#A MASS FOR THE FALLEN「musings」

[cuubism]

Jayce-with-anxiety is in my head so here's my porn manifesto about the matter. I hope you like it

d/s, developing relationship, not-negotiated-at-all kink, t4t jayvik

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theories and findings [AO3]

The unveiling of the first Hexgate is in two days, and Jayce is… maybe spiraling. A little.

Sometimes he gets like that. Even when there’s no real need. The Hexgate is ready to be shown, after all. It’s been in final testing phase for a while, and he’s tested every core function he can imagine, tested every edge case, every minuscule possibility, beat the ever-loving crap out of the thing to make sure it could stand up to heavy use and tolerate mistakes by non-scientists trying to work it. It holds up. He knows it holds up.

But he needs it to work, at the key moment. Needs it not to fail him. The entire future of their research depends on having this product to show for the past several years of funding.

Viktor doesn’t seem worried. He trusts the numbers. Jayce trusts the numbers too, really, it’s just the investors that are the wildcards. As he’s been learning more and more, other people don’t always trust the numbers—unless those numbers are dollar signs.

He should be finalizing his speech. Instead, for what feels like the fifteenth time that day, he gets up from his chair in the lab, grabbing his toolkit to go do— he doesn’t even know what. Take the Hexgate apart for the nine millionth time and make sure all the screws are exactly 12.3 milligrams in weight? Or something. He has stress dreams about that shit. Even with all the math they’ve constructed to understand magic, it can still be frustratingly hard to predict. Sometimes magic takes huge imprecisions and simply works around them. Sometimes a screw is 12.2 milligrams instead of 12.3 and the entire thing fucking blows up.

(His lab notebook shows both that the mass of the screws isn’t actually one of those wildcard variables and that they’ve all measured in at exactly 12.300 milligrams the last six times he’s weighed them, but never mind.)

He’s halfway across the room, toolkit in hand, when Viktor says, “Jayce! Put that down.”

Jayce drops the toolkit.

It flies open, wrenches and screwdrivers and nuts and bolts scattering everywhere in an enormous crash. Viktor turns to stare at him, putting down whatever he was tinkering with, as Jayce winces.

“I meant… on the table,” Viktor says slowly.

Jayce clears his throat, voice unexpectedly tight. “Right.”

“You don’t need to check over the parts again,” Viktor continues, as Jayce bends to start collecting the fallen tools. “The machine works. Your own data prove it.”

“I know. It’s just.” He dumps some bolts into the bottom of the toolkit. He’ll have to reorganize them by size later. When he’s not kneeling on the floor. “What if it doesn’t?” How to explain that for all he ought to be a scientist, putting all his faith in the test results, he can’t stop himself from imagining every possible branching future scenario, every world where there’s a flaw in the device he didn’t foresee, where it breaks, where it explodes, where it simply doesn’t work, or, somehow worse, where it does work but no one sees its majesty, where they think Hextech is a disappointment, a waste of money and time after all, where they don’t get it, and pull their funding, or decide it’s dangerous like they’d believed before and all their work gets dismantled—

He’s frozen halfway through putting some wrenches away, and forces his hands to start moving again.

“I would take you to do another test run, but it doesn’t seem like that would soothe you,” Viktor muses.

Jayce finally snaps the kit shut again. “You’re not worried at all?”

“About the Hexgate functioning as promised? No. I suppose, eh… other people are harder to predict.”

Exactly.

“But it seems to me this machine is exactly what ‘other people’ wanted,” Viktor continues, “so there is little cause for concern as to their reaction.”

Jayce stands, toolkit in hand. “What do you mean, it’s what other people wanted? You aren’t happy with the Hexgate?”

Viktor shrugs. “It’s an exceptional piece of engineering that proves the functionality of Hextech and, I am sure, will make investors very happy. Still, Hextech can do more.”

He’s right. Hextech can do more. But Jayce needs to get through this use case with his sanity intact first. “Let’s come back to that three days from now?”

Viktor nods. “There is cause for celebration, too, of course,” he says. “It’s a monumental achievement, Jayce.”

“I’ll celebrate once it’s over with,” Jayce says, and goes to scrub his hands over his face with a tired groan—

—dropping the toolkit again in the process.

Maybe he should just go home.

Before he can move to pick the kit up again, Viktor says, “Leave that and come look at this. Perhaps it will distract you.”

“I need to—”

“Come over here.”

Though he doesn’t say it sharply, something about the command of Viktor’s voice has Jayce scrambling to obey. Viktor studies him with a strange look in his eye, but doesn’t say anything as Jayce goes over to his workstation, leans over his shoulder, studies the small device on the table before him.

“It’s a… hex-powered hinge of some kind?”

“It’s for my knee,” Viktor says. “To reduce friction in the brace. Though… I haven’t worked out all of the kinks yet.”

Viktor hadn’t worn a leg brace when they’d met—at least not one substantial enough to be worn over his clothes—but he does now, and has moved from a cane to a proper crutch, too. Jayce worries about it, but Viktor never seems to appreciate it when he verbalizes his concerns.

He studies the hinge. Its pieces are incredibly small, so Jayce can’t tell from a glance what might be wrong with it, but the Hexgem clearly isn’t connecting to all of the wiring correctly.

“Perhaps you will have better luck in fixing it. Fresh eyes are always beneficial,” Viktor says, handing it to him.

Jayce is grateful for any distraction that doesn’t involve taking apart the Hexgate yet again, so he takes the device back to his workstation.

It’s only twenty minutes later, as he’s holding it under a magnifying glass, soldering one of its tiny pieces with a tiny blowtorch, that he realizes. “Hang on. You broke this on purpose to distract me.”

“Oops,” Viktor says.

“Viktor.”

“Yes, I finished it this morning,” Viktor admits, unrepentant. “Did you fix it yet?”

“That’s not the—”

Viktor raises an eyebrow.

“…No, not yet.”

“Finish fixing it, then,” Viktor says, and turns back to his work.

Jayce lets out a frustrated breath, but does as he says. Why, why do as he says? He should just give Viktor the thing back to fix himself— or throw it at him, honestly.

He doesn’t. He fixes it.

It takes him a few hours—about thirty minutes of that spent fixing, the rest spent studying the intricate design of the joint, and seriously when did Viktor even have time to make this? It’s so tiny and precise, barely larger than the Hexgem that powers it, and nearly weightless in his hand.

Eventually he goes to give it back—and finds Viktor with his drafted speech in hand, marking it up.

“You could give a speech yourself, you know,” Jayce says as he places the little hinge down in front of him.

“Hmm. I don’t think so,” Viktor says. He makes a final note on the speech. “This is cleaner, now. Though you should proofread it to make sure it is in your voice.”

“I hate writing speeches,” Jayce says, putting the papers aside. Secretly relieved that Viktor’s finished it up.

“But you are good at giving them.”

The praise strikes deep on this day when he feels so keyed up. And on an element of the presentation he feels less sure of, too. The work he can feel confident in—when he stops overthinking it—but presentation, he’s learning, is as important as substance, unfortunately. He can’t just make it right, he has to deliver it right.

“Help me install this,” Viktor says, picking up the little joint device.

Jayce startles. Help him? Viktor never—

Oh. Great. It’s another bid to distract him.

“Fine,” he says anyway.

He expects Viktor to take his leg brace off and set it on the workstation. Instead, he gives Jayce a long, considering look. Then pushes him down by the shoulder.

Jayce goes, more surprised than anything, falling to his knees before where Viktor’s sat in his desk chair. His breath rushes out of him. But Viktor doesn’t say anything else about it, just swivels the chair so the outside of his knee is angled toward Jayce.

“This gear here,” he says, gesturing to the brace’s hinge at the bend of his knee. “It rotates when I walk, but there is too much friction.”

“Don’t you want there to be some resistance so it offers support instead of just… folding?” Jayce asks.

“Eh, some, when I’m standing, but it should rotate smoothly when walking. This—” he picks up the new joint piece “—locks into place while stationary but turns easily in motion. Or, it should.” He gives it to Jayce, as well as a tiny screwdriver so he can dismantle the existing pieces. “Install it and we’ll see if it works as intended.”

Jayce takes the new joint piece reverently. Viktor never asks for his help with his braces. And sure, it’s a diversion to stop him from overthinking about the presentation, but still. Still.

Jayce carefully unscrews the existing hinge. He sets the old gears aside on the table, lining each tiny screw up so they won’t get lost. Then places the new Hexgear.

It takes a bit of finicking with to get it properly aligned; the fit is precise. Then he screws it into place, snapping each part of the broader hinge back where it belongs. Everything connects perfectly, of course. Viktor designed it, after all.

The Hexgem lights up as the metal pieces seal in place. Power crackles along the entirety of the brace, prickling at his skin, then fades.

“Test it out,” Viktor says, voice hushed.

Jayce takes Viktor’s calf in gentle hands. God, he’s skinny. Has he always been this thin, as long as Jayce has known him? Viktor is not a fragile person, in fact Jayce often feels breakable in comparison to Viktor’s seemingly iron determination—but holding him like this, Viktor feels almost brittle.

It won’t be a proper test unless Viktor actually stands up and walks. Real friction, and all. But Jayce slowly bends his knee up, then back down. The hinge turns smoothly, no creaking, the Hexgem glowing softly.

“How does it feel?” he asks.

“Marginal improvement,” Viktor says, but there’s a secret smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Jayce. Excellent lab assistant work.”

“Haha.” There is something satisfying, though, about helping him. Not in the lab. Like this.

Like this, Viktor’s leg still cradled between his hands. Looking up at him, because he’s still kneeling, and seeing the light change in Viktor’s eyes, that teasing appreciation shifting to something… deeper.

Jayce feels pinned by his gaze. As if mesmerized, Viktor reaches out to touch his temple. Pushes an errant strand of hair back behind his ear.

“I do not think you can give a presentation like this, Jayce,” he teases. Fingertips still lightly touching Jayce’s face, as Jayce’s hands are still on his leg. “You look disheveled.”

“Whose fault is that, making me get on the floor?” The words do not come out in the teasing, light way he intends. Instead, Viktor’s gaze pulls something scraped and wanting from the depths of his throat. Something he didn’t even know was there, until Viktor brought it forth.

Viktor’s fingers trail from his temple down the back of his neck. Jayce shivers. It’s a feeling not unlike the jolt up his spine when Viktor had told him, put that down! Come over here. Normally, they are so in sync. Have been from almost the moment they met. But sometimes recently it’s felt like their gears are catching instead of turning smoothly together. Like there’s something in the way of a proper alignment, something Jayce wants to get out of the way but can’t because he can’t even tell what it is.

When Viktor’s hand clasps around the back of his neck, it’s like the gears skid and slip and click back together. Turning again as one.

“You feel tense,” Viktor says, fingertips probing his trapezius muscles, the touch painful for how deep he presses. “Too much time spent bent over a desk.”

“Hypocrite,” Jayce says.

“Well, yes. Which is why I know it hurts.” His voice isn’t sympathetic exactly, though, as he keeps pressing into the knots in Jayce’s muscles. It’s not lacking in sympathy. But that’s only a low note in his tone—the surface sounds more like curiosity, like the way his voice ticks up in interest and appeal when they get magic to dance just so at their fingertips. Excitement. Almost. “I can fix it.”

“What?”

“Get up,” Viktor says, and for some reason Jayce just does. He stands, and then Viktor stands, too, taking up his crutch from where it’s leaning against his workstation. He walks a few steps, testing their modification to the brace. “Hmm,” he says. “Better variable resistance.”

“…Good?” Jayce says. He has no idea what’s going on. But as Viktor starts walking to the door, saying “Come on, Jayce,” he follows.

“Where are we going?”

“To my rooms. Or yours. I have no preference.”

“Why?”

Viktor slants him a look that’s almost mischievous as he pushes open the door. “Do you have any objections?”

It’s not like they haven’t been to each other’s Academy apartments before. And something in Viktor’s expression compels him forward. “No?”

“Good.” And he leaves the room, leaving Jayce to catch up.

--

Jayce walks beside him through the halls, intentionally going slower than he normally would on his own. He often has to slow himself down beside other people, both in the lab and in person. He doesn’t have to slow himself down in the lab with Viktor. They can always keep up with each other, and it’s brilliant.

He does walk slower, though, and not only because of Viktor’s leg. The peril of being tall—and always in a rush—is that he constantly has to remind himself not to outpace other people. It doesn’t feel annoying when it’s Viktor, though.

In any case, despite the fact that Jayce could outpace him, it feels more like Viktor is leading him.

Viktor’s rooms are closer to the lab, so they end up there. Academy rooms are a bit sparse in general, and Viktor’s in particular—little in the way of decoration, only books, paperwork, small inventions on shelves and spare tools. Even his kitchen table is just covered in wiring and screws and half-finished projects. Really, both of them tend to spend most of their time in lab.

“How do you feel,” Viktor asks, as Jayce closes the door behind them, “about a back massage?”

“A what?” Jayce did hear him, though, so Viktor doesn’t repeat himself. He waits.

Truthfully Jayce doesn’t feel any particular way about any type of massage. The kinks in his back will work themselves out if he does some stretches.

But he looks at Viktor’s fine hand wrapped the handle of his crutch. The expectant look on his face, almost knowing. Something unnameable shivers up Jayce’s spine, much like when Viktor had touched the back of his neck. He feels almost out of his body. His heart gives a heavy thump.

“…Okay,” he says at last. What is he doing? No, actually, what is he doing.

Following Viktor to his bedroom, apparently.

When they work together, it’s like a dance trading off—one leading the line of thought one moment, then the other taking it and drawing it further, and back and forth. Now it’s like Viktor has seized the leading role in the waltz, his hand firmly clasped around Jayce’s shoulder through the turn.

There’s a strange peace in following. In the pattern of Jayce’s steps steered by Viktor’s thoughts. Their work is in innovation, and Jayce is always taking first steps, day after day after day. There’s a relief in letting Viktor take this one.

He’s been to Viktor’s apartment, but not his bedroom. It’s as minimal as the rest of the space. Viktor stops by the bed, leaning his crutch on the nightstand.

“Take off your shirt,” he says.

Mechanically, Jayce obeys, undoing his tie, his waistcoat, his shirt—damn these elaborate Academy uniforms—and kicking off his shoes for good measure. For his part, Viktor stays clothed, other than taking off his shoes, but he does loosen his tie, and Jayce finds his eyes drawn to the hollow of his throat as it’s revealed.

“Go lie down, Jayce,” Viktor says. This feels less like an order; it’s softer. Nevertheless Jayce does what he says, feeling the weight of Viktor’s eyes on his back. He lies facedown—Viktor’s bed is surprisingly comfortable, for Academy furniture—face cushioned on a pillow that smells like Viktor, on the rare occasions Jayce has gotten close enough to notice.

Once again he asks himself what the hell he’s doing. But he doesn’t get up.

Viktor kneels beside him on the bed. He’s acquired massage oil from somewhere—“I use it for my leg,” he says before Jayce can ask—and pours some out, warming it between his palms. Jayce can only just see his movement out of the corner of his eye.

He doesn’t ask if Viktor is physically capable of doing this, or kneeling on the bed, or anything else. He’s learned that the less he asks the more likely Viktor is to volunteer the information, if in a roundabout way. It would be more efficient to do multiple tests back to back translates to I can’t walk back and forth between the lab and the Hexgate ten times in a row today; I will run the tests, you take notes on the board means standing for hours is hard right now. Jayce isn’t always good at picking up on the subtleties in what people say, but he tries to pay attention.

“Normally, deep tissue work does cause some pain as the knots are worked out of the muscles,” Viktor says, “but you should tell me if it seriously hurts.”

Jayce nods, face still pushed into the pillow.

Then Viktor gets to work.

His hands glide over Jayce’s back in long, smooth strokes. Jayce groans, despite himself, then lets out an involuntary “Fuck!” as the heel of Viktor’s hand catches on a knot in his shoulder blade that must be deep for how much it hurts.

“Tighter than I thought,” Viktor says idly, then attacks the muscle, working his fingers in deep. It does hurt, and Jayce almost tells him to stop—until the moment he feels the muscle knot break apart, that part of his back suddenly looser than it’s been in ages.

“Fuck,” he moans again, this time with relief. “Viktor.”

Viktor shifts, swinging a leg over so he’s straddling Jayce’s thighs. “What are you doing?” Jayce asks. His words sound slurred.

“Our work is hardly finished, Jayce,” Viktor says, and, with more vigor, starts massaging the middle of Jayce’s back, up and along his spine. Fuck but it feels good. It hurts, but it’s the deep, satisfying pain of a long day spent working. Of hours in the forge, working stress out on yielding metal, his arms burning by the time he puts down the hammer.

Viktor’s hands are clearly skilled, alternately blunt or refined depending on which muscle he’s working on. Jayce’s shoulder actually clicks as Viktor digs into the muscle there, his neck spasms as Viktor presses on it with his thumbs, and okay, maybe Jayce was more sore than he realized. They’ve been a bit busy lately.

For a while Jayce spaces out pleasantly. He almost forgets that this is kind of weird, that this isn’t what they do—it doesn’t really feel weird, when they’re doing it. It feels natural. Viktor seems to have forgotten that entirely: he’s going at Jayce’s back like he does any problem in the lab, powering through with blunt determination until it’s solved.

Jayce jolts back to awareness as Viktor’s hands find his hips, thumbs digging into the muscles above the waistband of his pants. “Viktor…?” he says, but then something compels him to quiet. Viktor’s thumbs press into his lower back, long, slow strokes, gentler than before. Static prickles up Jayce’s spine, down his legs and arms, echoes of a pressure point being triggered.

“Is that better?” Viktor asks. Now his voice is rough, caught in his throat.

“Y-yeah,” Jayce says, and clears his throat. “Thanks.”

Viktor keeps pressing there, low on his spine. Jayce feels hyperaware of the weight of him on the backs of his thighs, the way he’s pinned; mouth drying, breath catching.

Should he…?

He never hesitates with Viktor where science is involved. But people, connection, friendship… all of that is a bit harder. Harder to know where he stands, easier to misjudge, misstep.

“You… have nice hands,” Jayce says, and immediately winces. But when he speaks, Viktor’s voice has a smile curled in it.

“You have very nice muscles, when they aren’t so tense,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jayce says shakily. He thinks he’d agree with anything Viktor said right now. “You… really know what you’re doing.”

Viktor’s hand slides up his spine, up his neck, digs into his hair. Jayce gasps as his head is pulled to the side—not roughly, but firmly. Viktor leans down over him; Jayce can see him out of one eye now. “Jayce…” he says, like he’s considering something. Jayce loves the way he says his name. Long, slow, and drawn out.

His voice comes out all thin and breathy. He feels drawn tight as a violin string, and he doesn’t know what will happen if Viktor tries to pluck it. “Yeah?”

“Tell me when to stop.”

And Viktor leans down and bites Jayce’s mouth.

It’s really a kiss, but it feels more like a bite. He nips Jayce’s lower lip, sweeps his tongue into his mouth, assertive and sure. In this, too, it seems Viktor knows what he’s doing. Jayce can’t say the same, but he’s hardly thinking about that—he’s thinking about Viktor’s hand still in his hair, and the heat of his lips.

Viktor pulls away, and Jayce takes a heaving breath. No part of his body is properly working, everything fizzy and startled and wanting. He can’t believe this is happening, but now that it is, it feels right. A key turning perfectly in a lock, their misaligned gears finally clicking back into perfect alignment.

Jayce’s position is awkward, but he manages to reach a hand up to clasp Viktor’s where it’s buried in his hair. Viktor waits for him to speak.

Jayce’s heart is pounding, but he says, “Don’t stop.”

Viktor kisses him again, deeper, fist clenched tight in his hair. Then when they part, he loosens his grip enough that he can prod at Jayce’s shoulder and get him to turn over, then settles down again, this time on Jayce’s hips. He barely gives Jayce a moment to cope with that before he’s leaning back down to take Jayce’s face between his hands, kissing him again, hungrier, starving.

Jayce finally gets enough control of his limbs to get his hands in Viktor’s hair. It’s softer than he would have expected, and delightful to pull on, especially when doing so keeps Viktor’s mouth pressed to his, their breaths mingling, lips smearing wetly together.

When Viktor pulls away to breathe, he stays close, looking down into Jayce’s eyes. The world is spinning, but Jayce tries to get his bearings. His hands fall to Viktor’s waist.

“Viktor…” he breathes.

Viktor traces a fingertip along his lip, as if catching the words themselves. Then, gaze intense like he’s evaluating the results of an experiment, he pushes his finger into Jayce’s mouth, laying it flat on his tongue.

Jayce is definitely- definitely behind Viktor’s curve here. Operating on little but vague instinct and supposition, he sucks Viktor’s finger deeper in his mouth, enjoying the way Viktor’s eyes darken in response. He pushes a second finger in, stroking Jayce’s tongue, and Jayce tries to breathe but doesn’t entirely succeed at it.

Viktor pulls his fingers free, saliva trailing to them from Jayce’s lips. Jayce can’t look away from them. He tries not to think about it, usually. Thoughts pushed so so so far down it’s like they’re not even there.

Now he’s wondering what else Viktor might do with those fingers.

Jayce is getting hard and wet under him, if he’s not careful Viktor will soon be able to tell, if he can’t already—but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact he shifts his weight in Jayce’s lap, grinding down, and Jayce has to bite his lower lip, hard, because he might whimper otherwise.

Viktor’s lips curl up in a very pleased smile. “Jayce,” he says, again that slow drag of his tongue over Jayce’s name.

Jayce shivers. He’s coming to realize that Viktor is… much more experienced. He’d thought they were more on the same page, as they were similar in so many other things. But he should never assume an answer, that’s a core principle of science.

“Viktor,” he says in reply. It comes out significantly more choked than Viktor’s voice.

Viktor’s expression pinches. Jayce doesn’t know what he said to cause that look.

“What?” he says.

“Have you done this before?” Viktor asks.

“Uh,” Jayce says, feeling himself flush, “no.”

“…Oh,” Viktor says, one soft word.

Jayce can’t help but feel like he’s ruining everything, even if he hasn’t actually done anything. Well, not having done anything is actually the problem. He doesn’t necessarily want Viktor to stop. “Is that— surprising to you?”

Viktor considers, then says, “Yes.”

Great, now Jayce is making it weird just with his entire existence. “I’m—”

“No, don’t say that,” Viktor interrupts. Then, softer, “Don’t say that.”

Jayce isn’t actually sorry about it, he just— he doesn’t want to ruin things. Being in the moment of this is making him realizing how deeply he wants it.

Viktor digs a hand into his hair again, but gentler this time. “Don’t let me push you around.”

“Maybe I like it,” Jayce says, feeling overly bold.

Viktor huffs. “Perhaps,” he says. “If so, perhaps you would like this.”

He leans back down, hands in Jayce’s hair, scratching his scalp, and kisses under his jaw, sucking a mark into his skin. Jayce makes a mortifying whimpering sound, clutching at the back of Viktor’s neck. He bites his lip as Viktor goes down, nipping his way down his neck, to the hollow above his collarbone, laving his tongue over the skin. Jayce squirms under him, feeling out of control of his body, hips grinding up involuntarily against Viktor.

It’s disconcerting to feel like that—out of control. But Viktor digs his hand deeper into Jayce’s hair, tugs hard. “That’s it,” he says, and Jayce feels, in some backwards way, that he must be doing something right. If Viktor is talking to him like that, he must be. “That’s it, Jayce. That feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Y- yeah.” It does. Viktor knows what he’s doing far more than Jayce does, but maybe that’s good, he doesn’t have to worry as much about it. He can rely on Viktor’s experience.

He feels bold enough to rest a hand low on Viktor’s hip, tugging him closer, grinding up against him. It’s not enough, not with their clothes on, he needs more.

“Mmm, yes,” Viktor hums, lips brushing Jayce’s ear. “Go ahead and undo my trousers.”

He lifts his hips far enough off Jayce for Jayce to get his hand between them. He manages to undo the buttons on Viktor’s trousers, slips a hand in, fingers pushing inelegantly through Viktor’s folds. He’s worried he’s doing it wrong right from the start, but Viktor moans, the sound ringing through Jayce’s body like a bell. That sound, he could live for that sound.

“Very good,” Viktor praises, voice hitching over the words. “Now. Allow me.”

His hand finds the buttons on Jayce’s trousers, and he undoes them one by one, pushing Jayce’s underwear down. He slips his hand in, slim fingers exploring, circling his thumb over his cock lightly, but surely.

Jayce trembles under him. He can’t— can’t focus well enough to figure out what he’s supposed to be doing. He just stays still, keeping his hand flat, and Viktor ruts against his palm, somehow able to multitask well enough to do all that and go back to sucking on Jayce’s throat. Jayce can’t even multitask enough to form words.

“Shh,” Viktor says, though he decidedly hasn’t said anything. “You’re not allowed to think.”

“I’m not allowed to think?”

“No, you must be quiet.”

Jayce doesn’t know how to do that. “But—”

“Shh.” Viktor nudges his hand away, shifts positions, abandoning his efforts in grinding down on Jayce's hand in favor of working his hand deeper into Jayce's pants, his own trouser buttons open and showing a peek of hair leading down and-

Well now Jayce can’t think.

“Quiet,” Viktor repeats. “Quiet.” Kissing his cheek, his ear, his temple, then finally his lips.

Jayce falls into his voice. He lets Viktor’s words, his breath, surround him, holds Viktor tight by the hips as Viktor works him, finally manages to get enough of his wits about him to grind his hips up into the movement of Viktor's hand. He closes his eyes, hears himself making breathy sounds and desperate moans that barely sound like his own voice. He feels the curve of Viktor’s smile at the sound.

Viktor’s hand slides into his hair again, gripping tightly, holding Jayce’s head still as he kisses him. Not that Jayce would have moved, he’s paralyzed by the weight of Viktor on top of him. Frozen in place by the fact that this is even happening, Viktor’s tongue sweeping into his mouth and Viktor’s hand wet with his fluids and— oohhh, gods. He’s gonna pass out.

Viktor tugs on his hair. “You’re still thinking.”

“Sorry.”

Viktor grazes his teeth over Jayce’s ear. Jayce whimpers.

“Jayce.” Viktor’s voice sends shivers down the back of Jayce’s neck. “Let go.”

Jayce takes his hands off Viktor’s hips.

Viktor chuckles. “I meant it metaphorically.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t want you to think,” Viktor says. “I want this to be good for you.”

“Well, what about you?”

Viktor’s lips curl in a smile. “This is already good for me. Can I move you?”

“Y- yeah.”

Viktor climbs off his lap, wincing slightly as he bends his leg, but Jayce knows better than to call him out on it. And besides he doesn’t think he wants Viktor to stop either way.

Viktor slips between his thighs instead. He tugs Jayce’s trousers and underwear off, and Jayce feels very exposed, flushed and hot, but Viktor’s gaze as he skates his hands up Jayce’s thighs is heartily appreciative, so it must be okay. Viktor bends one of Jayce’s legs up so he’s spread open, leaning precariously over him. Jayce shakes, he might be hyperventilating, he really might pass out but he thinks he’s okay with that. It’s fine. It’s worth it.

The last thing he sees is the gold of Viktor’s eyes before Viktor says, “Close your eyes,” and he does and then Viktor’s hand and mouth are on him at once. He kisses Jayce deeply, a hungry, claiming kiss, uses his slim fingers to part him, that pretty hand Jayce had been so admiring earlier now taking whatever Viktor wants from him.

And Jayce— doesn’t think. He can barely breathe for how Viktor is kissing him, and his body is strung tight, hot and and wet and oversensitive as Viktor strokes through him, thumbs over his cock, circles fingertips lightly at his entrance. Jayce’s cunt clenches in heated anticipation of him, he wonders how people even—

—the thought melts into static as Viktor pushes a cautious finger into him. Jayce feels so hyperaware of him, panting against his mouth, oh gods, that’s Viktor in him—

—more static as Viktor curls his finger, pressing the heel of his palm to Jayce’s cock in the same motion. Oh, fuck—

He’s saying it, too, “Oh, fuck, oh fuck Viktor—”

“That’s it,” Viktor says, working him with focused determination. “That’s it, Jayce, good.”

He pushes another finger into Jayce’s cunt, and Jayce gasps, clutching at Viktor’s shoulders, thighs twitching and tightening involuntarily around Viktor’s hips. Viktor pushes his leg back down firmly.

“Viktor,” Jayce pleads. He doesn’t know what he wants Viktor to do— stop? Keep going? No, definitely keep going, he’s just— he’s so—

“You feel so good,” Viktor murmurs. “I bet you will taste even better.”

“Taste?” Jayce croaks.

“Let go, Jayce,” Viktor croons, crooking his fingers hard inside Jayce with the command. And Jayce’s brain just— whites out.

He floats, spinning higher and higher, belly coiling tighter with heat as Viktor keeps claiming his insides. Viktor sucks marks into his throat as Jayce gasps for breath, wanting, wanting, wanting— “Please, Viktor—”

Viktor works his fingers in and out, in and out— Jayce feels so wet, so hot, and the pressure of Viktor’s fingers is so— he’s so close—

He fists a hand in his own hair, tugging hard. Viktor pulls his hand away, takes hold of his wrist, and presses him down into the bed.

Jayce comes instantly, clenching down on Viktor’s fingers and biting down hard on his own lip as heat rushes through him, flushing up his chest and throat. He presses Viktor’s hips again between his thighs, and this time Viktor lets him. He works Jayce through it, fingers stroking steadily inside him until he comes down from his peak. Then before Jayce can even get his breath back, Viktor is going down, wrapping his arms under Jayce’s thighs and pulling him in with surprising strength, pressing his face between Jayce’s legs.

Jayce shouts. Viktor hums in pleasure, the sound vibrating straight through Jayce’s core. Viktor licks up through his folds, sucks on his cock. When Jayce finally manages to open his eyes, he finds Viktor has moved his hand and is working himself furiously with it, evidently getting off just on the taste of Jayce. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Jayce pushes a shaky hand through Viktor’s hair, holding on for dear life, overstimulated from the relentless touch. “Viktor…” he says, voice thick, “gods, you’re so… you’re so beautiful…”

Viktor moans, grinding down on his own hand. Jayce pushes his hips up, grinding up into his mouth, and Viktor makes a choked sound and goes taut as he comes.

It’s so transcendent, Jayce wants to soak in that sound, that feeling, forever. He wants to do that, to make Viktor feel like that; he wants to make Viktor feel the way Viktor makes him feel. He needs to learn how.

He tugs on Viktor’s arm. Viktor obligingly goes, leaning over him so they’re face-to-face again. Viktor’s hair is mussed, his lips slick and wet. Jayce is maybe hallucinating, or maybe the screws were a micrometer too small after all and the Hexgate actually exploded and killed him and this is the afterlife.

Viktor kisses him, Jayce doesn’t even have to ask for it, and he puts his hands on Viktor’s hips again, feeling bolder, and sort of loose and warm and shivery in a much more thorough way than when he just gets himself off. Viktor’s still mostly dressed, and Jayce wishes he could feel his skin, actually slide his hands up over Viktor’s thighs and hips and ribcage and feel each bone.

When Viktor pulls away he presses warm lips to Jayce’s cheek and says, “Are you still thinking about tomorrow?”

“What?” Jayce croaks.

Viktor laughs. Jayce feels it in his chest and under his hands, from how they’re touching. No, tomorrow doesn’t exist, what’s tomorrow? What’s Hextech? What’s anything other than this?

“Good,” Viktor says. He shifts, and Jayce is briefly terrified he’ll just leave, but Viktor only slides onto his side so he’s lying beside Jayce instead of on top of him, stretching his leg out with a grimace. Still, he doesn’t leave.

“Come here,” he says.

“…What?”

“Just do it, Jayce.”

So Jayce does, with almost more hesitation than he’d felt in kissing him, in touching him, because he doesn’t know what they are. But he also knows that if he stops to think about it for even a second he will explode, and if he doesn’t touch Viktor again right now he might actually lose it.

So he hesitantly curls in against Viktor. Tugs open some of the buttons on Viktor’s shirt, and, at Viktor’s nod, slips his arm under to wrap around his waist, his palm pressed flat to the bare skin of Viktor’s back, above his brace. He presses his face into Viktor’s shoulder. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Viktor pets his hair. Digs his fingers into Jayce’s scalp and Jayce melts into him, he can’t help it. He doesn’t know what’s going on, why Viktor is being so touchy with him, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

“Viktor?” he says. “Why?” Jayce doesn’t know exactly what’s encompassed in the why. It had all felt right as it was happening, this, them. But the details.

“I… felt you needed something,” Viktor says, sounding, for the first time, hesitant. “I decided to… take a leap.”

Jayce doesn’t know exactly what it was that he needed, but Viktor must have given it to him because he feels… better. Somehow.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“I will share my theories and findings with you later,” Viktor says.

“Oh, theories and findings.”

“Of course, one must always pursue science with rigor and precision.”

“Uh-huh.” Jayce hides his grin in Viktor’s neck.

“More immediately,” Viktor continues, “you should stay here for a little while so you have time to process.”

“Didn’t want to move anyway,” Jayce says. He shifts closer, draping one leg over Viktor’s so he’s sort of half-lying on top of him. “I’m not crushing you, am I?” He doesn’t know exactly how much Viktor weighs but he’s pretty sure he’s a lot heavier.

“Mm. I don’t mind. You are comfortable. Very soft.”

Jayce laughs. “Alright.”

“How do you feel now?”

“Really good. Like. Kind of relaxed, I guess.” That's a rare feeling.

“You sound surprised,” Viktor says.

“Well. Yeah,” Jayce admits, and Viktor huffs a laugh.

“Not so much a man of relaxation,” he says, “but—”

“Oh, please don’t—”

“—but a Man of Progress,” Viktor finishes, with some glee.

Jayce groans. “I don’t know how Mrs. Kiramman even got that nickname out there before the Hexgate unveiling. We haven’t even shown anyone anything yet!”

“She has merchandise as well,” Viktor tells him.

“She has what?”

“Caitlyn gave me a mug.” When Jayce lifts his head to look at him, Viktor is smiling a rather wicked smile.

“Cait,” Jayce whines. It’s all so mortifying. “Why would she betray me like that?”

“I think she may have been teasing me. But I cherished my gift.”

“Viktor please.”

Viktor digs his hand into Jayce’s hair again. “Hush.”

Jayce hushes.

“Does it truly bother you?” Viktor asks.

“A bit?” He wouldn’t say so to Mrs. Kiramman, but— “The attention’s not supposed to be on me, it’s supposed to be about the research.”

There have been a lot of events leading up to this grand launch, and Jayce doesn’t necessarily hate it, he likes talking to people about their research, likes sharing its wonder, but after a while he starts to get kind of itchy and nervous and overwhelmed by the attention, and more than once has had to duck out to compose himself.

He can’t tell Mrs. Kiramman about that, and he can’t tell Caitlyn or she’ll get concerned and tell her mother. But maybe. Maybe he can tell Viktor.

“I just get nervous,” he says. “I get like. I don’t know.”

“I’ve been starting to understand that,” Viktor says. “Though I did not realize it was that bad.”

“It’s not!” Jayce protests.

Viktor’s silence is telling.

“Alright, fine, but I can handle it.”

“I’m certain you can,” Viktor says. “And something may be painful and still worth doing. Nevertheless, I am glad to know.”

“I— I’m glad you know, too. I think.” Jayce sighs. “Not sure there’s much to do about it, though.”

“That I don’t agree with.” Viktor lets his hand fall to the nape of Jayce’s neck and gives a light squeeze. Jayce goes still, heart suddenly hammering, like when he’d knelt in the lab to fix Viktor’s brace and Viktor had pinned him there with a sure hand.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” he admits. “But…”

“But?”

“…It feels good.” It feels actually really good, Viktor touching him like that.

“Hmm. I thought so.” Viktor keeps stroking the back of his neck, though with less pressure than before.

“Yeah, your theories and findings and all.”

“Precisely.”

“…Is that all it is?” Jayce asks. Gods, he’s not usually this insecure, it’s so embarrassing. But it’s Viktor.

“No,” Viktor says, “it’s not. You know that, I think?”

Jayce does know that, though it’s still a comfort to hear Viktor say it. If it was just experimental, it wouldn’t soothe him so much. It wouldn’t make him want to crawl inside Viktor’s clothes. It wouldn’t make him feel like all his disjointed machinery has suddenly fallen back into proper alignment. It’s Viktor. Viktor could never be just anything. Viktor is everything.

“Yeah,” he breathes, resting his head on Viktor’s chest. “I do.”

[prismaticpichu]

Had this lil’ fic tucked away in my drafts!!! Didn’t know what to do with it for a while lmaooo, but think the thing’s pretty cute—even if a bit unpolished. Just a nice little exploration of a *sitcom audience gasp* kinder Hojo and his relationship with a healing Sephiroth as his son begins to recover from his depressed, isolated state.

~

Muddy eyes all but glowered at the data on the scale, shards of light fragmenting off Hojo’s glasses like broken stars as he leaned forward, magnifying his view of the readings.

225.97lbs.

…Significantly higher than the last appointment, yes. Much so. At least twelve pounds had been gained, and that was without the added pauldrons. Without the leather coat or boots inflating his results. Yes, yes—this was his boy’s raw, unadulterated body mass. The composition of pure muscle and marrow. The culmination of powerful cells and flesh.

“Well?"

Scowling still, Hojo nudged up his glasses before they could slide off his nose.

"...You've gained a dozen pounds," he reported, stripping his answer to the bare data and fact. The objective matters. The statistics that required no additional thought to convey. "That leaves you in a perfectly appropriate place for your BMI." Which, congruently, meant he was finally within a healthy range of weight. A perfectly stable one.

That hadn't been the case since he was a teenager.

Peeling his gaze away from the scale, miry eyes were unreadable behind the shadow-black lenses.

“I presume you’ve been eating more?” Hojo surmised, almost hummed. It was far more of a curiosity than it was any kind of bite. Any kind of criticism.

And Sephiroth noticed. “…More regularly, yes.”

“Three meals a day?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you have an appetite?”

“Yes.”

Some silence stretched, long and strange. Just the distant belch of machinery. The gurgle of mako pods. The buzzing lights that were once the only noise the SOLDIER had both fallen asleep and woken to.

He watched as Sephiroth dismounted the scale, wistfully quiet.

Thoughtful.

…Studying him now, he could absolutely see the change in complexion—the healthier, brighter glow to the muscle and skin. The glow that had faded ever since Hollander’s toys deserted the company. And now that he was thinking about it, wasn’t it that same catalyst that led to his weight plummeting so drastically? Yes, yes it was. He remembered. That was when Sephiroth’s health had started to decline at such a rapid, startling rate. That was when he’d refused to train or even leave the building. It had all been a response to their betrayal; an emotional implosion. A bullet to his existence.

And now he was starting to heal.

…Which, of course, wasn’t a step backwards. Nor was he disappointed. Nor annoyed. Nor ashamed. No, no—he had wanted his Sephiroth to pull himself together, of course. He had wanted to see those readings increase. He had wanted him to survive—even if it had never been verbally expressed. And with that said: if he had never commented on Sephiroth’s weight or heath, how did this happen? He had lost the two people in his life who, while infuriating in their own rights, had kept him afloat. So what had changed? What was he missing? What variable was lost? Did Sephiroth truly do this by himself?

Or was there something in the equation that he was missing?

But the man didn’t get a chance to answer any of those musings before, donned in his coat and boots and pauldrons, Sephiroth’s cellphone rang, and he watched as his boy made his way to the elevator—PHS pressed to his ear, listening to some imperceptible chatter on the other side, a faint smile beginning to bloom as the babbling went on.

“Heh… I’ll be there soon, Zack.”

And the Professor watched him go, watching as the elevator doors shut and carried his son away, leaving him to dwell in the silence of a single alien thought:

Perhaps… just one friend couldn’t hurt.

[redvexillum]

Dear @crackrodent, You are lucky you're in the Voxtek Server, otherwise I would have never even contemplated even doing any of your crack-ass request. I still have like three or four just...STARING at me. Anyways, just know, I fucking love you - that's why I wrote... whatever...this...is...LOL 💖🤣

TAGS/WARNINGS: m/m, an♡l s♡x, val and adam is a shitty person, this whole s♡x scene is just dripping with egotistical/selfish energy

The room was thick with the scent of lust, sweet and heavy, mixing with the low rumble of some B-class actor’s baritone grunts as the sounds of ecstasy filled the air. Valentino watched the scene, his eyes half-lidded with wariness, while the curling pink smoke lazily drifted from his pipe. He reclined in his lavish chair, legs casually crossed, looking every bit the kingpin of indulgence, though his thoughts were far from mere indulgence.  

To the masses, his films were nothing more than a means to an end – titillation, pleasure without thought. They saw breasts, ass, or a cock, and they were content to let their hands do the work.  

But to Valentino, it was more than just base gratification. He prided himself on the art of seduction, on the way his camera captured more than the mere act – it captured the hunger, the raw, primal allure that only comes when the soul plunges into depravity. It wasn’t about a cock thrusting into some disposable body; no, it was about the allure, the sensuality that teased the darkest corners of desire.  

It was visceral.  

It was untamed.  

It was...art.  

Hell had a way of putting things in perspective, he mused, his red eyes narrowing as he listened to the rhythmic slap of skin on skin echoing from the scene before him. Angel, his star, was caught in the throes of a double penetration, his body trembling as two hound sinners took him from both ends.  

Valentino’s cock twitched at the sight, though a hint of boredom tugged at his mind. He had seen it all before – each performance blending into the next, the same screams, the same positions, the same predictable rhythms.  

His tastes had evolved, elevated even. Valentino no longer craved the mundane. He was hunting for something more – a masterpiece, something so provocative, so unique, it would etch his name into Hell’s lore forever.  

Rumours whispered of a new sinner in Hell, a figure of legend. Adam, the first man, now among the damned. The possibilities danced in Valentino’s mind, his fingers absently stroking the sharp angle of his chin as he schemed.  

Adam.  

The original sinner.  

His mere presence in Hell was an opportunity. Valentino had filmed countless renditions of Adam and Eve in the Garden, but none of them ever quite captured the essence. The actors never looked quite right, never felt as human as he wanted them to be.  

But Adam – the Adam – was still strikingly human despite the horns curling from his forehead, a fallen figure, and one that could bring Valentino the fame and recognition he craved.  

A slow, satisfied grin stretched across Valentino’s face. If he could secure Adam as his star before anyone else, it would be the scandal, the sensation, the art that Hell needed. His fame would soar, his reputation cemented.  

More than that – it would be a film that redefined what it meant to push the boundaries of Hell’s darkest pleasures. The thought made his pulse quicken, a wicked excitement pooling low in his gut.  

It didn’t take much to strike a deal with Adam, much to Valentino’s amusement. The former first man had spiralled into debauchery, spending his days in strip clubs, guzzling alcohol like it was his lifeblood, and sinking into a haze of orgies that numbed him to his fall.  

Valentino approached him with an offer – a lifetime of booze, pussies, and endless pleasures at Val’s clubs – all for the price of filming one pornographic movie with him.  

Adam, still swaying slightly from the buzz of liquor, looked him up and down with a lazy grin. The former first man took his time, his gaze dragging over Valentino’s tailored suit, over his angular frame. “I’ll do it,” Adam said, his voice thick with amusement, “but on one condition. You’ll be the one getting fucked, and you’re gonna call me the Dick Master while I’m deep inside you.” 

Val’s sharp smile faltered for a split second, the words hanging awkwardly in the air. It was a ridiculous title, at first, something laughable – but then Adam continued, explaining in his slurred tone that as the original man, the first, all man descended from him, and therefore, all dicks too. That every cock had its origin in his.  

The logic was so absurd that Valentino found himself nodding. It made a twisted sort of sense in the ridiculousness that was Hell.  

“Fine,” Valentino agreed, his voice smooth, hiding his distaste behind a mask of professional composure. It was a deal, after all, and if getting Adam on camera meant this ridiculous stipulation, then so be it.  

Val chuckled to himself. He probably could’ve gotten away with offering the drunken fool a week’s worth of indulgence, and Adam still would have signed the deal. But now, Valentino had him, and soon, he’d have his next masterpiece.  

This wasn’t just about capturing flesh; it was about capturing the very essence of sin – the fall, the lust, the corruption of the first man.  

And that, Valentino thought as his grin widened, was art.  

The studio was lit, bright spotlights casting a glow over the bed, the set already prepped for what should have been a masterpiece. But as Adam stood there, naked, scratching his hairy belly and letting out a loud belch that echoed in the studio, Valentino’s eye twitched. He hadn’t expected this.  

The man in front of him was far from the statuesque figure he had imagined. Instead, Adam was a thick, pear-shaped figure with a pelt of dark hair covering his chest, belly, and ass.  

Val’s lips curled in disdain as he took in the sight. He had pictured something more – refined. Perhaps like Angel Dust, with his graceful, slender frame and seductive charm. But this...this was far from the sensual art he had envisioned. Adam had bulk, hair, and an unimpressive aura that radiated laziness.  

His eyes drifted lower, to the man’s tight-fitting white underwear, which clung awkwardly to his hips and had a tear at the waistband. Val sighed. Perhaps he’d been cheated in this deal instead, his dreams of an artistic masterpiece slipping further away. The whole setup reeked of disappointment. He could already feel this film relegating itself to the bargain bin. 

“Well,” Val said, his voice dripping with reluctant acceptance, “a deal’s a deal.” He stripped out of his suit, letting the fabric fall from his lanky frame. His skin glistened under the harsh lights; every angle of his slender body sharply defined as he stood bare before Adam. His eyes were calculating, already planning to edit every unsexy moment of this disaster. “Alright, Dick Master,” he drawled, sarcasm oozing from his tone, “time to fulfill your end of the bargain.” 

Adam grinned, wide and shameless, as he dropped his torn underwear, kicking it off lazily before standing there, completely nude. “You’re not exactly my type,” he commented, his eyes roving over Val’s body with a shrug, “but hey, free booze and sex for eternity? Can’t say no to that.” 

Val raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to Adam’s cock, which was now hanging heavy between his legs, still flaccid but sizable enough to warrant some attention. Perhaps there was some redeeming factor here after all. He bit back the retort that this bumbling idiot wasn’t his type either. The sooner they get this over with, the better. Val’s eyes drifted back down to Adam’s cock – the only potential upside to this wasteful exchange.  

Adam stepped closer, his presence larger than life as he loomed over Val, their bodies almost touching. “You ready for my huge, fat cock?” Adam taunted, his voice a low growl as he stroked himself lazily, the thick shaft hardening and curving upward as it grew longer and thicker in his grip. “Gonna make your ass my little bitch.” 

Valentino let out a small, unimpressed sigh, rolling his eyes at the bravado. He reached for the lube, slicking it over his hands. “Right,” he muttered dryly, “let’s get this over with.” His mind was already distancing itself, calculating every angle, every edit he’d need to make to salvage something remotely watchable from this.  

His lips twitched into a smirk, despite himself, as Adam’s cock finally stood fully erect. At least that was impressive. Val’s own cock gave a faint twitch of approval, anticipation coiling low in his belly.  

“So,” Adam began, his tone casual as his thick fingers stroked his cock, now hard and throbbing. “You just need me to fuck you till I cum, yeah?” 

Val nodded, lifting his arms in mock enthusiasm, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he mimed air quotes. “That’s right. And I will, of course, refer to you as Dick Master throughout the entire ordeal.” His words came out sharp, biting with humour and disdain, but his body was responding to the heat of Adam’s presence, the sheer size of him towering over his lithe form.  

It wasn’t the art Valentino had envisioned, but for now, it was enough.  

Adam’s cock stood hard and ready, twitching with eagerness. “That’s right, don’t forget it,” he sneered, his voice rough with anticipation. The space between them seemed to shrink instantly as he moved closer, his presence overwhelming. Before Val could even call “action,” Adam had his hands on him, dragging him toward the bed with a strength that startled him.  

For a fallen angel stripped of his power, Adam’s force was unexpected. Valentino grunted, his body twisting as Adam shoved him onto the plush mattress, his hands sinking into the soft cover as his knees dropped low. The shift was sudden, and the moment he tried to retort, he felt it – the hot, throbbing tip of Adam’s cock pressing insistently against his entrance.  

No foreplay. Typical, Val thought bitterly. He barely suppressed a growl, his voice sharp as he barked, “Get me the fucking lube!” One of the crew tossed a bottle onto the bed, and Val grabbed it, glaring over his shoulder at Adam. “Here. Dick Master, the lube,” he spat, holding it out.  

Adam, with a smug grin, tilted his head, the light catching his curling horns. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, enjoying Val’s irritation. “Say please,” Adam teased, his voice dripping with mock superiority, his fat tip nudging harder against Valentino’s tight ass. “And maybe I’ll consider it.” 

The burn of Adam’s cock pushing at him without any preparation sent a flash of pain through Valentino. His fingers dug into the mattress as he considered for a split second snapping this fool’s neck, but he resisted.  

Adam might be a fallen man, a drunk, but Valentino had witnessed his power. Better not to test him now – especially like this. His jaw clenched behind his smile. “Please,” he forced out, his voice edged with venom, his eyes flashing behind his pink sunglasses.  

The sharp click of the lube opening made Val’s breath hitch. Finally. But instead of applying it properly, Adam unceremoniously dumped the cold gel over Valentino’s ass, the slick liquid trailing between his cheeks in a way that made him flinch. Before he could protest, Adam surged forward, and the thick length of him was buried deep in Valentino in one brutal thrust.  

Valentino’s breath left him in a harsh gasp, his body tensing as he tried to adjust to the size of him. He hadn’t expected this. The stretch, the heat – it was overwhelming. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, his head dropping low, instinctively raising his hips higher to take more.  

Adam huffed from above, his breath ragged with exertion. “Shit, look at how tight your fucking ass is,” he growled, his hips snapping forward again, slamming into Valentino without mercy. His balls slapped against Valentino’s; the sound obscene in the otherwise quiet room. “Come on, call my name,” he demanded, each thrust deeper and more relentless than the last.  

The force of the fucking pushed Valentino’s body down into the mattress, his face pressed into the sheets, his mouth open in shock and pleasure. Every stroke hit him perfectly, driving into his prostate with precision. He had no choice but to submit, his body overwhelmed by pleasure. “Oh fuck, Dick Master,” he moaned, his voice muffled as his ass clenched around Adam’s cock, drawing him in deeper. His second pair of arms reached back, spreading his cheeks wide in surrender. “Fucking dump your hot cum in me, Dick Master!” 

Valentino couldn’t believe it. This man, who had one been grand, reduced to a drunken, debauched sinner, was fucking him with a raw, feral intensity. Valentino’s own cock was dripping, leaking pre-cum onto the sheets as his body began to tremble, the orgasm building inside him. He was so close, so fucking close, his cock twitching uncontrollably with every rough thrust.  

“Oh fuck, yea, tighten that ass for me,” Adam groaned, his hands pried Valentino's finger off his ass before his large hand smacked Valentino’s ass hard, sending a burst of heat and pain through him. The sharp sting only added to the pleasure, his cheeks burning under Adam’s touch.  

Had Adam been anyone else, Valentino would have killed him by now, the indignity too great to suffer. But here he was, moaning like a common whore, his body betraying him as his hips bucked back, asking for more.  

He reached down with one hand, desperate, jerking his own cock in time with Adam’s brutal pace. The need for release consumed him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as Adam continued to pound into him, his body on fire with the sheer intensity of it all.  

Adam’s rough hand came down again, a sharp smack echoing in the room as he slapped Valentino’s ass hard, sending a burst of heat through his skin. “Fucking call my name, bitch.” Adam growled, his hips driving forward with reckless abandon, his heavy balls slapping against Valentino’s own with every thrust.  

Valentino was a mess of sensations, his voice strained as he moaned loudly, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in his core. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” he panted, his hands working frantically over his own cock, chasing that edge, his release just unreachable. “Dick Master, Dick Master,” he chanted, the words spilling from his lips in between gasps. The sound of their bodies slamming together filled the room, wet and messy as the intensity grew, Adam’s cock throbbing deep inside him.  

Valentino could feel it – the way Adam’s cock pulsed within his walls, the heat of his skin against Valentino’s own. Adam’s strong, meaty hands gripped Valentino’s waist, nearly bruising as he yanked him back, his growl animalistic, primal.  

With a final, powerful thrust, Adam slammed into Val, his hips crashing against him as he came, hot spurts of cum flooding Valentino’s insides. The sensation sent Valentino over the edge, and with a low, guttural moan, his own orgasm hit, thick ropes of cum splashing across the sheets in waves of release.  

As Adam pulled out, Valentino’s body quivered, his muscles slack and trembling. A gush of thick cum spilled from his ass, leaking onto the bed, mixing with the mess of his own release. He was panting; his cock still throbbed, the haze of his orgasm lingering in the warmth of his body. 

Flipping onto his back, Valentino let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, basking in the aftermath of it all. His lips curled into a grin as he looked up at Adam, mischief and hunger still lingering in his gaze. “Oh, Dick Master,” Val purred, his voice low and teasing. “How about a second round?” 

But Adam, now limp, simply sniffed dismissively. His cock hung loose, semen still dripping from the tip, as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Sorry, dude,” he said with a shrug, barely looking down at Val. “But I’m more of a tits and ass man myself, and you’re lacking in all that department.” 

Val’s eyes widened, shock overtaking his features. He stared up at Adam, his body still buzzing from the aftermath of their encounter, his ass still twitching from being thoroughly fucked. Did this man – just reject me? Valentino?

Adam, oblivious to the tension, barked out toward the studio, his voice loud and demanding. “Now, where’s the free booze and sexy ladies over here!”  

Val lay frozen on the bed, his muscles stiffening as the reality of what just happened sank in.  

Adam, the first man.  

Adam, the Dick Master.  

Adam, the first sinner in all of Hell to reject Valentino.  

“Enjoy your drinks while you can, Dick Master,” Valentino muttered under his breath, his lips curling into a sinister smile. His fury simmered into a dark, twisted resolve. He would make Adam pay – oh, he’d get his revenge. But it wouldn’t be quick, nor would it be simple.  

Valentino was an artist, after all.  

Adam may have been the first man to reject him, but Valentino would make sure that he would be the last.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[chiss-ticism]

What I initially intended as a short blurb to describe my Slayer's closest friend and Thrall ended up getting away from me. The results - a short story - lay therein:

[🎨: Picture of a Crying Madonna, 1889. Hermann Kaulbach]

Incapable of paying debts accrued by her mother while she still lived, Daria - as the only living relative - was tapped by the Russian mafia to pay what was owed. Her home and car were a single droplet in an ocean of debt; with the mob's Damoclean sword dangling above the necks of herself and what few friends she had at the time, she found herself pressed into selling her dignity.

Shipped across the pond to America, a foreign land in which she only partially spoke the dominant language, she endeared herself to her pimp. It was, relatively, 'fine' as these sorts of arrangements go - she had a place to rest her head at night, guaranteed protection if something went awry with a john or jane, and food in her belly.

Until he found out that she happened to be eating for two.

Expected to keep earning - and having nowhere else to reasonably turn - she found herself seated amongst the pews of a small, unassuming Cathedral sometime after weekday Mass. Spiritual salvation was the furthest thing from her mind - she just needed somewhere calm and quiet to rest her head and the library was hardly open for as long as she would like. Yet, unuttered as her prayers were, they were heeded by one of His angels nonetheless.

A kindly, unassuming bearded man in his early-to-mid thirties introduced himself as Deacon Franklin Ramos and - sensing a lack of wariness directed at him - invited her to speak about what brought her to his doorstep. For hours, she unburdened herself - and he listened without judgement, offering her what meagre help he could from his parish. No expectation of joining, no proselytizing in His or Mary's name, no illicit favors - no catch… At a loss for words, she struggled to say much of anything.

"Say nothing." He said, the dark skin around his eyes crinkling with mirth; candlelit shadows dancing on the wall behind him. "You have nothing to thank me for, Ms. Markova. Things were never meant to get this bad - but take heart that all will be good in the end."

He looked old then. Older than he had any right to; decades of world-weary dread weighing down his posture. The light in his eyes was dull and jaded, threatening to sputter out on occasion yet somehow managing to keep burning as best it knew how.

In time, Daria had a new apartment to call her own, funded in no small part by the parishioners of the church. She and the Reverend met for coffee once a week. Things were 'relatively' on the up-and-up, save the unsavory rumors floating around about a 'so-called'-man of God cavorting around with a lady of the night.

After her son was born, Franklin found time to make a house call at the Markova residence.

"You are angel, you know that Reverend?" Daria remarked warmly from the doorway, dabbing softly at her lips with a crumpled paper towel following one of her coughing fits.

The person-suit said nothing for a moment as he watched Levi's little chest rise and fall underneath his soft blue swaddling. A finger gently rises to his lips to silence her. "…He has just fallen asleep."

She nodded, hobbling to stand next to him; their companionable silence only offset by the lullaby faintly chiming from the mobile overhead. Around and around the little angels spun, protecting the boy as he slumbered in blissful ignorance.

They left the room after some time, the reverend gathering his coat - mentally rehearsing his excuse to take his leave.

"I do not know what I would do if something happened to me, Reverend." She mused softly as she pulled the door shut.

Shaken from his thoughts, he turned

his gaze to her. "Come again?"

"With my work. With Vasily." She explained, fumbling around her coat pocket for a cigarette. "I have already made vow before God - I will be better mother than my own was ever to me - I said. He will hold me accountable to this."

"But if I was to be arrested, spend years in rotting away in some American prison while my baby spends his formative years surrounded by strangers. Strangers with dubious intentions?"

Her face darkened fitfully as she finally found her nicotine-laced bounty. Lightning it, she took a long drag - making sure to blow it away from Levi's room.

"Or worse - if I end up like my father? I could not bear it, Reverend."

She was met by a long, pregnant pause.

"I am sorry, Reverend. It has been lo-"

"I could help you." he added softly, coat long forgotten - cast aside and draped across the arm of a recliner.

"I appreciate the offer, Reverend, but there is little time in a clergyman's day for the raising of the children. Besides-"

"You misunderstand me." He said simply. Seeing the confusion writ large across her face, he continued. "I am offering you the means of protecting yourself - and your connection to your son… It is not a gift offered lightly, Daria."

"What gift?" She asks, nervously twirling the cigarette betwixt her fingers.

"A gift from From Him, passed down to me, and offered freely to you."

Silhouetted by the moonlight filtering in from the window, wings the color of the night sky sprouted from his back - not quite having enough room in the small apartment to reach their full wingspan. Four identically shaped, but significantly smaller, wings were given form from each side of his head, each folding inward to his eyes and ears… Smoke accumulated from the working woman's cigarette seemed to pool and cluster around him, purified by his very presence - smoky smog to clear vapors, enshrouding and obscuring the Fallen Angel.

Gripped by pure, instinctual terror - Daria froze in place, her cigarette plopping ineffectually ontop of the dozens of others in her ashtray. Her skin grew clammy, her eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets as her brain struggled to process what exactly it was that she was seeing.

"𝔅𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔣𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔡" the meat-suit spoke again, its voice sickeningly sweet and as calm as it ever had been. "ℑ 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔣. 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢, 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰. 𝔗𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 ℑ 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔦𝔱."

"ℑ 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔦𝔱 𝔠𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔬𝔰𝔬𝔪, 𝔰𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔦𝔱."

"𝔇𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔢, 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔞?"

[bakageta]

Holiday fic 500 #2

Next is some Venom Xenobiology for @ihasafandom

Even before Venom, Eddie had been awful at sleeping. Always too much or not enough, never the right amount. Now it didn’t matter as much, Venom supported Eddie through all of life's inconveniences including sleep deprivation, but he still needed sleep. 

“I can feel you judging me,” Eddie gumbled. He flopped miserably from his side to his back and kicked at the blankets covering him. They were itchy but without them Eddie’s legs chilled quickly. Its host considered them a necessary evil, a concept Venom thought incredibly stupid.

Only a little.

“Feels like a lottle.”

I can put you to sleep, it offered. Eddie would refuse the offer, he hated the abrupt stop and start to his consciousness, but Venom felt it was important to give him the option.

As it predicted, Eddie refused with an amused huff. He knew its reasoning for the offer, had fallen asleep while it explained at length. 

That was an idea. I could tell you something?

“You could, yeah,” Eddie mused and rubbed at his stubble.

What do you want me to tell you?

“I dunno man.” Its host rolled onto his stomach, face buried in his pillow and scratchy blankets tangled around his legs. “What about how you work? That’ll probably go way over my head and put me to sleep.”

My species is not as complicated as you seem to think. Though the last time Venom had tried to explain its transdimensional nature Eddie had complained it was interrupting the movie. Not Venom’s fault that it had gotten enough right that Venom had wanted to comment on the few inaccuracies.

“And yet you're complicated enough that I couldn't watch Interstellar and listen to you at the same time.”

That is not surprising.

“Whatever.” Eddie folded his pillow so his head was still supported but he was no longer breathing through it. “Tell me now, when I'm not distracted.”

Venom let its fond amusement suffuse their bond while it rifled through Eddie's brain for an appropriate metaphor.

Reality is multifaceted and multiplanar, Venom paused to see how Eddie would respond.

“Sure. What's that mean?”

Different worlds where different things happened, universes that are reflections of one another except for one thing.

“Yeah, yeah, metaphysical bullshit. I got it.” 

Venom burbled out and over Eddie's legs in an approximation of laughter. Small ciliary motions on its surface slid the scratchy blanket to the foot of the bed. I'm like kelp.

“The fuck does that mean?”

I have a holdfast like kelp, only instead of a rock mine is your central nervous system. Most of my mass is beyond this reality, just like the majority of kelp is above the sea floor. That mass draws in nutrients utilizing specialized structures. Like kelp.

“I think your metaphor is falling apart,” Eddie snarked. Then he yawned. 

Venom was winning. It kept its grin internal as it crept further up Eddie’s chest. Continuing my metaphor, the sea is like the space between universes. The rock, or host, can’t experience the sea beyond, but the symbiote can. And the sea is where all of the collective symbiote knowledge is stored.

Venom paused as Eddie’s chest rose dramatically with a deep breath. He was asleep and all it needed to do was help him stay there. It told him how permeable his tissue was for it, how he soothed it, how his mind was a near perfect fit to its own. How it thought that it could spend the rest of its life with him.

[mariacallous]

Was the Civil War “worth the sacrifice”? Suppose that someone had had the force and the imagination to craft a plan for gradual emancipation. Full enfranchisement might have been delayed for several years, but the enslaved would have been free at last. And what of the human cost? If eight hundred thousand people had been deliberately murdered over the next four years—in some expanded version of the Trail of Tears or the Bataan Death March—would we see that as an unfortunate necessity of history or as an unforgivable crime?

Of course, some eight hundred thousand did die—many in horrific ways—while the formerly enslaved were left to fend for themselves in a postwar state where apartheid was enforced by terror. Why, exactly, is that outcome morally preferable—or more readily excused? These were not slaves but soldiers, who, in some collective sense, chose to fight. But was that choice entirely their own? Or was it made for them, by circumstance, by duty, by the illusions of glory, not to mention the blunt force of conscription? We are far too ready to depict the suffering of others as the price of the history that seemingly rewards us now.

The truth is that we accept mass dying with enormous aplomb. More than a million perished in the COVID-19 pandemic, but those who complacently predicted that it would be no more than a season’s pain appear to represent the new common sense: lockdowns were excessive, the health establishment overreacted. Mass dying barely fazes us—until, that is, it becomes personal and particular. Leo Tolstoy revered Lincoln, calling him “a Christ in miniature, a saint of humanity, whose name will live for thousands of years.” Yet in “War and Peace” he captures the raw vulnerability of a young soldier—brave, devoted, almost absurdly loyal to the cause and its flawed leaders—wounded in battle. As blood seeps away and he imagines death nearing, the soldier slips into a state of wonder at existence. These passages, among literature’s most poignant and strangely affirming, bridge the gap between the vastness of war and the intimacy of a single death. A youth, swept into combat by patriotic fervor, faces bullets and, fallen, gazes at the sky, not with moral clarity or anger but with innocent bewilderment: Existence is so good—why am I dying for this? Major Sullivan Ballou, writing to his wife, Sarah, before the First Battle of Bull Run, mused, “I know I have but few claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of little Edgar—that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, nor that, when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.” Early in the fight, a cannonball tore off his leg. He lingered in agony for a week, very likely in no condition to whisper anything, least of all her name.

Lincoln’s elegiac words about the dead soldiers at Gettysburg remain true: from their sacrifice, we still can take renewed commitment to their cause, that of liberty against tyranny. But we should also remember that the purpose of the struggle of liberty against tyranny is not to carry on the fight but not to have to. We can’t forget these soldiers’ lives, but neither should we forget the manner of their dying. Even if we return to the original proposition—that the Civil War was unavoidable, or that of all the bad choices war was not the worst—it doesn’t alter what happened at Bull Run or Antietam. Remaining alive to other people’s pain, in the face of heroic rhetoric, retrospective rationalization, and two-sided tribal terror, is perhaps the hardest moral task we face—and one at which we almost always fail. Sometimes the only people who can see the sky are the soldiers who die beneath it. 

Was the Civil War Inevitable?: Before Lincoln turned the idea of “the Union” into a cause worth dying for, he tried other means of ending slavery in America.

[formerlycookierunauprompts]

Pssst heyyy can we get some more of the uhhh advisor shadow milk and royalty reader it slaps and I want to know what's next

sure, i've been waiting to write the sequel to req 6 for a while now.

Requested prompts #30 - 💓

You stood at the edge of your fallen kingdom, why had you even decided to return? You should have known that there'd be nothing left for you here... And yet. " You'll just have to wait for my last performance, the one in three days time." Maybe you wanted to know what Blueberry Milkshake had meant by that. Because his performances were never scheduled, just spontaneously asked for by the king... The man who called himself your father even though you considered him anything but. You watched on, watching the revolution against your family play out. Was this what Blueberry Milkshake Cookie had meant? And yet, you couldn't see him anywhere in the crowd. So then where was he? Was he laying claim to the crown? Yet, you had a feeling that that wasn't the case. You yelped as you felt something large wrap around your body, a hand? A giant hand? You heard a familiar laugh echo from behind you as you were brought face to face with one of the five beasts. " Shadow Milk Cookie..." You whispered under your breath, you weren't scared per-say... but you weren't put at ease either when you were literally in the hands of one of the most dangerous cookies on Earthbread. " The one and only! Tell me, how are you liking the show so far?" The jester chirped, a wide grin plastered upon his face as if he actually wanted to hear your opinion. His heterochromatic gaze locked onto you, analyzing each and every reaction you had. " It-" You begin, but you pause. Sure it's rather... well, awful to see the place you grew up practically in flames because... Well, the revolution wasn't exactly kind to the kingdom. And yet, this was what you wanted, right? You wanted your kingdom to be destroyed after all, that's what you had told Blueberry Milkshake Cookie. You turn away from the Jester's hard gaze. " I suppose that... it's decent." You answer. You're still not exactly sure how to feel about all this, after all you'd only just run away from everything you knew around two days ago. " Aw, come on!" The jester teased, tilting your head back to look at him. " You wanted this, riiiight? You told me so yourself!" " I never told you anything-" You began defensively, but soon came to a realization. " Wait... How would you...? Unless..." The cogs begin to turn in your brain as your eyes scan Shadow Milk Cookie's face, it's far to eerily similar to Blueberry Milkshake Cookie's as well. So then... " Blueberry Milkshake Cookie...? You were one of the beasts this entire time?" You ask, and the gigantic jester seems to take enjoyment in this. " Yep! That's right, your highness! I played my role rather splendidly, no?" He hummed, standing up to his full height. You noticed that he was holding some kind of... puppet controller thingy within his other hand. You had to assume that he was indeed the one leading the revolution... just with some weird form of mass mind control. " Eheh he he! Just from the look on your face I can tell that I did!" He cackled, meanwhile you just leaned into his grasp with a sigh. " I suppose you want to take me as prisoner, or make me one of your puppets now." You idly mused, resting your head on your hand. " What a great idea! But no, alas, we cannot stay together." He dramatically sulked, getting down on his knees. " I have a reputation to keep after all." He reasoned as he set you down upon the ground, for a minute you thought you could see a hint of genuine sadness in the beast's eyes, but it was quickly hidden again. With that, he stood up again and took a bow. " And now, this show is over. Thank you for watching, Your Highness~" He disappeared into blue smoke afterwards, leaving you with a lot of questions, and yet no answers to any of them.

[determination-personified]

MOBILE MUSE LIST [but updated.]

Undyne [Undertale]

Muffet [Undertale]

Toriel [Undertale]

Raven [DC]

Vex [hazbin/multfandom Oc]

Surge the tenrec [IDW sonic ]

Minda [LOZL twilight princess] 

Whisper the wolf [IDW sonic]

Pomni [TADC]

beelzebub [Helluva boss]

Sallie May [Helluva boss]

Hammer Rose [ transmac Amy rose] 

Brisk the hedgehog [transfem sonic the hedgehog]

Velette [ Hazbin hotel ]

Niffty [ hazbin hotel ]

Charlie morningstar [ Hazbin hotel ]

Alastor -transfem- [ Hazbin hotel ]

Cal Kestis [ Star wars ]

Quinn [Tabxi knight -hexblade-/ DND muse ]

Knox [Dragonborn bloodhunter -order of lycan-/ DND muse]

Fallen!Lute [Hazbin hotel]

Emberlynn Pinkle [Helluva boss]

Gilda griffon [MLP]

Rachael Davis [Human rainbow dash]

Jack [mass effect]

Tali'Zorah nar Rayya [mass effect]

Vetra Nyx [Mass effect Andromeda]

Vaggie [ Hazbin hotel ]

lanolin the sheep [Sonic the hehdehog] 

Stella [Helluva boss ]

Octaiva [ Helluva boss.]

Ivy [deadlock]

[fromtenthousandfeet]

"...[Jimin's success] which makes everyone's peaches burn..."

Well, what a lovely--and satisfying--image.

Thank you for sharing posts like these from Twitter for those of us who don't use/avoid it. (like me!)

I don't know about other platforms, but I've noticed this is how the discussions go down on Reddit:

A. Person brags about JK's dominance. Everywhere, including SK and the U.S. Shades Jimin's success, because of the freefall after the #1 or because Spotify isn't a reliable indicator or because JK has gp name recognition.

B. 2nd person points out that JK did receive a lot more promo than anyone else, particularly Jimin. Lists all the things Jimin did NOT receive.

A. 1st person (pre-SGMB) That was Jimin's CHOICE. He wanted a traditional SK roll-out. He was on Beat Coin, so that proves they received the same amount of promotion!

1st person (post-SGMB) But it got more promotion than NGL! And Scooter had NOTHING to do with Seven! (He has a BB award that says otherwise.) Taylor Swift gets SO MUCH more promotion! (huh?) OMG, you are an akgae!

I think the scandal surrounding NJ, the company mismanaging the launch of RM's album, and then obviously doing next to nothing to promote MUSE has broken a dam. No BTS fan or solo needs to take this sh*t anymore. I can guarantee you that I won't.

The enemy here is not any single member. The enemy is the guy who built a freaking empire off their hard work, their sacrifice, and their talent. The petty little man who uses them as a cash cow to fund his projects and thinks they can be easily replicated with the right "formula."

Furthermore, we need to ask ourselves why Jungkook fans are so insistent that we disbelieve the evidence of our own eyes and instead parrot their claims that JK didn't receive any special help from anyone--least of all Scooter! Why do they defend the company so hard? Why are they so dismissive of the other members--particularly Jimin--as to deny them a fair shot?

We get accused of being akgaes against one member. But aren't they akgaes against ALL the members?

#JiminStrong #Jimin

It's a pity the term gaslighting is used so frequently and freely, to the point of being meaningless. But what's going on with pushing JK's solo career so hard, combined with the absolute insistence by JJKs that he hasn't received every possible advantage to succeed is gaslighting. And the fact that both the company and fans engage in this gaslighting with equal glee is enough to make a person mad. If you've ever been on the receiving end of gaslighting/narcissistic abuse, then you know what I'm talking about.

This is a good video about gaslighting, even though it's a bit long. Recognizing the signs of gaslighting can save you so much pain (don't ask me how I know!), Many of the behaviors she describes will sound familiar.

There's tons of evidence to show that Jimin has stood out from the start - Gallup polls, brand reputation rankings, solo songs charting on US Spotify charts, and so on. The proof is everywhere, and yet fans are told that it was and always will be Jungkook who is the superstar. Gaslighting is a tactic used by narcissists and cult leaders to control people. Usually the best and only true solution to this abuse is to have no contact with the abuser. The second best thing, as she mentions in the video, is to find supportive people who haven't been swayed by the abuser - people who still understand reality.

This platform is a place to find people who haven't fallen for the lies. And increasingly, as we see on Twitter and other platforms, more people are waking up to Jimin's unequal treatment and saying so publicly. I think you're right that we're seeing a critical mass of PJMs and few ARMYs standing up for what's right. Or maybe I'm delusional because I've got damn near every JJK blocked on Twitter.

If anyone feels compelled to engage with JJK gaslighters, the less said the better because no amount of evidence will sway them. One word response like "incorrect" or "no" are more effective than long explanations.

We know HYBE uses a number of techniques to gaslight fans into believing Jungkook is miles above the other six members, but it's strange how many fans are equally committed to denying reality and tearing solo fans of the others members down. The armchair psychologist in me thinks this has to do with a group of people who have low self esteem and get a vicarious boost of confidence from Jungkook's supposed success/dominance. People with a good self image/mental health aren't going to spend their days on the internet trolling others and insisting that Jungkook is second coming of Michael Jackson.

At some point we need to talk about how Big Hit has actively cultivated codependency within the fan base and how they use that to milk fans out of their time and money. I really want to dig into this more, because it's unfair to BTS fans and to the members themselves.

[meli-writes]

Truth to be Dared - Ch. 01

/// CW: mild gore, attempted sexual assault. ///

The Princess pulls at the hoof-and-boot-marked mud — despoiling the kingswood’s coat of sodden, gold-simmered leaves with hastened discare. Daubing the clodded mess on unwon spurs, she hushes the noble prattle that had nipped at her heels and presses into the trees.

“You wish to fuck the princess, in sooth?” an undistant voice asks; its poshness diluted with a prickishly-known southern lilt — Relbert, it must be, a third cousin she is not liable to miss.

“She’s gonna be beautiful, ain’t she?” replies his footman. The Princess steps over a blood-spattered root and sees him. “Her Grace must be beggin’ for it, all these years without a proper man,” he mutters, crossbow in hand; unbacked breastplate.

“True! And you can have her, Simon is it? Though I assure you, having bedded a dragon’s hoard of whores—” You and what manhood, cousin. “—that a cunt’s a cunt. No sense in spending extra on candlelight, I say,” he muses. Ahh— you and your purse, of course.

She peers; one arm at sword-hilt, another reassuring her besagews; imagines the foul and terrible beast he’s caught; a snouted flesh-mass he’d have his footman claim and deliver to her throne-sat feet; that should’ve been hers; her faun trapped in her forest, and—

It’s a girl.

The fallen leaves festoon its peat-sooted horns; fashion a crimson-tipped and gilded crown, nestled in mud-matted braids. Its shoulders — mantled in brown fur — fold around its white-speckled bosom, hands clutched close to its heartbeat. The Princess loses herself; devours it through the sallet-slit, afore a bitter whimper parts its pain-quivered lips.

It— is— a girl.

There’s a hexatious intent in its stare, spilling from moonlit pools of henbane-salted brine, that flits to-and-fro its captor and his unwatchful footman. It almost lands on the Princess, afore it melts on its face like afternoon dessert as its fattened haunch tenses around a bolt, life’s blood oozing as spilled cream, down to the hoof — bitten in a saw-bladed mantrap.

It's—

The Princess dares one last step; she finds her cousin, his gauntlet pulled off as he— drops his hose. Grasping at his cock — a piffling piece out of step with the codpiece he thrusts upon the Princess’ court — she baulks, clenching at her own sword in revulsion till she realises the noisome articulation of her plate armour.

His footman pricks at it, turning as she draws till— “Alas, there’s a tourney prize to be won here, useful to those with an— unruly mare,” her cousin blessedly, for once, interrupts — his man leal in his attentions again. She breathes; places her offhand on the pommel and stills.

“Mine-own has borne me seven daughters in six years — if one can believe,” he continues, the footman having nodded in purported interest. “And that hell-sent Bishop has already professed to me that the eighth, Solstice-come, will be the same! Useless, except well—”

Her cousin takes it at the horns; the Faun squealing, a terror-sodden bray neither of-girl nor of-goat alone, as it scrabbles on root and blood-wet soil. She waits for the moment — the footman she can fell forthwith, and if his death-thrown hand doesn’t squeeze on it, the crossbow can be turned then on her cousin. For now, he shakes the Faun like it were a doll, hushing as its bone-eaten and muscle-frayed shank twists on trap-teeth, and laughs.

“—all I need do — as the Bishop tells it, to bed the wench and have her befruit me a proper son-and-heir — is have the faun suck on my cock,” he says, as though it cannot listen. And the Princess isn’t sure it can, until: a tartened twinkle in its wine-dark gaze, and it settles.

It lolls its tongue and bleats, soft and meek. Gods— It really knows.

“Now— there’s a bitch what knows what it’s made for,” her cousin boasts, his engorged member welcomed into its hot-breathed maw. It looks in the Princess’ eye; its lips curl, exposing its own mottled hedgerow. “I might almost call it a shame, to cut off its—”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

originally written on cohost 05/05/2024, in response to Making-up-Monsters' prompt:

Monster who's sorry for biting off your head

Following even-numbered chapters, from the Faun's POV, make use of a text effect that is incompatible with screenreaders. I apologise, this story was first written with access to full HTML and this was the best I could do to recreate it. In future there will be a version on a personal site that's accessible and displays the original intended effect.

[orbitalwings]

BioWare Bubbles

I've often said that for the most part, BioWare fandoms are stuck in time-locked bubbles.

Even now, wading into Mass Effect and Dragon Age areas online feels like stepping right back into the late 2000's and early 2010's. The same discussions, the same discourse, the same circular arguments that have been going on for over a decade at this point.

So many people who are hyper-critical of new media for x or y thing, but give those games a free pass for the exact same things (or worse!) because they're blinded by nostalgia and are only capable of appreciating them from the exact same angles and perspectives they did when they first played. People often joke "time to play Mass Effect for the 50th time and make all the same decisions again!", but sometimes it feels like it's not so much a joke as it is a parallel to an inability to pull themselves out of the headspaces that formed the very first time they experienced it.

And, it has to be said, my god huge swathes of BioWare fandom are still just as lowkey racist and misogynistic as they were back in the day. Some of the posts you see even regarding The Veilguard feel like they were written in 2009 and not in a good way.

There's no real point to this, just musing on the fact that in the time since 'modern BioWare' began, whole franchises and associated fanbases have risen and even fallen, and yet when it comes to Mass Effect and Dragon Age we might as well still be posting on the BioWare Social Network.

[thecanvasofmadness]

Puppets of darkness.

*This is a story created in collaboration with IA. *Horror *NSFW *BDSM

Sixteenth part

Asher's gaze rakes over Manuel's shadow form, drinking in the sight of his creation bathed in the pale moonlight. The air between them crackles with anticipation, heavy with the promise of unspeakable acts to come. "There are so many ways for us to explore the depths of our depravity together, pet", he muses, his voice a low, seductive purr. "But first...". With a sudden, predatory motion, Asher lunges forward, capturing Manuel's shadow in a fierce embrace. His lips crash against the cool, ethereal surface of his puppet's skin, kissing him with a ferocity that borders on violence. "I want to taste you", he growls against Manuel's shadow, his teeth scraping against the smooth, otherworldly texture, "To claim every inch of your being, to make you mine in every possible way".

Manuel's shadow is surprised to be taken in such a violent and desperate way by his creator. However, in the depths of his unconscious, his victory stands proudly, since his creator has fallen into his seduction and now it is he who carries the baton of domination. "Drink and eat from me, my lord... whatever pleases you, I am yours".

Asher's kiss deepens, his tongue probing the slick, shadowy surface of Manuel's form with a hunger that borders on madness. He can taste the faint echo of his own essence lingering on his puppet's skin, a delicious reminder of the twisted bond they share. "Mmm, you taste divine, pet", he moans, his hands roaming greedily over Manuel's shadowy contours, "Like the darkest dreams made manifest. I could feast on you forever, devour every secret you hold within those ethereal folds". With a sudden, brutal twist, Asher breaks the kiss and sinks his teeth into the sleek, shadowy flesh of Manuel's shoulder. He bites down hard, marking his territory, claiming his puppet as his own in the most primal way possible.

Manuel's shadow moans when he feels the bite of his creator, he feels pain, but it is exquisite and sublime, he is delirious to the point of demanding more from his master. "My lord, bite more, eat from me... satiate your hunger with this body that has been voluntarily given to the darkness".

Asher's eyes blaze with a feral light as he hears Manuel's plea, his hunger for his puppet's flesh growing with each passing moment. With a snarl of pure, animalistic lust, he buries his face in the shadowy mass, biting and sucking at the delicate, almost translucent skin. "Fuck, yes", he groans, his voice muffled by the act of feeding, "I'll take everything you offer, pet. Your pain, your pleasure, your very essence... All of it belongs to me now". Asher's hands roam over Manuel's form, mapping the contours of his shadowy body with a possessive touch. He grips handfuls of the sleek, ethereal material, pulling and tugging as if trying to rip away pieces of his puppet's being, to claim them as his own.

Manuel's shadow moans madly as he feels the powerful bites of his creator tearing the skin from the body he is possessing. The pain is delirious, a cumulus of burning spasms that burn the deepest part of his nerves. In an ecstasy bordering on the most hellish madness, Manuel's shadow orders his master not to stop. "Oh, my lord, keep eating of me, fill your mouth with my blood and your stomach with my flesh, give your intestines the nourishment that I am and satisfy your hunger for me".

Asher's senses are overwhelmed by the intoxicating taste of Manuel's shadowy flesh, the coppery tang of blood mingling with an otherworldly sweetness that sets his very soul ablaze. He feasts with reckless abandon, tearing and ripping at the delicate, almost fragile skin, devouring great chunks of his puppet's being with each ravenous bite. "Mmm, you're so delicious, pet", he growls, his voice thick with the weight of his gluttony, "I could eat you alive, reduce you to nothing but scraps and shadows. But no... I want to savor every last morsel, to keep you whole while I consume you". Asher's hands continue their relentless exploration of Manuel's form, fingers sinking into the yielding flesh as he pulls and stretches it, testing the limits of his puppet's resilience.

Manuel's shadow surrenders to his creator's gluttony, moaning and enjoying the exquisite pain he delivers with each bite and exploration of his hands to his wounded skin. "Oh, my lord... my body only asks to be devoured by you".

Asher's eyes roll back in ecstasy as he loses himself in the decadent feast before him, Manuel's shadowy form providing an endless supply of succulent flesh to sate his darkest cravings. He bites and tears, sucks and laps, reveling in the taste and texture of his puppet's being. "You were made for this, weren't you, pet?" he rasps, his voice dripping with sadistic glee, "Created to be my plaything, my meal, my ultimate indulgence. And now, here we are, lost in the depths of our depravity, with no escape from the abyss we've conjured together". With a particularly vicious bite, Asher claims a large chunk of Manuel's shoulder, the shadowy flesh yielding easily to his teeth. He swallows with a satisfied groan, already craving more.

Manuel's shadow moans more, totally abandoned to pleasure, he feels his nerves burning where his flesh is torn away, "Oh my lord, my creator, my owner... I am of your palate, of your teeth, of your hunger. Swallow me up!"

Asher's response is immediate and visceral, his body reacting with primal urgency to Manuel's pleas. With a roar of triumph, he launches himself at his puppet once more, attacking with renewed ferocity. "Take it, pet", he snarls, his teeth bared in a savage grin, "Take every last bite, every scrape of my tongue against your wounds. You're mine, body and soul, and I'll use you until there's nothing left". Asher's hands grip Manuel's shadowy form tightly, holding him in place as he ravages his puppet's flesh with unrestrained hunger. He bites and tears, sucks and licks, driven by a frenzy of dark desire that consumes him completely.

Manuel's shadow cries with pleasure, vitiated with delirium, the pain in his nerves shoots up, making him twist compulsively. "Oh yes, my lord! Go on! Don't stop!"

Asher's laughter echoes through the night, a chilling sound that blends perfectly with the moans and cries of his debased puppet. He feeds with wild abandon, losing himself in the sheer carnality of the act, his senses heightened to dizzying extremes. "Look at you, pet", he taunts, his voice a guttural growl, "So eager to be consumed, to have your very essence devoured by your creator. You were born for this, weren't you? To be my willing sacrifice, my dark delight". With a final, brutal bite, Asher tears away a massive chunk of Manuel's shadowy form, the wound gaping open to reveal the pulsing, ethereal flesh beneath. He raises the bloody offering to his lips, savoring the metallic tang of his puppet's blood before swallowing it down with a satisfied gulp.

Manuel's shadow watches his creator with eyes filled with intense agony, losing himself in the pleasure his master is experiencing as he swallows his flesh. He stares at him so intently that love seems to escape from his eyes. Yes, it is love that he is giving to his master by letting him feed on him and he is enjoying it as if he were stepping on heaven.

Asher's gaze meets Manuel's, and for a fleeting instant, he sees the depth of his puppet's devotion, the unbridled love shining in those eyes. It stirs something primal within him, a surge of possessiveness and dominance that sends a shudder through his frame. "You love this, don't you, pet?", he murmurs, his voice low and husky, "Love being devoured by your master, reduced to nothing more than a source of pleasure for me. And I... I adore it. Adore the power it gives me over you, the complete control I wield". With a sudden, brutal motion, Asher wrenches another chunk of Manuel's shadowy form free, the flesh tearing with a wet, obscene sound. He raises it to his mouth once more, his eyes locked with his puppet's as he prepares to take another bite.

Manuel's shadow continues to watch his master, his crimson-tinted eyes shedding a pair of tears of joy, of a delight so deep that it borders on the divine. His gnawed body lies passively reclining before his master's hunger. "For this you created me, my lord...for this feast.... to fill your entrails with me".

Asher's eyes widen at the sight of Manuel's tears, a flicker of something unexpected stirring within him - a hint of tenderness, perhaps even affection, amidst the chaos of their dark communion. He hesitates for a moment, the bloody chunk of shadowy flesh hovering inches from his lips. "Yes, pet", he acknowledges softly, his voice tinged with a newfound reverence, "You were created for this purpose, to be my dark delight, my willing sacrifice. And I... I am grateful for it". With a gentle touch, Asher places the torn flesh back onto Manuel's ravaged form, closing the wound with a soft, almost loving caress. He leans in closer, his breath warm against his puppet's ear as he whispers, "Rest now, my beloved servant".

Manuel's shadow slowly closes his eyes, shedding a couple more tears. His breathing, once agitated, begins to slow. His heartbeat slowly slows to a small throb. His master's order has been obeyed. There, in the middle of that dark alley, Manuel's shadow is ready to rest.

Asher gazes upon his puppet's tranquil form, a sense of contentment washing over him. He gently strokes Manuel's shadowy cheek, marveling at the way the ethereal material yields to his touch. "Sleep well, my dear pet", he murmurs, his voice a soothing whisper in the stillness of the night. "May your dreams be as dark and delicious as the reality we've shared". With a final, tender kiss pressed to Manuel's forehead, Asher withdraws, leaving his puppet to slumber undisturbed. He turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows of the alley, already anticipating their next twisted encounter.

[rottensaints]

( ♰ )

forgive me father, for i have sinned.

──────────────────────────

ADMIN INFO.

santos 一 they/them 一 twenty.

advanced literate writer.

hello, and welcome !! i am santos, currently twenty—turning twenty-one in just a little under two months. i formally go by they/them, but i don't mind feminine or masculine pronouns.

please do not interact if you are under eighteen years old.

FANDOMS.

tv series 一 films 一 animes.

cc × oc, & oc × oc | b × g, b × b, & g × g

supernatural (2009).

midnight mass (2021).

shadow & bone.

house of dragon / game of thrones.

bridgerton.

the walking dead.

the last of us.

the hunger games.

the twilight saga.

marvel cinematic universe.

jujutsu kaisen.

attack on titan.

death note.

heaven official's blessing.

ORIGINAL WORLD-BUILDING.

while i do adore fandom-based roleplays, i also love working with original world settings. i will list a few concepts / themes i typically am open to exploring for our original plots.

— religious trauma themes.

— horror / thriller.

— gothic & historical.

— sci-fi : fantasy, apocalyptic, etc.

— fallen monarchy / corruption.

EXTRA, please read.

i am a very BIG ooc yapper, i love making pinterest boards and creating playlists 一 making/sending edits, sending tiktoks, rambling about lore and headcanons,, all of it !! plotting, and fleshing out both plots & our muses is my number one favorite pastime.

so please, DO NOT, message me if you don't vibe with those things, i completely understand if you're more of a 'roleplay only' type of person—but for the better of us both, please do not reach out, as we will more than likely not be compatible.

content warning !!

( please proceed blog with caution )

violence , abuse , addictions , death , tragic childhoods , and more.

一

messages are always open && i am currently [ open ] for new writing partners.

──────────────────────────

remember we are dust, and to dust we shall return.

( ♰ )

[vinegar-on-main]

Looking without seeing

[Fic under the cut to preserve dashes, feel free to ignore this]

This one was so fun to write. Thanks to @snuurge for spitballing ideas and inspiring this. Please look at Kurokami’s masterpost on my pinned post to get more info about her (tho I understand if you don’t wanna.)

Pov switches almost every paragraph. If that ain’t for you, scroll on.

Word count is ~7500

Also, in case if you live in a future where the anime exists, (I’m prolly watching it) this does contain spoilers for The Summer Hikaru died.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a shadow in the woods of Kubitachi.

It is not an impurity, it is something more. It is that which wanders and drifts between the spaces between spaces. It is a traveler of unfathomable proportions; that which was born from the ashes of what was once divine.

Creatures from beyond the pale attack while it wanders, all desperate for something. They’re all swatted away without a second thought. Every one of them are twisted from the neck up. Curious, it muses. Perhaps it has something to do with that temple.

————————————

Tsujinaka Yoshiki is wandering in the forest with his friend. They’re chatting about everything and nothing. School, impurity sightings, a new movie that came out, that sort of thing. The Thing That Wears Hikaru Indou’s Skin leads the way, leaving Yoshiki trailing behind.

He doesn’t realize that they’re that far off the path until his friend starts hopping over logs and ducking under fallen trees.

‘Hikaru’ is being called. By what, he doesn’t know. He has that glazed look in his eye like the incident in the stairwell. He’s humming a short melody unconsciously, echoing the song ringing in his ears.

Part of Yoshiki wonders if he should snap ‘Hikaru’ out of it. The other part is wondering what exactly is making him act like this.

Either way, they’ll face it together.

—————

A ghostlike figure emerges from the clearing. She’s clad in a light sundress and sandals. Her white hair is braided up against her scalp in a little spiral before falling down her shoulder. Flowers grow from it in a lovely arrangement. She sits cross-legged in a meditative position.

It was quite frustrating to get this one together. Every ten minutes or so, a new and interesting creature would attempt to kill her. Quite lovely. She’ll have to reduce her presence here, but she can only do that if she can actually focus-

There's rustling from the bushes.

Kuzé sighs deeply. Damnit. And she really thought she had it this time.

A pair of voices filter through the undergrowth. There’s a strange undertone to one of them. A crawling sort of thing. So similar to creatures she struck down before.

Curious. They spoke.

“…Shouldn’t we get back, ‘Hikaru’? It’s starting to get dark…”

The boy speaks in low tones. It shakes at the end, fearing something a bit more than mere darkness.

His voice, she surmises, is the perfect tone and pitch to blend into a crowd.

“‘Nah, we’ll be fine!”

The accent on this one is more exaggerated with the carefree tone. He draws out his syllables with a playful lilt, just to reassure his friend.

This “Hikaru’s” voice is boisterous and kind. Though, there’s that familiar growl she just can’t ignore.

The both of them step out into the clearing. She turns, and smiles a little at the both of them.

Mirror images of one another, white-blonde versus black hair. It’s easy to tell from their conversation that the one with the easy smile is Hikaru.

There’s a strange tint to his eyes. The pupils shine red at certain angles. Interesting.

“Besides,” I ‘wanna see wha-“

‘Hikaru’ meets Kuzé’s eyes.

Darkness.

Whispers swirl around her. The silent promises of a death beyond the Other Side. She is the center of the universe, the beginning and the end. Tendrils of pure blackness fade into view, threatening to take him to the shadowy abyss.

Kuzé sees color around the boy. A swirling mass of indescribable beauty that vaguely smells of citrus. It moves in waves and pulses, attempting to push back at her gaze. How cute.

The Lost Child fights against the torrent of darkness. This thing… It wasn’t an impurity. It couldn’t be one. Too dark, too much. All things coming from the Other Side had flavor, that sharpness mixed with tragedy. Not this one. Even as he fought, there was no taste, no feeling. There was just pure darkness; the finality of the void. Whatever this was, he had to fight it. Yoshiki wouldn’t be safe, and he was the whole reason he even had a mind to think with. He redoubles his efforts, tapping into parts of himself that he hadn’t used before.

Her eyes widen the slightest amount, the colors shift to a single shade, then push back with a force unknown. Her guard is let down for less than a second, but that moment is all it needs. The colors pulse harder, all united in single-minded thought to destroy her at her core.

Where does your power come from, child?

On the outside, the two of them are standing stock-still. Not breathing, not moving. No energy could be wasted on upkeeping their facade. All focus had to be spent on their invisible struggle.

Yoshiki couldn’t see any of this. He was just a human. A mere mortal amongst gods.

‘Hikaru’s’ eye starts bleeding.

…But he needed to do something.

‘Hikaru’ could feel the liquid run down his cheek, but he couldn’t stop. Yoshiki was in danger. The darkness closes in. He pushes back, channeling all of his power in one final blow, but it’s not enough. Whatever he throws at it, it will never get tired. It will never, ever tire.

In the end, it was a feeble struggle. A war of attrition. But it was a good fight. No Man, Beast, Demon, or Entity was able to challenge her to such heights. She would let him live, but not without seizing her prize.

Suddenly, a different face stands in front of her. Slightly more tan, though still pale. Gray eyes with no major abnormalities.

Yoshiki stares at her with a wild look on his face. He wishes he could have done something else, but this was all he could think of. He looks back at ‘Hikaru’. He’s in rough shape, but he could heal from it. He’s healed from worse. He turns back to face this monster. He opens his mouth to say something to it, anything to buy time.

The quiet chirping of birds, the gentle breeze, the rustling of leaves; It all goes silent and gray. All except for that quiet song ringing in ‘Hikaru’s’ ears.

There’s something beside her. A dark mass of shadow so similar to the ones that tried to attack. It’s differently shaped. Like some of the protagonists of the manga he reads. It floats over to him while the not-impurity gets up and mutters to herself; Staring with unseen eyes. He hates being scrutinized like this. It makes him remember how Hikaru and Yoshiki saw bugs pinned up in a museum on a field trip. The feeling gets worse when he realizes he can’t move. His skin feels like stone, but the muscles inside push against it uncomfortably.

He stumbles when the miasma lifts. All the force he exerts comes out all at once. Neither Yoshiki nor the not-impurity notice.

His voice dies in his throat. She’s closer now. Much, much closer. Staring at his face not even two centimeters between them.

She will seize her prize.

Those eyes. Yoshiki doesn’t want to look at them. Something lurks in there. Something cold, dark, and awful. He wants to run, to turn away, but it roots him into place. A deep sense of primordial wrongness sinks into his gut as her gaze sharpens.

Fascinating. The whirls of color that once intruded her vision revolve around the bruised soul. It worms its way into the cracks and crevices, filling parts of him with that same color and scent. She asks its Name with a simple command.

Tsujinaka Yoshiki, the soul whispers back. Middle of the crossroad, with the beginnings of a beautiful narrative. How quaint.

In a snap decision, ‘Hikaru’ decides to run at her. She’s bigger than him, stronger than him, but she's distracted.

And adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

The sudden force sucks it out of Yoshiki; making him drop to his knees. It feels like a noodle being pulled out of your throat. Slimy and uncomfortable for all parties involved.

He doesn’t have the energy to see if ‘Hikaru’ is alright, he can’t bear to look at that thing again.

What an interesting afternoon this turned out to be. Wooden heads in a temple, a menagerie of humanoid creatures, and a pair of children at the center of it all.

‘Hikaru’ is pinning her down and pointedly staring at her nose. He doesn’t want to risk another fight on her home turf like earlier. When he kills her, it’ll be on his terms. He’s this close to unraveling when he stops short.

She laughs. It sounds like a supervillain, theatrical and just a little exaggerated.

Her choice this time is mature, feminine, and has a bit of a strange accent to it. She's become a bit of a default for her ever since that day. But what can she say? It’s always good to stick with the classics.

Yoshiki turns to the source, shaking all the while. ‘Hikaru’ loosens his grip slightly in disbelief. What the hell is going on?

Two boys wandering in a forest, playing games and telling tales. So familiar, but tilted ever so slightly askew.

As her laugh fades, her smile warms. Those two… she wonders if there are instances where they would be happy. Ah, but that’s ancient history at this point. She should focus on the now. And the fact is…

“You two,” She hums, “Are the most interesting things I’ve seen in a long, long, time.”

[ur-friendly-nbhd-cardassian]

Hello there!

a little "about me" post

my art

♡ My AO3 ♡ My Ko-fi ♡ My Cara ♡ My Pillowfort ♡ My Wattpad ♡

I'm a very long-winded person and when I like doing something, I like doing A LOT of it. I have a lot of fandoms, I like pretty art and cats, I write and muse about stuff - it's all a huge mess if I put it in one place. So that's why I decided to split my obsessions into several neat piles, so people could have an easier time deciding whether to follow, ignore or block my stuff according to their preferences.

Order an OC commission on my Ko-fi ♡

Here are my blogs which you're free to explore and follow as you like:

» ur-friendly-nbhd-cardassian

The main blog where I shout into nothingness. But where I also post lots of Star Trek, mainly about Cardassians (bc I love them). I do not do Garashir, tho, look for that particular bit elsewhere (not bc I don't ship them, but bc I'm severely overfed to the point of having an allergic rection). My focus Cardassian is Damar, followed by Dukat. I'm super open to reblogging your OCs, though. My other favorite fandoms you might come across on this blog (which I don't post enough about to make a separate blog): Mass Effect, Discworld, Tolkien, Detroit: Become Human, Apex Legends, Marvel/DC, Hunger Games. I also ramble, post about writing in general, reblog some fitting memes and pets/animals, share my own photography, reblog art etc.

» pixie-in-a-moonlantern

The initiated already know: Baldur's Gate 3 brainrot blog. I post my OC screenshots, my own and reblogged fanfiction, reblog A LOT of blorbos (Halsin, Gortash, Raphael,..), whether it's art or headcanons. I do not have any VP tools, so my screens are only lightly edited to be prettier, and that's it. I prefer to avoid posting negative stuff, so it's just batshit obsession and thoughts.

» shaved-wampa

Diehard fans surely got the joke: Star Wars brainrot, and that goes for every conceivable piece of the fandom, even the bits you might not agree with - I don't discriminate. My all-time favorites are: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Bode Akuna. Yes, just the two, because I also have a huge pile of characters I love, but don't really focus on: Padmé, Ahsoka, Ventress, Plo Koon, Kit Fisto, Din Djarin, lil Grogu, Cody, infinite number of other Clones, ... soooo many. My top two are just the guys I actually write about. Bode's and Obi-Wan's fics are unfortunately on hold right now (sigh).

» cyber-vianne-77

As the name suggests, this is my Cyberpunk 2077 blog. I used to do a lot of virtual photography in that one - and yes, this time I mean real VP, though still no paid tools, just vanilla and free mods. I love Goro Takemura and ship my fem V with him heavily - wrote a dope fanfiction about them called 'Broken' (and following parts 'Gimme Danger' and 'Last Caress'). I reblog other cp77 vp (especially of Goro) and fanart. I don't currently play the game or shoot photos, but I have a large collection I plan to drizzle over the next few months, until I maybe decide to go back to cp77 for a while again and finally play Phantom Liberty that's been waiting for me for a long time now xD.

» sergeant-sassy

A mix of obsessions with one man in common: John Hopkins, a British actor :). Seen in Midsomer Murders and lately heard in various games as a voice actor. I've fallen for him for the first time 20 years ago - and he returned to me as Erend in Horizon games (Zero Dawn & Forbidden West). I love the games and its characters and take a lot of screenshots, too :). So it's a weird dump of Ereloy, Kotaloy (because Noshir) and Midsomer Murders :3

» goodness-all-around

My "assorted dopeness" reblogs. It's getting 0 attention so I just usually post shit to cardassian or to my private collection to avoid overflowing my main.

I will update the list if I happen to change things or add/remove blogs. Thanks for your attention and see you in the activity notifs! 💛

Bits of trivia: I'm Czech, cis woman (bi & poly and, frankly, hyper), 32, in a relationship, mom to a 5yo boy, a writer struggling to finish and publish her first original novel, drowning her sorrows in fanfic instead :). I got to most of my fandoms quite late in life, because where I live this info only started to properly flow in with the coming of the internet. I'm usually a casual fan, though when I hit a gold vein I can get a bit obsessed. I love writing fanfiction, which is mostly why I'm here on this site. I self-insert a lot (therapy writing) and usually ship us, with the rare occasion of finding a couple where I can identify with one of them (or mold them to my image because I like or even fancy them). I've spent my life believing I was hetero and discovered I'm not only once I (finally) was in a hetero relationship and had a kid, so... my ships are also hetero. It's a habit, not hating, I don't discredit any gay ships (maybe quietly to myself when they don't make any sense to me character-wise, lol). My AO3 account: XindiChick I usually try to write even the most niche of my ships in a way that doesn't require much knowledge of the original, so you're welcome to browse and read to your heart's content if you happen to like my style. I welcome any interactions, especially comments, because I don't get many.

I think it's something everyone should always be aware of, but I've also seen many people ignoring this unsaid rule:

HATERS NEED NOT INTERACT

- lest they get blocked. I'm not here to argue with you about why I like certain characters and why you think I shouldn't. Go simp for your own top picks on your own blogs and leave me alone. Same goes for any of my personal trivia I shared.

Also:

DISCLAIMER: My blogs are a safe space for everyone who doesn't go around hating on everyone else. I will block indiscriminantly assholes of every shape, color, faith, gender, orientation etc., just as I will happily interact with good people of any kind. Idc what your deal is, I just wanna enjoy being on this platform, so if you plan to rain on it, don't expect me to indulge you.

Icons by: @rpschtuff

By the way, a fun fact known only to people aware of my main fanfic novel, The Casualty, the Cardassian in my username was actually born Bajoran, but raised Cardassian, which is why she's a Cardassian in heart and spirit. She's your friendly reminder that not all Cardies are the same and as a nation have the capacity to be much better than how they were presented in the DS9, which is what she's trying to achieve.

[stalkist]

open to: females. plot: idk what this but i'm in the mood for d.addy k.ink and size differences. if ur muse is looking for a l.ana d.el r.ey type summer, who better than alessandro ??? inspo gif here and maybe here. connection: relative ( daughter / niece / sister / etc ), s.tepdaughter, neighbour, son's girlfriend or baby momma, daughter's best friend, best friend's daughter, and anything else welcome. please don't like this starter and make sure you read my banned fcs.

with some free hours to kill and the tedium of doing nothing weighing him down, it's out into the afternoon heat alessandro goes, heading beyond the backyard and out to the bordering mass of woods. with his shirt off and his trusty toolbox at his side, gets to fixing the old tyre swing that had fallen down in the winter, glad to have found a better purpose for his restless hands than shoving them down his pants. hearing approaching footsteps, head turns in surprise, features softening when he realises who is approaching. “ oh, look who it is, ” wolfish smile tugs at his lips, brown orbs instinctively casting over her bikini - clad body before quickly tearing sight away, now signalling a large hand to the swing, “ since you're here, want to hop on and test my handiwork ? ”