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actual-lea · 5 months

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So who wants to hear about the stupid stupid way I'm playing Baldur's Gate 3?

I made it to Act 3 on my first (original character) playthrough like a week before Patch 5 came out, and after finding it absolutely unplayable (on the PS5) decided it was time to go ahead and start an origin character run for the funsies while waiting on the new patch to fix the Lag Hell. Naturally, I picked Gale. Since this was mostly just for fun/to hold me over until I could continue my other file, I decided it would be a nice time to see what happens if you just refuse to consume any magic items. Of course, if you are not playing as Gale and ignore his Orb Problem, he will apparently eventually leave your party, but what if you ARE Gale? I couldn't find an answer with a minimal amount of Googling SO

There are three stages to his Arcane Hunger, each of which give you increasingly debilitating debuffs: Arcane Hunger, Greater Arcane Hunger, and Severe Arcane Hunger. It seems the triggers for progressing to the next stage are the same as the triggers where he would start needing an item in my other file (i.e. that bridge next to the Blighted Village, entering the temple at the Goblin Camp, the Hag's Lair, etc.) which obviously makes sense. I figure with the amount of contingencies in this game for incredibly specific situations, surely there is some kind of unique dialog or fun cutscene that will play if I ignore the Arcane Hunger long enough and just play through the debuffs.

I played Act 1 completely normally, doing a lil quicksave every time I was about to Long Rest just in case the game gave me a cutscene of the big explosion upon waking up (I thought maybe it would be time-based, similar to the game over you get if Gale dies and you leave him for 3 days (? I think?) which does not seem to be the case). I made it through basically everything without anything odd happening besides the aforementioned debuffs. The Severe Arcane Hunger is where things get really sloggy, because Gale can only move at half speed.

I have been slowly trudging EVERYWHERE since the Goblin Camp.

I eventually started going out of my way to make sure I hit all the Arcane Hunger triggers I know about, to see what would happen, and the answer is nothing, aside from Gale occasionally reminding me that he's wracked with terrible pain.

So, surely, the game will certainly not let me into the Mountain Pass without SOMETHING happening, right?

WELL

That's surprising, but whatever, at least now I have the chance to see what happens if you go meet Elminster without having consumed any magic items,

Except

He wasn't there.

I went to the area in the Mountain Pass where the cutscene is supposed to start, and it just. Didn't happen. Nothing happened. I could walk right up to the entrance to the next area.

But SURELY, the game won't let me into the gotdamn Shadow-Cursed Lands without saying SOMETHING about the fact that the orb has been starving for several weeks at this point, right? The game isn't going to let me into Act Freaking 2 without at the very least giving me a game over to tell me I'm not allowed to do this and make me reload and actually feed this poor starving wizard, right?

RIGHT?

WELL

Here we are. I'm at the Last Light Inn, I'm at the Taco Bell, I'm at the combination Last Light Inn Taco Bell with a bag full of delicious Cheesy Gordita Magic Boots that I refuse to eat.

SO LIKE. How far does this go??? Am I gonna be able to infiltrate Moonrise Towers without ever speaking to Elminster? Am I gonna trudge all the way to Ketheric at half freaking speed and fight him with Disadvantage on everything?? Am I gonna make it all the way to goddang Baldur's Gate with a Netherese orb that is long overdue to explode???

Like I said, I did not find an answer on what happens if you do this on a Gale Origin playthrough, and at this point, I don't even want to, I just want to see how far I can take this.

I already know I'll have to do another normal Gale playthrough where I actually FEED HIM after this, because I'm sure I've missed out on a ton of dialogue and whatnot, especially from Tara who only ever has this to say when I speak with her in camp:

I am genuinely beginning to wonder if there is actually nothing in place to stop me from doing this. I am wondering what the dialogue options will look like when I get to the "Heart of the Absolute" where Gale would ordinarily want to blow himself up, if Elminster had ever shown up to tell him to do so. Maybe the devs just didn't bother, and figured that no one would be stupid and stubborn enough to play through the whole dang thing while so severely debuffed.

Joke's on them, Disadvantage means NOTHING to Magic Missile Machine Gale Dekarios.

#baldur's gate 3 #poor gale #this man is having the worst time of his life #long post #gale dekarios #no gale dinner

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gotham-daydreams · 7 months

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What would've happened if Y/n wasn't even in Gotham? Maybe they went to another country or something

If that did happen, then I think the Batfam would put their connections to good use (superhero or otherwise)!

Bruce Wayne would report the reader as missing, and they'd effectively have everyone and their mom on the reader's ass, and lets just say that Y/n wouldn't be gone for long. Especially not when the Batfam has connects with the Superfam and, well, I don't think I really need to mention anything besides they have incredible hearing and can fly super fast. (Alfred definitely shows some of them recordings and such he has of the reader so they know what the reader looks like, and what their voice sounds like if they don't know the reader already. Even if one of members of the Superfam probably does, even if I don't know who that'd be in particular.)

Granted it may still take them a while because the reader is one whole person in a world full of billions of them, but if there is one trait the Batfam shares is that they are absolutely relentless. Some are more stubborn than others, yes, but stubborn nonetheless.

Eventually they'd find the reader, and considering who these people are, along with who they're working with at this point, I can imagine that they'd find the reader pretty quickly considering things.

Not to mention that the reader is a pretty well known musician at this rate (albeit not to a super popular/famous degree, but well known enough for people on the street to kind of notice who they are in a little surprised but mostly casual way), and most likely has no idea that the Batfam is even looking for them until they see an article of them, or one of their friends mentions that they're apparently "missing".

Which gets extra awkward because, well- obviously they're just living their life at this point, and still making music because it's their passion and dream. They're not just going to stop because they left the manor, and have probably released a few songs with a performance of theirs coming up. Even if the location may not be disclosed yet, it's like the announcement itself cements the reader's fate. Since it's almost acting as a signal that's like a "hey!! i'm here!!" And again, this is a family full of Detectives and such, they can get details from most places other people probably wouldn't.

So, maybe they'd find the reader after a few weeks to a month or two at the very latest. Especially with them, at this point, going full yandere because they've been obsessively looking for the reader over however long it took them to find them. That obsession of the Batfam's growing more and more by the day, and their own paranoia and worries fueling each others. Maybe it even gets to Damian a little, who knows.

Regardless, whenever they find Y/n they are at their wits end. Now it isn't even up for debate if they kidnap the reader or not. They will. They do.

It's swift, it's sloppy, it's impulsive, it's reckless, and even it isn't thought out at all, it's quick. Almost painless.

They all just want to hold the reader and say all these things — but they can't. Not here. Not while Y/n isn't home. Not yet. But they will. Soon.

Whoever holds the reader first doesn't get to hold them for long. They're practically snatched and grabbed from all of the members of the family as they fight over the Reader's unconscious body like starved, savage dogs trying to get that last bit of meat before they have to endure the pains of hunger again.

Eventually, they do settle, especially thanks to Batman and Alfred, and decide who would be the best fit to carry the reader for the rest of the trip. That sparks another fight, but eventually someone is chosen, and some of them even take turns as everyone heads back to Gotham, returning home safely with the reader. Bringing them back home. To their real home.

Safe to say, the reader's freedom? Absolutely taken away, it practically doesn't exist anymore. Along with their personal space, as the Batfam needs a BIG recharge after all that searching, and the reader is just the thing they need. Expect a lot of hugs and a bunch of boundaries to get broken within that first month or so. They're never letting go, not ever again.

Tldr: Reader is still fucked either way, but it does take the Batfam significantly more time to find them, and when they do the family is basically mentally fucked over. All screws scattered on the floor- everything. So they're a little less lenient and immediately jump the gun, just that much closer to completely losing their mind, and so despite being so far away — the Reader is immediately brought back to Gotham once found, has basically all of their rights stripped away from them, and is suffocated in affections, hugs, cuddles, and the like for over a month into their captivity as a result. No exceptions. Not anymore.

Hope this answered your question! If anyone else has a question, or you yourself have something else you'd like to know the answer to, feel free to send in an ask! If you'd also like me to clarify something or anything like that, an ask is the way to go a well!

#talking daydreams #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfam #yandere x gn reader #gn reader #sibling reader #yandere dc #platonic yandere #really liked this question tbh!

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another-lost-mc · 11 months

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Channeling vampire!AU brainrot with @l3viat8an and thinking about Blood-starved!Vampire Leviathan.

Vampire!LEVIATHAN x gn!Reader, 0.7k words, nsfw. Content warnings: canon-typical vampire behaviour, pet names, suggestive towards the end.

More from the vampire!au

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who loves you, and your blood, but doesn't feel worthy of you. He ignores the hunger pains shooting daggers through his belly as he wallows in his own self-pity and guilt about why you'd let a disgusting monster like him touch you.

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who's too shy to ask for your blood when he needs it. He lies through his fangs and assures you he'll be fine while you're away in the human realm for a few days, and for the first day or two, he is.

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who has a meltdown at RAD as starvation and bloodlust frays his turbulent mental state. He doesn't realize his brothers have already contacted you and asked you to come home early to help him.

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who cries in his tub and crushes a pillow in his grip as hunger gnaws at his insides. He smells you as soon as you open his door, and he hides his face with shame and embarrassment and the fear that he might do something stupid now that you're home again.

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who can't resist you even if he wanted to. He nuzzles your palm when you brush his sweat-slicked hair from his forehead and murmur his name, scolding him gently for letting things get this bad.

"I'm always here for you, baby. Move over, let me take care of you."

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who makes room for you beside him in the tub and blushes when you wipe his tear-stained cheeks. He hiccups and stammers nervously when you offer your wrist to him.

"Are you—are you sure?" he asks as he stares at your delicate wrist and the veins that pump your delicious blood below the skin. He brings your wrist close to his mouth and when you nod, he bites you with surprising speed. It hurts more than usual, and he slurps greedily at the blood that pools around his fangs. You wrap your other arm around him so he can lean against you, and the scorching pain in your arm turns to something pleasurable that leaves you feeling weightless and content.

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who drinks until he feels full, the sweet satisfaction of your blood warming his cold body from the inside-out. He can think clearly for the first time in days, and he can't believe he was so stupid to resist you all along.

(He pretends he hasn't done this before, and deep down he knows he'll do this again.)

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who pulls you down into the tub to rest, who pulls your arm over his waist so he can feel your heartbeat against his back while he falls asleep.

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who wakes up a few hours later with hunger stirring once more in his belly. He needs more, but he doesn't want to wake you—you need to recover your energy. Your arm is limp across his hip, and he brings your wrist to his mouth again without waking you. If he's gentle this time, you won't even feel a thing...

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who fetches water and snacks by the time you wake up. You slept through the night and now he wants to take care of you. He hands you a bottle of water and a bowl of fruit; he watches you eat slowly and thinks selfishly about feeding you by hand next time. The berry juice on your lips makes them shiny and dark, and it's so alluring.

(He doesn't realize how sweet he can be after he's been properly fed, and you smile between forkfuls of your breakfast; he's been staring at you the entire time, and it's kind of cute.)

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who feels more like himself, but he's also hungry again, too—in more ways than one. He waits until you're finished eating so he can pull you back down in the tub with him, but he shakes his head when you offer him your wrist. He nuzzles your cheek and tilts your head back against the pillows as he sniffs at your neck with a stuttered sigh, and his hand curls around your hip as his fangs graze the column of your throat.

Blood-starved!Vampire Levi who peels away your clothing and his own until your both naked and trembling. He slips inside you the same instant his fangs finally pierce the delicate flesh of your neck with a rumbling growl.

Obey Me! Masterlist

#obey me vampire au #obey me leviathan #obey me x reader #omswd x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #leviathan x reader #obey me smut #omswd smut #leviathan smut #obey me levi x mc #leviathan x mc #obey me levi x you #leviathan x you #obey me fanfic #omswd fanfic #x reader #gn!reader

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kellterntempest · 3 months

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I was summoned to be a ringer by @panic-flavored for her 2023 Stobotnik Secret Santa event

And so here is your gift @cease-this-bitch-crying <3 "Affection like hugging & hand holding" have some touch starved jimbotnik and hand kissing i hope you enjoy!!

mini ficlet accompaniment below

Stone slowly tugged the fabric off each finger of Robotnik's hand. Delicately, deliberately, as if the hands beneath were made of fragile porcelain.

Stone paused, looking into Robotnik's dark eyes. Is this ok? His own eyes asked.

Robotnik's fingers brushed against Stone's palm in response, barely making skin contact, almost afraid to touch and be burned. But the touch was not the burning sensation he feared, but instead a spreading tingling like the aftermath of an electric shock. Invisible sparks – Robotnik swore he could feel them.

One glove. Stone folded and placed it on the counter beside them, to be easily taken back if Robotnik became too overwhelmed and needed them again.

The second glove came off, and Robotnik’s heart rate already started to climb. His hands were bare now, nothing hidden. Stone’s hands clasped gently over his, caressing the skin with his thumbs.

Stone allowed himself to look, to feel, to finally worship the hands of his king, his one. As he took in the sight of Robotnik's hands, memorizing every detail, Stone traced a pattern with his fingers, tracing over very white, pinkish scar, over the visible and dark veins, over the rough knuckles of the long bony fingers.

Stone lifted Robotnik's left hand up to his mouth, bowed his head, and kissed it. His lips were beyond soft, warm, and adoring.

Robotnik fought the gasp in his shaking lungs, but his chest couldn't hold it in. It was the stolen breath of a man who had never been kissed like this, never been shown this kind of tenderness, this careful gentleness – a man who had been starving his whole life. So, so hungry, and the abyss of his hunger was unfathomable. Robotnik never knew just how much his hunger had been suppressed, didn't realize how far down he had repressed his need for human touch until he finally received it. Finally feeling.

Robotnik’s heart beat so fast, like an untamed creature flying against the bars of its cage so wildly he thought it would burst. The kick drum in his chest beat asymmetrical to the rhythm of their slow, ever so slow moment. His hands quickly began to tremble in Stone’s grasp.

Stone’s heart raced in tandem with Robotnik’s as he placed another kiss on his knuckles, harder than before. “I love your hands.” He whispered into the skin, unable to find any other words that could possibly describe the depths of his feelings. Stone was consumed with joy to show his love and more so for it to be accepted, he couldn't contain himself and planted more gentle kisses along the skin of Robotnik's palm up to his wrist.

I love your hands. Robotnik's eyes welled up, much to his disdain for the stupidly human emotions plaguing him. But he couldn't stop it, and tears pooled in the corner of his eyes, ignoring his internal struggle to not give anything away. He nearly whimpered under Stone’s touch, but there he stayed strong, and instead managed to choke out, “Thanks. I grew them myself.”

Stone chuckled into his hand, his chest quivering with laughter from the unexpected joke. Of course, the doctor had to make light of everything. It was his way, to conceal heaviness with humor.

“Exceptional work, sir.” Stone's eyes twinkled. “Beautiful.”

#stobotnik secret santa 2023 #stobotnik #dr robotnik #agent stone #jimbotnik #my art #gifts #my fics #BEST SUMMONS EVER: STOBOTNIK DUTY!!!!

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valynne · 3 months

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my house would miss you (and so would i)

pairing(s). finnick odair x gn victor! reader word count. 2.2k description. your porch swing in the victors village has always been your favourite place to watch the ocean and her troubles. the ocean has always loved watching a gentle love story from her shore.

content. reader never wears their shoes (loves their skirt tho), gentle love, trauma from the hunger games, death of childhood, mentions of murder

a/n. i finished work not even half an hour ago and had the beautiful idea that is this fic while walking back along the beach while it rained <3

The porch wood beneath your feet is scratchy, the salt weathered wood has splintered in places and the finish has peeled back with the years of use. The book in your hand sags into your lap as you lift your gaze to look through the grey and rusty iron bars of the Victors Village.

There had been a weather prediction earlier in the week that you had waved off, thinking little of the percentages and weird lines they used to indicate winds. Rain, gods above did you love rain.

You pull your feet up onto the cushioned porch swing. The wind makes the chair sway as you tuck your feet beneath your skirt, leaning further into the armrest as you slot your bookmark between the pages that you were sure you had just been rereading for 3 minutes.

You strain your eyes to see over the fence of the village, to catch a glimpse of the waves lapping at the shore. For someone who grew up around the smell of the ocean you would never get tired of it; the smell of fish from upwind, the sight of the waves and the sun melding at the beginning and end of each day, the water lapping at your calves on especially hot afternoons, the spray of the brine during storms.

You missed it during your games, good lord did you miss it. You had been clutching your knife to your chest and praying with the power of every kind deed you had done that it was a fishing rod instead. That the blood under your nails was from deboning fish and scrapping their scales off. That the nasty scars that run along your shoulder and back had been from a boat propeller and not a particularly cruel Career girl. You had cried when you won, an ugly howling as you sat astride the body of the last tribute. During the interviews he had been strong, his cheeks full of muscle and fat and his eyes gleaming with a knowing type of jollity. You had seen him during the Last Feast, he was as gaunt as you were, he looked fearful and starving. During the last few minutes of your Games though, his dark hair was matted with mud and his cheeks were swollen with blood as rain ran in rivulets in the cuts on his soft skin.

Finnick had told you the doctors that fixed you up when you won had to realign all four knuckles on your right hand, and entirely replace one on your left. He said that the Capitol had gone crazy when you chose to use your hands instead of a weapon. Had applauded so loudly when you knocked his weapon, Terce Steelbrand from District 2, from his hands and brought blow-after-blow down on his face. The canon had gone off before you stopped, way before you had. It was gruesome, bloody, and foul and gut-wrenching. You had beaten a boy a year older than you to his death.

“You alright?” You shudder slightly as you turn to the sandy haired man, a gentle smile spreading across your lips as you pat the seat beside you.

“Yeah.”

He hums as he stands at the threshold of the house, the creaky door squeaking as he weighs his options. He chooses you; he always does. The seat creaks as he adds his weight to the chains load, swinging his feet as he pulls your legs over his lap. He makes sure to tuck your long skirt under your feet, the way you like too.

“What were you doing out here?” He traces a gentle finger over the patterns of your skirt, the other arm sitting over the back of the chair.

“Was readin’ but… I couldn’t.” You glance over at him. “Realised it was gonna rain just before.”

“Mmm, I think you should be a weather reporter.”

You try and force the smile that licks at your lips away, but you can’t help it as you decide to glare at Finnick. It’s a half-assed glare; it’s hard to be angry at the Finnick Odair.

You sit silently for a moment, just taking in his features. The gentle slope of his nose, the angle of his cheeks littered in tiny freckles you could spend an entire afternoon kissing, and his eyes. Those eyes that stare back at you fondly, gently. You never feel scrutinised under those sea-green eyes —never feel small like under the gaze of the Capitol— you could compare being stared at by Finnick with feeling the sun on your skin after a sleepless night.

“What’re you staring at?” His voice feels like having silk dragged along your ears. You can’t look at him anymore —not with that look swelling in those sweet eyes of his— you opt to watch his thumb work circles into your skirt-clad calf.

“You were looking first, Fin.” Your hand drifts to rest on his forearm, thumb brushing over a burn scar. The aftermath of a small cooking incident weeks ago.

“Oh, was I now?” You can see him through your lashes. Can see the way he peers down at the fingers that brush along the warm skin of his forearm. “I didn’t even realise.”

“Mhmm.” You smile a soft little thing. Fingers finding the dip of another scar. You’d accidentally scratched him when you were on your Victory Tour. There had been an accompanying bruise on his jaw, but it had long since faded. A nightmare you can’t even remember now, woke you up screaming bloody murder. Finnick had run in and tried to settle you, and you were still high on adrenaline with one thought in mind. Survival.

There’s a rumble of thunder in the distance, a streak brightening the sky and showing heavy rain clouds. You can hear the raindrops before you see them. They’re hitting the roof of your Victors house, pattering gently on the dark roof as it begins building. You can barely bring yourself together as the man beside you begins speaking.

“Y’know, I thought we could do some shopping today, your pantry’s looking empty. Maybe coffee and flo–”

“You.” He stops speaking, the word dying on the tip of his tongue.

Your eyes drift back up to him, his brows furrow as you meet his gaze head-on. Before he can ask what you mean by it, your hand dances up his arm. You slide your legs out of his lap and curl your toes up as they hit the grainy wood. You hook your fingers into the crook of his elbow and pull him up. He doesn’t waver at all as he stands, following you mindlessly. You take a step towards the stairs as you stare at him. Both hands drifting down to hold his wrist and tangle loosely with his calloused fingers. Line work hasn’t been very kind, but he insists on it. Something about not wanting you to cut yourself.

The wind catches in his hair, making the messy strands and his loose pyjama shirt flutter as you make your way down the sandy cement pathway of Victors Village. He doesn’t say anything but you can feel the trust he has with the way he squeezes your hand every so often.

You sigh and grin something toothy as you feel the raindrops grow heavier as you move faster. “C’mon, Fin.”

“I’m coming.”

As you finally pass the daunting iron bars of the Villages gates the gentle droplets have turned into heavy downpour. You can barely hear them hit the ground over the push-and-pull of the sea, it’s bliss. District 4 hasn’t been taken out of you, there’s no way it could be.

You only look back at Finnick when you reach the dune that separates you both from the waves, and it is a sight. His hair’s damp and random curls stick to his forehead as he comes to a stop with you. You wait for him to toe off his shoes before you’re letting your hand slip from his and you’re running messily down the sand hill. Wet strands of hair slap you in the face as you run, sticking to your cheek as the rain begins doubling down. Flashes of thunder lighting up the dark morning sky. You take a quick tumble that brings you to the bottom of the dune, you hear a call of your name from the top but you’re unaffected.

You roll onto your stomach and rub the sand off your tongue and off your brow.

You laugh, openly and unabashedly. Something you used to do before the Games. When young 13-year-old you would race to the ocean with your friends. Or when your father brought home a tire and a rope to hang on the tree in your backyard. Sticky hot summer days.

You push up and spin to look up at Finnick who’s taking clumsy steps down the dune to reach you. You smile up at him wickedly, and he see’s it. A wash of relief easing his features as he exhales slightly. There’s rivulets of water forming on his cheeks, they nearly look like tears but the look in his eyes is far from sad.

It’s easier to run on wet sand you find —a memory unlocked after so long, you remember running from bullies on a rainy day, this is different—your feet slap the sand as you run from Finnick. You come skidding to a stop just before the oceans foam, your skirt clinging to your legs as you breathe deeply. Flicks of brine mixing with rain water on your cheeks. Cutting clean paths through the grit of sand.

You spin to look at Finnick again, but not even halfway turned and you’re swooped off your feet. Skirt slapping your calves as the man in question swings you. Arms constricted around your middle as he spins with the momentum of his catch.

You squeal, a hand threading through his wet hair and the other looping around his neck.

You gape down at him, incredulous. “Finnick!”

As he echoes your name back to you he mimics a fake accent in the back of his throat, something posh. A new Capitol accent maybe?

“Put me down!” He adjusts his hold on you, a large hand splaying between your shoulder blades. “Down Finnick!”

He smiles up at you as he brings you both to a stand still, his hands keeping you close. The rain drenching you both, running rivers between the both of your chests. “No.”

He has a toothy grin on his face as he stares up at you. Something that makes your heart constrict, swelling in those sea-green eyes. You can’t help yourself, not with the way he’s holding you so gently.

Your lips fall on the arch of his brow, you lean fully into his touch. Your lips skate down his face and find the apple of his cheek. He grins, widely and wildly. You hook your legs over his hips as you press another to the tip of his nose. Your hand moving to stroke his cheek and the other holding the side of his throat. Your thumb brushing over his adam’s apple that bobs as you press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

You pull back, eyes meeting his as you look down at him through droplets of rain that settle on your lashes.

“Finnick.” Your throat feels tight as you wait for him to react or say something, rejection or something softer. What you’re praying for.

His hand finds the back of your head as he pulls your foreheads together, his eyes are far too beautiful this close up. Everything about him is just–

You’re interrupted from the thought as they flutter shut and his lips meet yours. You immediately melt into it, your hands holding his face as you press yourself further into him. His lips are far too soft to be normal but you love it. You pull away for not a second to get air before he’s pulling you back in. Like he’s been starved of it for years, like he needs you more than breathing. And the thought of him needing you so badly, so desperately has your pulse fluttering and your heart beating harder.

Your heart swells and you feel tears gather behind your lids. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips. The kiss turns clumsy as his teeth clack against yours, you can’t help the soft giggle. You can feel his lip curl up against yours as you’re both smiling now. Breathing each others air as you rest your foreheads together.

There’s a crack of lightning that illuminates his face, colours his face in a white glow.

“I love you.” You’re breathless as you say it, eyes searching his desperately.

He echoes your words in the most heart-wrenching whisper, his thumb smoothing over your jaw. As he stares up at you.

There’s a tear that drips from his waterline, mingling with the droplets of salt water and the rain on his tanned cheeks. You press another kiss to his upper lip, bumping your nose against his as you do so.

Something about kissing Finnick in torrential downpour beside the strand of beach you grew up on —it feels right— makes your fingers tremble and your bones ache.

You think of the ocean and him, of the salt clinging to your lips, as you dive back to kiss him again.

#hunger games #district 4 #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #he's my everything #finnick odair you sweet thing #the hunger games #trauma galore #the capitol #a ballad of songbirds and snakes #snow when i catch you

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konigs-left-pec · 7 months

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Worked Up

A/N: One of y'all (on the old blog 🥲) said you needed a pt.2 to Scent so here ya go.

Rating: E/MDNI (vaginal sex, shout-out to the missionary position, nothing too spicy.)

Summary: It's postpartum sex with König, babes!

It had been a long 6 weeks since your daughter was born - 6 weeks full of overwhelming emotion, sleepless nights, tears, and (regretfully) no sex.

You watched König longingly from the bed, heart warm and full as he cradled his little girl, large arms rocking her back to sleep in the peaceful sanctum of your bedroom as he whispered sweetly to her, lips pressed gently to her forehead. He was so lost in the German lullaby he was singing under his breath, swaying back and forth as he gently bounced her, that he didn't notice the hunger with which you were staring at him. Not just staring at him so much as trying to greedily consume him; your gaze grew more heated as you perused every inch of his form - from his strong back and broad shoulders (you wanted your legs draped over them as he moaned in your ear, rutting against you like he was starving for it) and all the way down to the curve of his ass and statuesque thighs (preferably digging your nails into his flesh as he loomed over you, hips flush between your thighs) - you stopped yourself with a muted oh my God as you realized that you were practically salivating like some feral dog as you ogled your husband. Sweet, not-so-innocent König completely unaware of your lustful thoughts and how your panties were uncomfortably soaked, an itch only he could scratch forming deep inside you. He cleared his throat suddenly in this unbearably authoritative way that demanded your attention and you met his eyes sheepishly, knowing you'd been seen.

"See something you like, meine liebe?"

He was smirking, but his eyes crinkled mirthfully before he turned to place the baby back in her bassinet, delicately soothing her with his hand on her chest as she finally gave herself over to sleep. With a deep breath he straightened to full height, stretching his neck and arms and your core actually tingled as his shirt rode up, absurdly excited at just a peek of his happy trail. God, you wanted to lick it... Right before he slid his stiff cock through your slick-

You wanted to wait longer, you really did, but how could you be expected to endure this kind of temptation? He was looking intently at you now, head cocked to the side, dark eyes undressing you as he moved closer to your side of the bed. Your brain was swimming in hormones and you shook your head, trying to pull yourself together to think with your brain instead of your traitorous pussy, which only wanted the pounding to end all poundings by the feel of it.

Out of all the activities you two had put on hold during your pregnancy, you had quite honestly missed plain old missionary sex the most. It seemed so simple, so silly, you couldn't quite articulate the yearning you had to feel your husband's weight on top of you - his safe, strong, warm body, braced over you with one hand supporting himself beside your head and the other feeding his cock into your weeping quim. You would turn your head to suck and nip at his wrist, running your tongue over the tendons and veins as he pistons in and out of-

"Are you sure you're ready, y/n? I can wait..."

"I can't."

His eyes grew impossibly darker at your boldness, that and a strangled groan was the only warning before he descended upon you, crawling over you as he pressed you back into the bed. You grabbed handfuls of his firm ass, hauling him closer to nestle in the cradle of your hips, gasping for breath beneath the insistent press of his weight above you as his open mouth worked along the column of your throat. Sliding your hands beneath the waistband of his sweats, you noticed with no small amount of pleasure that he had forgone boxers. Groping him you felt the muscles beneath your fingers tense and he rocked into you once, twice, smothering a grin against your cheek as you pushed further down to grab his cock and press him impatiently to your entrance. Despite the hesitation and fear, you were blessedly wet and he slid in slowly, easily despite the twinges of disuse in that tender muscle. He bottomed out and you released a breath you hadn't known you were holding, feeling him sitting heavy and slick in the hottest, deepest part of you.

"Oh...God...yesss..."

"Ja? So gut?" He paused to grind into you, needing to collect himself because you were never this vocal, typically gifting him quick breaths and rasping sighs as you climbed to the finish. His hands trapped your own over your head, thumbs rubbing absently over your wrists as you thrust back against him, shifting your legs wider so you take even more of him.

Thankfully he knew your body well enough after all these years and you nearly cried with relief as he briefly slowed his pace, hooking your knees over his arms and spreading you wide open. He slipped even deeper, bumping up against the door to your womb as that delicious ache began to build.

"I'm so close..." reaching down to touch your aching clit, you jolted under the intensity of it, coming almost immediately with a sharp cry and shock all over your face, judging from the cocky chuckle your husband failed to contain. The laughter died in his throat though as your own orgasm pushed him into his, pace speeding up as your slick channel spasmed around his cock; three rough thrusts later and he was exhaling harshly through his nose and spilling himself on your belly, his fist tight and sticky with your spend and his.

He fell heavily to your side, lying quietly with you as you both recovered your strength. He moved first, handing you one of the baby's burp rags to clean up. Boneless, you ineffectively sopped at the mess he had left behind. He was laughing to himself again under his breath, a deep rumbling that had you dragging your eyes up; up past his spent erection, still wet and twitching against his thigh; up to his generously muscles torso, still heaving (and dare you say glistening) a bit from your exertions; all the way up to his face - amused eyes, lidded heavily with desire and the biggest shit-eating grin you'd ever seen on him. He knew before you even opened your mouth.

"So when can you go again?"

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aramblingjay · 11 months

Text

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #*fic #*writing #apparently the trailer inspired me and now i’m doing a bunch of geraskier writing?

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tadpolesonalgae · 1 month

Text

Give and Take

Feyre x reader

Day 1: Lady of Many Faces

Synopsis: as High Lady, many citizens of Velaris have come to know her as kind; compassionate. Lending mercy where others would falter. As her lover, you bear witness to her more…unforgiving, tendencies.

a/n: I can’t manage a whole week, but I thought it would be nice to participate in @feyreweekofficial for a little 🧡💛

warnings: smut, references to poly!feysand though it’s strictly feyre x reader, slightly mean!feyre, face sitting, pussy spanking

word count: 2,096

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Feyre sends you a dark glance as Mor looks away to check on a friend, a stern warning if you’ve ever felt one.

She pastes a warm smile back on her rosey lips as Mor returns her attention to the two of you, shifting to stand closer, raising her glass to sip from, smoothly concealing her steadily thinning patience. The bubbly blonde gives a wince, making an excuse to slip away and check on her partner, leaving you alone with your mate.

“Enjoying the evening?” You ask lightly, hastily searching the room for a group to escape to, able to feel her tension rippling down the bond. “Not as much as you, apparently,” she replies, blue-grey eyes flicking sharply over the rim of her glass.

You offer her a sheepish half-smile, still searching for your third, maybe the only one who’d be able to spare you from her growing impatience. “Feyre, we were just joking,” you try, reaching to take her hand, “you know, having some fun at a boring party.” She hums, unfaltering from her position, pulling her hand away to pluck your glass away. “I think you’ve been having a little too much to drink. Maybe you should retire for the night.”

In a move of alcohol fuelled stupidity, you roll your eyes, huffing. “Jealousy isn’t a pretty colour, feyre,” you pout, shifting your weight to one leg, folding your arms over your chest. You offer a small smile, stepping into her space, both hands wrapping around her free palm, eyes twinkling. “You could retire with me…?”

Piercing blue-grey sweeps over you, and you press closer, breasts brushing against her ink-laced arm. She moves, lightly but firmly gripping your hip, keeping you still. “You have ten minutes,” she whispers beside your ear, hair prickling at the nape of your neck. “If you aren’t ready when I find you…” Her gaze cuts to you, but it’s not your High Lady, nor is it your mate.

The gaze you meet belongs to the ruler of the Hewn City.

————

Pleasure shivers down your spine, cool air pebbling your skin into goosebumps as you strip away your dress, fabric pooling in a lake of pale silk upon the hardwood floor.

You’d been anticipating a reaction of some kind, but not to this extent, and you find yourself relieved to have slipped into the lace beforehand. Pulling the ribbon from your hair, you allow it free, excitement unspooling in your lower abdomen as you move toward the bed, spine curving as the mattress dips beneath your knee, crawling to its head.

The doors open barely even a second after you’ve settled down, a wolf hunting her prey, herding you to right where she wants. An easy meal, her eyes gleaming with vulpine hunger, sweeping over your bare skin. Greedily settling on the blue-grey underthings you’d slid into while preparing for the ball.

She stalks forward, slowly discarding her dress like a second skin, the kind, adoring mask of the High Lady giving way to starving hunger, those years in the forest not leaving her without scars. Her ravenous touches burn at your skin sometimes, so intense, so set on devouring you whole you’re convinced along with her powers she carries the magic to drink straight from your soul, feeding off your adoration.

“Want to try and explain your way out of it,” she drawls lowly, elegantly climbing onto the bed, crawling toward you. “Or are you going to be quiet and accept the inevitable?”

Your head dips, heat flushing your body as your toes curl, meeting her simmering gaze as you part your thighs, making room for her to settle. Her rosey lips curve, eyes gleaming with menace, “the latter, I suppose?”

“What do you want me to do?” You ask softly, bracing your upper body on your forearms, jaw inclining to peer up at her as she pauses above you. Keeping you in. She angles her head, watching you with predatory interest, sizing up her next meal. “Make it up to me.”

Blinking, your lips part, tongue swiping out over your lower one as heat unravels through your body. “Any way?” You murmur, mind already considering what you could do. “Whatever you think suitable, considering your actions,” she drawls, knowing how all the options will surely overwhelm you. Every fantasy you can create playing out behind your eyes, easy for her to observe.

Feyre feels arousal warm between her legs as your eyes dip to her mouth pleadingly, any sort of abrasiveness melted away beneath her attention, your attitude fading now she’s giving you what you want. She can practically scent how soaked your underwear is, how eager and ready you are to take and give and devour.

Your mouths meet, and former thought is washed away, lips slanting hotly against one another with a familiarity that has both of you fracturing a little. Moving with a swift undercurrent, tension tightening as teeth come into play, growing rougher and hungrier with each passing second. Hands tangle in hair, bodies press tight, tongues lick over one another.

Desire gets the better of you first, your hand sliding down her spine, encouraging her to arc against you, breasts flushing with your own, and you moan into her mouth. Palms settle over her hips and you roll over, her silky hair cascading over pillows like a messy halo, her cheeks warm and flushed, eyes glinting with demand. A queen waiting to be served.

You’re more than happy to obey.

You kiss down the length of her throat, licking and sucking where you can, ultimately focused on your end point as you inch down her wonderfully trained body. The muscle of her arms that helps her handle you into position when you’re being insolent, the thighs that trap and squeeze you when you’re being a brat beneath her, those lovely inner muscles that clamp down around your tongue and fingers when you eat her out.

Teeth drag over your lip, half a thought and the lace over her breasts vanishes, eyeing up her dusty pink nipples with arousal at the feast before you. Without any more pause, you dip down, giving an appreciative lap to one before fully putting your mouth over her as she moans lowly. Fingers tangle in your hair, gripping as her legs wrap around your hips, pulling you closer so she can find friction.

“Sweetness,” she warns when your teeth nip out, unable to resist. You blink up at her with false innocence, and you’re rewarded with a disciplinary tug on your hair, reminding you of your task: making it up to her.

You offer a smile in response, thumbs skating across her nipples before reaching where you want. Palms run over the tops of her thighs before slipping beneath her knees, bending them so she can be spread wider, more than familiar with the mechanics of her body.

You waste no time in dipping forward, pressing your face between her thighs, eyes fluttering shut with pleasure as her arousal washes over you, stark and concentrated. Heat bursts in your lower tummy, both of you moaning as you bury deeper, nosing at her cunt, fingers dancing over the tops of her thighs, ticklish and light. Feyre rolls her hips down, hand still kept in your hair to hold you in place as she gently finds her pleasure.

Arousal dims your mind, wanting to taste her, to lick, suck, and touch everything you can. Your mouth opens over her clothed cunt, dragging the wet heat of your tongue over her sopping underwear, sealing your lips against her, drinking her flavour from the fabric. Feyre groans lowly, foot dragging over your back, raising her hips out of instinct to invite more pleasure into her body.

You moan, swept away as she encompasses your senses, eagerly applying yourself to her until neither of you can take it.

“On your back,” Feyre breathes, hurriedly shifting into motion, causing you to whine as she pulls away. “On your back,” she repeats, harsher this time, and you hasten to obey. To do anything if it’ll return her to you. You need to feel her weight on your mouth, set on your tongue.

The second you’ve settled, she’s swinging her thigh over your head, having already discarded her underwear and you hardly have the time to comprehend that before she’s sat down, rightfully over you. Your eyes roll back, able to feel the heat that rolls from her cunt, her thighs, the wetness that glosses your lips, surely gleaming on your cheeks as she winds over you.

“Fuck,” she groans lowly, thighs spreading wider as her hands roam over your chest, thumbs flicking over your lace covered nipples before she vanishes the clothing. “So pretty. So fucking pretty.” You moan, tongue flicking out, lips sealing against her cunt as you swipe over her, pushing at her entrance, circling her clit eagerly, suckling on the sensitive bud, pressing closer between her thighs.

You gasp as she travels lower, fingers dancing over your abdomen, snapping the band of your underwear back against your hip teasingly, hauling a whimper from your chest. She laughs breathlessly, “should I touch you?” Beneath her you whine, thighs parting, urging her on as you make out with her cunt with a conviction that has more arousal dripping onto your tongue.

She hums, amused by your determination, raising her palm and you whimper at the lack of attention.

You yelp when she brings her palm down, connecting with your heat, slapping your cunt with a sharp, unrelenting motion. She gives you no reprieve before repeating it, unforgiving and relentless, keeping you beneath her as she takes her pleasure. One, then another, and another—unending as surprising arousal and heat gathers in response, so desperate for her touch you’d take pain over numbness.

“How many do you think you deserve, sweet girl?” She muses lightly, rolling her hips down, your mouth remaining open beneath her cunt, licking eagerly, drinking her down. “Five more? Ten?”

Your toes curl, thighs pressing together, heat swirling down your spine as she laughs again, gently plying you apart. “Start misbehaving now and it’ll only get worse,” she reminds, amusement prominent in her tone. “I thought you’d decided to be quiet and accept what’s coming?”

Again you whimper, arms wrapping over her hips to show your conviction, your need for her pleasure, to have her releasing on your tongue.

Feyre pauses, feeling how you’re blindly reaching for her across that mental bridge, stumbling through the dark in search of her. Her lips curve, bringing you in, opening the gates to allow access, curious what you have to offer. It’s not an image, but senses flood her own, the heat, stark arousal, the wetness that you’re licking through, obscene slurping sounds emphasised through the bond, receiving pleasure in both the mental and physical parts of herself, and the high hits her hard.

She gasps, movements increasing in pace, hips grinding over your mouth, pressing her clit to your tongue as she flutters with mind-numbing pleasure. Waves rush her body, rolling beneath her skin, palming her breasts as she sits back on your mouth, indulging in the repetitive flick of your tongue until the heat begins to fade.

You continue lapping gently, desperate to clean the release from between her thighs, to commit her flavour to memory as her hips still, panting softly above you. “That was good,” she pants, smiling faintly as she eases off you, threads of saliva joining from your lips to her heat. “So good for me, hm?”

You lick her flavour away, certain your skin is gleaming, but neither of your care as she crawls over you, pushing her mouth to yours eagerly, lapping at her taste as you share the slice of heaven with her. It’s hot and messy, open and needful as arousal twines gently between you until she pulls away, straddling your hips.

“But you know, you still need a little more discipline,” she breathes lowly, reaching back, loving how you flush when her hand cups your wet heat, underwear drenched. “Are you going to be good and take it?” She asks, smirking.

Your lips part on a gasp as she slips her hand down your underwear, the pads of her fingers brushing against the bare heat of your clit, locating it effortlessly.

Pushing the heat away, you manage a nod, meeting her lustful gaze.

“I’ll take it,” you murmur, hands settling on her hips, and she smiles.

“Good girl,” she croons, palm pulling back. “Just five more.”

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general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

#feyre x reader #feyreweek2024 #feyre x fem!reader #feyre smut #feyre x reader smut #x f!reader

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inhuman-obey-me · 4 months

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CONGRATS ON 4K+ FOLLOWERS!!!🎉 You two are so awfully talented I can't even put into words, really. Here's to many more!

May I request: 🥡 (Can’t fight these cravings in the night.) with Beel + MC Included, please?

(ALSO IS THE PROMPT LYRICS TO MOTIONLESS IN WHITE'S WEREWOLF BC I LOVE THAT SONG)

Ahhh, thank you for your kind words!! ( ๑ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵) ♡ We're so grateful people like our stuff enough for us to have reached this point, especially with how many times we've fallen into inactivity. Thank you so much for your support!!!!

And, ahahahaha, you got us, it seems we've finally been called out on using lyrics in our prompts. Yes, we also love that song!! In fact, we're both big MIW fans, so for anyone else who likes them, see if you can spot what other lyrics we put on the prompt list ;)

"Can’t fight these cravings in the night." - Beel/MC

Unlike his twin, Beelzebub rarely remains asleep the whole night through.

Some nights, he twists and tosses in his bed, trying to shake off the specters haunting his dreams, then wakes suddenly, his heart racing. On others, it's simply the call of hunger that jerks him from his slumber, his grumbling stomach demanding satisfaction at any hour. Other times still, he wakes without any reason at all. Sometimes, it's all three, pulling him from sleep over and over throughout the night.

He looks up at the gentle golden glow coming off the solar design on his wall, barely illuminating the room just enough to navigate, before his gut begins its growling demands. It's no use to try to go back to sleep; he can't fight these cravings in the night for long.

With a shake of his head, he slides out of bed and quietly makes his way towards the door, glad that Belphie sleeps heavily enough never to be disturbed by his movements. In the short trek from his room to the kitchen, he can feel his stomach growing emptier and emptier, until his vision starts to blur, and he's holding himself back from gnawing off the door itself.

He grabs the first thing within reach off the table and gorges upon it without hesitation. Guilt nibbles at the edge of his mind as he vaguely registers the shape of something like a drawn-on face upon his tongue -- some special treat of Levi's, probably, and he'll get chewed out for it in the morning, no doubt. But the voracious growling of his stomach drowns those thoughts out easily, and he forgets quickly as he lumbers his way dizzily forward. It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it sates the hunger long enough to reach the fridge.

His sight comes back into focus as he reaches for the fridge's handle, only to realize it's already open, with the shadowed silhouette of someone sitting in front of its heady glow, peeking over the door at him with mild terror in their eyes.

"Beel, it's me," you breathe in a nervous hush.

Your voice rings distant through the fog of hunger, buzzing in his head like swarms of flies -- or maybe those are his own wings, clicking behind him in voracious frenzy. This isn't the first time you've caught him midnight snacking, but it's usually the other way around, when he's already deep into his feasting.

He reaches a hand past you without answer, without eye contact, no sign of even having heard you, fingers closing rapaciously around whatever food they can find. Your presence is calming to him, always has been, ever since the day he decided to make his pact with you, but that's not enough right now. He doesn't trust himself not to devour you whole. He needs to eat, he is starving, and you smell so delicious.

So he reaches past you, grabbing whatever he can, and he eats. He eats, and eats, and eats, until the buzzing stops, and finally, his belly isn't screaming its emptiness anymore.

You're still standing there beside him, and he realizes you've been handing him things as he ate, snacks from the cupboards to sate him and glasses of water from the sink to help him wash them down. The fear is gone from your face, replaced only with worry.

Well, he did consume half the fridge's contents within minutes, after all.

He wraps you up in a big bear hug, expressing only a blunt, "Thank you," and his embrace is tight but warm, and full of relief.

"Are you feeling better now?" you ask, giving him a light squeeze in return.

"Yeah, for now. I might wake up hungry again later. Though, I feel better having you here with me. Like my stomach is less angry, somehow. But I think I'm okay now, so I'll go back to bed. You should probably go back to bed too. Belphie always says you don't get enough rest."

You're quiet for a moment, thinking, and then answer, "Well, why don't I come sleep next to you? If you wake up again, I'll make you something properly to eat."

"Are you sure?" he asks. To be honest, the thought of eating your cooking has him salivating all over again, but he doesn't want to ask too much of you.

"Yeah. I sleep better in your room sometimes, anyway."

Nodding firmly, he takes your hand, leading you back to the twins' room, where Belphie is still sleeping peacefully, unaware. Quietly careful not to disturb the youngest brother, you climb into his bed together, snuggling up close. He can smell raspberries and vanilla caramel on your breath -- the pudding you had snacked on before he'd come in, probably. The last thing he thinks before drifting back to sleep is how sweet of a scent it is, just like you.

When he wakes again, it's morning already, and you're giving him a gentle poke on the nose.

"Good morning, Beel. Did you sleep okay?"

#obey me #obey me!#obey me swd #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me nightbringer #omnb #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me beelzebub x mc #obey me beelzebub x reader #obey me beel x mc #obey me beel x reader #obey me fic #obey me drabble #writings #drabble #4000 follower celebration #mod chaos in the devildom

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sevenpoyo · 10 months

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this got deleted like 5 times this version is nothing like the original and i don’t know how tumblr works

By time you meet denji, he know you you work at the noodle shop or bakery and feed him and pochita. Or maybe he’s seen you with the yakuza guys he owns more money than he’s ever seen to, or maybe some t.v show or porno he watched second hand. Either way he knows you, but when you’re introduce yourself, saying the name that is distantly familiar to him, and looking at him with the most captivating eyes he’s ever seen. When you’re giving him a look so warm and all encompassing that makes him feel full like a hot meal from the old guy who thinks that denji is his grandson.

Your smile spells out warm fresh bread and sweet fruit jam as you ask his name once, twice, three times and the concern that overtakes your features at the fourth time you ask him, makes that full feeling turn into nausea. Like finding a bee hive and gourging himself on too sweet honey. He nearly collapses when your voice actually reaches his ears and he hears you talking to him, the gentle melody of “are you alright? are you feeling well? what the hell!? can you even here me?!?” You step closer looking for any indication of injury besides his despondency, and he’s knocked back into reality.

He has to say something back! You’ll probably get sick of standing here with him if he doesn’t! You’ll leave! every alarm in his brains is screaming it over and over and over! You’ll leave. You’ll leave! You’ll leave! You’ll leave! You’ll leave! You’ll leave. Look at you! Of course you weren’t sticking around!

You’re leaving! He feels that warm kind look leave him and he feels exactly what he is again, he’s a poor starving street rat who’s missed his chance of someone like you looking at him with soft, warm, nice feelings that he’s never felt and will likely never feel again. His one shot at being something to someone. lost. wasted. you’re turning around to leave the skinny mess of a teenage boy in front that couldn’t even respond when you asked him the most simple questions. Using all the strength in his body he sputters, forcing out breath that reeks of hunger into your face and finally coughs up his name.

“i’m uh- my names Denji. i’m fine! i can hear! i’m Denji and- this is pochita!” please look at him again. denji leans closer to see over your shoulder, please look at him. then you dig up a water bottle, and a granola bar and he’s in love. you’re staying, your gonna feed him, and he feels closer to heaven then he’s ever been. Maybe he’s dead, and you’re an angel. Denji didn’t much believe that he deserved to go to heaven- or that pochita would still be with him. but he thought all devils were inhuman looking, and you just looked lovely to him.

“ok then Denji, i’m gonna need your full name. i’m worried that you may be concussed. do you know what year it is? do you feel nauseous?” now he thinks it make sense if you were and angel angel’s use big words.

“huh? what’s concussed mean? and nas- noushis?” his mouth was watering as he fumbled to unwrap the granola bar.

“oh god! denji can you tell me where you live? are you parents home?” shit! he can’t take you back to his shack! you’ll leave for sure if he takes you to that shithole!

“i lost my house keys! that’s why i’m outside! and my head is fine! i’m just really hungry!”

“ok, i’ll just stay to make sure. do you want to go somewhere to eat or something? this place gives me bad vibes.” Wow, this has to be heaven. there’s not other way that this could happen to denji.

“sure! but uh.. i don’t have any money on me. ” he didn’t have any money at all, but why get stuck up on details?

“that’s fine! i’ll pay since we’re friends now, and we could put your little friend in my book bag!” you said referencing pochita. who is now running laps around the two of you,

that makes denji take back what he said earlier. this wasn’t heaven, you were.

#denji csm #csm x reader #denji x reader #denji hayakawa #denji my beloved #yandere csm #yandere denji

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beanghostprincess · 6 months

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it wouldn't surprise me that, despite sanji being the literal cook of the crew, he had an eating disorder (ofc trigger warning here for eds, child abuse, starvation and, y'know, sanji's background in general).

he experienced the most traumatic years of his life trapped inside a fucking cell, with a metal helmet around his head and only eating when his father let him. which was 'only when the kid needs it', probably. which leads to judge saying 'i couldn't even kill my son' and it can translate to 'at least i kept you alive'. and not to turn this into irl trauma, but abusive parents constantly use the 'keeping you alive and giving you food' excuse (the bare fucking minimum) to guilt trip you into thinking that they're good and that you're exaggerating how bad they treated you because, well, at least they kept you alive, didn't they?

so here, sanji sees food as a form of loving but in the sense of 'at least my dad didn't kill me. that's something'. so his vision towards food remains positive but only because of his mom. only because his love language is acts of service and his mom took everything he gave her, even if it was horrific, as a way of saying 'i love all of you. you're perfect because you tried and the fact that you brought me your food is enough to make me feel loved. you're not a mistake' despite his brothers and his father saying that he was, indeed, a mistake and weak for wanting to give food to others instead of just taking it for himself.

both ideas of 'someone who loves you wouldn't let you starve' and 'offering food to others is opening up your heart' coexist inside little sanji's brain.

so it wouldn't be crazy to think that, although sanji loves cooking and his best early memories of it are that book that kept him dreaming while he was locked up, and his mom's words, has a hard time eating food.

besides, sanji is used to giving, not taking. he's not selfish, but actually extremely generous to the point of forgetting about his own well-being. i don't think he actually thinks about how hungry he is until it hurts. until he needs it. he only ate whenever his father let him so he wouldn't starve, and the only thing that made him feel well about food was the fact that he could give it to the one he loved and needed it.

sanji doesn't have good experiences eating food, but only cooking it. it's a great representation of his personality as a whole, to be honest.

then the whole zeff thing happens, and he actually almost starves to death and learns what hunger feels like. but once again, zeff saves him and he's the one to be hungry for not letting the kid starve. which might seem similar to what judge did, but 'not letting you starve because i couldn't kill you' isn't the same as 'not letting you starve because i don't want you to die'. sanji learns the difference that day.

he didn't know somebody could be that kind. especially to him, someone who doesn't deserve it (he thinks he doesn't) because, in his house, love only came when you earned it.

and, you know, sanji's like that. sanji's selfless. sanji does everything for others. and so the guilt eats him up first. what zeff did is beautiful and amazing and we love him for it, but we don't know about how that affected sanji at a young age. which only makes him even more selfless and more of a better, kinder, generous person. and that might be bad, considering how little he thinks about himself already-

he learns that throwing away food is awful, and that you have to be grateful for being able to eat. grateful for living. so his don't-waste-food policy is obviously a big part of his personality due to almost dying of starvation and also owing his life to his dad (zeff, the real one, of course. fuck judge).

but that can almost be dangerous because refusing to waste food leads to forcing yourself to eat only because of his concept of what food means.

and then we have luffy in wci saying the whole 'i won't eat anything that you haven't cooked' which is precious and something very beautiful to say to your cook, but that only brings sanji back to 'starving is a form of loving' and 'you can't let someone you love starve'. and no matter how much he wants to force himself to push luffy away, he gives him food because he knows his captain will keep his promise.

sanji feels guilty, once again, but he ends up fixing it.

the thing is, after everything i've said, i don't think it would be weird to think about sanji viewing food as something external. something that isn't for himself. something that he only has control over because it's for others and not for himself, and it's a concept, a form of love, and not a need. because he does not feel hungry. when it comes to food, he feels responsibility and guilt and love... but never hunger.

hunger is, by all means, a form of selfishness sanji isn't used to unless his body is about to give up completely. he can eat out of pleasure and satisfaction and love for food, but he does it to train a selfless skill that may or may not also be selfish in the sense of 'wanting to be loved and useful'.

so here we have:

seeing food as a form of love because at least his dad wouldn't let him die, but he probably learned to push away the concept of hunger

seeing cooking as the most beautiful way of showing your feelings and efforts and taking care of people

not knowing the concept of hunger due to his own selflessness

scratch the first one, actually starving for others is a form of loving. he will never let the people he loves starve even if it means he dies in the process.

he can't waste food because that would be insulting and disrespectful. no matter the context.

and i'm just saying (and this whole thing is extremely self-indulgent and me projecting again and again) that it wouldn't be surprising to me if he had some issues when it comes to eating and making food for himself.

it's not that he thinks he doesn't deserve food, it's just the thought that he doesn't need it. going back to his past it could be seeing hunger as a form of weakness (not when it comes to others. never when it comes to others), both because of what his family taught him men should be like, and the fact that the manliest man he knows used starvation as a form of love.

so it's seeing hunger as something that makes you weak, but only when it comes to himself because of course, he wouldn't apply the same rules for him as for everyone else. he's just like that.

he thinks about others first, and himself second. always second. and the thought of eating and needing it only comes when it's too much. and when that time comes, the voices in his head tell him that he's weak. and again, i don't think he sees himself as undeserving of food because he has this whole thing about everybody deserving to eat. but he has never played with the same rules as the rest, always a few steps behind, so if he can't fight the thoughts in his head contradicting his morals, that's just how he is.

not to mention the 'don't waste food' part which also would make him feel guilty about not being able to eat if the thoughts of not deserving food and being weak for needing to eat become too much. he can't eat because he doesn't deserve it and because he's weak. and he can't starve, because that would mean wasting food.

so, you know, sanji is out of options here.

if some days sanji just casually decides not to eat- forgets to prepare himself a meal while his crew enjoys his food... that's just the way he is, isn't it? and if he lies about it, it's just another form of love, keeping them away from his problems.

besides, controlling hunger and controlling food is the only way he has to take control of his messy life. when something is out of reach, the unstoppable thing called life he has never been able to control, at least he can choose not to eat. he can choose to starve, this time, with the comfort of knowing he won't. he can choose not to eat this time, not like all of those times when food was controlling him instead.

at least the strawhats will never, ever, starve if he's around. but of course, nobody thinks about asking the cook if he wants to eat. that would be absurd. and it's impossible to think sanji would have some sort of issue with it! sanji, the cook, who keeps telling them not to waste food, not eating? that would be absurd and too selfless to make sense.

that's just the way he is.

#this headcanon is literally just me projecting my shit onto sanji ngl #*holds sanji gently* you've changed my life darling i love you so much please take care of yourself #why's he such a good person and why do people always treat him like shit i am violent #i swear all of this makes sense in my head #like he's a person who's always taking control of the situation only bc he feels like he can't control what he's feeling #and yknow feeling is for the weak and men aren't weak and yadda yadda yadda fuck the vinsmokes #his eating disorder is also heavily connected to his views in gender but that's for another day #tw eating disorder #sanji #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #<- i hate this tag btw only using so it gets to more people bc i spent my time writing this ngl #red leg zeff #one piece #op

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waltwhitmansbeard · 9 months

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"did we fall asleep?" "i think we did.."

There are many things to discuss. The world is ending, after all—or, rather, this version of the world is ending, with some vast and ghastly unknown lurking just around the corner. Or maybe not; all of this feels just above Laudna's pay grade, as if she's playing dress-up like she did as a child, parading around the house in her mother's one nice dress and the necklace her father scrimped and saved for months to buy her for Winter's Crest the year before Laudna was born. Whatever is going on, there are many things to discuss, and it is better to discuss them now, when it is just she and Imogen here in Zhudanna's house in the Windowed Wall, when Laudna can say the things she fears will turn the rest of the Hells away from her, when the ominous glare of Ruidus does not feel quite so omnipresent.

Yet here they are, a tangle of limbs on one bed, Laudna's cheek pressed awkwardly into Imogen's shoulder, very much discussing nothing. They got here, all jitters and flushed cheeks, and Laudna found suddenly that she had nothing to say. It doesn't seem to matter here, the fears and the guilt and the hounds barking in her chest. This is the house they made a home. This is bed they chose together. From downstairs, the smells of some kind of soup beckon them from their embrace, but Laudna stays put, counting each of Imogen's slow, even breaths, feeling the rise and fall of her stomach beneath the arm she has pulled across it.

Laudna doesn't sleep. She wants to, needs to, desperately, but she so rarely gets to see Imogen like this, completely at ease, a woman and not a fortress. She looks sharper than she used to, more hollowed out—more like Laudna, in a way. She supposes that's the price of the life they lead, the stress and the hunger and the death. But when she's asleep, the edges smooth a bit, and Laudna can see the girl who loved horses like family.

She wonders if she looks different now. More different—she bears little resemblance to the child who died on a tree. Laudna avoids her reflection most days, finds it matters to her little what she looks like, unless she's using the horror of it to her advantage. Maybe she should have been paying better attention. Maybe what happened in the market would start to make some sense.

Because what other explanation is there? What about Imogen—beautiful, powerful, miraculous, phenomenal Imogen—could ever look at a dead girl, an abomination, a murderer, and see—well. Laudna has no idea what Imogen sees, though she does see more than most. What if she had seen what happened in Issylra? What would she think of Laudna then? She is grateful for this circlet, the one resting so beautifully on Imogen's brow, the one that grants her peace for the first time in a long, long time, but she is most grateful for the way it shields Imogen from the worst thing Laudna has ever done.

Laudna lays there, watching her sleep. What will the world look like when she wakes? What will she think of who lies beside her? She will have to wait and see. Some time passes, and a thin voice calls up, "Girls? Are you hungry?"

Imogen squeaks out a small groan as she stretches—it's long been one of Laudna's favorite sounds, Imogen in the first moments of waking—and wets her dry lips. "Did we fall asleep?" Her voice is cracked, soft.

I didn't. I watched you instead. I thought about all the things I couldn't tell you this past week. I remembered what I did. I begged for your forgiveness. I refused it. I fell in love with you, again. I'm sorry. Thank you. "I think we did."

Imogen's head falls to look at her, and the smile there is so gentle Laudna's breath catches in her throat. "Guess we didn't do much talkin', did we?"

"No, I suppose we didn't." Laudna sits so Imogen can do the same. "I think Zhudanna has dinner ready."

"Good, I'm starved."

Laudna starts to climb off the bed, but fingers wrap around her bony wrist and she turns back. "Imogen?"

Her cheeks are pink, a pastel rose that compliments her hair so wonderfully. "I...I'd really like to kiss you again. If that's alright."

She doesn't know what Imogen sees. She takes her hand, rests it against Imogen's neck, and lets her eyes fall closed. As they kiss again, slow and sweet like summer molasses, Laudna finds herself believing not in the gods or their enemies or in any great scheme for power or glory, but in her, in the way their hands lace together atop the quilt, in her magical ability to know that there is something in Laudna worth loving, even if Laudna herself can't find it.

#ask #tiamat-zx #critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #bells hells #bells hells fic #imodna #imodna fic #my fic

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athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 8 months

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Im so normal about this man I swear

vampire spawn!tav x astarion

rated: m (just to be safe tbh)

mostly this all inspired by dnd vampire spawn character sheets and vtm vampire stuff

It is rare but not unheard of for the hunger, the cost of eternity binding all vampires, turns some into feral beasts. Some become mindless-- Most become mindless thralls used like cannon fodder-- But some embrace it. When the hunger becomes too much, when you are near the brink of death, when threatened into a corner: the beast comes out. A roaring lion lurking in the shadows with claws out and teeth bared, he has to admit that part of you had unnerved him. Feral beasts are not so easily controlled, especially when he was not the one who turned you.

But he found a way to slip a collar on you.

When the beast becomes too much when you slaughtered the goblins in the Blighted Village. Climbing on walls, claws ripping into foul flesh, when fangs are used to only tear apart throats. You were in a dazy, the state of in-between sanity and hunger-driven insanity.

He brought you back, with that charming smile and sweet poisonous voice-- You fear he has you ensnared as your master has. He was-- is-- Handsome and you easily fell for the gentleman who showed interest in you. Small village, a person who wanted to fly out of the nest, and a fancy-dressed man who promised to show the world if you trusted him. You trusted him like you trust the vampire who smiles like an actor performing in the show of his life. Maybe, no, he is doing just that.

Back at camp, you praise the Gods no one saw you. You had bathed, skin still raw from the scrubbing and smell of citrus from the bath oil you crafted. The armor is a mess for the blood but that is not unusual. You pray the blood either dries and flakes off or is washed off by the rain at some point. Returning to camp in your campsite clothes with the white-haired rogue who plays it off as ‘friendly chat’ does not make you happy. The only friend of sorts is Shadowheart. Maybe because you respected her beliefs and she respected you in return, who knows, you just know you need to seek her out. A follower of Shar is comforting when she talks about the teachings of loss… To let go.

Darkness and loss go hand in hand.

There is a nudge in your mind, a soft nudge as you smile and brush off the worry in Wyll’s voice.

You know his touch in your mind, the way it brushes against you like the way the hands of a lover subtlety hint for the other to find them later.

Only he is not your lover and if you were mean-spirited, you would call him your blood donor.

Instead, you are grateful to him and you let him slip into your mind. A whisper, a hit of concern, and an excuse for you to make later.

Later comes too soon.

“I don’t know. It sometimes just happens.” He is not happy, he thinks you are trying to starve yourself because of guilt. “I was one moment walking and then…”

You show him, bare yourself for judgment. When you go back to kick your feet slowly in the river with the kindred beside you carefully sitting close but not too close to the river to get wet. When the memory shared ends with seeing him holding your face he sighs.

“I am no teacher,” Throwing his hands in the air, “Honestly, most would be rampaging and be killed by a hunter.” You frown upon hearing those words. When will you go too far? When will Wyll have to turn his blade to you? “There has to be--”

“I’m scared.”

Those red eyes fall to you, slightly wide open not expecting you to outright say something so vulnerable. The silence that follows is one from shock, Astarion lying on the ground staring up at the night sky with too many stars for his liking. His hand folded over his stomach.

“We will figure this out.” He needs you on his side, better to be in pairs than in a pack against him, or you because they will not just stop at you. “Trust me.” Being kind is odd and you laugh so softly the sound of the river nearly drowns it out. Turning your head in his direction next to you, a pat of your hand on his hand.

“Of course, as far as you want.”

#reader insert #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldur's gate fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #fanfiction

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amplifyme · 1 year

Text

MN 1068 - 06

The X-Files. MSR. Season 5. Rated: Teen and up. WC: 1387. Read on AO3.

Tagging @today-in-fic

He’d said as he dropped a kiss on her brow: “I’m gonna grab a shower. My wallet’s on the coffee table if I’m not out before the food gets here.”

He wasn’t. So she answered the door and paid the kid, tipping him more generously than she knew Mulder would’ve. She gathered forks and paper towels and made it through the doorway into the living room before she lost her grip on his wallet. It fell open at her feet, spilling out the bills she’d haphazardly stuffed back into it. She emptied her hands and squatted to retrieve it.

It was the sharp corner, shoved into the folds of money and poking under her fingernail, that drew her attention. "Ouch!" Without thought she pulled the culprit free and held up a piece of yellow legal pad, a little more than two-thirds the size of a business card, and thickly laminated. She flipped it over and read what was there, scrawled diagonally across the printed lines of the paper in what she recognized was Mulder’s hand.

MN 1068 - 06

She was still frowning at it when he stepped out of the bedroom. He was in his usual post-shower state: almost dry and almost dressed. Loose running shorts, a sleeveless tee, and damp porcupine hair; his normal attire for a night in. He noticed the food first, rubbing his hands together in pleasure.

“Excellent. I’m starving! What’ve you got there, Sc -?” His lips clamped shut when he saw what she held, and his eyes darted to hers.

She experienced the briefest moment of embarrassment. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. Besides, there were far fewer secrets between them these days. And if he trusted her enough with his wallet – which he’d done countless times before – then he also trusted her with whatever it contained.

Scully stood and offered him the stiff scrap of paper. “What’s this?” she chirped.

He had to open his mouth twice before he could get a word out. A tiny alarm chimed quietly in a corner of her brain. “It’s… it’s nothing. A keepsake. Nothing.” He took the preserved scrap of paper and his wallet from her and settled into his corner of the couch. He quickly tucked everything back in and laid it in the center of the coffee table. “Let’s eat.”

He would never be a completely open book. She would never be able to adequately plumb the depths of his unending mysteries. And she kind of liked it that way. But Scully knew avoidance when she saw it. Hunger won out over curiosity, though, and she took the offered food from his hand without saying anything. Soon the living room was scented with Garlic Chicken and Moo Shu pork as they ate in comfortable silence. The tank in the corner gurgled away and Mulder’s thumb pulsed on the remote until he settled on a nature documentary. The volume went up a little. They traded containers for a while and then switched back to their originals.

She waited until the smiling, happy, slightly desperate on-air staff of the local public broadcasting station launched into their spiel for funding before she turned to him.

“You don’t want to tell me?”

He looked over at her, scratching behind his ear with one hand, the other with a fork stuck out like a weapon between his fingers. “I did tell you, it’s nothing.” A smile that verged on bashful crossed his face and then was gone in an instant. “It’s stupid. You’ll laugh at me.”

“Mulder, I do that all the time anyway. Sometimes I think you encourage it. You get off on finding new ways to make me break out in incredulous laughter.”

His head bobbed. “True enough,” he conceded. “You know me well, Scully.”

“Maybe not.”

They traded a long look, and she tried not to seem too nosy. The recent addition of sexual intimacy to their relationship didn’t mean they had to share everything, did it? After all, they were still allowed some privacy.

“It’s gonna make you nuts if I don’t tell you, isn’t it?”

“No, not at all.” She shifted her attention back to the TV. “Okay, yes, it is,” she conceded after a minute, chin lifted proudly in defiance. “But then making me nuts is also something you delight in doing.”

“It’s… stupid,” he repeated after a minute, jamming his fork into the Moo Shu Pork and transferring the contents onto a thin pancake. He folded it closed and shoved most of it in his mouth.

She spent another minute trying to look engrossed in the episode of Masterpiece Theater that’d just started. “It’s fine, Mulder” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He swallowed a bite just in time to bark a laugh and tossed the empty tail end of his pancake into the container of pork. “Of course I do. If I hope to have a moment of peace tonight. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Well, I could just go home, if that’s the way you feel about it,” she teased.

Not surprisingly, he chose that moment to tackle her and push her flat on the couch. He loomed over her, wearing the shit-eating grin she treasured but would never dare admit to. He levered down enough to give her a long, hoisin flavored kiss and then tucked his nose into the notch of her jaw. “You promise not to laugh?”

There he was, being bashful again. And it was so not like him. Mulder was brash, confident, practically impossible to embarrass. Hesitant occasionally. Even vulnerable sometimes. But he sounded just like a shy twelve-year-old boy. Remember, she admonished herself, that’s who he is, too. Whatever this was, it mattered to him.

She wove her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I promise.”

“It was on the card I found in the filing system at the DOD.” He lifted his head and looked at her with soft, mossy eyes. “Your card, and it was printed in red in the upper right corner. MN 1068 - 06. It corresponded with the vial I found in the basement of the Pentagon. The one containing the chip that saved your life.”

“Mulder, we don’t know that for a fact.”

“I do. You believe in your brand of miracle, and I’ll believe in mine.” He cocked his head and offered a lop-sided smile. “All that matters is that we got one.”

She sat up, pushing back to gain a little bit of distance so she wouldn’t be distracted and miss the rest of his story. Mulder hovered close, his hand sweeping up and down her arm, cupping the curve of her jaw before sliding away.

“I jotted it down as soon as I got back to the Gunmen’s. I didn’t want to take the chance I’d forget. That ID number? It saved your life. So I carry it with me. As a reminder.” He scrubbed his face with both hands before turning back to her. “I wanted to keep the vial,” he chuckled under his breath. “I was going to do something with it, I don’t know. But I never got it back and didn’t think to ask until it was too late. Too much going on at the time. So… now you know.”

He gave her a long look from the corner of his eye and then slowly sank back against her, like a felled tree. She squirmed and shifted until she was on her back again, and gathered him in her arms, nuzzled him like the overgrown puppy he sometimes resembled.

He said, a few tranquil moments later, “Thanks for not laughing at me, Scully.”

“You’re welcome.” She dropped a kiss on the crown of his head and told him matter-of-factly, “I love you, Mulder.”

He wriggled against her and unhurriedly began rooting at her breasts with his glorious nose. His warm, humid breath played against nipples grown suddenly hard with a rush of anticipation and desire.

“Prove it,” he murmured, and gently closed his teeth on the peak of her left breast, dampening the fabric of her shirt and the bra beneath.

She shoved him away and took to her feet, holding out a hand in invitation. Then she led him to his bed and gave him all the proof he’d ever need.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Notes:

I want more than anything to write something angsty enough to rip your heart out. But the muse is demanding fluff lately, something she used to avoid at all costs. Despite any protests I might make, she usually gets her way.

Until next time…

#x-files fanfic #msr #MN1068-06 #mine #random brain dump

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dolphin1812 · 9 months

Text

We see the impact of M Leblanc's charity now! . . . but it's limited. Those two new blankets will be a big help (given the winter weather), but the money didn't fix the Jondrette family's broader problems (and not just because M Jondrette isn't going to spend all of the money on his family). Once again, charity's utility is shown to be limited, even if it's certainly a kind gesture.

And Jondrette continues to be cruel. His decision to use the money for one of his schemes is awful, but it's not even his only horrible act in this chapter. He casts his daughters out into the cold just because they don't recognize M Leblanc, and, given that he says they saw him 8 years ago, they were both young children when they first saw him (and therefore, it makes sense that they wouldn't remember him). That moment suggests that M Jondrette is not only harsh but self-absorbed, feeling frustrated when others don't see things/people the exact way he does because it impedes his schemes. His wife shares his anger once he points out the girl (and wow, I wonder who this very mysterious woman who has a sneaky husband, loves only her daughters, and hates a "beggar" girl could be), but her rage is still mediated by other concerns. For instance, she assumes that the left-over sums after the purchase of charcoal will be for food, and she's confused when her husband says that they can't worry about that now. She's definitely a willing participant in his plan this time, but she also has other priorities and is probably thinking more of how she can keep her daughters from starving (a very real worry, given that the eldest often hallucinates from hunger) than of how she can dedicate all her energy to getting M Leblanc's money.

Although the Jondrette parents (especially M Jondrette) are pretty despicable, their very reasonable desires are given a sinister edge because of our lack of knowledge of how they'll achieve them in a way that's fun plot-wise. Here's one example:

"“My fortune is made.”

The woman stared at him with the look that signifies: “Is the person who is addressing me on the point of going mad?”

He went on:—

“Thunder! It was not so very long ago that I was a parishioner of the parish of die-of-hunger-if-you-have-a-fire,-die-of-cold-if-you-have-bread! I have had enough of misery! my share and other people’s share! I am not joking any longer, I don’t find it comic any more, I’ve had enough of puns, good God! no more farces, Eternal Father! I want to eat till I am full, I want to drink my fill! to gormandize! to sleep! to do nothing! I want to have my turn, so I do, come now! before I die! I want to be a bit of a millionnaire!”

He took a turn round the hovel, and added:—

“Like other people.”"

Mme Jondrette's look is just funny, but M Jondrette's desires are (mostly) very understandable. Of course he wants to be full after always being hungry! Of course he wants to escape this dilemma of choosing between warmth and food! But his "like other people" is ambiguous and somewhat threatening. It could be a simple statement that not everyone suffers like he has. He merely wants to experience joys that most people get to, like eating. It could, however, be that he wants to "be a bit of a millionnaire" like M Leblanc, making this comment menacing rather than a simple expression of what he's lacked. We know that he's plotting something, but this feels like one of the better instances of Hugo expressing M Jondrette's needs and making them sinister? His comments about his poverty are sad to read because they stem from genuine suffering, but Hugo also wants us to see Jondrette as evil. Consequently, there can be a lot of tension between the sympathy his situation demands and the awareness that he's a horrible person. Here, the greed at the end ("millionnaire") and the implied threat at least succeeds in making him threatening.

And this was a wonderful line:

"“Bah! Who’s here? Our neighbor? I saw him go out a little while ago. Besides, he doesn’t listen, the big booby. And I tell you that I saw him go out.”"

#les mis letters #lm 3.8.12 #jondrette #m jondrette #mme jondrette

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