#but literally it does NOT feel like appreciation

[kaisangelgirl]

HIHIIII if your rqs are still open then can i ask for p1harmony pussy eating hc’s? specifically jongseob hehe tysm beautiful

swim - p1harmony pussy eating hcs

warnings: pussy eating, cum eating, edging, overstimulating, somnophilia, spit, squirt, reader is referred to as “girl” (i might be projecting), degrading if you squint?? any feedback is appreciated (as well as reblogs, i’m just getting started!)

##keeho ᡣ𐭩

- he teases you before getting into it, caressing your thighs and rubbing his head against them.

- spreads your folds with his fingers before blowing on your needy cunt.

- edges you until you really can’t take it anymore, not without making you beg when he sees your pretty eyes filled with tears.

“keeho…” you whisper, feeling his teeth against your thigh, just to look down and see all the hickeys he had left on your skin. (…)

“baby, please! i need to cum” you sob, feeling desperate after all the times he had denied your orgasm. “mmh, should i let you? my good little girl wants to cum on my mouth?”

##theo ᡣ𐭩

- has you look at him at every moment, looking up from in between your legs while you run your fingers through his hair.

- moans just from eating you out, is literally rutting against whatever he can find to relieve the heat.

- will do it for fun, even if he doesn’t get anything in return (although if he does, he doesn’t complain).

“keep your eyes on me, love” he mumbles against your core, making you moan once again.

“taeyangie- let me do something, please?” you say, pulling on his hair to stop your movements.

he wasn’t too sure at first, but having you sit on his face while you suck his cock, he doesn’t think you could have had a better idea.

##jiung ᡣ𐭩

- does it to prepare you or as the main thing if he’s too tired to fuck you dumb.

- for the first case, he’ll use his mouth to harshly suck on your clit while he fingers you open, stretching you out to take his cock.

- if not, he’ll have you sit on his face, hands spreading your cheeks and nose against your nub. he pull you down onto him.

“does that feel good, baby? d’you like my fingers inside of you?” when you nod, trying to answer in between cries, he goes back to sucking on your clit.

“ji, please, want your cock” you pout, already craving him after he’s teased you for long.

##intak ᡣ𐭩

- this man is DEDICATED. i can only picture him as a soft dom or sub, but either way he’s a puppy who just wants to please you. he doesn’t care if he gets to cum or not (because he could climax just from giving you head…)

- digs his nails into your thighs and has you rubbing your cunt against his face. he buries his head there and rubs it, getting his entire lower face soaked in your juice.

- he gets so into it he wouldn’t notice you’re past your limit (but enjoying it ofc! he would realise if you’re really trying to stop). overstimulates you until you pull on his hair to make him stop.

“intak, baby, wait!” you whimper “‘s too much”. he pulls away at your tug on his locks, resting on your thigh with dizzy eyes.

when you make him lay on the bed and reach for his boxers, you see a wet patch of precum covering his hard cock.

##soul ᡣ𐭩

- he thinks you’re so cute. but he finds your pretty cunt even cuter. he goes crazy when he notices your light cotton panties allow him to see the outline of it; what can he do if not eat you out through them?

- it will take him a while to take them off, and will just stare at your spread folds for a few seconds, already pussy drunk, before spitting on it and rubbing his drool all over your cunt.

- if you let him, he’ll wake you up every morning with his head in between your legs, eyes closed when he licks you and pulling back every few minutes to admire the sight.

“sho…?” you say, still half asleep. the wet feeling on your core wakes you up, just to see him under the sheets, leaving your white panties covered with his drool before pulling them to the side.

“you look so pretty, baby. pull your shirt up for me?” he says, moving his hands to play with your nipples and ordering you to do so yourself when he’s too invested in eating you out.

##jongseob ᡣ𐭩

- he is INTO IT. will put your legs on his shoulders and pull you as close to him as he can, not without making you beg for it first.

- he might get a little dirty and teasing, but not mean (unless you’re into that…). i’m talking fingering you and eating you out until he finally makes you squirt all over his face, leaking you clean.

- and he might make you kiss him afterwards, tongues intertwined and your taste being shared. most of the time he will rub his cock on your folds (the tip hitting your clit), and fuck you dumb, hoping he’ll make you squirt again.

“seobie, i’m gonna cum- seob wait!” you scream, feeling closer to the edge, knowing it wasn’t just a normal orgasm. he hums against your clit, moving his fingers at an impressive speed, curling them against that one sensitive spot.

after licking your juices clean, he towers over you, his chin dripping, getting closer to your face. “such a dirty girl for me, mmh? making it all messy” he says before kissing you deeply.

[libingan]

—how the tf141 are like when they’re sick.

im sick. that’s literally my only motivation to write this.

i feel like absolute shit but holy fuck i wanted to write this so pls enjoy

no horny juice rn, so its all fluff

JOHN PRICE

when price gets sick, it’s almost like he’s in denial about it. he’s the type to downplay everything—says it’s just a little cough, just a bit of a sore throat. but then, as the fever starts creeping up, you see the cracks in his usual solid demeanor. he’s flushed, his breathing a bit labored, and when you gently place the back of your hand on his forehead, he swats you away at first, grumbling that he’s fine.

“you don’t have to worry about me,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice steady. but the cough that rattles through his chest betrays him, and eventually, even he can’t deny it anymore.

you coax him into bed, tucking the blankets around his broad frame, and he grumbles under his breath about how ridiculous this all is. he’s not used to being taken care of—he’s the captain, the one in charge, and letting someone fuss over him isn’t in his nature. but there’s a moment when you bring him some tea, and he accepts it quietly, his eyes softening just a little as he watches you.

“i’ve had worse,” he rasps, his voice thick with congestion, but when you sit beside him, he leans into the warmth of your presence, even if he won’t admit it. he tries to stay in control, tries to ask about your day or if there’s any work that needs to be done, but you can see how tired he is. when he finally gives in to sleep, his hand rests loosely on yours, a silent acknowledgment that he’s glad you’re there, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK

gaz is the worst when he’s sick, and he knows it. he tries to be strong about it, but the minute the fever sets in, he’s a mess of sniffles, groans, and dramatic sighs. you find him sprawled out on the couch, a blanket barely covering him as he flips through channels, looking utterly miserable.

“i feel like death,” he complains when you sit next to him, and despite the obvious exaggeration, he looks pitiful enough that you can’t help but smile. he’s not usually one to be overly needy, but when he’s sick? he’s all about the attention.

you bring him some soup, and he gives you a weak smile, propping himself up just enough to take a sip. “you’re an angel,” he mumbles, but even that little bit of gratitude is followed by a dramatic cough that makes you roll your eyes.

he’s restless, constantly shifting under the blankets and complaining about how bored he is, how much he hates feeling like this. you offer to stay with him, and his eyes light up, a mischievous glint behind the obvious exhaustion. “you gonna keep me company?” he teases, voice thick with congestion. “or are you just here to make sure i don’t die on the couch?

you settle in beside him, and even though he’s feeling awful, he still cracks jokes, trying to keep things light. but there’s a quiet moment where he leans into you, his head resting on your shoulder as he drifts off to sleep, his breathing finally evening out. you stay there, feeling the weight of him against you, knowing that as much as he’s complaining, he appreciates you being there.

JOHN ‘SOAP’ MACTAVISH

soap is absolutely insufferable when he’s sick, and he knows it. at first, he tries to play it off—still bouncing around, still grinning, still acting like everything’s fine. but then the fever hits, and it’s like watching a hurricane get knocked flat. he’s sprawled out on the bed, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable no matter what he does.

you bring him a glass of water, and he gives you that familiar, cocky grin, even though he’s clearly not feeling well. “you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he rasps, taking the water and downing it in one go. his voice is rough, but there’s still that glint of mischief in his eyes. “ye know, if i weren’t sick, we could be havin’ a lot more fun right now.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no denying the way his teasing makes your heart flutter. he’s always been like this—flirty, cheeky, always pushing your buttons. even now, as he’s lying there, feverish and miserable, he can’t resist making a comment.

“don’t suppose you’ll give me a wee cuddle, eh?” he grins, shifting on the bed and patting the spot beside him. “might help me feel better.”

you know he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, but when you settle next to him, he actually quiets down for a moment, resting his head on your shoulder. his skin is warm, almost too warm, and you can feel the tension in his muscles as he tries to get comfortable

“don’t worry,” he mumbles, his voice soft now. “i’ll be back to my usual self soon enough. ye won’t be able to keep yer hands off me.” despite his words, he’s clearly exhausted, and when he finally drifts off, he’s peaceful for once, his usual energy gone, replaced by the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

when ghost gets sick, it’s like he’s trying to hide it from the world. he’s not the type to show weakness, not even to you, and it takes a lot for him to admit that he’s not feeling well. but eventually, even he can’t fight it off anymore, and you find him in bed, eyes closed, the tension in his body betraying how much he’s struggling.

he doesn’t say much when you sit beside him, offering him some medicine and a glass of water. he just nods, his fingers brushing against yours as he takes the glass, the touch brief but enough to let you know he’s thankful for your presence.

he’s quiet—always quiet—but even more so when he’s sick. there’s no grumbling, no complaining, just the occasional shift of his body as he tries to get comfortable. you adjust the blankets around him, and his eyes flicker open for a moment, dark and heavy with exhaustion.

“you don’t have to stay,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. but there’s no force behind his words, no real intent for you to leave. in fact, the way his eyes follow you as you move around the room tells you that he doesn’t want to be alone, even if he won’t admit it.

you sit beside him, and for a while, there’s just the sound of his breathing, slow and labored. he doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t demand your attention, but the way his hand occasionally brushes against yours is enough. he’s not used to being taken care of, but he lets you stay, lets you be the quiet comfort he needs.

eventually, his breathing evens out, and he falls into a restless sleep. you watch over him, knowing that even though he doesn’t say much, your presence is enough to ease some of the weight he’s carrying, even if only for a little while.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

SUCROSE

Sugar Daddy!Older!König x Organic Chemist!Civ!FReader [NSFW, 4.3k]

You're an organic chemist that sugar babies for a laugh, because your days are dull and long. König is an old, battered soldier of fortune that has been sugaring you with an intensity bordering on religion. Neither of you are going to say the quiet part out loud.

CW: unprotected vaginal sex, doggy style, descriptions of nuclear annihilation, descriptions of the opioid crisis, criminally emotionally constipated adults. Barely edited.

König’s place is Spartan. Most things about him are. But he tells you to do whatever you want, you've got his black card if you want anything, and you raise a brow in question.

“Anything, huh?”

He gives you a dry look. “Anything. Literally, I do not give a shit.”

Almost sounds like a dare.

You don't make yourself too-too at home. This thing is still new—the arrangement, the dynamic, the thrill. You know better that it could burn out at any second and leave you all the way hanging. Not a worry, because you are in charge of yourself, and this is only for fun. 

You've been too abrasive for too long to have faith in the idea that others will look out for you. That's always been your duty to yourself. It's sacred. It's safety. 

But he breathes you deep, wanting you in a way that feels like need. 

He likes it when you just come over to his place, because you don't invite him to yours. He likes it when you don't wear anything fancy in particular. He likes it when you put on his boxers and his t-shirt and crash on the bed with him. 

“Bad work day?” he asks, gaiter pulled up over his nose, hiding his face while some bullshit plays on the TV and his fingers rub tenderly behind your ear. 

“Hm.” It's a huff of a laugh. You stay resting on his chest. Your fingertips have only just slipped under the waistband of his sweats, resting on the small paunch at the bottom of his belly. “Didn't want you getting too comfortable alone.”

“Never been,” he laughs in return, a low and rough haa. “The sentiment is appreciated.”

You feel bad for trying to make the joke. You've never been comfortable alone, either. “It's just something you learn to live around,” you further, hoping like hell he understands, because you lack the words otherwise. 

“Yeah,” he hums, his arm tightening where it wraps around you, because he does. “Yeah.”

There are the quiet nights like those, when he just likes having you pulled tight to his body, running your hand over his stomach, ignoring the litany of scars—surgical, and violent, and otherwise—marring his hide. 

Then there are nights where he's a nightmare, and it is a riot to play with him. 

+

There's no preamble, only action. He sends you money for dinner, and the moment you're done, you're asked over to his place. 

“Do you want me to pick anything up for you? To eat,” you clarify, standing on the curb outside of the first restaurant he ever took you to—it's become a regular in your rotation. You're still in your work clothes. You don't even feel particularly human, just functional. 

Fuck's sake, you didn't even expect him to call tonight. 

“No,” he says, his voice tense, even on the phone, “just you. Now.”

You're barely able to knock on the door before he's snapping it open, gaiter pulled up, wearing Dickies and a fleece. 

“You g—?” You don't even get to finish asking, body in flight.

You yelp in surprise as he snatches an arm around your waist, the other sliding up your sensible, frumpy skirt, curling under your thigh. 

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, and your stomach flips at the bizarre, alien sensation. You've never been small. Delicate. Petite—what a vile word, an ideal adored by many, one that you've never embodied, and never could. There is no amount of plastic surgery or product that will ever make you desirably little. A stupid and furious bead burns down into your sternum, one that turns its face from all the boys and men that moaned for you, buried balls-deep in your tight cunt, only to spin a tight 180° and bitch that they wanted a woman they could toss around, manhandle, feel powerful for moving. 

They would fuck you, and want you, but only at the demand of curiosity, lust, novelty. Who would claim you. Who would ache for you. 

König pulls you onto his hip, gripping your ass cheek tight in one hand, and carries you to the bed.

“On all fours,” he growls, turning and swallowing hard, fishing out his wallet, and as an afterthought catches up with him, he adds, “please.”

Your heart is racing from the way he'd bodily executed his decision with you. Your brain is shocked into a standby state, working on intuition and instinct. You arrange yourself on hands and knees, ass up in the air, and pull your panties down, hobbling your knees. At least those kinda cute, and you have the thigh high hose on, sheer and black with lines down the back. 

You thank every fucking deity you know that you hadn't done your laundry and had clean long-johns to wear under baggy jeans today. 

He drops things in front of your face. Papers.

“What,” you grunt, not a question, a complete incomprehension. 

“Read those.” As if that wasn't clear. He hooks his hands under your hips, making you grab for the papers when he drags you to the edge of the bed. There's popping and a grunt as he gets on his knees behind you, and you barely tighten up your throat enough to catch the bark that wants to escape. 

“Fuck—don't!” you snap, frenzied, but he licks a hot, wet stripe from your clit to your asshole, about ready to bury his face. 

His fingers keep your ass spread open and they tense with frustration when he snipes back, “Vas? What the fuck could you—”

“Just fuck me, I'm already good.” You hear another sound of frustration out of him, something that feels like don't be dumb, since you both know exactly how fucking big his cock is, even for your well-played cunt. “You already got me going,” you hiss, shifting your hips, hating that you feel you have to admit this at all, “you—when you picked me up. That did enough. Just—it's time to fuck.”

His hands relax, sliding to push your ugly skirt up over your hips. “Just from picking you up?” he asks, as if that should be impossible. 

“Yes, just from picking me up,” you shoot back, this close to hiding your face in your arms. “I don’t get picked up. I don’t get—moved. Whatever. It was new. That doesn’t happen to me, unless you’ve somehow missed how I’m fucking built.”

All the air goes out of the room as you pull the admission like pulling your own teeth. A crack in the careful facade. A hairline fracture. You are not perfectly unflappable. You are not wholly without insecurity. You are as weak and human as everyone else. 

What a strange, ugly feeling to allow passage through your chest; a slow, inky swimmer swooping around your lungs and stomach, turning everything it touches to ice. You’re supposed to be untouchable, aren’t you? You’ve gone years without that odd, festering jealousy rearing its head. You’re not sure why it does so now.

König just taps the papers again, his breathing strained and heavy, bending to kiss your neck, just below the spot behind your ear that makes your skin snap with static electricity. “Let me eat your pussy while you read those. Don’t like condoms. Don’t want to use them anymore,” he grunts, the teeth he presses into your neck making you realize that he’s pulled down his gaiter.

It’s a weird enough request that it resets your brain. It allows you to read, your head fogged with discordant lust and curiosity as he sinks back behind you, bathing your pussy in heavy, slow attention with his split tongue teasing your clit.

It’s paperwork. A clean result from a recent STI test, and the discharge paperwork from a vasectomy. For your high-geared mind, it has taken an embarrassingly long time to click. He doesn’t like condoms, and doesn’t want to use them. The papers are assurances to you. He’s clean. He won’t get you pregnant.

In the five percent of your brain that is not being used to process the complete annihilation of your soaked pussy with pleasure, there’s a floor-rolling bout of hysterical, giddy laughter that has taken up residence, darting through the fine links of your firing neurons. 

This is a romantic gesture. He is a frightening, stone-faced man, who is twin to you in strangeness, and this is outpouring of bizarre softness and startling understanding. Is there anyone else in the world that has fucked you, let alone exists, that would know the way you find comfort and security in medical results and discharge papers on official letterheads?

If there is, you’ve never met them, and you don’t think you will.

Between his moves—a filthy, slurping plunge into your cunt, figure eights around your swollen and throbbing clit with the halves of his tongue, and almost delicate, sucking kisses that puff your labia—you still find the energy and wherewithal to bust his balls, even as he’s making you so wet that it slicks your thighs, “Alright. So, how do you know I’m clean?” It is a sentence you can barely manage as your body shakes.

There comes a laugh, rumbling and serrated, as he nips your shaking thigh with his teeth, paired with a familiar clap on the ass like you’re a breeding mare prized not for progeny but sentiment and a fondness for your rotten, crank attitude. “You’re mean as a fucking snake, Schatzi, but I know you’re not mean enough to let me tongue-fuck you if you had something.”

You maybe should not laugh at such a succinct round-up of one of your most defining character flaws, but you are, and you grin sharply looking back over your shoulder at him as he rises. His hands—huge, warm, coarse, careful—slide over your hips to savor your shape.

“Further up the bed,” he coaches you, leaning forward just long enough to press a heavy kiss to your mouth, pushing his tongue past your lips so you can taste yourself mixed with his natural metallic tang. 

One of your hands comes to his jaw, pulling him back in when he tries to move away, for just one selfish moment more, swirling your tongues together, needful of his heat and his closeness and the feeling of your noses crushes together as clumsy as college freshmen set loose in a wide, free world.

“You don’t do fuck-all in half-measures,” you mutter, hand finally sliding away, your lids clicking open crisp. You love seeing the scars mutilating his mouth, the way that flush brightens the coppery tint of his skin. The silver in his hair seems brighter, and the gold of the wheat-colored strands giving the silver a home seems deeper, more molten. 

He is a beautiful man. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, and the look he gives you reads weakness.

What a rotten old soldier. What a battered old war dog. 

You don’t want to think about what it means if the weakness isn’t a figment of your imagination. If it is symptomatic of a larger trend; an oncoming crisis, a trend that sweeps and fells and swallows up entire communities, with a bent toward becoming endemic to the local culture, and almost impossible to kill forever after.

+

The opioid epidemic has always come in greater, and greater waves. 

The first in the nineties, off natural and semi-synthetic painkillers, a slow swell beginning with easier manufacturing, laxer laws, and gargantuan pharmaceutical conglomerates pushing-pushing-pushing the easy writing of prescriptions on countless doctors. Generational seeds buried in families, in communities—germinating at inhuman rates, weaving addiction into the DNA.

The second came with the second decade of the new millenia. A resurgence in heroin, when the world began to come down on doctors with fat Rx pads and quick-writing fingers. When you cannot find a fix legally, you will find it illegally, and it comes at much higher a cost. 

There were always more waves, and different ones, and quieter ones. There were always synthesizers, cookers, designers, manufacturers—legal and illegal alike. 

Fent, roxie, percs, bars. Heroin, krokodil, bath salts, flakka. Uppers. Downers. Barbiturates, benzos, phenobarbital. 

It all ties into dopamine, and the ancient, pointlessly leftover biological mechanic of addiction. The sizzling, bumpers-and-bells-and-bright-lights screech of a reward center well-fed. 

König is a beast of a man, and his brain is brutally hardwired for addiction. He's an alcoholic in on-off recovery, he's a medical req amphetamine junkie. He no longer chases adrenaline like most men chase tail, but he sprints after it in his tense, jerking dreams. 

He's just a dog, with wet sad eyes, and his heart chases after trucks that will never see him around blind turns. His surety that the next roaring beast coming around the switchback bend will finally love him back is the thing that is going to kill him. 

+

König can't spell for shit, and his grammar is a barely functional mess of punctuation and weird spacing, but he has a terrifying mind for numbers and nuclear engineering. He's told you before that it takes 10^-20 seconds for an atom to split to kickoff nuclear fission, the process that powers atomic bombs.

You're a doctor, and it didn't at all feel stupid to ask, “Fuck. How can you even comprehend how fast that is?”

You walked side-by-side with him in winter coats. He shrugged at the time, and said, “Hm. Alright, you're at the market. You're looking at apples, or arugula, or fish, or whatever the fuck. We don't know who hit the button, but the missile carrying the warhead is going twenty-four thousand K-P-H. Fifteen thousand miles per hour. You're in Berlin. As soon as the launch is registered, everyone starts launching.”

He stepped closer, elbow bumping yours. When he registered your hard swallow, he slid his arm around your neck and pulled you into his side. 

“So the bombs are launched,” you prompted him, tucked into his side. “When do I die?”

“You died ten minutes before World War III ended,” he hummed, pressing his nose into the spot before your ear, brushing his gaiter-covered lips over your cheek and ear lobe, “you were turned into pure carbon staining the ground, and you never knew there was a bomb.”

10^-20 seconds for the bomb to perfectly obliterate any and all existence of your entire life. Annihilation so utter, there would be no DNA leftover. 

Bombs, destruction, drugs, addiction.

Control. Control. Control.

König will never know that you passed through the eye of the needle in close to the same fucking unfathomable shard of a second, fighting tooth and nail to choose between launching off the bed, denying his low-simmering feelings, and black listing his entire existence in your memory—versus embracing the insane, helpless plummet, releasing your death grip on the demand of understanding and autopsy of everything unknown. 

Your hand loosens on that chain.

+

“Yeah, fuck it. Fuck me,” you say, recovering from the staggering out of body experience. 

He leaves you ass-up in the cold of his apartment, windows open, and returns with his laptop and his black card, throwing them down in front of you. His hands clap your skin as they land on your hips, anchoring him as he pulls himself into place behind you, stroking his cock needlessly because it can't possibly get any harder or fatter.

“Buy whatever you fucking want. You've got ten grand. You don't spend it, you don't cum,” he grunts in a hoarse voice, and that's every bit of warning you get before he plunges his cock in your soaked, swollen pussy, bucking and grunting as you spasm around him and try to scurry away out of instinct. His hips slam against your ass, hands dragging you back against him, and you feel and hear the noise ripping in his throat like the gut-growl start of a chainsaw.

There’s a wolverine in your throat—something, perhaps, that fought hard, and died even harder than that in another life—and it does not take kindly to being bossed, bucked, bitched. It bares its fangs through your mouth, goading you to turn your head, to catch König’s eyes and lock onto them like you’ve caught him in unkind crosshairs. 

“Do I still get to cum if I just make one big, fat buy?” you ask hoarsely, the silver of your teeth flashing between your lips like a threat, eyes wild and too-bright. “Maybe I buy you a decent fucking couch? A good dining table?”

That mauled mouth of his curls into a smirk, and his hand skates up your back—turning threat and  tenderness into a single entity—gripping the back of your neck firmly, but not cruelly, as he redirects you to the screen. 

“You could. Of course, you fucking could. I’m not a liar. But.” He bends low, snapping a sharp and sweet love bite against the skin of your neck, in a spot that your collars will barely hide. “That would be fucking boring. I don’t think you’re boring.”

The tone begs you to tell him he’s wrong in a challenge.

You laugh, backed into a clever corner, gripping the sides of the laptop, dragging it closer as he starts a slow, rolling rhythm, sliding his cock in and out of you. Just taking his sweet time, warming you up all over again, getting those stiff hips of his to unlock, too—more used to marching and storming, now, than fucking.

You start by faking him out as he stretches your wet, throbbing pussy with his grappling-to-relax rhythm, pulling up a Tiffany Co. hardware necklace selling for $4,100.00. Its greatest sins are that it is not only ugly, but, far worse, it is boring. 

“Schatzi,” he growls, fingers tightening on your hips, and, good fuck, it makes you laugh. That earns you the slam of his hips flush to your ass, stealing the air from your lungs, and his huge hand tightens in the back of your hair, bringing your eyes back up as your head swims and your stomach jumps.

“Got the hint,” you wheeze, clicking off the tab, trying to focus on anything but the size of him inside you, pounding you like a brutal metronome. His breathing is tight, and every stroke of his cock sails him straight across your g-spot. Makes your brain shimmer like the bath bombs and body lava you load your carts with. Makes your guts feel filled with poured platinum, same shade and shine as the teal sapphire pendant earrings you purchase.

The orgasm builds in your lower belly—a broiling heat, a ten-ton tightness, driving your pelvis down with its demanding weight—and König stays steady fucking you, relentless with his perfect, unerring rhythm. Somehow that makes it so much more difficult to withstand. 

The first time you had fucked, he had lasted so long you thought he wasn’t going to fucking cum at all, but, no. He was just beastly in bed, sweat pouring down his temples and chest, eyes smirking over his mask until you ripped the fucking thing down and kissed him. He’d tasted, wonderfully, of your pussy and pleasure.

The stamina of a maniac, and the patience he professes that his younger self could’ve never maintained.

At $8,370, your focus gives, and you almost collapse, elbows sliding out from under you. You bury your head in the blankets beneath you, smelling his cologne and the faint odor of his sleep sweat, and it turns your stomach into a cyclone. You’re kissing the razor’s edge of finishing, so close you feel it flooding your blood like the skull-crack cold of a fresh IV line of saline on a hot, sick stomach.

All at once, he stops, one hand heavy-spread across your lower back, the other tight around the shape of your hip.

“H-huh, f—fuck,” you moan, pathetic and brainless.

“You done?” he asks, breathing hard. He grunts like the grit of a stone mill when you nod your head, then shake it, body too confused to settle on an answer. “Think about it. You’re almost there. Tell me how much you have left to spend.”

You turn your head in the blankets, taking a sideways glance at the screen. It’s hard to tell. His hand slips lower, between your legs, cupping your pussy and applying pressure, though he doesn’t play with you. 

Simple math. You’re a doctor. This should not be difficult. But Sisyphus would have an easier time pushing his damned boulder up his hill than you are with basic subtraction.

“One—one-six-three-nil.”

“Mm. Mhm. Sixteen hundred. I’m almost done, want you to cum, too. Get creative.” His voice is hoarse, tight with restraint, and even in your stupor, you can tell he’s struggling as much as you are.

With a sluggish nod, painfully conscious of his cock sitting heavy and throbbing in your cunt, you pull yourself up on one shoulder, slumping as close to the laptop as you can manage. The next page you go to belongs to his bank, and his fingers knead into the small of your back as you one-handed type his account information (the gift of an obscene amount of trust, or the hallmark insanity of a man who simply does not have a spare fuck to give).

Takes ten seconds to transfer a solid two grand into your checking account, and König doesn’t even chuckle. 

He fucking moans. A weak, broken-legged sound that shakes his entire body so thoroughly it rings through yours like church bells.

His grip tightens, and he muscles you onto your back like an afterthought. Slops your legs back open and drops all his weight on top of you, burying his face against yours as he fucks right back into you. He’s done dicking around (you would laugh at the stupidity of your own thoughts, had your brain stem not been atomized by this exact man), hitting a nightmare rhythm of thrusting and grinding that rubs your clit, and just tosses what’s left of your mind in the damned incinerator.

The build is so fast and reckless—a nigh-on lethal vent of pressure that leaves you half-blind and shaking, finally allowed to sprint after what felt like a lifetime of restraint—that you’ve already started to cum, and your mind is only just now catching up with your body. König’s breath is furnace-hot, rolling over your skin like the lungs of a bellows press, your cunt spasming and clenching his throbbing cock wildly. 

When the world finally takes back control of your facilities—putting a fading, slow halt to your paint smear perception of reality—König is crushing you with his weight. His hands grip at the underside of your thighs, and he breathes into the hair behind your ear. “Will move, soon,” he assures you, but you shake your head. 

“Stay put. Your weight feels good,” you respond, chest beautifully crushing under his body, and it calms your heart with the comfort of pressure. 

Lazily, and without much thought, you graph out chemical sequences across his back. Prolactin, dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins, serotonin. All the good shit, overwhelming your blood stream.

+

You're the one to get up for water, calling him ‘old man’ in a snort that earns you a swat to the bare ass, and another gravel-grit laugh. He looks grateful for it all the same—that small measure of care and familiarity. 

Dog, dog, dog, your mind chants. He's just an old dog aching for a fleece bed and a kind hand. The stone in your stomach sinks heavier, and you turn your thoughts away from it. 

When you return, you collapse in the bed beside him after handing over the glass. He's propped himself against the headboard, legs splayed wide and lazy, the heaving of his chest from exertion shallowed by rest. His profile is harsh in the unfiltered light of his side table lamp, and the cold air blowing in through the cracked windows is a relief on your friction-chafed skin.

His skin is gold in this light, like his lightning-streaked hair. His form is sleek and powerful, even in repose. The bulk of him eats up half of the king-sized bed, dressed in barebones linens, and you think of tragedies. How perfectly-built demigods always came with a fatal flaw that became their death, and how nature couldn't figure out a way to give stronger hearts to massive creatures. 

Their bodies simply demanded too much fuel to keep alive for too long. They are powerful, undeniable, and gone so very quickly.

But looking at König, maybe god is too magnificent a term for him. You know he'd despise it. Bomb is a better fit. 

Yeah, no. That is the better fit. The type of man he is? One with his nature? He'd be dead before he even realized he'd detonated. And he'd kill as many people as he could with the blast radius. 

“You ever think about going back to school?” you ask in a fucked-out rasp, as your lips cut into a lopsided half-smile, and he laughs, smirking.

“I fuck you stupid, or…?” he teases, his teeth glinting in the light of the room, eyes pale and calm like cold water.

‘No,’ is the real answer, and it continues, ‘I have only just discovered the fear that comes after realization, and I have let myself pass through the keyhole to the other side. I have never seen this place, one where there is enough room for another person besides myself, and it frightens me. It could be filled, and it could be emptied, and I know that I do not have the resilience to live with that void.’

“Shit. I think you did,” is what you snort instead, pulling the sheets up over your hips. “I'm going to doze for a little while. Then, I'll call an Uber home.”

König says nothing, making an unsure noise of thought in his throat, but you know he won't pursue his offer, because you will turn it down, and he is fragile when it comes to rejection. 

Coward that you are, you allow the invitation to spend the night die in his chest, cemented by him leaving the bed shortly after to shower.

You are not ready to admit to even yourself that there is room for him. What else is there to do but run from it?

[hwnglx]

as requested by anon ღ

jungkook's thoughts about feminism

based on tarot. i do not know these idols personally. energies are always changing. what i say is NOT straight fact. pls take it with a grain of salt!

so.. jungkook seems conflicted. there's these two sides in him, that are clashing when it comes to feminism.

it's 1, his admiration for women. and 2, his ego.

one side of him thinks, that women essentially rule the world. like, we all basically wouldn't be here if it wasn't for women birthing us, keeping the impulse-driven men in check. i got the strength card, which is literally this strong and powerful woman taming the wild lion in a masterly manner. he believes women are much more capable of restraining themselves, remaining focused on what's important, looking after their responsibilities. women are the actual strong ones in this society, which wouldn't work the way it does without them.

i can sense him thinking there's a lot to be learned by women. i keep seeing him just watching how they function while being in awe. (imagery of the strength card representing a woman in power, the page of pents and page of swords -> young students are next to it looking at her) i'm not sure if he grew up around a lot of strong women, perhaps he had a very influential mother who taught him a lot about life. but there for sure is a genuine sense of respect and appreciation towards women in him, which seems to come from a sincere place.

on the other hand, however.. jungkook is still a korean man. i say this all the time, but many korean men are inclined to believe it's a given for them to be above women by default. many of them were raised with that belief in place, so it's like a natural thought-process most of them have. in that way, it's the standard mindset korean society continues to hold.

this traditional and conservative mindset the majority of society still has, displays a weight on jungkook's back. i can sense he can't always be as candid or outspoken in his admiration for women, because he still can't fully let go of his ego as a powerful man. i can sense there's these societal pressures, and the pressure that comes with being a korean man, which hold him back from further embracing his raw and unfiltered thoughts. they're moreso buried in his subconscious, not something he always lets out freely, might not even be entirely aware of; there's some resistance here. i do however believe, that these inner more progressive views do drive him to, e.g. feel drawn towards dominant and assertive women, or stand up for them at times.

i can also see he might be surrounded by a good amount of men who are still quite traditional in their beliefs, which can bury his own opinions further down.

[machveil]

hey, brief apology, I sent an ask about a monster!Konig blurb that got a dirty and then realised you dont write that kind of thing so im rewording it

monster!Konig being initially very shy and not liking when m!reader touches his tentacles, but he grows to appreciate the touch over time as he starts getting used to m!reader, to the point of holding his hand with a tentacle gently

oh!! hi anon! I saw that ask - don’t worry, I do write for nsfw and nsfw adjacent(?) content. I just haven’t written anything for it yet haha, but no sweat! I just don’t write for these, your other ask is totally good<3

it’s known around base that Monster!König has an… unusual physique. he kept it hidden for as long as he could, but it was bound to be found out when you’re constantly surrounded by soldiers and snoopy people - stupid rookies that like touching things that aren’t theirs. that’s how König’s tentacles came to light, one stupid rookie dared to snag the behemoth’s mask

Monster!König, while a feared and respected Colonel, held some insecurities around his tentacles. who wouldn’t be be terrified of a 6’10”/~208cm man, let alone a man with writhing, eldritch tentacles? he’s either scared off fellow soldiers or had others try to mock him - the latter not ending in their favor

but when you come up to him? wide eyed and awed? Monster!König is weary, a man like yourself should know better than to get close to him… or if this is a ploy to make a fool out of him? you’d be a brave example to anyone else trying to play with him, “You better run back to your friends, kleiner Mann.”, voice low as he walks past you

but does that deter you? of course not, a brave little thing. your efforts start small - an attempt to break past Monster!König’s walls. knee bumping against his when you sit down in the mess hall, fleeting touches when your fingertips graze his. his gaze is always cast down towards you when it happens, a silent look asking what you’re doing

it’s slow, almost painfully slow trying to befriend him, let alone touch him. but the voice in the back of your head eggs you on, “He’ll open up. He’ll trust you eventually.”. the little game you started changes; those brief touches start to hold more meaning. yes, you want to feel his tentacles against your hand… but you also want him. for him to trust you enough that he seeks out your touch, is okay with it

so when Monster!König pats your back after a day of training, casts his gaze down on you again, it sparks hope. “Nice work, kleiner Mann.”, voice letting go of any malice, replaced with… you can’t say, but it’s friendly. when he pulls his hand away, how long had it been there? a warmth spreads in your chest

it’s a couple days before anything significant happens, but it was something that had your heart racing and palms a little clammy. it had been raining out, a storm sweeping through before the sky was clear and sunny again. soldiers shouldn’t be deterred by a little water, so training was held outside - maybe it was just your shoes against the wet grass, maybe it was kismet?

running laps with the group after hitting the gym for a few hours last night had left you with wobbly legs, trailing behind the others on the field. eyes half lidded, nodding off a little, it’s only when your heel slips and you’re falling backwards do you fully wake up. already bracing for the impact of the ground, you’re caught off guard - and quite literally - when you feel an arm under back, a hand on the nape of your neck

“Careful, Kleine.”, accent a little thick as he holds you, icy blue eyes looking down at you. you’d meet his gaze if it weren’t for the angle - you could see up his hood from here. a mess of tentacles wrapped securely around the Austrian’s neck, catching little reflections of light. you blink and suddenly you’re standing upright, his hand still on the back of your neck. a gentle squeeze, barely any pressure, then his hand is pulled back, “Try not to fall again, ja?”

after that? it only amped up - suddenly you were on the receiving end of featherlight touches. walking side by side, the heat in your cheeks is only fanned when König’s rough hand eases against yours. for such a broad, brutish man, König’s touch is delicate, careful. turning a corner, his grip tightens ever so slightly, stopping in his tracks

as you look up at him, gaze meeting his, your eyebrows knit slightly, “König? What—“. words dying on your tongue as he kneels down, he looks up at you, gaze smitten. and only when he squeezes your hand do you feel a new sensation around your bicep - poking out from under his mask, a tentacle had wrapped around the muscles of your arm, “You’re a patient man, ist es das, was Sie sehen möchten?“

it’s suddenly hard to breathe as it moves down your forearm, replacing his hand with the appendage, “Ah— König.”, you choke out

[bicheetopuff]

By the end of the story, I stopped being a bkdk shipper because Hori made it seem so one-sided on Bakugo's side. Does Izuku even care about him or think about him by the end of the story? He seemed to care more for Ochako and even Iida. Meanwhile Bakugo and Izuku didn't even have an actual resolution on anything, never had a decent reciprocated convo and Izuku doesn't even acknowledge anything Bakugo did. In the last chapter, he becomes a very passive character. He doesnt even try to be a hero until the class hands him the suit. He doesnt even have on screen convos with anyone besides AM. Hori's writing was so weak for his character and relationships with others at the end.

I’m sorry you felt that way, I guess? They had a resolution, and I honestly think it was the best one in the series because Hori didn’t have to outright explain it in text for it to have the emotional impact it had.

Their whole thing was fixing their relationship and learning to become heroes who save and win simultaneously, instead of one or the other. Which they did, in narrative terms.

Also things don’t have to be said out loud to just be understood/implied. Deku watching Katsuki cry with tears in his eyes is a sign of care. The way he reacted to seeing Katsuki’s body is a sign of care. Shigaraki calling Katsuki the closest person to him, is proof that people in the story can see their relationship through implication just fine. Also, does the cover to volume 37 just mean nothing?

All of those implications, plus the other implication that Izuku doesn’t like thinking about how he feels when it comes to Katsuki, nor does he like acknowledging it unless he absolutely he has to. It’s not a writing flaw on horikoshis part, it’s an intentional character flaw that never showed signs of having development, because its development wouldn’t have been important to the overall story. It’s just something we’re supposed to notice and it’s made decently obvious that this is the case considering DvK2 and his vigilante arc, the latter especially.

When Katsuki being stabbed actually happened, you can tell it affected Izuku way more than Aizawa and Torinos injuries and he literally almost died cuz of his reaction to it, yet he pushes it to the back of his mind when he leaves UA after writing a letter to Katsuki that was different than everyone else’s. Or after Katsuki apologized, we get no internal thoughts about him like we did for the rest of the class when the retrieval arc happened, yet Izuku ends up stumbling and falling into Katsuki’s arms as opposed to literally anyone else’s. Not to mentions the fourth episode of the memories recap in the anime, solidifying this theory by giving him PTSD about Katsuki being stabbed. Also:

It’s said in text… “…somewhere deep inside…” meaning it’s intentionally not on the forefront of his mind. Also I think the 1:1 translation to this scene, he described his feelings as “gross,” meaning he’s somewhat ashamed of them.

Also is Izuku supposed to just not care about his other friends? Iida and Ochako were literally his first real friends, of course Hori is gonna highlight them in the end.

Izuku is passive in the end, because he’s always been a passive character. It’s just apart of his personality. And he doesn’t try to be a hero for several years, because wtf is he supposed to do? In the society they live in, you really can’t fight criminals without a quirk unless you fight hand to hand, which won’t work against people with quirks who don’t care about fighting fair. It’s not like he could’ve gotten his own suit on a teachers salary. He doesn’t try because he just accepts and appreciates that it was a short lived dream that he got the chance to actually live.

There’s less focus on Izuku’s development and his relationships with the people around him, because Izuku’s the only character that didn’t “need” development because he’s already a “perfect hero” by Japanese standards. He’s kind, driven, respectful, and sacrificial. The only development he has and needed for the sake of the story was trying to be more confident in himself, and letting himself accept help from others. Everything other flaw, is purely personal to him. Other characters bring up his flaws to him in the story, but no one can make him consider changing those flaws except for him, because those flaws only affect him, and his biggest flaw is that he literally does not take himself into account for anything. He doesn’t care about making himself happy. It is literally purposeful.

Now, I think the epilogue in general was just rushed and I do wish he was able to having meaningful conversations with more characters, like todoroki and his mother, but I don’t think those open doors lessened the integrity of the entire frame. I do wish he had a conversation with Katsuki, but I also understand that it wasn’t really needed either. It’s not a slice of life, after all. The only thing I think we didn’t get the best conclusion on, is bkdks handhold.

Also saying Izuku doesn’t care about Katsuki is such a weird take ajdnejdn

THAT. IS. SO. FUNNY!!

[just-a-creep-babe]

Hello! How would Jeff, laughing Jack and Masky be with a reader just as crazy as them? Thank you!

Flashing gif trigger warning!!

Requests are closed but commissions are open!

Masterlist: x

Jeff the Killer

When he first meets them and realizes they match his freak, he’s actually not too happy

Between his deeply rooted narcissism and insecurity, he immediately sees them as a threat

Like,,, what do you mean some random newbie is similar to him? He’s supposed to be the specialist boy ever!!

He doesn’t want to lose his place, so he tries to talk them down or get rid of them to eliminate the competition

Only once it becomes clear they’re there to stay does he finally *somewhat* chill out about it

Like, when he realizes they aren’t a threat to his place in the mansion, only then will he start to take more of an interest

He’ll try to test them to see if they’re the real deal or if they’re just some poser

And the more they pass his little tests, the more they can prove themselves to him, the more he’ll develop an appreciation toward them

If they truly match his freak, chances are, the relationship will initially start as a friends-with-benefits kind of deal

And as he progressively becomes more attached, he’ll increasingly become more possessive

There might not be an official title to their relationship, but it eventually becomes clear that they’re exclusive

(They have his extremely possessive jealousy to thank for that)

And from that point on, they’ll become unstoppable

Crazy obsessive and dangerously explosive, they’ll quickly develop a reputation as being a couple you do not fuck with

And they’ll become absolutely inseparable

Because, although extremely rare, when Jeff finds someone he genuinely likes and trusts, he becomes loyal like a dog

Assuming his partner shares the same sentiment, the two would—quite literally—die for another

It’s an unhealthy kind of love, but it’s the ideal scenario for both of them

Even despite this love-sick obsession, the two are likely to bicker and argue a lot because fighting is practically one of Jeff’s love languages

So it wouldn’t be the healthiest relationship out there, but either way, Jeff probably wouldn’t go back to a normal relationship after meeting his crazy s/o

After all, where's the fun in being normal?~

Masky

Masky’s biggest red flag is his lack of emotional regulation

If he’s not having an outburst of anger, he’s drowning his sorrows in some kind of substance abuse

Or he’s just full-on dissociating

So, again, a relationship with someone similar to him probably isn’t going to be the healthiest

Instead of uplifting one another and helping each other get better, the two are likely going to drag each other down

Especially if they’re both proxies dealing with the same kind of stressful work

Which means more substance abuse and a lot of fighting

It might get to the point where someone—probably Hoodie—will likely have to intervene

But even despite any friction in their relationship, they’re likely to always gravitate back to one another

They definitely develop toxic codependency

They'll also probably realize that their relationship isn’t the healthiest one out there

But at the same time, because they’re so similar, they find a lot of comfort within one another

And sometimes it feels like parting ways would leave them worse off anyways

So there’s definitely this kind of bitter-sweetness to their relationship

And, at the very least, if one of them ever manages to seek help, they could encourage the other to do the same

So they do still have a chance of saving each other

Like Jeff, Masky’s a very loyal person, so he’ll never give up on his s/o

And he’ll appreciate knowing they wouldn’t give up on him either

So, like I said, definitely bitter-sweet

But, hey, at least Masky will no longer feel like he’s alone in the world

Laughing Jack

On God—it would be mad intense for a human to be as crazy as LJ

They’d have to be super fucked up to compare to a literal monster like him

And, LJ, not being used to seeing a human with that kind of attitude, would be utterly enthralled

He’d think it’s hilarious

He’d make them do all kinds of fucked up things just for his own personal amusement

And every time they do as he says he’d fall more and more crazily obsessed over them—especially if they enjoy it too

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this previously, but I don’t think LJ is capable of feeling love like a normal person

I think he can feel obsession, fascination, amusement, and joy, though—which is what would overall more closely resemble his sentiment toward his s/o

And the more they’d surpass his expectations of their limits and boundaries, the stronger these sentiments would manifest

His s/o would sort of become like his little human pet project

And he’ll be damn proud of the monster he’s created

Honestly, even despite his feelings toward them, I think there’s a chance he’ll derive pleasure from torturing them

And if they keep crawling back to him—even despite everything he does to them—he'll definitely have earned his respect

He might even go so far as to mark them—which will make him super possessive of them

Like, he actively won’t allow any other demons near them, and he might not even be too fond of humans coming into contact with them, either

He’ll see them as this kind of valuable possession he’s played a crucial role in crafting

Sure, they were already nuts to begin with, but he molded them perfectly to his liking—and now they belong to him and him only

Honestly, needless to say, but this definitely isn’t a healthy relationship

But, if his s/o truly is as crazy as him, it’s not like they'd care, anyways

If anything, it's the poor souls that have the misfortune of running into them that'll suffer the worst fate

[nakylvr]

Oh can I do the 5 & 8 fluff prompts with katseye Daniela x fem!reader? Maybe Daniela has to deal with an ankle injury and Reader is with her?

i loved this so bad...thank you so much for requesting 🫶

— LIGHT

daniela avanzini (katseye) x fem!reader

summary: fluff prompts 5("you feel like home to me") + 8("i'm never leaving you, you're stuck with me") from my 100 follower event

warnings/tags: language, established relationship, fluff

main masterlist | katseye masterlist

"this. fucking. sucks."

"don't be a baby."

"i literally can't move!"

you shoot a look at daniela who's sitting on the bed next to you with her right leg propped on a pillow, her ankle in a tight brace after getting hurt while practicing. "do you need to move 24/7?" you question.

"it's the adhd!" daniela replies, slouching back against the bed which causes her hair to bunch up in the back.

"you don't even have adhd!" you retort, rolling your eyes at her.

"well!" she starts but can't come up with anything. "oh, whatever! this still sucks!" she pouts, crossing her arms over her chest.

"yes, it does. but you have to rest or else it won't get better," you tell her, pointing a finger at her.

daniela pouts more, mumbling a "fine" as she looks at the tv. a silence fills the room after that, but a comfortable one. you two could sit in silence for a short amount of time before one of you had to start talking. and just like always, it's daniela that speaks up randomly.

"thank you," daniela says out of nowhere.

"hm?" you glance over at her. "for what?"

"for being here with me," she responds, looking over at you. "i really appreciate it." her voice cracks slightly, and you can tell she's about to cry.

"woah, woah, woah!" your eyes widen when you hear her voice, waving your hands side to side. "are you going to cry? please don't cry! oh my god."

"sorry," daniela's voice cracks again. "i'm just really glad you're here with me. you feel like home to me. m-my mom would usually help with this stuff. so i really appreciate it."

you can see the tears forming in her eyes, and while you don't understand where this suddenly came from, you're not irritated that it's happening. "hey, hey," you say softly, cupping her face in your hands. "it's okay. really, it's okay. i don't mind doing this. i love you so much, dani. i would do anything for you, i would. i'm never leaving you, you're stuck with me."

your words have the tears falling from daniela's eyes the second you say you love her, and she isn't able to hold it in anymore. she had always been a crier, but even more once she started dating you and would be told loving words. it would cause her to tear up every time you said something remotely romantic, and she would cry usually. but, dealing with her injury already had her feeling worse, so it wasn't that much of a shocker that she was breaking down.

"i love you too," daniela manages to get out past her crying. "you're stuck with me too, okay?"

"i'm okay with that," you smile at her, pressing a quick kiss against her lips and wiping the tears from her eyes with your thumbs.

she smiles back at you when you respond, and the feeling of your thumbs on her cheeks have her subconsciously leaning in towards you more like a puppy wanting more attention. you chuckle lightly when you notice this, and you wrap your arms around her before laying down comfortably as possible given she couldn't move her leg.

daniela's smile grows as soon as she feels your arms around her and pull her down onto the bed with you, giggling softly and leaning her head on your shoulder. "do you think we can order takeout for dinner?" she asks out of nowhere.

"i think sophia would kill us if we ordered food for us and no one else," you respond with another chuckle.

"true, but i'm really hungry," daniela replies, dragging out 'really' as she talks in a whiny tone.

"fine, fine. i'll order something," you give in quickly, as always whenever she wants something and says it in that tone.

"you're the best!" she grins, kissing your cheek.

"yeah, yeah."

[cozylittleartblog]

i now understand how certain people felt when harpy eda was revealed 😳

prints here

[trappedinafantasy37]

"Weeeh! I wanna recruit Minthara on a good playthrough! Weeeh! I don't like the ultimatum and want to keep both Minthara and Halsin! Weeeh! I wanna make Minthara good! Weeeh! I don't want Minthara to break up with me!" Minthara deserves more content but none of these things are at all what she needs or deserves. No, these are all things that you want for yourself, but do absolutely nothing for her. This is one of the biggest L's in the game and it will forever enrage me because I just know it will never happen.

Minthara deserves to confront Orin like all the other companions do with their abusers. She deserves to scream and yell at Orin. She deserves to cut at her the same way Orin did, make her bleed and scream in pain. Minthara deserves to torture Orin, just as she did her in the mind flayer colony. Minthara deserves the right to roll up to the Temple of Bhaal and beat the shit out of Orin with her bare hands. Leave Orin begging for mercy in which Minthara will not even give her a drop. To slam Orin down on that altar and slice her throat, offer her up as a sacrifice to the father she is so blindly devoted to.

And yes, Minthara would be afraid. She would be TERRIFIED. Despite how strong and powerful Minthara is, she is also the only one afraid of Orin. Unlike Ketheric, or Gortash, or Sarevok, she is the only one who fully acknowledges just how dangerous Orin actually is and does not underestimate her. She will walk down into that temple, intending to duel Orin with a massive disadvantage because she is terrified.

Minthara choked when seeing Orin again in the mind flayer colony. She choked when seeing Orin as an imposter, throwing her deep into the ocean of paranoia and fear. And she is so entrenched in paranoia that it actually becomes palpable to everyone around her, even you. She describes herself as paranoid, but this is the first that you actually see how paranoid she is. And she choked again when Orin kidnapped someone in camp, making her feel inadequate, making a mockery of her for being unable to protect one of her own. And every day that passes, the more and more likely that the victim is going to die and she has doubts on their survival.

At every possible avenue in which Minthara could have done something or said something about Orin, she froze in place with fear. But she's had enough. She cannot be afraid of Orin forever and she doesn't want to be. One way or another, Orin has to die and she wants to get over that fear. She needs to know that Orin is dead, for herself.

This would also make the alurlssrin confession all the more impactful. She wants to tell you that she loves you in the best way that she can because of the very high likelihood that she will never have another chance to do so. She would beg you to come with her as you give her the courage. She has the courage to face her fears and confront her tormentor, because she knows she has you in her corner. If you have the courage to stand up to the very gods themselves, then she can stand up to Orin. Romanced or not, your presence alone is enough to give her the strength to do something she would otherwise be too terrified to do.

Minthara deserves the honor to solo duel Orin in a fight to the death. Minthara deserves the right to achieve vengeance for herself. No, I do not care that this confrontation would conflict with a Durge playthrough. In fact, it would provide a phenomenal source of some interesting, and toxic, drama between Durge and Minthara. Especially if they're in a relationship. This also does not mean that Minthara killing Orin instead of Durge would not have its consequences (because it most certainly will). Even if Minthara does not fight Orin, it would be so much better if Minthara was just given the fucking chance to yell at Orin like all the other companions in their personal quests.

[navree]

i will say, john apparently having memory issues is genuinely putting me in arthur's headspace in a way nothing else has yet because i feel blind now too. i can't trust john's descriptions as factual, i can't know that we don't really know who noel is and that he's just a newcomer (and harlan voicing literally every character doesn't help at all), i can't even have a firm idea of what's going on, because the person i'm relying on to be my narrator, the same person arthur's relying on to be his eyes, is demonstrably no longer reliable (and for me as a listener it's actually worse cuz unlike arthur i know john's lying about something and that he's got an ulterior motive due to his deal with kayne that arthur is entirely unaware of). it's very good, and it also creates a sense of unease and dread which is good for a horror podcast.

[godsfavoritescientist]

Building off of what I wrote in my fic "Sparks," I'm really compelled by the idea of Ford genuinely no longer being interested in sailing around in a boat with Stan by the time they were seniors in high school.

I like the idea of it not being just a symptom of the resentment that had been building between them, nor it being a dream of Ford's that only paled in comparison to west coast tech, but it being a genuine loss of interest on Ford's end. I think it complicates things even further in some really juicy ways.

Like, imagine going through high school slowly losing more and more interest in the dream you've shared with your twin and only friend ever since you were little kids. How do you break it to him? How do you explain it to him without making it sound like a rejection of him? Without it making him hate you?

How do you explain it without it feeling like a spit in the face to all the hard work he's put into a plan that started out as a way of him comforting you by telling you "it doesn't matter what people say about you, you're going to be an adventurer who sails away into the sunset and never has to hear their mockery ever again, and there will be babes and treasure and heroism, and then they'll all see how cool you really are!"

And all through high school you think to yourself, "he's going to move on to more realistic dreams any day now, and then I won't have to say anything about it!" But no matter how many times you mention something else he could do with his life that he seems interested in, or bring up the challenging logistics of traveling around long-term in a boat, he sounds just as committed to the childhood dream as ever, and completely oblivious to how apprehensive you sound.

So resentment grows, little by little. Because that's easier than confronting the soul-crushing levels of guilt that are building up inside of you, every time you don't take an opportunity to tell him you don't want to do the plan anymore. You don't have a single person in your life who modeled how to have difficult conversations for you. As far as you know, having this conversation with Stan would crush him into tiny little pieces and then he would hate you forever, and you can't stand the idea of losing the only friend you've ever had.

So tensions grow. A lack of interest turns into a bitter resentment that, if you were really being honest with yourself, is directed more at yourself than it is at Stan.

And then the falling-out happens, and it seems like you were proven right. Stan hates you now, and he's never going to forgive you for giving up on his dream. But two can play that game, so you try to hate him too. Because if you hate him too, then maybe it won't hurt as much that he never came back. That he never even turned up at school, or by the boat, or in through your bedroom window in the middle of the night. He knows what dad's like, and how he says impulsive exaggerated things when he's angry, and haven't you both dealt with his harsh words countless times before and been able to dust yourselves off and joke about it later? So why isn't he back at home, joking with you about how absurd your dad acted that night, being impossible and belligerent about ruining your dream, but at least now you're even, because you've ruined his dream too.

-

And now imagine you find out he risked the lives of everyone in existence to bring you back, right after you had accepted your fate was to die killing Bill. It would be terrifying and confusing and infuriating. If he cared so much, why didn't he do something to reconnect with you sooner? Why did he ignore you in favor of trying to make it big without you? Why didn't he take the infinitely safer and simpler action of reaching out to you without you having to track down his address and send a desperate plea for help? You were convinced that he didn't care enough to bother with you unless you had an important enough reason for him to come. But even then, he thought your plans were stupid. He didn't want anything to do with you, not even with the world at stake.

Did he save your life out of guilt? Does he pity you that much? It doesn't add up with what he did in the decade leading up to shoving you into the portal. And the dissonance between the version of him in your head that hates you, and the man who held out his arms to welcome you back to your home dimension, is so strong that you feel like you're being lied to again, like you're back in the depths of gaslighting and manipulation that Bill put you through, even though there's no way that's what Stan is trying to do... right? You can't figure it out, so you run away from it. You don't want to know the answer to whether or not Stan hates you, because you don't know which answer would hurt more, so you try to make him hate you more than ever, because at least then you would know for sure how he feels.

And in the end, after he sacrifices his memories for you, and for the world, things seem clearer. The layers upon layers of confusion and anger and hurt seem to have washed away like drawings in the sand, leaving behind the simple truth: that you two had an argument, and didn't move past it for forty years, and despite everything you put each other through, you both still want to re-connect.

So you sail away in a boat together.

And at first, it's wonderful. It's exactly what you want. It feels like an apology to Stan, and a thank-you for saving the world, and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to heal the rift between you two, and it's good to be back on earth, and you wonder why you ever doubted the dream you two once had.

But then, after the first long journey you spend on the sea together, when you get back home to dry land, Stan is already talking about planning your next adventure out on the open sea. He recaps every adventure you had on the first trip, over and over again, and he wants to chat with you all through the morning and long into the night, and you don't have the words to explain to yourself that you don't have enough social battery for this, and suddenly you're slipping back into the horrifyingly familiar feeling of Stan being overbearing and needing space from him and how could you think that? How could you think that about him after everything he's done for you and everything he's forgiven you for? But the longer this goes on, the more you realize that you still don't want to spend the rest of your life sailing around with Stan. It's great fun in moderation, but the idea of your whole life revolving around Stan and going on adventures with Stan and being in a boat with Stan with no time to be by yourself thinking about your own things and figuring out your own dreams makes your skin crawl with a claustrophobic kind of panic that you still don't know how to put into words forty years after the first time this feeling grabbed you by the throat and ruined your friendship with Stanley.

But the first time this happened, it nearly ruined his life forever. You can't let yourself feel this. You don't feel this. You're happy to spend the rest of your life fulfilling Stan's lifelong dream, and making up for the time you crushed his dream, and sure, maybe he crushed your dream once too, and maybe it would be nice for him to support your dreams like you're now doing for him, but you can't say that. He saved the universe, and it would be horrible and ungrateful and cruel for you to try to voice these feelings, especially when you don't know how to voice your feelings without it making other people feel like you twisted a knife into their gut. So you try to pretend the feeling isn't there.

You go out on a boat with Stan again. You planned out another incredible journey together, and this should be fun, and you should be happy about this, but the unspoken feeling you shoved as far down in yourself as it could possibly go is eating you alive. The worst part? Stan is starting to notice. You have never been good at hiding your emotions. The trick to it has always been to convince yourself you don't feel it at all, and not think about it, and that has always worked like a charm. But whenever the emotion claws its way back up to the forefront of your mind, you can tell Stan knows something is wrong. So you can't even give him the happy ending he deserves. You can't even convince him that you want to be here on the open seas forever with him, like he deserves. And you keep trying and trying to hide it, but Stan keeps asking in roundabout ways, like "You're being awfully quiet, sixer," and "whats that look on your face?" and eventually it comes exploding out of you like a shaken-up soda bottle dropped on its cap.

And then it's like you're back at home in New Jersey again, standing in the living room while dad grabs Stanley by the shirt. It all comes pouring out of you, in the worst possible way, with the worst possible phrasing, like a pandora's box of monstrousness, and Stan tries to fight back against the sting of your words, but you're made out of acid and you're burning through him and you can see it on his face, and there's never any coming back from this, not this time, you'll just have to either jump into the ocean or become a monster forever, so Stan can hate you more easily again, and-

-and at the end of the outburst, you're still on a boat in the middle of nowhere in the ocean with your brother, in dangerous waters, and you have things to do to keep the boat running smoothly.

You can't run away from him. He can't run away from you. You're stuck here for at least a couple more weeks, even if you turned around and sailed back towards shore right away.

-

And the thing that compels me so much here, despite how unbelievably angsty it all is, is that it sets up a situation wherein the Stans might end up forced to actually address the decades of resentment and confusion and wanting-to-reconnect-throughout-it-all that they thought they could gloss over and heal with enough time spent adventuring together on a boat. They might end up forced to actually address the crux of the issue that drove them apart in the first place: Ford wanting a little more space to feel like his own person, and to feel like he's able to have his own dreams, too.

It wouldn't happen easily, nor right away, but if they were stuck together on a little boat in the middle of nowhere surrounded by magical creatures they have to protect each other from in order to make it back home alive, then after they had one fight where they brought up all the things they silently agreed to never bring up again, it would probably happen many more times, and each time it would leave them both angrier at each other than ever, until eventually something honest slipped through amidst all the saying-anything-except-what-they-mean bickering. And once enough of these honest moments slipped through, then they would have a thread to tug on to start to unravel the gargantuan knot of their decades of unresolved conflicts.

And then, eventually, maybe Stan could learn that he can have a good friendship with his brother without needing to be glued to him at the hip, and Ford needing a certain amount of alone time doesn't mean he dislikes him or wants to abandon him, and Ford could learn that he can be honest and have a meaningful connection with someone without it driving them away and making them hate him.

[pseudophan]

honestly they were disrespectful to themselves. they let it get completely out of hand for a MONTH. the palace did this to themselves

yeah... look nobody will get me to agree with people being like 'conspiracy theorists have gone too far' 'you've all been disrespectful towards catherine' 'there was never a reason for any of this' 'you should be ashamed for what you said' etc etc etc. because like... first of all, again, i hold zero respect for these people. why the fuck should i. but even if i did... it's their own fucking fault???? the fuck?????? lmao?????????? literally only a handful of people gave a fuck until that doctored photo. and then they just kept making it worse. and i'm sorry but i actually don't think they're entitled to their privacy when their entire job is pr and they're blatantly lying in all their pr shit like ? what else are you good for lol. but then that also makes me angry because as much as i don't like kate for several reasons i'm still a bit genuinely offended at her behalf for how they've handled all this shit.. like making her take the blame for the photoshop (i hope for her sake it was her own idea, because otherwise........), having her appear alone in the video announcing her cancer (why tf isn't william there when she's talking about how he's by her side lmao), the general just lack of giving a fuck about anything whilst the world went wild theorising about her.... i can't tell whether she's taking the fall to cover for something else or if they're just all absolute assholes ?? again like. i don't like kate middleton. for many reasons. but i like william and charles a whole lot less and it's infuriating that they're making me feel like she's been wronged lmao

[toddtakefive]

btw todd’s reluctance to join the dps because he doesn’t want to read (which is then accommodated for) and is scared to put himself out there (which is also worked through) being read as todd not wanting to go AT ALL, and thus neil making the proper accommodations (“todd anderson, who prefers not to read, will keep the minutes of the meetings”) and encouraging him to step out of the box that stifles him being seen as ‘forceful’ or like he can’t take no for an answer makes me insane with rage

[zukkaoru]

the disparity in kudos between a skk fic and a fic for literally any other bsd characters/ship :/

[anxiously-sidequesting]

hear me out. Ambrose (derogatory) could have been such a good character if he was *actually old* (no that party city beard ain't fooling me).

Like from the beginning it could have been "I'll show him- threatening a new student before orientation, no less- ACK, oof, my back!"

And YW would have been like "Nah don't worry about it old man, I'll fight that Mall staircase or whoever for you. But first let's get you to bed, you haven't taken your meds today."

Like it could've been such a great dynamic between a guy who's knowledgeable and truly wants to help but is way past his prime, and the young apprentice who has no idea what's going on at any given time but is "yeah this dude will 100% keel over from trying to take on the weight of the spiral if I leave him alone for two seconds so I'll knock some heads for him. I like knocking heads anyway >:D"

First off I absolutely love "Ambrose (derogatory)" I'm gonna get that tattooed on my body /j

AND SO LIKE IM KINDA LIKE 🤔 AT THIS SCENARIO (not you anon your idea is absolutely lovely, just thinkin hard about this) BECAUSE LIKE. OKAY HERE'S MY THOUGHT PROCESS

I guess it would be cool to have a YW who instead seems eager and willing to fulfill the role of the Savior instead of dreading it (and it would give a bit of a different face to their relationship mentor/mentee with Ambrose) buuuuuut like in the case that Ambrose is really too old to deal with things himself, instead of whatever reason he doesn't do things in canon, he could always just like find a capable and prepared adult to deal with the nationwide threat of Malistaire INSTEAD of the new kid who's eager to fight

AND THIS ISNT ME DISSING ON YOU ANON I LOVED YOUR IDEA. Like instead of seeing the YW unhappy and resentful and trudging along doing dangerous stuff it's interesting and cool to see where in an alternate universe the YW immediately takes to being a hero and loves the action and does it FOR Ambrose, not just because he told them to. I think that would be very cute if it like, removed the actual issue that Ambrose is still relying on an ill-prepared child to do his work. Whether in canon where the YW is urged to follow Ambrose after Malistaire, or if Ambrose falters and then the YW rushes in to beat his minions up instead, it's still on the Young Wizard to clean up this very adult mess. If this scenario continues on just like canon, the Wizard still ends up being Bartleby's Scion with a tainted Shadow Soul and heaps and heaps of trauma. It just started out a little differently

I HOPE IM NOT SCARING YOU ANON IM NOT SCOLDING YOU IM JUST ANALYZING THIS (please don't be sad I love you anon ty for sending this). Please feel free to send me more of this if you like because it's really interesting tbh. I really.hope I didn't scare you off with this HASKDNDRLSJSJ this was a great ask