#they are oozing codependency

[cspcrashing]

cheng xiaoshi, you... really have no clue, do you ?

[a-flickering-soul]

silvia moreno garcia knocks it out of the park once again by creating a novel told by twin protagonists "bisexual burnt-out cunt of a woman" and "bisexual burnt-out asshole of a man" AND!!!! most importantly. they are best friends.

[tinycrab]

I don't even have a good catalogue of songs in my head but if I don't make a playlist for the granblue canon toxic yuri I will fucking explode.

[aemndxx]

I NEED a smut fic with Bambi!reader and Rafe ☹️ literally anything will do your writing always eats

𝓇.cameron. ┆ bambi baby.

◟ ㅤᡣ𐭩ㅤㅤ ݁.﹒ hihihi babies. !!!!!!!!!! 🥺♡ྀི i missed y'all sm. here's this lil' thing that's been on my mind all night… it's set in the rafe 𝓍 bambi!reader au i'm makin'… but u don't gotta read the others to understand this at all-- this is jus' a lil' bit of smut. 🫶🏼

"ah-ah, hey!" rafe scolded you, slapping your freshly manicured, dainty little fingers away from touching your slippery, puffy pink folds, oozing more and more of your slick as the seconds passed, with your boyfriend having you seated in between his manspread legs, your back pressed back against his hard, bare, muscular chest, completely naked.

"you don't get to touch this," rafe tuts warningly, making you instantly pout cutely, glossy lips all pink and kiss-swollen from rafe's sloppy, abusive kisses just minutes ago.

snapping out of your hazy, dreamlike thoughts, you squeal girlishly, all high pitched and sweet, as rafe completely cups your weepy, sweet little cunny, giving your cunt a possessive squeeze as if it were a warning not to cross him.

"this? this right here?" he asks tauntingly, with two little slaps against your drooling cunt, making his big hand all wet and causing you to mewl softly, trying to squeeze your smooth, plush thighs together, but rafe stops you, glaring down at you with clear disapproval, a threat in his steel-blue eyes, making you press back further more into him, shrinking against him, seeking his bigger size to feel safe and secured, even if he was the one abusing your little cunt right now-- you didn't mind, and neither did rafe.

"it's mine," he purrs into your ear with a soft, low baritone voice, his tone was teasing, though his voice was still a deep, lazy drawl, cupping your bare cunt with his large dominant hand, his face buried into the cook of your neck, inhaling your sweet, overwhelmingly addicting scent, before he begins kissing and licking and sucking another claiming lovemark on the delicate, sensitive skin of your little, easily breakable, sweet-smelling neck.

"all. fuckin'. mine," he coos menacingly, causing your insides to melt and butterflies to swarm in your belly-- you couldn't help it, you were so in love with rafe, and his possessiveness over you always made your brain turn into mush, even when he wasn't playing with your little cunt.

"you understand that, bambi baby?" he questions mockingly, keeping his voice hushed, yet he still kept that deep, lazy, baritone drawl to his voice, making your little clit throb and twitch with need, which rafe notices of course, because he always does-- swiftly, skillfully, he gently pinches your little nub, only to start rubbing two pads of his calloused fingertips against it, causing you to whimper softly and squirm for a moment, before you begin to gently hump your boyfriend's deft fingertips that were currently massaging your 'pretty princess cunt', as rafe likes to call it.

you nod eagerly, maybe a bit too eagerly, but again, you don't care-- always so sweet and innocently naïve for your boyfriend, just the way he likes you, all shy and sweet and codependent on him, looking up at him with your thick, fluffy black lashes, all doe-eyed and precious for him, a bit weepy too, just like your sweet little pussy, rafe notices.

and rafe is already aware, as usual, that you need a good, long, hard fucking, and that's exactly what he's gonna give to you-- after all, you're his girl, his future wife and the mother to his children, he'd never deny his precious bambi anything, especially a good fuck.

rafe smirks as he watches you nod obediently, the anger in his brow smoothing out and his soft lips curling up into a small, lazy smirk, "good girl, baby," he praises sweetly, giving the side of your head a long kiss, before easily slipping the two fingers he was using to massage your clit to now slide them inside of your needy cunt, feeling the way your wet, velvety walls flutter and quiver when he wiggles them around inside of you for a few seconds, hearing the way you gasp and moan so prettily for him.

"oh, daddy!" you cry out, your little, freshly painted pink toes curling from the sudden shift in pleasure, thighs shaking and belly clenching with your need for delicious release. "oohhh, f-feels so... so good i-inside of me," you mewl deliriously, moaning breathily and heart pounding, your bare breasts heaving as you suddenly feel rafe curl his long, talented fingers inside of you, insistently rubbing that place that makes you orgasm in seconds and wail like a newborn baby.

"D-DADDY!" you sob breathlessly, your shaky hands now going to reach and squeeze his clothed thighs, digging your long, gorgeous nails (which rafe of course paid for) into the gray sweatpants that he was currently only wearing, making you even more horny and desperate for him.

rafe chuckles breathlessly at how needy you're for him tonight, but he doesn't mind, he never does-- and with a light, sinister laugh from him, one that promises that you're going to have a very, very long night ahead of you, your boyfriend speeds up the pace of his fingers that were fucking into you almost violently, until you're dripping all over his hand, just the way rafe cameron likes you to be.

[canisbrutus]

Pleaaaseeee write about Earnest and Melvin!! I’m genuinely curious about your thoughts about them on their own and together !!! Kind of like a supercut …if you don’t mind!!!

Hi.

these two are so fucked up but they amuse me so. im sick im ill i have way too many thoughts on the matter etc etc.

CWs include but may not be limited to emotional abuse neglect mentions of child abuse homophobia etc etc

ahems.

Earnest and Melvin 🍃🍯

How it Started:

these two go back... decently far, let's say. maybe as early as 5th grade in elementary.

Melvin had just moved into town after fleeing some shitass situations i wont be elaborating on here, and guess who informed him on threats to avoid and ways to prank them?

Earnest comes from a rather neglectful household. so he's bound to latch onto whoever he can (some being more tolerable than others).

Melvin on the other hand... well we know he's a disappointment in his father's eyes. likewise he needed somebody in his life.

for better or for worse they have some kinda codependency going on. Earnest more than his aloof companion, of course.

admittedly it's difficult to tell where their relationship began, or if it's anything official at all, due to the obscene amount of homophobia oozing out of that sad repressed muskrat.

they sure do banter like an old married couple though.

How it's Going:

More than anything else, Earnest needs Melvin to get anywhere with anything whatsoever.

At least, without shooting himself in the foot and throwing god knows how many people under the bus.

Earnest may be the voice and face 'representing' the nerd clique, yes, but Melvin's the one smoothing over inner workings and plotting out their survival in Bullworth.

As such, Melvin is one of only two people allowed to backtalk Earnest, and the only one Earnest actively listens to without shrugging him off, at least most of the time.

Honestly Melvin tends to tone down any insane ideas Earnest comes up with; Paparazzi only happened because he wasn't around.

Why wasn't he around? Had another nasty spat with Earnest, something about feeling taken for granted, that had him packing his bags for a minute; fully left the clique.

(Beatrice wasn't far behind him and Donald was competing against Thad to fill the roll of second in command in his absence, but I digress)

He came back, of course, the others needed him, said Earnest. Melvin raised holy hell shouting and pulling Earnest's ear anyway, but things devolved from there.

Is it any surprise why Earnest cited Gary's lack of morals as to why he'd be a great partner for him?

Their divorce arc was crazy fr.

Honestly they'd be like. Fine. if Earnest wasn't swept up in the megalomania of the social hierarchy at Bullworth. Or any position of power.

They'd likely rekindle things when Earnest is nobody special anymore and he's not leveraging others' needs over Melvin's head.

Misc. Dynamics:

onto more lighthearted shit believe it or not they match eachother's freak damn near perfectly.

Horror nuts. Very little can actually phase Melvin, partially because he is the horror, though the mask seldom slips.

happy mask salesman vibe having ass.

he's killed before on that note. animals, mind you, on a hunting trip or two. point being melvin knows his way around a carcass and isnt particularly squeamish.

regardless this often leads to Earnest handing him the controller when silent hill gets too nerve wracking for him.

movies are generally better in present time, though Earnest is still rather jumpy/clingy with him (with a handful of 'no-homo's sprinkled in for clarification).

just goes to show how much unwavering faith he puts in the guy.

he's practically guaranteed to come running ready to throw hands whenever Earnest shrieks his name anyway.

something else to note: while i've joked about the laptop in dragon's wing belonging to Earnest and it's... uses. there's actually two computers down there. the desktop monitor is Melvin's.

tech ownership aside, the pair often retreat into that side room whenever they need to plot and scheme alone together, or just study in the relative peace and quiet.

many, many of their plots unfurled in that room, hence the corkboard over the bed. (note: its not literally just a bare mattress, its a futon. more lore on that in a future post)

Earnest needs to feel superior over people because he thinks he's owed it after his upbringing depriving him of anything good. meanwhile Melvin generally doesn't give a fuck he's just kinda mirthful, sometimes sadistic.

the two simultaneously enable eachother and keep eachother grounded.

while also stepping on eachothers last nerves.

tldr they're fucked yeah but they're better together. as long as literally nobody else gets involved.

i could probably keep going. but i wont 🦠 hope this summarized em good enough for now. they make me sick

oh also in case you missed it i wrote: a letter. from earnest to melvin. as a warmup for this. read it here.

[writing masterpost]

[chthontoya]

Chronic hanahaki, Uraichi, codependency (?), unconsensual drug use, getting together, WIP, ficlet, suggestive themes, stalking (obviously, bruh)

"Oh, it's this time of the year already," - Ichigo doesn't quite whine, he doesn't, but he really really close to it.

It was time for his flowers to bloom and this was annoying as hell. Ichigo had to take his medicine and visit hospital once in two weeks to extract excessive ooze the medicine turned flowers into. And coughing! Coughing was intense and annoying, and always full of ooze.

So Ichigo saw hanahaki as a recurring alergy: deadly but manageable and definitely he'll have it forever. Because running from emotional problems was like a second skin for Ichigo and he wasn't going to change now.

Ichigo would never have thought that the most annoying thing in hanahaki will be his friends' and family curiosity.

In the begging of his "Pining disease", Ichigo would wake up in night from time to time with a terrible cough, blood and flowers around. Nowadays Ichigo was talking his medicine in time like a well oiled mechanism. He just couldn't let the flowers bloom and let everyone to immediately understand who exactly he was pining for. Because flowers always pointed at the object of infatuation and Ichigo had spider lilies of all thing. No matter how in denial he himself had been during his first year - spider lilies covered in blood and saliva had crushed all his hopes for further avoiding his feelings. He had had to accept them. Doesn't mean he planned to ever share them.

...

"Oh, feel dizziness finally?" - Kisuke asks with enthusiasm. Ichigo glowers st him suspiciously and nods, - "Tea finally took its toll. Wonderful," - he nods few times playing with his fan, - "Unless you're trained against this kind of chemical or interrogation technique, which you're not, you'll answer every question I ask." Kisuke grins, looking too satisfied for Ichigo's opinion.

...

"Playing the game in guessing what flowers you decided to grow in your lungs have been fun and etcetera but it's totally not worth your struggles. It have been, what, two, three years?" - Kisuke shrugs with a fake bored tone, - "So I decided to haste things somewhat."

"You drugged me." Ichigo states without surprise.

Kisuke nods.

"So who is it, Ichigo?"

Ichigo presses lips together and glovers at the ex-onmitsukidō agent. Kisuke sighs with a strange glimmer in his eyes.

"It's not ever easy with you, is it." Kisuke sighs dramatically, his eyes however remain calculating with something else mixed in. "So, are they human, shinigami-soul or hollow?"

"Shinigami-soul." Ichigo slurs panicking. He has no doubts he's doomed. "Why not asking if you know them?"

"I know them." Kisuke states with such certainty that it makes, Ichigo's breath hitch noticeably.

Ichigo knows he have been doomed since the moment he fell for Kisuke. This, however... This is a such blatant display of what he is so damn set on. There're so many things but the most importantly Kisuke cares. Cares enough to force him to admit his feelings and some tiny soft part in Ichigo wishes to submit immediately.

Ichigo doesn't even asks how Kisuke is so sure he knows the object of his infatuation. For some reason Ichigo has no doubts in the statement. The idea of Kisuke fucking stalking him to the extent where there's no a time window without him being watched makes him shiver with the excitement. Ichigo wonders if his arousal will give him out before his drugged mind will.

Kisuke humms at the answer. Shinigami - souls was the biggest circle of the three: Visored, captains and their second in command, even some seated officers (which absolutely weren't worthy Ichigo's attention).

Kisuke pushes down his hopeful ego which is whispering him seductively how Kisuke himself is in the circle.

"Are they a captain level shinigami? To ease your struggles with definition, do they have Bankai?" If they do, Kisuke will have nearly twenty people to pick from, and he still will be one of those. The exiled shinigami is disappointed in himself, will he really try to cut groups the way to delude himself about being the one who Ichigo desires? He needs to take hold on himself.

"They have," - Ichigo agrees with eyes idling around the room.

"Please refrain from attempting to run away," - Kisuke asks in play-pretend of being offended manner, while his blood boil demanding an action. The idea of physically forcing Ichigo to stay still makes him feel feral.

Ichigo doesn't listen - frees himself from his body to equal the ground. Useless. Kisuke moves fluidly and already pins Ichigo down with a knee on his back and awaken Benihime in hand. It's easy, really, and somehow not less exciting.

Ichigo's a powerhouse but he's a warrior - not somebody adapted to confined places and fast hand-to-hand combat. Kisuke suppresses the desire to change the position, to make their bodies so close that he would be able to feel every stutter of Ichigo's breath.

"Mah, Kurosaki-san, have I taught you badly to assess your surroundings and opponent?" Kisuke wonders if he could cut Ichigo's ear, for example, and still remain to seem harmless enough for the hybrid to come to his house and take everything he gives without self-preservation. Kisuke licks his lips abusing the fact that Ichigo doesn't see his face right now. "Let's continue," - of course his tea have affected body and soul, - "How well are they with living in the transient world?"

Again, the question cuts a lot of candidates and, if Rukia is the person of Ichigo's affection, Kisuke will still be able to delude himself a bit more.

"Good enough."

"In time terms."

"They've lived here for a while."

Kisuke humms - Ichigo is still trying to be as vague as possible. Then Kisuke has to still himself. How well Ichigo's watching his language? Ichigo can't specifically mean Kisuke or Love, the ex-onmitsukidō is clearly overthinking.

"Their Zanpakutō type?"

Kisuke barely notices his change into clipped language. What Ichigo is doing to him? He should brace himself to hear about an ice-type Zanpakutō, not watch-drink for any little twitches in the hybrid's body.

Ichigo mumbles the answer under his nose. An interesting loophole - Kisuke muses inwardly, consciously prioritizing the feeling of awe and not the reflex from a Maggots' nest to subdue a person further.

"Ichigo," - Kisuke drawls in a way that usually makes the hybrid jolt, he continues in a light tone - "I'll get the answer anyway. Don't make me work for it."

Ichigo tenses even more and keeps silent. `Taunting` - whispers something deep in Kisuke.

Ex-onmitsukidō eases the hold on Ichigo allowing him to move. Of course the hybrid bolts immediately. Not to far - Kisuke uses the opportunity to pin him down in a different position - face-to-face. The hybrid is beautiful like this, sprawled underneath him, held by Benihime's threads and Kisuke's body, all flushed and hard breathing. He jolts and twitches in attempt to escape.

"Zanpakutō type," - Kisuke repeats the question.

Ichigo seems torn. Head is turned away. Eyes are averted. Ichigo slightly shivers.

"Blood type."

[ailius-suffers-through-art]

Was There Something Missing ? / This Must Be Love

there is so much going on in these fucker’s fucked up relationships. They’re both dealing with crippling loss of their loved ones, one of his friends and girlfriend— the other of his family, and that definitely will lead to some messy weird type of codependency on at least one side and indulgence on the other.

Des is so fucking touch-starved like genuinely you can’t tell me this man has had any intimate relationships since the forced divorce via funeral. With Randall clinging to him, he excuses the physicality of their relationship as more manipulation so he doesn’t have to face how lonely he truly is. And that’s the thing, des is unbelievably lonely. He only has Raymond. That’s it. Who else is there to seek reassurance from, the tombstone of his former wife? His long lost brother who doesn’t even know he exists? His father? Randall is the closest anyone has been to him at that point in time due to their collaboration. Of course, if he realized that he was indulging in the touch that Randall provided then he’d be gone like a bat out of hell, but as long as he can explain it away then he gets to keep his aloofness.

Randall, on the other hand, is practically oozing with love. Love is his main character theming. His whole issue with monte d’or based off the lies he’d been fed was that he felt his affection for his friends and family was unrequited. That he’d been used and abandoned and betrayed by the ones he cared most about. Even still, he wants to love and be loved. He falls so easily for des’ manipulations because he provides that love. That support. And he still pines over Angela. He wants back what he had. Des being so helpful, so “caring”, gives him a taste of what he wants. What he craves. Then des cross dresses as Angela and well the wIRES WERE ALREADY KINDA CROSSED BUT NOW THEY’RE FULL ON TANGLED. Des in that Angela cosplay does things to him.

anyway whoops character rant over they’re so silly I love them

[petit-etoile]

Astarion/Tav prompt (or Reformed Durge): "I would have you smile again. You will live to see these days renewed. No more despair." I know it's a Lord of the Rings quote but gosh if it doesn't remind me of them ;-;

this  is  the  end  of  the  world ( a  time  for  something  biblical  )

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 5,219 content warnings: canonical mentions of death, spoilers for the dark urge storyline & astarion's act iii romance, graphic mentions of injuries, references to cann.ibalism as a metaphor for love, mental health issues & physical ramifications from the tadpole + rejecting bhaal, i highly recommend listening to the exogenesis symphony by muse other tags: canon compliant,  canon-typical violence,  character study,  introspection,  hurt/comfort,  whump,  canon temporary character death,  the dark urge as player character,  codependency,  religious imagery & symbolism,  p.orn with plot archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia,  @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added to the taglist here

summary:  ‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Your life is mine,’ he says, cruel eyes gazing at you. ‘Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.’

‘I would rather die,’ you say.

His hateful eyes narrow dangerously. It was never a good idea to betray a god, nonetheless one who had created you so lovingly. His voice is a low growl when he dismisses you  —  and suddenly, white-hot pain shoots through your veins and threatens to swallow you whole. Bhaal raises his hand and your blood obeys.

‘You were made to conquer,’ he snarls. ‘To devour!’

‘I don’t need any of this,’ you spit out. ‘I don’t need you. The only family  —  I know are those who fight by my side! I will not be what you made me!’

The sickness in your belly surges until you think it will overcome you. You stagger forward until your knees hit the stone floor. Bhaal is forcing you to submit, to become what he had made Orin. This thing won’t have you, Astarion whispers against the curve of your ear. It won’t win. You’ve got this, darling. And I’ve got you. You want to believe him, but your blood-kin has done damage beyond repair. What were children beyond the sins of their father?

‘You reject my blood?’ Bhaal asks.

‘Yes,’ you whisper.

‘Then I shall reclaim it,’ he says, his promise a growl in his throat.

You were your father’s seed cultivated to perfection by determination and bravery. Now, you were nothing more than a disappointment to be snuffed out root and stem. You choke on the warmth in your throat. Your veins seem to have exploded beneath your skin. You sneeze, red oozing from every orifice.

‘I will make another who is worthy,’ says Bhaal, lifting his hand.

As he raises his hand, you are forced to kneel. Every single one of your muscles contracts in agony. The others might be shouting but you can hardly hear them over the roaring in your ears. Your blood is rejecting you. Festering inside your flesh like a disease. Like the skeleton carved into the wall, you weep blood down your neck. No matter how hard you try to close your eyes to prevent it, your rich ichor abandons you.

No, you want to tell him. The rot of his blood will end with you as it had with Orin. The abomination of murder will never set forth and harm another. You reach for the dagger at your hip and raise it, but the Avatar of Bhaal dissipates before you can strike. The weight of your body collapses  forward.

Like a wounded beast, you keen loudly, shaking your head as if that will free your ears from the blood inside of them. You were born from this blood. You were created by this blood to be who you are today. Rejecting it should be like a sin  —  but if sin is a seed, you have eaten it willingly from the hand of mortality. If Bhaal is to reject you, then you will reject his godhood.

You close your eyes as blood overtakes your sight. You press your forehead into the stone to fight your fever. You shiver and gasp. You gargle on the proof of vitriol and lean into the chilled floor, resigned to your fate. At least you wouldn’t become a mindflayer…

“No!” Astarion wails. Your heart shatters. ‘No, please  —  Not you!’

I’m sorry, you say. You close your eyes and remember the color of the sun in his hair. I didn’t mean for this to happen. This isn’t what I wanted. Your fingers curl against the stone, and then  —  There’s nothing. Astarion touches the sleepless bruises beneath your eyes with such tenderness you forget his strength. You lean your cheek into his palm and sigh sleepily, but even as exhaustion overtakes your body, you shudder. You’re afraid to sleep, to dream. You don’t want to hurt anyone else ever again.

‘You have to rest, my love,’ he murmurs. He allows you to lay on his hand as though it were a pillow. ‘When was the last time you slept through the night?’

‘I’m not sure,’ you confess.

‘I might be a sleepless creature of the night,’ Astarion says, ‘but you… You needn’t fear your dreams when I am here. I’ll protect you no matter the cost.’

‘And who will protect you if I sleep?’ you ask.

You must be frowning, because Astarion uses his other hand to soothe the crease between your eyebrows. He sounds so outrageously heartbroken that you want to cry. You don’t want him to think he isn’t a comfort… You haven’t slept beside someone in so long, and the warmth of his body has always lulled you to your dreams peacefully until recently.

Astarion swallows thickly. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of this. I’m with you forever and always.’

But what if there isn’t an always?

‘There is always a future for you and I,’ Astarion vows. ‘Now sleep. He can’t control you as long as I’m around.’ When you open your eyes again, you’re greeted by the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. His eyes are a soft cerise, and his cheeks are high and sleek, his lips plump and his hair soft and curled. An angel. You’re unable to control the way you reach your hand to touch his cheek, smearing a crystalline tear across his wan skin.

‘Who are you?’ you whisper, voice caught painfully in your throat.

‘Hush now, my love,’ he whispers. He presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, and when he pulls away, his lips are ruddy and wet. ‘Thank the gods… I thought I had lost you.’

Oh, you think. You remember now. This is the man from your dream… You try to recall the details of how you know him, but it’s hard to follow a train of thought. You turn from side to side. It’s so hard to move, to focus. Your limbs feel as though they are made of lead and marble. Everything aches. The tips of your fingers and your nails down to the little bones in your toes. Your head, though, is the only part of you free from intense pain. It’s as though a weight has been lifted from the veil of your memories. You rest your arm across your waist, too tired to keep it lifted.

‘Who…’ Your brows furrow in confusion. ‘Who am I?’

‘I know you were once a child full of life and love,’ the angel says to you, gently cradling your face in his hands. ‘I know one day you were afraid and unsure and half-mad. I know you stained the streets red with cruelty and devised a plan larger than all of Faerûn. But I know you are strong and that your heart is good. You saved the tieflings, and you saved the refugees, and now you will save the world that threatens to be plunged into darkness.’

You smile. ‘That doesn’t sound like me at all,’ you confess.

The angel shakes his hand, fingers pressing hard into your skin. His voice breaks. ‘But I know it to be true, so you must believe my every word. You are brave. You are kind. You are good. You are my love, and I know that I am loved by you in return. You are a protector,’ he tells you. ‘You have protected everyone, and now it is time to protect yourself. You have survived two gods and now you must survive a third.’

The knot in your throat grows larger with every word. You think you remember now. Yes, you can remember it all very clearly. You know the weight of his hands like baptism. You turn your cheek and kiss his palm, smudging his skin pink.

‘Astarion,’ you whisper.

Your love smiles down at you, your blood dribbling down his chin.

‘What happened?’

‘Let’s not worry about that,’ he shushes you, massaging the bruises beneath your eyes. ‘Come, let us get you cleaned up.’

‘I don’t think I can walk yet,’ you say. Admitting it makes you feel weak.

‘Don’t worry,’ Astarion says softly. ‘I can carry you.’

‘I will bloody your clothes,’ you say.

‘Bloody them,’ Astarion says. ‘I don’t care.’

Astarion does carry you. He carries you all the way back to the inn, to a private room just the two of you share. He orders a tub to bathe you in and then takes an hour to scrub your skin clean, carefully cleaning your gore from your hair and scalp.

You watch as Astarion passes a bar of soap against the skin of the top of your arm over and over again until it is red then pink then flesh. Then, he gently twists your wrist. He cleans the underside of your arm next, and your palm. He washes your fingers until they do nothing but shake in the cold air. You curl your fingers around his.

‘Was it hard?’ you ask him.

‘I will never forget the smell of your scent,’ Astarion replies.

He moves to wash the hollow between your collarbones, encouraging you to recline in the water. He washes your chest and your stomach until his grief washes over him in waves. His chin shakes until a sob escapes. He presses his face into your hair and wails softly into your crown. When he’s done weeping, Astarion returns to his cleansing. He speaks not of it again. There is so little of you left.

You often wonder how much of your brain is left between the parasite and the hole your father has left you. Sometimes Jaheira still looks at you as though the rot of your father isn’t entirely gone. You don’t blame her. You’re waiting for your control to snap. You were good once. You could be good again. You want to be good again.

Shadowheart smiles at you now. Lae’zel no longer frowns. Even Wyll has taken up eating beside you again when it’s nighttime and the adventure can go no more. Gale pours you an extra serving of wine. He says you need it. Karlach lets you hold Clive at night when Astarion goes hunting, and he goes hunting often now. It makes you wonder if your blood is vile.

Part of you wants to ask him if you’ve done something wrong. You’ve committed no crime, but you feel like you have. Your memories of before are slipping away. Your memories of now seem to do the same.

You wait in your tent that night for Astarion to return, your blanket pulled around your head and shoulders. You rehearse what you’re going to say. You want to reassure him you’re not angry. You just…feel loss. Empty. The loneliness nips at your bones like crows at carrion.

When Astarion slips inside, he looks guilty. It almost makes you want to change your mind, but you have to know. You feel as though you’re going mad. A flightless bird trapped in a cage. Like Dame Aylin trapped in Shadowfell. He refuses to meet your gaze.

‘Have I done something  —  ’

‘You,’ Astarion says through gritted teeth, ‘are perfect. Every time.’

You want to cry. ‘Then why do you avoid me?’

‘Avoid you?’ Astarion repeats incredulously. He looks at you now despairingly. ‘No, that isn’t what this is at all. I would never avoid you.’

‘You’re hunting more often,’ you say in a low tone, a whisper. Accusatory.

‘Can you blame me?’ he asks plainly.

It’s your turn to look away in shame. ‘If it’s too much, you should sleep somewhere else.’

‘I don’t want to be apart from you,’ Astarion says.

‘Then how do we fix this?’

‘You cannot fix what is not broken.’

‘Astarion,’ you plead. ‘Hold me or  —  I don’t know who I am anymore.’

Astarion wraps his arms around you before you can say another word. His lips are like a halo against your head. Each kiss he presses against your scalp is a prayer from a sinner. You turn your cheek, and he kisses you so passionately it makes your empty head spin.

You relearn who are you in his arms that night. And as he regales you with tales of your history, you think you can imagine them in your mind’s eye. He kisses your wrist. He tells you a happy memory when he kisses the curve of your belly, and when he kisses your ankle, he promises you that everything will be worth it.

It wasn’t you that was the problem. There wasn’t a problem, not really. Only an impiety he wanted to atone for. He struggles with telling you, but when he whispers it against your thigh, you understand.

‘Your blood,’ he says, voice strained. ‘I cannot escape the smell.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, but he shakes his head and his hair tickles your sensitive skin.

‘No, I  —  It is my shame,’ he confesses. ‘I’ll admit I’m a lech.’

Astarion struggles to put his words in a coherent structure. When you died, he was horrified and distraught. Only the gods know how hard he wept seeing you lifeless. Yet it was his vampiric nature that had betrayed him almost as much as your life’s blood had betrayed you. He felt hunger.

How could he be sad when he was so ravenous? Was he not an evil man, or is this what made him evil? That, in all of his beautiful tears and lamentation, the urge to devour you, bones and all, nearly consumed him? Your death was horrible, ugly, wretched. Your death was beautiful and coveted.

Astarion devours you again that night, mouthing and licking and sucking at your swollen core. He makes you a martyr in his grief. His tongue teases you over and over again. When you’ve climaxed once, Astarion seeks out to make you do it again until your legs are shaking violently and your voice has gone hoarse. He doesn’t take you that night, not in the traditional way, but he swallows you up regardless.

It isn’t until afterwards when he’s laying with his head on your chest that you understand his tragedy. It’s a misfortunate impossibility trying to grieve when you can’t stop salivating. Astarion thinks you’re horrified by the admission, but after knowing your past, it was hard to feel scandalized by anything.

You pet his curls away from his face, watching as he listens to the hum of your heartbeat. He might have it memorized by now, but each time it beats, Astarion’s eyelashes flutter with admiration. It is a hymn, a doxology, a liturgy that only he knows the words to. After all, he wrote them on your skin and immortalized them forevermore. He is so beautiful, you think, when there is no trouble to be seen.

You were once both trapped by your dark god’s design. You had set yourself free. You had sprouted the wings of a swan guided by the empathy you had planted in a garden as a child. It would be Astarion’s soon, and you would carry him in compassion until the thorn crown was placed upon his brow.

Astarion’s eyes are closed. In your perpetually confused state, you mistake him for having fallen asleep and resort to doing the same. The city becomes chilly at night and your skin is decorated with gooseflesh. He rises almost immediately and you try to chase after him, fingers piercing through a ghost.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ Astarion says immediately. He drags his cape from the corner of the tent and lays it across your shins. ‘You were shivering.’

‘I’m not used to this  —  ’ Will my mind ever be the same? ‘  —  chill.’

‘I will be here,’ he promises. ‘Here, let me hold you for the night.’

You clumsily trade places with him, and he tucks your blanket and his cape around your body as tightly as he can. He kisses you passionately and you taste your familiarity in his mouth. It’s so sweet that you sigh. ‘I know what you did,’ Orin says hatefully, spitefully, cruelly. Her voice is like honey.

‘What have I done?’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ she asks. ‘Filthy rotten blood-kin undeserving of our father’s gift!’

You repeat yourself. ‘What have I done?’

‘You,’ Orin spits, ‘think your grey matter deserves to be loved! I should carve it out! I should make it disgusting and sticky again! Split it’s skull open! You foul traitor!’

Slowly, you pull Orin into your chest. You hug her and smooth her hair down her back. Her arms wrap around you begrudgingly until the lovingkindness causes her to rupture. She sobs into your neck hideously, clinging to you. She wails and she wails until you are both children again staring up at your grandsire for approval.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Orin tells you, hiccuping. She wipes her nose with her fingers. ‘It isn’t fair.’

‘I love you, blood-kin,’ you say. You kiss the top of her head.

‘Slaughter kin,’ she says sadly. She holds your hand with her snotty palm.

‘Sister,’ you say. In the coming weeks, your mind hardly gets better. Memories are still missing. You catch yourself gazing at the mirror longer than you expect to. You used to be so beautiful. It’s hard to recognize the face staring back at you. You touch one cheek and then the other. You turn your head and watch your jawline.

No, it still isn’t you.

You take the knife in your belt to your hair and begin cutting away pieces you don’t remember. You lean forward and smudge your eyes before sitting up straight and trying again. You recognize a part of yourself. You chase that feeling. You press your hand against your heart. You smile faintly. Astarion sobs so hard you think you might lose yourself. You’re at a loss of what to do. He’s alive but he keens like a dying deer. It’s supposed to be healing, you think. Cazador is dead. His reign of terror should end. Astarion is saved and he saved himself. You couldn’t be prouder of him.

Slowly, you step forward one foot after another. You collapse to your knees at his side. It’s easy to pull Rhapsody from his fingers. You drop it by his side. Slowly, as if in a dream, you hold him like you held Orin. Astarion sobs harshly into your collarbone and clings to you so tightly you might break.

‘I thought  —  I thought  —  ’ he cries brokenly.

I thought it would make me feel better, he says without saying. You shush him and pet his hair. Cazador’s blood smears against your cheek when Astarion burrows his face into your neck. You let him linger. You aren’t sure how long you sit on the hard marbled floors, but when you stand up, your knees creak so loud you’re almost insecure about it.

This time, it’s your turn to carry Astarion. He won’t let you pick him up, but you hold him by his waist. You carry him past your allies, past the onlookers who once saw you in opposition. You order the maids to bring you a bath, and as Astarion hiccups in the water, you bathe him.

You wash the taint of Cazador from his body. The soap cleans the dirt and the blood and the memory. You wash his chest and his belly and Astarion thanks you hoarsely. He looks at you, and his eyes are so wide and beautiful that you cry too.

Dying isn’t easy. It isn’t beautiful or romantic or a sweeping gesture. Dying is painful and hideous and ugly, and you have saved Astarion from a lifetime of torment. Rather, he did it by himself with your help. You swipe the soap against his cheeks and use a rag to clear it away. Astarion’s hair is somehow curlier when it’s wet, and you part the curls so they’ll dry without tangling.

Astarion watches you miserably as you towel his hair. You wipe droplets of water off his skin and slowly slide him into his smallclothes. He accepts your blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, staring at the wooden floor, at his feet.

‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I would never let you be alone,’ you say.

It isn’t what you bought the room for. Really, you only wanted to wipe the blood from his face but now, you climb into the sheets next to Astarion and hold him tightly. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about the future. He doesn’t want to talk about his siblings either or the thousands of spawn waiting to hang on his every word.

And you can’t even blame him. The gods know how long it took for your tongue to become free from the weight that held it still after you betrayed your father. Karlach said you talked a lot before, but now it’s hard to say anything without wondering if your words are in the right order. Astarion cries softly as if to not awaken you from your slumber, but you can’t fall asleep. You can’t toss or turn either, but dreams evade you.

Dawn peeks through the window. Dawn-bringer, Jergal had called you. You slide out of bed carefully then and cross the room. You draw the curtains shut. Astarion watches you curiously from where he burrows in the sheets. His brow furrows adorably when you climb back into bed and plaster yourself to his spine.

‘Ah,’ you say monotonously. ‘The sun is gone. I suppose we'll stay in until it returns.’

After a day of lounging, Astarion still isn’t ready to talk about what’s on his mind but he watches you do your favorite mundane mortal things with explicit interest. He has you read the book you’re reading aloud, and if it takes you a few hours to struggle through one chapter, he says nothing about it.

Every once in a while, another one of your companions comes to sit in.

Lae’zel tries to commend Astarion for his warrior’s heart without sounding stilted, but eventually she gives up on complimenting him to sympathetically let him know she understands. They had all seen Vlaakith. Karlach brings Clive by and carefully arranges him in the bed next to Astarion. She tells him that he’s fucking awesome and asks permission to hug him.

The touch nearly sends him spiraling.

Gale approaches in his usual manner. He brings Astarion a bottle of wine spiked with blood and lets him know he’s available to chat whenever Astarion feels up to it. Wyll spends thirty minutes apologizing for the bad blood between them, which is funny considering their bickering was hardly vitriolic. Shadowheart visits and gifts him a perfume that makes his lip wobble dangerously.

Jaheira, Minsc, Boo and Halsin come together solemnly. They might be the least offensive of the bunch. Boo gives Astarion a thousand kisses on his cheeks, and Jaheira finally tells them a story of her youth. Halsin has Astarion drink a potion, not because he’s injured physically, but because it should help with his pain. Minsc tries teaching you a Rashemen dance, but Astarion laughs for the first time that day and you do too.

‘It is good,’ Jaheira says, ‘to see you both smile again.’

You touch your mouth shyly. Your cheeks are sore. Astarion’s smile fades slightly but returns in full, timid confidence lighting his features once more. Halsin crosses the room and opens the curtains you’ve closed. The light douses the room in holiness, and you turn your face to watch the sunset, unafraid of what the future will bring.

‘That which troubles you will soon be over,’ she promises. She pats Astarion’s hand, and although she doesn’t say it, you know he’s her son. ‘You will live to see these days renewed. There will be no more despair.’

You’re both left alone again together. Astarion beckons you to the bed instead of your chair and you join him, carefully sitting atop the covers, a respectable distance between your thighs. You inhale carefully.

‘You did the right thing,’ you say. ‘Not completing the Black Mass.’

‘Perhaps I had inspiration,’ Astarion replies. ‘You had a chance to become the Slayer, a being more powerful than you could have known. But you didn’t.’

‘I betrayed my father,’ you whisper, staring at your hands. ‘And he killed me for it.’

‘And if I had completed Cazador’s ritual,’ Astarion says, ‘I would have become Mephistopheles’s whore. I refuse to bow to the whims of others. Being an Ascendent…was blinding me to the truth.’

You look at him curiously then. He confesses to you his sins. He has thought of ascending, and thought of it often but it was never to protect himself. After a certain point, he wanted to protect you too. Your Urges had been mistaken for something else then. A possession, an invasion. Astarion sought to exorcise you of your demons.

But when you had died and the diseased lifeblood fled from your veins, Astarion realized the truth. The ascension would not have helped him protect you. It would have tainted him. It would have contorted him. Rising above all other vampires, Astarion would have become cruel like those before him. He does not want to be cruel to you. He wants to learn kindness as you have. He reaches for it like he chases the sun.

Astarion takes you by the hand, smoothing your skin with his thumb over and over. His skin is cold beneath yours. You curl your fingers into his. He did not want to make you a slave, not again. Not to him.

‘You are the dawn-bringer,’ Astarion says. ‘Even if I never see the sun again, I am free.’

‘I love you,’ you say, voice shaking. ‘I’ll be with you. In the darkness.’

‘You fool,’ Astarion laughs affectionately. He leans across the distance and kisses your temple. ‘There is no darkness. You are daylight incarnate.’

You look at him sharply.

‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ he says. ‘It’s…been on my mind all day, but I think it’s time. Say you’ll come away with me.’

You and Astarion dress slowly. You would follow him almost anywhere, but this is different. There’s something to be done. You don’t dress in armor, and for that you’re almost grateful. You’re tired of fighting. You’re tired of seeing blood.

But it isn’t blood or anything blood related that Astarion takes you to see. One minute, you are wandering Baldur’s Gate at night, and the next, you’ve come to the hollow of a tree where a gravestone is coated in vines.

‘This…is where my old life began,’ Astarion tells you softly. ‘Beneath there, I was turned into a monster. But Cazador is dead now and I get to decide my own fate.’

Astarion tells you in painful detail about his transformation. How his wounds fused themselves shut but the pain never went away. He tells you about breaking through the wood of his demise and the fear that flooded his veins and how, just when he thought he had found his savior, Cazador had laughed wickedly with his cruel glowing eyes.

‘I was his,’ Astarion murmurs, ‘but not anymore.’

He kneels before you on the dirt before his tombstone and bows his head. The prodigal son returned home. The sight of it causes your heart to squeeze. You want to step away but you can’t. You’re afraid.

‘There is nothing left of the person I was before,’ he tells you. ‘I am free to become who I want to be, free to start a new journey. I have all the time in the world to figure out who I am and what I want, but I think I know.’

‘I love you,’ you say again. ‘You’re what I want.’

‘You were by my side through all of this,’ Astarion says, eyes glimmering in the moonlight. ‘And now I want you to christen me. Inaugurate me here on the site of my rebirth.’

This is another dream. You hold your hands over Astarion’s head and sprinkle imaginary water over his head. His eyes close instinctively. Love washes over him, something golden. You kneel down and pluck a flower from the earth and it does not bleed. Relief floods your veins. For once, you touch something and it does not rot. Carefully, like a ghost, you slide the flower into Astarion’s hair and watch as his crimson eyes spill open with tears and devotion.

Astarion kisses you, and for the first time in a long time, he presses his body against yours. He takes you that night in the dirt. His leg is tucked under yours, his cock against your core, his lips never leaving yours. Astarion recites verses in your ears until you burst with ecstasy, tightening around him so much that he can hardly move. He cradles the back of your head to comfort you as he drinks your blood. He cradles your head tonight because he loves you.

‘I am yours,’ he whispers against your skin, ‘and you are mine.’ You aren’t sure when or how Astarion has the time, but he presents you with a gift the night before the world ends. He wears a matching flower from his grave pinned to his armor at all times now. And on his hand, a ring with a silver band. He slides one over your finger as well and kisses your palm as you slowly realize what it means.

The family you’ve chosen throws you a celebration. The next day, Dammon arrives and shows you your repaired armor now dyed white.

You cry for hours out of happiness. ‘This could be the last chance we have for this,’ you whisper to Astarion.

Everyone keeps telling you that a light has returned to your eye, but you don’t see it. It isn’t until you’re laying naked with Astarion again, his skin pressed against yours, that you think you can see it too.

Astarion fucks you tenderly until you’re sore, and you cry and plead sweet things against his shoulder while he holds you safe in his arms. When the pleasure becomes too much and your spine arches from the mattress, he pulls you into his lap and holds you safe against his chest. You kiss him until your lips are sore.

 ‘Your life is mine,’ Astarion murmurs. ‘You belong with me, my love.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you moan weakly.

He has taken you again and again this evening. He doesn’t say it, but Astarion is afraid of what tomorrow might bring. You have outsmarted gods and men. You have found goodness where there was nothing but darkness. You refuse to be afraid now.

‘We were made to conquer,’ Astarion says. His mouth is like a fire across your cheekbone. You shudder around his cock.

‘Take my love,’ Astarion commands you, so you do.

You kiss a ruby bruise into his neck, and Astarion fills you with a grunt. He doesn’t part from you. He guides you back down into the sheets and burrows against your body as if determined to climb between your ribs. You smile. Astarion has already made a home in your bones and flesh. He has eaten the rot from your core and recreated you anew. You were not his sin but his salvation. Perhaps he was yours too.

[dinthehottotty]

Untitled Drabble 1 (D.D.)

A/N: It's been like 3 years since I really wrote and I'm trying to get back into. So enjoy one of my 54 drafts I never published.

Warnings: Force Sensitive Reader x Din Djarin, unedited, angst, light smut, the helmet stays on. Breeding kink.

Din struck you from the moment you met him all those years ago. Back when you were both too young and too stupid. When Zi'an and his disgusting scoreboard of kills was the most of his problems and yours trying to figure out if you were actually hearing other people's thoughts or if you were crazy. A freshly enlisted New Republic Private that was too meek to be the hero and Galaxie's Baddest Boy with a chip on his not-droid shoulder. The peachfuzz on his lip starting to darken when you started getting called pretty.

A popular senator's daughter tired of cracking under the five-star resturant's happy glows despite suffering families that wander on the ground down below. When Mommy had used her codependency on you because she had no real friends. When she'd hold you in bed, stroked your hair and whisper in your ear that she wished that she could be there more to watch you grow. Then a narcissistic bug would bite her when you finally 'fell asleep' in her arms as she rectified herself with changing the world for you.

But kids don't understand that. Kids just want their moms to love them and protect them. They want the gooey support of kisses and awkward dance recitals. In your 'cute' years - the years ranging from baby face to strapped in a new flightsuit - you'd dream about those whispers like she cradled you in jailing arms and laughed until her head fell off. It would roll around, eyes rolling back as her smile twitches. You'd wake up and sob into coughing fits.

Because you realized something was wrong with you. The base was so loud the first formation you fainted despite the 'silence'. Voices shriek and sigh and crackled around. It was a lot to get used to. You were good with a vibroblade too. Quick enough and quiet enough to sneak up on an imp.

More realistically, your days were filled with reporting on nothing all day and drinking too much at the local bar because people's heads were fucked up. Because the empire was gone now you had to rebuild. Some people oozed with slimy thoughts. Violent little dreams delicately weaving innocent people into fucked up ghosts haunting folks. You were getting ballsy as you figured out you wanted to be ambitious and powerful like your mother. Because you'd simply decided you were going to live off spite.

And then you felt ice. The bite of electric claws running by your spine. Because he commanded attention. He was a void, eating everything up with his rage and pain. He was trained to kill and he had anger and resentment building. He was like jumping into space. A dazzle of burning suns drowning in the black waters of his beautifully dark mind. Because despite his rage he had this ridged respect of life. Sadness cooling him deeply.

You'd gone into the phase where you stopped wearing makeup and cut your hair short and now 'pretty girl' became 'boy'. And he didn't look at you right away. Being in a blaster battle in a bazaar with a local gang. They had a mandalorian. And you came out of it alive after chasing him down alley.

You could feel the burn of air getting knocked out you when he body slammed you into wall. When he tried to knee you in the balls you laughed and gave you the upper hand to take him down.

It didn't work though. He'd had infinitely more hand to hand combat experience and easily pinned you against the wall again. Then demanding you meet him back there tonight if you wanted inside information. Which you did.

And after the long week of planning out how you'd arrest Xian. It would give him guild rites and you could promote. Only he stuck around for a week longer because the ship he'd bought needed breif repairs in order to even get it off the ground.

He liked you. You could feel that, despite the ripple of his uncertain inner storms. And then you'd come back to your bunk to find him there, nervous and instead of his waves battering against you, it was calling for you, whirlpooling you in. You were drowning in the black ocean of his mind.

He needed to touch you. Attracted to your smile and free laughter. Drawn into your haunted expressions and shared sorrow. You drink it all up, sinking into the desperation clawing inside him. Something to fill him for a little while. Someone to comfort him and make him weightless.

So you stripped off your flight suit and he pulled off his gloves and touched. Everywhere. His raspy voice wrecked with his vocoder as he verbalized his desire to kiss you everywhere. Since he couldn't, he'd just touch. His hands were smooth from the gloves, hot and big. He touched you like he was sculpting his muse. Painting you in his mind, swirling in his midnight blue desolation. Painted in Din's mind like you were dawn warming him.

It was more romantic than it had any right being as his fingers kiss your labia, one thick digit curling inside the tight heat of your cunt. He was quick to explore it with you on your back, his other hand exploring your mouth in a similar fashion. You were left in a couple puddles, alone in your bunk, trembling. Your chin and thighs cooling with your drool, slickly leaking over your skin.

And you both grew up. Bumping into each other occasionally when he needed some information on a bounty and you were quick to name your price. Seeking comfort in the soft edges of flesh. He'd map your body with his hands or mouth - if you were blind from him - like it was religious. It made you shiver and quake under him. Everything, like he had to commit to replicating you.

Conversations not usually needed but would occasionally sink into these little secrets you hadn't told anyone else before. Like you mind abilities. He actually really liked after a while. Liked being able to truly express his feelings without words. He had a way of molding you like putty. The two guys before this dull and unexciting to the prayers his hands preformed on your body.

And then he'd gone off grid. Busy two years before emerging to you on some little speeder. But he'd had the kid now. And you much older. Much less cute. Definitely settled and nurturing. Which led to this.

"Fucking Maker!" You cry at the mattress when he slams you on it. Then your scrambling up the pillows with a squeal. Din's hot hands are tightening around you kicking ankles and jerking you effortlessly down your bed on your own ship. You were docked in Tatooine, happy to pay Peli rediculous prices for just a few hours of time alone.

"Running won't stop me." You're dragged until your feet could touch the floor. "I know you." He sighs against your neck. But you feel what he really means. What he's meant for a long time. I love you.

"Wouldn't run from a Mandalorian. That'd be stupid." You tease.. He pins you with his weight.

"What if he means to bred you?" He demands, leaning over you. You go straight dumb for a second. He lifts off you enough to let you roll over to gaze up at his helmet.

You can feel the spinning his words cause. "Really?" You ground yourself by latching into his open mind. The ever vast void of his mind sucking you in like a worm hole. It's a primal need that sinks into his belly. Something deep and brutal.

He holds you in this divine light of stardust. Like he was just a man who fell in love with all of the stars, never done climbing to reach and admire. He would snuff out every other light in the universe - anything polluting your space just to watch you shine.

"Yes. Can I put a baby in you?"

"Are you ready for that? To settle down and raise another kid?" His soul thrills and vibrates at 'another'. He gives a shaky breath as he buzzes with it. He fixates on it hard.

Many. He wants many children.

"Honey, your fixating on the wrong details," you hum, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him down on top of your body. He chuckles over you.

"I'll give you everything. No more bounties if that's what you want. Just us." That us carries double meaning. Not just the two or three of you. As many babies as you wanted with him. He would give it to you all of the time.

He was ready.

"Okay," you hum. "Let's have a baby." Din sighs in delight. Not so much relief but in satisfaction. Like you'd granted him a miracle.

The moment so tender with the heavy edges of his mind suffocating you that you don't expect him lifting off you and using a vibro blade to cut the front of your pants wide open. You gasp when he nearly yanks you upright by the front of them and simply slices through the front.

"Din!" You begin, "I liked those!"

[goldensunset]

What you said about small fandoms is so real. I'm in a tiny fandom (at least where the cool people are concerned) and two people's codependent friendship turned bad and blew up into a massive spat and the entire fandom was a nightmare for a good few weeks. If one of them wasn't clearly at fault I think it would have been replaced by a toxic crater oozing green slime.

oof…………..

[cartoonghosts]

Strange to have like... a group of close friends who I trust. Its been me and milo for years and before that literally no one ever. I started getting more people last year but its been sinking in more recentlt. Like theres people I can go to for help and trust to set healthy boundaries instead of joining in with my weird toxic codependence thing. I know that I started hosting about when we met milo (in retrospect thst may have been why I started hosting, because I was in love with him and our previous host was a mess), and im not sure what about me makes me so much more successful at close relationships than our previous host. Perhaps it is all of the violent viscious oozing bleeding love that I have. Perhaps it is the tenderness and softness. I dont think I really need to know, though. The more im looking for it, its becoming clear that I am maybe not that hard to love.

[james-stark-the-writer]

absolutely nothing like what i expected it to be, given the title. wild, wild film. born camp classic. a movie about how weird and off-putting New Yorkers are, about treating disabled people like people, and also about the horrors of codependence? the themes are a little muddled but there's just so much charm oozing through every single scene. so much genuinely touching pathos in here, deserves to be a real Classic Horror Movie because it understands that horror is a genre fundamentally about empathy. such a deeply earnest movie. an absolute fucking delight. right up there with Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers as some of the most empathetic horror movies ever made.

My ★★★★★ review of Basket Case on Letterboxd

[unusual-raccoon]

Lines in the Sand (Ch. 3) | by Unusual_Raccoon (JaceLuke)

@saintbehemoth, @greeksorceress, @livinginafantasysposts, @andromaxeoftroy, @bimyself06, @mondstaub1 Warnings: Dark Jacaerys Velaryon, Politically Savvy Jacaerys Velaryon, Possessive Jacaerys Velaryon, Obsessive Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra), Codependency, Anal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Allusions to Disordered Eating, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra) Lives, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Valyrian Culture & Customs (A Song of Ice and Fire), Summary: Part 5 of A Brother's Love Daemon has returned to Dragonstone and brings with him more than Lucerys ever could have wished to know. WC: 3,5k Ao3 Link

The entirety of the castle seems to rejoice at Daemon’s return, their foothold in the Riverlands secured with Harrenhal being taken from the Greens. Their black and blue quartered banners now hung from its gates.

All rejoice, all except for Lucerys.

It is decided that Mother will accompany Daemon on dragonback to their newly acquired outpost in the Riverlands. It would do the people well to see their rightful ruler beyond the walls of her keep, bold and unafraid; unlike the Usurper, who hid in his cups, between his mother’s skirts, or behind his brother’s dragon.

Mother insists on a dinner before her departure…as a family. The wording rankles like jagged stones in the soles of his shoes.

Family, family, family.

His brother’s voice is in his head, sharp teeth at his ear.

You are mine.

Yours, he thinks wrathfully. His gaze cuts scorching across the dining hall as he takes his seat with a raised chin. Platters and portions span from corner to corner of the long table, oozing opulence rarely seen in times of war. Yet, no amount of sumptuous meals could fill the space of Jacaerys’ empty seat.

Rhaena sits to his left, Joffrey upon his right, and he asks Daemon endless questions about Harrenhal. The week before that, he had asked Luke endless questions about the Vale and the North. Lucerys had entertained his younger brother’s curiosity with mild exasperation then. Now, he is angry with his brother, angry that Joffrey blindly idolizes their stepfather, and is angrier still that he had once done the same. The naive love of a fatherless boy.

The notion churns his stomach and sours his mouth, more than the rich scent of their meal does.

He shifts endlessly in his seat and feels the ache in his sore bottom regardless of his position.

Lucerys sees Baela for the first time since returning home. She has hacked her hair short, yet even that suits her. Something about it stokes his growing ire; his stepsister’s effortless beauty…

Short curls sit atop her head like a silver cloud.

She will marry him someday, Lucerys thinks, his jaw so tense he thinks it will crack; teeth will rattle loose like pearls scattered to the stone floor.

Mother sits at the table’s head, hobbled beneath the weight of her crown.

Thick wedges of a golden-crusted pie, stuffed with herb-roasted pheasant, grapes, and pine nuts are placed on each plate. It smells savory and earthen and sweet. His stomach gurgles, hunger apparent, but no ordinary flesh could suffice.

The accompanying wine served with their meal is not dulled with water, it is rather robust and tart and tastes of cherries. It looks like blood, thick and sweet.

Lucerys drinks two cups of it while pushing the innards from his piece of pheasant pie with a fork. He feels his courage nourished, fed by his budding inebriation.

He feels eyes on him and predicts his mother’s perpetually wet gaze, instead, he finds bitingly sharp violet eyes that gleam like steel and study him like prey…

Nausea burns in his throat and rage pulses in his blood.

Thin lips curl in a curious smile and Lucerys’ feels a building ache in his temples.

Drakarys, Arrax

Daemon lifts his own goblet of wine, sipping it slowly, seeming to savor the taste. Conversation is sparse around the table, all present are somber, lifeless. Save for Joffrey who talks and talks to the benefit of them all.

Lucerys cannot even enjoy the noise, he cannot enjoy a final meal with his mother before she departs, he cannot rejoice as all others do. His fingers coil tightly, his knuckles blanched white at the large signet ring that stares back at him; in its center is a three-headed dragon. It gleams under the glow of lit sconces and a thousand blushing candles in the dining hall. It’s steel grins; Mocking.

Violet eyes narrow, appraising. Knowing.

Lucerys shifts again desperate to avoid detection, wincing at the throb of discomfort that he feels in his rear.

He muddles a piece of slivered grape into a paste upon his plate with the side of his fork. He stabs a bit of pheasant meat and watches the prongs of his fork split the tender fibers.

He catches Daemon’s stare again briefly and his fingers twitch with the urge to peel away his skin, to rid himself of the prickle of his stepfather’s steely gaze. His nose curls in distaste.

What are you looking at? Lucerys thinks indignantly, what do you want?

Daemon’s ring idly taps against the side of his goblet, metal on metal, as Joffrey asks another question.

His cutlery is cast down with a noisy clatter. His hands shake. Mother, Rhaena, and Baela look at him in surprise, Daemon’s smirk only deepens.

“I am feeling unwell, may I be excused?” Lucerys asks as he stands briskly. His chair scraped against the stone floor. His words are sharp if a tiny bit slurred.

His mother’s eyes are on him, her expression is distant. She looks at him - through him, like he is Visenya like he might be on a pyre next…

The request seems to pain her. Still, his mother permits him to leave.

Lucerys feels ill within the walls of the castle, like any distance, no matter how far, is still too close.

His legs ache as he staggers onto the gray sands that lie beyond.

He cannot breathe.

The breeze is cool coming off of the bay. It is a respite from the raging fire in his blood.

The stale smell of sulfur at low tide strikes him like an open palm. He loathes the scent of the sea. He thinks of the plain dagger that sits in Jacaerys’ chambers, he can feel the phantom weight of the warm, leather-wrapped handle stuck to his palm with thickening blood…

There is no running from the feeling, the helplessness, but his legs move regardless.

The sea roars up beneath him, cold and jarring. Bellowing like the maw of a great beast, threatening to swallow him whole. The Future Lord of the Tides. He blinks the salt from his eyes like waking from a dream. His fire is snuffed out, rage supplanted by fear. It turns leaden in his stomach.

He gazes down at the nearness of the waves and is only spared its cold embrace by a small jut of slick black rock that the heels of his boots narrowly cling to…and the treated wood of a forked staff.

The limbs of ash wood hold him idle and keep him from dropping into the water like a stone.

He blinks up at dark, almond-shaped eyes, tears mixing with the sea water on his cheeks. He keens a sound of anguish and relief.

“Prince Lucerys?” The rolling lilt of Calys’ liquid High Valyrian is sun-warmed honey in his open mouth. For a moment, the taste is a reprieve that sates the endless chasm of his hunger - his want.

The young dragonkeeper stands before him, still dressed in the undyed garment of his order.

He imagines clenching white-knuckled fists in that unflattering cloth, cold and heavy from the sea breeze. He looks for the shape of Calys’ cock beneath the fabric. To fill his empty mouth with it. He yearns for a scrap of certainty to bind himself to amidst all of the wrong. 

He grimaces at memories that disintegrate between his fingers like ash under scrutiny too severe.

He yearns to distance himself from a truth that hurts, it winks at him cheekily like the glint of a thousand blushing candles off the steely grin of a signet ring - his ring.

He thinks of Arrax painted in cream and gold and the lovers that sat indolently at his feet.

Would you kneel for me, if I asked? He thinks to himself as he stares into Calys’ dark eyes. The thought is fleeting, lightning quick before the yawning maw of his hunger, his want surfaces once more.

You weren’t made for standing, his brother’s voice echoes in his head, pointed teeth are at his ear, you were made to kneel.

He envisions a velvet cushion embroidered in black and red before the throne. He licks his lips and finds the skin frayed, tasting of seawater and tart wine.

“The hour is late, my prince, you should return to the castle.”

Lucerys nods, cowed and very tired.

. . .

Lucerys does not return to his own chambers, he instead seeks comfort in Jace’s.

A shiver travels through him at the brush of a finger over the mended lock. The sound of it breaking echoes in his mind.

Tut, tut, tut.

That’s the sound the bed will make when I fuck you

He toys with the mechanism. He pulls the length of wrought iron in and out of the hammered hole meant to house it, in and out.

The metal is cold, the room is cold, he is cold.

Lucerys squirms beneath the neatly made bedding. Clumps of wet sand stick to the sheets in his haste.

His boots adorn the floor.

He feels safe cocooned in a nest of blankets. The pillow smells less like Jace than it did a few days prior.

Still, he savors it - the nearness, the intimacy. His warm breath fills the pocket of darkness he hides in.

He gasps at the contrast of his hand brushing featherlight against his warm belly, skin prickling as it sinks lower.

His body feels heavier, somehow. Decaying as he is. Bits fall away with each passing day and still, he feels heavier; burdened by a weight he cannot shed.

His fingers brush his cock, and he mewls into Jace’s pillow. His arousal stirs, half-hard; omnipresent. His breath is damp in the small space.

His hips inch forward, his fingers graze the underside of his erection, and the sensation sings.

Pleasure bolts white and pure, like lightning through Lucerys’ body. His sore hole clenches.

His hands feel nothing like his brother’s. Though the scent of Jacaerys has faded to little more than a dream in his mouth, its presence upon his pillow helps dull the worst of the disparity. If he closes his eyes tight, he can think of Jace touching him - hands hardened with calluses that inspire a stinging friction. He grips himself tighter, mimicking the pleasurepain only his beloved brother could bestow.

He huffs a pathetic little sound between wet lips. His hips rutting into his hand. The head of his cock poking through the circle of his fingers with shallow thrusts.

Sticky, pre-spend dribbles over his knuckles. A tacky spot forms against the bedding.

You’re leaking like a woman, his brother’s voice croons mockingly in his head. Yet, Lucerys sups upon his own humiliation gladly. He drinks it down, robust and tart like the wine served at supper. Something silken and warm takes root in his belly, the arch of his spine deepens and his cock twitches in the cage of his too-soft hand. His sore hole clenches, empty.

Leaking like your woman, Lucerys thinks to himself, a coquettish turn to his lips.

He pinches the weeping head of his cock, pleasurepain flashes in his belly like the kiss of glowing embers to oil.

He’s gasping, trembling, feverish on the verge of something awe-inspiring, like he might catch fire.

“Jace-”

The air is thin and every sound beyond the cover of the bedding thrown over his head is muffled.

The scrape of the wooden door against the stone is sudden and jarring, panic prickles icily like the dance of metal up his spine.

He feels trapped once more, frantically trying to right himself. He thrusts his head beyond the safety of his nest, his skin is damp and air stings bitingly cold at his cheeks.

The musk of sweat and pre-spend hangs in the air, damning proof of his transgressions.

His heart hammers hard in his chest, too hard. He is greeted by white-blonde hair and violet eyes. Thin lips curl in a smile. Those chilling eyes blink slowly, once, twice - horizontal, vertical. 

His stepfather hums a quiet laugh to himself like he is reminded of something humorous while standing in the doorway of Jacaerys’ bedchambers.

“I thought you might be in here,” Daemon says after a moment, pleased with himself. Lucerys’ arousal withers and dies, his stones ache.

Nausea burns thick in Luke’s throat. He didn’t want Daemon to think of him. He didn’t want Daemon to think of him in Jace’s room.

Lucerys can only hold the bedcovers beneath his chin with trembling hands. His trousers are still around his knees, he wants terribly to fix them.

“Your mother and I shall depart for the Riverlands soon,” He adds, eyes narrowing for a every moment Lucerys remains mute.

He takes a single step into Jacaerys’ chambers and Lucerys draws his knees to his chest with a gasp. He clutches the bedcovers tighter over his modesty.

He glares at his stepfather with tears brimming in his eyes. His throat aches with the effort it takes to keep from mewling. Still, Daemon is unperturbed, he steps closer.

“You worry her, you know that, don’t you?”

“Mother has more important things to worry about, she’s the queen, we’re at war-”

Daemon laughs at that. A snide little bark.

“And who do you think she is waging this war for? Herself?”

His teeth pull at the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. Luke can feel the pressure of his blunt nails digging into his palms through the thickness of Jacaerys’ quilt.

“You aren’t eating…” It isn’t a question, but an expressed observation. The concern sounds very inconvenient in Daemon’s mouth.

“Why?” He asks.

Daemon raises a white-gold brow. He taps a ringed finger against his chin, the steel flashes and Lucerys’ gaze burns. He blinks slowly, once, twice - horizontal, vertical. Lucerys’ ire swells and sinks quickly, angry and ashamed to have been baited so easily. His cheeks pulse with mortification.

“Did he command it of you?” Daemon asks, his white-gold head lowered as he speaks while he admires his ring - He - like a tiny piece of Jacaerys is still stuck upon it.

“No, of course not. The thought would terrify him.”

The words clash - they do not belong together. The thought of his brother, his Jace being terrified of anything is beyond outlandish. The poison drips from Daemon’s mouth with certainty though.

“Jace wouldn’t-“

He bites his tongue, he tastes copper.

“Is that what he would have you believe?” Daemon asks wryly.

He takes a step closer and the space of Jacaerys’ rooms seems to shrink. Serpentine black stone coils tight around him; squeezing the life from him.

Lucerys shifts back upon the bed, knees to his chest, trousers sagging down his shins. He pulls the quilt with him.

“He is many things, your brother, but fearless is not one of them.”

Lucerys glares at his stepfather, glares so hard he feels an ache in his temples.

He recalls the iron box that resides neatly upon a shelf. He recalls the dagger that sits within it. His fingers clench for the warm leather-wrapped handle. He had already maimed one uncle with that dagger, he thinks he could do it again. He imagines cleaving the boring little blade into Daemon’s throat, he imagines opening a crescent across the white flesh to match the smug curl of Daemon’s thin lips. He would sever that silver-blond head from his broad shoulders and present it in an offering to Jace when he returned home.

A token of his love.

His hole clenches around nothingness and he winces at the soreness he feels there.

A hand reaches for him suddenly, shattering the fantasy. A lock of his hair is held prisoner between Daemon’s fingers where he looms beside Jacaerys’ bed. Lucerys trembles, tears wet his cheeks, feeling as ferocious as a lamb.

Daemon’s violet eyes gleam like steel. He worries the dark hair between his fingers idly like he’d done it a thousand times before. There is mild curiosity in the touch. Disgust and arousal evident in the turn of his lips.

“You’re more her than anything else…it is a blessing.”

Her. Mother. Rhaenyra. Targaryen.

Else. The reality sits like a sword through the gut. Bastard. Strong.

Lucerys shivers, feeling the phantom caress of pointed teeth at his ear.

You are mine. Our mother may have borne you, but you ceased to be hers from the moment you left her womb.

His brother’s voice rings in his head, he presses his thighs together and imagines Jace still thrusting between them, just as he had that day in the godswood.

Yours, Lucerys thinks stubbornly. Head tilted in a silent defiance.

Daemon leers at him. He blinks slowly, once, twice - horizontal, vertical.

“What has he done to you?” Daemon asks with a restrained sort of glee. Nausea burns in Lucerys’ throat. The taste of bile and salt that washes upon his tongue reminds him of his brother.

A slight tug upon the curl between Daemon’s fingers pulls Lucerys’ head and he yelps, thighs pressed together. He no longer feels Jace between them.

“I-” Lucerys stammers, a hiccuping sob claws up his throat. He pulls back, ignorant of the pain that stings from the curl pulled taut between Daemon’s fingers. Lucerys’ hips shift down, and away, his bare bottom presses firmly to the bed regardless of the ache that he feels as a result.

Daemon’s smirk deepens.

He inhales through his nose, the musk of sweat and pre-spend still hanging in the air.

“You should eat,” Daemon remarks as he releases the lock of Lucerys’ hair from his hold. He absently wipes a hand upon his trousers like Lucerys is some flea-ridden animal. Like he is not quite human.

“If not for your sake,” he says, “then for his.”

Then quietly, his stepfather turns to leave. The building ache in his temples worsens and he imagines scrambling from the bed for Jace’s dagger. He imagines plunging it somewhere vital, into Daemon’s lower back for a kidney, or in the side of his neck for thick artery. He imagines making Rhaena cry again by orphaning her completely.

I know he’s your father, but he hurt my brother. You’ll forgive me, you always do.

Daemon idles by the bedside table nearest to the door, where the half-full sleeping vial resides. He produces a vial of his own from a velvet purse. It is a small stoppered glass bottle. The stain of the glass makes the color of the contents impossible to tell. He wants to inspect it, but wouldn’t dare show Daemon any hint of attention.

“He’ll know what to do with this.” his stepfather says.

He taps a finger against the corked top, a ringed finger, with intention.

“Lucerys?” Daemon calls, twisted partially to face him from his path to the door.

“Do be patient with your brother,” he intones with a tilt of his head, an everpresent smile curling upon thin lips, “he is a slow learner.”

He listens to the echo of Daemon’s footsteps as he leaves, absorbs himself in the quiet, in the absence of him as though it had never been. But he had been there. He leaves Lucerys with a glass bottle upon the bedside table and a hateful fire lurching in his veins.

. . .

He listens as his mother and Daemon eventually depart. The dual cries of Syrax and Ceraxes echoing in the dark sky.

He is nearly certain he can Arrax’s chittering call blending into the noise. The noise that he drifts off too with sand in the sheets and his trousers around his ankles.

He had not touched anything since Daemon left, not even himself. He feels petrified, like a insect stuck in amber.

Lucerys lays in the dark, his breath visible in the air. His grip is firm on the edge of the quilt.

His sleep is unbidden and heavy, like being pulled under water. He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to slide the wrought iron bolt into the locking mechanism. He wants to fetch the dagger from Jace’s box.

He wants to feel safe in his home again.

The bed tilts beneath him. Weight settles over him. A solid cage of flesh and bone.

Daemon.

They hadn’t left, they hadn’t-

He thrashes in the dark.

You’re more her than anything else…

He’s gasping for air, his limbs are too heavy. He never got the dagger.

A hand presses over his mouth, his breath rushes hot and frantic against Daemon’s knuckles. Tears leak from the corners of his closed eyes. The grip tightens just short of painful.

“Don’t scream,” a voice warns in a whisper.

When the hand pulls away, he sucks down wet breaths, blinking through teary eyes in the dark.

He whimpers in anticipation of steely violet eyes that cut him to his core. Eyes watch him like prey. He coughs, phlegm sticks uncomfortably in his throat, clogging up his airways.

It is so dark, that even when his eyes adjust what he finds is darker than his closed eyes, darker than the night sky.

His chest constricts and he cries harder than before.

“Jace?”

. . .

A/N: A hard-earned birthday gift to myself. return of the king 👑🙌.

[nonhumanhottie]

Into the empty parts of me

Finnrey (mostly platonic, a little codependent). 2.6k Hurt/comfort. AO3 link ~~~ Rey isn't doing okay but luckily Finn is there to help

Into the empty parts of me (finnrey)

The ship is no longer at full capacity. Surviving Resistance fighters are dropped off in discrete locations, swapping ships, going deep undercover. There isn’t another option; they have to rebuild. Rey can’t keep up with the layers of stories and covers and missions. It all blurs together—and it’s unimportant to her, which sounds callous, but she can really only think of one thing lately. It consumes the crowded days and nights on the Falcon. Every time she swallows a bite of a stale ration bar, the lump in her throat grows. Every time she shuts her eyes, he (don’t think about him) is behind her lids. Staring. Waiting.

You are nothing.

How to describe these frantic days that upturned her life and poisoned her reality? As the panic rises, and it does often, she wishes that she never left Jakku. When her heart thuds too loudly in her chest, she silently swears she would take solitary over this. Then the guilt seeps in, and she feels selfish and silly. But how can she explain this to her new peers? What would Leia say? What would Finn say?

They have bigger issues to deal with and so Rey keeps her internal battle to herself. She pilots the Falcon and hands out ration bars and sits silently with Leia as she mourns (‘So many loses in so few days.’). She stares at her (Luke’s) broken lightsaber, a piece in each hand as if she could put it back together herself. He did this (don’t think it don’t say his name). This was a borrowed possession, a trinket from an age she doesn’t understand. And now it’s nothing. All its history (it was always so cold to the touch, even ignited, why was it so cold?) was gone in a flash of blinding light. Its story is over. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

But Rey’s story continues, and she doesn’t know in what direction. She has the ancient texts. Texts she can barely read. Leia mentioned briefly that she had picked up a thing or two from Luke, but it had been a long time ago. It’s been a long time for everyone. The Jedi, over barely two generations, are a dying breed, and likely always would be. There was no master left to guide her. Would they want to, given her curiosity towards the Dark Side?

The Dark Side.

Thinking about it, mouthing the words to herself, sends chills down her body and bile in her mouth. She knows nothing about it, not really, other than Luke’s few words on it and what he (don’t think about him) said about it. It frightens her, the utter power, the chilling sensation and, more than anything, the temptation. She imagines it easily, giving in, letting it fill her, oozing into her empty insides.

When she lays awake on her tiny bunk, and the ship hums too loudly around her, she thinks about it: the alternate choice. She felt it, through the bond (that insidious word), the satisfaction, the passion, the rage, the lust. It keeps him (stop) full, even if only in temporary bursts, even if the tug of the Light is blinding. He’d seen a vision (he was probably lying) of her by his side, shrouded in darkness, with a red blade. Her imagination runs off without her, so clear and fightening.

Her skin prickles; it’s too tight. Lights dance around her, and she can’t tell if it’s coming from the ship or behind her eyelids. Are her eyes even open? Is she even on the ship?

She sucks in a deep, rattling breath and the emptiness swirls inside her like a hurricane in a chasm. She’s as void as space, she’s back on Jakku, scratching days onto the wall, time trickling like molasses. As wretched as… his (don’t think of his name) thoughts were, as sickly as the connection was, it was something. As tangible as feeling could be. It had snaked around her like prickled vines, it had grounded her, rooted her in reality, despite the reality-bending nature of a Force-bond. It was confusing and dangerous and uncomfortable, but the loneliness was gone. 

Rey.

And now, everything had shifted again. Not back to the way it was, but something newer. A new emptiness she could never have fathomed. Each staggering breath leaves her hollower than the last. Does she deserve this? Is this punishment for following the elusive lure of the Dark Side? Maybe the bond isn’t severed at all. Maybe this is him (don’t think of his name!) coaxing her into returning, filling herself up again, whole and alive.

‘Rey.’

You are nothing.

Would it be worth it? Just to feel something. Even if it’s him (please don’t think of his name), as vile as he (don’t) is, as empty as she is, as confusing as these feelings are (she can’t breathe, there’s nothing to fill). What is her course? Where are her next steps? Her senses are robbed by (just breathe) (don’t think it), by (stop!). By Ren—

‘Rey,’ Finn says, standing in front of her, filling her vision.

Oh.

She sucks in another deep, but less-rattling breath. She’s still on the ship. Reality (actual reality—not Force-bond, space-bending reality) crashes into her, filling her insides like the tide coming in. She doesn’t remember how she got to the galley but here she is. Finn, as bright a moon on a clear night, smiles, awkwardly, hesitantly. He’s worried but polite enough (or concerned enough) not to comment yet. His hands remain by his sides, though he shifts his weight slowly, forcing patience.

‘Finn,’ Rey breathes. She swallows and tries again, ‘Finn. I’m not. I’m alright.’

‘It’s okay if you’re not,’ Finn says, a rehearsed line he probably heard from Poe or Leia. Finn carries weariness too; he’s slightly better at schooling his features but he can’t hide the eyebags and heavy shoulders. He spent most sleep cycles by Rose’s side until she woke and was able to move on her own again. Rey still hasn’t introduced herself. She wants to but her nerves outweigh her desire for new company.

‘But I am,’ Rey says, lying to Finn, her stomach tensing. How can she tell him without frightening him? Or is she underestimating him?

Regardless, Finn’s unconvinced. ‘I know it’s hard,’ he says carefully. ‘We were taught to bury any feeling. All that mattered was loyalty, servitude. That’s no way to live.’

Finn adapted quickly. He fell into honour fast and absolutely; he embraced love and compassion as easily as breathing. The First Order bred totalitarianism and hatred, and against all odds, Finn escaped. Perhaps out of cowardice at first, but once Finn tasted life (and love) on the outside, he couldn’t turn back. And he didn’t. Heroism suits Finn well, and Rey knows that will only further blossom in him.

Then what of her? Is she a hero too? She rejected him (but the temptation was there, however minute) and she saved the final scraps of the Resistance. She made rocks dance like cascading stars. Was that enough to be a hero? Did she have to feel like a hero to keep doing the right thing? She’s sure Luke would disagree.

You are nothing.

‘I’m just very tired,’ Rey says, and it’s true, but it’s also elusive. She’s falling apart at the seams, as she does at least once a day, and she needs to hide it, like a dark curse. ‘I’m going to head to the bunk.’

‘I’ll walk you there.’

Rey doesn’t refuse. She walks with Finn by her side. When she’s with Finn she’s safe and whole, mostly. It’s a struggle to verbalise her woes but having him close eases the fear weaving into her bloodstream.

They arrive at the bunk that she, Finn and Poe share. It’s been very strange sleeping with others near and if either of them is woken by her silent sobs, they haven’t mentioned it. Poe is outspoken and headstrong, so Rey thinks he’d say something if he heard. Though come to think of it, she isn’t sure he’s slept yet.

Rey opens the door and for a second, she sees him, sees Ren, standing in the darkness, eyes glowing, hand outstretched.

It’s an illusion; she blinks and he vanishes, but the terror remains. Every time she sleeps, that’s what she sees. Him, waiting, wanting, hunger burning in his eyes and pain pulsing between them. The bond (what a horrid thing) is still there, Rey knows it must be, even if she can’t quite feel it, not like before. So many things she can’t describe, and even if she could, no one is left to understand. Except for him, perhaps.

Finn steps inside but Rey lingers in the threshold, heart thumping, head spinning. She grips the doorframe and shakes. The galaxy is so cruel, and the Force is so unknowable. What chance does she have against the power blazing inside her, connecting her to every rock and tree in the galaxy, distancing herself from anyone she could hope to love?

But that just isn’t true. She repeats that in her mind and wills the walls to stop shaking around her. She is loved—Finn loves her, Leia does too. Poe likes her enough, and she really should introduce herself to Rose; they will be good friends, Rey knows.

You are nothing.

He’s stuck in her thoughts, echoing sentiments she tries so hard not to believe.

‘Are you going to come in?’ Finn asks.

Something has to give.

Rey crosses the threshold. She can’t hide her festering emotions anymore. She crashes against Finn, gripping his shirt in desperate fists. She isn’t sure what she wants but she can’t think of him anymore, she can’t imagine him hiding in the shadows (was it her imagination or was he really here?).

Finn catches her, staggering once, then resolves. He holds her tightly, arms clasped around her back. He knows, somehow. It’s like they’ve known each other their whole lives—for several lives. Rey cannot imagine life without him, and she’ll keep it that way. That isn’t the Jedi way, according to the texts; it’s cruel to position someone above death itself. She’d have to work on that, but for now, she clings to Finn like she’s drowning. She needs to learn how to swim.

They don’t speak right away. Rey pants and almost sobs but can’t get it out. Finn rubs her back like she’s choking on rehydrating protein chunks. It doesn’t help but the contact is nice, regardless. His hands are warm and firm. He doesn’t treat her like she’s fragile; he embraces her with all his strength and crushes her to his chest. Rey can barely breathe but she never feels more whole than in Finn’s arms (is that normal?).

‘It’s okay,’ Finn says lowly. ‘I know. It’s rough. But it’ll be okay.’

Rey nods against his shoulder. He’s so soothing, so easy to believe. Even in the dark room, he’s a light spot, guiding away from her waking nightmares. Finn doesn’t need to understand everything; he knows when she’s uneasy and he extends his compassion. He’s special (Rey knows that). Very special. Few in the galaxy blossom into such kindness after such a harsh adolescence. His shift to freedom fighting was inevitable. A hero. Her hero.

You are nothing.

 She just has to hold herself together. For Finn. For Leia. For Chewie and Poe and Rose. For the galaxy.

There’s a bang on the door.

‘Finn, bud, you in there?’ Poe’s voice is too loud, even behind the door. ‘The General wants to talk to you.’

Finn sighs and waits another beat before he gently draws Rey back. ‘Will you be okay if I head off for a bit?’

‘Go to Leia,’ Rey says even if she can hardly bear it. She’s sure that isn’t a normal response, and perhaps when her life is in less peril, it is something she can assess. But for now, she wraps her arms around herself to keep her insides in place.

Reluctantly, they move to the door. Finn opens it and reveals Poe tapping his fingers against the doorframe (always so impatient). Finn pats Poe’s shoulder as he passes and turns to give Rey a goodbye smile before vanishing around the corner.

Rey doesn’t step outside the bunk. She presses her lips together tightly.

Poe looks after Finn and then back at Rey. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Rey says, too automatically to be convincing.

Poe is suspicious. Not in a cruel way, but a little nosy. In the extremely short time of knowing him, Rey discovered that Poe did not like to be left out of a conversation. He likes seeing the bigger picture. Along the journey so far, Leia has chastised him in a fond, forlorn way. They have a bond Rey can’t understand but the sick guilt of jealousy clings to Rey whenever she notices it. Rey doesn’t like to be left out of a conversation either, but she doesn’t have the confidence to probe anyone for more information.

Rey smiles and hopes it's convincing. She should probably practice in a mirror when she gets the chance (she makes others frown more often than not).

‘Um, so,’ Poe said, scratching his neck, ‘it’s been a helluva week, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How’re you holding up, kid?’

Rey scrunches her nose. ‘It’s Rey.’

‘I know. I remember.’ Poe gives a lopsided smile and raises his brows.

She still needs practice with conversations. Should she lie and say she’s fine, or should she burden him with her anxieties? Should she mention him (of course not) and her fears surrounding that?

Instead, she says, ‘I’m going to join Finn.’ It’s not something she should do. Leia didn’t request her. She should give Finn space—but she’s been doing that when he was nursing Rose. And Rey still hasn’t introduced herself. Maybe she should do that, instead of following Finn once again. Rose would like her. Why wouldn’t she?

Poe’s expression falls into a grimace. ‘I mean, I think you,’ he cuts himself off and sighs, ‘no, go ahead. Go find him. Leia was in the cockpit with Chewie. Finn’ll be there too.’

Rey isn’t sure why Poe gives in. Is he treating her like she’s fragile or is she not worth his time? (Always so many questions swirling inside her). Or maybe he’s dealing with his own issues. Rey knows a little of what he went through from Leia’s anecdotes. She senses the guilt; it weighs him down. Pain is relatively easy to hide from the average person, but Rey sees right through him, to the broken pieces. Is that what the Resistance is—broken beings fighting their demons? Is that why they want to recruit her? Broken beings who mend each other by mending the galaxy.

No one is whole, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t hopeful. Oh. Is it really such a simple revelation? She doesn’t need to hide her fears. No one else is. No Resistance fighter is infallible; they’re flawed, they’re hurt, they’re angry. And they’re stronger together.

You are no—

Rey leaves the bunk and walks to the cockpit. She doesn’t pass anyone, thankfully, and sure enough, Finn, Leia and Chewie are all there. None of them are surprised to see her. It doesn’t mean she should be there. She should work on that. Her attachments hit her hard and fast and she’ll do anything to hold onto them. That probably isn’t normal, though neither is she. She’ll work on it. Surely, she’ll grow and change and adapt. The future is very unclear and frightening but at least there’s a future to fight for. Will she ever see it to the end? Who knows.

It doesn’t matter all too much because Finn smiles at her.

She is known and she is cherished. And that is enough for now.

[b-courageous1010]

Day 5: Workplace, Mental Health, and Prioritizing Yourself  

Wellness in the workplace should be talked about more. With how fast pace things can get, it's easy to get off your routine, and your mental health can slip. I had my monthly session with my mentor, and it was surprising that we touched on mental health and how it should be discussed more. It's the elephant in the room, especially since COVID and the shift to remote working. Although everyone knows that corporate culture can be very unhealthy, we also know that the work needs to get done. Realizing this is what pushed me to take my mental health seriously.

In my last position, I suffered from burnout and promised never to let it happen again. To prevent it, I need to find ways to stay grounded at work and in my personal life. It's essential that I set boundaries and limit my work hours. 

I do this by taking my lunch break daily unless I have something urgent. Taking that hour lets me catch my breath in a sense.    

I log in at 8 and am finished by 5, especially when working from home.   

On the weekends, I avoid opening my laptop so I don't get sucked into work. Instead, I keep track of important dates in my planner.  

I also neglected my personal life in my last position because I was also in school. Since that's no longer an issue, I've been focusing on myself and doing a lot of inner work. I learned that not prioritizing my personal life was affecting my professional life. Such as:   

Not working on my anxiety made me paranoid that I would make a costly mistake that overtook my entire being, and I would be so hard on myself.    

Not checking my depression caused my lack of self-confidence to ooze from my pores, and people could see it a mile away.    

Neglecting my spirituality and not being present in my own life.   

At one point, I reached a breaking point and finally asked for help. Since then, I've taken the advice of giving myself grace and taking time to relax. My focus has been improving my mental health to achieve my full potential.   

I started a journalling routine to reflect on my experiences and think through any issues.  

I introduced yoga as a form of meditation to keep me grounded and present. 

Each morning, I read an entry from a meditation book that helps me confront my codependency.  

I'm working on my inner self and confronting the parts I used to run away from.  

I've realized that it is okay to make mistakes and that growth is more important than perfection. As a result, I'm allowing myself to feel confident and happy in my abilities.   

Since making myself a priority and working on my inner self, I experienced a significant improvement in a short period, Situations that used to overwhelm me no longer affect me. I have gained control over my anxiety and improved my confidence. 

Completing assignments is easier 

I am confident in building relationships with my coworkers   

I can step out of my comfort zone and communicate through emails with ease 

I have also established a routine I can stick to at work and in my personal life.  

While I am still determining where I aspire to be, I am light-years away from where I started. During the conversation with my mentor, we discussed the importance of pursuing interests outside of work. She shared how she spent 3 hours drawing out plans for her backyard renovation project and how fulfilling it was to create something with her hands. This inspired me to think about how I can bring more sweetness into my life. I am considering the following activities: 

Enrolling in an acro yoga class  

Learning a new instrument or reviving my old skills.  

Spending more time in nature and capturing moments through photography  

Reconnecting with spiritual practices, I may have drifted away from. 

I'm grateful for the desire to improve and the willingness to never give up. I plan on having a long career in corporate, and while prioritizing my mental health is half the battle, I know I can handle whatever comes my way.  

Music Challenge Day 5: A song by an artist you’ve love for awhile.

Mine: I love me some Jon B 💜💜

My Aunt: She absolutely loves her and as it turns out we are both huge Tamia fans 🤗

[localkiss]

Screaming for attention!

manipulative brothers best friend re4!leon kennedy x fem!reader

cw: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!! Mentions of past grooming by leon, age gap(~8 yrs), manipulation, guilt, dirty talk, p in v, afab reader, noncon creampie, slight anal/talks of anal, codependency, slapping, daddy kink, pet names, depressed thoughts in the beginning, chubby/thicker reader, manhandling, praise kink, degradation kink, talks of pregnancy (just a bit), oral (f receiving), virginity talk, controlling leon, obsessed leon, slight size kink if u squint!

note: hhh... read the warning lol before you comment. I was going to put more of leon being so fucking weird but erm, decided not to. not proof read btw!! but i do want to say i am a victim of SA and i used to heavily think about him and wished that he went further. lol idc what people say, i still struggle thinking like that, but ik it's wrong. so yes that's what this fic is loosely based on -_-

wc: 3.1k! tags: @xoxostarlet, @fairry1 bc I love u :33!

Maybe it's for the best. No more surprises. This is nothing new. All you can hear is deafening silence, swallowing you up in a warm cocoon, suffocating you like a million years of guilt and thousands of weights on your throat and chest. 

You can't help but wish he had done more. Maybe he would've if he could see your thoughts. Maybe he would've stayed.

But those sleeping pills really did a number on your body. You tried to overdose on everything you could, even your antidepressants. Yeah, it was dumb. But it was all just killing you from the inside anyway. 

All you can do now is just sob violently into your pillows. Claw at the sheets and at your scalp, so pathetically. No wonder he chose you. So fucking easy to manipulate, to knead into someone he can use. No wonder he said he only loved you like a friend after he finally got caught in the act.

Whatever it was that he said, you can't remember exactly. You just tuned him out. White noise oozing into your eardrums like water does when you stand underneath the showerhead. He didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Didn't even try to. All you did was cry and plead for him to stay. 

"Please don't leave me, Leon. Please, I can't live without you! I love you! Please!" You sobbed into the phone because, yeah, he broke up with you over text. It's not like you guys were even in a relationship. The age gap was too big and illegal to even be considered a real relationship. 

You knew he was so much older than you. Liked it. Knew it was wrong, yet went forward with it. He should've stopped it. Should've. But he didn't, though. 

You still love him deep down in your heart. He was your first love. First 'boyfriend'. First person to grope your body. You asked for a kiss, and he pressed his chapped lips against your forehead. He asked you for ass pictures, and you gladly sent them. Giggling happily whenever he complimented you and your body.

He's still your ideal type. A cuddly, tall, muscular brunette. 

You wish you could stop yourself from comparing every guy to him or hoping they won't end up like him. Using you and throwing you away as soon as they got what they wanted. 

But, now that you're legal, he reached out to you. Said some nonsense to try and get back into your heart. You didn't even care what he said. Just wanted to feel alive, to feel loved, and to be loved again. Even if it meant being loved by your abuser, you would let him drag you through hell and back if it meant he would love you like he did in the past. If it meant you could feel happy, free, and weightless again, you would march into hell with him.  

As messed up as you are, you would do anything to make him stay. So that you can feel full again. Happy again.

"Wish you would've taken all of my firsts," you pouted as he pulled away from your lips. Swollen and red, so pretty.  

Leon grinned and raised an eyebrow at your statement. "Really, baby girl? Damn," he bites on his lower lip, and his thumb brushes across the apples of your cheeks. 

Taking in the way you look different but still the same as you were years ago, just a bit fuller in your hips, thighs, and stomach, he remembers when he gripped your thigh with both of his hands. Couldn't even manage to grab ahold of all of the fat. A few inches away from completely grabbing your thigh with both hands. 

Now, he probably couldn't even make it so that there were a few inches between his hands; it would be a bit of a distance. That's how much you've grown width-wise. Length wise, you haven't really grown much. 

"Yeah, daddy," you preen under his attention, shifting your weight from your heels to your toes, and back down flat on the floor. "I mean it." 

He lets out a soft chuckle, and his calloused hands softly grab onto your shoulders, rubbing small circles into the fabric of your shirt. "Wish I could've taken all of your first too, baby. I know I would've made it all special for you. For my special girl." Leon coos, his head dipping down to lick into your mouth.

Hot spit trickles down the back of your throat and onto your chin. Making you squeeze your doughy thighs together, moaning as his hands squeeze down to your ass. Pressing you up against his built body. His hard-on throbbing against the confines of his skinny jeans, onto your soft, pudgy tummy.

He groans as you tug at the hair on the back of his head. Pulling back and squishing your cheeks together, and then tapping your face as you try to press your lips on his. His blue eyes darken as you moan when his hand makes contact with your face. 

"Fuck," he grips onto your chin, forcing your mouth open to let a wad of spit hit the edge of your tongue, letting it slide down into your tummy. "Daddy knew you'd like that. I've got a slutty little princess, huh?" 

It's a rhetorical question, but you answer with a few quick nods.

"Yeah, daddy, I'm your slutty little princess." Always so quick to repeat what he said. What he drilled into your brain years ago obviously holds up. You still want to make him happy, even if he ruined you for anyone else. Ruined you for life.

The corners of his lips quirk upwards, his hands giving your ass a quick squeeze before he pushes you down into the bed. He climbs on top of you like a hungry animal, licking his lips at the sight of his prey.

A whine escapes from your throat at the sight. He's gotten even more attractive and bigger, and it's making your brain all mushy. Shooting directly down to your core, feeling it gush out slick onto the gussets of your panties. 

You lick your lips and wrap your legs around his hips. "Please, Leon." 

He lets out a low growl, his veiny forearms coming up by the sides of your head. Firmly planting them on the mattress as he rocks his hips into yours. His bangs fall into your face as he teasingly grazes his lips against yours. Panting hotly against your lips. 

"Relax, baby," is all he says before he moves his mouth, making a wet trail from the corner of your lips down to your jawline. 

"Let me love you." Leon murmurs into your skin as he sucks a hickey underneath your ear, making you gasp and squirm beneath him. 

You become pliable, easy to bend, and easy to please. Brain too foggy to clearly think straight. Leon's marking up your neck like you'll try to run away from him. It's like you're his property now. God, you've always been his, ever since that fateful day, right?

Just a few words, and he can do whatever he wants with your body. Maybe one day you'll let him take your first time with your other hole. Who knows. 

"So pretty, fuck," his tongue dips between the valley of your breasts, hands grasping at your shirt to push it up, exposing you to his hungry eyes. His knee slots between your thighs, making you squeak and squeeze his leg involuntarily. Pressing your tits together to swipe his tongue across your perky nipples. 

Bathing your tits in his spit, he suckles on them like a madman. Enjoying the way you mewl and gasp, using his teeth to draw out more noises from you. Obsessed with every single part of you, even the not-so-pretty parts. He has you mapped out in his mind, his sweet, supple princess. 

"Has anyone ever eaten you out?" Kissing your areolas, soothing the small bite marks he left. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, brows furrowed in concentration. He's doting on you like it's the last time he'll ever see you again. 

"No," you say, pressing your lips together in a flat line. Feeling your stomach tighten up with butterflies and hints of nausea. 

Leon likes that. So much so that he smiles into your stomach, softly gnawing on the pudge around your belly button, earning some soft squeals and pats to try and push him away. He wants to make you crumble under him, submit to him, and never leave. Never want another man. Always comparing someone to him, wishing they did it like him. He wants to plague your mind and control you from the inside out. 

He wants to tie you up in his bedroom and never let you leave. Live your own life? No. Leon wants to drill it into your brain and body that he owns you, no thoughts about anything else but him and his body. 

He pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, watching the string of your arousal stick to the gussets of your panties. His large hands pry open your legs, pushing them up to your chest and holding them down with his weight. 

"Remember this," he spits onto your pussy, watching it swim down to your holes. Squeezing your legs when you squirm a little too much for his taste, deciding to spit once more to make sure you'll have his DNA in you for the next couple of days. 

Pressing chaste kisses on your clit because he knows it'll make your mind go all fuzzy and only think of Leon, Leon, Leon. And how good he's making you feel. Nobody else but him.

He dips his tongue between your folds and begins to languidly make out with it. Thrusting his tongue and swirling it upwards as his upper lip continues to make contact with your clit. Drawing out all sorts of pathetically cute noises from you. 

Wishing he was recording this so he could show it to his friends and brag about how he has molded you to be his perfect girl. You're not a woman until he fucks a baby into you. 

"You like that?" He suckles on your clit and gently bites down on it. Watching the way your face crinkles up and how you squeeze your eyes shut. Everything you do amuses him. 

"Daddy, mmh... god, yes!" You grasp the sheets as you feel a warm, fuzzy feeling in your lower abdomen. Toes curling as Leon fucks his tongue into your drippy hole. 

He shakes his head, pressing his nose into your sensitive bundle of nerves, trying to get you to cum quickly. 

Your hands desperately try to reach for Leon for comfort as you stumble into an orgasm. "Daddy... Mmphh—fuck!" 

Legs kicking out and vibrating as he coaxes you through your orgasm. Slowly swiping his tongue through your folds to slurp up all of your cum, he presses soft kisses all around your pussy. "Such a good girl," he sighs. 

Leon spreads your legs, kissing his way up to your face. He licks his way into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue and gulp down some of his saliva. "So easy." He puts his hand on your neck, lightly applying pressure as he goes back in for more kisses. Make sure you never leave this cloudy state of mind, so he can do whatever he pleases with you. 

"Maybe I can even eat you out here," he says, letting his hand wander down to your asshole and lightly tracing the rim of it. Feeling you tense up brings a sly smile to his face. "No? Okay. Maybe next time." He chuckles and pulls back to unbuckle his jeans. 

Slowly undoing his belt and putting it next to you on the bed. Unzipping his fly as he makes direct eye contact with you the entire time. He makes you gulp nervously as he finally pushes his jeans down his muscular thighs.

Your eyes immediately jump to his hard-on. How does he even keep that thing in there? It's begging to be freed, and quite frankly, you want to run away out of nerves, not believing his cock can even fit inside of you! What the fuck did Leon even eat for it to even have grown that big and thick?

Leon sees the cogwheels turning in your head as he steps out of his pants. With each step he takes, it bounces against the slightly stained, striped fabric. "Baby, don't be so nervous. It'll be alright." His voice is soothing and convincing, almost hypnotic in the way it makes your body buzz and your mind go blank. 

It is a bit terrifying to think about the effect he honestly has on you, your mind, body, and soul. 

"Are you on the pill?" He asks, although he already knows the answer. 

"No, I'm not." You mumble shyly. Embarrassed to not be on some sort of birth control.

Leon reaches down for his wallet and pulls out a condom. "Good thing I always come prepared, huh?" Chuckles as he pulls down his briefs, stepping out of them as he tears open the condom packaging. He slipped it on his drippy and flushed tip, sliding all the way down to the base. 

Slowly kneeling on the bed to lead his dick to your hole. Sliding through your folds to gather more fluids to make the first push easier on you. 

"Ready?" He grunts as he teases you by tapping himself on your swollen clit. 

"Uhuh, 'm ready," you whine as he slowly eases himself into your pussy. 

Moaning as you helplessly flutter and tighten around his shaft. Watching your face carefully as you scrunch and tense up. Stopping halfway and grabbing ahold of your hand, his other one grips the fat of your hip so tight it'll leave a bruise the next day. 

"Almost there, baby girl, doing so well for me," he presses a soft kiss to your forehead as he drives more of himself deep inside of you.

You look down at your stomach and tighten around him as you notice the bulge from his cock being so big and deep inside of you. His tip is brushing against the opening of your womb.

"Nnh, Leon, too big," you gasp as he rolls his hips against yours. Legs squeezing against his waist as he slowly starts to thrust shallowly.

"Baby, relax. Can barely pull out of you," Leon rasps in your ear, sending chills down your spine as you try to force yourself to relax around him. 

"Mnmph, sorry, Daddy. Please—" you pout, squeezing his hand tightly. Trying to signal for him to start pounding your needy cunt already.

He nibbles on your earlobe, slowly shifting his hips to thrust in and out of you properly. Soft plap, plap, plap, of his body hitting yours, making sure that he hits your g-spot. 

You swallow a whine as he lets go of your hip to lazily rub his thumb on your swollen little button. Hearing the way your breath hitches and seeing the slight curve in your spine makes all his administrations worth it. Slowly speeding up his movements as he squeezes your hand, groaning low in his throat when you clench around him tightly like a vice. 

"Tight cunt all f'me," he thrusts harder and harder, making it difficult to keep quiet. Soft punched-out cries leave your lips alongside Daddy, Daddy, Daddy's. "Fuck, daddy's gonna make you cum so hard around his cock, might even make you scream." 

Leon slowly pushes your legs up, putting you into a mating press as he drives himself deeper into you. Fucking into your womb, which craves his thick cum. Ecstatic with the idea of 'accidentally' slipping the condom off and cumming deep in your womb. Get you pregnant and finally be his woman. 

"God, wanna get you pregnant so bad, baby," he pants, bangs falling into your face with each harsh thrust. "Would take care of you and the baby. Mmhh shit—would suck the milk outta your fat leaky tits." 

Drools into your mouth as he kisses you with fervor, teeth clashing as his dick continues to fill up your sloppy pussy. 

"Leon, please, 'm so close," you hiccup as he vigorously rubs your clit in tight circles. Your legs brush up against his head as you feel that familiar warm coil in your stomach. 

"Cum for me princess." Leon's eyes darken; pupil's swallowing up his iris as he watches you unfold before him. Because of him. 

Your body tenses up and convulses with each swipe of his thumb on your sensitive nerves. Letting out a silent scream, your eyes close tightly as you try to hold onto Leon as best as you can, feeling his hot breath on your kissed, swollen lips. His fat cock is hitting all the right spots, almost painfully good as he fucks you deeply. Constantly pressing up against your womb, making your toes curl. 

Slowly rutting through your orgasm, he feels his own start to creep up on him. "Fuck, hold on, baby. Gonna pull out for a sec," he pants, pulls out of your heat, and discreetly pulls off the condom, letting it fall on his jeans. 

He quickly puts it back in before you can notice, giving you a spine-chilling smile. Giving you a few pecks on your lips and on your forehead as he uses you like a fleshlight now. 

Letting out soft whimpers and moans, he puts his head on your shoulder. The sounds of sex are his favorite sounds. Your crying is his favorite sound in the entire world. Nothing can top you crying out for him while moaning like a total slut. 

"So fucking hot, Jesus Christ," he groans, hips rabbiting into your pussy. Your insides are so warm and so wet, he feels like it's the first time he's going raw ever. Orgasm on the fence with each thrust. That and you're making all these noises, it's hard for him to concentrate on not cumming so fast. 

"G'nna cum, babe, holy fuck—" He lifts his head off of your shoulder and kisses you feverishly, spitting deep into your throat. Putting his forehead on yours, his nose touches yours as he grunts, pumping his cum into your pussy. Sticky white ropes straight into your womb. 

Panting and whimpering as his cock slowly ruts into your messy cunt. "Fuck... So good," he chuckles lightheartedly. 

Your pussy quivers around his shaft as it softens up. It feels so hot and sticky, and your mind is too fuzzy to even process that he came inside. A dumbfounded smile plastered on your flushed pink face makes his heart swell up. 

"Such a good girl. My good girl, right?" Leon nuzzles his nose against yours. Driving the fact that you'll always be his. Even if you move across the country, he'll always follow. Always in your shadow. 

"Uhuh," you respond shyly, giggling at the affection he's giving you. His eyes soften up, and you take in his face. The light stubble, small acne scars, and the way his hair is fading from dirty blonde to brown. "always, daddy."