#patience is a virtue that i sorely lack | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pervcoded · 5 months

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DOG-EARED AND DOUBTFUL starring yuuji itadori. part iii.

──☆*:・ﾟcontent warning: amab!reader (referred to as a boy), canon divergent, college au (18+ characters) inside of the hybridverse. artist!reader, sukuna is related to yuuji. awkward meet-cute, but yuuji is implied to be (and is) slightly unhinged. reader is human and yuuji is a doberman hybrid. fluffy, safe for work-ish. nude modelling. bashful , sorta pushover reader. reader has a stutter. invasion of privacy (yuuji goes through your sketchpad and gets comfortable fast). british use of trousers (pants) and pants (underwear). scent stuff going on, yuuji has a good nose. yuuji is sorta feral and reader's not in a position to (nor does he quite want to) argue. mdni! reblogs and comments appreciated!

wc: 4.2 words.

It’s beautiful, truly. Yuuji is admittedly philistine in his artistic taste, never had a muse for it; but he finds himself wholly appreciative of the opportunity to become yours- even if it’s only for the evening. He can’t control the way his tail wags, heart pattering quicker in his chest as the excitement overrides his previously projected aloofness, his hands moving faster than his mind in that moment. One more page wouldn’t hurt.

You’re just like any other boy in class, really. Maybe the round ears and lack of fur are a bit of a weird look, but Yuuji wasn’t popular when he first transferred to the university either - and some change is always good, he thinks.

“And your tongue—is it really that small?” Someone had asked on your first day in, your classmates ogling your skin, analyzing its novel texture. You’re good at acting nonchalant when you’re placed on the spot. Tone even, eyes level, posture loose and relaxed as you fold your arm over the back of your chair. You’re smarter than they’d ever give you credit for—laughed along with their jibes so they wouldn’t see how gently you swayed. Trembled. The claws of some touchy Wolverine mutt glancing at your collarbones, and you laughed it off, never once minding the sweat cascading down the apex of your temple.

But your scent is disloyal to you. He never thought to mention it. The sour notes of tangerine, key lime, crescendo in the spot where you stand, a heady cocktail of anxiety and embarrassment and horror.

You’re quite popular for a human, however. Maybe that was your conventional appeal. Or rather stood next to them you stick out like a sore thumb, and that makes you far more interesting—purely by virtue of your association. But Yuuji likes to think you have your own redeeming qualities too. You’re an artsy type. Try and spend a lot of time by yourself if you can manage, but your peers seem intent on laywaying your silence; coveting your time like shiny trinkets in a magpie’s nest.

Still, you’re nice to him.

You remember his name. Say “Itadori, hi,” and give him a solemn nod before going on your way. You give him your leftovers you don’t want if your class schedules happen to line up that day. You share your notes from Anthropology, and sketch him in the margins of your notebook on the days you can’t focus.

The patience of hybrids doesn’t often extend to their own kind, and Yuuji’s felt terribly lonely since his grandfather passed - what with his uncle not being much in the way of making conversation. But you’re easy to talk to.

“Ah, Itadori, can you come here?” His tail wags a little at the acknowledgement, but if you notice you failed to comment. “Uh, yeah? What’d you want? I’m a little busy right now, so,” He smiles half-heartedly, suddenly a little uncomfortable to be seen with you like this. You move your stuff away from where you want him to sit at the table, and his eyes are acutely drawn to each movement of your hands. Gathering up runaway pencils, stacking textbooks. “You can call me Yuuji, by the way. I don’t mind.”

Your face lights up at that, and you tell him your name in kind. He tries it. Once for his pleasure. Again to make sure he got it right. He looks back down at the now emptied table, though he doesn’t go to take a seat.

Your lunch is sparse. Two pieces of bread with peanut butter and something else sandwiched in the middle. A browning apple eaten to the core. He thinks about mimicking the impressions of your teeth.

“Ah, well, I know we don’t talk and um - I’m still kinda new here and - please, you can sit,” Your hand fans out to gesture at the chair in front of you, and Yuuji settles into it uneasily. He can smell you’re afraid of something.

“Yuuji…” You tap your pencil on something he can’t see, draped over your thigh. “I.. wanted to draw you.” Yuuji tilts his head, finger absently reaching towards his chin. “Me?” “Yeah. It’s for an art assignment. We’re practicing portraits.” Your smile is disarmingly charming. “If it was okay with you, I wanted to see if… we could find some time to—y’know. Have you model for me.” Yuuji doesn’t let himself get excited so quickly, the hair on his forearm bristling a bit as he digs his nails into his thigh. Keep it from bouncing. “Okay. Yeah. Sure - that’s fine. I’d love to.” Yuuji sounds like he’s speaking through grit teeth, but his expression doesn’t expose anything other than slight apprehension. You sigh, a weight seemingly lifted off your shoulders. “Oh! Okay!” You try not to sound too happy about it, but a smile keeps weaseling onto your face. “Okay so, we’d have to book one of the art rooms, but that shouldn’t be too hard—nobody really lingers around after class. Lucky us, right?” You’re fishing your phone out of your pocket, and Yuuji nearly forgets to grab it with his unbloodied hand.

“Here. Add your number, take a photo if you’d like.” You’re teasing, but Yuuji never was good with sarcasm. He smiles big and wide for it, pointed teeth all in the front row.

He saves his name as ‘Yuuji 😎’, and hands your tech back to you. You send a quick ‘hey’ to make sure you got the right number. When his pocket rumbles he’s off no later, barely waving goodbye as he leaves you to your own devices.

You text out the details later. Tomorrow, at 7:00.

He gets there at 6:56 on the dot. Campus has been largely deserted this time of day, and the few stragglers left, student and faculty, each flock to their club space or the odd, afterhour meeting. You’re all set up by the time he’s there. You’re well-prepared, graphites and eraser shavings finding a home on the floor around you. Sticks of pastels lie short and chipped on the easels mantle, your fingertips already blackened by charcoal. This wing is new to him, but the hallways look just like this rooms walls. Student made murals scaling taller than him, ferals unfurling across the unorthodox canvas; a magnificent sky. Ceramic busts settle atop storage cabinets; baked and glazed vases filled with paper flowers, tucked into empty corners. Paintings hung to dry. Thick ink stains as he sidesteps a rolling chalkboard, gently pushing it to the side.

You glanced up when the door opened, but it was more reflexive than comprehending. You saw him, then looked back at the canvas, focused. Only when he nearly stumbles do you look back up again, and you’re smiling really wide. You wave excitedly. “Hey Yuuji!” His ear twitches near imperceptably, tail high and wagging. “Hey.” He’s decent at acting, if you think he’s faking casual you don’t mention it, just gesture to the seat beside you. The chair you saved for him has tall legs and a strong, straight back; perfect for a model.

“Well, you can take this chair when you’re ready,” he’s taking a peak at the easel sat in front of you, identical setups matching yours haphazardly set up around a squat stage in the center of the room.

Your sketchpage: marked with vague gestures and dancing, people-like shapes. You’ve been practicing. You absently tug at your collar at the lack of distance between you two (forgot you were using charcoal, so you quickly stop) and a strange aura radiates from you, the smell of frayed nerves stinging his nose. His tail lulls in its movement, a tad disappointed you weren’t as comfortable with him as he thought you were.

“For a portrait, you being closer is ideal, so we don’t h..have to use the stage. I’ll just do my thing over here and… Oh! I brought some water and um, snacks.” You tilt your head in a familiar, curious motion, ”You like shrimp chips?”

He shrugs at you and smiles. “They’re okay.” He’s flattered you considered him, mostly. He really did like that about you humans, such soft and compassionate creatures; moreso than any of the hybrids he knew. Where they-mournfully, himself included-took a unique pleasure in watching another squirm, your kind wasn’t like that at all, were they? Perhaps an underdeveloped survival mechanism. A tail to tuck in the presence of a predator’s bared fangs. Regardless, your grin crinkles the corners of your eyes and makes his heart soar, your anxiety easing out as you stand from your seat, revealing your true smell. Heat and sweet and pastry-light; a creme bruele after the top has been carefully cracked open. Tickles his cheeks pink.

“So, how long you been doing this art stuff for anyway?” You seem startled by the ask and pause before you answer, probably not used to being asked about your interests by the other hybrids. “Years now. E..ever since I was a kid I always liked art, drawing-” You curse as something rolls out of your bag and say sorry to nothing and no one. “Drawing, traditional, digitally. I was thinking about going into graphic design! - I’m still technically undecided, but I love art… It just calls to me, you know?” Oh, he has no fucking clue what you’re talking about. But he hums in the affirmative and reckons now’s a good a time as any to check. Take a peek through your lens and see the shape of your artisan mind. An artist’s sketchpad to him seemed the appropriate equivalent to their soul; so he takes the opportunity to flip through the pages on your drawing pad.

He’s admittedly expecting something grander. Maybe the inside of an old world colosseum or perhaps something abstract and profound, the kind of things disheartened schoolchildren write essays about; A Great Wave or Thinking Man, befitting of the brand of mystery he’d superimposed on you. Nothing suitably miraculous happens. The task merely becomes more intimate by virtue of your artistic repertoire. Surely, not the fault of his plain nosiness.

All flesh upon the paper is laid entirely bare. Inscriptions of bodies wrap around the canvas from the top to the very bottom like the prayers in a holy book. Any free tarp is not spared, a bared torso and breast here, the sole of a foot en point over there. Largely unfinished yet tangible, beginnings and inbetweens and many more ends; scores of tails, teeth, tongue and claws. “Oh, wow.” You’re still digging through your bag so you don’t mind him, preoccupied second guessing kneaded erasers and rags to wipe your creativity off on.

To describe your work as a product of mere fascination would be a woefully inaccurate assessment. Not a proper acknowledgement of your time, effort, sweat, (more than a few smudges in the graphite, a whiff of salt that sticks out above the rest) and conviction.

There’s quick notes scribbled between poses and observations, some names - none of which he immediately recognizes, but makes his head fog with some vague posessiveness regardless. Jealousy maybe. He doesn’t linger on it, instead flipping to the next page. Bodies more and more bodies, some without heads; long torsos; hips; thighs and legs and asses,

Lips, mouth wide open, teeth and tongue presenting. There’s a notable lack of vulgarity to the images. A seemingly clinical observation of how the parts move, some independent of the others; but when it all comes together…

One more page wouldn’t hurt. (It’s just admiration he’d say, when the real reason he’s so riled up is because he’d been hoping for this moment; all his anxieties of pursuing you assuaged by your apparent obsession for him- er- hybrids like him—can’t get ahead of himself just yet—) His fingers move with deft purpose.

You come back with a whole bag of stuff; chips, ramune, what smells like pocky, but he’s not looking towards you as you return. Surely, you think, a blank page can’t be that interesting, and you’re right; that’s not what he’s staring at.

He’s found your page.

Your life drawing class encourages you to practice still lifes in your free time. There aren’t many hybrids tripping over themselves to be ogled by a human - some models even abject to posing in the room while you’re there - so when the opportunity presented itself to observe something more than a picture, someone else, removed from your wheedling peers, obviously you lept for it.

You’d grown tired of drawing yourself.

“Ah, Yuuji-” Your inhale quick and sudden, the sharp clatter of a glass bottle twitching him out of his stupor. You stiffen up when he looks back at you despite his brevity (because he is just fascinated with your canvas all the sudden), your hands flapping anxiously as you step close, you’d collapse in on yourself if you had the option. “Um wait, please! That’s private!”

You are deeply gifted. He doesn’t have to stare it like he did the other ones cause he recognizes it as you so immediately. (Letting his eyes wander all those times seems to have payed off). Recognizes the arch and swell of your muscles, the slope of your back and the softness of the dimples in your hips, the gentle curve of your -

A hand darts over the artistic nudity before he can fully commit it to memory, and you shout: “Yuuji! I got the snacks, okay? Just- we can get started now,” He can’t read the expression on your face as you reset your canvas and flip to a blank page. He desperately tries to meet your eye; but your gaze is leagues away. An inkling of some base, carnal attraction blooms in his chest; your unwitting submission appealing to some feral hindbrain before he recalls your humanity, disappointingly gentle emotions and sensibilities.

He feels sad for you after though it only lasts a moment, his tail drooping pathetically and eyes sagging similarly as the compunction grapples him; and in a frenzied moment of attempting to sooth your shame (smells dull and salty like wood grain) he gets a good idea. According to his standard, anyway. He smiles at you and pants a little. His finger is digging into his collar at an angle, tugging up; in demonstration.

“If you want me to get naked, I really wouldn’t mind!” His whip tail thud-thuds into your easel. “Excuse me?” You initially abject, dumbfounded. Your face feels warm and your skin tingles, the blood in your cheeks stinging it darker, body tensing up. “W-why would you..? I..I wouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. I-it’s a, well - Portraits are mostly sup..supposed to be your face, so, getting naked? Really not necessary,”

He’s already taking his sweater off. “Yuuji, please.” His tail wags a little when you whimper and he has a mind to admonish himself for taking pleasure in such a thing.

“It’s fine, really!” Sounds so easy for him to say, when you’re on the verge of an aneurysm. “I was reading a little about it-” (and hardly did he ever read), “-and apparently, portraits can be half, or full bodies. Well, you’d probably know that better than me anyway.” His voice is dampened by the fabric, but you’re too dazed to notice he said anything. Everything is happening too fast.

He kicks off his shoes and drops trou in your choked silence, your hands tremble as dread wars in your mind and you remain uncertain of where to put them. Nevermind your eyes. The thought of trying to stop him warrs with the concept that having to touch him, see him, will surely kill you. “You seem to draw a lot of hybrids- so I assume you’re already used to seeing us naked? Though I didn’t see a lot of dogs in there…”

The room kicks up a few degrees and your blood simmers beneath your skin, your boundaries bent and bowed as you struggle to figure what happens next. Your shirt feels too, too tight. His is starting to come off. The slow drag of cotton across his body is amplified by the emptiness of the space, at a pace entirely too casual for an impromptu strip tease. “But there’s nothing wrong with trying something new every once in a while, y’know?” He stumbles a little when it’s past his shoulders, self consciously fixing his hair after he’s gotten it slung over his arm.

As if he has anything to be nervous about. He looks at you triumphantly when he’s finished (pants regretfully still on), and he wishes you couldn’t meet his eyes this time; get a good eyeful of how excited he is for you. In what must be respectful to you, you catch his gaze this time, with these big round prey eyes that makes the fur on the back of his arms bristle in the studio’s cool air. A vein in his throat jumps and his pupils dilate, but (too) soon you turn away.

You’ve seated yourself back on your chair and fixed up the workspace, though he has a hard time gauging this new expression on your face. Maybe apprehensive, again? Bashful? You chew your lip with this insistence, bruising the delicate skin there. Your hands move with opposed intention; flattening out the canvas and arming yourself with graphite. “O-kay. Y..you can.. Make yourself comfortable I guess..” He can still smell you, too.

This scent is new. Near cloying and knitting to the inside of his nose as it pours off of you, slight, topping off that twinge of orange peel and grapefruit.

“Okay!” He brusquely shoves past your apprehensions; looking mighty pleased with himself-the dog-the muse’s chair dragging agonizingly against the floor as he goes to set it in place. You do nothing at first. He is seated within seconds and after your hand suddenly is no longer your own, flexed potential in every muscle put to pause in the air, your brows furrowing in newfound frustration.

You don’t look at him, still. Yuuji’s triumph of domination having past, he finds the selfish desire to be observed and admired comes gnawing back to him. He doesn’t want to push you (so he says while shoving you) but he really is going all out. He’d like some of that signature human hospitality back, pretty please? He leans closer.

You get infinitely stiffer and he whimpers. An honest to god beaten doggy whine, and your shock is what finally gets you to look up. He’s far more relaxed than you at present, pouting expression at odds with his slouched posture and occasional pant. His floppy ears tilt open and he momentarily mirrors your wide-eyed wonder. “Finally,” he chirps. ”I was starting to think we weren’t actually friends!” You scoff, still staring saucer-eyed. Your eyebrows go up and down and up, your forehead wrinkles. “You ge-get naked for all your f..friends?” The incredulous twang to your voice wants to read to him like jealousy, but projection is a fickle thing.

Yuuji genuinely thinks about your question, further astounding you. “Well. I guess only for the ones I really like.” The statement is made sincerely, the smile accompanying it darling, and could have perhaps romanticized the situation had you not been a sane-minded human man. The warmth in your face has turned to fire hot heat and you sputter on your words. “I’m fl..flattered. But humans? Don’t do t..this,” you attempt to gesture to the entire situation, “With their friends! This is, frankly, too, too-” You stutter into nothing, the thought dying on your tongue. “Too what? I mean, you don’t smell like you hate it,” he sniffs. “My nose is pretty good! If you-” you dislike the way he stresses the syllable, like you’re special some how, “-were scared, I’d smell that miles away. You have a very strong scent you know? It’s not a bad thing though, don’t worry! At least, it isn’t for me anyway. It makes you feel more.. Genuine.” He hums matter-of-factly, your pencil beginning to tremble above the page. “But aren..aren’t you cold? Or-or something? It’s always freezing-freezing in here!” Yuuji shrugs, ”Aw, it’s no worries really. I sorta run hot, so,”

You knew a lot of things about hybrids. About their keen noses, most gifted with perceptive capabilities beyond that of your kind. Still it feels no better to hear that for despite your subtlety, you never had a chance to evade their prying eyes. You sigh with a shake of your shoulders, and Yuuji takes your silence as an excuse to move closer. “Hey, don’t worry. What’d I say about new things?” You don’t feel terribly reassured, but you nod along for your own sake. “You got an assignment due, don’t you? Just focus on that. Forget Yuuji, focus on capturing..” “The form.” You finish. Yuuji would have said ‘these guns’, but shrugs. “Yeah, that.”

You look at him again, but only now do you truly perceive him, resigned yourself to capturing his image and replacing the blankness on your canvas. Your gaze is sharp and surgical, your pencil connecting with the paper as you change focus between him and it. Him, his infuriatingly cheeky grin and easy-going eyes and loose limbs. This body worthy of envy. Laid bare for you to wrangle and tame, reduce to your second dimension.

You begin to draw.

Yuuji sits in a silence punctuated by the sounds of your scribbles. Upwards stroke, down again; quick curving motions. Stare right at him, into the depths of his soul. Turn away, and sketch some more.

It’s a lot more boring than he’d imagined it. He is very excited you have your eyes on him; don’t get him wrong, but your stare doesn’t possess any of the fullbodied fascination, like he has for you. He almost wished he could give you his nose just so you could smell his pheremones, or his eyes, so you could catch every little jump of his muscles or twitch of the tail. He’d refrain for a few selfish reasons; Your changes in mood. The straightening of your spine and the twitching of your eye after you got a rhythm going. You ditch the graphite, go for the charcoal, and make some bigger shapes, Strikes some fine lines. Stillness comes simply to him, studying you as intently as you are him.

Your movements slow to an inevitable stop after a time, “Okay…” You stare stonily at your canvas. Briefly compare in silence. “I… think I’m finished.” You don’t move away, seemingly taken by your own creation.

He shoots up from his seat and moves close. “You’re no..not gonna put your c..clothes back on?” He looks down at you with his head at an angle, suddenly peered over your shoulder. “You want me to?” Your silence is loud. “Okay then.” He smiles, finally taking a look at your drawing.

The expression you gave him is burrowing and severe. An intense glower that catches even him off guard. An unbidden hunger beneath his eyes accentuated by whisps of charcoal, a pinprick of yellow nestled into his irises. He is in both awe of it and horrified that is how you saw him. How he truly was. You define the slant of his collarbones after the fact, rounding out the muscle of his pecs. You sketch and erase, sketch and erase under his curious eye, sketch. Your palette grows. Swirled into colorless grey by your finger, pencil replaced by your finger. You draw without a model, so he no longer sees the point in teasing you with his nudity. Forgive him for expecting something more dramatic- he’s been reading too much manga, surely…

He gets dressed slow and gets as close as possible to your face whenever he has a question.

“Is art always this boring?” He whispers close to your ear and you shiver. “M..maybe if you’re not the one…the one drawing. This.. I-I’m having fun, actually.” He tuts at you, “You need to teach me how to draw then. Next time when we do this, I can take a crack at drawing you!” His clawed finger crawls down your shoulder, you sweat a little under his attentions.

“Y..yeah,” you swallow. “Maybe..” He smiles cooly as he eases back into the seat opposite you. “I just don’t think it’s fair you get to have the fun all to yourself, y’know?” You shoot him a look, lip pursed. “A-a lot more people would be more … excited about getting a free portrait.”

“Well, a lot more people would be more excited about getting to see me half naked.” Practically naked, to be a precise as possible. Your exasperation beats out your nervousness and you’re no longer afraid to set your brows with attitude, scoffing in irritation. Like he knows how you feel. The sheer restraint you’re exercising. How adamantly you will not allow this to get out of hand; you will not allow yourself to do something you'll regret- “G..get them to draw you, then!”

“Nah.” He drags his chair closer, but it’s not casual like before. Now the oxygen feels stuffier. Hotness that makes the air thicken and drag you down, a heat that blazes too close to your ears and seemingly makes the air tremble before you. You look toward him, not knowing what to expect (but twitching, aching for it).

His tongue runs over his canines in a raw, animalistic fashion, the deep pools of his amber eyes threatening to drown you beneath their surface. “I don’t like them nearly as much.”

all content written by me @pervcoded is owned by me, and you are not allowed to repost or translate my works. don't put my shit into ai generators, don't steal my shit and put it on wattpad. thank you.

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bloodiedrogue · 1 year

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FEED ME

SUMMARY: You ride Astarion's thigh and he lets you drink his blood. That's it. That's the fic. It's horny as all hell.

PAIRING: Ascendant Astarion & Spawn Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,519

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, thigh riding, praise/degradation, orgasm denial (if you squint), penetrative sex (reader receiving), blood sucking, spit kink, allusions of religion.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Honestly this is just so gross I apologize I literally have no excuse other than I'm going to hell probably. :')

MASTERLIST

Patience has never been your virtue.

In fact, it’s something you’ve sorely lacked your entire life, believing you deserve to be treated in a timely manner regardless of circumstance. Because of this, it often feels like an uphill battle when you’re forced onto Astarion’s thigh, dripping with sweat, begging for release as you grind against the fabric of his trousers.

“Patience, pet,” he always says, holding your face —tightening the grip he has with rough fingers that make you whimper at the thought of your own prolonging.

Every time, you have to fight the urge to clench your jaw and grind your teeth. To showcase displeasure in the face of God as he graces you so slowly and intimately. Allowing you to pant against his chest and lock your arms around his neck as he trails soft patterns into your flesh.

Deep down, you know it’s a gift. To be able to touch him in any sort of way is an act bestowed. An act meant to be cherished, so you wait. Telling yourself it’ll be worth it in the end as you listen to the whispers that flutter against your ear.

“That’s it, keep going.”

His voice is like a hymn. Every verse of instruction, spoken like a blessing, forces you to hold your breath and shift your weight further against his leg. Feeling the pressure build so slowly you can’t help but whimper in frustration, you hear him laugh. The reverb of his torment rattling against your aching hands that gently thumb his throat, seeking more.

Barely above a whisper, you beg. Pleading through the desperate buck of your hips, you ask for indulgence. For absolution. For him to pity your starving cunt as it continues to brush against him, unable to pass that final threshold.

All he does is laugh again. The wicked tone piercing your flesh like a knife as his fingers dig into your hips, forcing you further down. “You’ll get what you’re owed,” he tells you then, grinning —bearing his teeth tauntingly. “Once you take it.”

At that point, it feels like he’s punishing you. Forcing you to take penance —to perform your devotion in a way that he enjoys.

You’re not sure you’ll ever understand it. Why he does the things he does. Why, without fail, he prolongs your needs to feed and fuck —to feel him fully firm inside the walls of your sex.

Even now, as you try to distract yourself from the agonizingly slow speed at which you ride his thigh, feeling him give you that little extra push as you grind further down, all you want to do is lean forward and sink your teeth into his flesh. To suck the wound and lap away the crimson blood that’ll pool within your mouth.

It makes you hungry just thinking about it. Starved. Filled to the brim with every desire he so effortlessly dangles in front of your face. As if you’re a malnourished dog and he’s offering himself like raw meat.

You lick your lips and think of what he might taste like. How his blood compares to that of the people he feeds you. Would it be warm and sweet like honey? Would it thicken against your tongue, allowing you to savour its flavour before it slips down your throat? Or would it feel more like a cool glass of water? Refreshing and light —easy to gulp down?

“Mm, I see someone’s getting a bit hungry.”

A part of you wants to narrow your eyes to showcase your displeasure, but you don’t dare. Instead, all you do is close your mouth, realizing how slack it is as a pooling of spit collects at the corners.

It makes you embarrassed. Feeling the drool that slips down the edge —watching as he reaches to wipe it away with a huff, calling you pathetic. Telling you that only good girls get their fill.

“I won’t give you what you don’t deserve,” he says, leaning in, staring into your eyes as they instantly twitch away, averting their gaze as your mind begins to shift. Focusing on the feeling of your core, aching with heat as you tremble through distracted movements still thinking of his taste.

Feeling you falter, he forces you to look at him again. Gripping the bottom half of your face, his nails dig into the plush of your cheeks, commanding you to keep his gaze.

“Look at me,” he says.

There’s a force behind his words that quickly reminds you of the position you're in. That despite being physically above him, in all other cases you’re actually far below. Lower than the dirt he walks on, meaning you shouldn’t take this moment for granted.

Realizing this, you nod your head against the placement of his hand, feeling it loosen ever so slightly as you take a deep breath, preparing to move. Jutting your hips forward, you then start with languid motions.

Getting the feel for what you like, you test out different weights, dropping your hands towards the top of his thighs to further support yourself. As you do, you feel Astarion’s hands begin to slide out of their original places. The one on your hip moves to cup your ass while the other, still remaining firmly on your face, begins to stroke your cheek. As if to further coax you through the snapping of your pelvis as it starts to rock in place.

Both gestures work to encourage you. Somehow, despite their subtleties, you feel the support they offer each time you grind against him, feeling that imaginary band begin to pull further apart. As he palms your backside, giving it a little rough tap here and there, the only thought behind your eyes is that of his prior instruction.

That you need to take to receive.

Pushing your hands further into his legs, you let out a heavy breath that quickly tails out into a moan, making him smile and stroke the base of your cheek so lovingly you almost whimper in response. “That’s it, darling, keep it up.”

You nod, unable to form coherent thoughts as your folds brush against the fabric; the texture serving as that extra push you need to keep yourself going. To motivate the motions as you push and pull, feeling it continuously build until your mouth is split open again he’s ripping you off of him.

It leaves you disoriented, being quickly tossed to his other thigh ass first, watching as he palms the fabric that rests over his cock before allowing it to spill out.

Once it’s on full display, you look back up at him with such desperate eyes that you’re almost surprised when he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back, praising you all over again. Telling you what a job you’re doing as he maneuvers your legs around his waist and begins to slide in.

It’s slow but smooth, the way he slots himself into you. Immediately, feeding you a piece of that hunger you crave, you’re rewarded with a quiet hum of approval as you rock your hips against him, feeling the way he juts inside in response.

It leaves you breathless upon impact. The weight of your torso leisurely bouncing on his cock, forcing you to wrap your arms around him again. Almost instantly, they take hold of his throat with the crook of your arms, allowing him better leverage to push you up only to pull you back down as he grunts through each movement —groaning as you provide him with enough impact going down to hit that spot that has you twitching around him.

By then you’re both moving in perfect tandem. As he offers you your earned pleasure, you begin to moan his name in prayer, repeating it as a thank you for his benevolence.

In response, he smiles through a heavy breath and maneuvers his wrist to his lips, never breaking eye contact as he drives his teeth into the base of the flesh, forcing the blood to enter his mouth before he reaches for your chin.

Once he’s had his fill he presses a thumb to your lips, applying the smallest amount of pressure as he continues fucking into you, watching with bated breath as you open up wide for him, granting him the access he needs to feed. To take your cheeks in his hand and angle your head back so that he can slowly release the blood into your mouth.

As soon as it hits your tongue you can feel yourself become sated. While he drives himself further, snapping his hips in timed sessions, you can barely focus on the sweetness of his taste. How it tickles your tongue going down but still manages to ease all the previous aches of hunger.

Looking up at him, you smile with blood stained teeth, deliriously laughing through the final pumps before both of you are coming together, twitching against each other’s flesh as presses both hands against your spine, willing you to have your fill as he offers you his neck, continuing to fuck you through your orgasm.

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi@rainonarden@oceanbluesixeyes@bodtyworship@maydayitsjay@greasyslimebucket@yeeteth-the-raven@fantasyfairysworld@allexthakatt@flowersaretheshit@morglyne@thespectacularspaceace@cephiss0@use-your-telescope@furblrwurblr@kloverfield@angelofthorr@writervaul-t@starved-kitten@minixluvr@crowley--aziraphale@sapphicwren@alionera-blog@jennithejester@dezedrol@thisisew@saladalpaca@applepiewithbacon@httpbiohazard@aurasyn@nerdoodles@kingpinthedevil@itzkawaiix@domainoflostsouls@silverskylan@uminootome@helpidkwhatimdoingwrong@deadlyinfernos@blackbirdswhispers@sarahskywalker-amadala@writingmysanity@f3v3rs@jayjones03@quietlyebbie@optimisticprime3@eyes-for-daze@sunnytalia3@megoshh@maddiedott@cappsikle@mostbeautifulnightmare@lynnlovesloki@simpytheshrimpy69@astarion-archive@smaranshakthi@autistic-deer@shadowfeart@freckled-petals@candied-lavender@hp-art-studio@ghouligan@satelliteapotheosis@waywardwitch-hel@pandimoostuff@mythoughtsofinsanity@ilovelovelylove@oneandonlyizabelle

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

#feed me #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #astarion x you #ascended astarion x spawn reader #summer writes

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phoebehalliwell · 2 years

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If your still taking requests 🥺👉👈 could I pls request an aesthetics for girls + their alt!counterpart kids (like Prudence Melinda, Dency, and idk…an alt kid of your choosing for Prue and Paige?)

Thank you 😊 I always feel so inspired when u see you coming up with theses charmed fankids/OCs and how you’ve built an amazing world for your next Gen!!! ✨

hello beloved first lemme say haha i love you thank you ily and then lemme also say um i am critically fucking dumb so i cannot fuckin figure out what this says whoops 🤕 so like. like. like. aesthetics for like non-canon witches a la dency, penn, dove, warren, sheridan, as far as paige kids i've got like bennie shane and abel if memory serves there's also bel and bea Or or or is it like. aesthetics for the relationship between each kid n their mom. Or. is like like. characters who have variants. like how penn and wyatt are mirror of each other and wyatt and evil wyatt are mirrors and fucking um pj parker and peyton have the dark future version johanna rose and marie. ily ty

#could i wait until i'm less dumb to reread this so it makes sense to me?#yes probably but i shant #patience is a virtue that i sorely lack #💌

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joannasteez · 4 years

Text

𝐄𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: EZ Reyes x Reader x Angel Reyes

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: Inspired by Jazmine Sullivan’s “Bodies - Intro”. These two characters have ruined my life.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: Mature themes. Suggestive Polyamorous relationship.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2k

This is the Tiny Desk concert version, the original is available on streaming platforms!! Listening to the song is of course optional.

The morning had brought a nebulous strumming sensation, waving under the surface of your skin like the soft rippling of water. The sheets beneath you fingers were crisp, lucid light of the morning sun dancing to reflect against the pure white. You were wholly enraptured in a bliss only the rising of the sun could bring, till confusion, all disconcerting and worrisome, snuffed out your moment of elysian. A mild thrumming began just at the back of your head, memories refusing to surface as mild panic took hold of your senses. Your fingers still clung to the sheets, this time with more urgency, heart pulsing faster. An alluring scent, masculine, settled the air. Had it always been there? Your throat was raw, as if you'd spent the former hours screaming into the night, and by the soreness rattling in your thighs you'd say the assumption had some truth.

"How you feeling?", a voice asked. At the foot of the bed sat a man, naked save for his underwear. His name was..... it started with an E you knew that.... Ezra maybe? ....No! Ezekiel, but "everyone calls me EZ" you remember faintly.

You pulled some at the sheets, the softness covering you as you took in the room. "Ok. Heads a little foggy, bit of a headache, but I'm good".

He maneuvered to your side of the bed, handing you a short glass and a pill. "That's good. Take this, it'll help".

"Thanks".

A silence brewed then, the water remedying that rawness as it washed down the Advil. Ezekiel had been watching you with intent, soft brown eyes fluttering over your features till they landed on your lips. It made you lick at them in self awareness.

"Last night must've been crazy, I barely remember anything".

His voice was deep, resonating from his chest, tone suggestive. "I could remind you".

Dangling idly from his neck swung a slim silver chain. Your fingers hooking it to draw him near till your lips touched. His kiss was patient, a lackadaisical pace as he rolled and flicked his tongue in your mouth. He let you do as you pleased, and so you settled for sucking at the wet of his tongue in a way that reflected the dazed air of the morning. It was seductive, producing a pressure at the base of your core, but it was also light, a featherweight thing that hazed the mind, coaxing you to fall back into the comfort of the sheets. You both were parallel to the pillows, his thickly veined hands situating your body as it pleased him, broad body laying beside you. Ezekiel had a rather patient disposition about him, but from the way he kissed you again, you could sense the desperation waring in him. Threatening to unleash itself.

He pushed at your legs, spreading them as his teeth gave your skin tentative nips, lips trailing soft wet kisses till he lapped against the hardening flesh of your chest that dared to pebble under his touch. Soft circles laid at the sensitive bundle of nerves between the juncture of your legs, a whiny moan airing out of your throat. You'd become so pliant under his touch, the warmth he radiated bending your will till it became his own. He was killing the remnants of your resolve with slow passion, summoning every nerve within you to thrum and pulse to his liking. With the hard swirl of his thumb, the balling pressure in your gut began to grow, his breath fanning over your skin as he continued to kiss up and to the side plain of your neck.

"Faster", you pleaded. Hips swiveling to meet his touch in desperation.

"I love how needy you sound baby, Keep begging".

And beg you did, the rotation of your hips tight with purpose. Your high was so close and so potent you could taste it, the ache so deep, you were trembling. You nearly cursed him out in a fit of rage when he pulled his hand away, a mischievous grin taking shape to his lips as he chuckled. The sound brought faded memories of the night prior back to your remembrance, stuck in a similar situation where Ezekiel had guided you to the edge of some explosively beautiful state of euphoria only then to leave you hanging. The lack of fulfillment was maddening but still you couldn't resist his steady touch, or his kiss, and the way he overstimulated your senses as his brother watched.

His fingers rubbed through the soreness of your thighs, lips seemingly stuck at the flesh of your neck. The scent of food stuck to the air suddenly, the aroma missing your senses up till now. "Where's your brother".

He smiled against your skin. "What, am I boring you?"

"Not at all. I just smell food is all".

"Hungry?"

He swirled his tongue against a sensitive spot on your neck.

You voice was airy. "Yes"

"Ever heard the saying patience is a virtue".

'Of course he'd think it was a virtue. He's a damn tease', you thought. "I think I'm all out of both".

You both let out snickers, the small comical moment disrupted by the sudden whipping boom of the door opening. Standing in the entrance was Angel, his hands occupied with glasses of orange juice. "I'm out there slaving over the stove and you're in here seducing our guest".

EZ rose from the bed, stalking toward the door. "Angel if you burnt the eggs just say that".

"Blow me", Angel griped.

The younger brother had left, being exchanged for the older one, who'd regarded you with an intensity that wasn't present before. His energy seemed to shift the room, lean built body blocking the rays of the sun to cast a long shadow down on you. You sat there, knees pressing into the sheets as you sat back against the heels of your feet. A piece of your lip tucked under your teeth in anticipation because Angel was different from his brother. Ezekiel was patient, and tended to you with a burning desperation to be near you, as if to savor each moment . You felt it when he kissed you, the way he gripped at your skin, like the feeling had become so foreign at one point or another and now that he had you he didn't want to let go, but Angel made you patient and pliant in a different manner. While Ezekiel waited for you, you waited for Angel.

"Thirsty?", he asked. Extending a glass of juice to you. You shuffled closer, nearly at the edge of the bed as the coolness of the glass danced under your fingers to produce slight shivers when you drank.

His stare bared down on you as you took long pulling sips. Your eyes peering back beneath the fanning of your lashes. The last sip caused a single droplet to store at the corner of your lip, his finger catching absentmindedly before tasting it. He hummed at the sweet citrus flavor, placing the empty glass down before turning back to you, fingers raising to caress against your face. You leant into the touch without much thought, the warmth of it nice and easing. A thumb pulled softly at your bottom lip, his voice murmuring something about you being beautiful.

He descended to lay a rough kiss, the pace powered to his liking, the swipe and roll of his tongue domineering and heavy. He made you breathless, lips reminding you of hours before and how he loved to control every part of you. The push and pull of his fingers against your skin, the robust groan that stayed stored away in his chest drawing out long and deep whenever you reacted to his dominance. He was a passionate lover as well but had commanded a level of submission that made your head swim with delirious need. Ezekiel had left you desperate, and now Angel was here, those long rough fingers in tow, ready to push you over the edge.

He tugged at your lips, hands gripping your thighs to spread them as you stayed kneeling before him, your hands pressed into his abdomen for support. He laid deep rotating motions at your clit, the shudder of pleasure resonating on your nerves causing you to gasp. With the tight rhythm there, he delved in two fingers, the thickness of it causing you to whimper soft curses, your head lulling back at the teeming sensations. You felt your body edging, a rocking in your hips urging you to burst under him.

"Feels so good Angel", you moaned. The grip on his waist that you have growing tight. As his right hand worked you he raised the left to hold the pressured points at your neck. A squeeze that made your vision white and splotchy. You were mumbling incoherent phrases, drunk off pleasure and it spurred Angel on.

"My brother left you high and dry didn't he?", he asked. His lips tugging against the shell of your ear. "Forgive him, he's a tease, he can't help himself".

"Please Angel, I'm so close", you pleaded.

"I know baby, and you're doing so good. Such a good girl".

The praise sent you into a short bout of small convulsions, the heated pressure in your gut bursting, causing your head to rest lazily on his chest. Blissed out state consuming you. He discarded your slick release with his tongue, tasting before he placed you gently to lay against the sheets. His long fingers finding the dips and curves of your body to caress.

Ezekiel stepped in the room then, a tray of assorted breakfast foods in hand. At this you sat up, body reacting before the mind. Ezekiel placed the tray at the center of the bed, the contents thereof a beautiful assortment of fruits, cooked meats, a stacked pile of toast and a big steaming plate of scrambled eggs. You all picked at it in comfortable silence. The chirping song of birds ringing in the distance. It was nice. Perfect even.

A thought came to mind. "Is this something you guys do often?"

Angel grabbed the bowl of fruits, lifting one to your lips to taste. The juice of the fruit streamed, Angel catching it with a kiss to your chin before answering. "It's our first time sharing to be honest. We both saw you and figured it was better this way than fighting about it".

Ezekiel reached over you to grab a fruit. "Sharing is caring".

You smiled, leaning over to peck his lips. "And there's enough of me for the both of you".

Angel raised another fruit to your lips, watching as you suckled the juice of it. The soft flesh of your mouth catching his fingers. You too had entranced each other, eyes falling one into the other till you shifted on your side to kiss him. He'd paced it slow, tongue heavy as it licked and swirled to gather the taste of your lips. Soft kisses pressed into the curve of your side, Ezekiel's thick hands kneading your skin with a tugging sensation. The feeling of them both, surrounding you at every turn made your head spin in excitement. They kissed you, touched you, regarded your with such an overwhelming dynamic that, if you were anyone else you'd probably go insane.

A burning smell ruffled your nose. "What's that smell?"

Angel kept at your lips, his care else where, but Ezekiel had come to a full halt behind you, till he shot out of the bed.

"Shit I left one of the stove burners on".

You giggled and Angel shook his head, traveling down to nip at your chest. Your fingers ran through his dark locks, still giggling as you heard Ezekiel cursing in the kitchen.

"You both are so cute, can I keep y'all?"

"You couldn't get rid of us if you tried querida".

That whole morning, you'd been stuck, resting between them both, one perfection and another. Moaning and withering between the soft lips and brushing kisses of two elysian bodies.

#ez reyes #mayans mc #ezekiel reyes #angel reyes #ezekiel reyes imagine #angel reyes imagine #ez reyes x reader x angel reyes #ez reyes x reader #angel reyes x reader #ezekiel reyes x reader #joannasteez

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cthakitty · 3 years

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Patience is a virtue but its one I’m sorely lacking in. I absolutely hate waiting for things...this is especially hard as an artist as you’re always waiting for something...usually for something to dry or if you’re like me for your supplies to come in the mail while you’re in the middle of a project. I gotta wait for this clay to dry, then i can gesso them tomorrow, wait for that to dry then i can paint and wait for THAT to dry and then i can finally begin assembly. Its a long process and it’s testing me...it’ll only be worse once i start ceramics so I guess this is practice. God how are people so patient with things? I just want to create and make shit but it takes a while...the thing people never tell you about making things by hand is that theres usually a lot of waiting involved somehow -sigh-.

#text post #meows #art ramblings #i just want to paint my clowns but i gotta sand and prime them a u g h.

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porcelain-blue · 3 years

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Let Me Help Your Aching Bones

Canon Divergence AU where Lan Zhan doesn’t run away from Wei Ying after kissing him in the Pheonix mountains.

-----

What if it didn’t turn out the way it did; not fire and blood and years of Wei Ying’s absence like a discordant note of a guqin song?

What if Lan Wangji catches Wei Ying right before he hatches his plan to liberate the Wen civilians? Maybe it would be something like this.

The dark circles and angry set of Wei Ying’s shoulders feels like a punch to the gut, and leaves Lan Wangji’s chest tight, out of breath. It feels like the boy he fell in love with is fading before his eyes, and Wangji must do something about it before Wei Ying is lost. He has a sour feeling in his gut, a grim certainty that if he does not reach him now, Wei Ying might forever be lost to him.

So he goes, corners Wei Ying during the Night-hunt on Phoenix mountain, pushes him up against a tree as the dusk settles around them like a lover’s embrace. He cannot help himself, despite his shame, his patience and heart frayed beyond measure after months of worrying, worrying about Wei Ying dead, and after the brief elation of hearing him alive, worrying about Wei Ying dying, eaten from inside by the resentment of the path he walks.

He kisses him, and there is enough of the sunlit boy he fell in love with in Wei Ying’s response, fluttery and flighty, an awkward laugh even as he is pushed against a tree and kissed by a stranger. Wei Ying’s hands flex despite being pinned, and something in Lan Wangji’s heart breaks, knowing that even in this vulnerable a situation, Wei Ying is compassionate enough to not fight, to let someone take something Wangji is sure he thinks is expendable, for the sake of another. His hand pinning Wei Ying’s wrist spasms at the thought, angry that Wei Ying could give something like this away, ashamed that he himself is the one taking it, when it was not something that belonged to him.

Wei Ying does not belong to him.

He pulls back, guilt coursing through him, and hesitates a moment before releasing Wei Ying’s hands. He pauses, waiting to see what Wei Ying would do.

He does nothing, and Wangji’s heart lurches. He can almost imagine Wei Ying’s mind working, quicksilver in its deductions, assuming that someone had plucked up all of their courage to approach him when he couldn’t see them, holding himself back instead of pulling his blindfold off, so that he doesn’t embarrass his attacker.

Wangji knows Wei Ying well. He would give everything for the sake of another. Wangji knows how, having taken for himself the sweet breath of Wei Ying, knows that he cannot bear to see Wei Ying give anything else to him without wanting it. Lan Wangji will do everything in his power to stop Wei Ying burning himself whole for the world.

For that, Wangji must atone. He does not run away. He grips Bichen so hard that he is sure a lesser sword would shatter in his hands, the way he is sure his heart will do soon. He speaks.

“Wei Ying,” he says, softly, with shame.

At his voice, Wei Ying stills. Wangji knows he has been recognised, and he feels like everything inside him will break at once.

Wei Ying rips off the ribbon, staring at him with wide eyes, a flush still high on his cheekbones.

“Lan Zhan?” He says, confused and unsure.

Lan Wangji steels himself. Lying is prohibited. He gathers every ounce of courage that has been pressed into him since he was born, every virtue and precept that has formed into his core and he prepares his integrity like a weapon he is using to stab himself with.

“Wei Ying. I am sorry. I have taken what I should not have. I have forgotten myself.”

He bows, back straight even as his hand shakes around his sword, and hopes that Wei Ying can see that at least in this he is sincere, he regrets.

---

Wei Ying is quiet for many moments, the shock of seeing Lan Zhan bowing so deeply almost eclipsing the shock of seeing Lan Zhan in front of him after that kiss. The usual animosityshamelonging that usually surges in him at the sight of Lan Zhan’s stupidly perfect face has apparently been kissed out of him temporarily, and Wei Ying feels like he can breathe without the dead in his lungs for the first time since he came back with Chenqing in hand and the dead at his fingertips.

“Lan Zhan, what-what why? Were you the one who..?” He doesn’t know what to say, even as heat flushes through him at the idea of Lan Zhan kissing him. Kissing him! It is obvious, though, in the shame and pink in Lan Zhan’s ears that he is he one who had taken Wei Ying’s first kiss. Despite how ridiculous the situation is, something soft unfurls in his heart at the sight of Lan Zhan like this, so noble, so full of integrity after doing something that, apparently, his heart desired. Wei Wuxian thinks of the cloud recesses, the sharp straightness of Lan Zhan as he kneels beside him and takes the punishment that Wei Ying had gotten him into. He hasn’t changed at all. The pain that pricks him at the sight of such perfect morals comes back, then, and Wei Wuxian wonders what the paragon of virtue is doing, kissing him in the backwoods of the Phoenix mountains.

Still though, the first kiss of his life from the man he has been in love with for years tugs stronger than his self esteem, for once tugs stronger than the gaping hole in his chest where his golden core once was, where now resentment pulses like a sick parody of what power his body once held. It tugs, and the soreness of his lips and wrists pull him right into the present, and Lan Zhan is still here, trembling and bowed in shame.

He steps forward and places his hands gingerly under Lan Zhan’s elbows, pulling him out of his bow and tilting his head so he can look him in the eye. Lan Zhan’s mouth is pressed into an unhappy line, despite being a little swollen, and his eyes-

Oh.

His eyes are soft and looking at him like Wei Ying is going to break, like Lan Zhan, Hanguang-jun, one of the twin jades of Gusu, cares. He looks frighteningly like he is about to cry, and Wei Wuxian finally sees in that perfect face that what he assumed was derision and judgement was something far simpler and purer- it was worry.

“Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, I’m not mad, please don’t cry,” he stammers, still gripping onto Lan Zhan’s elbows as though those two points of contact in his palms are the only thing keeping him from becoming unmoored.

“I’m not mad, it’s not a big deal, it’s just a kiss, even though it’s my first one, so you should be really proud, okay?” Nervous chatter pours out of him as he shakes.

“I just. I just need to know. Why? Lan Zhan? Why did you kiss me?”

If it is for a joke he will shatter, and the only thing that is allowing fragile hope to grow in him is the knowledge that Lan Zhan is the most honest man he knows, the most un-shameless, un-flirtatious person ever to exist in the cultivation world. So by process of elimination-

“Because I care for Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, resolute even as the flush travels even further down his neck. He has chosen this path by not running away, by revealing himself to Wei Ying. At the very least, he is glad to know that by owning up to his lack of control has returned him to himself, and his own character. Honesty comes from him now, as it always has, frank and unvarnished.

“I have always cared. Since we fought in the cloud recesses. I did not show it well, then, but I am tired of lying,” he continues before Wei Ying can interject or object, determined now to get the words clawing out of his chest a space to exist.

“I do not expect anything from Wei Ying, and if you wish it you will never see me again. But I.. I wanted Wei Ying to know, that he does not have to do things alone. I will stand beside you, if you wished it.”

Wei Ying is staring at him, mouth agape. He closes it, opens his mouth, and closes it again. After a moment, he speaks.

“Lan Zhan, are you serious?” He looks lost, and Lan Zhan wants to hold him until he knows he is found, if Wei Ying will let him.

He nods. “Lying is prohibited, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying huffs a little laugh at that, and Lan Zhan’s poor, pathetic heart jumps at the sound, and impossible hope beating with his blood.

“Lan Zhan, did you forget that I’m going down the path of evil? I thought you didn’t approve? Your reputation is going to get dragged through the mud if you’re with me, you know that, right?”

Wei Ying’s hands are clutching at his sleeves, and they are warm through the fabric of his robes. Lan Zhan frowns, and answers haltingly, as honestly as he knows how to.

“Wei Ying is not evil. There is something else that I do not know. You are not one to be reckless without reason. And… my reputation is good enough for both of us.”

He cannot help but be a little petulant as he says it, even as he flushes with guilt. Arrogance is prohibited. It is true, though, and Lan Zhan is not above using his social position if it means he can help Wei Ying through this.

Wei Ying groans, and pulls his hands back toward himself, leaving Lan Zhan’s elbows and forearms bereft of his warmth. His heart drops, fearing that Wei Ying will want nothing to do with him now, that he messed up and now he will be unable to even watch him from afar, but the Wei Ying drags a hand down his face and sighs, looking back at him with a wry smile that is achingly familiar.

Wei Ying steps closer, looks at Lan Zhan with eyes more open and clear than they had been for years, even. A hand comes up to rest over Lan Zhan’s heart, fingers curling slightly in the white fabric.

“You’re serious. You really are.” The dawning realisation tinges his voice with awe, and Lan Zhan dares to hope, again.

“If I said. If I said I was going go against all the sects. What would you do?”

“I would help.” The answer is simple, a clear, honest truth.

“If I said I was weak, I couldn’t fight equally with you without the demonic path, what would you do, Lan Zhan?”

He hears it now, in the crack in Wei Ying’s voice, that they are closer now to the thing that is haunting Wei Ying, that is hurting him in a way that turns him into somebody that Lan Zhan does not know.

“Then I will protect you. And I will help bring you back, when the powers are too strong. If Wei Ying will allow that.”

A sharp intake of breath comes, and Lan Zhan hates to hear Wei Ying’s breath hitch like that, like a small broken thing when Wei Ying is always stronger than anyone he knows. But, Lan Zhan amends, if Wei Ying is wounded and hurt and not strong, Lan Zhan will protect him until he is again.

The hand curled into his chest tightens, snagging the fabric and pulling Lan Zhan forward, until his chest hits Wei Ying’s forehead. They stay like that for a while, and Lan Zhan finds patience in him again, having said all he could say. Wei Ying’s shoulders are shaking, and he is mumbling into Lan Zhan’s chest, his voice broken and muffled.

“You. You’re crazy, Lan Zhan. You’re so fucking crazy. I must be too, I shouldn’t let you go down with me, but god, I want to,”

Lan Zhan places his hand over Wei Ying’s, closes his palm gently over the white knuckles.

“Then let me. But I will not let either of us go down.”

Another watery laugh. Wei Ying nods, and his head up at Lan Zhan, and smiles.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’ll allow it, Lan Zhan. Please, please stay with me, I like you so much, I don’t want to let you go now,” Wei Ying pleads, as he cranes his his neck up to look at Lan Zhan, their breaths mingling now, puffs of white in the settling cold of the mountain night

Lan Zhan’s heart soars as he leans down to graze his lips against Wei Ying’s.

“Then I will stay.”

Every nerve inside him feels cleaved open, every sense alight and narrowed in on the sight weight smell taste of Wei Ying this close to him, kissing him shyly and softly, so unlike the heated press of their first kiss earlier, but so much better.

The night-hunt ends and Wei Ying and Lan Zhan are the only two cultivators who haven’t gotten a single kill, and the cultivators murmur amongst themselves that the infamous Wei Wuxian must not be that powerful, must be all talk and hot air, and Wei Ying finds that he does not mind.

———-

Wei Ying goes to Gusu with Lan Zhan after, telling Jiang Chen that he needed to pay respects and catch up with Lan Zhan. After an irritable slap to the shoulder and a reminder to not cause trouble, Wei Ying is free to go. He feels lighter, now, even though technically nothing has changed him, but he still feels that the pull of the resentment is weaker, frail and easy to break out of. He runs to catch up with Lan Zhan, who is walking at the back of the group travelling to Gusu.

Lan Zhan looks up when he sees him, and while his face is impassive as ever, Wei Ying sees his eyes soften, and warmth suffuses him at the knowledge that that look is for him.

They talk, quietly, about everything and anything, carefully skirting around what they both want to say, mindful of the other disciples. When they finally stop at an inn, Lan Zhan gracefully talks his way into letting them share a room since they did not account for Wei Ying accompanying their party. Wei Ying plays along, dutifully bashful and thanking the esteemed hanguang-jun for his hospitality. The years had tempered his mischievous spirit, but his silver tongue, now reigned into a shape resembling propriety, makes the sect leader and other disciples pause and reassess him against his reputation. He smiles, and they retreat for the night.

Despite the temptation to get Lan Zhan back into his arms and continuing the whole kissing thing, he knows he must get some truths out of the way. Ushering Lan Zhan to the table, he puts up a silence talisman on the door and window before joining Lan Zhan at the table.

He looks beautiful, in the low light of candles and moonlight, straight backed and gentle faced. Lan Zhan has always been patient, and now that the patience has extended to him, Wei Ying truly understands why he is heralded as the paragon of virtue. He thinks about himself, his reputation, the gnawing hole inside him, and tries not to freak out about the two of them together. At the very least, he does not want to disrespect Lan Zhan, who would not be here if he did not mean it.

So he talks. He tells Lan Zhan what happened at Lotus Pier, lets his voice shake and talks into the quiet of the room, and Lan Zhan listens, ever so patiently as Wei Ying spills the truth that has been suffocating him for months.

Core melting hand, Jiang Cheng’s own golden core melting away to nothing, the mountain, Wen Qing. How the golden core he had developed now sits behind the sternum of his brother, how Jiang Cheng must never know.

“Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan’s voice sounds so broken, and Wei Ying tamps down the desire to lash out, fear and shame squirming inside him as he wonders whether Lan Zhan will even want him now, knowing what he knows. His heart stutters until Lan Zhan is kneeling in front of him, grasping his wrists gently with his long, slender fingers. Wei Ying waits.

“I will protect you, so you do not have to shoulder this alone.” There is something warm and fierce inside those golden eyes, and Wei Ying’s breath stutters as finally, the last knot in his heart loosens, the burden of shame and secrecy halved. He knows, knows that Lan Zhan will not coddle him, knows truly that he is no longer on this godforsaken path alone.

He holds Lan Zhan’s hands in his own, and squeezes his thanks, throat too constricted to reply. Lan Zhan seems to understand, and his eyes do that not smiling but smiling thing again as he moves back to sit, keeping one hand clasped with Wei Ying’s.

The warmth of Lan Zhan’s hands is an anchor, and he finally breaches the topic of the Wen civilians, and his plan to liberate them.

“What was Wei Ying planning to do?” There is no judgement or censure in his voice, and Wei Ying lets his eyes close for a second as he replies.

“Go in, play the flute and fight my way out?” It sounds feeble, when he says it like that. A small furrow appears between Lan Zhan’s perfect eyebrows.

“Wei Ying.” Ah, there, there’s the censure.

“Wei Ying is usually smart, what happened this time?” Lan Zhan sounds pained, and Wei Ying sputters in indignance. Before he can protest, Lan Zhan continues.

“What about after? If you liberate them all alone, who will heal you, or them? Where will you go? How will you feed yourselves?”

The familiar defensive anger wants to surge forth again, wants him to throw the warm hand off his own and tell Lan Wangji that he can do all that and more by himself, but even as his blood heats along with the resentment he knows that Lan Zhan is right, and his plan had been incredibly short sighted. He drags his free hand across his face and through his hair, and sighs.

“What do you think I can do, then? No one else cares, all the sect leaders think all Wen people are dogs for slaughter. What am I supposed to do, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan thinks for a moment, considering all the information he now has.

“The sect leaders don’t care about the Wen civilians, but they do care about losing face. Now that they are vying for power to fill the Wen clan spot… reputation is important to them now. It’s why they like using you as a scapegoat, so they seem whiter against your black.”

Wei Ying nods, patient. Lan Zhan is like he always is, precise, laying out his answer as though they were at their desks in front of Lan Qiren in the lecture halls of the Cloud Recesses.

“Wei Ying’s strength is his power and cultivation, but you forget you have other skills.”

Wei Ying blinks, tilting his head to the side in question.

“Your mouth, and shamelessness,” Lan Zhan says, ears going pink. “Wei Ying is good at talking around people until they see your point. If we use it well.. we might be able to turn the tide. The Jin sect will be wary of another uprising.”

The surprise at his shamelessness being a good thing in Lan Zhan’s books notwithstanding, Lan Zhan does have a good point. Wei Ying smiles, wry and soft. In the horror of the past few months, the loss of his home and core, he had forgotten parts of himself and tried to fill the holes with darkness and power. But Lan Zhan remembered.

He nods in assent, and they start to plan, talking through the night.

———

They begin the next day. Lan Zhan had played Cleansing for him that morning, pulling the roar of resentful energy in him down to a manageable hum. He feels better than he has in months, and greets the Lan Xichen with grace and a genuine smile. Lan Zhan’s brother smiles in surprise, and they have a relatively calm morning as they prepare to continue their journey to Gusu.

Along the way, he chats with disciples of the Lan sect, gossiping with them until their wariness bleeds away when they see that Lan Zhan is amicable with Wei Ying’s antics. They gossip about everything and anything, and slowly the conversation moves towards the Wen clan.

It doesn’t take long before one of the Lan disciples, bless their virtuous hearts, wonders aloud about all the civilians in Qishan who aren’t cultivators. Some of the older disciples shush him, but the topic has ignited an ethics debate, and Wei Ying makes a well placed comment worrying about another clan becoming a new Wen clan with too much power.

Soon most of the desciples are talking about it, enough so that when they stop for a meal at another town, the waiters and innkeepers, mouths loose with such a large party of paying customers, ask them about it.

Wei Ying regales them with the stories, knowing that cultivator gossip is usually eaten up very willingly. He lets the disciples at the table talk first, so that he isn’t the one spreading the story.

“Are there kids too? And old people?” The innkeeper asks, alarmed.

“Yes, they’re just normal people with no cores,” a Lan disciple piped up, indignant with righteousness now that everyone is talking about the Wen camp. “How can they do something like that, they’re just defenceless people!”

A round of restrained, but unanimous assent goes around the table.

“Aiya, what can we do?” Wei Ying says, sighing with exaggeration. “I tried to bring it up, but the sect leaders probably have more important things to consider, I guess.”

He lets a little bit of bitterness come through the slump of his shoulders, the perfect image of a disappointed young man who tried to do the right thing.

“I guess it’s true that people only care if you’re from an important clan, no one listens to me because I’m just a commoners kid. Maybe those Wen people are also just commoners to the big sect leaders…”

He looks at the innkeeper and the disciples gathered around their table. Their eyes are suspiciously wet, seemingly moved to tears at the idea of the inequalities of life. Wei Ying knows that most of the disciples have never had to consider just how much higher their lives are valued just because of their birth, and smiles at the reminder that he can always count on Lan sect disciples to be full of empathy, even if they are a little lacking in street smarts.

Lan Zhan, who is quietly eating by Wei Ying’s side, puts down his chopsticks, having finished his meal.

“They can only be helped if all the sects come together. It would be unfortunate that the cultivation world lets more bloodshed happen even after the Sunshot Campaign has concluded.”

The juniors look on in awe, and quickly chorus their agreement.

“You said it right, Hanguang-jun, it’s true, I would hate to be compared to the Wen sect especially so soon after the uprising!”

The conversation continues after the innkeeper leaves their table, and Wei Ying knows that in days, every traveller will be regaled with the story of the plight of civilians suffering just because of the prejudice of the big sects, and also that the infamous dark cultivator Wei Wuxian is actually a tragic underdog that is maligned because of common birth.

———-

A night before reaching the cloud recesses, the party camps in the woods, with Wei Ying and Lan Zhan accompanying the junior disciples on the night patrol. When they encounter a few angry corpses, Wei Ying nags at the juniors, pushing them to deduce the situation from clues on the corpses, while playing chenqing just enough to keep the disciples safe. Between the two of them, it becomes a practical lesson, and the corpses are dealt with magnificently by the students, and by the end of their journey, at the very least the Lan disciples have lost most of their fear of Wei Wuxian, cultivator of darkness. He eventually becomes senior Wei, and he ribs them all with good nature as Lan Zhan stays behind and beside him, watchful but never overcrowding, a warm, comforting presence.

They finally reach the cloud recesses, and Wei Ying is ushered into the jingshi for the first time. He laughs at the austere decor, amused and fond as he settles down by Lan Zhan at the guqin.

The notes sound, resonant and rich with spiritual power, and Wei Ying feels Cleansing wash over him, then Rest, calming his mind as the music sinks into his empty, sluggish meridians.

“Thank you, Lan Zhan. It.. it feels better now. Clearer.”

Lan Zhan nods, hums a response, and finally he is there, close and clean and smelling of sandalwood, pressing his forehead into Wei Ying’s as he kisses him, chaste at first and then insistent, hungry. Wei Ying feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to have this, not while people are dying and hurting and maybe he could do something about it, but the spiritual power humming in his veins anchors him, reminds him that he is doing something, that this might, probably will be, more effective than whatever stupid plan he came up with without Lan Zhan.

For once, he decides to trust, and lets himself go, sinking into the steady wet warmth of Lan Zhan, tugging at him till he is lying atop Wei Ying, chest to chest and dark hair spilling around them, tickling Wei Ying’s nose.

“I still don’t believe you like me like this, Lan Zhan,” he teases, voice lilting as he cards his hands through Lan Zhan’s hair.

“Mn, I was not truthful before. You did not know because I was too afraid.” Lan Zhan’s voice is wry but open, and the warmth and honesty of it all bowls Wei Ying over. It’s dizzying, the knowledge.

“Aiya, you Lans and your show no feelings rules. I’ve been flirting with you for so long, and you didn’t know I liked you? Lan Zhan, I gave you cut sleeve porn!”

Lan Zhan sputters, pale skin giving way to a deep flush at the memory.

“I know now. Wei Ying can keep flirting with me, I will not misunderstand again.”

The determination in his voice makes Wei Ying laugh, terribly fond and almost normal again. He pulls him down for another kiss, and smiles into Lan Zhan’s mouth as he asks, “Did you read any of it? Did you think about doing any of that stuff to me, Lan Zhan?”

The thought makes a bolt of heat rush through his spine, and Wei Ying feels like he is drowning. Lan Zhan presses his face into his neck, embarrassed. Wei Ying heaves himself back up onto his elbows, taking Lan Zhan up with him. The shift pulls the fabric of his inner robe apart, exposing a wide expanse of collarbone and chest, the brand mark an angry welt on his left. The sight draws a breath out of Lan Zhan, who gently reaches fingers out to graze at the scar. Wei Ying’s breath hitches, and again, that bolt of heat curling in his body at the sight of Lan Zhan’s pale eyes darkening at the sound.

He licks his lips and summons some of that famous shamelessness that he is known for, pulling his robe open further in invitation. Lan Zhan’s eyes open even wider, and the sight of him staring at Wei Ying, lips spit slick and bruised, eyes wide and dark with his hair in disarray is enough to pry a groan out of Wei Ying.

“Lan Zhan, please, you can.” He clears his throat, and tries again, “You can touch me. In fact please, please Lan Zhan, I need, I want you to touch me.”

At those words, Lan Zhan finally moves, wide hands splaying on his chest as he runs his palms down Wei Ying’s body, callouses catching on smooth skin until they reach his belt, and after getting a breathless nod, he pulls the belt loose, parting his inner robe completely.

Wei Ying whines at the cold air against him, trying to hold off his embarrassment at being laid bare, flushed and aroused. He tugs at Lan Zhan’s robes, pulling them off his shoulder. Lan Zhan shrugs out of his own robes, bends down to kiss Wei Ying, and wraps his hand around him. He can’t help but gasp, hips bucking as Lan Zhan begins to stroke him, and Wei Ying is going insane, knowing that Lan Zhan is doing it. The thought of being the only one to see Lan Zhan like this, debauched and breathless, sends a thrill through him, and before he loses all his composure he grasps at Lan Zhan’s biceps, squeezing at them until Lan Zhan shifts further up, close enough for Wei Ying to reach down between them and-

Oh god.

Lan Zhan is thick and heavy in his hand, the soft, keening sound Lan Zhan makes when Wei Ying grasps him sends a jolt right through every vertebrae in him. He takes a shuddering breath, and wriggles down until their cocks are lined up against each other, gasping at the searing sensation of blessed, perfect contact. Lan Zhan’s fingers stroke the both of them together as Wei Ying gasps into his mouth, incoherent moans and pleading escaping him as he rocks up against the man he has loved for years without knowing that he was loved in turn. The cracking edge of loneliness and warmth chokes him, and he sobs a little, mindless with emotion and pleasure as he crests closer to the edge.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, please,” he breathes, “I’m close, please, please,” he trails off into more incoherent mumbles as Lan Zhan strokes them hard, once, twice, and Wei Ying throws his head back and arches against the hard floor, pleasure whiting out every other thought in his brain outside of Lan Zhan’s name, Lan Zhan’s body, Lan Zhan against him heavy and solid and perfect as he follows Wei Ying, hips and hands stuttering until they lie panting, pressed together in a sweaty tangle on the floor.

After some time Lan Zhan shifts up, leaving to grab a cloth to wipe them both clean before pulling Wei Ying up on his feet. He winces, rubbing his sore back.

“Lan Zhan, why didn’t we do this on your bed? You have a perfectly good bed right there!”

Lan Zhan hums, fond and warm.

“Next time,” he says, leading him to the bed and settling the covers around them as Wei Ying’s brain tries to process the idea of a next time, tucking it somewhere safe like an idea to be treasured. He smiles, warm and sated, snuggles closer to Lan Zhan, and drifts off to sleep, more content than he has been in a long time.

————-

In weeks, the rumours of the Wen camp in Qiongqi has spread far and wide, exaggerated and heated by the indignant murmurs of innkeepers and travellers spreading news where they go. The general dissent and disapproval from the people is palpable, and while that normally might not have any effect, many minor clans, many of which live more off taxation than actual exorcism and hunting, were starting to lean towards the general public. Coupled with the testimony of Lan Wangji, whose flawless reputation somehow caused the rumour that Wei Wuxian had been tamed and brought back to the light by the righteousness of the Lan clan, meant that the general animosity had been moved off from him and towards the Jin sect.

Caught between wanting to bristle at the idea of needing to be tamed and somewhat pleased that Lan Wangji’s reputation didn’t seem to suffer much from his acquaintance, Wei Ying endeavoured to fan the rumours, behaving relatively nicely while maintaining some roguish impertinence to ward off any suspicions.

He goes back to Lotus Pier, drinks his shijie's soup and finally apologises to both her and Jiang Cheng for making them worry. He doesn’t tell them about the core, but he tells them about being thrown into the burial mounds, how he had to fight his way out with resentful energy, and talks about how it makes him angry and violent. He apologises, and means it.

Jiang Cheng’s hands are clenched at his sides, and Wei Ying thinks he’s going to get yelled at before he’s roughly pulled in for a hug, too tight to be called comfortable, but he wants to cry all the same.

“You idiot,” Jiang Cheng grits out, and Wei Ying laughs and pats his back, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat when he feels Yanli join the hug from behind. For a moment, it feels like they’re children again, huddled together in the dark.

When they finally pull free, he and Jiang Cheng talk.

“What about the resentful energy now?” He asks, evidently confused by the general lack of dark foreboding brooding that Wei Ying is doing.

“Ah, Lan Zhan is helping me. His ah, guqin keeps it under control so I can practice controlling it,” he explains, sticking to the truth. His brother seems surprised at that, and Wei Ying can see the moment his brother comes to his conclusion, the familiar brows furrowing as he nods in assent.

“I’m glad he’s willing to do that for you, then.” Everything else he is thinking goes unsaid, but Wei Ying smiles, understanding. He thinks, with this, the relationship between YunmengJiang and GusuLan might improve, if Jiang Cheng upholds propriety and gives due thanks to the Lan sect for helping a member of the Jiang sect. For the first time in months, Wei Ying settles into that knowledge that he still has a place in Lotus Pier.

They talk about the Wen clan next, almost coming to an argument again. But the notes of Lan Zhan’s guqin are still humming in his veins, and he stills himself, patient, remembering all the things that Jiang Cheng is. He knows now that Jiang Cheng is scared, angry and hurting, and wants his revenge wholly. He feels small to Wei Ying, now, and it is clear to him, without the resentment crawling in his lungs, to give his shidi what he needs.

He pulls Jiang Cheng roughly into another hug, tight, and lets his grief for Lotus Pier bleed through honestly, for the one person who would understand, who was there with him all.

“Jiang Cheng, I know. I want to burn everything to the ground for them too.” He shakes his brother, who is still a little shell shocked at the embrace, anger and grief in his eyes as he tries to understand why Wei Ying doesn’t want to kill every person named Wen. He tries to swallow the anger bitter betrayal and listen to his brother.

“I was there too. I wanted everyone dead. I used the dead and had them rip Wen cultivators apart till you couldn’t even tell their corpses were human anymore.”

Jiang Cheng nods, and lets him continue.

“Think of Wen Qing and Wen Ning, shidi. Think about Shi Jie,”

Jiang Cheng jerks at the mention of their sister.

“Do you really think she’d be okay with us running around and killing a bunch of children and old people? Are you okay with letting her see us go so low?”

Jiang Cheng falls to his knees, bringing Wei Ying down with him. His grip on Wei Ying’s arm is tight, and Wei Ying feels the fury and grief and sorrow, knows his brother feels things fully, incandescently, just like his mothers zidian, and Wei Ying holds him through it.

“Then what am I supposed to do, Wei Wuxian? I can’t just let it go. They’re gone, and there’s nothing else I can do!”

Wei Ying pulls him up, forcing his back straight and chin high.

“Shidi, we do the right thing. We do the right thing because that’s what shushu taught us, so shijie can still smile at us. When she has kids with that stupid peacock, we can take care of them with our heads held high and tell them we were the good guys. They’re gone,” And at this, Wei Ying chokes a little, the words thick on his tongue, uncomfortable in the way that honesty always is, but he tries.

“Theyre gone, but we’re still here. I’m still here, shijie is still here. We can’t forget that.”

Jiang Cheng presses his eyes shut, and Wei Ying knows that every instinct is screaming inside him. He waits, knowing his brother, hoping that the boy he grew up with is still there, the boy who is quick to anger but quick to forgive, who loves harder than he hates. He hopes he has reached him, the way Lan Zhan had, reminded him of the lighter things he has forgotten.

Jiang Cheng nods, eventually, resolute, bitter.

“The Yunmeng Jiang clan will do what needs to be done.”

———-

Lan Zhan conces Lan Xichen easily, knowing his brother walks with virtue in his path. Instead of discussing whether or not to help, the discuss how to help, in a way that is in keeping with the limitations and powers of their sect.

Lan Qiren, proud that the Lan sect has been attributed to bringing Wei Wuxian into decorum and propriety, credits Wangji and Xichen, and listens to their petition, clearly listing the responsibilities their sect to live by their rules, to uphold virtute and not tolerate arrogance, cruelty, and violence.

Lan Qiren signs and stamps his name, aligning GusuLan with the other sects petitioning for non-cultivator Wen civilians to be released, in return for "the recognition by all clans herein to pledge allegiance to a Jin sect that is wholly unaffiliated with the very actions that led to the Sunshot Campaign.". The threat of another uprising from the united front of the major sects is very much implied.

The pressure is unanimous, and the Jin sect, wary of another campaign against them, decide that a bunch of commoners are not worth the censure and trouble they are receiving. A couple branch families are made scapegoats, and the Wen civilians are released to a shouldering Qishan.

They eventually settle, moving further to the outskirts of Qishan province where the fires have not spread, and change their names to a different character Wen, to start rebuilding their lives.

Wei Ying visits with Lan zhan, delivering supplies as reparations. It feels like absolution, to see turnips and potatoes sprout after some time passes, green and tender. He buys Wen Yuan toys, throws him in the air and drinks with the uncles in the new Wen village.

Lan Zhan talks to Wen Qing about Wei Ying's core, finds out what he can do to at least help alleviate the physical symptoms of a body used to having one, that now must do without.

Wen Qing gives him a list of herbs that Wei Ying must take nightly, as well as a reminder that Cleansing must be played after every battle that Wei Ying fights with resentful energy.

Lan Zhan nods, grateful. He will always be happy to play for Wei Ying.

They return home to the cloud recesses, pausing on the way to stop by the one month celebration of Jin Ling. Wei Ying has made a bell for him, and Lan Zhan has brought a tiny flute, small enough for a young child to play, when he is old enough.

----

When they finally are done paying respects and enter the safe haven of the jingshi, Wei Ying lets out the breath he has been holding onto.

"We did it, Lan Zhan. The Wens are safe, I have a nephew, I can't.. I can't really believe it."

Lan Zhan pauses from setting up the guqin, walking over softly to pull Wei Ying into him.

"Do I really.. can I really have this?" Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan tightens his arms around him.

"Yes, Wei Ying. You can have this."

He kisses his forehead, his temples, and pulls him towards the guqin to soothe the ache in his beloved's bones.

After Cleansing, after Rest, he plays WangXian -forget envy- the two of their names a song he imbues with the depth of his love, and lets his spiritual energy suffuse the notes that sink into Wei Ying’s meridians, enough to soothe the ache.

When the song ends, Wei Ying is calm and warm and soothed, and they go to bed amidst soft touches, curled up around each other.

----

The "treatment plan", as Wen Qing puts it, works, and for the most part Wei Ying manages to cultivate his demonic path in peace without it taking a hold of him. He spends his days tinkering, coming up with talismans and inventions that change the way cultivators have worked for centuries.

He takes the juniors on night hunts, relishing in thr act of teaching, of being surrounded by people and laughter and the thrill of improvement.

He goes to Lotus Pier regularly, even though he has made his home in Gusu with Lan Zhan, at which Jiang Cheng scowls and punches his arm to hide how happy he is for Wei Ying. He helps, when he can, with the rebuilding of YunmengJiang, lends his expertise and mediates between GusuLan and YunmengJiang.

He visits his nephew Jin Ling even more, teasing him and teaching him. With Jiang Yanli's influence, his pride is tempered by humility, his anger is wielded towards injustice, and his laughter is free and clear like a chime when he plays with his uncle, getting in trouble for stealing lotus seed pods and running amok.

---

He goes home, to the Cloud Recesses, to find his husband, to drag him out to go play with rabbits and otherwise do mischief instead of working.

Pulling Lan Zhan to him, he kisses him.

"Thank you, Lan Zhan, for staying that day on Phoenix Mountain. You could have run away, but you didn't, and I'm here now because of you."

Lan Zhan pulls him close, and murmurs against soft hair.

"Between us, there is no need for thanks or apologies, Wei Ying."

He walks amongst the cloud recesses, feeds rabbits with Lan Zhan, and is content, no longer alone.

#mo dao su zhi #the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangi #wangxian #lan zhan #wei ying #fix-it fic #Look its been four years since I've written and I got dragged back after reading MXTX novels so here we are #I don't know how many people i know are still on here but uh i guess im a MDZS fan now #Tbh i don't really remember the feeling of writing much at all #but it was nice #to come back to this again #Weirdly embarassed about it but uh thanks for reading ig

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osferth · 3 years

Text

lost in translation || part 2: finan's revenge

summary: after months of lying in wait, finan decides that now, it is osferth's turn to get tricked. however things go a little worse than he originally planned.

tagging: @marv-llous @othermoony @cheerylogan @lauwrite1225 @volvaaslaug @morosemagick @emilyhufflepufftlk @for-bebbanburg @maggiescarborough @solinarimoon

part one

Osferth had not let Finan forget about the incident with Hild for several weeks. Every time they seemingly came close to forgetting, Osferth would bring it up and everyone would collapse into laughter once again. Finan would join in, but if Osferth thought the Irishman was just going to let this slide, he would be sorely mistaken.

The same day it had happened, Finan had already started planning his own revenge. He knew it would take patience, a virtue he felt he was lacking in, but he could not rush this - Osferth was not stupid. He would know immediately what Finan was up to if he was suddenly being offered Gaelic lessons.

So Finan had no choice but to wait. Weeks turned into months, and eventually a whole year had passed before he found the perfect opportunity to strike.

The alehouse was busy that evening as Finan found them both a table in the far corner, the best one in his opinion. From a table across them, he could hear men speaking Gaelic interspersed with loud peals of laughter, and Osferth immediately nudged him.

"Are they Irish too?" he asked.

Finan grinned. "I think they are," he said. "We should go an' say hello. Come on, baby monk."

However, Osferth did not stand up. "I don't speak Gaelic, Finan," he said.

Fighting the smirk that threatened to rise on his face felt almost impossible, but Finan managed it somehow. "I'll tell 'em that," he said, "unless you'd like to impress them an' speak some Gaelic too."

Finan was half-expecting Osferth to shake his head and decline, but to his surprise the young man nodded, seemingly having forgotten the Latin incident. "What do I say?"

"Well, y'know, somethin' general. 'Hello, it's good to meet you', that sort of thing."

"Yes, but in Gaelic," said Osferth in a deadpan voice when Finan did not elaborate.

The Irishman smirked. "I'm gettin' there, I'm gettin' there," he said. "'Brísfaídh mé do magairlí' means 'hello, it's a pleasure to meet you'. Quite formal but y'are meetin' a stranger, after all."

He repeated it slowly several more times until Osferth had managed to pronounce it as correctly as he could manage.

"Brísfaídh mé do magairlí," Osferth said, looking pleased with himself when Finan finally decided it was up to scratch. "Shall we go and talk to them now?"

Finan laughed, patting his arm. "Patience," he said in a wise voice, as though he was a master at it himself. "You can't just greet them and leave it at that, can you?"

Osferth frowned. "I s'pose not."

"Usually," continued Finan, "they'd reply with 'téigh trasna ort féin', which means 'we are very well, thank you, how are you', or 'dun do bheal', which is a more informal version of that, I'd say."

Watching Osferth nodding along and trying to remember everything he was saying almost made Finan feel bad.

Almost.

"What should I say to that?" asked Osferth.

"Well, normally, you'd say 'good, thank you'."

"In Gaelic," he repeated, rolling his eyes. The Irishman couldn't stifle a laugh.

"Only pullin' your leg, baby monk," he grinned. "This is a bit of a long one, but you'd be expected to say 'rach thu agus a' sgoil an leathar de bhur paithar'. It means exactly what I just told you."

Osferth's eyes widened slightly at the amount he was having to learn, but Finan did not mind being patient for that much longer while he helped him practise his pronunciation, until it was nearly perfect.

Finally, Finan set down his mug of ale, grinning at the prospect of finally getting Osferth back for what he had done the previous year. "We can go over now, if you like," he said, laughing at how enthusiastic the poor bastard was in getting up.

Osferth was muttering the phrases he had learned under his breath, practising his pronunciation all the way over to the table of Irishmen.

Finan briefly greeted his fellow countrymen in Gaelic, and was received well - it was only natural, after all. Before he could lose the chance, he quickly pushed Osferth forward to divert attention from himself, having told the men there was something the young man wanted to tell them. The men looked towards him in friendly anticipation.

"Brísfaídh mé do magairlí," announced Osferth with all the confidence in the world. Finan had to look down to the ground to avoid his laughter being seen, much the same way Osferth had at the nunnery.

The men all looked at each other. Some of them were smirking, others were frowning.

"Gabh mo leithscéal?" said the man seated closest to Osferth with an amused expression. Although Finan knew that meant 'excuse me', Osferth did not. Regardless, the poor man continued on.

"Rach thu agus a' sgoil an leathar de bhur paithar," he grinned.

The man's smirk immediately fell away, to be replaced with an angry glint in his eye.

"Féachaint ar do bhéal," he said in warning, standing up to face him. Finan was about to intervene, knowing that Osferth had just been told to watch his mouth, but before he could say anything, the man had already repeated himself.

"Rach thu agus a' sgoil an leathar de bhur paithar," he said, emphasising his words a little more.

Finan knew at once that it had gone too far. As he was about to pull Osferth aside and explain to the men that it was all a large misunderstanding, the man drew his fist back and punched Osferth square in the face, nearly sending him sprawling to the ground had Finan not caught hold of him. He pulled him to one side before the man could hit him again.

"Finan!" Osferth said demandingly, roughly wiping the blood streaming from his nose. "Finan, what was that? What happened? What did I - what did he hit me for?"

Swearing profusely under his breath, Finan stood in between them, frantically explaining to the men that it had all been a joke, that Osferth did not understand a word of the language he had just spoken and that Finan himself had put him up to this. "It's not his fault," he said, his arm still shielding Osferth. "It's my fault, not his."

Another man, one who had been snickering from the beginning, spoke up. "You chose the wrong man, that's all," he said amiably. "Cathán's got a fuckin' temper on him. What's more, he's got a little sister back home."

"What's that got to do with anything?" asked Osferth irritably, his words a little muffled from his continued attempts to stem the bleeding.

"You told him first that you'd break his balls," Finan said apologetically, "and then you told him to go an' fuck his sister. Twice."

As the men seated at the table roared with laughter, Osferth glared at Finan, who felt more than a little ashamed. If looks could kill, he would have been six feet under a long time ago.

"Sorry," he added, a little feebly.

Osferth rolled his eyes and turned to leave, one hand still held under his nose. Quickly Finan apologised to the group, before he caught up with him. "I'm sorry, baby monk, really," he said, stopping him with a hand. "Here." He handed Osferth a cloth, which was taken rather reluctantly, but it did help.

"Was this your revenge, then?" Osferth asked, looking slightly less annoyed now. "You waited an awfully long time for it."

Finan shrugged. "I had to make sure you'd forget."

"It must've killed you, having to wait so long," continued Osferth, now smiling.

"It nearly did."

Osferth laughed. "So, we're even. What do we do now?"

Finan stopped him in his tracks, looking more serious than he had ever looked before as he posed his own question.

"D'you reckon Sihtric needs a Gaelic lesson?"

#the last kingdom #tlk #osferth #finan #finan the agile #the last kingdom fanfic #my writing #lost in translation #tagged those who might be interested aswell as those who were on there last time #if u want to be removed / added lmk!!!

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vanderlindeandco · 4 years

Text

Silver and Sapphire (Bill Guarnere x Reader)

“Well, look who it is!” You looked up at the familiar drawl as Sergeant Bill Guarnere leaned an elbow on the edge of your aid station. His face was smeared with dirt, and the familiar slightly sour smell of unwashed soldier reached you as a breeze pushed past him, ruffling your headscarf, but his smile was friendly enough to make up for it. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart,” he continued, and you smiled, but thought little of the compliment, that, when you had first gotten to Europe, would have left you flustered. As you’d soon learned, many of the men were so starved for female attention, they’d’ve made doe eyes at your own grandma, had she been there (rest her soul), and the flattery lost its effectiveness pretty fast after that.

“Hanging in there, Gonorrhea?” you asked, and he chuckled, though a lance of annoyance flashed through his dark eyes.

“The boys tell you about that one?”

“I heard it,” you said, and he nodded, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket.

“I can assure you there ain’t a bit of truth in it. Just some jackass’s idea of a funny play on words.”

“I mean, it is pretty funny,” you said, shaking your head as he offered you a cigarette, and then stuck one between his own lips, patting around his pockets in search of a lighter.

“Sure,” he said. “Hey, you don’t got a-” “Lighter?” you asked, lifting the one you’d pulled from your own pocket as his lengthening search yielded no success.

“You’re an angel,” he said around the cigarette, and you lit it, letting him take a good pull to make sure the tobacco really was burning before you stowed the lighter again.

“So I’ve been told,” you said drily.

“Why’re you harassing her, Bill?” that was Toye, who gave a friendly nod and a smile toward you as he approached before turning his attention back to Bill.

“I ain’t harassin’,” Bill said. “I’ve got a perfectly valid reason to be here.”

“Oh yeah?” Joe asked. “What for, you need her to diagnose your broken heart or somethin’?”

“You’re real smart, you know that, Joe?” Bill snapped with no real venom, elbowing away the other soldier, who was trying to wrap an arm around his shoulders to draw him away. “Like I said, I got a good reason, so roll up your flaps, Toye.”

Toye laughed, rattled Bill’s helmet against his skull (ignoring the scowl he got in response), and walked away with a cheerful, “See you around.”

“So?” you asked Bill, eyebrows raised expectantly.

He had reached inside his jacket as soon as Toye turned to leave, but withdrew his hand empty. “Patience is a virtue,” he intoned pedantically, his cocky smirk returning in the absence of Joe Toye.

“Yeah, one you lack just as much as me,” you replied and he chuckled.

“I’ll give you that.” He thrust his hand back inside his coat and pulled out something tied in a plaid handkerchief, and then hesitated before handing it to you. “Promise me you won’t laugh at me, yeah?” Though he said the words as nonchalantly as he could, for a moment you saw the nervousness in his eyes before he managed to conceal it, and that tiny moment shook down to its root the attitude of friendly imperviousness you’d maintained toward most of the men so far.

You swallowed, surprised by the way your heart rate had accelerated. “Promise.”

“Here you go.” He dropped the gift, whatever it was, into your hand, and it was light - so light it almost seemed as if there was nothing inside the cloth. But when you set it on the table and unfastened the knot, a silver chain slithered out onto the wood, from it hanging a teardrop-shaped sapphire set in silver. You picked it up, the chain almost too fine to grasp with your short-trimmed nails.

“Bill…” your voice trailed off as you turned the beautiful piece over in your hands. “I…” The blue stone glinted in the watery sunlight, the silver polished as clean as if it were brand new. “Why would I laugh at you?” You were taken so off guard, you had no idea what to say, and the question sprang from your lips unbidden as you looked up at him.

He shrugged, and his bearing was something you had never, ever thought would see on Wild Bill Guarnere- bashful. “I dunno. I’m just, ah-” he scratched the back of his neck roughly. “-not much of the sentimental type. Heard you sayin’ you lost a necklace on your way out here a couple weeks back, and when I found it, I was thinking I was gonna send it home for my pops to pawn, but I thought it’d look nicer on you than in some shop window.”

“It… Wow.” Your continued speechlessness seemed to rekindle his ego, and when you looked back up at him, he was smiling again, back to the cocky, confident Bill you knew.

“You like it?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said firmly, and held it up to your throat to latch it, fingers fumbling with the tiny pieces of metal behind your neck. “Care to give me a hand?”

“‘Course,” he said. You turned your back to him, his hands brushing yours as he took the clasp from them. You heard the metal click, and whether his fingers brushing against the intensely sensitive skin of the back of your neck before they pulled away had been an accident or not, you didn’t know, but either way they sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine, pulling the tiniest gasp from your lips.

“Well?” you asked as you turned to face him, swiftly regathering your composure, and hoping he hadn’t noticed your reaction. “What do you think?”

“Not bad,” he said, but he couldn’t quite conceal the admiration in his eyes as he looked at you, even though he didn’t let his gaze linger.

“I guess I owe you one, then, don’t I?” you asked.

“I wasn’t thinking about it that way, but I guess you do,” he said. “What’re you offering?”

“Hmm…” You considered for a moment. Your rule thus far had been to keep the soldiers at an arm’s length. But this felt different, and you thought you knew Bill well enough to know he wasn’t just trying to get in your pants. If that was all he wanted, he wouldn’t have gone to this much effort. No, he’d been thinking about you even when you weren’t around, and that thought made your heart beat a little faster, a giddy feeling coming with it. “There’s some chocolate and whiskey in the truck that they won’t notice missing if I cop it,” you said. “Looks like it’s gonna be a clear night tonight. Care for a couple drinks and some stargazing?”

“Are you coming onto me?” he asked, feigning surprise. “My ma warned me about girls like you-”

“Shut up and give me an answer,” you said, the laugh that came out of you then close enough to a giggle that it startled you a little.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “What time you get off? I’ll come and find you.”

“Soon as I’m done cleaning these bandages,” you said. “Won’t be much good lookin’ at stars til it gets dark out though, will it?”

“Nah, but dinner’s easier in the daylight,” he said with an easy smile. “I’ll see you soon, all right?”

“All right, then.” You were trying not to smile too broadly - his ego didn’t need to be inflated any further - but you couldn’t really help it, and to your surprise, he didn’t tease you for it.

“And you better be here, okay?” he said as he backed away. “No runnin’ off.”

“Is that what the girls you usually go on dates with do?” you called after him, and he opened his mouth, most likely prepared to release some sort of choice profanity, before remembering who he was talking to.

“You keep talking like that and I’m gonna take that necklace back!” he replied instead.

You wrapped a protective hand around it. “I’d like to see you try.”

__________________

A/N: I read that “roll up your flaps” was WWII military slang for “stop talking” and I couldn’t rest easy until I made Bill say it

#bill guarnere #band of brothers #bob #wild bill guarnere #guarnere x reader #i guess i'm just bob trash now #sorry folks #but am i though?#no #go watch it and join me #but hey one thing hasn't changed #i'm still shit at titles

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needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas · 3 years

Note

No worries on that polite pass, my good dude! We all have our nopes. After reading that one with Daruk, I guess I got excited by the idea of Kohga getting fucked by something *big*, but with Sooga there. Maybe Kohga got that Goron dildo he was thinking about and he lets Sooga use it on him? 😳

I've had so many fucking people ask for this holy SHIT, get your juice you cock hungry Goron fuckers.

“So, you and Daruk.”

“Yep!”

Sooga and Kohga were having their daily one on one time together, playing cards. Conversations came and went, and the topic of Kohga getting FUCKED by Daruk that one time was brought up. Sooga was VERY selective of who he got jealous of, and apparently Daruk wasn’t on that list. Sooga hummed in response, looking over his cards.

“I’m going to regret asking, but what was that like? Also, do you have any threes?”

“Oh, Sooga, my friend, you don’t know Gorons unless you’ve had that MONSTER of a cock in your ass. He lacked finesse, but dude had a sorta rugged charm that I was into. And go fish. Do you have any fours?”

“Go fish. And...I hate that I’m asking this as well, but how...was his...you know.”

“We’re adults, Sooga, just ask the actual question.”

“You just want me to say it. Fine. What were his gentiles like? Also, do you have any kings?”

“Fuck you, here. Second, I could tell you, or I could show you.”

Sooga grabbed the King from him (Kohga may be better with his hands, but Sooga was way better at Go fish than him), before halting. He saw Kohga’s eyes lock onto their closet, before he pointed to it.

“Is...is Daruk in our closet?”

“No, but that’s actually a good idea, make a note of that for next time. I got something just as good!”

Kohga got off the bed, and Sooga put his cards down. Course, just when Sooga was winning. Sore loser, his Master. Kohga dug into the closet, pulling out a box, and throwing it right at Sooga’s lap, before hopping back into bed.

“Open it, open it!”

Sooga obeyed, pulling out a toy. Not just any toy, but a big, brown toy. One with scales, length, and an INSANE amount of gerth. Sooga gawked at it for a minute, before finally finding words.

“I have...SO many questions.”

Kohga shrugged.

“Dude had a DAMN good cock, Sooga, I had to have one to take home.”

Sooga looked it over, curiously running over the scales with his thumb.

“This is...accurate?”

“For the most part, yeah. Size and shape is the same, I made sure of that. Trust me, I WOULD not forget a cock that good.”

Sooga looked at the toy, then at Kohga.

“You...took ALL of this?”

“One, that’s SO sweet that you think I can fit that, I’m flattered. Two, I did around half. Haven’t tried it again lately, because I’ve been dealing with THIS stud here,”

Kohga chuckled, lightly smacking Sooga on his shoulder.

“But I’ve been meaning to give it another shot. You wanna be a sweetie and help me out?”

He knew Sooga couldn’t say no to that pet name, especially when Kohga bruised his face in his neck, kissing him through his yiga uniform. Sooga chuckled, lightly shaking his head.

“I would’ve preferred to be in the room where it happened, but I suppose this is just as good. I’m not going to lie though, I’m a BIT self conscious here.”

“Daruk can put us all to shame, Sooga, I’m surprised I was alive after that.”

Sooga chuckled, leaning up to grab the lube while Kohga stripped. It was odd, how automatic their movements were. Kohga dove back into bed right after he was done, hair down and everything. Sooga was about to get started, but he couldn’t resist. He hunched over Kohga, kissing him right on those perfect lips.

"Did you look this good for Daruk?"

"I ALWAYS look good, Sooga."

"Well, me and him might just need to have a chat after this."

Kohga chuckled, patting him in his big, stupid cheek.

"So protective of me. Don't worry, I kept thinking of you during."

"You were?"

Sooga asked, now sitting up in order to coat his hands in the lube. Kohga sat there, hands behind his head, legs spread wide open.

"Yeah, I was sitting there thinking 'this guy isn't stupid sweet like Sooga is. It's weird. Dick is HUGE though'"

"That sounds like your thought process."

Sooga chuckled. He was always nervous whenever Kohga was naked, but the idea of pleasing him? And him alone? That was enough for him to be rid of his poor nerves. At least, for now. He let his oily hands run up and down his legs and thighs, getting him used to his touches. He even made sure to get his feet, just to make him extra comfy. Kohga snickered after a minute of this rather sweet treatment.

"Sooga, this is nice, really, but come on, imma fall asleep here!"

"Right right. Sorry, I like the face you make when you're comfortable. I'll proceed."

Sooga gave his cheeks a light pat (if you wanted to imagine what it sounded like, picture patting a wet honey ham), before his hands finally got to work. First, he lightly stroked his cock. Nice, slow movements that'd make Sooga swoon, and make Kohga ansty. Sure he liked it, but Kohga was SO enthralled with pleasure, he wanted more, and wanted more now. He could see it on his face.

"We could be moving it a bit FASTER, Sooga."

"Patience, Master Kohga. It is a virtue."

Kohga folded his arms, pouting something fierce. He always liked that face. It was why he took his sweet time, massaging his cock and balls slowly, steadily, smearing the oil everywhere. It was a nice sight, if he was allowed to be honest. Then, right before Kohga could complain, Sooga dug his fingers inside of him. That seemed to take a little bit of grumpiness out of Kohga, as he sighed, hands laying at his sides.

"Fucking, finally. Felt like you forgot where it WAS."

Sooga chuckled. Kohga was so precious.

“I won’t ever forget how to please you. I won’t ever forget to give you what you need.”

Sooga let three of his fingers slide inside of him, helping to ease him for what was coming. Granted, his fingers weren’t NEARLY the size of the toy, but Sooga was doing the best he could here. He sat there for a moment, watching as Kohga squirmed and writhed in his arms. It wasn’t because his fingers felt good (though he hoped they did), it was because Kohga knew this was but a sample for what was to come. If he kept him waiting any longer, he might just get mad enough to throw something at him. He slowly peeled his fingers away, trying not to gulp. The way his cock throbbed, the way his legs twitched in excitement. Kohga...was really into fucking Gorons.

He leaned over to grab the toy, making quite the show of lathering it up in lube. It was TERRIBLY thick, terribly long, and it took a minute for his hand to fully coat it in oil.

“You REALLY gotta be slow as shit, eh?”

“The better to tease you with, Master Kohga. That and I’m not even trying to tease you, this thing is actually that big. And it has SO many ridges-how much did you spend on this?”

“Not important, fuck me.”

Sooga was going to scold him for spending such money on frivolous things, but Kohga looked ready to kill him, so he silenced himself. He leaned over to kiss him one more time, before he pressed the tip of the toy against his ass. The tip slowly slid inside of himself, and Sooga, a bit worried that Kohga would lose his temper, pushed it a quarter of the way in. Sooga couldn’t help but feel incredibly jealous as he looked at Kohga’s face.

He covered it with the back of his hand, shaking as if this was all too much. His back even had such a lovely arch to it, and Sooga hated that Daruk got to see him like this. He was about to ask if there was something between him, when an idea popped into Sooga’s head. Kohga REALLY liked this toy. Enough to act so lewdly and bitterly. He could get whatever he wanted with the help of this toy. He decided to test his luck as he gave it a bit of a turn, making Kohga yelp.

“Play with your cock.”

He thought the command was rude, and was about to apologize, when Kohga obeyed promptly, pumping his already hard cock. Sooga couldn’t believe it. No snarky comments, no prideful comments over him taking charge. Just complete obedience. Sooga had no idea what possessed him, but as he moved the toy in and out of his ass, an idea came to him.

“Master Kohga. Why don’t we play a game? Since I’m just sitting here and watching.”

Kohga nodded, clearly trying to stifle his whines. Sooga teased it just a bit further in, before pulling it back back out, giving his Master just the tip.

“Do you love me?”

“Are you FUCKING-”

“If you’d like me to stop, I can.”

Kohga’s fist slammed against the bed, and for a second, Sooga was ready to apologize. That is, until Kohga finally answered him.

“Yes. I do. I love your stupid ass so much. You’re hot, dumb as hell, and I like having you around. There, happy?”

“Quite. Good job.”

He pushed more of the toy in him, enjoying the look of clear pleasure on his face. He let it sit there for a moment, letting the spines pleasure his inner walls.

“F-fucking hell, Sooga, I’m gonna-”

“Next question. Do you prefer this toy, or me?”

“YOU idiot. The hell am I gonna take a toy over you f-FUCK!”

Sooga, as if proving a point, shoved half the toy inside of him, sending Kohga’s head back and onto the pillow. He held a finger up to signal to give him a second, before he continued, albeit shaking and panting, with precum dripping down his cock.

“Y-you. I can’t get anything out of a toy that I can’t get out of you. I really do love you. I know what ya doing. You’re jealous because Daruk saw me acting like a five rupee whore. Course he did, he’s a hunk of man meat. Er, rock-point is, YOU’RE special, HE isn’t, alright?”

Sooga halted for a moment, before he chuckled, slightly shaking his head.

“One more question. Would you like me to push this in as deep as I can, while I kiss you?”

“Now that’s an actual fucking question-YES.”

Sooga took a minute to kiss his stomach (because it was heaving so beautifully for him), before he scooted up to him, and proceeded to push the toy quickly in and out of him. With how much oil he used, it made quite the lewd sound, and Sooga adored it.

“There we go, Master Kohga. You cum as soon as you feel like. I’d like to watch the face you make for this little toy of yours. A face that you show when you aren’t loving, but lustful. Show me the look of a whore.”

He cupped Kohga’s face as he whined, legs shaking as Sooga continued to push the girthy toy right inside of him. Kohga didn’t take very long at all, and he came, ribbons of cum soaking his hand and his chest. It was just. The way his ass was stretched, the way Sooga talked to him in just that voice he liked. Even once he finished, Sooga kissed him, silencing his overwhelmed whimpers. He parted his lips for a moment, chuckling as he sat there, looking at his poor Master.

“You took most of it, I must applaud you. Take it you’d like to try it again?”

“In...in a minute. H-holy shit, they did a good job on this one. You know they could’ve made it so it shoots fake cum?”

“Why didn’t you get that one?”

“Eh, it costs a bit much, in my opinion. Besides, why would I need that when I get the real deal right here?”

Sooga realized what he meant, and felt heat on his cheeks. That was honestly...sweet. He pulled the toy out of him, crawling over him.

“I can most certainly provide, Master Kohga. As much of it as you crave.”

Kohga chuckled as Sooga grinded into him. Not just because he was SO ready to feel stuffed again, but because Sooga was grinding himself against him, AND the thick ass toy in between them. Suffice to say, Sooga liked the idea of playing with this not so little toy. And Kohga would play with him too.

After he was done with him, of course.

#asks #kohga #sooga #lemon #seriously #you guys wanted this SO badly #do you guys just want goron cock #or is it stretching out Kohga's ass #either way its finally fucking here

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stiltonbasket · 4 years

Text

a short nielan au

(uhhhh i might continue this... or i might not but this is a standalone for now lol)

When Qingheng-jun’s wife gave birth to a daughter, the sect only lamented that there would have to be another child some day, because how could the infant Lan Huan--who would spend her life in the women’s compound, and away from the teachings of anyone who held any real power in the Cloud Recesses--hope to lead the clan when she was older?

(Because no one ever said that Lan Yi had been a competent sect leader, or remembered that the division between men and women was ordered after her death because her own cousins so hated the thought of a woman--an unmarried woman, who had three strong sons with her cultivation without any need for a husband to father them--being stronger, and wiser, and quicker than they were.)

But Lan Qiren knew, all of nineteen years old when the clan elders ordered the newborn baby to be taken away from his sister-in-law and given to a nurse instead, and he dared protest the decision, too; both on his imprisoned brother’s behalf and for the mother who had cried herself sick when the child was removed from the jingshi, but knew there was nothing she could do to keep her.

“Our clan has brought forth many strong cultivators, male and female alike,” he said, with the little warm bundle clutched against his bosom as he stood before the council. “My niece will not go to a nurse, and nor will she go to the women’s residence when she passes her fifth year. She must stay with me, and I will rear her, for she is the only kin I have left.”

And with much grumbling, and whispering about impropriety, the council of elders had agreed; Lan Huan was Lan Qiren’s to raise, and he would not relinquish her.

Four years later, Madam Lan bore her second child, who was whisked away from her just as quickly as A-Huan had been despite Qingheng-jun’s pleas for leniency from the house where he was confined close to hers. The baby was a boy this time, a son who was named Lan Zhan, and went straight into his uncle’s care to be brought up alongside his sister--and he cried for his mother as Lan Huan had done, but in the end there was nothing Lan Qiren could do but paint a portrait of her, and prop his nephew up in front of it until the tears passed.

“This is your mother,” he told the baby, whose little eyes brightened at once as they roved over the painting. “Her name is Chen Mingyan, and she has been wrongfully stolen away from you, like your father was.”

“This is our A-Niang,” Lan Huan whispered, when her teething little brother could not be soothed with anything but A-Huan’s delicate fingers to chew on. “She belongs to us, even if we can’t see her very often, and she loves you.”

And all seemed well with them, for a while; the children grew older, and learned to be content with seeing their mother only once a month, and forgot that their father existed at all, since he had taken on a sentence of life imprisonment in their mother’s place. But then Chen Mingyan died of a winter sickness and Qingheng-jun died of grief, and the clan elders took the chance to betroth Lan Huan outside the Cloud Recesses and strip the young girl of her birthright.

They would not listen to Lan Qiren, no matter how he contested the decision, and in the end all the head of the council would say was this:

“Who will marry Lan Huan from within the clan when she has spent her whole life among men, and learned none of the patience and mildness that Lan maidens are supposed to know? If you wished to keep her, Second Young Master, you should have let her go with the other girls--is it not so?”

“Our young mistress is more suited to her betrothed’s clan than this one,” someone else had the gall to say, standing up and looking down at Lan Qiren as if he were granting a favor, and not delivering the worst news he had ever heard in his thirty years of life, including even the deaths of his sister-in-law and his brother. “He will not mind her brashness, or her lack of respect for the principles of silence and reflection. It may be difficult to part from her when the time comes, Er-gongzi, but surely even you can see that she will be much happier there, and secure her clan an alliance by marriage, besides.”

It was true that Lan Huan was more outspoken than any Lan had ever been, save her own father and uncle. It was true that she laughed freely, like her mother, and tempered her endless gentleness and humility with plain good sense, even if it meant abandoning womanly grace and modesty, sometimes. It was true that she never, never once lowered her head in the presence of men--and why should she? These were all virtues, Lan Qiren insisted, but all he heard in return was that the engagement was to the first son of another major sect, and to break it now would be a sore blow to their own clan, which was still in turmoil after its previous leader’s imprisonment.

When Lan Qiren brought the engagement contract back to the meishi where he lived with his niece and nephew, Lan Huan only nodded her head in resignation and asked him for her intended’s name. Apparently, A-Huan had expected something to be arranged for her, though not quite so soon; but there was no reason to be surprised by it, she told him, because everyone knew that the Jin clan’s young master and Jiang Fengmian’s only daughter had been betrothed since the year Jin Zixuan was born.

It was clear that she expected to remain in the Cloud Recesses, since Yunmeng was too far from Gusu to consider a marriage bond between them and Lanling’s sole heir was already spoken for, and of course no one would ask a maiden from the Lan sect to wed into the stronghold of beasts and butchers that was Qinghe Nie--but now it had fallen Lan Qiren to shatter his niece’s hopes, and tell her that someday she must leave the home and the baby brother she loved, even though she had almost nothing else to bring her joy at all.

“They have chosen to wed you away from the sect, A-Huan,” he choked, his voice cracking in despair as the little girl’s face went pale. “Lan Qiusheng and the others have promised you to one of Nie Huangyin’s children--to his first son, Nie Mingjue.”

#nielan #the untamed #the untamed fic #nielan arranged marriage au #lan xichen #lan qiren

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ladyshinobi · 5 years

Text

Listen...I DON’T make the rules BUT...

Hi there JuliantiNation!

How Y’all doing? ...ALSO...

I Fuckin’ Told Ya!?

____________________________________________________________________

Patience Is a Virtue (I sorely lack actually XD) but I KNEW this would take some time...

See you tomorrow at meltdown’o clock :)

_______________________________________________________________________

#juliantina #amar a muerte #macarena achaga #barbara lopez #lol #If they end up just announcing a new rainbow colored magnum ice cream flavor I'll LOL for a year #Nah..Leo and Bardasano are also in on the announcement #its happening #;)

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new-moon-over-septarsis · 5 years

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Dialogue Practice #33

Corona (running): So that was Toffee as a teenager? Yikes!

Glossaryck: Oh no. That's a full grown man right there.

Corona: You're kidding.

Glossaryck: Nope. Toffee had a lot of ...issues in his youth. And this was a very unstable period of his life. One where he'd beat a Mewman senseless just for staring at him wrong.

Corona: Why the HECK would you send to me to speak to Toffee in a time period where he's willing to kill me on sight?!

Glossaryck: Because putting up with him takes a lot of patience and initiative, something you are sorely lacking. I figured this wacky, chaotic season of life is the best place for you to start coaxing him.

Corona: But why him? Why do my lessons have to start with Toffee?

Glossaryck: Because you'll need him for your New Commission...and he's going to be the hardest to convince.

Corona: ...

Glossaryck: The fact is, what you two have in common is that you're going to be in a position of power very soon. A position that demands patience, virtue, and understanding. But most importantly communication. And since you refuse to speak to literally anybody but me, you need to learn to communicate in different ways.

Corona (still running): And that was my lesson for today?

Glossaryck: Mm hm. And you seem to be falling miserably.

Corona: Don't you mean "failing"?

Glossaryck: Ha ha ha!

Glossaryck: NO.

Corona: (gets tripped by a sneaky Toffee)

#one pace from disgrace (au)#the new commission of corona cross #the lost chancellor (corona cross)#a most fun rival (glossaryck)#jester cross (toffee)#cleaved together (post finale)#disgrace: moon arc #disgraced archives (writing snippets)#civil conversations (dialogue practice)

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pamphletstoinspire · 5 years

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Does It Even Matter How We Treat Others? The 26th Sunday of Ordinary Time (September 29th)

Does it matter how we treat others? What does my neighbor’s suffering have to do with me? Can I continue living in comfort while bypassing those around me who are in misery? These are questions that the Readings for this Sunday raise, and to which they provide uncomfortable answers. Let’s read and let the Holy Spirit move us outside our comfort zone.

1. The First Reading is Am 6:1a, 4-7:

Thus says the LORD the God of hosts: Woe to the complacent in Zion! Lying upon beds of ivory, stretched comfortably on their couches, they eat lambs taken from the flock, and calves from the stall! Improvising to the music of the harp, like David, they devise their own accompaniment. They drink wine from bowls and anoint themselves with the best oils; yet they are not made ill by the collapse of Joseph! Therefore, now they shall be the first to go into exile, and their wanton revelry shall be done away with.

Amos is one of the oldest of the literary (writing) prophets. A Judean (from the southern kingdom) who was sent to northern Israel, he is best remembered for his strident denunciations of the social injustices of his day.

In today’s passage, Isaiah rebukes the aristocracy of Jerusalem, the wealthy elite, who led lives of comfort and leisure in the capital city of the southern kingdom but were “not made ill by the collapse of Joseph,” that is, cared nothing for the fact that their fellow Israelites to the north (Joseph=the northern kingdom) were being decimated, impoverished, and killed by repeated incursions of enemy armies. The fact that ten of the twelve tribes of the LORD were being faced with exile and extinction did not make an impression on these wealthy southerners. As a result, Amos prophecies that they will share the same fate as their northern cousins: “They shall be the first to go into exile!” So it came to be: when Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon later invaded Judea on multiple occasions, he exiled the Judean people, starting with the wealthiest.

2. The Responsorial Psalm is Ps 146:7, 8-9, 9-10:

R. (1b) Praise the Lord, my soul!

Blessed he who keeps faith forever, secures justice for the oppressed, gives food to the hungry. The LORD sets captives free. R. Praise the Lord, my soul!

The LORD gives sight to the blind. The LORD raises up those who were bowed down; the LORD loves the just. The LORD protects strangers. R. Praise the Lord, my soul!

The fatherless and the widow he sustains, but the way of the wicked he thwarts. The LORD shall reign forever; your God, O Zion, through all generations. Alleluia. R. Praise the Lord, my soul!

Psalm 146 is the first of five “Alleluia” psalms that end the psalter. Each begins with the Hebrew word “Hallelu-Yah” a second-masculine-plural imperative meaning “Praise the LORD!” This set of five psalms is repeated tympanny beats and trumpet fanfares at the end of a great symphony. They close out the psalter on a raucous chorus of praise.

This Psalm stresses the character of the LORD, the God of Israel: He is on the side of the poor, the downtrodden, those who are weak, vulnerable and innocent. This is the character of the God we worship.

Not everyone believes God is like this. Other religions and other persons worship a god of power, a god who “helps those who help themselves, a god who looks out for his own interests and expects you to do the same.

The ancient Israelite Psalmist was making a daring statement by saying the creator had particular concern for the weak. We can see strong lines of continuity between this psalm and the ministry of Jesus, especially Jesus teachings in the Sermon on the Mount, summarized by the Beatitudes. Notice how in this psalm the “LORD reigning forever,” i.e. the kingdom of God, is linked to the comforting of the downtrodden, just as in the Beatitudes.

3. The Second Reading is 1 Tm 6:11-16:

But you, man of God, pursue righteousness, devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness. Compete well for the faith. Lay hold of eternal life, to which you were called when you made the noble confession in the presence of many witnesses. I charge you before God, who gives life to all things, and before Christ Jesus, who gave testimony under Pontius Pilate for the noble confession, to keep the commandment without stain or reproach until the appearance of our Lord Jesus Christ that the blessed and only ruler will make manifest at the proper time, the King of kings and Lord of lords, who alone has immortality, who dwells in unapproachable light, and whom no human being has seen or can see. To him be honor and eternal power. Amen.

The Second Reading proceeds on its way semi-continuously through Paul’s letters to individuals. Here we reach the conclusion of St. Paul’s first letter to Timothy, and we here his concluding charge to his young protégé.

Although this Reading was not chosen for thematic agreement with the Gospel, nonetheless we see a commonality in theme. St. Paul links virtues of compassion with the kingdom of God. He exhorts Timothy to practice “righteousness, devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness.” These virtues, especially “love, patience, and gentleness,” forbid us to be callous toward those in need, harsh with the downtrodden, brusque with the uneducated. The practice of these virtues, St. Paul insists, is linked to one day beholding “our Lord Jesus Christ, that blessed and only ruler … the King of Kings and Lord of lords.” Yes, Jesus Christ is omnipotent and eternal God, who cares for the weak, the poor, the shamed, the rejected, the ridiculed, the slow, the feeble. Blessed are those who practice “love patience, and gentleness” toward such.

4. The Gospel is Lk 16:19-31:

Jesus said to the Pharisees: "There was a rich man who dressed in purple garments and fine linen and dined sumptuously each day. And lying at his door was a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who would gladly have eaten his fill of the scraps that fell from the rich man's table. Dogs even used to come and lick his sores. When the poor man died, he was carried away by angels to the bosom of Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried, and from the netherworld, where he was in torment, he raised his eyes and saw Abraham far off and Lazarus at his side. And he cried out, 'Father Abraham, have pity on me. Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am suffering torment in these flames.' Abraham replied, 'My child, remember that you received what was good during your lifetime while Lazarus likewise received what was bad; but now he is comforted here, whereas you are tormented. Moreover, between us and you a great chasm is established to prevent anyone from crossing who might wish to go from our side to yours or from your side to ours.’ He said, 'Then I beg you, father, send him to my father's house, for I have five brothers, so that he may warn them, lest they too come to this place of torment.' But Abraham replied, 'They have Moses and the prophets. Let them listen to them.' He said, 'Oh no, father Abraham, but if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.' Then Abraham said, 'If they will not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded if someone should rise from the dead.'"

Several things attract our attention about this Gospel. First of all, we notice that the parable of the “Rich Man and Lazarus” is often employed in debates about purgatory, with some Protestants insisting that it disproves this doctrine, and some Catholics suggesting that it actually supports it.

Jewish views of the afterlife at the time of our Lord held that those who died went to the netherworld (Sheol in classical Hebrew or Hades in Greek) where they awaited the Day of Judgment. Within the netherworld there were places of comfort as well as places of pain. The “bosom of Abraham” was the best part of the netherworld, a pleasant land where the righteous enjoyed the consolation of their ancestors, particularly Abraham himself. The “bosom of Abraham” was separated from the rest of the netherworld, where others received punishments appropriate to their sins, by rivers or chasms.

In this parable, then, both the rich man and Lazarus are awaiting the final judgment, and neither is in heaven nor in hell. They are in Sheol, the place of the dead. It is to this Sheol or Hades that Christ descended to usher the righteous into the presence of God, i.e. heaven.

Does the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus have bearing on the doctrine of purgatory? It does indirectly. Jewish faith held that it was possible to intercede for those in the netherworld awaiting judgment (2 Macc 12:44-45; Apocalypse of Zephaniah 11:1-2). In fact, in some Jewish writings of the period, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob intercede for the dead awaiting judgment. So we can say that the Christian doctrine of purgatory—a place or state of purification of those in the intermediate state—is rooted in ancient Jewish faith. The Rich Man of the parable is in a state similar to purgatory — he is experiencing suffering, but he has not been condemned to hell and is still able to communicate with the righteous (which would not be possible in hell).

Let’s turn to the moral meaning of the passage. The Rich Man is receiving punishment in the afterlife because of his sins, and the parable implies that his primary sin was his utter disregard for the welfare of a fellow Israelite, Lazarus, who begged at the door of his house in utter squalor, lacking even basic necessities. In this attitude he parallels the wealthy elite of Jerusalem from the First Reading, who were not in the least distressed by the decimation of their cousins to the north. Jesus is condemning the callousness of those who live lives of self-indulgence while ignoring the needs of the poor, especially the poor of their own community, or their own community of faith.

The conclusion of the dialogue between Abraham and the Rich Man is interesting. The Rich Man pleads with Abraham to send someone to warn his brothers, but Abraham responds, “They have Moses and the Prophets. If they will not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be persuaded if someone rises from the dead.”

“Moses and the Prophets” is a reference to the sum total of Scripture, often referred to as the “Law and the Prophets.” Both Moses and the prophets (like Amos above!) stressed the importance of practicing economic justice and charity toward the widow, the orphan, the stranger, and the poor kinsman (see Deut 15, Lev 25). Those that did not heed God’s prophets had hard hearts, and even a resurrection would not persuade them, because their impediment to repentance was not some rational objection to the existence or power of God, but an attachment to riches.

Jesus words were prophetic. As it turns out, the wealthy of Jerusalem are not persuaded by the resurrection of Lazarus (!), just as they were not moved to repentance by the Scriptures. John records the aftermath of the resurrection of Lazarus:

John 11: 46 but some of [the Judeans] went to the Pharisees and told them what Jesus had done. 47 So the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered the council, and said, “What are we to do? For this man performs many signs. 48 If we let him go on thus, every one will believe in him, and the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation.” …. 53 So from that day on they took counsel how to put him to death.

We also note how Jesus ties his own ministry as one who “rises from the dead” with belief in the testimony of “Moses and the Prophets.” In doing so, Jesus rules out any form of Christianity which tries to reject the Old Testament, the Scriptures of Israel (i.e. Marcionism). On a personal note, this was the text that persuaded me to become an Old Testament scholar, since Jesus ties belief in the resurrection (i.e. Christian faith) to confidence in the prophets of Israel (i.e. the Old Testament).

Sometimes we are tempted to think, “If only God would pour out manifestations of His power, then evangelism would be easier. We would convert the nation.” But Jesus teaches us to think more realistically about miracles. After three years of the most remarkable miracle ministry in the history of the human race, Jesus still found himself abandoned by even his closest followers at the time of his greatest need. Even after his resurrection, the officials to whom that miracle were reported paid the guards to suppress the news (Matt 28:11-15)!

Miracles gather crowds, but they only occasionally lead to the conversion of heart that Jesus seeks. Those that are hardened by greed, lust, or other passions can always find a way to explain a miracle away, and even if they can’t, they will simply ignore it or regard it as an inexplicable fluke. There have been public miracles in modern times witnessed by thousands (like the apparitions in Zeitoun, Egypt) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nMEWxRB-1dc but haven’t led to mass conversion.

So what do the Readings say to us this Lord’s Day? Firstly, to repent of any self-indulgence in our own lifestyle, and any lack of generosity toward the poor, especially those closest to us. Secondly, to start paying heed to the Scriptures today by turning to God in conversion, rather than waiting for some sign, some apparition, some “act of God” to wake us up.

From: https://www.pamphletstoinspire.com/

#26th sunday in ordinary time

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mmsunwoo-blog · 5 years

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HEAD IN THE GAME

accio — @mmjunsu !

alright, here. put these on. ( ` he hands junsu his extra headset, tapping the mic even though he knows it’s working just fine. old habits do certainly die hard. ) it’s working fine, yeah ?

( ` he cracks his knuckles ( again, out of habit. ) as he waits for the webcam to boot up. it always takes longer than what he would deem as optimal. ) ( ` he makes a mental note to maybe sneak around the castle and take a look at yosul’s router sometime. or at the very least, perhaps bug his dad for an ethernet cable. ) ( ` he’s drumming his fingers and shaking his leg now, lips pursed as he stares at the spinning, digital circle on the screen. forever loading. ) ( ` everyone has virtues, albeit some more than others. patience, however, was one that sunwoo had always lacked. )

dude, the wifi here sucks. i mean it was never super good but like, i don’t remember it being this bad. ( ` he’s exaggerating, always having been one with a flare for dramatics when it comes to less than lightening fast internet speeds. ) ( ` it’s as soon as those words leave his mouth, though, that the webcam flickers on. his scrunched nose and exasperated eyes light up the display, staring straight back at him. ) yooo, finally ! okay, let’s get it.

( ` he scoots his chair over, beckoning junsu to move closer into the frame as he finishes setting up the stream. ) so i split the screen, your gameplay will be on the left half. you’re not nervous, right ? ( ` his grin is toothy, complimenting the mirthful glint in his eye in all of the right places. ) just act natural and don’t be a sore loser when i kick your little league ass in front of thousands of viewers. ( ` he’s only half joking, of course. )

you ready, dude ? i’m gonna start it now.

( ` and he hits the “GO LIVE” button with a sense of renewed purpose. )

#mmjunsu #: // SCRIPT_TXT.#: // JUNSU_VCF.#: // SAVED AS_HEADINTHEGAME_DOC.#i was this close 👌🏻#to naming the thread #fake fakers

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spockandawe · 6 years

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Anonymous said:

in light of recent Pharma info from the con and F!Cybertron ending up in the original timeline permanently, what do you became of your Pharma/Ratchet from your Functionist oneshots? survived to the present day? killed by the people in power? joined up with Megatron's resistance?

OH MAN. OKAY. Pharma time. First I forgot to answer this, and then I was putting this off while I frantically archived tumblr content, and THEN I was putting off answering this until I published yesterday’s Pharma fic, so this is SUPER LATE, apologies. This is also almost definitely going to detour into main universe Pharma content too, because picking apart the pieces of why things went sour for him was already fascinating even before we got extra information, and the new info that we got really solidifies my characterization choices for me.

(for anyone who missed it, JRO said at tfcon that delphi and tarn definitely changed pharma and played a major role in where he was at mentally/emotionally when ratchet came to see him)

(behind a cut, because I have talked forever, as per usual. part general pharma meta, part noodling about what might happen in my story universe, 3.2k words.)

So, awright. I hadn’t gone into specifics at all, but I definitely split my personal characterization for main universe Pharma and functionist universe Pharma at a point where like... in my head, he’s a doctor, busy and well-respected, at the top of his field, but working/stationed in a central location, and probably working in close proximity with Ratchet. Then they diverge when one Pharma is pulled away to Delphi, and one Pharma is sucked in by government work for the functionist council (that’s not a perfect divide, but I’m leaving out any ways the war would have impacted his well-being)

The way I characterize main universe Pharma, he is CHOCK-FULL of maladaptive coping mechanisms. Some of that is down to his personality, some of it is down to circumstances. Just by the fact that he’s still ALIVE despite having been in close contact with Tarn, he’s learned to adapt in ways to survive the DJD. He’s learned to adapt in ways that let him preserve his whole facility, even if I personally place self-preservation ahead of plain altruism in his priority queue.

And this is really interesting, because the ways he’s adapted to survive the functionist council aren’t all THAT different. Both these survival tactics are about... performance, more than anything. Everything with Tarn falls apart if Pharma stops looking like the perfect autobot medic, and I’m sure that Tarn is ready to take advantage of any sign of weakness or fear on Pharma’s part. He’s walking a very delicate line there. In some ways, he has more breathing room on functionist Cybertron, because he’s a part of a valued profession, near the top of his field. But he’s also having to toe an evolving party line in an environment where lack of conformation risks death, and there are many, many more eyes on him, and since he’s got no choice but to be involved in politics, there are people who would potentially stand to benefit from his fall.

But ahhhh, my favorite part. On Delphi, Pharma... is very alone. He has colleagues, he seems to have gotten on decently with First Aid and Ambulon. Everything that happens as things deteriorate later comes as a surprise to them. His last experience with the person he loved was Ratchet bailing without saying goodbye in a conversation where Pharma was trying to ask him his opinion about taking the Delphi position in the first place. And then he was stuck having to go toe to toe with Tarn and the DJD. In my functionist setting, I still don’t see him as like... a person with that many friends. But he has Ratchet, and he’s had time to get secure with Ratchet.

Okay, my characterization for Pharma shares some things with the way I characterize Prowl and Starscream/Loki. I write him as a person who prioritizes himself above a lot of other things. He works as a doctor, sure, but the way Ratchet transformed to save one person’s life even though it meant the rust plague starting to work on him? That is not a very Pharma move. I don’t write him as a person who puts the well-being of other people ahead of his own well-being. But that’s not an absolute! The characters who are like that, what I find the most, MOST rewarding is finding the ways that they’ll open up those walls and redefine the boundaries of their central world that they will not sacrifice.

So, with Starscream, I write a lot of shippy content. Finding ways for new people to keep trust with him and work their way into his life until he has no choice but to love them. I write Prowl more as someone who has... had those people who are His. And (in his eyes) that trust was betrayed, he’s been hurt by letting them inside, and he still cares a lot, but he wishes he didn’t, and he’s angry at them/himself for the way he cares in the first place.

Now. Pharma.

God, even before we got confirmation about ‘my beloved ratchet’ and tarn helping to break him, this is really nicely in line with how I felt about things. In the main universe, Pharma hasn’t been positively-definitely betrayed by Ratchet. He’s been hurt, he’s definitely hurt by the way Ratchet left so casually when Pharma was trying to lean on him. But that wasn’t a forever injury. It’s something that stings, but something that can be repaired.

The trouble is when he lands on Delphi right as he’s still hurting from that. The danger from Tarn and the DJD, that is significant. Even for mechs in a large group, it’s... hard to even survive the DJD. They absolutely butchered the alternate Lost Light, and that wasn’t a mining/hospital facility. I don’t know if I’m phrasing this right, but it’s an atmosphere where priorities narrow from winning down to surviving, and the question of protecting other people along with yourself is so implausible it’s almost funny. If the DJD moves against them, they’re all going to die. It’s an atmosphere where it’s very plausible that Pharma would not just give Tarn the t-cogs from corpses, but where he could be pressured into killing his patients himself to meet that quota. If some people are surviving, that’s better than none of them surviving.

And then, afterwards? I write a lot of where he goes from there as stemming from anger over the way people seem to ignore the pressures he was operating under that took him to that point. In the main universe, I write him as someone who’s made awful decisions and is aware of that, but is also bitterly furious that nobody is looking beyond those decisions, at everything else. I write him as... not casually seeking out people just to hurt them, but wanting to hurt people back. Going after the sore spots for people who hurt him first, or who failed to recognize that he was hurting at all. At any point after Delphi, I’m pretty much writing him as someone who’s willing to go down in flames as long as he can take other people out with him.

Functionist universe! None of that is a factor. In the functionist universe, at a bare, bare minimum, he has Ratchet. And Ratchet still may not be good at recognizing the softer emotions in other people, but he’s a rock-solid, steady force in Pharma’s life. The functionist council doesn’t want to send either of them anywhere else, they need to stay right here, right at hand for the government to use them. It’s possible that Ratchet would have taken a station away from Pharma, if it was asked of him, but just by virtue of being there and not making a move to leave, Pharma’s definition of my-central-world has had lots and lots of time to centralize as ‘Ratchet and I’ instead of ‘just me’.

And here’s what I find so fascinating about his character in that universe, no matter what angle I take in thinking about him, he will go to all kinds of lengths to preserve that central world. Some of that echoes what I see from him in the main universe, but the main universe, it’s only Pharma, just himself, just self-preservation. Having Ratchet as something he’s completely unwilling to sacrifice shifts his priorities dramatically, and the longer he has to fall in love, him deciding to protect Ratchet’s happiness shifts them a lot more. Ratchet being more about the... ideals of doctor-hood than Pharma is means that Ratchet values things Pharma doesn’t have much patience with/interest in (like the charity clinic), but the fact that Ratchet does value it so much, and the fact that it’s not very in line with functionist philosophy does DELICIOUS things to how Pharma tackles self-preservation under this particular stressful scenario.

This is already crazy long, so I don’t want to ramble too-too bad, but a lot of it comes down to functionist Pharma being much more practiced at putting himself into other people’s shoes. Not just in a practical way, but specifically he’s made a point of tackling it from an empathy perspective. If he wants to keep Ratchet happy, he needs to really, really understand what it is that makes Ratchet happy. Which isn’t that innovative as far as relationships go, but I do tend to characterize him as one of my lower-empathy characters, who’s attracted more on the basis of you-are-like-me than on the basis of, say, how Drift is drawn to Ratchet when they’re very different personalities. So that’s one.

And then the other is that the threat posed by the functionist council is... much more decentralized and loosely defined than the threat from Tarn. With Tarn, Pharma had a laser focus on what he needed to do to stay alive. Give Tarn all the t-cogs he wants. Bam. In the functionist council, he’s needing to make himself valuable and toe the party line and play politics and avoid drawing any powerful player’s displeasure. AND needing to stretch himself even further to cover the ways ratchet doesn’t play the perfect little functionist doctor. AND. Stretching himself far enough to cover the things that make ratchet happy, even though the charity clinic is specifically something that this government is going to be very opposed to.

Functionist Pharma is much, much more flexible than regular universe Pharma. He’s had to be. The game he’s playing is drawn out much longer than the business with Tarn, and the rules are a lot more complicated and mutable, plus this is a Pharma who has something outside himself that he isn’t willing to sacrifice. They’re both forced into high-stress survival games where if they die, it won’t be easy or pretty, and in my mind, those games do the bulk of shaping the people they become.

Main universe Pharma is a lone operator, he wears a mask that hides what’s underneath, his priorities are a mystery because now that he’s free from Delphi and Tarn, what is LEFT for priorities? He leans into the worst people think of him because he’s bitter and angry and his world has already fallen apart, so let’s go ahead and burn everything down. Functionist universe Pharma is a highly-social manipulator, who has to control people to control the playing field. His mask is there so that people can’t see what he’s doing or control him in return, because the majority of what he does is to protect his one glaring weak spot, Ratchet. Everything for him is still about the long game, and making careless moves could destroy everything he cares about.

Which is so many words to take me back around to your original question, oh my gosh XD

What happens to functionist universe ratchet and pharma? It’s a fascinating thing to think about, partly because I’ve tried to come to a decision before and didn’t get anywhere with it!

Okay, now. The most likely way their story goes is that as the planet gets increasingly dysfunctional, Ratchet and Pharma are increasingly at risk. Even if Pharma is trying to be as cooperative as possible, it’s difficult to stay that close to the center of power without being killed for some reason or another. As the functionist council escalates, with things like the implanted eyes or the brain chips, they’re making mass-murdery medical-flavored moves, and it’s increasingly likely that Ratchet will hit a point where they tell him to do something and he says no, which will not go well.

But that’s depressing. I wouldn’t want to write that ending for them unless there was absolutely no other choice.

Joining up with Megatron... that is an interesting one. First of all, I don’t think Pharma will be a fan of the idea, at least not until it looks like Megatron’s eventual takeover of the planet is inevitable. Pharma has done a lot of work to get them into a position even as dubiously secure as where they are now, and he’s not going to be happy at the prospect of abandoning that to join up with a rebel group that the council is determined to destroy. If Ratchet went, Pharma would probably go with him, but Ratchet... he’s more likely to go for it, but it would still take something BIG to push him out of his groove. He was an autobot from the start, with the line of thought of ‘the government is broken, but we should repair it from the inside’. Going to join up with a military force and escalate the conflict and fighting is going to run counter to his ideals. Not to say he wouldn’t do it, but it would be... tough.

I can see a few interesting story ideas in here, though they’d all be pretty hefty things to tackle. One is that the council does make that move where they order Ratchet to do something he’s unwilling to do. That could be the splodey brain chips, could be something else. Pharma begs him to just go along with it, they can’t do any good if they’re dead, but this is clearly not a tenable situation. Something something, Pharma finally agrees to go with Ratchet to find Megatron because it’s the only way he sees forward where he can keep Ratchet alive without also losing him, but it’s a decision he’s very unhappy about.

Potentially going along with that one, it would be AMAZING to see a setting where as things escalated, Pharma and Ratchet both disarmed the chips in each other’s heads, which is a very dangerous move if anyone checks up on those, but given the ways the council has been behaving, it feels... even more dangerous to leave them intact. Things get set in motion when the council does try to execute one or both of them, and they have no choice but to run.

(maybe they’re ordered to convert rung/rung’s body into a crystal-making factory or something? developing chips to let them remotely control any given mech? it’s gotta be something suitably horrifying that pharma can justify in the name of survival, but ratchet can’t)

Oooooh, on the note of them running. MEGATRON’S INTEREST IN MEDICINE. Okay, yeah, no matter what else happens, that universe has gotta have them meeting Megatron. I.... hmmm. Ratchet was one of Megatron’s favorite mechs on the LL back before things got crazy. I don’t usually go for jealousy fics, but I could really go for Pharma being jealous over how much he’s sacrificed to keep Ratchet safe, but now Ratchet is letting Megatron monopolize all his free time. Being able to justify legit heartache for a character as cold as Pharma is a WONDERFULLY fun time XD Megatron teaching himself medicine is awesome and I love it, but Megatron searching for memories of his old friends on this different world is also gr8.

Also I would really, really like Pharma loathing Terminus on first sight because they are very similar in a lot of ways and it makes him uncomfortable :3c

Oh my god, and if Megatron shares the truth about knowing Ratchet before, it’s a PERFECT setup for a parallel to him telling rewind that him and chromedome are inseparable. It would be hard to justify lying that they were that intimate, but a gentler lie, maybe. Something something same side in the war, respected colleagues, affection. Something about them not being together but still valuing each other highly that’s bittersweet to hear, not as painful as the truth about what Pharma went through and did, and how badly that poisoned everything. I could see Pharma recognizing that Megatron is holding something back, and being unwilling to push harder because he’s afraid of what he’ll learn.

Hm. A fic like that... Bringing Pharma and Ratchet back into the main universe. That probably wouldn’t be workable. Just because of all the baggage, plus other Ratchet in his relationship with Drift. It would take a whole nother novel just to sort that mess out.

But I could see them staying behind in some capacity. The way the LL2 got back to the main universe... I know there’s no indication that it was anything outside the ship/planet that opened a portal for everything, but it would be plausible if there was. And if I was being super duper self-indulgent, I would totally want to pull functionist universe Killmaster into this hypothetical scenario. Now, Cybertron comes through the portal. But Cybertron was a planet in contact with the rest of the universe, even if the functionist council gradually choked that off. Citizens exist who are spaceworthy themselves, never mind that plain nonsentient ships are a thing. In the main series, we get the return of scattered Cybertronians from all corners of the galaxy after the war ends.

This sounds cheesy writing it out like this, but I’d totally be down for a fic where someone has to stay behind, and Ratchet volunteers and Pharma stays with him. If the council’s gone, well-- The planet might be gone too, but still, there’s potential to rebuild again, and now they have the ability to at least try (adsfdsa wow this really would need an extra novel of material, but bringing in functionist universe unicron at that point and building a NEW cybertron, i kind of really really really want to see that happen)

So. That’s not at all plotted out coherently, I’m not sure if it’s what I would ultimately settle on, but there are bits and pieces of that which I like a lot! It would be easiest by far for them to die along the way, just given the setting, but I really like characters managing to survive. And the differences between this Pharma and the main universe Pharma mean that he has the skills to make that survival at least possible.

And now I have talked for ten million years, so I’ll leave it there :PPP I just have so many feelings about this disaster robot and the ways external factors broke him down and the bad decisions he made to make it all worse, and the way he just commits to a complete nosedive because he can’t see any way to pull up, and I love him as he is, but am also obsessed with imagining the circumstances under which he could have been better

#pharma #ratchet #pharma x ratchet #ratchet x pharma #spock replies #transformers #maccadam #meta

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