exactly what Divine Providence really means in this context, or what it has to do with anything at all that we’re doing here. 

I think it might have been more impactful if he was saying that this moment is cut off from Hitsuzen and so anything could happen, or that it’s completely outside Yuuko’s influence so they can’t be saved. Something along those lines would have made more sense to me thematically.

Also... I'm not sure what he means when he says that Yuuko turned back time? I thought Lava Lamp's wish was with Evil Wolverine specifically - he says "I'll fulfill that wish for you", and when Yuuko shows up he claims that's she's interfering.

But here he says that YUUKO turned back time, implying that the wish was through her power. So...?

I think something got lost in the translation somewhere between these two chapters OR Evil Wolverine really will just say whatever the fuck he thinks in the moment.

I think at first I thought he was comparing Lava Lamp to someone else, but on second thought I think he means that Lava Lamp hasn’t changed since he first made the wish. 

Something to do with the fact that this scenario has to end a “different” way than it first did, and yet Lava Lamp still has the same motivation as before. 

I think you could probably make an interesting comparison out of the fact that (from Evil Wolverine’s perspective) the universe broke because Lava Lamp made this wish in the first place, but he’s still here with the same goal in mind, and so he’s never really learnt anything. 

Which isn’t true, but I think I’m still just trying patch Evil Wolverine’s speeches in a way that actually makes sense to me. 

#‘You are the same’ #Sir he’s in his early twenties now #AT LEAST #And there are three of him #TWO of which you can see RIGHT now #He is most definitely not the same #And that’s not even touching the two extra parents #AND THE MOKONA #Liveblogging the reservoir chronicle #Tsubasa #Vol 205 #Lava Lamp Guy #Evil Wolverine #AH I SEE YOU HAVE ARRIVED FOR MY EVIL MONOLOGUE AGAIN #THANK GOODNESS FOR THAT #PLEASE I HAVE NO-ONE ELSE TO TALK TO #KYLE VANISHED SOMEWHERE OFF SCREEN AND ALL MY CLONES ARE DEAD

[twistedtummies2]

I have ssspark! I have charm.

I know painlessssss ways to harm.

Look right into my eyes…

Let yourssself be hypnotized…

I am in the Mood

To Play With My Food.

“A Mood For Food,” Jim Cummings

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

Happy Halloween, everybody! I have a treat for you all: this is the first of five images I got from various artists, for a series I simply like to call “OCs and Inspirations.” In honor of Disney’s 100th Anniversary, I decided to get some images of some of my major OCs for Twisted Wonderland - the first five introduced in stories - posing with their source inspirations. This first one is made by @hooter-n-company, and shows the first boi I ever made: Nakoda “Nako” Spivak, based on Kaa from Disney’s Jungle Book.

Nakoda was not meant to be a major character when I created him, but in the course of writing his introductory piece, “Snake-Like,” I fell in love with what I had created. So, part of the way through, I decided to have him become a student at Night Raven College, and thus allow him the opportunity for more adventures later down the line. He has since become one of my most popular OCs for this universe, even though he honestly hasn’t shown up in THAT many stories yet. I think part of the reason for this IS his inspiration from Kaa, since Kaa has become such an iconic character, ESPECIALLY within this particular “kinkdom.” That was part of what I love(d) about Nakoda: he’s a character who allows me to play with Kaa’s tropes and traits - Kaa HIMSELF being a rather overused and slightly overrated figure, in my personal opinion - while putting my own spin on things.

Like Kaa, Nakoda is insatiable in every sense of the word: about the only thing harder to satisfy than his hunger is his seemingly limitless “thirst.” This was meant to be a sort of in-joke for me on how over-sexualized Kaa himself has become in a LOT of places, but it actually works pretty well for Nakoda on a lot of levels, which is why I’ve kept it: for example, I recently was reminded that, in the original Kipling stories, it’s indicated Kaa has had many mates over the years, so even though we can presume the Disney version (being a VERY different character) is not the same, there’s no reason my guy can’t be. Ha Ha.

On a deeper level, what Nakoda takes from Kaa is what I like to describe as “directionless control.” Both are characters who seek to control other beings, and enjoy the power they have over their prey, toying with their “playthings” before consuming them. Both enjoy the sensation of being in control of their own little world. HOWEVER, in Kaa’s case, there is no greater cause behind all this: he is ruthless and ambitionless in what he does, recognizing no friends, and with seemingly no other desire than to fill his belly and enjoy everything that comes with that. Nakoda’s great issue is that he’s someone who very much lives in the moment; he doesn’t really know what he wants in life, nor how to achieve it: just this vague, nebulous concept of having control and gaining respect and recognition. He, himself, isn’t sure what to do with himself or his gifts.

Off the topic of the character, I just want to say this artwork is absolutely freaking spellbinding. Kaa looks magnificent, and Nakoda…I could comment on a LOT of things in the image that make it so great, but…can we just take some time to appreciate how positively THICC and STACKED this gluttonous hedonist is here? I never want to see Nako with curves ANY smaller than this EVER again, good Lord, they take one’s breath away…possibly literally, if he gets those pythons around somebody. He won’t even NEED the coils of his naga form then. >////>

Thank you for your contribution, Hoots! She's actually made one more image for this same series, which will be released in the near future. Look out for the rest of this series of pics starting tomorrow. ;)

#kink-related #but only peripherally #vore mentioned #oc art #not my art #i'm not an artist #ocs & inspirations #disney #twisted wonderland #hoots #oc #nakoda #nakoda spivak #nako #jungle book #kaa

[aurumacadicus]

Askdjghsdjgh I’m so sorry Steve

--

Steve knows he isn’t supposed to be there. The common room (specifically the common kitchen) are off-limits so that Tony, Natasha, Pepper, and Jim can have brunch. Or, well, not technically off-limits. No one has said they should scram. But it feels weird watching them drink mimosas and talk about their sex lives in the same breath as talking about business stuff.

Steve doesn’t intend to stay. He’d just left his sketchbook in the living room and he wanted to check some of the sketches he’d made to start a painting. It’s a quick in-and-out. He probably won’t even register to anyone but Natasha.

Then he hears Tony say, “My greatest ambition has always been to be a pillow princess and you know it, honey bear,” and all thought leaves his head. He’s not even certain how or when he got back to his own bedroom, but surely he got there of his own power. No one would have been able to refrain from making fun of him.

.-.

Steve doesn’t know what a pillow princess is. It’s not his business, either. Tony had no idea that Steve had been there. Maybe he wouldn’t have said it if he had. So he doesn’t think about it.

Except.

He’s hiding with Natasha in a department store, trying to pretend they’re dating to avoid being made by a mark they’d been following. He hasn’t gotten any better at this and Natasha had muttered about how the clientele of this particular store would be affronted by a kiss rather than uncomfortable, and it would draw more attention to them. Still, she’d dragged him over to the bedding with an entirely fake giggle, so he figures they’ve got to do something to look like a couple.

“Why is this pillow shaped like a triangle?” Steve asks, holding it up.

Natasha swivels to blink at him, stunned, then turns her eyes on the pillow. “...Says it’s for helping acid reflux.”

“Huh, that’s neat,” Steve says, looking down at it, and then, “I think I’ll buy one.”

“...Okay,” Natasha says slowly.

Tony is bewildered when Steve hands it to him, but he takes it with a (slightly confused), “Thanks, Steve.”

.-.

The future is incredible. Steve keeps finding different kind of pillows. Circles. U-shapes. Wavy. A cylinder??? And apparently they all have certain uses. Steve is fine with the pillows Tony has provided him, but he has purchased a body pillow just because the bed feels too big sometimes (and a few times he wakes up cuddling it, but that’s no one’s business but his).

Tony keeps accepting them. Steve wonders just how many pillows he wants to own. How many is necessary until one becomes a pillow... princess???? He still doesn’t get the term for Tony, but Tony has also referred to himself as a diva and a drama queen, so. Maybe it’s just another one of those things.

“So uh,” Tony finally says, after Steve has delicately placed a pillow shaped like a donut in his hands. “What. What are the pillows for. I’m. Running out of space for me???? In my bed. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” he adds hastily. “But just--what are you doing?”

Steve fights the urge to fidget, wonder if he’s misstepped. “Uh. Well, I--I overheard you, once, you know--”

“Okay,” Tony says, obviously trying not to sound urging and failing.

Steve can’t help a wince. “...Well, you said, you told Jim that your greatest ambition was to be... um... a p. A pillow... princess?”

“Oh,” Tony says, surprised. Then, louder, “OH!”

“Is this not what you meant?” Steve asks, frowning.

“OF COURSE IT’S WHAT I MEANT,” Tony bellows, clutches the pillow to his chest, and runs for the elevator. “ANYWAY THANK YOU BYE.”

Steve blinks after him, absolutely stunned, and only belatedly remembers to answer, “Bye?”

#ideas #stony

[bestworstcase]

Fingers crossed on the 'Yang's dad reconsiders about her' thing, mainly 'cuz it seems like an effortless failure mode for their particular dynamic (and one she's super likely to keep internalizing) would be 'huh, guess you're finally using the ol' noggin for more than headbutts, proud of ya sport'. And that's IF both parties aren't too swept up (or unalived in Taiyang's case) by Events for such fine-tuned cognitive script-flipping. Plus, 'we all pedestalized Ruby into a breakdown' does strike me as a higher-priority family crisis if there is any breathing room.

i’m not sure how much i buy the reading that yang internalizes what tai tells her about herself, in all honesty, ’cause like

everything tai says is a generalization from her vytal tournament fights, which:

team rwby won on the strength of their superior tactics and teamwork

yang fired burn because those two were being assholes after her teammate got (possibly, as far as yang knew) seriously injured, then used the power her semblance gave her to take control of the battlefield and turn her opponents’ advantages against them; she wins by applying her strength very tactically.

yang and mercury are very evenly matched, the whole fight is a nail-biter, and yang uses burn to tank mercury’s big finisher, then wins because he assumes he’s won before the match is called. (<- which is merc’s plan, but tai didn’t know that when he formed these impressions.)

tai’s takeaway is:

burn is “basically a temper tantrum”

yang relies on it because she’s “predictable, and stubborn, and maybe a little bone-headed”

yang uses her semblance to make herself strong so she can brute force her way through problems.

except that doesn’t line up with what yang does in either of the fights where she uses her semblance! in the 2v2, she’s angry and she uses that anger to juice her semblance, but she’s not lashing out or blowing things up at random, she’s disrupting the terrain so her roller-blading opponent can’t maneuver; in the 1v1, her use of burn is defensive—she activates it to strengthen herself enough to outlast a volley she couldn’t dodge or otherwise avoid, and she stays focused.

yang, of course, knows this. she’s the one who was in her head when she made the decision to fire her semblance in those fights. she pushes back on the idea that burn is any different from any other semblance, but she’s also able to filter out tai’s specific bias against her semblance to extract some actually good advice, specifically “make sure you’re not getting yourself stuck in a rut, think outside the box.”

which is what we see her doing with burn after v4; she uses her semblance more, in more varied ways. she completely ignores the advice tai gave her to stop “relying” on her semblance because she knows she hasn’t ever been someone who thinks raw strength is the only thing that matters in a fight.

and then when adam taunts her, he doesn’t make jabs about her strength—he says “do you think you’re faster than you were at beacon?”—because he knows, and yang knows, that the reason yang lost her arm is she underestimated how fast he could strike. strength had fuck all to do with it; he hit her before she could reach him.

the thing about that is… sword. fists. adam will always be able to hit yang before yang gets close enough to hit him back, not because he’s a better fighter or faster or stronger but simply because his weapon gives him way more reach. yang is faster than she was at beacon, but is she fast enough to eliminate his mechanical advantage?

adam doesn’t think so. yang doesn’t either. so she doesn’t try—she stands her ground and lets adam come at HER, because she’s been feeling out his semblance the whole fight and she’s confident she can catch his blade. this is why she tells him she’s “smarter;” adam expects a repeat of their last confrontation whereas yang uses what she knows about him to trick him into overextending.

his advantage is superior range, which yang isn’t fast enough to overcome. (sword. fists.) her advantage is strength. being smart, in this case, means using her strength instead of letting adam sting her into a contest of speed she knows she can’t win.

yang is a very agile, precise fighter who’s smart enough to know when to plant her feet and use her strength. she took a risk that she could catch that sword, but 1. that was really her best option, and 2. she spent the whole fight prior testing his limits and her own to prepare herself as much as possible. and in reverse, there have been times—like at haven—where yang decided speed was the most important thing and took the risk of literally disarming herself to get down to the vault as fast as possible.

did she really internalize that she’s a dum-dum who tries to hulk smash her way through every problem, or did she go “well i’m not going to stop using my semblance because that’s bullshit, but maybe i can get more out of it than i have been,” cue experimenting with things like different intensities.

i do think—if there’s a moment of reevaluation from tai—it’ll probably incited by blake or yang or ruby? because, returning to the salem comparison: salem understands who cinder is but doesn’t know what cinder really wants, so when cinder defies her she is able to immediately grasp why. whereas tai generally knows what yang wants (protect her sister, find her mother) but doesn’t understand who she is, so when he tries to explain why she does something he’s likely to be wrong every time. “you’ve fought your whole life unwaveringly for what you want, and here i am holding you back” vs “your semblance is a temper tantrum and you’re a little boneheaded”—salem gets cinder whereas tai probably needs to be told he doesn’t get yang.

[theother9tenths]

To say that Gortash’s coronation was an illuminating experience would be an understatement. As you descend the stairs, his words swirl in your mind, one sentence standing out in particular.

“Gods, you are a sight for sore eyes!”

The way he’d said it had surprised you. You’d expected hostility, even disgust. But the look on his face, mischievous and autocratic though it was, had been almost… relieved? If you removed the layers of blind ambition and tyrannical superiority… it was almost as if he was happy to see you.

Of course, upon revealing your lack of memories, his face fell into a mask of indifferent amusement, that of a person who holds all the possible cards. He revealed the whole awful truth of it. This whole mess that you and your friends are in instigated by none other than you yourself. Everything you’ve apparently done. Everything the two of you have apparently done together.

“I tolerated Orin. But I liked you.”

Your skin hasn’t stopped crawling since he said the sentence, coated in a decadent layer of hidden meaning. You agree to the alliance numbly, The Emperor reminding you that you can break it if needed. You can barely pay attention to the sham coronation, despite Wyll’s anxiety for his father’s safety radiating next to you.

The whole thing is too much, but the sinking pit of your thoughts is instantly made worse by Gale’s comment.

“Well. It seems you have a type,” he throws out half-jokingly as the group of you stroll across the bridge out of Wyrm’s Rock toward the Lower City. “I’ll endeavor to be retroactively less hurt at your firm rejection of my past advances.”

Before you can protest, your type in question does it for you.

“Excuse me,” drolls Astarion. “I sincerely hope you’re not implying that that slippery worm and I belong to the same category.”

Wyll’s voice cuts in. “Dark, brooding, power-hungry, and clearly traumatized? Yeah, I can see it.”

“If it’s any consolation, Astarion,” You can hear Gale’s smirk without having to turn and look. “You’re much prettier than he is.”

“Can we just focus on finding an inn?” you blurt out, turning back to the group. “We’re finally in the city and I don’t know about you lot but I’d like to put some of this gold we’ve looted to good use.”

The three of them blink at you for a moment before Wyll concedes. “Right as usual,” he admits. “No use in being rich in coin if we end up sleeping on the docks.”

One figurative (and literal) song and dance later, the group settles into the Elfsong Tavern, and Astarion approaches you. He stands silently as you remove your armored boots for the evening, watching.

“...Yes?”

“I’d like to hear it from you,” he says with a pout.

“What?”

“That I’m prettier than him,” he clarifies, his tone breezy. “I would certainly hope I am considering how I spent two centuries using my beauty to lure in victims for Cazador and Gortash looks like a sewer rat who polymorphed into a man, but I’ve got this awful issue with mirrors, as you know.”

#bg3 #durgetash #durgestarion #enver gortash #astarion #dark urge #baldur's gate 3 #my writing #fanfic

[savemefromanepicoftimewasted]

You Cannot Run From Your Past Pt. 3

Mobster!Simon "Ghost" Riley X F!Reader

“Do you think this will work? That we can finally get rid of him?” You had always dreamt of killing James but given how powerful he was it was simply a suicide mission.

A/N:here we are! there's going to be one part before the big finale! same warnings as always, mentions of abuse, violence, blood, smut

“They won’t be staying, James needs to find a way to get me back from Simon. I’ve seen it happen before.” The jealousy was pouring off of him in waves, nearly drowning you in it.

“How can you be so sure? Why not just kill us when we’re least expecting and take you back that way?” Price wasn’t looking at the bigger picture.

“Because that leaves too much space for things to go wrong. Natasha’s one of the best stealth killers I’ve ever met, but going into something without a solid plan gets you killed. James hasn’t personally gotten his hands dirty in a while, he’s not going to start now.” No, he’d have his henchmen do all the dirty work for him while he sat at home.

Price wanted to argue with that statement, sure James didn’t have the manpower but if Natasha was as strong as you claimed they could get away with it. However he started to analyze everything and you were right, the only way they’d be able to get Price, Soap, and Gaz without alerting you and Simon would be with knives. And knives were not always the easiest weapon to work with.

“Alright, what do you suggest we do?” Price was willing to do whatever it took to ensure yours and everyone else's safety.

“I’ve been in contact with his best friend Steve, he’s willing to talk to me and stop James from killing anyone else.” Maybe that wasn’t the full truth, but you’d discuss that somewhere more privately.

“Let’s get back to the house, better to talk there.” Price left enough money to cover the bill along with a hefty tip.

You headed back out to the limo with everyone else, sliding into the back with Simon close behind. Soap kept an eye out until everyone was inside safely, sliding in last and shutting the door. It was definitely obvious that James had already left, the only people that were looking seemed to be tourists. The drive back was quiet, Price typing away on his phone to someone before it began to ring with a call. He sighed softly before answering.

“Laswell, long time no talk.” Price was relaxed, so whoever he was speaking with wasn’t an enemy.

“Price, any particular reason you’re looking to come visit me in New York this time of year?” Kate wasn’t shocked that Price had a sudden interest, but there was a reason.

“James Barnes made a visit to us, I need to make sure it’s not going to happen again.” He could hear her soft intake of breath. This was a personal matter.

“I’ll make sure there’s no issues when you fly over, remember to be safe.” Kate hung up before he could reply, though he didn’t blame her, he’d asked for a big favor.

The boys would end up packing everything when they got back, making sure to keep any weapons hidden and discreet. You would all be in enemy territory, worst case scenario was word getting back to James the moment you landed. If all went well you would be able to land in New York and meet up with Steve before James even found out you’d left England.

“So, the plan is we head out tonight, I’ve got intel that James won’t be able to fly out until tomorrow morning.” Price slipped his phone into his pocket, full attention back on everyone else.

“I’ll let Steve know when we’ll be landing, he’s been under James’ radar for this long, I’d rather not ruin his life.” Steve had been a silent godsend for you, he’d helped you escape and was willing to take the heat if needed.

You’d contact Steve first and foremost, letting him in on the plan to make sure that he even felt comfortable joining you. If all went well you’d call Tony, god knows the man deserved to get his revenge once and for all. Alex pulled into the garage after what felt like mere minutes, pulling you back down to earth as you went over the plan in your head once more. Price headed into his office right away, making all the calls that would be necessary. Gaz and Soap headed off to their rooms to pack.

Simon led you back to your bedroom, fingers grazing the skin on your back softly as if he was suddenly afraid to touch you. You wanted to assure him that things were fine and you would gladly accept his touch in any way he was willing to give it. You stepped into the room slowly, reaching down to take off your heels now that you were home.

“Finally, hate wearing those damn things.” Your feet were sore from the few times you’d had to walk around.

“I would’ve carried you if you needed darling.” Simon pulled off his jacket, loosening the tie around his neck.

“Had we been out for longer I would’ve taken you up on the offer.” You slipped the straps down and off your arms, the top of the dress pooling around your waist.

Simon watched you undress slowly, hands working on autopilot as he pulled off his tie and began to unbutton his shirt. The lace of your panties began to peek out from the dress as you pushed it off entirely, your breasts shining in the setting sun. Simon would lie to anyone who asked how he reacted in that moment, not wanting them to live through the memories he’d store away forever. Without hesitation he threw off his shirt, letting it fall carelessly to the floor as his arms wrapped around your waist. You traced your nails along the tattoos adorning his arm, finding out just a little bit more about your new husband.

“Now darling, why don’t you be a good girl and get on the bed for me.” Simon pressed his hips against you, reveling in the way your body heat melded with his own.

“Mmm, yes sir.” You pulled away from him gently, sliding your thumbs beneath the waist of your panties and sliding them off onto the floor.

Simon was hard in an instant, gently palming himself as he watched you crawl seductively overtop of the sheets. You turned to lay on your back, body fully on display for Simon to do as he pleased, with your permission of course. Simon may have done bad things in his life, but he’d never touch someone without their full consent.

“God, look how delicious you are.” Simon unbuckled his belt, sliding the thick leather from his slacks and tossing it to the side.

“Why don’t you come over and have a taste yourself.” You spread your legs slowly, your thighs glistening with the sweet nectar he was so desperate to taste.

Simon nearly tore off his slacks, along with his boxer briefs and socks so that he was naked as the day he was born. Your eyes drifted down his torso before landing on his fully erect cock, your heart began to race with the realization of how big he was. How the hell was he going to fit? Pushing all the insecurities you had you crooked your finger in a “come here” motion. Simon smirked and stalked over to you slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.

“How badly do you want this sweetheart?” Simon wanted you to beg, to hear you whimper his name.

“Please, Simon, don’t tease.” You gripped the sheets harshly, back arching slightly as he grazed his hands up your calves.

“So polite.” Simon pressed kisses along your inner thighs, each kiss getting closer to where you so desperately needed him.

Each time he would reach your sex he’d pull away, listening to the way you’d whine loudly, begging for his touch. He could feel the heat from your body, legs quivering beside his head as he dipped down slowly. You hadn’t expected his lips to wrap around your clit, suckling softly to warm you up. You reached down to grip his hair, pushing his face closer to your dripping sex as you begged for more. Simon groaned into the soft flesh, slipping down to savor the slick that was pouring from your body. 

You’d tasted sweeter than any honey he could ever imagine, a divine treat that he would savor every chance he could get. Tasting you from his fingers had not done you justice, and now he was simply addicted. Your moans echoed throughout the room as his tongue slipped inside of you, curling up to bring you the utmost pleasure. Simon began to grind his hips against the bed slowly, hands gripping onto your waist to keep you from pulling away.

Heaven, that was the only way you could begin to describe the way that one Simon Riley ate pussy. He savored you as if you were his final meal on earth before he descended to heaven, leaving no area left ignored. One hand abandoned your hip to slide down to your opening, two fingers sliding in as he flicked his tongue over your clit. You screamed into the air as your orgasm crashed over you, soaking Simon’s face.

You had been so blissed out that you’d completely forgotten how long it had been since you shaved at all, clearly Simon didn’t care. Another tally for Simon, he was starting to seem like the perfect man to you right now.

“Think you can keep going?” Simon pushed himself up slowly, fisting his cock slowly to help alleviate the ache.

“If you don’t put that inside me I may just cry.” Maybe it was a little dramatic, but the man could clearly fuck and you weren’t waiting a second longer.

Simon chuckled, grabbing your legs and pulling your hips flush to his own. Your body slid down the bed, head barely resting on the pillows that sat at the top. He groaned softly, cock sliding between your folds as he slowly grinded against you. The tip of his cock hit your clit just right, sending a bolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Simon, please!” Your legs were shaking slightly, back arched harshly as you tried, and failed, to get him inside.

“As you wish.” He grabbed the base of his cock, placing himself at your entrance before pushing in slowly.

The only way that Simon could describe it would be euphoric, your body pulled him in like a warm tight hug. He wanted nothing more than to slam his cock inside you but given his size he knew it wouldn’t be pleasurable for you. Simon waited until your hips bumped gently, his cock nestled in you to the hilt before taking another breath. His chest shuddered at the way you enveloped him, if he moved too soon this would be over before it could start.

“Hold on sweetheart.” Simon smirked down at you, hoisting your legs up until your calves were resting on his shoulders.

It felt as if his cock had nestled itself all the way in your throat with how deep he was. His hips pulled back before slamming forward, a guttural moan slipping through your lips. Simon barely gave you a moment to breathe before his hips were slamming into yours over, and over. The sounds of your coupling were encompassing everything. You were thankful that Simon had at least tried to prepare you for his cock.

“Look at you sweetheart, taking my cock like such a good girl.” Simon moaned as he watched you take his cock like you were made for him.

His hand slipped up your body, palm resting gently against the base of your throat. He didn’t want to push you into something you weren’t comfortable with, but when your cunt tightened around his aching cock, he was done for.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good.” You could hardly catch your breath, eyes rolled into the back of your skull as Simon became determined to bury his cock into your cervix.

“You gonna give me a baby, let me fill this pussy full til you’re dripping?” Your pussy tightened over his cock even more, legs quivering as your release began to creep up on you.

“Yes! Fill me up!” You would agree to absolutely anything that Simon said in that moment, as long as he didn’t leave.

He tightened his hand around your throat, cutting off the airflow to your lungs. Your back arched harshly, hands grabbing onto his arms to keep yourself stable. Simon’s thrusts didn’t falter as he continued to pound you into the mattress, the sounds of your coupling surrounding you both. His grip on your throat was suddenly gone, both hands sliding to wrap around your middle. You were sure you’d gotten whiplash with how quickly Simon had you suddenly straddling his lap.

“Fuck, look how much prettier you look sweetheart.” He kept one hand on your waist, the other reaching up to grope your breast.

You threw your head back, a flood of slick pouring from your body at the new sensation, the head of his cock ramming into your g-spot over and over. His hands were surely going to leave bruises on you, ones that everyone would be able to see. He wanted the world to know that you were his and only his. You slid your hands up to grip the back of his neck, your right hand gripping his hair to help ground you.

“Fuck, Simon, m’gonna cum.” You could barely string together a coherent thought, let alone focus on just one thing that Simon was doing to you.

His lips trailed along your collarbone, suckling gently at the skin, teeth nipping higher and higher until it reached the base of your throat. Your moans sounded like the most gorgeous music as he ravished your body. 

“C’mon sweetheart, cum all over my cock.” It took one, two, three more thrusts before your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, body locking up as the blinding white pleasure took over.

Simon gritted his teeth at how tight you were, hips slamming against your one last time as his orgasm took over all his senses. You mewled softly at the warmth filling you up, body exhausted from the intense pleasure that Simon had given you. He panted, carefully laying you down onto the bed to make sure that he hadn’t hurt you. Besides the delicious ache between your legs, you had never felt better in your life. He pulled out slowly, catching your slight wince as he tried to be gentle.

“Sorry, forgot how sore you’d probably be.” Simon scooted off the bed, heading into the en suite to get a cloth to help clean you up.

“Mmm, a good sore though.” You could barely move your legs, or your arms, okay maybe it was your entire body.

Simon dampened a cloth with warm water before heading back into the bedroom, gently prying your legs open he cleaned up any of your slick and cum that had managed to slip out. You could barely put up a fight as Simon started his aftercare. Shit, you had to pack a bag and leave in a few hours, how the hell were you going to manage?

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll pack a bag for both of us.” Simon would gladly buy you an entirely new wardrobe over in New York if it meant keeping you comfortable.

“Thank you.” Your eyes slid closed, breathing evening out as you fell asleep.

Simon couldn’t help but watch you sleep for a few moments, heart racing as all the feelings he’d always tried to deny came rushing to the surface. He barely even knew you and yet he wanted to protect you with everything he could. Pulling the comforter over your sleeping figure, Simon made sure you hadn’t woken up before pulling on his briefs. He’d let you nap while he packed, he had plenty of energy to do so as it was.

The halls were silent as he made his way to his room, grabbing two different suitcases. He packed his clothes meticulously, making sure nothing would get wrinkled. Once half of the suitcase was filled he zipped it shut to leave space for your own things. Then it came time to pack his knives, and guns. Knives would be preferable if he wanted to take anyone out without leaving too much of a trace. Wasn’t always doable, but he’d manage if needed.

“Hey, boss wants to make sure you’ll be ready to go in an hour.” Gaz was standing in his doorway, fully ignoring the state of undress that Simon was in.

“Yeah, just need to finish packing first.” He slid one of his favorite knives into its holster, he’d never gone without it.

“I’ll let him know, thanks.” Gaz knew not to make a total scene over how Simon looked, it was obvious the two of you had hooked up, who was he to judge?

Simon pulled out one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants for you to borrow on the plane ride over, you’d need all the sleep you could get, and why not be comfortable at the same time? He shook his head slowly, he’d only known you for such a small amount of time and yet he felt the need to protect you. You weren’t truly his wife, so why did any of this matter in the first place when once James was taken care of you could just leave?

No, he wouldn’t let his thoughts go down that path, it wasn’t worth getting caught up in feelings when there were bigger fish to fry right now. Heading back to your room with the clothes in his hand Simon couldn’t help the rush that washed over him. You were a goddess sent down for him and he was so ready to just throw you away before. How could he possibly be even thinking like that?

“Sweetheart, time to get up.” Simon wanted to do anything he could except for wake you, but Price would be on your ass quicker than he could protest.

“Five more minutes, please.” You rolled onto your side, back facing Simon as you tried to hold onto those few precious minutes.

“Nope, you need to get dressed so we can get going.” Simon rubbed your back gently, plopping down beside you on the bed.

You groaned before pushing yourself up, it was obvious you weren’t going to be allowed to sleep before the flight. Maybe you could get some sleep then and worry about everything when you landed back in New York. Simon shyly held up the clothes in his hand, gesturing for you to take them. Once you realized exactly what was in his hands your cheeks warmed, he was really letting you wear his clothes around everyone? Shit, you were definitely falling in love and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

“Thank you, are you going to get dressed too?” You pulled on the shirt first, forgoing a bra entirely. The fabric would do a good enough job hiding your chest, why bother wearing something uncomfortable when you didn’t need to.

“I wanted to make sure you were awake first, I’ll get your stuff packed and then we can head down.” Simon pressed a kiss before sliding off the bed, heading over to your closet to grab enough clothes to last at least a few days.

You copied him quickly, rushing over to your drawer to grab a clean pair of panties. Simon chuckled at the way you wiggled your hips as you pulled them up your legs. Simon wasn’t someone who found joy in much of anything anymore, not after working for Price for so long. It was nice to be able to laugh and smile so carefree without worrying for once. 

“Get your pants and some shoes on while I finish packing, I’ll be in my room if you need me.” Simon laid your clothes over one arm, being careful of any delicates.

“Yes sir.” You weakly saluted him, laughing when he rolled his eyes and headed out of your room.

The pants were a challenge to get on in general, since Simon was so much bigger than you were they pooled at your ankles. You tied the drawstrings as much as you could, hoping they wouldn’t accidentally fall down when you started walking. Deciding that you could only do so much with your current predicament you headed down to Simon’s room. The faint sound of Soap’s laughter began to get louder with each step.

“You can’t keep your hands off one anotha it seems.” Soap had dressed down to a comfortable sweater and a pair of jeans, Simon dressed in something similar.

“The feelings are very much mutual.” Simon folded the last piece of clothing, setting it into the suitcase, zipping it closed as you stepped into the room.

“There she is!” Soap walked over to you, wrapping you up into a tight hug.

You laughed lightly, a little confused as to why Soap was being so affectionate all of a sudden, what in the world had Simon told him before you arrived? Simon merely shook his head, if to gesture not to ask or that he wasn’t sure of Soap’s affections you weren’t entirely sure.

“Now don’t you look awfully pretty there.” Soap pulled back, keeping his arms on the top of your shoulders.

“Soap, let go of her so we can finish packing please.” Simon was exasperated, wanting nothing more than for Soap to leave you be.

The Scot threw up his hands, heading out and leaving you and Simon to continue packing in what you hoped would be a peaceful silence. Your body was still overstimulated from Simon’s amazing lovemaking. There would be moments you’d surely slip up in front of everyone, pressing into Simon’s side like a cat.

“Do you think this will work? That we can finally get rid of him?” You had always dreamt of killing James but given how powerful he was it was simply a suicide mission.

“I do, I believe in the men I work with and I trust them with my life.” Simon hadn’t trusted many people in his life, but they were his family now.

“I trust you, Simon.” It was a long shot, taking down one of the most dangerous men, but you had faith they could do it.

Simon grabbed both suitcases before facing you, his expression was determined, and by god did that turn you on even more than before. Simon was a man on a mission, and he would do whatever it took to ensure everyone’s safety.

“Let’s go, the faster we can leave the better.” He pressed a soft kiss to your hair before heading down to the garage.

Gaz, Soap, and Price had been discussing the details amongst themselves, deciding on the best course of action when you landed. First and foremost you would contact Steve Rogers and see if he would be willing to help. If Steve was willing to help you’d get into contact with Tony and figure out the next steps. However if he wasn’t willing to help you’d need Price to call Tony and see if he would help do the dirty work.

It was now or never, you would make sure that James Barnes couldn’t harm a single person in one of his angry tirades ever again.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #kate laswell #tony stark #steve rogers #steven grant #marc spector #james barnes #bucky barnes

[blueisquitetired]

Employees of the Celestic Railway Network

(A faeU piece!)

Wondering why there hasn’t been much art on my account lately? It’s because of this! I was working on it for five months straight!!!!!

But it’s done now! Woo!

If you like this picture please please reblog it. I don’t normally ask, but this took me hundreds of hours so I would appreciate the support.

Anyway, character info and world building under the cut-

Warden Gaeric, Warden of the Icicle Line

Species: Human 

Of all of the creatures in the grand realm of Hisui, humans are debatably the strangest of all. Beings that are not pokémon nor fae, but something else entirely. Humans have almost no natural magic, yet are able to live and thrive anyway thanks to their natural adaptability. Their bodies naturally absorb and convert the energies of local pokémon, fae, and environments in order to better match them, and they learn things at a rate not seen in any other creature. Despite their lack of magic, they are able to grow and thrive in almost any environment, and many have made Hisui their home.

While Warden Gaeric might boast larger than life strength and power, he’s still as human as they come, not even bothering to practice simple spell casting. He doesn’t need magic to do what he does, and he takes a certain amount of pride in that fact. Hard work has gotten him this far, and he doesn’t see it letting him down anytime soon. 

(Although there is a running theory that he is blessed with the human oddity dubbed “Main Character Syndrome” or “Plot Armor”. Such claims cannot be proven though, as it isn’t a widely understood phenomenon, so it remains as just a theory)

Warden Melli, Warden of the Zap Line

Species: Human

Warden Melli immigrated to Hisui as a young adult, and has since never gone back, seeing no reason to return to the mortal coil. His skill with a needle and thread impressed Subway Boss Adaman so much that he was originally hired to mend and charm uniforms- but was quickly promoted to warden when Lord Electrode was taken by his dramatics. Nowadays, his embroidery skill is mostly used for protection spells and charm making, something he is extremely proficient at. Unfortunately, despite being a master spell caster in his own right, the temperamental nature of the medium causes him to disvalue his own skill, viewing it as “not real magic.”

Despite that though, he still is responsible for most of the charms sewn into the uniforms of his fellow human wardens.

Warden Palina, Warden of the Flame Line

Species: Selkie

Selkies are a subspecies of the poké pelt line of fae, a fae type that is mostly known for its ability to switch between the form of a humanoid and a pokémon- but only if they have access to their magic hide. A poké pelt whose skin has been stolen will find themselves unable to transform and unable to do most magic. This has caused most of their myths and legends to revolve around a malicious third party stealing their pelt and hiding it away somewhere.

The Selkie sub species in particular are known to transform into certain water types- specifically pokémon such as dewgong and spheal.

Palina is one of the more senior wardens, despite being a relatively short lived race. (Only living for around 100-200 years- similar to a human) Her long wardenship is due to the fact that she has served two separate lords. A rare thing indeed, as most new nobles will choose a new warden upon their ascension.

Of course, she isn’t one to brag about such a thing, and is much more likely to sing praises for her lover and husband- Warden Iscan. Famously, the two met when she got caught in Warden’s Iscan’s net- back when he was living in Galar and had never had any real encounter with the fae. Still, despite that, the two hit it off, falling in love and marrying. The couple are known for being annoyingly lovey dovey, Palina going so far as to let Iscan carry her pelt for her while at work as a sign of trust and love.

Warden Iscan, Warden of the Splash Line

Species: Human

Warden Iscan may have spent his entire life in Galar if not for his meeting with his future wife- an event that changed his life forever. Formally a fisherman from Hulbury, Iscan’s secret love for trains and general disinterest in fishing in general made moving to Hisui with his new love an easy choice to make. A choice made even easier when Lord Bascilegion chose him as his warden.

He builds and collects model trains in his free time, storing most of them in the unused Splash Apartment.

Warden Sabi, Warden of the Sky Line

Species: Delphi*

The Delphi are an extremely long-lived race (living for several millennia, and likely unable to die of old age) with the ability to see into the future. Not much is known about the delphi as they tend to keep to themselves- but considering their strong magic and fantastic abilities, that’s probably for the best.

For all intents and purposes, Warden Sabi is basically a baby. Barely 100 years old, with an expectant life span in the thousands, it’s a miracle her family let her leave their house- much less hold a job. Yet hold a job she does, even if her actual job description is nebulous at best. She enjoys getting up to mischief and practicing her fledgling future sight powers- mostly in the form of little “prophecy of the week” cards that she hands out. 

Still, she shouldn’t be underestimated, and her advice should be heeded. The future might not be set in stone, but she can see the changes in the tide of time far clearer than anyone else.

*(While most of the species of fae seen in FaeU are modified versions of actual myths and legends, Delphi are an original creation. Many fae have the nebulous ability of “seeing the future” but I couldn’t find any specific species that fit what I was looking for. Thus, the Delphi were created.)

(The name is in reference to the Oracle of Delphi from Greek mythology)

Warden Mai, Warden of the Mind Line

Species: Satyr

Satyr are a species of humanoid fae adorned with horns and hooves- known for their culture of singing, drinking, mischief, and general merriment. This has given them a reputation of being cheats, thieves, and layabouts, something that causes many to inherently distrust them.

They are also closely linked with nature and song, and can be powerful spell casters with enough practice- but their inherent abilities leave much to be desired.

Warden Mai used to be quite the rebel when she was younger. Sick of the expectations and pressures of her peers and parents, Mai ran away from home as a teenager. Unfortunately, her rash temperament and attitude made it hard for her to hold a job for longer than a year at a time. Thankfully, with the support and guidance of the former Lord Wyrdeer she ended up finding herself and mellowing out quite a bit, now being a well adjusted adult.

She plays guitar in a band and does some spell casting recreationally- but refuses to play the flute or seriously learn magic. Apparently, her mother’s intense pan flute lessons were one of the factors that originally drove her to running away. Because of this, she plays her Celestic flute like a train whistle and gleefully cackles any time she startles someone with it.

Warden Arezu, Warden of the Meadow Line

Species: Pixie

When most humans think of fae, their minds usually fall to pixies- a common race of small winged faerie. Their curiosity and mischief often leads them to wander into the mortal coil for brief periods of time, leading to millions of sightings and thousands of myths and legends. 

Coming in at on average six inches tall, pixies aren’t a very powerful race naturally, and tend to stay in groups. If you see a pixie on their own, there's a good chance a group of them is hiding nearby, often egging the singular pixie on.

Some powerful, practiced pixies may leave their communities to live among other fae- but these pixies tend to learn growth magic early on in order to increase their size. Increasing in size is often uncomfortable and makes it harder to fly, but being taken more seriously by others, and more easily interacting with the world around them is a trade off many pixies find favorable.

While the Celestic railways can be ridden by fae and humans of any sort, its passengers by in large consist mostly of city fae- a type of fae that has grown accustomed to iron and smog, making their homes in large communities and towns in a similar vein as humans. Which is what makes it all the more impressive that Warden Arezu is not a city fae.

Most of Warden Arezu’s life was spent in a small pixie community deep in a hidden woodland. She was curious and social, and eventually her limited social circle and never changing circumstances drove her to explore the world as a whole, eventually leading her to the Celestic Rail Network. While she isn’t a train fan by any stretch of the imagination, she still thoroughly enjoys how the rails bring in fae from all corners of Hisui, each with stories to tell and fashion to share.

Eventually, she dreams of opening a hair salon, but for now, wardenship suits her just fine.

Warden Calaba, Warden of the Earth Line

Species: Human

Warden Calaba is old- older than any human has any right to be. How old remains a mystery, one that most doubt she will ever indulge. But with that age comes knowledge, years of healing and potion brewing knowledge that far outstrips what anyone would expect of a human like her. 

Still, she is long overdue to retire, and Subway Boss Irida and Adaman have been gently trying to encourage her too for years now. She refuses though, stating that she will man her post until she is able to impart her knowledge onto another being, or when Sinnoh tears her soul from her body. Considering she has scared off every apprentice she has ever taken, most are betting that it will be the latter.

Warden Lian, Warden of the Insect Line

Species: Human

Lian has lived on the Celestic Rails most of his life. No one was surprised when the current Lord Klevor chose him as his warden, as he has been the station darling since he was a toddler. Still, he takes his work seriously, doing his best to fulfill his duties and be the best warden anyone could ask for.

In his free time, Warden Lian enjoys collecting and perusing rocks- especially ones of the magical variety. He dreams of one day using them to become a spell caster, but his young age and lack of mentor has made the adults around him implore him to wait a few years. For now, he researches, collects, and dreams.

Subway Boss Adaman, Conductor of Time

Species: High Fae (Formally a dryad)

High Fae are less so fae and more so demigods, fae who’s power far surpasses any natural being. There are very few high fae in existence, and each one is fundamentally unique. Some high fae are born that way, but many are elevated from their lowly status by major legendaries or other such beings.

Dryads are a common nature fae, most well known for their unique connection to foliage. Each dryad is born from a certain plant, (usually trees) and will live for as long as that plant does. If the plant withers and dies, so will they, leaving them as extremely fragile beings. Dryads will often conceal the location of their linked plant for safety reasons.

Subway Boss Adaman was born as an unremarkable fir dryad a very, very, long time ago- when Hisui was untamed and dangerous, without a respite to be seen. He spent most of his early years living a fairly uneventful life, (as uneventful as life could be back then) save for his regular interactions with a local frost sprite, one which quickly grew into a fierce rivalry. Said rivalry slowly transformed from begrudging respect to close friends- overtime becoming an extraordinarily deep bond.

Of course, the two's lives changed forever when, on a stint to the mortal realm, they came across a train station. Adaman was blown away by its consistent and accurate timing and wished to bring that stability to Hisui. He eventually ended up pitching the idea to Dialga- who absolutely adored the plan and granted Adaman the powers of a high fae. (Specifically, power over time)

Nowadays, Adaman runs half of the Celestic Rail Network with his partner Irida, keeping the time in the railway stable and making sure the trains run according to schedule. (There are many rumors of what became of his original fir tree, as his relationship on it is no doubt different than it was from before he became high fae. Subway Boss Adaman has never commented on it though, so rumors will continue to speculate) 

Subway Boss Irida, Conductor of Space

Species: High Fae (Formally a frost sprite)

Nature sprites, not to be confused with pixies, are common fae found often in strong natural settings. It’s said when an aspect of nature’s magic coalesces en mass, it forms a sprite of that aspect. These are, in some ways, the most common type of fae, as the sprite genus covers millions of subspecies. They come in all forms and fashions, but by and large are relatively weak, only having mild magic relating to the aspect of nature that they are composed of.

Frost sprites are, unsurprisingly, sprites born from the essence of frost.

Subway Boss Irida was never long for the world- but she kept going anyway. Despite her relatively low life expectancy and naturally weak magic, she managed to live long past her years by moving with the seasons and living in a perpetual winter. Inevitably, she settled in a mountainous fir tree forest where it was snowy year round- and inevitably met a local dryad. 

Of course, her life changed forever when she and the dryad visited the mortal plane and beheld a train line for the first time. Irida was blown away by its ability to cross vast spaces safely and efficiently and wished to bring that stability to Hisui. She eventually brought the idea to Palkia- who eagerly signed off on the plan and gave her the power of a high fae. (Specifically, power over space)

Nowadays, Irida runs half of the Celestic Rail Network with her partner Adaman, keeping the space the railways run through stable and making sure the trains are able to reach where they are headed. (There are many rumors of the exact nature of her and Adaman’s relationship, as the two are close enough to be lovers if they so desired.  Unfortunately, neither party are willing to comment on the matter, so rumors will continue to speculate) 

#blue’s art #submas fae au #blue’s writing #warden gaeric #warden melli #warden palina #warden iscan #warden sabi #warden mai #warden arezu #warden calaba #warden lian #pokemon irida #adaman pokemon #submas au #It's a submas AU it counts!!!!!!! #this took forever #and is the best thing I've ever drawn so far

[theonceoverthinker]

...I really don’t know how I came to ship this, but I do, and here we are!

Here’s a little Bowuigi idea I had yesterday while waiting at the dentist office.

So Bowser and Luigi have been going out for some time, like a few months. Everyone’s accepted it, Mario included because he loves his little bro, but reluctantly. Trusting Bowser feels difficult.

One day, Luigi is helping Bowser during a battle with an outside invading kingdom (We’ll say it’s the Penguin Kingdom from the movie’s teaser, now back with an actually formidable army/arsenal). This particular battle is closer to the border of the Mushroom Kingdom than it is Bowser’s castle and during the fight, Luigi gets hurt pretty badly. He’s knocked out at the very least, maybe has a broken bone or two, and has a lot of bruising. Bowser has his minions finish the fight with the Penguin Kingdom while he gets Luigi to safety. Though he’d prefer to take Luigi to his castle, the distance makes that difficult and Luigi needs immediate help. What’s not a terribly far distance away, much to Bowser’s chagrin, is Mario and Luigi’s home, and so he sets his Clown Copter for there.

Mario, Peach, and Toad are hanging out at Mario’s place. Mario’s telling Peach and Toad about how Luigi is helping Bowser fight against the invasion, and Peach can tell that Mario isn’t himself. They talk a bit more about Luigi and Bowser’s relationship, and Mario says that he’s happy that Luigi is happy, but that the idea of trusting Bowser with his brother’s heart is tough for him. Luigi’s spent so much of his life feeling small and up against someone with as big of a personality and strong of a stature, he doesn’t want Luigi to suffer at Bowser’s hands if he doesn’t take of and respect him. Peach reminds Mario that Luigi has a way of bringing out the best in every one he meets, a sentiment that Mario agrees with, giving Peach a grateful smile. He gives an unsure sigh and says that he supposes only time will tell.

Suddenly, Bowser arrives, Luigi’s passed out form in his arms.  

Mario’s first instinct is to yell at Bowser for putting Luigi in danger, but Bowser’s worrying has that instinct die in his throat, instead leading Bowser to Luigi’s room, where they settle Luigi in. It’s a tight fit -- Luigi’s room is on the small side relative to Bowser’s form, and while there are chairs, they’re too tiny for him to even sit in. Out of exhaustion from the battle as well as his overwhelming sense of worry for Luigi, Bowser sits on the floor, two claws wrapped around his hand.

Toad starts preparing medicine while Peach and Mario listen to Bowser as he tells them what happened.

Bowser gives an abridged telling of the battle. However, Peach and Mario have questions because of that abridged recount.

As Bowser speaks, looking at Mario’s stern look, Peach’s worrying gaze at Luigi, and Luigi himself, he begins to feel hatred towards himself. It doesn’t matter that Luigi volunteered to help out: Luigi got hurt because of him. He would be fine if he hadn’t involved Luigi, if he stayed as far away from Luigi as possible. Surely, Mario and Peach feel the same. The guilt Bowser feels rattles in his head like an earthquake as he self-depricates like rainfall during a storm. Before he can even fully finish he recounting of the battle, Bowser excuses himself, running out of the brothers’ home before anyone can properly react. Any attempts to follow him in that moment are interrupted by Toad as he needs help with Luigi’s medicine.

An hour or two passes, and it’s getting dark. Bowser has long since stopped running, and is now walking a half mile or so around the brothers’ home. What hasn’t stopped is the self-deprication, staying just as powerful as it was while he was in the house.

Why did he let himself be with Luigi? He’s a giant monster. Luigi’s the sweetest person alive. He should never show his face to Luigi again. Being hated is better than endangering Luigi.

Bowser hears his name called from behind him. He turns around. Peach is there. She tells Bowser to come back to the house with her. Bowser starts to tell her that he shouldn’t, but Peach doesn’t let him. She says that Luigi adores him and as soon as he wakes up, Bowser’s the first thing he’s going to be asking for, and that Bowser needs to be there when he does. Peach states that they both know that Luigi won’t be able to rest, let alone forgive himself, if he doesn’t know that Bowser is okay. Bowser tries to bring up more counterpoints, but Peach cuts them off, giving him a sharp look before Bowser finally follows her lead back to Mario and Luigi’s house. 

Toad is still in the kitchen when Bowser arrives, though it doesn’t seem like he’s cooking medicine anymore. Bowser takes that as a good sign as he follows Peach into Luigi’s room. Bowser looks to Luigi first when he enters the room. Luigi’s in fresh pajamas and has a compress on his head, bandages where his bones are hurt, and a few ice packs here and there. What an especially relieving sensation is what Bowser hears. Luigi’s snoring softly, a sign that any serious danger Luigi might have faced has passed. Bowser feels tears trying to fight their way up his eyes, just barely kept under his surface.

Luigi’s going to be okay.

Upon taking his eyes off of Luigi, a downright Herculean effort on his half, Bowser sees that something significant has changed. Right next to Luigi’s bedside, a big armchair that Bowser vaguely recalls seeing in the brothers’ living room earlier now sits. Bowser can tell immediately that it’s just his size, save for the presence of its occupant. Mario, who is sitting in the chair, gets up and nods to Bowser to sit. Bowser can see scuffs on Mario’s gloves that weren’t there before, and it hits Boswer exactly how that chair came to be at its current location. Bowser, nodding back at Mario, sits in the chair and takes Luigi’s hand in two of his claws, kissing Luigi’s knuckles.

Not long after Bowser’s return, Mario pulls one of Luigi’s smaller chairs to the foot of Luigi’s bed, a hand placed on his brother’s sock-clad foot, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over it.

Peach goes off to make everyone tea, leaving Bowser and Mario alone together.

Even though Luigi and Bowser are dating, Bowser and Mario have spent very little in each other’s company since they started. That time has been...awkward, to say the least. And now, they’ve got hours upon hours of it to “look forward” to.

It’s going to be a long night.

Bowser usually knows what to say (Or at least knows what he wants to say if he’s striving for good behavior and can’t actually say it). Right now though, with Luigi unconscious and the story of how he got that way not fully cleared up yet, he’s bereft of words.

What CAN he really say right now, especially to Mario of all people?

Is he supposed to apologize to Mario for putting Luigi in harm’s way? That doesn’t feel right to say. Peach told Bowser herself on the way back to the house that Luigi chose to join him in battle, and she made him promise to not forget that (Peach can be a force to be reckoned with when she want to).

Should he try to clear up what happened during the battle? Just thinking about that makes Bowser feel like his head is being blended like a smoothie, and he doesn’t want a repeat of last time. The details are at once too clear and too sketchy; any attempt on his half to delve more into them won’t end well.

What about small talk? No, just no. He and Mario aren’t small talk people, and Bowser fears that even reaching such a level where they can rest on that level of social interaction is all but out of the question now.

Bowser’s at a total loss on how to proceed, but before he can despair on that too much, Mario starts talking.

He tells Bowser how Luigi was this morning before he left their house, excited about joining Bowser and fighting off the Penguin Kingdom. Mario gave Luigi what Luigi now jokingly calls his “overprotective big brother speech,” but Luigi insisted he’d be okay (”Fire beats ice, big bro! You know that!”), that he has power-ups packed, and that Bowser would take care of him if need be. Mario states that didn’t say this to Luigi, but in the back of his head, he worried about how Bowser would prioritize Luigi in a fight for his kingdom, and would Luigi’s attestation be true. Would he be more the Koopa that Luigi believes him to be, or would he default to the power-hungry king that Mario has seen almost nothing but since he and Luigi first arrived to this kingdom and leave Luigi to the wayside in fighting the Penguin Kingdom’s army?

Bowser attempts to speak up, but Mario cuts him off. Bowser shuts his mouth and listens.

Mario says that Boswer showed him that answer today.

While Bowser was gone, lost in his own thoughts and guilt, Kamek flew by the house to report on the rest of the battle, unintentionally yet heavily implying to them all that Bowser left the battle as soon as Luigi got hurt, its (And by extension, his army and possibly kingdom’s)nultimate fate unknown to him.

That told Mario all he needed to know.

Bowser chose Luigi. No matter what he would look like to his own army or the Penguin Kingdom’s army or how his side might suffer because of it, Mario knows that Bowser immediately took Luigi to safety, and even took him to Mario’s house of all places. Even during this conversation he and Bowser are presently sharing, upon learning about Kamek, Bowser hasn’t asked about the results of the battle; instead, he’s just held Luigi’s hand that little bit tighter.

Mario says Bowser proved himself to Mario, that Bowser can be trusted with Luigi’s heart and that Mario feels safe to give him the benefit of the doubt going forward.

Bowser is saved from giving Mario more than a grateful nod, as he feels Luigi start to stir and wake. His and Mario’s attention snaps to him.

Luigi takes in where he is and the two by his bedside. He asked how he got here, and what happened during the rest of the battle with the Penguin Kingdom. Mario answers both points, the latter of which giving Bowser an answer that had been only at the furthest recesses of his mind. The Koopa Kingdom won, and the Penguin Kingdom petulantly surrendered, with no casualties on either side. Luigi shifts his hand to clap it around Bowser’s claw, instead of the other way around as it had been since Bowser sat down. He thanks Bowser for bringing him home, and Bowser jokingly rolls his eyes as he points out how annoying it was, the two snorting with laughter.

Peach emerges with some tea and greets Luigi, hearing him wake up from the other room and revealing that she made him a tea that will help him sleep. Luigi says (really, pseudo-whines) that he doesn’t want to sleep (”I just woke up!”), but the room’s three other occupants nag at him that he’s going to need a lot more sleep before he’s better. Luigi, resigned, submits to their tag-team and slinks back into his bed before drinking his tea.

Bowser stays by Luigi’s bedside all night and beyond.

Some highlights from Luigi’s recovery.

-By the following afternoon, it takes the group up of all the Mushroom Kingdom’s greatest heroes to get Bowser to just take a nap in another room. Bowser falls asleep on the other living room armchair. His snores are loud, but it’s well worth it.

-Two days after Bowser brings Luigi home, while Luigi continues to rest, nine Koopa Copters, all smaller than the one Bowser and Luigi arrived in the day before, land outside the brothers’ house. Mario, Peach, and Toad go outside and see the Koopalings and Bowser Jr, with Kamek trailing just behind them. The kids rush in and Kamek sheepishly replies that they insisted on visiting Luigi. Luigi’s room is beyond packed, so Bowser has all but one or two of them leave the room, turning Mario, Peach, and Kamek into their pseudo-babysitters.

-The kids have all made Luigi get well soon cards and pictures, and Luigi adores them all. Luigi has Bowser hang them all on the wall in front of them so he can see them all the time.

-On the third night there, Mario wakes up in the middle of the night and hears Bowser stepping outside the house. He goes to join him, and they just sit on the porch, watching the night sky together. When he asks Bowser if he can’t sleep, Bowser simply huffs. Before he can comment on it, Bowser jokes to Mario about how it is he can stand the constant smell of mushrooms, not just in his house, but all over here. Mario, smirking, shrugs and says that that’s just part of this place and that honestly, it faded into the background for him pretty quickly after he arrived. Bowser says it’s weird, and Mario counters, saying that it’s not called the Mushroom Kingdom for nothing (”The castle doesn’t smell like that.” “The castle is filled with flowers and is always cleaned.” “Still smells.”). They spend the next ten or so minutes looking out at the night sky before Bowser goes back inside, with Mario going inside shortly after.

-After about a week or so, Bowser’s confident enough in Luigi’s recovery that he’s convinced that he can return to his castle and get to his normal dealings (He does have a lot of post-invasion paperwork and organization to take care of, not to mention his responsibilities as a father to the kids). That first night apart is difficult for both of them. Luigi’s gotten so used to holding Bowser’s claw as he sleeps that going without it feels weird. Bowser meanwhile needs to state affirmations at least once an hour that he knows Luigi is feeling better and that being apart for a few days will be fine.

-Bowser visits the brothers’ house once a week on average after Luigi’s recovered; usually, it’s just to pick up Luigi so he can stay over in the Koopa Kingdom for a bit, but he’ll stay over for a meal if the timing is right (Bowser really likes Mario’s cooking and everyone knows this, though good luck ever getting him to say that out loud). Because of Bowser’s size, he and Luigi at least eat in the living room since that chair is one of the only two in the house that Bowser can fit in. After the fourth time this happens, Mario and Luigi get a Bowser-sized chair to put in their kitchen so that he can sit there with them. Bowser never admits it, but it’s one of the best gifts he’s ever received.

#bowuigi #bowser #luigi #super mario #mario

[petrichormore]

AND ONE MORE THING: DRAMATRIO IS FINE

(Also to be clear: I like analyzing these things. I enjoy “arguing” over these characters - it’s like enrichment to me, it’s fun, I’m never actually mad I just like writing long posts. And yeah the following is about the characters, not the CCs.)

I see a lot of people talking about how the election is tearing apart friendships - specifically the dramatrio and how Bad and Baghera don’t trust Forever anymore and yadda yadda

And to that I say: Are you sure?

(loooooong analysis below cut)

Are you sure? Because last I checked all three of them greet each other warmly. All three of them care deeply about each other and get along well. All three of them have repeatedly stated that they wouldn’t mind if one of the others became president - and that’s still true. They are at odds politically, maybe, but I think people are overestimating exactly how much they disagree. They argue about politics and they criticize each other’s points, yes, but that doesn’t mean they don’t trust each other or that they think anyone would “become a dictator.”

And I’m seeing that a lot too, on twitter and on tumblr: this idea that Bad and Baghera are convinced Forever and Cellbit will become dictators. And while I think it’s interesting… it isn’t true. I can only imagine this came from the debate where Bad and Baghera criticized insaneduo’s perceived embracing of centralized power? (So did Gegg/Slimecicle, btw) But once again, it’s not Forever and Cellbit that they distrust (well Cellbit maybe a little), it’s a position of centralized power that technically only has to listen to the Federation. Which is a valid ground on which to criticize an opponent’s platform, at least in my opinion. (I agree far more with socio-anarchy aka Bad’s position than a centralized government of any kind so I’m aware I’m biased on that.) But I’m not biased in saying that Bad and Baghera definitely don’t think Forever and Cellbit would become dictators, they’re simply wary of what the Federation could do, and also aware that absolutely power corrupts absolutely.

And before I get to how Bad and Forever are still clearly besties, I do want to hesitantly broach the idea that the position of president - as it’s presented by the federation - is not inherently democratic. In fact, I’d argue it’s kind of more similar to a dictator role, or maybe that of a monarch. The president is not required to listen to anyone, the president does not have to have the peoples’ agreement. The only force the president is actually required to answer to is that of the federation. Just because the president is called “the president” and the federation is making people vote for it doesn’t mean the position itself is democratic in nature - just the process by which the position is decided. You could call the president “king” or “ruler” and it would fit just as well.

Anyway.

Bad said just today that he thinks Forever would make a great president; his problem is not with Forever, his problem is with the Federation. In fact, Bad is still completely okay with Forever entering his and Dapper’s home, and if Bad really felt like Forever was a threat? I assure you that permission would be immediately revoked. And yet it hasn’t been.

Bad and Forever literally spent time with each other on stream today, and neither of them discussed politics because politics doesn’t matter in regards to their friendship. This has always been the case, and nothing has really changed. People claim Bad got more distrusting of his friends due to the election and I’d say he didn’t get more distrusting of his friends in particular - he just got more distrusting in general, because people were being secretive. He’s paranoid, and he’s right to be. Also I know Bad told Etoiles that he might (MIGHT) help Foolish kill other candidates (besides Gegg and Baghera) and I’m saying: He’s not serious. He’s not being serious. He’s a silly guy. Like try and picture Bad genuinely trying to help Foolish kill Forever. You can’t. I know you can’t. Because he’s not serious. If anything, he’d probably just want to watch Foolish get killed trying. This is the same guy who proposed a whale pit of death as a viable assassination method - he’s not actually out to kill anyone (except elquackity) he’s just messing around. He thinks it would be funny, and he’s right. If Bad actually kills a candidate (that’s not Elquackity) unprovoked I will be so so proud of him.

Because if Bad wanted Forever dead - if he truly thought he needed to kill Forever or Cellbit to save the island - they would be dead. And Bad would do it himself; he would do anything to protect the island’s inhabitants, and he’s fully capable of it (I recall Baghera getting upset with him specifically because he refused to promise not to, under any circumstances, kill her.) Bad will kill if he feels like he has to - he just honestly doesn’t really want to. It’s that shrimple.

#it’s not actually that shrimple #I’m leaving out a couple things but it’s long enough already #also the whole ‘bad doesn’t want to kill’ thing does NOT apply to quackity #either one of them actually #tldr the dramatrio is still going strong #also like honestly bad and forever didn’t sit together on a bench to watch the sunset because they don’t trust each other #they did that because they’re in lo #i mean what who said that #qsmp #qsmp character analysis #q!bbh character analysis #q!badboyhalo #q!forever #q!baghera #qsmp elections #qsmp politics #qsmp thoughts #additionally the whale death pit is based as fuck