#do i watch chowder

[ryssbelle]

Night Owl vs Early Bird sleepover edition

[ducktracy]

"slightly socially inept happy guys" - shower thought phrase beamed into my head as i was trying to articulate the character archetype i keep gravitating towards

[cowboy-robooty]

to this fucking day i am still searching for tumblr user jackedspicer 's regular show sex ranking list. because it was poetry it was fucking poetry i was there when it was posted and it was so beautifully correct in every way and i remember skips was a 10/10 and benson was a 8/10 because he says cringey shit like "ahhhh i really needed that" and at the end of his review there was "work them fingers drummer boy"

[everand1r]

Yeah he’s my boyfriend, he just doesn’t know it yet

I do not know how to summarize this, it’s more crack than anything 💀

A/n: Reader is of a diva. And delusional. Chowder reference in Ace’s part lol

Warnings: I love using commas, reader has no gender or physical traits but is very feminine

Characters: Ace, Idia, Silver, Deuce, Jack, Sebek

Ace

Ace blankly stares ahead, ignoring you once again as you rant about how he just HAS to hold your hand.

He’s flattered really, such a pretty thing like you has taken such a liking to him, but you seem to be lost in your own little world sometimes.

“As my boyfriend it’s only natural-“ “we’re not dating,” pouting, you throw on your best puppy dog eyes.

Ace playfully rolled his eyes, “Oh cmon prefect that’s not gonna work on me.”

Hmph well that didn’t work

Alright then time for plan b

“Hold my hand, NOW!” You shout.

Startled, Ace shakily reaches his hand for yours, before you snatch it and squeeze.

“Gah! It burns!” He whines, gripping onto his arm. Ignoring his protest, you happily wave your interlocked hands, a satisfied smile adorning your face.

“Look everybody! We’re holding hands!” You shout, dragging Ace behind you in the courtyard as onlookers watch you with gazes of confusion and fear.

Idia

“Idiiiaaaaa~” you sang, banging on his door at an ungodly hour in the night. At first you wondered if coming at this time of the night was a good idea, but then you remembered Idia doesn’t really have a solid sleep schedule.

But it’s so quiet, is he ignoring you….? Nah you just gotta bang louder. Said man was currently hiding under his covers, silently begging for the gods to have mercy and hope someone will kick you out. Unfortunately for him, Ignihyde is scared of you.

Eventually he caves and opens his door, and your face practically lights up. “Idia! Oh finally I thought you were going to leave me out here!”

“…what do you want?”

You thrust an object in his hands, “here I need your help with this.” Idia glances down at his hands to see a broken glittery watch. Unimpressed, he glances back up to meet your eyes. “Seriously?” “One hundred percent!” You salute. “You couldn’t have waited till the morning?” “Well I thought about that…” You start, glancing off to the side as you play with your fingers,

“But I just missed you so much! Playing online with you is fun and all but I needed to see you again!”

Feeling his hair heat up, idia looks away. “W-Well you could’ve just asked, no need to bring an excuse,” he mumbled glancing at the watch. “Anyways come on in I’ll fix it for you”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod you’re gonna hang out with Idia…. In his room! You’re practically foaming at the mouth as you walk in the room and sit down on his bed.

You couldn’t contain the giggles coming out of your mouth as Idia worriedly glances at you from the corner of his eye.

Sighing dreamily, you wonder how this night is going to go. You’re lost in thought, wondering how to get Idia into joining you on the bed before he shoves your newly fixed watch in your hands and throws you out. “Here’s your watch prefect, I’ve fixed it up for you. Goodnight.” He says before the closing the door on you.

Even hermits value their sleep.

You’re left standing there mouth agape before you slowly walk back to ramshackle, a new plan already brewing in your mind.

Mission failed, but don’t worry you’ll get him next time.

Silver

You tap your perfectly manicured nails on your chin as you sit in the courtyard, watching the man who has stolen your heart. Everything about him is perfect. His gorgeous eyes and hair, his smile, that chivalrous personality and those forearms! Ugh he’s perfect.

Groaning you bury your face in your knees. “How am I supposed to go talk to him!?!”

Malleus sits next you, amusedly watching your inner turmoil. “Why not go talk to him child of man? You have expressed your desire to do so to me mutiple times and yet you have not followed through, I am starting to think you’re chickening out as you humans like to say.”

Gasping, you snap your head up. “Chicken??? Oh hornton I am many things but I am no chicken!” You stand up and dust yourself off. “fine I’ll go talk to him.”

Malleus chuckles, “I see no reason to be nervous child of man, silver seems to have taken a liking to you as well.”

The cogs turn in your head as you process his words. Silver likes you? He likes you?! Well uhhh- I mean of course he does! Who doesn’t like you??

With your ego rising to dangerous levels you march over to silver conversing with a few birds near the well.

Clearing your throat to gain his attention, he looks up and gives you a pleasant smile.

“Hello there prefect, did you need something?”

“Yes actually I need you to go on a date with me.” You state matter of factly.

His eyes widen. “A date..?” Nodding you respond, “Yes, with me, at that new cafe in Sage island.”

Clearing his throat he responds “I-I would love to.” You watch as a faint blush dusts his face.

You had that affect on him! Your ego once again shoots through the roof.

“Great! I already made the reservations a while ago so let’s meet up on Friday at 7!”

“When did you do that-“ “Don’t be late!” You hastily interrupt, not wanting to answer that question. Rushing back to malleus you practically scream “He said yes! Ohmygosh malleus you have to help me pick out my outfit! I need something that’ll make him say Oh wow!” “Of course my dear, shall we go now?”

Going on a date with the most dreamy boy at NRC…Oh you hope this isn’t a dream!

Deuce

Vdc practice was more stressful today, with epel lashing out and storming off, deuce following after him.

It’s been awhile since they left. You hoped everything was ok with deuce. Oh and epel too.

Argh I should’ve given vil a piece of mind! Then deuce would’ve fallen for my fearless charm! Your hands slap onto your cheeks while your thoughts spiral.

As time goes on and deuce and epel return, you’re overjoyed! Although that joy doesn’t last long when you find out where they had gone.

“WHYY??” You shout, falling to the ground in despair.

He went on a date with epel? He went on a date with someone that wasn’t you?!

The poor boy was awkwardly watching you spiral right in front of him. He glances towards his group mates behind you for help. Only for them to turn around, seemingly finding the wall so interesting.

Damn

Deuce scratches behind his head, wondering how to console the sobbing mess on the floor (you). “We just uh went to the beach? Nothing happened, we just shouted at the waves..”

That seemed to do the trick

“Oh I knew it!” You spring up. “My plans for our first date aren’t ruined!” “First date? What do you mean by that!?” He sputters.

You ignore him, lost in thought about what date you should go on. Although a Blast cycle date is off the list!

Hmph epel is lucky nothing happened between those two, or he would’ve gone straight into your burn book.

Jack

Recently you’ve been daydreaming,

Daydreaming about jack carrying you in his arms specifically. You sigh once again as you realize he’s never once lifted you up in his arms. He has no reason to

But this shall remain a dream no longer! You were determined to make this a reality, and with you and him both going to Vargas camp, you had your chance.

The day before vargas camp, you relay your plan once again to grim. He does not care.

It’s for the tuna it’s for the tuna it’s for the tuna- grim probably

.

.

Now here you two were, alone, in the woods looking for grim. You had roped that poor little beast into your plan, having him get “lost” while you asked jack to help you look for him.

You had to buy him premium tuna and do his homework for a week but it was so worth it. You think to yourself as you walk alongside jack

Seeing a tree stump ahead, you figured now was the time to put your plan into action.

“Ouch!” You hissed. Jack looked back, only to see you dramatically fall to ground with the worst acting he had ever seen in his life.

“Oooh my ankle, I think I broke it.” you whined.

“I don’t think you could break it by-“ “OOOH THE PAIN!” You interrupt. “I don’t think I can walk any further, I’ll need somebody to carry me.”

“I think you can-“

“Only a strong 6’3, wolf beast man will be able to help me out of this crisis!”

Jack playfully sighed, knowing you’d only continue to cry on the floor until you got what you wanted.

He walks over and lifts you up in his arms. “You’re lucky I like you prefect.” He states, glancing down at you.

Wait what you bluesceeen.

“What’s the matter prefect? You got what you wanted didn’t you?” He smirks.

Averting your gaze you mumble, “I-uh let’s just keep looking for grim.”

You weren’t expecting him to fluster you!

Sebek

All week you’ve been trying to get sebek to spend more time with you. From studying together, to accidentally bumping into him in the halls.

But you didn’t want to ask to spend more time together! You wanted him to come to you! Although nothing has worked so far… ugh how unfair. Who wouldn’t want to spend time with you!

Fine it seems you have to resort to EXTREME measures you internally groan, walking up to him after class.

“Sebek you aren’t busy after school today right? I was hoping you could teach me how to fight using a sword today,” you start, clasping your hands behind your back and rocking on your feet. You hoped you didn’t look too desperate

“Hmph, you’re lucky I don’t have any training today, I’ll meet you in Diasmonia later.”

Oh look how easy that was

.

.

.

You’ve been practicing outside for quite a bit. Spending time with the knight is always a treat. Getting to stare at his sharp eyes as he focuses on honing his skills, his muscles bulging with each swing- Oh look you fell into the grass and ate shit

“Prefect!” He snapped. “Why ask me to practice sword fighting if you’re not going to pay attention!”

To be honest you didn’t really care for sword training, you could defend yourself just fine, but getting to spend time with Sebek was worth the blood sweat and tears…. Kind of

“Oh I just hate to get my face dirty!” You groan, pouting on the floor. With a heavy sigh, sebek reaches a hand out to you, “Well you’ll get even more dirty sitting on the floor.” with a fast beating heart and warm face you take his hands as he helps you up.

“Come on let’s get you cleaned up-“ He offers, looking back at you only to be met with you staring with a lovesick smile.

Whipping his head back, “Don’t look like that!” He yells. To anyone else he may look mad, but that flushed face tells you otherwise. Smiling, you skip up to him and carefully link your pinky with his. The knight glances at you as you bat your eyelashes at him. Sighing once again, he grabs your hand as you both walk towards Ramshackle. A lovely shade of red coating his cheeks.

Hope you guys had as much fun reading as I did writing this lol

Banner by saradika-graphics

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Hey, saw your new story and I love how you write. Do you do yandere requests? If so, how about doing a Legend story paired with an isekai reader that looks shockingly like Marin? She fell into Wild’s world and tried to help him get rid of Calamity Ganon and now she’s stuck in a love triangle between Wild and Legend. Woe is her! /lh

Thank you!

Aaa, my first request! I'm really glad you liked my writing and I hope you like this too!

EDIT (like five months later mind you): So I've been neglecting this request because the only yandere content I've written has been wildly non-con and generally pretty frightening, but I think I've finally found a way to get the best of both worlds <333

Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Pairing: Legend x isekai!reader x Wild

Warning(s): Yandere behavior/unhealthy perceptions of relationships, dub/non-con, and smut (fem reader b/c requested)

Notes: FINALLY my first request has been finished. Rejoice my brethren

Masterlist

You knew they were watching you. 

Dusk had barely fallen, the golden rays of the setting sun bathing the clearing in a thick tangerine light. The fire crackled as you unrolled your bedroll, gently patting it down and trying to ignore the twin gazes burning into your back, belonging to none other than Legend and Wild. While the reason behind their incessant watching eluded you, it was clear that they weren’t going to stop anytime soon. 

You took a seat on the bedding, gaze flitting around the clearing as the other members of the chain prepared for sleep. Dinner–hearty clam chowder, courtesy of you and Wild’s efforts–had concluded minutes earlier, leaving you full and satisfied after a long day of traveling. 

Not that you weren’t used to life on the road, having lived in Wild’s world for a good three years after waking up, alone and scared, in a grassy field–where you met when he saved you from a guardian. With nowhere else to go, you had joined Wild in his quest to defeat Ganon, though he hardly let you do any defeating considering your limited combat knowledge. The rest was history, as was your inexperience with a sword, thanks to another member of your rag-tag group, Legend. Once ornery and sarcastic, he had warmed up to you significantly quickly after you fell (literally and figuratively) into his world through, you guessed it, another portal. 

But, as of late, things had been… strange. It was no secret that you and Wild shared a close bond from the years spent together, and while nothing had ever become of such closeness, you always felt that there was something more behind his casual touches and glittering grins, not to mention the way he always seemed to pout when your attention was stolen by something or someone else. It got particularly bad when Legend would sidle up to you during the long treks, claiming you were their “weakest link” in a snarky tone while somehow managing to be good company through the ordeal, though sometimes you wondered if the stories he told of his adventures were a bit… exaggerated. You weren’t an overly distrustful person by any means, but doing five separate dungeons in one day seemed excessive even for (one of) the heroes of Hyrule. 

You suppressed another shiver as Legend’s gaze seemed to burn a hole through you, slicing past skin, muscle, and bone to examine your very soul. If his burned, then Wild’s seared, like you were a piece of meat in a pan. 

It was for protection, you reasoned; weakly, pleadingly. There were countless creatures loose in the woods, and you were close to the treeline.

The campfire crackled. You wished it would grow tall enough to obscure you from their gazes.

Setting down the fabric, you patted your knees and stood up. "I'm going on a walk."

"'S gettin' dark, darlin'," Twilight said from his place against a nearby tree, casting a suspicious glance at the approaching night, brows furrowed. Wild and Legend's gaze left you for a split second, and you felt sick at the way they glared at the Rancher; united and divided in equal, terrible measures.

Several heads nodded in agreement.

You bit your lip. Fuck, he was right. You couldn't even use the excuse of needing fresh air because that was all you had been getting–you were in the middle of nowhere, for Hylia's sake!

"I'll go with you," Wild's voice cut through the still air like a knife. His eyes were bluer than the holy steel of Sky's blade, glowing with an almost otherworldly light as he studied you over the licking tendrils of the fire.

Legend dusted the skirt of his tunic-dress, boots crunching over the dead grass as he stood on two feet. Feet that could chase you down in the blink of an eye, and had traversed every nook and cranny of countless nations. "Me too," he spoke softly, with only a fleeting trace of his usual biting sarcasm. There was something devastatingly similar about both of them, and you knew there was no way you could back out now.

The bid was up, and now it was time to reap the rewards.

Your legs felt as wobbly as a newborn foal when you began to walk, knowing they would be two steps behind you. Past Warriors (concerned, eyes never leaving the hunch of your shoulders), Wind (oblivious, but not blind), Four (kaleidoscope of caring, not stepping in), and Time (the only Hero who could, though it was a long-standing debate on if he would).

The camp faded as you pressed on, guided only by the frenzied, rattled beat of your heart, and the last fading rays of the blazing sun through the rustling canopy. Fallen leaves crackled beneath your boots, and you felt more high-strung than a puppet. Wild and Legend's stares tore holes in your back, flaying your soul for their perusal and sending dreaded shivers down the metaphorically-exposed bones of your spine.

A huff of breath.

You shoved a lock of rose-red hair behind your ear.

Wild coughed.

The trees seemed to laugh at your cowardice.

Legend's age-ridden, joint-pained sigh was palpable in the chilled air.

Your heels stung from how quickly you whirled to face them.

"What the hell, guys?"

Both men froze. They were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. United. Divided. Legend brushed a lock of strawberry-lemonade bangs behind his pointed ear, gaze measured, while Wild was the picture of the soldier he would never be: stiff, mouth tight, irises alight with an emotion you didn't dare decipher.

The Veteran's huff was gruff, far too casual for someone who watched you like you would disappear into thin air if he turned away for a mere millisecond. "...What are you going on about now? You scared of the dark or something?"

Your fists clenched at your sides, buried in the folds of your borrowed tunic. Was it Wild's? Legend's? You couldn't remember anymore. "I am not," you bit out, a bit harsher than intended. Then: "Is there something on my face?"

"You're perfect," said Wild without missing a damn beat. He blinked and rubbed the back of his neck with an expression that further convinced you that he would never be sorry. He was inching ever closer, as was Legend, and you wondered if sprinting into the darkness would grant you the modicum of space you prayed for.

Perfect? No. Petrified? Hell yes.

Crack.

All eyes snapped to the right, trained on the hazy treeline where the noise had emanated from. You couldn't remember the last time their gaze had left you, but the thought was quickly banished when a rumbling growl rattled the air, drowned out only by the loud shiing as Legend and Wild simultaneously drew their swords.

"Shit," you hissed, just as a gaggle of lizalfos drew from the wandering shadows. They moved like the predators they were; fluidly, without pause, eyes glowing gold in the firebright sunset.

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears when the first lizalfos lunged, lips peeled back to reveal hooked teeth that glinted in the tangerine light. Legend wasted no time parrying the attack with his sword, and Wild wasn't far behind, a hissed war cry slinking from his lips, pulled back to reveal a smaller set of canines that were no less dangerous.

The battle, if it could even be called that, lasted hardly a minute, with you standing to the side in a position that only enhanced the terrifying awkwardness of the situation. Heart in your throat, watching as your companions tore through the hoard like they were flies. Small, buzzing, annoying flies. It was no secret that they were strong–they were heroes, for Hylia's sake!–but there was something to be said about the feral glint in Wild's eyes, or the way Legend would look at you, blood on his hands, throat, sword, and not bat an eyelash.

You shivered, and not from the cold. An urge was building in your gut, not dissimilar from the kind you felt when confronted by an unfathomable horror. But it wasn't the same, not by a long shot.

The lizalfos fell quickly. Several carcasses lay strewn across the blood-soaked ground, slashed at the throat, belly, and face. Their eyes, lifeless, bleak, stared sightlessly at the star-speckled sky as blood wet the fallen leaves.

Wild and Legend turned. Simultaneously. United, but not together. United, but dangerously. United, but in love.

You ran.

Clouds of breath puffed in the chilled air as you tore through the forest, guided by nothing but your own, raging heartbeat. The trees melded into blurs of brown and green, branches stretching skywards like the twisted limbs of an eldritch creature. The ground crunched between your boots, and you could hardly find it in yourself to be mad about the obvious tracks your footwear left behind. Anything to get away, if only for a fleeting, torturous second.

Anything to breathe without the threat of one of them crawling down your throat.

Through the haze of adrenaline, you could barely make out the sounds of footsteps behind you. Barely make out the crazed, frantic huffs. Barely make out the fingers reaching, reaching, reaching for the back of your tunic.

Your heart damn near leapt from your throat when something grazed your back, then locked tight around fluttering fabric, and you were dragged backward, forced to skid to one of the most jarring halts of your life. A scream ripped from your throat, silenced only by the hand–heavy with fat rings, glistening in the faded light–cupped your chin and pressed your jaw closed, while a evergreen-clothed arm wrapped around your stomach. Legend's chest molded against your spine, fully trapping you in his vice-like grip, and you could only jerk uselessly when moist breath fanned over your neck, sending goosebumps skittering down the chilled skin of your arms.

"Why'd you run?" Legend breathed, tone heavy with the thrill of the chase. More breath hissed over your neck; soft, like a ghost, and just as terrifying. "We're just protecting you."

Moments later, Wild slid into the clearing; cheeks pink, hair a tangled mess that you just knew would be a bitch to brush out. He looked every bit the savage everyone joked he was and you hated yourself for daring to find that attractive.

"Damn, you're quick," he huffed, a hint of a pout infecting his tone. Blood dotted his cheeks and neck, and you didn't even want to look at the mess on his tunic. Damn Champion, always finding a way to make a mess out of himself.

Legend's arm tightened around your midsection, and he pressed his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder, unbothered by the thin layer of sweat soaking your skin. Something warm and wet darted to slick over your flesh, and you damn near bucked him off, a startled yelp slipping past your lips, zinging against the heat of his hand and dizzyingly-opposing chill of the rings.

This couldn't be happening. You were in the middle of nowhere, for Hylia's sake! With nothing to your name but a small knife and the clothes on your back. "L-Let me go!" you tried to hiss, but it came out garbled, the sound blocked by the thick fingers slotted over your mouth.

Legend's chuckle vibrated against your back. "Not a chance," he spoke calmly, with a smile you could almost see, and Wild was suddenly in front of you. They pressed close, closer than you had been with anyone, much less two crazed men with weapons that could end you in less than a second.

"You'll be safe with us," murmured the Champion, gently brushing the hair away from your sweaty forehead. He couldn't have been more than a few inches away, leaving you free to study every inch of his grinning face for hints of the mask he so obviously wore. What else was beneath those eyes–bluer than the sky, bluer than blood?

At long last, Legend's hand left your face, moving to splay at the base of your neck, only to be replaced by Wild's thumb. The Champion's calloused skin brushed over the plump of your bottom lip, dragging it a millimeter down to reveal the barest peek of hidden canines. He pulled back, letting the flesh pop back to cover your only true weapon in this situation, and leaned impossibly close. "Pretty," whispered the Hero of the Wilds with that sick, delicious, terrifying gaze.

"Very," whispered Legend, and you were momentarily shocked that they were capable of agreeing at all.

Wild's head ducked, nose brushing your cheek as his body molded to yours, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, abdomen to hardness--

Your thoughts snapped to a screeching halt as you registered the distinct... appendage pressing against the flat of your gut.

Fuck no.

Without warning, your head shot in a downward arc, smashing against Wild's nose. The hero yelped in pain, jumping back as he clutched his nose, streaks of crimson already leaking to stain his skin and tunic. Legend's grip loosened, likely in surprise at the sudden action, and you wrenched free, stumbling away from the two men, panting harshly. Well, that's what you would have done had a hand not sealed around your wrist like a manacle, yanking you into Wild's tight embrace. His nose was bleeding profusely–he really ought to have that checked out–but the look in his eyes was nothing but... was that hunger? The fuck?!

"Nice try," rasped Wild, arms curling around your back like the limbs of a tree. Unyielding, binding in ways that made you want to set something alight. The Hero of the Wilds leaned close, close enough that the blood from his nose began to drip on your skin instead of his. "Didn't know you were into that, Princess."

Outrage replaced terror as you registered the bulge still pressed against you. "Are you getting off on this?!" you seethed, unable to believe what you were seeing– er, feeling, but it was all relative when his fucking dick was pressing against you through his trousers.

Wild licked his lips, and, coincidentally, some of the crimson blood leaking from his likely-broken. He offered you a smile, and you shivered at the reddish tint his teeth had taken on. "Can you blame me?"

You were appalled. "You're fucking insane."

"Takes one to know one," hummed Legend as he reacquainted himself with your back; hands on your shoulders, breath on the shell of your ear. His tongue darted to flick the soft point, and you hissed: "Get the fuck–"

"–on?" interrupted Wild with a shit-eating grin. It was the most normal expression you had seen him make since this nightmare began. "I agree."

Your cheeks burned, and you rushed to rectify the situation. "That's not what I meant and you know it–"

Legend's arms wiggled to your hips, gripping them through the fabric of your tunic and trousers. You could feel the evidence of his arousal pressed against your backside through that Hylia-damned not-dress, and it was starting to piss you off. Just who did they think they were?!

A droplet of crimson dripped onto your collarbone. Then another, until it was like someone had cried blood on you.

"You're bleeding," you pointed out in a tone dryer than the Gerudo desert. Just like your pussy.

"No shit," grunted Wild, though the grin remained, like he was having the time of his life. You could relate.

"Gross," you rolled your eyes, trying to distract yourself from the way they were all but rutting against you... and how warm your core felt because of it. No! Bad thoughts!

A yelp left your mouth when Legend delivered a sharp nip to your ear, hard enough that you wouldn't be surprised if your own blood had been drawn.

"Liar," the Veteran hissed, and you were mortified by the spike of heat that slithered down your spine. "You're enjoying this as much as we are."

"Fuck no," you snarled, hoping that your expression conveyed the sheer amount of disgust and contempt you held towards them. Behind you, Legend's eyes darkened. Behind you, the Veteran gave the Champion a subtle nod.

Your thoughts froze when Wild dropped to his knees before you, staring up at you with those big blue eyes that managed to be as innocent as they were poisoned. He glanced at the Hero of Legend again, and, before you could blink, there were hands at the waistband of your pants.

"What the hell?!"

Your first instinct was to jump away, but Legend's grip was too strong, holding you fast as the Hero of the Wilds worked your trousers and undergarments down in succession until they bunched just above your knees. 'Bare' was too easy a word to describe what you felt when the pads of Wild's fingers traced up your thighs, settling on the points of your hips, rubbing soothing circles that only served to spur your heart like a spooked horse. Pupils blown, hands shaking against your flesh. Was he nervous? Fuck.

"Stop, please," the words fell from your lips like a prayer. A plea.

The first touch against your pelvis made your gut clench, a hot, broiling warmth brewing in your belly. A whimper forced itself from your mouth, and you would swear up and down that it was merely a sound of despair.

"I'd do anything for you," whispered Wild against the skin of your stomach. Anything, but let you go, it seemed.

Legend's lips slid to the side of your neck, no longer hesitant as he slicked his tongue up the side of your neck, from base to ear. Tasting you, memorizing the flavor of your sweat for his sick purposes. "Good girl," the Hero of Legend cooed against moist flesh, and Wild's eyes fluttered shut, like he was the one being praised. You squeezed your thighs in a last-ditch effort to halt the insanity that was taking place before your very eyes.

Legend tutted, and a hand detached from your waist, wiggling between your legs with about as much difficulty as killing a chuchu. You yelped when his fingers immediately found your clit, pinching the small bud with enough force to make your thighs quake, creating the perfect opportunity for the Champion to slot himself between them once more, eyes wide and innocent and so, so wrong.

You were screwed.

Literally.

"Just relax," Wild cooed through the fog. Legend's hand returned upwards to secure you even more firmly in place, and the Hero of the Wilds took it as a sign to lean it, now a hairs-breadth from your core, which was uncomfortably, traitorously wet. You could feel the strings of slick against the skin of your inner thighs, the Champion practically purring as your scent washed over him in pulsing waves.

"I hate you," you spat. It was a lie, but he didn't need to know that.

Wild only hummed, his breath fanning over every inch of your lower half. You cursed every deity in existence at the realization that it felt good. "That's okay," he said, like your words meant nothing, or he had already called your bluff. He wiped a droplet of blood from his upper lip, then gripped the bottom of your thighs, forcing them to hoist up on his shoulders. "You don't have to like me to like this."

Without hesitation, he closed the distance, licking a broad stripe up the entirety of your cunt, from clenching hole to swollen clit. The hero's eyes snapped shut, and a deep, sinful groan rumbled against your folds. Your mouth fell open in shock, only snapping shut when Legend chuckled against your neck. The bastard knew, and he was enjoying it. They both were.

"Wild..."

It was hardly a whisper, barely a breath, yet Wild heard it. He always did, and always would. Your mind flicked to your journey together; before the others, before the madness, when it was the two of you against the world. What you wouldn't have given to have had him like this months ago, but now... now, things had gone sour, good intentions--if there were any to begin with--buried beneath a thick layer of sickly-sweet desire.

That's not my name, Wild's beautiful eyes said. You ignored it, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that you feared you would never see again. Maybe then, things would be right. Maybe then, you could do this right.

But it simply wasn't meant to be. There were no heroes in sight when you opened your eyes, only two men. Two men with blonde hair and the most gorgeous lips you had seen. Two men who wanted something they could have had in a heartbeat.

A fat, wet tongue rolled along the puffy bud of your clit, slicking a (un)healthy concoction of your juices and his saliva onto the tender flesh. Your thighs trembled around Wild's head, and a small, sniveling part of you was glad he had maneuvered you like that, if only to avoid them seeing the way a few simple touches could have your knees buckling like a newborn foal.

You choked on a gasp when Legend rocked his erection against the curve of your ass, one hand roving up to cup your right breast through your tunic. Deft fingers teased your flesh through the fabric, eventually settling on the pebbled bump of your nipple, twisting and pulling it until you were squirming, chest heaving for a reason embarrassingly different from mere panting breaths.

"Fuck," you hissed, forgetting yourself for a brief moment. WIld's chuckle was light, and it was almost easy to sink into the protective embrace of dissociation. You could pretend his nose was broken for a different reason than self-defense. You could pretend his hair wasn't mussed from chasing someone down. You could pretend that he wasn't staring at you like you were only thing in his universe.

The Champion pulled back, his chin shiny with equal amounts of slick and blood. You didn't look down, not wanting to know how much of it had gotten on you, much less the way his tongue swept out to lick at the combined liquids. "That's the idea, princess," he told you, and you debated crushing his head between your thighs just to prove a point, though the bastard would probably like that. Weirdo.

Without another word, the hero dove back in, lips molding around your clit once more. He gave a strong suckle, and your hands clenched into fists, a moan threatening to bubble put from the depths of your body. You mourned the loss of movement, as Legend had seen fit to cage your arms to your sides with his own, rendering them useless. Wild's hands had moved to your hips, gently massaging the tense flesh as his lips and tongue worked tirelessly over your bud. He had always been dedicated, so it wasn't a surprise that that... personality trait would carry over to the bed– woods, because you were all animals now.

"You're so quiet," the Hero of Legend murmured against your neck, hands still worrying your breasts, pinching and plucking at random, horrifyingly-tantalizing intervals. There was a harsh twist; he hummed, while you cursed the whimper that slipped between your teeth. "I think we both know you can do better than that, Princess."

You don't know shit, you wanted to say, but Wild's tongue slipped inside you and the words died on your tongue, replaced by a sharp, keening hiss. Fuck.

Legend's grin could have cut through rock. "Thought so."

"Go to hell," you managed to spit, but he was unfazed. A hand gripped your chin, forcing you to face him. Blazing purple eyes regarded every inch of your flushed, panting face, and the Hero of Legend gave a chuckle that couldn't have belonged to anyone but a villain.

"Only if you're there with me."

His lips were warm when they met yours, much softer than the rest of him. Your eyes widened as he kissed you, gentler than you would have expected. A tongue slowly slid along the seam of your lips, and it was a shock that he seemed to be asking permission.

Fuck it, you decided.

Wild's tongue swirled in a tight circle, forcing a gasp to bubble from your throat. Legend swallowed your noises like a man starved, eyes fluttering shut as he bore your weight, kneading above your heart in a manner that you were only realizing the tenderness of.

Link, the Hero of Legend, kissed like a dying man.

Desperate, unyielding, passionate. What the fuck was this?

"I love you," he breathed against your lips, and the words were far too sweet to belong to someone so rough, so calloused. You weren't sure they belonged in anyone's mouth tonight.

In one swift motion, you wrenched an arm free, catching the exact moment his eyes widened, expecting a retaliation of some kind. What he didn't expect was the harsh thread of your fingers in pink-blonde hair, nor the harsher pull that brought his mouth back on yours.

The kiss was messy, full of tongue and teeth in a manner that was so unlike the first one. Because you were in control–

You caught his tongue between your teeth, nipping it hard enough that the faint taste of copper temporarily overrode all others, small pearls of red drooling from the corners of your lips, slicking the point of your chin, eliciting a soft groan from the hero. If he wanted to play rough, you were going to pay it back tenfold.

–And you were going to make sure they remembered that.

Your other arm was freed without hesitation, leaving Wild to shoulder most of your weight, while Legend ensued you stayed upright. Good, they could work for it. Within a milisecond, you had Wild by the hair, yanking him from your cunt without an ounce of gentleness. He whined, like a dog being denied a treat, and you let a small scoff fall from your lips, eyes focused squarely on the Champion.

"If you don't make me cum in two minutes, I'll find someone who will," the threat slipped out far easier than you expected. Maybe you were angry, or perhaps this was how things were always going to play out. Either way, considering it would have to wait, especially when he was looking at you like you held the world in your palm.

Wild leaned forward, tongue out, waiting for permission. All he was missing were some dog ears and a tail.

You gave a nod, keeping your expression dismissive, and he all but descended upon your cunt. Gone was the previous gentleness, replaced by hard suction and a relentless, firm tongue that lapped at your entrance with a speed that would have made anyone jealous. It was only when you felt something different prod at your hole did you give pause to wonder just what the hell you were doing, though not for long when Legend reclaimed your lips.

The first finger inside you was uncomfortable. The second, less so, but you still found yourself hissing into the Veteran's mouth at the intrusion. Wild stilled his motions, studying your face for any signs of true discomfort, and, once satisfied that there was none, he began anew with renewed ferocity, crooking his fingers against your gooey walls as his tongue slicked a steady circle around your clit.

You broke the kiss with Legend with a soft gasp, letting your head fall against the Veteran's shoulder as the Champion practically fingerblasted you into oblivion, a familiar pressure building in your abdomen. It never came this quickly, but you were far too out of it to care. It had been a tough week, after all.

Wild's finger began to pump inside of you, keeping a steady pace as they curled and scissored. He was putting himself to work, as was Legend, who you were certain had been groping your chest for at least five minutes now. "C'mon," the Hero of Legend murmured, delivering a nip to the shell of your ear while his hands busied at your breasts. "Cum for us."

Shut up, you wanted to hiss. If that didn't work, you could kiss him again, and make sure his tongue would never leave your mouth. Heroes didn't need to speak, right? Wild certainly managed fine with sign language on his harder days.

Your thoughts were cut short when the Champion's fingers curled within you, rubbing against that one spot with purpose. His expression mirrored an intensity you had only seen in battle, or creep-watching session, and the sight of such single-minded focus was, well... it was doing things to you. Terrible, wonderful things. Things that made your cunt clench harder, spasming around war-gnarled digits, and, when a third was added, your only instinct was to bury your face in Legend's neck, eyes squeezed shut as you fought to regain control.

"It's okay," murmured the Hero of Legend, like that would fix everything. Like he could just slap a bandage over your heart and head, and it would be fine again. "Just let go," he coaxed, eyes never leaving you for a second. You didn't register the wetness on your cheeks until it was licked away by the Veteran. Had you been crying?

There was a thrust from Wild's hand fingers, a sharp suck of his mouth, and the world melted away.

Every nerve in your body fired simultaneously as white-hot pleasure streaked through your being, igniting your flesh in what had to be the most intense climax your hazy mind could bother remembering. Maybe you were screaming, or the pressure in your mouth was Legend's neck instead of your tongue, but it was all relative when basic thought had become this taxing.

Boneless and spent, you collapsed against the Veteran. Thighs shaking, fingers twitching, chest heaving. The fingers retreated from your core with a soft pop, and a hazy whimper left you at the sensation, which mophed to a louder whine when the Champion's tongue pressed against sensitive flesh. He didn't let up, seeming hell-bent on cleaning the cum from your twitching folds with a fervor that really should have concerned you.

"S–"

Legend's hold was gentle as he eased you back to Earth, careful not to jostle the hero nestled between your thighs. If anything, Wild seemed to relish the change, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of your tunic to grip your hips while you squirmed, exhausted, against the Veteran's chest. One large hand took both your wrists, trapping them in his vice-like grip while his erection settled firmly agianst your backside. Fuck, you had nearly forgotten about that.

The Champion's mouth reaquainted itself with your clit, and you hissed as the pain of overstimulation shot through your core. Too much, it was too much!

You yanked against the restraining hold, but the Hero of Legend merely tightened his grip, head dipping to murmur in your ear. "Almost there, princess," like his dick wasn't actively rutting against your ass. "Just one more."

One more? Refractory period who?!

"Unless you want something more," he paused to let the words hang in the air. A finger traced up the length of your throat; slowly, surely, and so devastatingy unlike the way his hips rocked against you. "filling?"

A low hiss rose from the depths of your chest, and you would swear up and down that it wasn't out of need, or the way Wild's touch was starting to feel good again. These fuckers hadn't even given you room to breathe before they were at it again, and the only thing holding you back was the fact that your arms were too exhausted to rip their balls off.

"Hate," was all you managed to grit out. The word felt wrong on your tongue.

"Love," corrected Legend with a sweet kiss to your temple.

"Bite me."

"Gladly."

You yelped when his head dipped and a set of teeth sunk into the tender flesh of your shoulder, hard enough to break skin. Hard enough that you felt warm blood trickle down your skin before it was lapped up by a soft, slick tongue that definitely didn't belong.

Wild, having apparently decided that you had gone too long without acknowledging him, pushed his fingers against the throbbing entrance of your cunt. Your toes curled, heels digging into his back, but the Champion only groaned. He was merciful enough to leave your swollen clit to the mercy of the cool night air, focusing instead on spreading you beyond repair. You half-heartedly wondered if the others had gone looking for you yet.

"So wet," mused the Hero of the Wilds, and you nearly growled at the self-satisfied tone his voice had taken on. Asshole.

No thanks to you, you wanted to hiss. But you didn't. Who knows what kind of ideas they would get from a statement as loaded as that one.

A huff. Breath fanned over your nub. "You never answered his question," Wild hummed. He began to pump his fingers like they were a cock. In and out; stroke, curl, repeat. The accompanying squelch was nothing short of humiliating, but the Champion's grin only grew, and Legend continued to suck at your neck like a leech, though you knew his ears were perked in expectation. "Do you want his cock or mine?"

"Neither," you snarled with such confidence that you almost believed yourself.

The Heroes of the Wilds and Legend shared a glance.

"That's fine," Wild shrugged, like he was discussing what to have for dinner instead of which one of them was going to have you first. His pupils seemed to wink at you, so large that you could hardly see the blue of his irises anymore. Before you could blink, he had his hands under your knees, hoisting your lower half into the air as Legend fumbled with something between you. Something that sprung free as soon as it was released, slapping against the flesh of your cunt and forcing a startled yelp from your lips.

"You still have it?" Wild asked, thumbs caressing the sides of your knees.

Legend's eyes rolled, and it was the most normal thing you had seen him do tonight. There was more fumbling. "Obviously."

You blinked when a small yellow vial was tossed to the Champion, who caught it with his teeth. What the fuck? At your bewildered gaze, Wild shot you a wink, set you back down against the Veteran's legs--which moved in such a way that they prevented yours from closing--and popped the cap with his mouth, spitting it to the side. Then, he tipped half the vial into his mouth, not bothering to wipe the corners before slotting his lips back over yours. Your eyes widened when his tongue wormed into your mouth, the liquid following close behind. It was thick and sweet, with an undertone not unlike honey, though you were intimately aware of the fact that it wasn't honey. This was something new, something dangerous.

Droplets of golden liquid dribbled from the corners of your lips when Wild pulled back, treating you to another one of his self-satisfied smirks. Instead of downing the vial, like he expected, he took it in hand once more and tipped the contents directly onto your cunt, a healthy bit splattering the side of Legend's quivering cock. The Champion reached forward, massaging the surprisingly viscous substance onto your flesh with two fingers, taking special care to coat your clit in a thick, slimy layer. You whined and wriggled, the chill of the air contrasting with the warmth of his fingers and the liquid. "What the fuck, Wild?" you managed to snarl, but it felt weak. It was starting to get hot. Why were you so hot?

"Don't be scared," the bastard himself cooed. "It's just a tonic we swiped from Hyrule's time. You'll love it, promise."

You highly doubted that, but the time for thinking had apparently expired, because the second Legend's cock slid against your soaked walls, a moan that could have shattered windows erupted from your throat.

"Shit," breathed the Veteran, finally releasing your wrists so he could wrap his arms around your middle. He bucked his hips once more, and the head of his dick made contact with your nub. You groaned again. Loudly. Wild couldn't have looked more proud of himself. "You always like this, princess?"

"Hylia, I hope so," the Champion sighed dreamily.

Legend's breath ghosted over your neck as he panted; the tonic must have been affecting him too. Heat crept through your body, burning through blood and bone in search of your heart, your core, and your mind. It was so hot. Why was it so hot? You felt like you were burning alive.

You needed him. Them.

The jig was up, and you had bet on the losing side. You hadn't even bet at all, really, but none of that mattered when the only coherent thought you could hold was on how good they would feel inside you. How they would stretch you, take you apart like you were some kind of doll, and bring you back together in an amalgamation that not even a mother could recognize.

"Fuck me," you whispered, almost to yourself. Almost to whatever deity dared listen in. Legend's breath hitched. His cock pressed firmly against your cunt, and there were hands on your hips once more, coaxing you to rise, to make room within yourself for the Hero of Legend.

"Gladly."

All the air left your lungs when he pushed home in one smooth, uninterrupted thrust. Your head fell back against the Veteran's shoulder, fingers digging into his forearms for support. It was like your cunt had been set on fire, and every thrust stoked a fresh inferno within your depths.

"Good girl," he praised, beginning a quick, mind-numbing rhythm that had you all but drawing blood, writhing and crying like you were being murdered.

A new weight pressed to your front, and you barely had time to register Wild's appearance before he was kissing you. Reaching between your bodies to rub enticing circles on your clit, groaning into your mouth like he was the one being fucked, not you.

"You're so tight," Legend sighed, thrusting into you like he would die without it. His teeth grazed the bite mark on your shoulder, eliciting a full-body shiver before he bit down, drawing a scream from your throat. Wild swallowed your noises greedily, fingers flying between your legs with a ferocity that should have been terrifying.

The kiss was broken, and your blood ran cold at what the Champion said next; cheeks flushed, eyes like coals. "Not too tight for two?"

Fuck? Fuck!

Legend's teeth dug deeper as he slowed, still pumping in and out of you at a steady pace. He released you, and growled: "I'd love to see you try."

You were mortified at the throb your cunt gave at the pseudo-challenge. It was one thing to take a cock, but two? There was no way, no fucking way.

"W–"

But Wild's mouth was already on yours, tongue slicking against yours like a lover would, or someone trying to shut you up. Maybe it was both. His thumb returned to your clit, but there was something purposeful about the way he rubbed you. This was happening, you realized as soon as something thick and hot plopped against the top of your slit, a bead of shiny pre-cum leaking from the engorged tip. The preparation continued with a finger sliding into your cunt, joining Legend's still-moving cock, then another, and another, until you couldn't tell which way was up.

The tonic had certainly worked, though you would take the fact that you actually did love it to the grave. "Please," the word rolled off your tongue, ricocheting through the air, and you were unsure of who or what you were begging to. Wild? Legend? Both of them??

Legend and Wild were one and the same; two men, hellbent on destroying the sensible remnants of the person you were. You felt their desire through the Veteran's tender mouthing at your neck, and the way Wild splayed his fingers to ensue you could take him. The light of the moon bathed them in a ghostly light, accenting the stark differences in dress between the three of you. Where you were bare, clothed in only a tunic, they were in everything they set off with; pants pushed down, tunic-dress pulled up.

"Ready?" the Champion panted, cock grinding against your stuffed entrance, capturing your lips once more. You didn't know whether to kiss him back or bite his tongue until it bled. His nose had already ceased bleeding, but the flesh was beginning to swell in certain places. Setting it would be a bitch.

"Go fuck yourself," you hissed, a final act of defiance. A final cry in the roaring tsunami of heat.

"I'll fuck you," Wild promised, and, in one swift motion, he pulled his fingers from your cunt, replacing them with his dick. The world seemed to fall away when he pushed inside, blissfully slow to allow you ample time to adjust to the stretch. Legend had stilled, waiting for the Champion to sheath himself, and the three of you groaned in tandem when he finally did.

It was overwhelming, and all your thoughts scattered when the Hero of the Wilds gave his first thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure skittering across your body like spiders. There was no time to catch your breath when Wild set a punishing pace; hard, fast, and unrelenting. Legend was more than happy to follow suit, fucking you like he had something to prove while you moaned and writhed, clawing desperately at Wild's shoulders for even a hint of stability.

"Please," was the only thing you could think to say, the syllables slurring together as they continued to thrust into you, alternating in a way that ensued you were never empty. A small bulge was visible through your stomach from the combined side of the cocks in you, and both men groaned at the sight, snapping their hips to chase the high that couldn't have come sooner. You felt like a star, glowing and primed to burst, scattering droves of stardust in your glorious, final ending.

Legend's grip tightened. Two finger descended upon your clit, pinching and pulling at the abused nub, and you were done.

Your vision flashed whiter than the sun as you came, clenching on the two cocks inside you like a vice, so bright and brilliant that, for a moment, you feared you had died and gone to heaven. Wild's hips stuttered first, and he slammed home, a rush of scalding wetness filling you. Legend wasn't far behind, practically growling in your ear as he followed the Champion's lead.

The clearing was silent as you came down from your high, collapsing against Legend's chest with an exhausted huff. Wild cupped the back of your neck, keeping your head upright. His nose was bleeding again, and it took several moments to register the slow trickle of blood against the skin of your neck.

"Are you okay?" the Champion panted as soon as he regained his breath, blue eyes roving your face for any flashes of pain or panic. When there was none, his back straightened from its pleasured curl, and you felt a pair of lips against your own; soft, comforting, everything you needed.

"Okay," you mumbled, not quite able to banish the oozing sensation of cum running down your leg from your mind. Your brain felt soft, stuffed with cotton, and it would be a long time coming before you fully came to terms with what the hell had just happened. More fluid leaked down your thighs, spurting out around the cocks still buried deep inside you. Eyelids heavy, you let out a sigh more suited to a middle-aged man having an existential crisis. Wild shared a glance with Legend, and the Champion scooted backwards, pulling out of you with a noisy squelch.

A glob of cum blurted from your pussy.

You closed your eyes.

You let unconsciousness take you.

So the smut was NOT supposed to happen originally, but I got really inspired by "Mistake" by Stellar and here we are. Please know that this writing does NOT reflect the views of the author (me). I think rape, or anything that circumvents someone's right to choose, is a terrible thing and should be punished to the fullest extent of the law, but this is a yandere fic, so...

Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed, and I sincerely apologize for procrastinating on this piece for so long.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 5

author’s note: jayce is back (finally). so is porn (also finally). a wholesome little thing before i wreck your lives in the next chapter again. oh well. silly me

word count: 4,5k

p.s.

the smut part is to be read to libertango by piazolla.

—

Viktor had always liked emergency rooms. 

He liked the way tangy dryness sprayed through his nose once he sucked in the acerbic air. How it popped the blood vessels in his whites so the iris became the feline color of sulphur. It was a cleansing, of sorts. A disinfectant baptism performed by the older nurse with kind, wrinkly hands and a frizzy perm. It reminded him of his babča’s first aid kit. Of bitter iodine crusting over a scraped knee and the ugly satisfaction of picking the wound to saccharine plasma. 

His dislikes held no prose—just scarce variables, and watching you sob for him presided over the intolerable. That trifle threatened to rob him of the childish sanctity of being tended to: a single whimper of a devastated wife is what it takes to turn a mildly scathed kid back into a maimed man. And Viktor couldn’t afford it. Not with such horrific inflation. 

Another proseless segment included spoon-feeding. But any marriage is grounded in bartering. He’d trade each slurp of soup for a flashy roll of his eyes. He’d strangle an irked sigh whenever you wiped chowder grease off his chin. And he’d hope, with all his meagre might, to make you strangle your apologies in return. 

Dolorous, you had eyes like vitric film. Glassy retinas with bloodshot smears promptly lumping around the iris. A wept-out study in watercolor misery. Short in supply, its palette featured the following options:

The black of his suit, folded on the bruised puce of your knees—a dark merge of shared post-collapses;

The synesthetic nightmare of omnipresent white and its thousand medical flavors (each prescribed to a different disease, Viktor presumed);

The leathery brown of your coat and loafers, lovely if only for the haphazardness of their choice;

And, lastly, the chowder. Unapologetically yellow. 

He opens his mouth for another spoonful and tuts when it bounces off his teeth with a pungent click.

“Když na to nemáš, tak to nedělej,” he sneers. If you can’t do it—don’t do it. 

His hospital bracelet matches the soup. A stupid choice of warning, in your mind. Apparently, nothing screams this patient is a fall risk more than a cheesy shade of warm meals. 

“The wristband’s ridiculous,” you announce. It is the first coherent thing to leave your mouth in an hour, and Viktor is stirred mid-slurp. 

“How so?” he babbles, but the syllables come out of him all drooly, scorched consonants moving into labio-velar. Whwow wwo? Like he’s chewing a hot potato whilst high as a kite. And he is both. Incidentally so. It’s just that you are too high yourself to pick up on it. His kind nurse—bless her fried-off hair—might just be the local Diazepam dealer. 

“It doesn’t work,” you say, leaning into your chair. It bends under your neck with a rusty squeak—has you flinching in a fleeting prospect of stumbling backward. But the angle is hardly tipping—merely dangerously acute. You open your eyes to the pupil-slicing blanch of the ceiling and close them again without ever trying to count the ripples. Today has been numb enough already. You shouldn’t squander your only intact sense. 

Viktor remumbles his question. 

“That’s just it,” you insist. “What does yellow have to do with fall risks?” 

“Well, what would you use yellow for?”

That makes you think: hard, with leg-bouncing effort. Your forehead splices into upturned shrivels, taut skin pulling thick eyelids part-open. The view obscures, detached, its top half all lashes and murky veins. The bottom is slashed with Viktor’s head floating above the pillow. Mortifying, if not for the promise of a body uncoiling beneath. 

Twenty ECG beeps and two kicked-off shoes later, you finally have your answer: “I don’t know. Jaundice patients?”

He rasps a blunt chuckle—unexpected, but not unwelcome. Spent and throaty, it comes out of him in a spitting cough, that artificial, creaky laughter hissing like a cartridge getting stuck in a scratched record. 

His little spoon clinks at you: a disagreement to be acknowledged. Or, maybe, the sound’s culprit has simply finished his meal. Either way, you don’t flinch to check. If something actually happened, the pulse monitor would go crazy. 

“Don’t you think it’s rather counterproductive, miláčku?” 

The linen shuffling confirms it: his greasy feast is over. You can still hear the smile in his voice, possibly an ear-to-ear one.

“Whwow wwo?” You drawl, watching his floating head grow a tense, stringy neck when he sits up to sneer at you. 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Now, to answer your question: a yellow wristband on a jaundice patient is a pointless trinket. It’s a—Er, I don’t know.” Viktor turns to stare at your knees. He swallows a candidate metaphor—once, twice. The final pick has him beaming, “A third wheel, if you will. Pun intended.”

“But why?”

His coughing chuckle spurts into a whistle. The ECG joins in on the mockery, hastening by a few digitized heartbeats. He could use them as a metronome if he wanted to. Something tender would be most fitting—like ‘Lieder ohne Worte’ or Debussy’s Arabesques. 

“Let’s see.” He holds his wrist up, almost yanking the drop-counter out of a cobalt vein. “Yellow? Jaundice? It’s a dormitive principle.”

His delivery of that one is brutal, and you have to sigh like it finally dawned on you. 

“Oh,” you feign. 

But then it really dawns on you.

 “Oh.”

Viktor sinks into his pillow, grinning. “It’s a good thing your doctorate wasn’t medical.”

“It is a very good thing indeed.”

“Besides, what do jaundice patients need wristbands for? Can’t one usually tell what is wrong with them, so to speak, at face value?”

“Was the pun intended again?”

“Evidently.”

“But what are they to do if they’re a jaundiced fall risk?”

“That, I couldn’t tell you. Ask someone who has jaundice. If those are still around, that is.”

You flay your eyes from beneath their veiny shield and leisurely roll them at him. The wonky graph of pulse on the little screen stutters a rigid skip when your chair ricochets with a squeal, sending you into a violent plunge towards his cot. Your mouth starts wriggling in a laugh—a wide open one, with saliva strings hanging off the pink palate. Viktor picks it up—a bit constrained, yet just as wry—and on you crack, spitting, wobbling, shrieking, so randomly compounded in this bout of homely, hyenic hysteria. 

It lasts about sixty heartbeats, and then it’s over. 

Breathless, you plow your elbows over his blanket. Raise your head and look at him from beneath spry lashes, as if beckoning to dip a long finger into the warm adhesive of pupils. To touch your perception of him—his angles, his sorrow, his smile-lines like semiquavers atop the fermata of wan lips. 

The last peal of laughter bounces off his neck when you vault for it, swallowing a croak. “I don’t think I know what jaundice is anymore.” 

“Lay off the sedatives,” Viktor whispers. The warning trickles between your hairs, fondling the very scalp. 

“Why?”

“They make you conjure up funny things.”

“Big word. Sadly, I no longer know that one either.”

Suddenly, the door to the ward creaks ajar, and Viktor feels the draft of wind whistle inside, abetted by a cyan speck of light from the corridor. That upsets him—he is in no mood for visitors. He has only just let you throw an audacious leg onto his cot, fingers playing with the bloody concave under that funny round bone he likes—also a fermata, brutally engraved by a roughened loafer worn over a bare foot.

Hesitant, he taps you on the thigh—a stringent, sonorous warning. Which you concede, of course, albeit not without a tantrum. More rolling was in order: of eyes and voice boxes swallowing peevish curses as you slide back into your chair. 

A crimped, citrine head clings to the door frame. Yellow is following Viktor around: you are sure of it, and the nurse’s mouth stretches agape to back up your suspicion. Her smile is ominous. Not inherently, merely by aesthetics—waxy, gaping teeth planted far too shallow, thus exposing wet, spindly roots and inflated gums.

Morbid aside, the omen proves good. “Your doctor will be with you shortly,” the woman promises in a sing-songy voice. “He is ready to get you discharged.” Then, she turns to address you, grinning reverently: “Honey, you look tense. Would you like another pill?”

“She’s had enough, thank you,” Viktor replies curtly. Your jaundice antics, however amusing, are wearing him out, and he wishes to hear no more of them.

He regrets the nerve right away. As soon as the nurse turns to leave, he breaks, snorting at the lovely violence in between his ribs—a cheeky knuckle, curved like a solid brass thing. Nudging him in the sternum with all its tender valor so he arches in an uncouth cackle, seizing you into a drooly kiss.

It excites him, that damp whack of lips over sweaty chins suddenly much too bulky. Numb taste buds cutting on crooked canines. His is a simple strategy: if he couldn’t talk the inhibition out of you, he shall kiss it away. Or, at the very least, push it to the side with his tongue—just the tip, just the flick, prying you laxer to make room for candor. He wishes you used your mouth with honesty. Wishes you said what you mean and meant what you say. But when he reaches for your throat, the words he’s digging for refuse to course. Instead, there’s just spit, tipping over and pouring out. Dribbling medicated froth onto his hospital gown. 

“Why did you send her away? I could use more drugs,” you slur the last syllable so hard it serves an objection to your complaint. Viktor’s lungs sputter yet another hoarse laugh.  

“That woman should get her license revoked,” he says. Licks a cautious smack against your brow and bows to your shoulder, sipping on a whiff. It rubs his nostrils—heady, provocative. Kindles a sneeze with that oxymoronic something. Sleepy sex, so clashingly cohesive. Dusty leather and dolent valerian, he detects. Dirty skin aquiver under his mouth. 

You throw your head back for his gnawing. “I thought you liked her.” 

“I did. Until she drugged you silly. I might need your wits for later tonight.” “Don’t you hate me?”

“Not exactly. Do you want me to hate you?”

“To an extent, yes. That would make things easier.”

“It’s not like you knocked me out. It’s an occupational hazard. Hunger and insomnia make one nasty cocktail when paired with panic.”

“You could’ve gotten a concussion. Or break your spine. Or—”

“Or a meteorite could’ve blasted into us to burn down the entire district. Where are you going with this?”

You reach for his chin, firm grip like that of a muzzle gently pushed in between bared teeth. God-like-dog-like sentiments, interchangeable. He inhales through his mouth and waits for you to proceed, leaning into the lead of your arms. The blinding bulb wags its tail of light from inside his pupils.

“I’m sorry,” you wheeze. The dog you’ve leashed regains his backward simile. God-like-dog-like. A pendulum of essentially identical euphemisms. 

“What for?” Viktor asks. There’s a strange margin to his grin, one eager for the lack of admission so he can rub it in your face once you’re done blubbering. 

But you strip him of the pleasure. “For intimidating you into unconsciousness, for a start. We can unpack my wifely failures later.”

He kisses you again. Attempts an abashed push-and-pull of unwieldy hair slickened to your forehead and shivers at the resigned endearment. Milova-čku. Like he failed to pick just one and chose to slam them together in his rush to deliver. It settles like a reproach. Of no one but himself, of course. He is but a libertine creature, taut vehemence dying, sibilant, at the clash of his teeth against yours. He knows that he’s opting semantics for saliva again. Aims for something he shouldn’t have been after in the first place. And his whim is anything but complex. So much so that it’s almost obscene and piteous, like the first delicious shock of a boyish orgasm. Because enmity is but a trinket against innocent passions, and Viktor’s might just be the simplest, truly invincible one. I missed you. No one will ever invent a remedy for that. 

It ends just as abruptly as it has started. All impulses are triggered by commotion, and this one is no exception—something shiny strikes Viktor’s peripheral, goading a quick wince. Captious, he turns to assess the intruder, brushing your nose with his mid-pivot. You follow his eyes to their very destination, and when they reach it (the doorway, unalterably cyan), your lungs give a tapering hitch—something rather bronchitic, too stunned to pass for eupnea. Or maybe Viktor’s alarm was airborne. Marriage is grounded in bartering, he did say so himself, but sometimes these oaths dabble in unfair trades—such as bouts of panic in exchange for affection.

You draw your fingers back. There remains a fleeting phantom of Viktor’s hair under your nails, jagged as the debacle of his shoulder from when you gripped it, shouting into the mouthpiece. Everything feels lethargic now. Jayce’s voice on the other line, sincerely shouting back. His expensive suede shoes bumping your dirty loafers in the ambulance—a terrified, jittery high-five. The red and blue hues wailing in his thick lenses.

Now, Jayce is standing on the threshold, toying with his—how could you have missed it?—yellow tie.

The men regard one another with prudent caution, only Jayce’s is round-eyed—amicable. Viktor’s eyes dally in their morose little wince. He bites his tongue.

“I thought I was being treated by another doctor,” he says, stretching out in his cot. His gown slips, teasing a hollow clavicle.

Jayce gasps, preparing to dispel the confusion, but you snatch the honors out of his mouth.

“He is not a doctor. Well, not yours.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s mine,” you mumble. Viktor snorts at the wording.

“What on earth do you need a doctor for?”

“Everything,” Jayce cuts in. “Sadly, I am only able to provide counseling.”

At that, the men turn to face each other once again. Your eyes meander between the two, stumbling over their dissemblances.

It is strange to have both of them in one room. It weighs heavily on your throat, sticky sweat amass under your leather collar. You feel it percolate down your back like a gross little stream, large drops sagging down each sore vertebrae. Jayce extends a hand towards Viktor, and you are delighted by the coil of their fingers—a momentary shake of thick and sinew.

“Doctor Talis,” Jayce introduces himself. His yellow tie dangles before Viktor’s face, lighting a polite smile. “But you may call me Jayce. For how much shit I talk about you twice a week, it is only right that I become a family friend.”

Now that really cracks Viktor up. With a hurtled swing, he throws his head back and laughs, flashing both rows of slightly crooked teeth. You look at Jayce, mouthing a baffled thank you.

“Doctor Talis,” Viktor repeats. The last name bounces off his tongue in two lively rubatos. “You didn’t tell me you started counseling.”

“I didn’t get the chance,” you chide. “I was too busy screaming at you.”

“Which I don’t condone, by the way,” Jayce notes, throwing you a glare. You catch your tiny reflection in his glasses, mawkish as a child being scolded.

“Of course you don’t,” Viktor agrees. His hand bucks under your sleeve, grabbing mindless hold of one button. You notice that everyone is fidgeting with a trinket of some kind, and that endeavour finally pulls the strain to one last pre-intermission jerk—the pressure in the air snapping, the toothy smiles finally bubbly instead of gritting. And you want to keep them there. In the blinding white of the ward, bonded over your conic cries and inadequacies, with their clothes askew and kind, thin mouths agape. Two worn-out, agitated creatures. Two darlings, conditionally yours—one for the humble price of two hundred korunas an hour, the other billing in not-so-humble devotion.

“She hardly ever listens to me, you know,” Jayce complains, pulling up a chair beside you. The remark makes you elbow him in the pillowy side. Now that they’ve switched to third person, the guilty kid contrasts are inevitable.

“It seems we are constrained by the same misery,” Viktor bites back.

“Quit it.” You wrench your sleeve out of his grasp. “I’m still in the room and you’re being impolite.”

“That we are. Apologies, we should probably stop. Jayce, how come you’re not in the office?”

“Oh, Mrs.Knirsch gave me a distressed call. I came as quickly as I could.”

“I see. How very customer-centric.”

“I am very fond of your wife. And of you, in absentia. Speaking of which, how do you feel?”

“Why, much better, thank you. It was only a minor fluke. Something to do with hunger and exhaustion. I was fed and stuffed with pills—generously. They are sending me home as we speak.”

The familiar drowsiness seizes your eyelids. A flimsy thing, it comes upon you like an itchy counterpane, so different to your trite fits of queasy spasms. No, this one is anything but abject. It collates your thoughts into flimsy concepts. Stretches your mouth into a smile that matches Viktor’s lopsided snugness. 

You hunch in that homely equilibrium, pushing Viktror’s fingers apart to make space for yours. But it’s not enough. You crave the closure of both husband and shrink. Sadly, your semantics are still out of reach, their placid urgency but a prickly lump on your tongue. So you simply drift toward Jayce’s shoulder. Permissive, it budges under your cheek. Round gentle muscle at your weary disposal. Such a far cry from Viktor’s twists and slants. And still, you claim it, and slide a little lower—to the stifling perfumed tinge of his chest, the inviting blur of soft, motley plaid. If you couldn’t ask to be fixed, you would take it as it comes. Slow, infusing, and placatory. Anything for the nostrum.

Because you know it: the instant Viktor steps into the apartment, you will be back at it again—to hell with fainting flurries and alert resentments. You’ll go at each other full-force—none of that half-cocked, glowering nonsense. No, this one will be meaty. Every entrail strewn inside-out to find out who made whom rot the most. 

But for now, he just laughs, and you get to savor it. To blink, shutter-like, for the sake of taping a mental memo. And when Viktor’s doctor comes in with the last recommendations, you don’t listen to him much. You simply close your eyes and buzz into Jayce’s shirt—something loutish about feeling terrific, about your numb limbs, or sedatives, or the layer of sweat permeating under your coat.

“Who are you?” The doctor points to Jayce. “Only family members are allowed in the room.”

“He can stay,” Viktor answers. “He’s a family friend after all.”

The cataplexy pervades to the sound of their chuckles. 

—

At home, you both become taciturn again. Not because you want to, but rather for the lack of drugged leverages. There’s no jaundice to pore over. No friendly shrinks telling you crude jokes. Just moderate insanity, back to cordoned-off square one. 

The expected shouting turns out to be a death rattle. “It’s nice that you’re in therapy,” Viktor tells you. Crawls into the shower, just so. And you can only nod, helping him onto his stool. Turning the water on for him to pass for redundant, tranquil rectitude. One he doesn’t frown upon—not just yet, not while he’s too out on a limb to be picky with affections. Once the glass door is covered in vapor, you take your clumsy leave. Bare feet asmack on slippery tiles. He stares after you, sodden, with chlorine beads in his eyes.

The bedroom smells of wood and varnish, perhaps even more distinctly than in the morning. It’s almost like the instrument yearns for its owner, eager to lure you in with weird resin pheromones. And you’re so easy to entice, already hovering above the hip-dip-like slope of the cello and poking your fingers into the f-shaped holes. 

The clock promises you three more hours of bow-slapping madness. It is plenty—for an amateur, that is. For you, it’s nearly not enough for the warm-up. And still, you falter—a taut, almost guilty sequence. Turn to the bathroom door in gobsmacked catatonia. Listen to the water running. Sit down and lay the cello on your shoulder, petting the fingerboard.

The pegbox greets you with a soft crunch, A-string snapping looser. But you don’t touch it. You simply stick the scroll where it fits into you most: always the nose bridge, your favorite concave to crush. 

Fifteen ceaseless minutes later, he comes back with a towel around his hips, wet footprints soaking into the parquet. You watch the blood flow to his face in a faint, shy rouge—a momentary switch of tables, that very electric instance before his cheeks turn hollow again. “I’m only tuning it,” you slur. The word breaks in half, chopping off the gerund: tun-in. You swallow it, praying that Viktor misses this dimwit’s blunder. 

There are clamp-shaped rosy dents in his skin from where his braces cling a tad too tight. One slices his collarbone into two wan dashes. The others are punctured, streaking up his right leg like tiny tick-bites. When he rubs a protruding rib, you notice just how glassy his skin has gotten. How visible have become the veins on his lanky arms, all stretchy weaves the seedy color of dusk.

He nods, turning to the mirror over a gaud shoulder. Swipes a wet strand out of his eyes and announces, “I need a haircut.”

You want to ask him about his diet. About the scary thing he’d mentioned about his lungs before falling senseless at your feet. But alas, the cowardice comes out ahead, and you settle for a flavorless: “I could cut your hair for you.”

“No,” he retorts. “Sorry, ah—Your tremor is too intense. I wouldn’t trust you with sharp tools any time soon. I might even ban you from cutting vegetables.”

You huff, looking at your hands. The bow almost slips out of your fingers, clattering against the bridge. “At least it’s good for vibratos.”

“I suppose.”

“So… How was England?”

“Do you truly wish to talk about England with me?”

“What else is there to talk about?”

“I don’t want to fight, is all.”

“What do you suggest that we do, then?”

Softly, he steps behind your back. Reaches for the partitures on his piano, flipping through them lazily. And just when you expect him to walk out, a soggy fingertip taps you on the neck, cueing you to scoot to the very edge of the seat. He props his cane on the keyboard and throws one leg over the chair, drawing up to lean into you from beyond. With a gasp, you watch his shins line up with your calves. Each prickly rib presses into your spine, buffing together like a bunch of wet gears. And not figuratively, either—his hair cries dampness onto your chemise. Leaves a dark, suffusing spot. 

“Play me something,” he rasps. His chin fits into your shoulder, soaked temples brushing against your cheek. 

“Like what?” You swallow, pinching the string.

“Dealer’s choice. I, er— I just want to stay with you like this. Please, let’s just play pretend tonight. This is for my sanity.”

He stills, unsure where to put his hands. As if boneless, they flay around like two tired appendages, still too skittish to be duly wrapped around you. But to his relief, you dig up the remnants of your mercy from where they sit dark and deep. Fingers twined, you lead him to the slope of your hip. Arch under his sternum to ease a wheezy gasp. 

“How about Piazolla?”

He smiles against your ear. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early for a tango?”

“Dealer’s choice. Take it or leave it.”

“Of course. Tango it is.” 

You place the bow on the D-string. Suck a breath. Feel your heart thump backward against Viktor’s chest in mezzo-forte. Quite fitting, considering the piece’s dynamics. 

You take that slap of meshed pulses for a paragon and begin the slur of E to G—a bunch of jarring staccatos lordly smoothed into a single bow. Fascinating, if only such calculations came to you naturally. Every eighth proves a jab. Punches you in the fingers as the tango uncoils.

But Viktor is a puncher, too. A gentler one, perhaps, and his hands are after much softer swells—like breasts, or thighs, or stomachs. He hesitates between the three. Chews on his cheek mid-up-bow with committed violence. Sits through a few more slurs—G to the F, to the E, and again in a tilted loop. 

“May I?” He stammers. Cups the delicious rise of your navel and squeezes it, tasting the flush of your ear with the very tip of his canines. 

There comes a gasp at the strain of him along your lower back—his only smooth curve, snugly placed into its custom arc. 

“I thought you wanted me to play for you—“

“And I do,” Viktor promises. “Play for me and I’ll play with you. A delightful transaction, no?” 

“But what if I–“ your voice crumbles, “If I—“

He carves a sulky laugh into your hair. Twirls the peach fuzz running into your underwear. “If you cum? My, do you truly think me so rusty as to not regard me a when?”

“It’s not that,” you chuckle, glaring sideward to where the pegs are separating your face from his, “I can’t move after I cum. Your little concert will be over.”

“So be it. As long as I get to touch you,” he says, lining your bow with the strings. “Will you let me? Please.” 

But you don’t answer him—not with your garbled words. You simply get back to the tango.

The next strikes lose their balanced accents. Instead, they turn forte, settling more like a link of stabs: D—rest—D—rest—D—rest. Getting filthier. Tachycardic. An audacious leap from foreplay straight to rigid thrusts. And Viktor matches it. Clusters your nightgown around the waist and crawls straight for the throat. Or, rather, straight for the lips—already swollen against the lace that he peels off you, choking on a whimper. 

As lovely as it would be to rush inside, he keeps it steady for now. His index finds your clit in a downward tug, one almost identical to the dip of your bow. His left hand cradles your face, menacingly close to your teeth—too tempting not to suck in, spading into the phalanx. And when you weep, the cello weeps with you—E to F, finger to mouth, mouth to ear.

Erratic, you spread your legs wider—a filthy order to be obeyed. Which is exactly what Viktor does, gagging on some Czech counterpart of ‘fuck’. But you miss it, too full of his pliant fingers. Too fervently immersed in the altering strokes of your bow. 

“Let go for me—“ He presses deeper; harder. “Please, milackú. Give me a good sforzando.” 

The melody ceases, smothered. 

[charliedawn]

Hey Charlie, once again sorry for spam but I can’t stop thinking of Sinners. How about Reader making themself their beloved’s favorite flavors? Bo mentioned he liked sadness, so reader watches a movie where the dog dies as a treat 💜 get drunk and watch bad horror movies to get mad at the protagonist for Stack to get drunk too 💜 having McDonald’s so Cornbread can get his junk food💜 Trusting Remmick and staying calming so he gets the feeling of Chamomile like he mentioned 💜 letting Mary feast while yall are making out and you’re horny 💜 reassuring Annie that you don’t mind her drinking from you to make sure she doesn’t feel bad because she doesn’t like drinking blood 💜 just!! Remembering what they like!! Being willing and wanting to be fed on to keep them alive and happy!! Doing the little things to stay tasty. I’m a Legit Snack 💜

(There has been a lot of controversy around the characters of Bert and Joan. I will make it clear right now. When I write about them, I will not associate them with the group they were a part of in the movie for obvious comfort reasons. With that said, enjoy. ☺️)

Remmick

Remmick didn’t expect it when the first thing he saw in the morning was you—laid down so pretty in his bed. He usually tried to sleep away from you because he tends to move a lot in his sleep. But today was different. You had moved. You had decided to come to him. Your chest was rising up and down steadily. You looked so peaceful…Such a lovely sight.

He stared at this painting-worthy picture for a couple of minutes before he scooted closer to you. He was hungry and you looked so wonderfully relaxed…Just a taste would not hurt, right?

He climbed on top of you before raising his weight above your sleeping frame. He then used his thumb to cut a small incision on your shoulder blade…just enough to draw a little blood without waking you up. He then looked at the ruby red substance and pressed his lips against it. He closed his eyes and sucked and drank steadily while trying to remain gentle.

He didn’t want to wake you up. He wanted you nice and sweet. He hummed and smiled. The taste of creamy chowder soup filled his taste buds and he lapped at the blood. Such a beautiful start of a morning. His eyes turned deep red and once sated, he pressed a soft kiss to the remaining red line.

“…Mo chuisle. Thank ye.”

He then lifted a hand up your back just where your heart was. He smiled. He knew you were awake now, but you still attempted to remain calm to satisfy his urges. He licked his lips and pressed a gentle kiss between your shoulder blades, then the back of your neck.

“Good mornin’, mo ghrá. Breakfast?” He asked you as he peered up at your now opened eyes. He smiled before crawling up your body to kiss you. “Want me to give ye special treatment? I could cook ye scrambled eggs and toasts with honey? Would ye like that, me precious?”

Mary

Mary was scared she might lose control at first. But with enough gentle coaxing, she decided to take a chance and have a taste. You were making out on the couch and she was happy about having a little romantic night with just the two of you. She wasn’t even planning on drinking from you at first. But then you whispered the request in her ear while you were still gasping for air. She couldn’t possibly refuse. You were offering and she was hungry.

You then cut your own skin and offered your arm to her. She smiled before pressing her lips to your palm and slowly tracing a path to the cut. Once she reached it, she took a long sip and moaned before continuing drinking from you.

“Sweetie. Ya taste like my mama’s old sweet cherry pie.” She complimented you with a bloody grin.

You knew that she was enjoying the moment since she usually didn’t really talk about her mother. She preferred to stay secretive about her old human life, which you respected wholeheartedly. But…when she did open up? You were always happy to hear and know more about her.

She kissed your neck and giggled. “Did I already tell ya how much I love ya? No? Well, I love ya to the moon and back, sweetheart.”

She kissed your forehead and you preened under the praise. She then effortlessly sat you up in her lap to kiss your cheek.

“Thank ya for the meal, sweetie.”

Stack

You know his pattern by now. Stack doesn’t drink from you often—not unless your blood’s buzzing with something potent. Real rage. Real sorrow. Real heat. But frustration? Drunken, chaotic, slurred frustration? That? That’s like bourbon-glazed dessert to him.

So that night you cracked open a bottle of cheap wine and queued up the absolute worst horror film you could find. You were talking shaky cam, characters making dumb choices, and monsters with rubbery costumes.

Stack appeared halfway through your third glass, silently leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze heavy on you. Watching. You didn’t notice him at first and only shouted at the screen: “Why are you going into the basement, Tiffany?! What part of ‘don’t split up’ didn’t get through your 2002 highlights?!”

You threw popcorn at the TV.

Stack exhaled through his nose. It was not quite a laugh. But enough to make you notice him and see it—the twitch of his lip. That flicker of hunger in his eyes.

You turned and pat your neck.

“C’mon,” you teased, a little wine-drunk and a little flirty. “Let’s get you stupid tonight.”

That’s all it takes.

He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped behind you on the couch. He grabbed you, one arm tight around your waist, and sank in like a man starved. It’s messy tonight. You tasted of cheap wine, fury at bad acting and a little something else. And Stack drank it all up happily. He growled quietly. Not like a threat—more like he’s drunk on the flavor, the rhythm of your pulse, the twitch of your jaw as you yelled, “THAT’S NOT HOW GUNS WORK!”

“Mmm…” he murmured against your neck, licking lazily. “So bitter tonight.”

You laughed, head lolling back on his shoulder. “Yeah? I’m trying for ‘rage-wine slushie.’”

He chuckled. “It’s working.”

He drank deeper. Not just for blood—for mood, for emotion, for the whole chaotic cocktail of your anger and dizziness. You felt him sway, just slightly. Stack? Tipsy?

God help the world.

Eventually he pulled back, lips slick, eyes glowing a little too much.

“Next one,” he said lowly, “better be worse than this.”

You smirked. “You mean dumber?”

He smirked back. “Exactly. Knew you’d understand, baby.”

Bo

You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the glow of the TV flickering across your face. The movie was at that part—you know the one. The music was swelling, the dog’s limping, and you’re trying to hold it together, but your breath hitched as the screen faded to black.

Then—a sound.

Heavy boots. A creak on the floorboards.

Bo lingered in the doorway, silhouette all sharp shoulders and loose limbs, cigarette barely lit, jaw twitching like he’s trying not to smirk.

“You watchin’ that one again?”

You blinked fast, brushed your sleeve across your cheek. “You said you liked sadness,” you reminded him, trying to sound casual. “Thought I’d feed you good tonight.”

Bo stepped in slowly, eyeing the scene—tissues on the armrest, glass of wine half-full, the credits still rolling while the sad piano music haunted the room.

“Sadness, yeah. Not emotional self-immolation, sweetheart.” He teased you.

You shrugged. “It’s for you.”

He snorted, then went quiet. He moved closer.

“…‘For me,’ huh?” he repeated, voice lower now. He sat beside you and leaned in. Fangs brushed your neck, slow. And then he sank them in. His hand anchored itself on your thigh. He fed quietly, like he was sipping it out of you. He was enjoying himself and wanting it to last—to not let your little emotional sacrifice go to waste.

When he pulled back, he licked the blood from his lip and exhaled.

“…Damn,” he muttered. “You taste like pain and suffering.”

You smiled weakly. “That a compliment?”

He grinned and licked his lips. “To me? That’s foreplay.”

He didn’t leave right away. Just leaned back, draped an arm over the back of the couch, and watched the end credits roll with you.

He never said thanks.

But the way he stayed says it all.

Annie

Annie had been pacing for the last fifteen minutes. You sat on the edge of the bed, watching her twist the hem of her sleeve between her fingers. She looked sick and hadn’t fed in days.

“Annie,” you said gently, “come here.”

She paused, eyes darting to the floor, then to you. “I’m fine. I don’t need it yet,” she mumbled, though the tremble in her voice betrayed her. You stood and approached her slowly, like she was a spooked deer. She let you take her hands.

“Sweetheart,” you whispered, “you’re hungry. And I trust you. It’s okay.”

She flinched at the word. “But I hate it. I hate the way it makes me feel. Like I’m a monster. I don’t want you to think—”

“I don’t,” you cut in softly. “I don’t think that. You’re not a monster, Annie. You’re the gentlest person I know.”

You lifted your hand and brushed her cheek with your thumb. “You’re careful. You’re kind. You ask for permission. That already makes you different.”

Her lip trembled, and her dark eyes shimmered with held-back tears.

You pressed a kiss to her forehead and took a step back, then calmly rolled up your sleeve. “Take what you need. I’m here. I want to help you.”

Annie’s eyes locked on the exposed skin. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

She moved forward with slow, reverent hesitation. Her hands cupped your arm as if it were made of glass. And when her nail finally pierced your skin, you didn’t flinch. You tilted your head up and relaxed into her hold. Her feeding was careful. Gentle. You could feel her suppressing every instinct to drink more than she should. When she pulled away, she immediately pressed her hand to the wound and kissed it as if apologizing.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Thank you, child.”

You smiled and stroked her hair back from her face.

“You never have to apologize to me for surviving,” you told her softly.

Her breath hitched, and she clung to you like she’d fall apart otherwise.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice shaking.

You held her tighter.

“I love you too, Annie.”

Joan

Joan rarely asked. She didn’t like to. Drinking from you was…intimate. And though she usually didn’t care who she drank from, this? This made her hesitate. Tonight was different. You’d come to her room after noticing she’d been quieter than usual—sharper in her glances, tenser in her shoulders. She hadn’t fed properly in days. She was rationing, being careful not to fall into hunger’s trap. But you knew her restraint came at a cost.

You knocked once. She didn’t answer.

So you walked in.

Joan was sitting on the windowsill, looking out into the dark, moonlight glowing silver along her cheekbones. Her posture was still. Poised. But her eyes flicked to you—and in that flash, you saw it.

The hunger. The ache.

“Joan,” you called out gently, stepping closer. “You need to feed.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the window. So you took the final step. Came to stand beside her, and reached for your sleeve.

“You’re not a burden,” you whispered, baring your forearm.

Her lips parted. “You shouldn’t offer so easily.”

“But I want to. You’re always so careful. So strong. Let me take care of you this time.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, Joan reached up, cupped your wrist in her hand, and brought your arm to her lips. She didn’t feed right away. She looked at you first, searching your face—making sure. When you nodded, she finally cut your skin and drank. It didn’t hurt. It never did with Joan. She was precise, attentive even. Her lips sealed around the cut, and her eyes fluttered shut. You felt the soft pull of her feeding—slow, controlled, as if she were holding back even now.

You exhaled, your hand rising to brush her braid. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “Take what you need.”

A faint sound left her throat. Something like a sigh. Or maybe…a thank-you. She drank for a few moments longer. Then she stopped. Her tongue flicked out, sealing the wound, and she pulled away slowly—her hand lingering on yours, gaze lowered.

She thanked you and you smiled at her, thumb brushing her jaw. “Always.”

Joan closed her eyes and leaned into your touch just for a second. Then she turned her face into your palm, pressing a kiss there. The smallest, most tender thing. She didn’t say it, but you heard it in the silence:

I trust you. I need you. I love you.

Bert

Bert was having a bad day. He had just returned from a second feeding session, but the man he had picked had stabbed him with a silver fork. He came back and had lost a lot of blood. You noticed and immediately went to pick him up.

“Hey, Bert! Stay with me, bud. C’mon.” He needed blood and fast. You sighed and used a knife to cut your palm open. The moment you brought your hand to his lips, he drank frankly and steadily. That flavour…He had never tasted anything like it.

He could feel how worried and scared you were of losing him. He whined and grunted as his strength came back. But he didn’t let go of your hand. Once he was satiated, he pulled away and looked up at you with a dazed look. A drop of blood ran down his chin. He quickly licked it clean.

His eyes were glassy and he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Thank ya for takin’ such good care of me, baby.”

You huffed, but a smile graced your features. He immediately kissed that smile. His kiss was gentle at first until he slowly lifted his hands to cup your face and corner you. He then effortlessly lifted your legs to wrap around his waist. His usual childish crooked smile returned and he chuckled.

“But ya know…I’m immortal, sugar. Ya don’t have to worry ‘bout me leavin’ ya. ‘Cause this vampire? S’here to stay. Meant to be with ya and give ya goosebumps for eternity.”

You believed him. You smiled back.

Cornbread

You kicked the door open with your hip, cradling a huge, greasy brown bag and two large sodas like you were making an offering to the gods. The smell alone—fries, nuggets, a rogue hash brown you didn’t order but sure as hell won’t question—spread through the house like incense.

Cornbread appeared so fast it’s like he teleported. His massive frame filled the hallway, eyes wide, lips parted. “Now whatchu got there, baby?”

You grinned and shook the bag. “You said you missed junk food. Thought I’d bring you a little piece of heaven.”

He damn near glowed. His laugh bounced off the walls—loud, joyful, excited. He clutched his chest like you just proposed to him. “Ohhh, you tryna marry me or kill me? ‘Cause this here’s lethal.”

You chuckled while you ate—knowing he was just anticipating that bite of pure greasy joy.

Cornbread leaned in once you finished—barely able to contain himself. “C’mon. C’mere, pumpkin’. Lemme get a taste.”

He then sank his nail right in your neck and drank from all that junk food blood perfection.

“Lord have mercy,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “This what real love tastes like.”

Afterwards, he leaned back with a full belly and a little drunk on the afterglow.

You sipped your soda like it’s fine wine and chuckled. “You act like I just fed you blood from Jesus himself.”

You huffed and tapped his belly. “You did! This a sacrament! Ya anointin’ me! By the power of the fries, the double cheeseburger and the chocolate ice cream.”

“You forgot the toy,” you teased.

“Oh, I’m the toy,” he grinned while patting his belly. “Wind me up, baby.”

You both burst out laughing.

[elinorasims]

Build | Strangerville | Ziggy's Diner

Lot Info

Type | Restaurant Lot Size | 30x20 World | Strangerville Value | 94,857 Baths | 3 CC | No Packs | Unrestricted Ziggy's Diner is a classicly retro mashup of Googie and passenger train inspired styles situated in Strangerville Plaza.

Ziggy's is a compact restaurant and bar combo with a Strangerville twist: classic red booths and an elongated mid-century modern bar layout meets sci-fi inspired and 50's-kitsch inspired cluttered decor..

It's giving the diner from the movie 'Paul'. I hope. lol

Ziggy's has a fully customised menu featuring some Mountain States inspired comfort dishes and some American classics (full menu below the cut).

DOWNLOAD >>

Interior Tour

Bar

Staff Areas

Floor Plan

| hi my loves

hopefully you like this one- it was super fun to build and I'm finding my feet a bit more building for this save, i think!

it's been playtested (briefly lol) and should be fully functional and a smooth enough restaurant experience for your sims to enjoy.

i love Paul so much aha we watched it this past weekend and i was immediately like 'yup. gotta go do a strangerville build now.'

| dag dag fn. <3

Ziggy's Diner Menu

Drinks water ; lemonade ; milk ; orange juice ; coffee ; cream cola ; fizzy fruity drink ; pitch black ; root beer float ; soda ; tang and zing ; boiler room ; eapa ; juice on the rocks ; wrench ; galactic vita-water ; silent film ; sour punch ; sunset valley ; alien juice ; cupid juice ; space energy drink ; jet juice

Appetisers chips and salsa ; mac and cheese ; bowl of olives ; bread roll ; french fries ; whole wheat bread ; popcorn shrimp ; garden salad ; cheesy bread ; grilled plantains ; seafood chowder ; soft shell crab cake ; empanadas ; watermelon salad

Mains mac and cheese ; chicken nuggets ; popcorn shrimp ; baked potato ; hot dog ; lobster roll ; veggie burger ; chicken and waffles ; fried chicken sliders ; mushroom waffles ; sausage and peppers ; scrambled eggs with bacon ; seafood chowder ; tofu dog ; fish tacos ; hamburger ; fried fish ; pancakes ; aubergine Parmesan ; sweet corn pizza ; mushroom steak ; french toast ; vegetable chilli ; egg white omelette ; mushroom soup ; bbq ribs plate ; blackened bass ; gumbo ; steak

Dessert neapolitan ice cream ; rainbow sorbet ; vanilla ice cream ; alien fruit tart ; cream filled donut ; cream snack cake ; honey cake ; plain waffles ; rainbow brownies ; hamburger cake ; chocolate chip cookie ; apple pie ; banana cream pie ; pumpkin pie ; simcity cheesecake ; fruit cobbler

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine the Whitebeard pirates learning how petty you can be

You: *knocks on his door* hey pops

Whitebeard: *just sat down for the first time that evening* you have a talent for picking the least convenient moment possible to need me.

You: oh you don't need to get up, I just need you to listen and do something for me later.

Whitebeard: *squints at you suspiciously* alright?

You: Ace was bullying me earlier, so I need you to ask him what a furry is tomorrow.

Whitebeard: ... a furry?

You: ... Yes

Whitebeard: alright

The next day at breakfast

Whitebeard: Ace, what's a furry?

The crew: *immediately stops moving to gleefully watch Ace squirm*

Ace: *wants to curl up and die* why do you ask?

Whitebeard: I asked you first.

Vista: *leans over to Izou* where's (y/n)? They're gonna miss this.

Izou: they're hiding from Thatch in my room, they pointed out the doors on the kitchen cabinets are warping because he said their chowder was bland and lacked soul.

Vista: wasn't it their mum's recipe?

Izou: yup

Marco: wait, didn't Ace make fun of a picture (y/n) drew yesterday?

Izou and Vista: (⁠☉⁠｡⁠☉⁠)⁠!

Izou: you don't think this, *points at Whitebeard and Ace* has anything to do with that?

Vista: I dunno, but I definitely know I'm gonna go outta my way to stay on their good side from now on.

Izou: A wise choice, I'm doing the same

Marco: I'm not

Izou: Why the hell not?

Marco: I'm not afraid of them.

You: *Grabs his ankle from under the table where you've been hiding the entire time*

Marco: *screams*

You: hehe, you would be wise to be nice to me. I already know what I'll do to you if you don't. It'll knock you outta yer gay little shoes.

Marco: my shoes aren't gay!

Vista: no they're pretty gay, thought you knew.

Izou: *nods his head* it's the tassels

List of Up-and-coming works

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[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Buttons

The request from @toomanytookas: I have such fond memories of my grandmother teaching me how to sew on her old Singer. Obviously a WILDLY different context for a million different reasons, but I love the idea of of Pin showing Joel how to sew or just explaining the general mechanics of using the machine. Maybe some physical guidance/touching a la the pottery scene in Ghost?

If you'd prefer to play with other characters, it would be sweet to see her teach Ellie now that she's working at the shop and I imagine she'd be curious about it!

Seams sleepover micro drabble request | 900 words | warnings: rated M for dirty thoughts and slightly dirty talk, outrageous flirting, topless Joel Miller | can be read independently of the series but is part of the Seams universe

‘Nice tits, Miller!’

Joel chokes on his corn chowder as Tommy’s voice rings loud and obnoxious in the half-empty cafeteria, a mischievous glint in his eyes when he makes himself comfortable opposite him, tray hitting the table with a clatter.

‘Seriously though, put them away before Maria sees you. This is a family place, y’know.’

Joel rolls his eyes. ‘Shut up, jackass.’

Tommy studies the familiar green plaid shirt on his brother that is sitting open to the sternum. ‘Buttons fell off, huh?’

‘Aren’t you a regular Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Pin gettin’ a bit rough with ya?’

Joel splutters, raising his fork in what he hopes is a menacing reproach. ‘Hey!’

‘Just jokin’, big bro. And no judgement if she is.’

He scoffs. ‘This is gettin’ real weird, Tommy -’

‘Why don’t you ask her to sew ’em back for you?’

‘She ain’t my seamstress.’

‘She’s a seamstress. And your girlfriend.’

Joel snorts. ‘You ask Maria to do all your chores for you?’

Tommy shrugs and replies around a mouthful of mashed potato. ‘Ask Pin to teach you then. What's that they say about fishermen and fishin’?’

He has a point, Joel has to concede. That’s how he ends up at your studio that afternoon, leaning against the doorframe as he watches you on the sewing machine. He likes the steady, mechanical staccato of the needle, the whirring wheel and the metallic squeak of the pedal as your hands and feet all move in almost nonchalant choreography.

He knows that under that ease lies years of experience, and there’s an understatedness about your movements that makes him stop and stare every time you're at the antique sewing machine. 

He waits patiently for a lull, not wanting to disrupt your rhythm. When you pause to inspect the stitching you’ve been working on, Joel knocks on the doorframe. 

His lips twitch when you startle, eyes wide as your head whips around at him, and it brings him right back to the day you meet, just a few feet from where he stands now.

But then you break into a wide smile. ‘What are you doing sneaking up on me, Joel Miller?’

He closes the distance with three steps, bending down to drop a kiss on your lips. ‘Just wanted to say hello - and to ask for a favour.’

You stare up at him, admiring the way a stray lock curls over his eyes. ‘What is it?’

Joel tugs on the front of his shirt. ‘Was wonderin’ if you can teach me how to sew my buttons back on.’

You eye his neckline, which is suspiciously low. ‘I thought you were just trying something new,’ you quip.

Arching an eyebrow, he asks, ‘Is it workin’ for you, sweetheart?’

Hooking your finger into the open V of the shirt, you grin. ‘I’m not complaining, but it doesn’t hurt to fix it. Take it off.’

Joel huffs, joking, ‘Buy me dinner first, at least?’

You watch his fingers push the little buttons out of the holes, baring broad chest and freckles with every downward inch. You hum when he gets to the bottom of the shirt and it hangs open, nothing but bare skin under it. ‘No undervest?’

‘Feel like showin’ off today,’ he winks and disrobes with a smooth roll of his shoulders.

You can’t help it, your breath catches - at the strong shoulders, the soft belly, the way he has one hand on his hip - and by the self-satisfied curl of his lips, you know he knows.

Clearing your throat, you stand and take his shirt from his grasp, the warmth of the fabric comforting in your hands. ‘Come sit over here.’

‘We’re not using the machine?’

‘Not for sewing buttons,’ you reply, opening a little box to find matching ones for his shirt.

‘Okay, step one,’ you seat yourself next to him and hand him the supplies. ‘Thread the needle.’

The thread looks more like a blade of the most delicate hair in between his thumb and index finger, and the needle comically small. But his hands are remarkably steady, and he surprises you by nimbly pushing the thread through the eye on his second try.

‘Pull the thread through and keep going,’ you instruct, snipping it off with scissors when you’re satisfied with the length. ‘Now, we need to knot the end. Loop the thread around your finger a couple of times, pinch it with your thumb and pull the end through.’

He does so with aplomb, and you remark, more to yourself than anything. ‘Your fingers are really dexterous for their size.’

Joel wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘You should know that first hand, hmm?’

A comment like that would’ve had you ducking your head a few months ago. But now, you narrow your eyes at him in playful admonishment. ‘So full of yourself, Joel Miller.’

Dragging your chair towards him, he leans in and murmurs against your ear. ‘Ain’t you the one who was full of me last night -’

Heat rushes to your cheek as he noses the sensitive skin behind your ear. ‘Joel, I thought you wanted to fix your shirt -’

Pushing the needle into a pin cushion, he shrugs and pulls you into his lap with a smirk, his skin hot under your touch.

‘Luckily, I don’t really need a shirt for what I want to do right now, sweetheart.’

More notes: Thank you for this adorable prompt @toomanytookas! I hope you don't mind that I tweaked it a little bit. I love that you have such beautiful memories with your grandma. Mine used to sew and do cross-stitch, I miss her so much 🥹

[omgpoindexter]

“It’s going to rain.”

Dex looks up.

Neither he or Nursey have spoken in the last hour, seated in a comfortable silence on the front porch. It’s been the sort of day that makes it uncomfortable to talk, anyway; there’s been a heavy heat smothering them for almost a week now. It makes them antsy and annoyed, so they’ve resorted mostly to silence in a way that would never have happened their freshman year. It’s a development in maturity resulting in long silences that frustrate Chowder and impress Bitty.

Dex is the kind of guy that knows when the rain is coming. He always has been - years of hot, sticky summers on the lobster boat have drilled it into him - but it’s Nursey that squints up at the clouds and makes the statement.

“Hmm,” Dex says, which is neither an agreement or disagreement. Nursey doesn’t seem to notice.

Instead, he cocks his head to one side and smiles up at the approaching dark clouds. “It’s gonna be the kind of rain that makes people take the bus,” he says absently.

Dex frowns reflexively, but inside he’s softly pleased. It’s such a Derek sentence, in its simplicity and its observation. Nursey, however, catches the frown and raises a cool eyebrow. He doesn’t know Dex is gently, sweetly analysing his words.

“Why do you say it like that?” Dex asks, to explain himself before Nursey points out his reflex frown. “The kind of rain that makes you take the bus? Just say it’s a lot of rain.”

Nursey blinks at him, surprised. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “I like thinking about it in people terms. It’s more fun.”

“People terms?” Dex asks him. He thinks he knows what Nursey means, but he likes the explanation.

“Yeah,” Nursey shrugs, looking out into the street. The clouds are dark and heavy above them. “People will rush to their cars, or run to bring the laundry in - and if you weren’t sat right here, you’d do it too.”

Dex, surprised, laughs. Nursey looks over at him. He’s smiling a little, and there are crinkles by his eyes.

Then comes a low rumbling noise that echoes through the streets; a clap of thunder quickly follows. Nursey looks away and back at the sky just in time to see it open, and the rain starts, as he said it would.

Dark spots begin to litter the sidewalk and the garden path, rain drumming on the porch roof. Dex hears Bitty shut the kitchen windows somewhere in the Haus behind them.

There’s a shriek from a house a few doors down that makes them both jump. A girl Dex vaguely recognises sprints past them and hurries into her car. Dex looks at Nursey, expecting to see him looking smugly back over at him, but his eyes are fixed on the sky.

He watches Nursey analyse the clouds for a moment.

Dex can imagine the beginnings of a poem forming in his mind: something atmospheric and melancholy that Dex will try to understand but won’t quite, something that encapsulates Derek Nurse in a way Dex wants to be able to do but isn’t quite there yet.

“I guess you’re right,” Dex says, smiling. “Maybe I would.”

[eistro-phobia]

HCs for Russell Adler pt.2 — Adler x reader edition

1 | 2 | 3 | 4

I am back and I have more to say, strap in

Warnings: suggestive references

Is very hard to fluster. It's annoying how nonchalant this guy is; pretty much nothing fazes him enough to earn a visceral reaction out of him. And he knows it frustrates you; sometimes he messes with you on purpose.

Expresses love mostly through silent physical touch. Catch him putting a hand on your thigh as you watch TV, squeezing your flesh as he reads something or keeping his arm locked around your waist at an event. He's subtly possessive like that.

Is a sucker for shoulder rubs. Heaven is the feeling of coming home to you after a long day of work and having your gentle hands knead through his tense muscles.

Loves satin on a woman. Dresses, chemises, robes, lingerie sets; wear them around him and you'll have him gagged.

Sleeps like a fucking vampire. Now this is fine when he's on his own, but it's stupidly difficult to burrow into his figure when you wanna cuddle. The best you can get is laying flat on top of him and by then he's out cold on sleep meds so is it even worth it?

Has a weakness for sharp and dark-painted nails. Something about their elegance and femininity does things to him, especially when you dig them into his skin.

Is a sugar daddy. To literally no one's surprise. He's in a high ranking position and rarely ever spends on himself; any saved up cash he has is yours to spend and his to spend on you.

Also gets you expensive stuff as an easy out when he wants to apologize or get you in a good mood. At least until the one time he bought you the same necklace he'd gotten you a month before.

Isn't really a jealous guy. He's a smug and overconfident bastard; he doesn't care enough to get jealous of another man. But if he sees you laughing it up too much with someone else, he knows too well how to make the guy uneasy enough to walk away—just to make sure you don't get too comfortable.

Would spring to action if he did see you uncomfortable, though. He wouldn't cause a scene, he wouldn't resort to fists, he wouldn't even get overtly angry or aggressive. All he'd do is flash the steel of the Desert Eagle tucked in his jacket and tell the bastard to scram.

Is a silent listener whenever you vent or ramble, and this comes from experience. He's learnt that the usual response he has to give, "it's not that big of a deal" will indeed get a toaster thrown in his face.

Doesn't act like an asshole when you're on your period; he's surprisingly understanding and offers to take over cooking for you if your cramps are getting to you, even if he's had a long day.

Can actually cook, by the way. Mostly just meals his kids like that he's learnt to make when they're over. Mac and cheese, clam chowder, pancakes, quesadillas; nothing fancy, but he tries.

Would probably be the most tender during aftercare or pillow talk; he's instantly pulling you closer and onto his body, running his hands through your hair as you pant against him. Domesticity doesn't have a place in his precarious life, but laying there in the darkness, blowing smoke out of his lungs as he feels you doze off holding onto him is a close enough respite—and it's probably more than he deserves.

This one was shorter cause holy shit I had to cut so much Gonna make them their own posts that'll hopefully be out soon

more stuff

[skullsfiction]

what would you like to eat today? just pick something—an appetizer, a main course, or a dessert—and a boy (or multiple) of your choice! would you prefer a shrimp cocktail or teriyaki salmon?

you can choose from the following characters/people: formula one, harry potter, criminal minds, and even stranger things! please let me know who you want me to write about! i do also accept pairing + reader, just be specific!

THE RESTAURANT IS NOW CLOSED

the menu:

.

hainanese chicken rice: "i like your...pupils?"

pad thai: "before you say anything about me being at home tonight, i want to remind you that you are too.”

zabaglione: "did you know you talk in your sleep?"

nasi goreng: “since when does your job extend to giving me relationship advice?”

chocolate mousse: "your feet are freezing!"

pho: “you seemed a little off on the phone, so i wanted to make sure you had something nice to come home to.”

kimchi-jjigae: "shit, i forgot to grab an umbrella. i didn't know it was raining"

beef bourguignon: "have you ever been in love?"

macarons: "why are you so jittery?"

flan: "don't worry, i won't tell anyone that my big bad roommate is afraid of a little thunder."

ratatouille: “tell me how you fell in love with me.”

soufflé: “why are you so grumpy all the time?”

quiche lorraine: “you fell asleep in my arms. it was kind of adorable.”

risotto: “can i sleep in your room tonight? is that weird to ask?”

cacio e pepe: "we'll need to do some serious redecorating if i do move in."

dorayaki: "please don't ask me if i'd still love you if you turned into a zombie."

atayef: “i’d love to stop kissing your neck in public, believe me, but it’s all i can reach!”

banana pudding: "i want to stay and watch those stupid nature documentaries. okay?"

shawarma: “look, i got us matching pool floaties!”

mango sticky rice: “it’s not my fault your boxers are so comfortable. besides, it’s not like anyone’s going to know.”

focaccia: "can we do that again? my eyes were closed."

tiramisu: "i left you a note, did you read it?"

pinakbet: “hey, wait up- your collar’s all crooked, let me fix it.”

mooncakes: "we can't keep meeting like this. someone will find out."

ragù alla bolognese: "what do you mean you've never gone trick-or-treating?!"

churros: "i brought you flowers."

mapo tofu: "i did your taxes."

albondigas: "you...you learned how to cook my favorite food?"

teriyaki salmon: "who needs friends? i have you."

crema catalana: "are you jealous?"

rice pudding: "you sure this looks fine?"

sinigang: "i thought you wanted some space?"

rasgulla: "why are you looking at me like that?"

kofta: "yawning whilst trying to convince me you’re not tired tends to have the opposite effect.”

shrimp cocktail: "you're telling me that you've only had one crush your entire life? that's bullshit. tell me who it is."

empanadas: "you smell good."

paella: "are you always this happy?"

pani puri: "you kissed me! you kissed me, how's that not a big deal?"

brownies: "i'm not sleeping in your bed, it hurts when my legs dangle over the edge, you know?"

chiles en nogada: “can i hold your hand? is that weird to ask?”

baba ghanoush: "I would've moved to the floor but you were using me as a pillow."

tempura: "i'm sorry, babe, are those flashcards?"

biangbiang noodles: “weird way to propose but the answer is yes.”

clam chowder: “you’re sleeping on the floor.”

chicken riggies: "stop jumping in those leaves"

chocolate mousse: ”you look—uh, good. you look good.”

haricots verts with herb butter: "you know you can just say 'no' if you don't want to come with me to the party."

roast duck: “are you okay? you look a little…”

leg of lamb: "why did you pick me of all people to haunt?"

cedar-plank salmon: "put the icing DOWN."

french toast: "you can… drink blood from me if you want."

chocolate cake: "am i too close?"

lemon curd: "laundry day doesn’t mean walking around in your underwear, but for you, i’ll make an exception."

bouillabaisse: "jealous? me? pff. never."

.

thank you for participating!! hope you enjoyed <33

[bones4thecats]

Living with Their Fae! S/O

Type of Writing: Poll Result Characters: Jack Howl, Azul Ashengrotto, Rook Hunt, and Sebek Zigvolt Name: Living with Their Fae! S/O Original Poll Link: Here

A/N: This took a while to write and I apologize for that, but I do hope you enjoy this, hopefully, beautiful piece! When I originally wrote this, it was just how they met, but, I rethought it all, and this is when they're adults and have a future together, along with meeting their family. Anyways, enjoy!

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🐺 Your family had moved from Briar Valley to the Shaftlands so they could get away from the pestering of the fae being against the humans due to their history

🐺 When Jack first met you, you were messing around with a small squirrel as his siblings spoke to you

🐺 Jack was warned by his parents that fae were people to not be messed with, but, watching as you calmly smiled at his siblings as they screwed around while the tree-rodent ate an acorn while hanging off your horn, he couldn't help but rethink it all

🐺 You and him both joined Night Raven College, and many wouldn't expect such a delicate soul to be friends, nonetheless lovers, with a many-described brute like Jack

🐺 He is an amazing boyfriend through-and-through

🐺 Once you guys graduated NRC, you and him finalized your relationship and met each others' parents, and, newsflash, they love you both, and they have an amazing co-parenting relationship with one another

🐺 When your relationship started, you both basically began courting, as both fae and beastman normally stay together for life, never leaving one another for another being

🐺 Does he want children? Oh sweet seven, yes he does

🐺 He helped raise his younger brother and sister, of course he loves, and is amazing around, children

🐺 While many go against it all, since you're a fae and he's a beastman, you both go against them all instead, and end up having around three-four children, one of whom has both fae and beastman qualities, while the others have one or the other

🐺 Jack adores his children to bits, but, since you grew up with strong magic, you end up being more lenient with how they rest, so, in summary, he's the strict dad, while you're the hang-loose parent

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🐙 Azul met you because of a deal opportunity, and, seeing how prominent you were in the Diasomnia dorm, alongside Lilia Vanrouge and Malleus Draconia, he wanted your power

🐙 After his overblot, he did not want to speak to anyone outside the twins, since it only made him wonder why he did everything without real reasoning

🐙 Despite his wrongdoings, hearing you walk into his dorm-room with a small plate of clam chowder and request to speak, it shocked him to his core, why were you forgiving him?

🐙 It took a while, maybe around a few months, for him to actually realize you cared about him more than any friend would, and it made him embarrassed. It's not that he didn't like you back, but, you were a fae and he was a merman, nonetheless, a octo-mer, you were far superior to him in his eyes

🐙 This merman has a complicated relationship with his family, as his birth-father and his mother divorced and how his step-father has tried to fill the man's shoes, and how his grandmother lived away

🐙 But, when Crowley organized a 'Family Day' in order to give his students a day or relaxation and pleasure, to which he boasted on how generous he was, of course, and you both ended up running into one another with your families in tow

🐙 Surprisingly enough, they bonded quickly, with his step-father and your father speaking on how they moved away due to racial issues between fae and humans, in which Mr. Ashengrotto offered advice, and your mother and his two female family members spoke about you both

🐙 Once graduated, you and Azul began to work on building up Mostro Lounge and his mother's restaurant, and eventually, you married and began to sort out your lives more

🐙 As a powerful fae, you could use special spells to sort out your bodily form, and you settled on a near-matching mimic octopus form

🐙 When you found out you were having children together, it was completely coincidental, and in turn, you had two children, one who took on more of a fae-appearance and the other looked more like a merperson

🐙 You grew up with magic being a key-element in your life while he did not, he valued hard-work, so, he was trying to help raise his children while helping you be more of a strict person, despite you being far stricter than him

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

🏹 Rook first met you while scouting around the surroundings of Pomefiore in search of some of the new first years, and that was when he stumbled upon a stone, which led him to a panicking you

🏹 Ever since then, whenever Rook got bored, he would shoot you a message and meet you up in that very spot where he met you, and he found out he loved you when he looked over at your face and saw the moonlight reflect off your face

🏹 He gave you nicknames much like the other students at Night Raven College, though, your's were more romantic-sounding than the others, since he called you things like; "Mon trésor", "Mon ange", "Mon lapin", and "Ma fée"

🏹 This guy is a 10/10 boyfriend, much like Jack. That is because he always can tell what you are feelings, even if you have the slightest mood change, he's the first to notice it

🏹 Rook never really had anything work-wise planned when he started attending NRC, but, once he met and started his relationship with you, he began to get more into planning, and his main one was to be a Photographer of Wildlife, since he knew how to find and interact with different animals

🏹 You met Rook's family earlier on in the relationship, and to put it simply, they all adored you so much. His siblings mainly focused on your horns and whatnot that made you a fae, writing down everything they found out about the species

🏹 While many saw him as a red flag, you adored your hunter to smithereens, despite the fact that he basically hunted you during your time at NRC

🏹 When you guys graduated, he and you moved back into one of the many villas his family has in the Shaftlands, since you couldn't leave your family to far, though, after a bit of negotiating, you and him moved in the middle of the Shaftlands and Sunset Savannah, so you weren't far from either families

🏹 This guy definitely planned on having a larger family, since his was larger than average, and when you finished having children, there was around four to five in total, like I said, he planned on having a larger family

🏹 They were like Sebek in a way, since they were all half-fae, he even visits your home with the rest of the old Diasomnia group to teach the children more about fae heritage, since Rook teaches them more human things than anything

🏹 He is definitely the let-loose parent, not caring what they did as long as it didn't put themselves or others in danger, he knows limits. Because of him being the fun parent, you're the stricter one, handing out punishments to your children, and sometimes husband, when necessary

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

⚡ Sebek always held his fae-half to a higher regard than his human-half, and for some weird reason, that had upset you, one of the most prominent fae in Briar Valley

⚡ You knew a small amount about Sebek's family due to your grandfather and parents serving in the military with him by their sides, and they kept in contact even once the Fae vs Human war ended

⚡ When first meeting you, Sebek kept everything very platonic, showing no amount of romantic interest in anything, the closest he ever got to feeling beyond something more related to loyalty was when he defended and pledged his daily loyalty to Malleus

⚡ But one day, he had hit his curb. He was doubting himself because he hadn't gotten much better with his sword or magic, and that upset him because it reminded him that he was half-human, and it was stopping him, he was stopping him from impressing his grandfather

⚡ You had been walking by when you heard the soft tears and sniffs of the half-bred man, and when you appeared next to him and hugged him, he couldn't even put energy into telling you to leave him along, no energy was mustered to push you away either

⚡ After hearing how you loved his human side, despite many believing it made one weaker, he would become far gentler with you than he was with anyone else, even his own siblings

⚡ Sebek eventually pledged his loyalty and oath of love by one another until death a couple months after the first encounter, and when he heard you say yes and felt you kiss his human ears, he flushed the biggest amount of pink ever

⚡ When you met his family, you were far less nervous than him. He lived on acceptance from the people he cared about, especially his family

⚡ Needless to say, his parents and siblings adored you to oblivion, and when his grandfather spoke to you and smiled before giving you a small hug of trust, your boyfriend immediately knew, you were to be his one and only one

⚡ It took a while, but during graduation, Sebek popped the question of marriage and being together forever, which gained the attention of both his biological family, your family, and your shared Diasomnia family members

⚡ Sebek has planned his whole life out growing up, becoming a knight and serving Malleus until his death, but, he never expected to get married, nonetheless have any children

⚡ But, hearing that you were expecting, he lunged at you and cried the happiest tears you had ever seen, and when you guys finished, you had three children, one being a half-fae, and the others being full-blood

⚡ Unlike the past, Sebek always told his half-fae that they should embrace their humanity, as it was far more of a strength than they believed it to be

⚡ He's by far the strict parent, the one that dishes out punishments and scoldings when necessary, and you were the chiller one, the one they would go to speak about for advice on relationships, not that they didn't want to speak to their dad about that, you were just, less blunt to put it at best...

[rcmclachlan]

wip wednesday

Tagged by the fantabulous @beanarie. I was going to go to bed since I have to be up at 5am, but I figured posting this was more important.

Here's a snippet of the PWP I've picked back up and am trying like hell to finish. Speaking of hell...

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On Tommy's first official call with Harbor, they were sent to help Shasta County deal with the infamous Carr incident, and it remains the worst scene he's ever been sent to. That first day, he went up at least 40 times, dumping tons and tons of water over Redding to little effect. 

By the end of his first shift, in his final flight before he traded off with his relief, he'd been at the end of his rope—twisted and locked up with exhaustion and pain, like an exposed muscle—and it translated into some of the worst flying of his career. To make matters worse, night had fallen and visibility was nil thanks to the massive smoke plume that made it feel like he was flying through chowder. Plus, the bird he was in wasn't even his own, which always feels like driving a car that won't allow you to adjust the seat and mirror settings, and it fought him for every inch of air he gained. 

When Tommy finally broke through the plume, his throat one giant scratching post despite the steady flow of oxygen through his face mask, he found himself in the middle of what looked like the Apocalypse. The entire world had been swallowed by smoke and flame and wind, and through leaking eyes he caught sight of a slowly-spinning monster so massive he couldn't find the edges of it. 

In the span of a breath, he thought of the summer he turned nine and went to stay with his grandmother for a week, spending most of it curled up next to her on her three-season porch while they watched horror movies on a tiny television with a built-in VCR. Halfway through The Exorcist, his grandmother, who'd been drinking Pilsner out of a wine glass because she thought it made her look fancy, said she never understood why Hollywood thought the Devil would bother possessing random people. You think he'd settle for something so small? Of course not! He'd be out causing mayhem, flipping over cars, setting entire towns on fire! He'd be doing everything he could do to get God's attention.

Facing down what looked like a version of the Bat signal shot straight out of Hell, Tommy had to admit his grandmother had a point. But considering the fire whirl was consuming both the earth and sky without any kind of divine intervention, he wished she were still alive so he could tell her it didn't matter. God wasn't paying the least bit of attention.

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No pressure tags: @screamlet, @dadvans, @geddyqueer, @leashybebes, @liminalmemories21, @cecilyv, @dharmaavocado, @alchemistc, @harmless-variety-of-garden-snake, @firehose118, @beefcakekinard, @setmeatopthepyre, @epiphainie, @newtkelly, and @iphyslitterator

[aloysiavirgata]

Will you write me a post-Fight Club fic? They’re bruised and beat up and I want to read about it.

Kersh had said Sweet fancy Moses when he saw their injuries and ordered them either home or desk bound until such time as they would not terrify small children with their countenances.

***

Scully slouched against the wall with an ice pack on her face. She did not want to be here, but she didn’t want to be anywhere else either. People stared and she hated it more than she hated paperwork. She had practically worn a groove in her apartment floor from caged pacing.

Mulder was using a tape dispenser to grind Excedrin tablets into a powder. He rubbed it on the insides of his swollen lips like cocaine.

“Ow,” he observed. He didn’t get the fun medications until he went home, which he didn’t wish to do because it was boring. He carried his injuries with a certain swagger.

“I thought Mr. Saperstein was going to show you some in-your-face, smack-down moves so you could quit getting your ass kicked so often,” Scully said.

Mulder scowled at her. He grabbed a pad of paper from the desk and wrote YOU’RE LOOKING PRETTY ROUGH YOURSELF XENA. He tapped at it until she looked up.

“The Lorax is coming for you, Mulder,” she warned.

He was finding it difficult to talk clearly with a wired jaw but, because he found it impossible to refrain from making smart remarks, he was on his third legal pad.

WELL EXCUSE ME BUT I WASN’T EXPECTING TO HAVE TO EITHER TAKE A CANE TO THE JAW OR PUNCH AN OLD LADY

He added a frowny face and several exclamation points to emphasize the complexity of the situation.

Scully examined her reflection in the back of a spoon. Either Lulu or Betty - Scully couldn’t remember which thanks to the concussion - had launched herself off the ropes and onto Scully. She had led with her forehead.

“Burt Zupanic,” she mused, readjusting the ice. “Of all the men to fight over.”

SWEET-ASS PERM, Mulder noted, unhelpfully.

She laughed, which hurt. Most things hurt at present, her pride included. She’d already had three cups of coffee this morning, but after surviving all her various maimings, Scully was confident her organs could handle it. She emptied the pot into her Stanford mug.

Mulder tapped her arm. HEY I AM ORDERING SOME CLAM CHOWDER FOR LUNCH. DO YOU WANT ANYTHING?

“Clam chowder through a straw, ugh, Mulder. Besides, you’re not supposed to have anything with chunks in it.”

THEY ARE BLENDING IT UP FOR ME. MILKSHAKE OF THE SEA.

She gagged a little. “That’s vile.”

PROBABLY. IF THEY MAKE ANOTHER MOVIE ABOUT US I THINK WE SHOULD NOT MENTION THIS PARTICULAR INCIDENT.

As though he actual movie had been so much better. She cringed every time she thought about it. At least the COPS episode conveyed her reluctance and irritation. “Pinky swear.”

He held his own finger out and she hooked hers around it.

THE PACT IS SEALED

“Hey Mulder?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you want to get the hell out of here, go take some of the really good painkillers, curl up in my bed in our underwear, and watch bad Lifetime movies until we pass out? I don’t have chowder but there’s leftover tomato bisque with your name on it.”

FUCK THE CHOWDER LET’S ROLL

They were out the door before the ink dried.