#snappishly

[pine-needle-scuffle]

mmm am i gonna get my yearly cry out today? hope not

[a-darling-thing]

Like I 100% appreciate why so many people wish they could hug Astarion right after he finally stops the ritual, kills Cazador and takes back his freedom, but as someone who has been through some shit ™ l honestly think the way the game decided to handle that was right.

When you are in that really delicate phase of coming out the back side of a chronic abuse situation and you have just had to face down your abuser (and almost been revictimized), and your nervous system is that keyed up, a hug is like the last thing you need.

I mean the poor guy has just stabbed Cazador like 20 times in a frenzied fit of grief and rage and is still standing there covered in his blood, sobbing in relief, and in a complete daze. He’s talking by the time you leave the palace, but he’s clearly not ok (thanks again for your stunning voice work Neil Newbon).

I would personally feel like a hug was something I just had to endure to make the other person happy. I think Astarion would probably snappishly draw a firm boundary, with one of his terse ‘don’t touch me.’s, cause he’s actually pretty good at that. But still…. Why make him have to muster the energy for that after everything he’s just been through. The hugs can come later.

In reality the hugs would probably come days, weeks or months later, but like ‘game pacing’, so I think having that gap of time where Astarion gets to talk to Tav about it all before the graveyard scene, hit a happy balance that gave at least the impression of the passage of time and that he had begun to process it all.

I do actually agree with others that have said him proposing sex with Tav that soon after the whole business also seems unrealistic, but again, the writers had to pace his full story to fit within the timeframe of the game, and I felt they did alright given those constraints.

This is all personal opinion, mind, and opinions may differ, but I like how they handled it.

[elliotski]

I am in love with the idea of Hua Cheng being intrinsically connected to Ghost City in such a way that he can subconsciously manipulate it.

Ghost City’s streets are winding and confusing, but when Hua Chengzhu walks through his territory, the streets straighten themselves out, creating a clear path for him. Strangely enough, Hua Cheng doesn’t realize this until Yin Yu meekly asks for directions to a certain location in Ghost City, still settling into his new position as a servant to a Ghost King. Hua Cheng, annoyed, snappishly tells him that it’s literally down the street and four buildings down, and that if Yin Yu couldn’t find it, then he was too blind to manage the administrative areas of his city. Yin Yu, confused and intimidated, shakily tells Hua Cheng that there are no roads or buildings in the vicinity of Paradise Manor, and that when the street does start, it winds in three different directions. Hua Cheng gives him an incredulous look and tells him to just do as he’s ordered. Yin Yu walks away defeated.

Hua Cheng secluding himself when the isolation of searching for a forgotten god creeps up on him. Ghost City, used to their lord disappearing in irregular intervals, doesn’t find it strange when no one has seen Hua Chengzhu for several days. Panic starts to set in, however, when dark clouds gather above the city and a torrent of blood rain falls from the sky like a bad omen. The ghosts become frantic, believing it to be an ominous sign that they had displeased their lord. Hua Cheng, who had locked himself in his room in Paradise Manor, weeps his despair and desperation into silky, crimson pillows to the sound of rain for three days straight. He never realized that he nearly caused a flood of blood in his own city. In fact, Yin Yu, who had taken up the responsibility of cleaning up the city, wisely chooses to say nothing on the matter when Hua Cheng eyes his blood soaked robes with a questioning glance. This happens rarely over the course of the next eight centuries, but it occurs often enough for the denizens of Ghost City to stop panicking when it happens. They call it ‘the crimson torment’ and have learned to be especially nice to their lord in the following days. Miraculously, the blood rain stops after Xie Lian shows up, and Ghost City is eternally grateful. Xie Lian learns about ‘the crimson torment’ before Hua Cheng does, hearing about it from a group of gossiping ghosts. But when Xie Lian asks Hua Cheng about it, concerned for his husband, Hua Cheng tells him that he was never aware that such a thing even happened.

Hua Cheng mindlessly sending out an attack towards a trouble making ghost in Ghost City. The attack is restrained and certainly not as powerful as it could be, but it sends the ghost flying into a wall anyways. Normally, that would be that, but Hua Cheng was particularly frustrated that day. The echoes of the ghost’s wailing pierces his mind and worsens an already bad headache. Xie Lian, who’s standing off to the side, hurriedly walks toward Hua Cheng and gently guides him away. Hua Cheng goes willingly and complacently, as he always will for his beloved husband. That doesn’t stop the murderous thoughts brewing in his head, though, and before he knows it, there is a slight rumble beneath his feet. His thoughts spiral out of control and he doesn’t notice the Earth quaking beneath him until the buildings and stalls around him collapse. It’s the first time that Hua Cheng is forced to acknowledge the subconscious control that he holds over Ghost City and that moment secretly mortifies him.

[drvirgus]

Protecting (my heart)

Idol! Minji X bodyguard! Reader

Description: getting a new job as NewJeans bodyguard isn't really something Y/n thought would happen to her. What exactly happens when she suddenly felt attracted to one of the NewJeans members? Can Y/n stay professional or are her feelings for Minji too much to handle?

Warnings: stalking; harassment; kys jokes; suggestive language; death threats; mention of abuse; mention of murder;

Chapter: hidden camera (half-Written)

Masterlist

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My brow furrowed as I opened each cupboard in Minji's room. My heart raced as my suspicions gradually seemed to be confirmed. I noticed Minji returning to her room after receiving my message. Confusion was written all over her face as she looked at me. My hands clenched into fists as I glared at her with narrowed eyes, the vein on my forehead visible and my face red with anger.

Minji swallowed, "Baby. What's wrong?" she asked, seeing how I looked in that moment. She didn't know her stalker was writing to her. Sure, she could check repeatedly, but I knew she wasn't doing it. My breath quickened as I clenched my jaw, "Show me all the gifts you've kept," I demanded, which only confused Minji more. Hesitantly, she nodded and pointed to several small gifts. They were various items: some stuffed animals, glasses, trinkets, and more.

My hands grasped each gift and I threw them into the box on the floor that Minji once used to tidy up her room. Minji's eyes widened as she watched me throw each gift into the box, "What are you doing?" she asked louder now, attracting the attention of the others. I noticed the door opening wider and the familiar faces of NewJeans appearing.

My jaw still clenched as I inspected each item before tossing it into the box. My eyes narrowed as I simply ignored my steady girlfriend. I could feel Minji now gripping my hand, trying to stop me from what I was doing. With a swift and perhaps slightly rough movement, I pulled my hand away from hers, "Get out of my way!" I said louder now. The anger and perhaps also the desperation I'd been carrying for weeks were audible.

"What is going on here?" Danielle asked, seemingly shocked that I raised my voice. Her mouth open as she clung more to Hyein. I sighed as I continued with my task. The voices of my girlfriend and her members faded into the background.

"She's throwing my stuff away!" Minji

"She must have a reason," Haerin

"This is crazy," Danielle

"Calm down first," Hanni

"What happened?" Hanni

Sighing, I stopped, but my mouth opened as I saw a rather large and muscular teddy bear on the desk that Minji often used at night to write in her diary. My mouth opened, "Minji," I said quietly. The teddy bear was pointed directly at the bed.

Minji turned to me, her eyes still somewhat angry, "WHAT?!" she asked rather snappishly, which would normally make me smile, but now wasn't the time. I swallowed, "That teddy bear there..." I murmured, nodding towards the bear, "Did a fan give that to you too?" I asked quietly, which only confused Minji more. She looked at the teddy bear and nodded her head.

My brow furrowed even more, and I let go of the box. I noticed Minji's phone, which was in my pocket, start to vibrate as I moved closer to the teddy bear. I fished the phone out of my pocket and looked at the message from the stalker. My suspicion was now fully confirmed.

My eyes narrowed in anger as I stared at the teddy bear while typing my response to the message. My breath quickened. The others just watched as I picked up the teddy bear and tore its head off. Every mouth dropped open, and I noticed Minji coming closer to me.

"Wait, damn it!" I shouted at her as my hand slipped into the torn-off head of the teddy bear. My eyes darkened with pure rage as I felt the outline of something metallic. Carefully, I pulled the piece out of the head and examined it.

My breath caught as I looked at the hidden camera inside the teddy bear. A laugh escaped me, filled with disdain and anger towards this person. This person had actually managed to give Minji such a gift... This person watched her change clothes...

"W-What is that?" Hanni asked, her eyes wide as she saw the small camera in my hand. Minji's eyes widened in horror. With narrowed eyes, I slipped the camera into my pocket without breaking it. I hoped we could trace the camera back to its source.

"Get all your fan gifts. Every one of you," I said seriously as I looked at each of them. The younger ones immediately went to their rooms, while Hanni still remained in Minji's room. My jaw clenched, "This is my fault," I murmured quietly as I ran a hand through my hair. Defeated and desperate, I picked up the broken teddy bear and threw it into the box. "I was distracted."

"D-Distracted?" Minji asked, looking at me uncertainly, her eyes filled with tears as she continued to gaze at me. I swallowed. My heart sped up as I just went to my girlfriend and pulled her into my arms. "Everything's fine. I'm here," I said quietly as my hand gently stroked her back. "I'll protect you. You don't need to be afraid."

I felt Minji hold me even tighter. "I'm not afraid," she murmured. "Not of the stalker, at least."

————————————————————————————-

Taglist: @itzzyyyyyyydaaaa @alexxeey @acegaydar @sixflame438

[cipheramnesia]

Getting bottom surgery from Laszlo Cravensworth would be amazing. He'd be like, "My darling, yourrr new vag-iñia is lovingly sculptéd into a perfect replaica of my beloved Nadja's rosy love trumpet!"

He'd take you everywhere and constantly ask strangers, "Excuse me, would you care to behold this vag-iñia I have sculptéd? The veritable Alphonzo Cuthbert of the love making regions." And then like cut to him explaining that Cuthbert was a rival to Leonardo DaVinci who was a more skilled artist.

He shows Nadja and she's like "ohhhh my darling you are amazing, talented, so wonderful." Then like cut to her interviewed along, snappishly going, "That doesn't look like mine. It doesn't." Followed by uncomfortable silence.

[wellmetmat]

There's a post from a couple of years ago which I was reminded of and wanted to add to today, about nobody wanting to take the supplicant role in courtship, but it's unrebloggable due to some constraint the OP put on it, so I'll just quote my bit:

Being attracted to someone is distressing. I think the largest part of it is hunger to know someone (?); but when you can’t get to know them well, it ends up a stunted obsession: all that drive-to-know - enough to build a deep, detailed model of another personality - chewing over scraps of phrases and trivial actions, until you’re snappishly bored with your own mind. Your skin feels hungry and there’s nothing you can do about it: “touch starvation” is a phrase that comes to mind. The person’s absence and their presence both hurt: absence obviously, presence because once you’re there you find that there’s still distance, you still miss them. It’s rather like homesickness. Courting someone is wretched. It’s frightening and humiliating and full of agonising waiting periods and jarring mood switchbacks. It feels something like being dragged along on a fishhook, with the line attached to another person’s little finger. Liking someone more than they like you is a position of low power. The incentives are to be servile. You have nothing to bargain with: whatever they decide, you agree to with a smile. You always try to sound happy, because that’s what’s most appealing. You give up on areas of confusion instead of trying to understand, because asking questions annoys people and any annoying act pushes you closer to the cliff-edge of losing them. Any small disagreement feels like a large risk, so you distort your own opinions a bit. You can’t be spontaneous; your inner voice is always tallying accounts: how many days since the last message, too few, you mustn’t bother them yet / how many days since you came up with something interesting, too many, they may forget; don’t intrude so much, but simultaneously what have you done for them lately, how can you provide value to justify remaining in their life. It seems bad that we’re like this. I don’t imagine humans are especially badly formed or anything, it’s probably just as subjectively rotten for every animal that does courtship displays. But if anyone eventually makes robots with emotion-like motivational systems, they shouldn’t include anything like attraction. It’s so silly.

I feel like resurrecting this today to celebrate being out of it. In the last two weeks, somebody has given me the double gifts of liking me and of having the generosity to say so, and show so. All I want to do is be glad and be grateful, and try never to cause this person to experience anything described above.

But I stand by the description, it is a correct description, and we are so badly made it is infuriating. @nohoperadio's good post on the tragic stupidity of pain incidentally also works as a discourse on eros: if there'd been any intelligence involved in the design process, distress signals would come with an off-switch! (Hence my blog tagline.) But instead, evolution is a pitiless idiot, love is humiliation, nonviable attachments take years to starve to death, and there is no moral of the story. Absurd. A baboon could design a better emotional constitution.

Delightfully, this week ACX introduced David Pearce ("For centuries, philosophers have praised suffering as a necessary part of the human condition. For decades, David Pearce has told those other philosophers that they are bad and wrong"), who is doing his best to make a better emotional constitution available, and I approve of such a project so highly that it's been necessary to stack new levels of approval above my previous maximum to encompass how right he is. It's really exciting that any intelligent and active person considers progress of this sort possible and is working on it.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for not picking my brothers side against our mother?

Some background information:

My brother (let’s call him Collin) is trans (20m) We come from a relatively Catholic (we aren’t religious but the influence is deffo there) conservative country and have been living in the USA for most of our lives. My mother definitely can’t be considered LGBTQ allies, although they are much more understanding than some of the people here, especially in the south— which is impressive considering where we come from. She is TERRIBLE with using the correct pronouns for Collin, so much so that he doesn’t contact her much anymore. I’ve never tried to get him to do otherwise— it’s his choice, and I still respect him. I can understand it. Shortly before he moved away, he’d rant to me about her. I was pretty good with listening and giving advice/support for the first few years, but towards the end of high school (when the school work stress was piling up, along with other external family issues), it started to weigh on me. I wanted (and still want) to be someone Collin can confide in, but I still love my mother. She has made improvements with her close-mindedness, even if they aren’t huge steps. Whenever I try to give reasons for her behavior or just try to get them to get along, he accused me of siding with her. A lot of his perceptions of her seem warped these days, too. Like a while ago he was talking with me via text about one of his friends/coworkers (who is gay). He told me not to mention to our mother that this friend is gay— this friend, by the way, is fully out and married. A few months later I slipped and mentioned it to my mother (she had suggested that this friend probably likes this woman we know and I said “no mom he’s gay!”). And she didn’t really react? She just bluescreened for a moment (the trademark “confused boomer pause”) and went on with the conversation. I’ve had a lot of talks with her about LGBTQ issues, and I’ve actually managed to get her to consider the fact that homophobia may stem from religion (she is a very science>religion kind of person). She wholeheartedly believes that LGBTQ issues should not be politicized. (Not an ally, not an enemy.)

anyway, all this to say that Collin has a very 2D impression of her. Last year I went to pick him up at the airport, and mom called while we were in the car to remind us to stop by [store] and pick something up. When the call ended, Collin snorted and said something like “the bitch couldn’t have just sent a text?”

I told him, a bit snappishly, to shut up. He looked surprised and I felt bad, but I told him that I didn’t want any in part in the conflict and that he should stop bringing me into it.

I was also kind of pissed at him at the time for posting the story of an argument between our mother and I (my period was a month late, she thought I was pregnant*— not even an argument she was just annoyingly suspicious for a week or two) online. He changed names for privacy, but there were people who knew who he was so it wasn’t that hard to figure out who his “sister” was. Since I never gave him permission to share it with anyone, I asked him to take it down. He did eventually. but I guess that could be for another AITA post.

*I have never dated or shown interest in dating anyone.

Overall, I feel that he has the right to argue/have a bad relationship with our mother. But I also have a right to let it affect me without being labeled as a bad or traitorous sister.

What are these acronyms?

[electricsynthesis]

"You're going back to Earth," Lance insists, unceremoniously shoving the tablet into Keith's lap. He sticks his nose in the air and sniffs with exaggerated superiority. "And I'm incredibly jealous. So let me live vicariously through you, come on."

"By writing a list?" Keith replies, irritated. He picks up the tablet to find open to a notetaking program. He leans back against the plush couch of the lounge in cursory defiance. As if sinking into the fabric will get his teammates to leave him alone. Hardly.

"By writing a list of Earth things," Pidge stresses. She reaches over Lance's lap to pull the stylus out of it's sleeve on the side of the tablet. She holds it out to Keith, big, young eyes uncompromising.

"It's like, team bonding," Hunk says reasonably, eyes smiling even if his mouth isn't. "Besides, have you thought about what you're going to do with your time on Earth?"

"Uh," Keith mutters. "No? I figured I'd figure it out when I got there. I'll be focused on the mission anyway."

Lance cries, "Diplomacy with the Garrison is not going to take you that long--"

Pidge says, "You'd be insane not to do something--"

And Hunk says, "Well, Allura's coming with you." When everyone else falls silent, he raises an eyebrow. "Don't you want to show her some cool Earth stuff? I know she wants to get to know it better--"

"Fine," Keith snarls. He snatches the stylus from Pidge's fingers and scoots himself until he's sitting up. He positions the stylus over the paper, getting ready to write, and then,

uh, and then nothing.

He sits there, mind utterly blank. Like a still pond in there. Not a single breeze of thought. Keith just stares at the empty page, limbs frozen.

"Keith?"

What do I want to do on Earth?

His mind races. Races, and still gets utterly nowhere. Like a stalling car, his brain stutters and buffers and grinds itself nowhere. "I don't know,"

"What?"

"I don't know what I want to do on Earth."

Lance makes an irritated noise. "You're insane. You must miss something about Earth."

Keith does not move.

"Like, what about the food?" Lance cries. "Or the music? Or the clothes? Or TV? Movies? Concerts? Shopping?"

"Yeah," Hunk agrees, "don't you have a favorite Earth food? Something there's no substitute for out here. Something that just," he sighs, a little wistfully, "is so quintessentially Earth that it just..."

Hunk trails off when Keith begins to write. Something's occurred to him, spurred on by Hunk nostalgia for food. Something that is nostalgic to him, but hadn't entered his mind until Hunk said those words...

Keith wants to hide it from them, but Lance is already bullying his way into Keith's personal space to get a good look at the screen. Keith tries to tilt it away, but Lance's hand jerks out and grips it by the side so he can drag it to his face. He gets right up against it, blinking, as if he can't believe what he's reading.

"Pink Monster?" He says, in utter bewilderment.

Pidge gags. Hunk's mouth drops open.

Keith rips the tablet from Lance's fingers and cradles it defensively against his chest. "What?" He says, more snappishly than he intends. Hunk closes his mouth, Pidge covers her's, but Lance's expression blooms into a smile. And then a grin. And then he's laughing.

It starts out as a snicker; a snort. Then it devolves into giggles, and then further into little laughs that he tries and fails to smother with a hand. And then he gives up, and throws his head back and cackles, lips parted and chest shuddering in wild laughter. He smacks his palms to his cheeks loud enough to make Keith flinch.

"Shut the fuck up!" Keith shouts, despite the fact that Lance hasn't actually said anything. His cheeks are warm with embarrassment. "It's good! I like it!"

Lance drags his hands down his face, still laughing. And, he gasps for breath, face twisted into a smile it seems he almost can't help. He laughs through the words, "You gotta," a breath, "you gotta give it to him, Earth is the only, the only place in the galaxy that would invent pink Monster,"

And then Hunk and Pidge are laughing, too, fondly. Keith himself cracks a smile, shame easing into something warmer. Lance shakes his head, regaining control of himself. His cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes still sparkling. Smiling widely, he asks Keith, "Why do you like it?"

"Every 7/11 had it when I was a kid," he shrugs. "So when I'd get tired of the other kids, I'd skip school to go, and I'd always get a monster. Pink is just my favorite. I did it like three times a week."

"Where'd you get the money?" Pidge asks, narrowing her eyes.

Telling her about the time he got sent to juvie for a stolen candy bar, of all things, was a mistake. "I didn't." It wasn't about the candy bar, anyway. And he never got caught with the Monster.

"No wonder you're insane," Lance says. He pokes Keith's temple, which causes Keith to startle back, glaring at him. "It's all the caffeine."

"It make me feel sleepy," Keith defends.

"Caffeine made you sleepy?"

"Yes--!"

"No, yeah, that happens sometimes," Hunk interjects. "It's called an erroneous response and--"

"So is that it?" Pidge says, loud enough to interrupt the brewing lecture. "That's all you want on Earth?"

Keith narrows his eyes in thought. Then, he shrugs. "You think Allura would be down to go to a concert?"

All three of them yell, loud enough to startle the mice awake across the room: YES!

[shotmrmiller]

johnny’s girl when she’s being fucked within an inch of her life by simon and suddenly he’s moved in with them and they all get matching tattoos but i live for this im fucking obsessed

LMFAO!

this is fucking HILARIOUS but yeah yeah!!!

It starts with Simon coming over when they're both on leave.

"He hasn't had a home-cooked meal in ages, hen."

Then it's him staying for longer.

"His house burned down; he just needs a place to stay." <- he sold his flat.

And now it's Simon coming outside to help with the groceries, and if her nosy-ass neighbor asks her wtf is happening, Simon snappishly answers, "I'm her business not yours, now sod off, ya slag."

She doesn't comment on what he's just said and drags him inside by the arm with a, "What do you want for dinner, Si?"

scrrrrrrrrreaming.

I NEED THEM TO HAVE MATCHING TATTOOS!

Maybe like a triskelion.

Present- Johnny

Spirit- Simon

Celestial- reader cuz Simon swears she has heaven under her feet. and in between her legs

[lavellenchanted]

Otp: I want the whole damn thing & 5?

5. Angry Kiss

“April, what the hell are these?”

Jackson’s voice isn’t quite angry (not yet, anyway), just flat and tight, like he wants to sounds neutral but just can’t manage it; but when April turns to look at him, there’s bewilderment written across his face more than anything else as he stares down at the iPad she has so very stupidly left on the kitchen counter open and with the screen on.

A screen that is currently showing house and apartment listings around Boston.

Slowly, Jackson’s eyes lift to meet hers and she feels a guilty blush steal across her cheeks – which is almost immediately followed by a surge of irritation, because she doesn’t have anything to feel guilty over. And she finds it incredibly galling that he would look at her like that, with his eyes soft and confused and betrayed when he’s the one who –

“I was just browsing,” she blurts out, because she doesn’t want to think about that. Except that she already has, which is probably why she sounds so snappishly defensive. “I mean, I’ve got to look at some point, right?”

“What are you talking about?” His eyebrows are drawing down into a frown, and like a mirror of herself she can see the irritation building in him as well. 

They’ve always been too good at that, reflecting their worst emotions back at each other.

“This was only ever temporary.”

April waves a hand, a gesture meant to encompass not just the kitchen but the entire house. A house they had started sharing when they first moved to Boston because that was easier than trying to find two places at the same time, but which was never meant to be her and Harriet’s permanent home here. Just his. 

Except that it has become her home. Worse, it’s become theirs. It feels like cutting out a part of herself to say it isn’t, but how can she stay now? 

“Did I do something? I know you’ve been mad about something for a while.”

She almost wants to laugh because of course he knew. No one has ever been able to see through her quite so easily as Jackson can. It used to frighten her, the way he seemed to strip her bare and see everything, all her fears and insecurities and hopes and dreams, with just a single glance. It also thrilled her, though she tried to deny that for the longest time.

At this particular moment it’s just making her angry, because how can he know her so well and still not understand?

“No, you didn’t –” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not mad at you.”

It’s mostly the truth. Okay, maybe she’s mad at him a little bit, but really she’s just mad at herself.

Because she thought that maybe they were –

But she was wrong. Of course she was wrong. That was made very clear last week, when she saw him looking cosy with some annoyingly long-legged blonde woman at the Foundation. 

Intellectually, she knows it’s not Jackson’s fault. She may not have done anything wrong but neither did he, not really. They’re still divorced, and neither of them have ever mentioned dating or getting back together or anything of the sort. A few lingering looks here and there or flirtatious remarks don’t mean anything. They aren’t promises or declarations.

Still, she feels so stupid that it makes her want to scream with an anger that’s sharp and bright and far preferable to focus on than the hurt drumming at her insides.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jackson says drily.

April glares at him. “I just thought that it’s about time Hattie and I found somewhere else.”

Jackson’s jaw tightens. “So when were you going to tell me? Or were you going to tell me? Was I just going to come home one day and find you both gone?”

“Of course not! I was going to tell you when I found a place. Why are you so pissed about it anyway? I thought you’d be glad to have some space back. Then you could bring all the blonde friends you want back here without us getting in the way.”

The words have spilled out before she can stop them, bitter and jealous. She bites down on her lip to stop herself saying any more but it’s too late. Jackson’s staring at her, his expression growing darker, and then suddenly he’s striding across the kitchen to stand right in front of her, towering above her so she has to crane her neck to look up at him.

“Blonde friends?” he says furiously. “That’s what this is about? I don’t know what makes me more angry, April, the fact that you saw me schmoozing someone who is considering making a huge donation to the Foundation and assumed I was hitting on her, or the fact that you didn’t talk to me about it and just decided to deal with it by moving out. I thought we were past this, the not talking to each other about things.”

April blinks, thrown for a moment by this new information and desperately trying to ignore the sudden, painful burst of hope radiating in her chest, then feels her cheeks warm as her thoughts catch up to what he’s saying.

“Oh, like you talk to me? If I made assumptions, maybe it’s because we’ve been in Boston for eight months and I still don’t know what you want from me, Jackson! You asked me here but I don’t know if it’s just because you didn’t want to be that far away from Harriet, or if you actually want me around –”

She doesn’t get a chance to say any more because Jackson cuts her off, catching her face between his hands and covering her mouth with his. It’s not a gentle kiss – they’re both still too angry for that – and his lips are almost bruising, insistent, each stroke of his mouth delivered with deliberate passion, like he’s making a point and wants to be very clear about it. 

Maybe he is; she curls her fingers into his shirt and pulls him closer, kissing him back with equal fierceness, running her tongue over his bottom lip and then catching it between her teeth. Her heartbeat is roaring in her ears and she can hardly breathe, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to breathe right now. She only wants to keep kissing him, to feel the fire that’s burning through the veins as she presses herself against him and gives in to the hunger and the longing that she’s been trying to bury for months.

Jackson lifts his mouth briefly, tilting his head the other way and between kisses he’s saying, “I want you. I have always wanted you. I will never not want you.”

She brings her arms up to wind them around his neck and whispers back, “I want you too. I want you so much, Jackson.”

Finally, when her head is swimming and her legs feel weak and shaky and like they might collapse any moment they break apart, though she keeps her arms around his neck and he brings his hands to her waist. They’re both breathing heavily, their eyes locked on each other, and April can feel her heart pounding against her ribs.

“I guess we both still need to get better at the talking thing,” Jackson says. “But let me start with saying that I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here with me.”

April smiles. “Then I’ll stay.”

kiss prompts

[separatist-apologist]

Take Me Back To The Night We Met

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara wants nothing more than to return home and exact revenge on the courtiers who hurt her and killed her sister. Exiled to a distant temple, Gwyn finds herself at the mercy of a mysterious stranger offering to escort her home on orders from her eldest brother and king of the realm.

Unraveling the secrets of the strange soldier will prove more deadly than Gwyn could ever have imagined, setting into motion events that began nearly five hundred years before.

Happy @gwynrielweeksofficial!

TW for mentions of past sexual assault

Read on Ao3 | Chapter 1

Gwyn found herself seated before Merrill while Clotho stood just behind. It was another gloomy day, threatening rain which made the study seem darker by comparison. Merrill had books stacked so high they created walls within the four walls of her office and everything was claustrophobic. Gwyn knew she wasn’t supposed to fidget—both princesses and priestesses were expected to have a perfectly rigid spine. 

Merrill was dragging this meeting out, watching Gwyn with that haughty suspicion she was all too familiar with. Eris could have picked her for a wife, Gwyn thought privately. They shared so much in common already. Gwyn could only imagine who he’d selected, certain it was some nightmare from the south looking to enhance her fathers power while tormenting the court.

Gwyn was going to beg her brother to let her take up residence at the sea palace. She’d put on her bravest, sunniest face, dance and smile and laugh, and then at the end of the festivities, swear she barely thought of Catrin at all and could she please spend a few months looking at the sea?

Maybe he’d be too busy trying to put babies in his new wife to care what she did. Gwyn very much doubted her other brothers had strong opinions on where she was or what she did. But she’d make sure they saw her, too. Smiling–happy. Alive, which was more than Catrin could say. 

It wouldn’t matter if either of those things were lies. 

As if they could tell the difference.

“Gwyneth,” Merril began, eyes focused wholly on Gwyn. The priestess was a beautiful woman—young, too, for someone so revered. It annoyed Gwyn that Merrill referred to her as Gwyneth—even Eris didn’t bother. Neither had their father, who had always called her princess in that mocking, sneering way of his. 

Gwyn could have demanded Merrill address her properly. Could have made the priestess bow so low her nose scraped the stone floor beneath them. It was tempting and yet wrong all at the same time. Gwyn settled for fidgeting, holding Merrill’s gaze and daring her to say something about it. 

“Your brother has released you from your service here,” Merrill continued, eyes narrowing. “You will leave with the knight tomorrow. We’ve packed you a few provisions but I wanted to discuss the books in your bedroom.”

Gwyn forced herself to maintain eye contact. “What books?”

Clotho offered up a wordless sigh, her fingers slowly moving through the air. Gwyn had never dared to ask what had happened to Clotho or why she didn’t speak. If it was natural or self-imposed, Gwyn couldn’t say. She wouldn’t have cared had it not been for those fingers of hers. They’d been purposefully broken by someone and it didn’t look as if they’d ever properly healed.

Merrill drummed her own fingers against the desk, clearly annoyed and unable to do much but wait.

Don’t leave as angry as you came in, Gwyn. 

“Who says I’m angry?” Gwyn replied, adopting her sweetest voice. Clotho leveled a stare, not needing a word to call Gwyn a liar. 

“Bring the books back before you go,” Merrill added snappishly. “They are not for you or the palace.”

“Everything in Ellesmere belongs to the king,” Gwyn replied, though this wasn’t a battle she wanted to fight. She knew she’d bring them back and Merrill must have, too, because she reclined back in her chair, a queen holding court before her subjects. Gwyn bristled but rose to her feet and inclined her head, making a mockery of the whole thing.

At least she could have the last word. 

There was no chance Merrill didn’t write Eris ahead of time and give him her perspective of Gwyn’s time at the temple. Eris would be so irritated with her. What, she wondered, would his knight tell her brother, too? If she was difficult and unladylike, would that be held against her? If she had a nightmare, if she couldn’t keep a smile plastered to her face? 

Gwyn made her way out to the vegetable garden, ignoring several hens pecking at the soil so she could plop onto a wooden bench. Only there, beneath that moody, gray sky, did she dare vocalize some of her frustration with a long, quiet scream. 

No one ever came out here. It was reasonable to assume she was alone. But there he was, appearing seemingly out of the mist with a cocked head and curious eyes. “Heard the good news, did you?”

Gwyn toward the heavens. What have I done to displease you? “I still have a day before I’m remanded into your company,” she replied, unable to even pretend she was excited. 

The soldier—Azriel—sat beside her, though he kept a respectable distance between them. “You’re the only person willing to speak to me.”

“The priestesses aren’t keen on men,” Gwyn replied, glancing over at him. He was too beautiful to be trustworthy, besides. It set her on edge, too—made her nervous though she was a princess and he was practically no one at all. Why should he make her nervous? He was injured if his limp was any indication and the cut across his throat was stark in comparison to the golden brown of skin. Gwyn would have bet his ribs were all taped up still and if she needed to, she could just outrun him. 

Though he’d given her no reason to distrust him, Gwyn felt she had to be careful. 

“I’ve noticed,” he replied, settling back to look up at the sky. “Your head priestess has refused my offers to sleep outside.”

“I don’t think that would help,” Gwyn admitted, a new thought coming to her. “Will it be just you and me on the road?”

He cut a glance in her direction. “Yes.”

Two options presented themselves, each offering a different, potent form of anxiety. Gwyn could refuse to spend another minute in this man's presence and stay at the convent, no longer her brother's ward but as an actual priestess. She’d have to give up the title that had protected her and the station she’d always intended to fall back on. There would be no Sea Palace, no visiting Catrin’s grave, no more of her brothers or the life she’d once known.

And she’d likely lose her position in the library. That seemed the most offensive to Gwyn.

But if she went with him, she risked violence. He was a stranger with a pretty face and Gwyn didn’t trust men. Even low born men felt they were owed something from women. Alone, on the road…who could stop him if he decided to take more than she was offering? 

He didn’t seem interested in her internal warring, or at the very least, didn’t recognize what was happening. Having delivered the news, Azriel rose to his feet and began making his way further from the temple, unleashed and allowed. He didn’t look back, nor did he return to her long after the fog had consumed him. 

What would Catrin do, she wondered? 

Catrin would go home. She’d get out of this nightmare even if she had to claw her way out, and if Azriel was the only way to do it, Catrin was grit her teeth and figure it out. Gwyn could still boss him around, she reasoned. Could force him to stay on main roads, to rent rooms in taverns, to travel only during daylight. Gwyn had never quite managed the haughty, imperious nature of her siblings but perhaps she could try. 

Maybe she could channel a little of Eris’s attitude just this once if it meant freedom. 

At least, that’s what Gwyn told herself. Still, she barely slept that night, tossing and turning as she played out a million terrible scenarios and how she might react. Eris wouldn’t send someone cruel, would he? 

No, not intentionally—but Eris also wouldn’t concern himself with whether Gwyn felt safe so much as he would concern himself with who could get her home the quickest. Clearly it was this man who, despite provoking the ire of some unknown assailant, had all but crawled to the temple and was apparently ready to go a mere day later. 

Gwyn doubted Eris paid enough for that kind of loyalty. And still she packed up her things with a faint buzzing of excitement. She was leaving. Gods, but Gwyn would never have to see this place again, this prison dressed up as a religious institution. And the gods willing, she’d be home in a matter of days without any intention or returning.

Surely Eris could hand over the estate by the sea and allow her to have her own household. Gwyn would have to work on appearing chasetend, of course—like she’d learned some grand lesson and was now ready to be a member of their household. 

It was the happiest she’d been since Catrin died. The entire mood of the temple was upbeat, something that barely wounded her. They were all excited to see her go, forgetting that once she was no longer there, they’d have to pick a new target for their ire. Absently, Gwyn wondered which of them it would be. Who would become the new scapegoat for everyone's dissatisfaction? Would they realize the problem had never been with her?

Doubtful. 

The only person Gwyn felt compelled to truly say goodbye to was Clotho. She didn’t hate Clotho so much as she hated that Clotho upheld the rules her brother had obviously set in place. Standing before her in the library, a bag slung over her shoulder, Gwyn heard herself saying, “I’m sorry I was so difficult.” Clotho’s fingers were quick with a response. You were never difficult, Gwyneth. I hope you find healing, wherever you go.

Gwyn choked down the urge to cry, nodding her head and keeping her face impassive. “I appreciate that.”

There was nothing else. Azriel was waiting outside by the barn with leads to two horses looped around a gloved hand. Merril led Gwyn out, snapping out her displeasure over Azriel’s presence and how Gwyn had made a mess of her routine, her research—everything. It was only when they were nearly to the courtyard that Merril offered Gwyn any kindness at all.

“For you,” she said, pulling a small, pale blue box from beneath her cloak. “Don’t let him know you have it.” Gwyn looked up at the woman who could have been her mentor with surprise. There, nestled among soft velvet, lay a silver hilted dagger that curved in a wickedly lethal point. A flash of recognition passed between the two of them, gone so fast Gwyn blinked and nearly missed it. But there it was—two souls who, on some level, knew what kind of danger might be waiting for Gwyn.

And despite Merril’s dislike of her, she was seemingly unwilling to let Gwyn risk it all again without some kind of aid. Gwyn took it, unsure where she could even hide it and decided on her bag for the moment until she found something better. It would slice right through her pockets which, while an amusing image, was not the kind of stealth she was aiming for. 

“Thank you,” Gwyn murmured but Merril had already turned, her job clearly done. That was all Gwyn was ever going to get and so, with a breath to keep herself from hurtling a bunch of unfair, hurtful accusations at the retreating priestesses back, Gwyn turned for the world outside.

It was another moody, miserable day made moodier still by Azriel’s flat expression. Gone were his casual, comfortable clothes, replaced by thick, black armored leather that looked frankly uncomfortable. Two lethal blades were curved behind his shoulders and a dagger was strapped to his thigh.

Where was his red cape, she wondered? That was the mark of all of Eris’s men, the red cape with the golden clasp marking the sunlight insignia of their family. Gwyn marched up to him intending to demand to know but Azriel cut her off. “No one can know we’re traveling, princess.”

Ass.

“Why not?” she demanded, yanking the reins of the one of the midnight black horses from his hands. Azriel let her, his eyes hot against her back. 

“There is one of me and one of you,” was his level, near cold response. “I’d rather not find out what the King will do if I let his sister die on the road.”

“I doubt he’d care at all,” Gwyn said without thinking, the words slipping bitterly from her lips. Azriel glanced up at her, seated now in the well-oiled saddle, a question lingering in his gaze.

Wisely, he kept it to himself and instead swung a powerful leg over his own horse, the movement effortlessly graceful and strangely fluid. Hardly a common soldier, then, though not an elite warrior, either. He was something else, something she didn’t have any knowledge of.

That was likely for the best, all things considered.

“We’ll travel until nightfall,” Azriel began, digging his heels into the flank of his beast. Her own followed of its own accord, as though it had been given some silent command. Gwyn knew how to ride a horse—had been taught as a girl, like all good royals. She didn’t need his help.

“I won’t be sleeping outside,” Gwyn told him in the snottiest voice she could manage. Eris would be proud—she sounded just like him.

“I’m well aware,” Azriel replied without humor. “You’ll be locked in a tavern room. And before you get any ideas, princess, I will be just outside.”

“What ideas—”

“I’m told you run away. Often,” he added, those hazel eyes focused straight ahead. 

Eris was such a cheat. Of course he’d warn this man, likely with veiled threats of what would happen if Gwyn slipped his grasp. The thought of trying occurred to her, though something in the set of his shoulders told her it was better not to try his patience. Clotho had never truly been angry with Gwyn. Impatient, frustrated, even irritated, yes. But truly angry? Never.

She had the feeling this man might raise his voice. Might yell. And he’d learn, if he did, that all her talk was merely bravado and beneath she crumpled easily. There was no Catrin to create a wall, to shield Gwyn from the tempers of the world while Gwyn sniffed, eyes welling with tears.

Even as a grown woman, anger so often provoked the sobbing reaction. 

“Well. I’m trying to leave this place, not return to it,” Gwyn told him, some of that haughtiness gone. She had a good plan, one that seemed achievable and promised relief. Get home. Fake enough contrition that Eris stopped thinking about her, which was almost the same as his concern. And then, once he was in a good mood—perhaps the night before his wedding, when he was likely to be a little drunk and too focused on himself to think of his wayward siblings—ask for the Seaside Palace. Maybe, she reasoned, she could ask to just go for a while and acclimate herself back into royal life.

And once she was gone and no longer causing mischief, Eris would let her stay if only to have one less person to worry about. 

“You want to return to the palace?” Azriel inquired, as though this was difficult to believe.

Gwyn twisted in her saddle, looking over her shoulder at the temple atop the hill, fading quickly in the creeping fog, its spindled fingers forever reaching for the sky without ever quite reaching. How was anyone supposed to feel human in a place dedicated to the gods? 

“It’s my home,” she said softly, turning her eyes toward the paved road ahead, curving over lush, green hills that promised freedom. In truth, the palace had long stopped being her home and yet that was where Catrin’s ghost still lived, where half of Gwyn’s heart was buried. Perhaps she could fill the aching yawn stretching in her chest, could finally have some closure.

It was tempting, right then, to ask Azriel about court life. Some sick urge wanted to know who still lingered in those ornate marble halls. She never wanted to hear the names spoken and yet thought of them so often, wondering how their lives had gone, that Gwyn was constantly at war with herself. There was no outcome that would bring her peace because no matter what happened to them, Catrin was still dead and Gwyn was still alone.

Though, she supposed being allowed to kill them would be a close second. 

Azriel asked her no more questions, settling into a comfortable pace. On occasion he stopped to let the horses graze and rest, but for the most part they rode in silence. It left Gwyn with too much time to think, and thinking very quickly turned to ruminating. She knew she couldn’t change the past and yet…if only she’d told Eris sooner. If only she’d kept what happened to herself. Catrin might still be alive and Gwyn wouldn’t feel so angry and hollow. 

They’d been more than just sisters. Gwyn and Catrin had shared a womb, a body, a soul. Tilting her face skyward, Gwyn would have given anything to tell Catrin how sorry she was. And when a cool breeze fluttered against her overheated cheeks, Gwyn thought it was Catrin’s hand reassuring her everything was alright.

She tried to find contentment with that. 

Azriel had promised her a room, and he managed to deliver. After what felt like miles of nothing, a dilapidated village appeared just as the sun began to dip, casting even weaker light over the gloomy world. Gwyn pulled her cloak a little tighter against her shoulders as they made their way through high, iron gates covered in curling ivy. The homes were made of stone and wood, the windows chipped and covered with boards to keep out the rainy chill.

It unnerved Gwyn how no one moved around. It wasn’t that late and yet had there not been flickering candle light behind some of the filth covered glass, she would have thought the entire village was inhabited by ghosts. The tavern Azriel promised had a rotted wooden sign banging about in the wind, unreadable from the elements.

Someone came out to meet them, taking the reins from Azriel wordlessly in exchange for a couple coins pressed into a weathered palm. Gwyn said nothing, keeping her hood over her head to obscure the auburn hair that would mark her as a Vanserra. Hers was darker than her brothers—more cinnamon and gold than true coppery red—and still something about it made people pause. 

Azriel nodded for her to go inside, pulling the handle to a swinging door so she could duck beneath his arm.

“Say nothing,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. For once, Gwyn was inclined to do as she was told. Keeping herself close, Gwyn followed him over creaking wood boards toward a chipped and warped desk where an exhausted looking matron stood, her eyes fixed on the pair of them. 

She’d been told not to speak, and so she didn’t. While Azriel asked for one room, his voice low and intimate, Gwyn took the opportunity to survey their lodgings for the evening. The tavern was just that—a tavern first, room for rent second. Exhausted bodies were hunched over tarnished cups and worn bowls of food, steam curling around wan faces. Gwyn was tempted and nervous all at once.

It was a room filled with unfamiliar people, the majority of which were men. Azriel spared her the agonizing, gloved fingers reaching for her elbow to tug her in the opposite direction toward narrow, spiraling stairs.

“I’m hungry,” she whispered.

Behind them, the door opened and two men stepped into the room. Like Gwyn, their faces were obscured by rather fine looking cloaks and yet she knew without seeing them at all that they didn’t belong. Azriel’s eyes slid over their frames without recognition, turning back to her as the two large, powerfully built men made their way toward the tavern.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” he replied, level as always. “In your room.”

“Fine,” she hissed, though relief pierced her irritation. “I want a lot of it.”

He only shrugged, as though it didn’t bother him one way or the other. How much gold had Eris given him, she wondered? Enough to keep her fed, which was a relief. Food was a good substitute for feeling at time, and Gwyn was tired of how raw she felt. She’d eat, she’d bathe, and she’d go to bed.

After all. She was one day closer to home.

[quicktosimp]

Make it Fit

Kinktober Day 14

Aonung/Human!Reader

Warnings: 69, Cunnilingus, Oral Stimulation, Handjobs, p in v sex, Alien Biology, Feral Aonung, Size Kink, Aged Up

Thank @pandoraslxna for all your hard work this month 💖

“This is your bright idea?” I ask snappishly.

“It’s a good idea! Why do you doubt me?” Aonung pouted. 

“Because you are three and a half feet taller than me, and I don’t think we’ll be able to reach in that position.” I deadpan. 

Aonung wraps his arms around me, “So what? I may have a stiff neck afterward, but it’s worth it! To eat you while you pleasure me is a dream of mine.” Nuzzling my naked breasts.

I lean my head back, enjoying his attention, “For this to work, you will have to be bent over nearly in half.” I explain, not really against it.

“If that makes it work, then I will gladly do so!” Aonung exclaimed, his tail waving in glee. 

“Okay, let-” 

Aonung cuts me off by picking me up and rushing to our sleep mat. Like the old stories, Norm would tell me of kids on Christmas.

I giggle at his antics, “Nung!” His name gleefully escapes my mouth.

As Aonung lays me down on our mat, his face is beautiful; you would think I gave him the whole world based on the smile on his face. Aonung cages me under his body, strong from free diving all day. In one hand, Aonung holds my head before kissing me soundly. His passion and glee infect me, as I cannot stop myself from sliming into our kiss. Our teeth bump into each other as neither of us can stop smiling and giggling into each other's mouths.

Aonung parts leaning up, “Which do you want, top or bottom?” 

I take a moment to think, “Probably bottom, might be easier on you.”

“Okay Sumtsyìp,” Aonung kisses me one last time before he moves, turning himself around.

It’s pretty comical. Aonung’s giant hulking form scrunched up. Almost similar to a cat hissing, his back arched in the air, trying to angle himself so his slit is next to my face and mine to his.

“Baby, you look really uncomfortable,” I explained, failing to stifle my giggles.

“Worth it,” he grunts.

My giggles didn’t cease, finding Aonung’s determination adorable as he wiggled, trying to get comfortable in such an awkward position.

That is until he groans as he sniffs me, rubbing his scent glands on my thighs. I looked up at his slit, surprised to see that he was already parting. The light teal stripe opened into a deeper blue of his inner flesh. I didn’t give Aonung any warning. I grasped his thighs and licked the stripe from top to bottom.

“Oh fuck, Sumtsyìp, you’re not playing today, hmmm?” Aonung moaned.

Not one to be outdone, he licks my cunt, from my clit to hole, wiggling around trying to get in. I moan into his slit, loving the feeling of his long tongue against my cunt. I poke my tongue inside his slit, wanting more of Aonung’s taste. Sea salt and something that is purely Aonung. I always crave it once I get my first taste of it. I can never have enough of it, so I dig inside, forcing his slit to part for me. 

“Fuck! Easy Sumtsyìp, I won't take it away from you, just let it- Oh fuck!” Aonung shouts. 

I dig my tongue in deeper, forcing it open with my thumbs, giving me complete access to his open slit as his cock falls out faster than it usually would have. 

“Sumtsyìp, it’s too early. My cock isn’t ready to be out yet. It’s too sensitive. Fuck!” As his hips bucked uselessly in the air. 

His cock is long and thick, covered in the typical na’vi spines. It was a light blue, similar to the color of his slit, while the tip was a lavender color. I lick the tip, not taking anymore into my mouth, while my hands wrap around his cock, giving attention to his spines. 

I could feel Aonung pant between my thighs before he remembered what he was doing. His face descended onto my pussy, and nipped my clit. I give a small shriek as I arch my hips towards him. Now it was Aonung’s turn to chuckle. As he delved his tongue into my cunt. Before leaving and licking a strip from top to bottom and fucking his tongue inside again.

I moan around the tip of his dick, as I mouth at the spines, not letting them far into my mouth, I do not need to get stuck again. As I mouth at the spines, my hand travels down to his slit and inside, playing with the base of Aonung’s cock. Touching the base caused Aonung to thrust into my face, overriding his thoughts with only the need to breed. 

To breed he knows he needs to open his mate, in addition to his tongue a finger soon joined inside my cunt, stretching me open with a delicious burn.

“Aonung! More!” I demand as I push another finger into his slit.

The only thing that came from Aonung was a growl, too far to understand basic words. He nipped at my folds before inserting another finger. The burning pain doubled, nearly overwhelming the pleasure, as he thrust his fingers in and out. This was all I could take for his fingers as the finned picky would never fit. So Aonung makes sure to speed his fingers as wide as possible, thrusting them at an inhuman pace.

“Nung! Nung! Nung!” Chanting his name is all I can think of, thoughts completely dead to me.

Snarls and hisses escape his mouth as a deep purr rumbles through his chest. Aonung nips and licks at my clit, folds, and thighs, wherever he can get his teeth into, marking me in deep purple bruises.

Aonung rips his finger out of my cunt and quickly rearranges himself, lining his cock up with my hole. Pushing in without hesitation.

“Nung! Too fast! Too big! Nung!” But my words fall on deaf ears.

Aonung’s eyes are pitch black,  not even a ring of baby blue left, the purring and snarling counteract each other, but I can feel it vibrate through his cock inside me. His cock is too big and entering too fast, the pain causes tears to fall from my eyes. But he didn’t notice, just continued to force his cock inside me, each spine popping in individually causing more pain and pleasure. His spines are moving more than usual, by now they would have found their spot, but instead, they’re moving on their own. Caressing my insides and poking around, never settling.

“Oh fuck Nung! Please!” I scream into our marui.

In short thrusts Aonung bullies the rest of his dick inch by inch, hitting my cervix with each thrust.

“Aonung! There’s no more room!”

He only snarls in response, continuing to force himself into my cervix. My cervix starts to bruise from the force of his thrusts, the tapered tip, hitting it over and over again.  I can feel the muscle giving in.

“NUNG!” I screech as his cock breaches my cervix. 

A deep ache fills my core from his actions, as Aonung reaches my most intimate place. Only then did the spines on his cock still, finding their spots to lock us in place. Scraping as Aonung continues to rut into me, chasing his high. I don’t even know if I came if I need to cum, all I know is how full I am and how deep Aonung is. My eyes roll into the back of my head, as his spines seal around my cervix, refusing to let anything out. And he fucking came. A flood of cum hit me with every rut, flooding me more and more. The outline of his cock becomes softer with each pump of cum. I begin to bloat from the amount of cum in me.

 Slowly Aonung lifts me, maneuvering me so I lay on his chest, I can feel his purrs vibrate through my body as we both drift to sleep as he continues to cum. It was only seconds before I submitted to the darkness that I realized, Aonung’s rut starts tomorrow.

Update: A visual of the genitalia here

[vincite-noctem]

A/N: Typed this on my phone, because Jonathan Crane is bbg and I had a random idea that grew into a short little story thing. It's written in third person because I'm trying the style out for myself. The MC knows of Jonathan's business as Scarecrow and the toxin.

Summary: She is the second in command of Arkham, working side by side with Jonathan Crane. When Rachel Daws doubts Crane's diagnose of Falcone's insanity, she asks Y/n for a second professional opinion on the matter. She may not be corrupted by Falcone, but other, arguably higher forces impact her honesty in the matter...

Warnings: mention of blood, lying to authorities, Jonny is a bit of an idiot because he can't figure out that r! has feelings for him.

words: 1430

A dull knock resonates from the wooden door to Jonathan Crane's office. He stares angrily at the frosted glass pane and the silhouette of the person vaguely visible through it.

"What could be important enough to get on my nerves with at this late hour? Make it quick, I don't have all the time in the world."

The door opens, and through the thin crack slips a female figure, clearly recognizable by the usual dark garb she tends to wear - black turtleneck shirt and gray slacks. In her hand she holds a small medical kit.

"You don't have to take your frustration out on me," she says snappishly and takes a seat in the chair opposite his office chair, the med kit on her lap.

"Y/n, what's your concern?" he asks, his questioning gaze fixed on the small black bag on her lap. "I've got a lot to do, and really no time for any little games."

She sighs. "Daws asked me to do a second diagnosis on Falcone. She doesn't trust you, but she thinks me trustworthy enough because I'm one of the few people he hasn't bought into yet. She also wants a blood test to make sure you didn't drug him," she explains quietly.

"So, what is that supposed to tell me now? My second-in-command is going to rat me out to the authorities and take my place, and I'll spend the rest of my days in the pokey-"

"No." she interrupts him, "Just listen to me first. I need you to draw my blood." She sets the first-aid kit on the table.

"Why should I draw your blood?" He doesn't seem to fully grasp her train of thought.

"So I can switch up the samples. I'll take Falcone's sample later in the presence of Daws, and then evaluate it down in the lab. I'll switch the two samples, and run the tests on my own blood. You know your toxin would show up on the lab results, we determined that weeks ago. There are no substances in my blood, I have no pre-existing conditions that would show up in the results, everything looks completely normal. If I give her those lab results, plus the diagnosis of his mental illness, then she can't present anything else to the court and he stays here."

At the end of her brief monologue, she rolls up the long sleeve of her black shirt and holds out her arm to him, the pale skin of the crook of her arm turned upward.

Jonathan looks at her closely, his blue eyes sparkling insistently behind the narrow lenses of his glasses.

"And what do you get out of Falcone staying here? Why are you helping him?"

She shakes her head vigorously. "You need to understand me. I'm doing this for you, Jonathan. If his blood test is clean and my diagnosis is the same as yours, it will spare your reputation and save you from discredit and jail. So, take my blood now, I have an appointment with Daws in ten minutes."

She pushes the first aid kit further in his direction. He caves and reaches for it, pulls the sterile gloves over his hands, and disinfects the crook of her arm before carefully sticking the needle into her vein. Y/n watches intently as the ruby red liquid drips into the test tube until it reaches the fill line and Jonathan pulls the needle out under pressure. He closes the tube and she sticks the label with Falcone's name on it before carefully sliding it into her pocket. She pulls the sleeve of her shirt back down to hide the puncture site and stands up.

"Fine. I'll be on my way, it would be counterproductive if someone sees me coming out of your office," she mumbles and turns to leave. She is already standing at the door with the handle in her hand when he finally says something again.

"Why are you doing this, Y/n?"

As she looks back at him over her shoulder, their gazes meet. She is unable to hide anything from the intense blue of his eyes - at least she thought so until now. Her voice is soft as she answers.

"You have no idea, huh? You're an intelligent man, Jonathan. Think."

With these words, she leaves his office and quickly darts away like a shadow, towards a completely different wing of Arkham. Covering Tracks. Jonathan quickly disposes of the medical kit, dropping it into the bottom drawer of the small cabinet next to his desk. All the while, his thoughts run a mile a minute. What is Y/n's motive in this? What does she get out of helping him in this situation, what advantage does it have for her?

Y/n, meanwhile, is punctual as a stopwatch when she arrives outside the cell Falcone is situated in at the moment. Rachel Daws is already there, briefcase in her hand, staring through the smudged window into the interior. Y/n puts on her therapeutic smile, the one that earned her the reputation as Arkham's soft psychiatrist, the kind young goody two shoes, who has no other thoughts than helping the poor patients in her care. How deceiving a smile can be, she thinks.

"Ms. Daws, I suppose you'll come into the room with me? Or do you prefer to wait out here?"

The prosecutor shakes her head and says in the weighty tone she seems to automatically adopt while executing her legal business, "No no, I stayed here to monitor the whole thing. I'll come with you."

Y/n just nods sympathetically and opens the heavy steel door with the sleek key card. She thanks herself for the nerves of steel she had developed from working at Arkham Asylum. If she didn't have them, her hands would surely be shaking like aspen leaves with nervousness. She takes the blood from Falcone with practiced movements, sticks the label on the test tube and puts it in her pocket. Daws immediately protests and asks to personally bring the sample forward for safekeeping on the way down to the lab. Y/n, who had already expected this, hands her the test tube - the wrong one, of course, having already mixed up the two samples in her bag without Daws noticing.

"Of course. I beg your pardon Ms. Daws, it's a force of habit," she says placatingly.

The two women make their way downstairs to the lab, where Y/n examines the sample under Rachel Daws' watchful eye and evaluates the results. Fifteen minutes later, she hands the results to the prosecutor in writing. All the values of the test are completely normal, nothing indicates that Falcone is under the influence of any substance.

"Ms. Daws, under these circumstances, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do but declare Falcone mentally incompetent. I am sorry. I will fax the report in writing to your office tonight." The psychiatrist says, and sincere displeasure resonates in her voice. Of course she wants to see Falcone behind bars, the man is a smug pig and an absolute monster. Except that in this case, however, Jonathan's career directly hangs in the balance, and if she has to choose one of those things, it's without a doubt Jonathan. The frustration on the young prosecutor's face is clearly visible as she resignedly accepts the lab results and lets them disappear into her files.

"Thank you anyway, Dr. L/n." she says quietly, and turns to leave with a nod.

"I hope they can still charge him with enough than he's going to Blackgate." Y/n calls after her. She's unsure if the lawyer hears her, because she doesn't get any more replies. Alone in the lab, she sighs and leans against the table, her head hanging back and her eyes closed against the cold light of the old fluorescent tubes.

Shortly after, she begins to clean the work surface and equipment, wiping them down with saline solution and then disinfecting them first with ethanol, then with hydrogen peroxide, and placing them on one of the numerous perforated trays to drain. The door behind her opens, and she feels a familiar, inquisitive look at her back.

"Why did you do this, y/n? Why are you risking all this for me? You know who I am, what I do. Why?"

[psalacanthea]

The Fall of Arlathan- Ch 10

i did a thing. there it is. now I have purged it from my brain, so stop posting Solas pictures all over my dash. It's distracting. ;)

New Chapter Here!

...

Concern over-rode any other emotions Solas felt as he waited outside of the cafe for Ellana.

She’d allowed him to choose, and he’d simply led them to a well-regarded eatery he was unfamiliar with. Neutral ground.  Something seemed to be on her mind, and he wouldn’t want to put her any more on edge.  Watching Mirana harangue her sister for no fault of her own had been difficult for him to witness, but doubtless even more difficult still to experience.  He had seen the tears Ellana fought to hold back.

The necessity of it all was troubling.

As was her kindness being weaponized against her.

It was hardly his place, but the harsh, selfish words Mirana had flung at her sister still rang in his mind, infuriating in their myopic cruelty.  His anger was slightly misplaced, he knew.  It was why had reminded Ellana, to remind himself. Mirana was a child struggling with monumental changes in her life.  The loss of her mother, the sudden independence of college, her helplessness, and the slow dissolution of her first love all combined to make a volatile situation.  But the defeat on Ellana’s face, the way she struggled to hide her true feelings…

If he hadn’t already known of its existence, his overwhelming need to protect her might have surprised him.

When Ellana parked and slammed her door emphatically, he pushed off of his car door and moved to meet her.  Except she didn’t move for the restaurant, but straight to him, making him pause in curiosity as she approached.  His confusion only deepened as she started rolling up the sleeves of her plain white dress shirt.  At his questioning tilt of his head, she nodded towards the front of his car.

“Open her up, I want to see,” she ordered him.

Solas couldn’t have helped the fond smile if he wanted to.  “I am capable of buying a car these days, Ellana.”  Even so, he did as she commanded, opening his door briefly to hit the release for the hood.

As soon as he did she popped the catch and propped up the hood, leaning in with both her hands braced above her.  He leaned against the side of the car, watching her with his arms folded.  Pursing in annoyance, her lips vibrated slightly with a sigh.

“What?” he chuckled.  “I was under the impression that this one was ‘acceptable’.”

“I’m making sure you didn’t get cheated,” she replied, eyes intently focused as she scanned the engine compartment.  “A lot of replacement parts in this thing.  That should be concerning, you know.  You should be concerned.”

Solas folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the passenger door.  He didn't hide the amusement in his voice.  “The context in this case is that the owner was a hobbyist mechanic.  Everything was within my expectations for a car of this age.”

“You can’t tell me you couldn’t afford a new car,” she said, lips pursing as he thwarted her critique.  “Did you check all the filters?  Including the fuel filter?”

“Yes,” he said, with a bite of playful exasperation.

“All right, all right,” she said, a little more snappishly than he would have anticipated.

Today it made perfect sense.

[pastelwitchling]

so like.... you're writing a follow-up to that jealousy thing right? where alex chooses michael and puts the other guy in his place for pretending that he knows alex better than his own husband.... right? 🥺👉🏼👈🏼(please please please with a cherry on top)

***

              Alex shook his head, chuckling as he pulled a sweater over his head. He’d told Scott that Kyle had already brought breakfast over, but his old friend had insisted on taking him out for their traditional fudge muffin. Alex was already full, if he was being honest, but he never could say no to Scott’s sparkling blue eyes.

              His smile slowly dimmed as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He hoped his love for his friend wasn’t bothering his husband. He’d never taken Michael’s jealousy very seriously because he knew Michael felt, deep down, how special he was to Alex and how impossible it would be for Alex to love anyone else.

              And, a small part of Alex confessed shyly, he had to admit that he really liked Michael jealous over him. He’d spent so long questioning what he meant to the cowboy, if he meant anything at all, so to know that a single interaction with someone who was essentially his brother had Michael seething . . . well, Alex wasn’t above an ego boost every now and then.

              Still, it had all always been in good fun. Michael knew Alex loved him more than anything, and Alex knew he knew that. And yet, Alex hadn’t failed to see Kyle’s own discomfort around Scott, and that was fairly new. Alex loved Michael’s possessiveness, but not if it was actually bothering him. Kyle’s own jealousy shifted everything, however. If even Kyle was jealous, then maybe Alex needed to be a little more careful. At least until he could make Michael see that Scott was nothing more than an old friend, a sibling who understood an aspect of his life that no one else in his little circle of friends could really claim to.

              As he pulled his boots on, Alex’s resolve was set. Until he could help Michael understand the value of that kind of bond that only comes between military buddies, or at least begrudgingly accept it, he would keep his hands to himself.

              “Okay,” Alex called as he returned to the living room, “you guys ready to . . . uhhh, guys?”

              Alex had stopped outside the hall, looking between Michael and Kyle who were both openly seething at an unwitting Scott.

              “Hey, cutie!” Scott slung an arm over Alex’s shoulders. “You ready to go?”

              “Uh,” Alex said again, still eying his husband warily. “S-Sure?” He thoughtlessly stepped out of Scott’s hold to take Michael’s face in his hands, relief only kicking in once Michael’s jaw finally unclenched. "You okay, baby?”

              Michael searched Alex’s face and forced his lips into a tight smile. “Yeah,” he said almost snappishly, then his eyes softened at the brush of Alex’s thumb against his cheekbone, and he repeated, gentler this time, “Yeah, I’m great. You’re hungry, right?”

              Alex hummed, glancing over his shoulder at Scott who was happily showing a very tense Kyle pictures of him and Alex from their military days on his phone.

              “Not really,” he quietly confessed to his husband. “But Scott gets really excited about these muffins, so I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

              Something in Michael’s eyes flickered, and his brows pinched. “Really?”

              Alex shrugged, sheepish. He tilted his head, concern tightening the corner of his lips. He remembered his promise to himself and explained, “But I don’t want to go if you’re not up for it. You want us to just hang out here instead?”

              Michael’s frown softened to less of a scowl, and to something more startled and hopeful. “B-But your military buddy—”

              “Will understand,” Alex said at once. “I mean, Scott’s important to me, but no one comes before you.” He said it like it was obvious, because he hoped it was. He slid a hand around to the nape of Michael’s neck, gripping the curls there and tugging just enough to anchor Michael, the way he knows Michael liked when his thoughts tried to scare him. “I want whatever you want,” he said honestly.

              The words seemed enough to dissipate the tension in Michael’s shoulders, his anger and frustration replaced with sheepish, shy joy. His smile widened before he bit his lower lip, hesitant. “I mean,” he mumbled, taking Alex’s hips in his hands and caressing his hip bone. “I don’t want you to lose time with your military friend.” He nodded slowly, as though to himself. “I saw you were”—he cleared his throat—“having fun talking to him. And it’s not like he’s staying long.”

              Michael’s expression suddenly turned serious. “He’s not staying long, right?” Alex fought a laugh and shook his head. Michael wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in against him regardless, and shrugged a shoulder. “Then yeah, y-you shouldn’t waste your time with your buddy.” His smile dimmed. “Long as he knows who’s sitting next to you in the booth.”

              Alex bit his lower lip at the embarrassed blush in Michael’s cheeks, and looked over his shoulder again at Kyle, who was narrowing his eyes at Scott like he genuinely couldn’t tell if he was trying to piss him off on purpose or not.

              “I don’t think Kyle will love those seating arrangements,” he said mildly.

              Michael scoffed, nuzzling Alex’s neck, his brows furrowed, and Alex felt like it was less to feel him up and more to help himself breathe properly. “Who cares? No one else is getting you.”

***

Happy malex Monday ❤️

[stray-tickles]

I am tempted to write a silly little oneshot for toh that’s something I had in mind from when I found out Raine was faking brainwashing, bc like. Eda doesn’t know and tries to snap them out of it anyway. Eda relentlessly tracking them down and trying to get Raine to ‘remember’. Raine getting more and more frustrated (and like, kind of endeared but shh) by this bc they’re not having a great time constantly needing to dodge around or fight her to keep up the act until they snappishly ask why she won’t stop and leave them alone and Eda says words to the effect of ‘because I love you’ and Raine’s so blindsided that the jig is up. And of all things they start laughing because of course Eda chooses this, the worst possible time to be doing this. Torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream and wanting to just run to her, and Eda’s kind of confused and hoping that she got through to them and Raine’s just like ‘I hate you so much.‘ Eda having accidentally ruined a perfectly good plan to keep her safe by being a stubborn jerk.