#ya boy writes

[tealquacks]

The Painting Mage

Written for day three of Arcane Halloweek! @fandom-events ! The prompt was "mages, witches and wizards". So we have a bit of young Jinx, discovering something interesting... Read on archive of our own:

Enjoy!

The paint splattered against the wall like blood spray, vivid blue like the strange crystal’s glow making Jinx flinch. She lowered her brush, staring at the art she’d made so far. Just a few lines, honestly, but it calmed her. She took a deep breath, curling her toes into the rough floor of her cell. If she stared at her painting long enough, she could pretend she wasn’t in the cell. That nothing happened. She poked the blue paint. It didn’t explode, simply stuck to her finger. It couldn’t hurt her. Nothing that she made could hurt her. That was the beauty of her creations. They didn’t hurt unless they made her remember.

Art allowed her mind to wander from Vi and Vander. The mere thought of them made her shoulders tense. Both of them were as good as dead to her. They’d left her, cold and alone in an alleyway. After the enforcers heard the explosion from the strange blue crystals, they came running. Yanked her away from her family before she even knew what was going on, beating her harder than rain against the ground.

Then, they imprisoned her. Not before a proper trial, of course. Her trial had been widely publicized. A spectacle. Nobody seemed to realize the person behind the witness stand was a child. Everyone else in the prison stared at her like she was weak, and Jinx realized that she was, especially when compared to the massive forms of the other prisoners. When she thought of giving up, Vi would come into her mind. So she fought. And lost. Every day hurt. Even if they didn’t lay a finger on her some days, just being alone made her feel feral. 

Vi was right. She was a Jinx. Bad luck to everyone, especially herself.

To keep herself sane, she started carving designs into the walls with a sharp piece of rock. Occasionally, she’d get a piece of charcoal, or a nicer guard would slip her a crayon and some paper. The rest she’d have to find, steal, or buy from the prison dispensary. She’d saved up almost all of her money for these paints over the course of who knows how many years, if only to cling to her sanity. The brushes she had to make herself, trimmings of her own hair crudely taped to sticks. While her mind wandered, her hands had a mind of their own, painting.

Jinx looked at the bright spattering of paint on the wall and drew a single line. She’d been working on a face. Thin and angular, drawn in bright blue and stunning green, streaks of purple and pink striking strong shadows. The hair had taken such a long time to draw, a smear of color with a streak of fluorescent yellows, like a streak of white in the hair. Then, she painted a mouth.

She painted another line, then two more that were curved. It almost looked like a mouth, stern and downturned. She giggled in spite of herself. It really looked like a mouth! A well-painted one at that. She silently patted herself on the back.

“Hello,” she said to the friendly face, “I’m Jinx! Who are you?”

She waited for a response. Nothing came. Something had to be wrong with her. Her expression deepened into a frown, brows furrowing. She sighed and shook her head. It’s fine, she told herself, certainly other sane people talk to paintings. Certainly. 

“Of course you didn’t say anything, you don’t have ears!” She cawed.

Two curved lines in the same blue made a pair of ears, Jinx using her thumb to smudge the paint as a form of crude shading. The ears looked nice, if a bit large for the head, and she tilted her head.

“Now can you hear me?” she chirped, “I’m Jinx. It’s good to meet you!”

She laughed. For once, Vi wasn’t in her head. Nor were Mylo, Claggor, or Vander. She’d made a new friend. Someone who didn’t think she was a terrible jinx who messed everything up. She smiled at her painting. 

It smiled back with crookedly painted teeth. 

“Hello Jinx, it’s good to meet you too.”

The painting’s voice was rough and rang through the air like a gunshot. Jinx yelped, dropping her crudely made brush. Paint splattered all over her feet. Jinx clutched at her head, staring at the painting as the disembodied head tilted ever so slightly.

“Jinx?” Jinx screamed and stumbled back at the voice. The mouth was moving. Little droplets of spit-like paint fell from the crooked teeth. She shook all over. Had she gone crazy? She had to have gone crazy. Paintings didn’t talk. “You’re not real! I’m going crazy!” Jinx snapped with a trembling voice. The painting laughed.

“I can assure you I am real, child,” the voice comforted, “You created me, after all.”

She furrowed her brows, staring at the painting who definitely shouldn’t be talking, he was a painting!!!!!

“How?” “Jinx, I would love to answer your questions, but I would rather like to be able to see. Could you give me a pair of eyes?”

Jinx shakily picked up her brush. She walked back towards the wall and raised her brush. An eye. She could paint an eye. With shaking hands, she drew a circle. The paint dripped. She tried to wipe it away with her hand, but it ended up smearing messily over her hands and the painting’s face like an ugly scar. The paint kept on dripping. Jinx shook. She smeared it again. Bright blue stuck to her fingers. She tried again with pink, purple, and green. The result was a mess of color covering half of her painting’s face.

“I- I’m sorry, I messed up, I messed up your eye really bad.”

The painting made a quiet shushing noise.

“It’s okay, Jinx. You’re an artist, right? So anything you create is art.”

She sniffled, her eyes wide and rimmed with tears. “Even if what I made looks bad?” The painting chuckled.

“Of course. Now. Paint the other eye.”

Jinx breathed in slowly. She raised her brush and dipped it in a little bit of black paint. She tapped the brush end off on the pot and drew a simple circle. And inside that circle, she painted a blue circle. With her thumb, she used black paint to smudge an eyebrow over the eye. And because the painting looked a little silly without a nose, she quickly sketched a nose, big and crooked. It fit the rest of the angular silhouette and made the face look a little goofy, more friend-like. Jinx giggled.

“What, is there something on my face?” The face asked, blinking a little. 

“You look silly!”

“That’s not something you should say to a friend!” the painting chortled. Jinx tilted her head. “We’re friends?” “Of course we are.” “You look lonely, though.” “You do too, child.”

“But you look extra super lonely because you have no body!” The painting guffawed. Jinx couldn’t stop herself from chortling ridiculously, staring at the face she had painted. Oh, she’d really lost it. But did that really matter anymore? Even if she was crazy, it was so nice to hear another voice… It had been so long since someone talked to her like a person. She smiled even brighter at her painting. A friend, she finally made a friend. Literally. She made a friend. “How are you alive?” she asked. She raised her paintbrush and drew two lines connecting the head to the neck. Curved lines made a shoulder. She’d made a mistake in the neck, but managed to make it look like the collar of a shirt. She smiled as she began to paint the body. “Because you created me, child. I am… a simulacrum of some sort. A painting, brought to life by the magic of creation.” “Magic?” Jinx asked. She’d only ever read about magic in storybooks, evil wizards and cruel sorceresses scorching the lands of Piltover. She looked at Silco. How could he be evil? Jinx thought of another book of Vander’s, a collection of paintings from all over the world. In one, there was an entire garden that had been made by a wizard. In another, a massive city had been coaxed from the sea. Creation. Jinx took a shaky breath. Silco didn’t seem phased by her fear. “Magic, powerful magic at that.” “I didn’t even realize I could do magic!”

The painting shook his head.

“Then you must be a rather impressive mage, especially for your age. Ah, thank you for the arms, by the way. And the torso. I hope a pair of legs will be joining them shortly.” Jinx giggled.

“They will! I’m sorry about not being able to give you hands, though. I’m not that good yet, so I made your arms go behind your back! Oh! What’s your name? I asked but you scared me really bad so I forgot to ask again.” The painting smiled fondly at her.

“Silco, you may call me Silco.”

“That’s a nice name!” Silco smiled. Jinx sat, painting the outline of one leg.

“Speaking of questions, child, are we in a jail cell?” Silco asked.

Jinx stepped back. She crumpled to the ground and curled in on herself. She nodded. “Yeah, we are. I… hurt a bunch of people. It was an accident, but my family left and then the enforcers took me here– please don’t leave!”

Silco pushed himself off the wall, a sad expression on his face. The stone was completely blank where he once stood, now a colorful ghost lowering himself on his one leg. 

“Jinx, you created me out of nothing. You are a bright soul, and anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly fooling themselves.” Jinx gazed through the bars of her cell. 

“I… what if they’re right about me, though? The lawyers, the judges, my family, they all said I was a thief, a rat, a– a Jinx.”

She looked back at Silco. His face had gone soft, brows furrowed. “Who cares what those small-minded fools have to say? This whole world could be yours, Jinx. You are so much stronger than anyone thinks, even you. You don’t deserve to be stuck behind bars for a simple accident– you deserve to be out there, creating.” Silco pulled himself forward even more. The gaps in the painting Jinx left started to fill themselves in more, patches of skin tone and black joining the cacophony of color that made up his existence, glowing like a neon sign in the jail cell. His hands– parts of him Jinx hadn’t dared to paint– were completely made of the stone of the jail cell, held together by whatever magic Jinx had. Jinx scrambled behind him, hastily painting another leg for her newfound friend. 

Silco fully stepped from the wall. He loomed over her, all sharp and menacing. But his smile, painted by Jinx, comforted her. Silco extended a phosphorescent hand to her. She took it, surprised by its warmth. She stood. Without thinking, she threw herself onto Silco, crushing him in a tight hug. He settled his hand on her head. He felt real. Realer than anything Jinx had ever seen.

“But how can I get out?” Jinx asked, her face still pressed into Silco’s painted shirt. Silco laughed softly, pulling away. He looked down at her with his chaotic, colorful eyes.

“You make a way out, little mage.”

Jinx looked up at him, then to the blank wall of her cell. If she could paint a person…

…then she could certainly paint a door. A way to a better place. 

She dipped her fingers in the blue paint. She dragged them over the floor, sending crashing waves over rough stones. She turned her head back to look at Silco. He watched her patiently, a small smile on his face.

She marched forward to the wall, her canvas. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. She could paint anything, anywhere. Her mind wandered to one of Vander’s old books. A picture, so bright and beautiful that she just had to tear it out and keep it. And she told her family that one day they’d go there, and see it with their own eyes.

They were dead now. So she’d have to paint it for them to see. She flicked her fingers over the wall, splattering blue paint like the rhythmic rocking of the sea, flicks of white forming wave crests, and the seabirds circling overhead. She could hear them, splashing against the thin barrier of reality that still was there. She dunked her brush into bright pink, and sunset was born on the dark walls of her cell, a neon-sign sun dangling like a stuffed animal from a power line over the ocean. 

Far off in the distance a marble town perched, cast in the deep shadow of the setting sun and surrounded by verdant grass. Ocean water flowed into her cell from her painting, gathering over her ankles. Jinx laughed. She dunked her dirty brush into the ocean water, then into white paint. She pressed her thumb against the brush and sent paint flying.

A sea of stars glowed in the sky Jinx had painted, just starting to reveal themselves as the sun dipped into the ocean. An albatross flew into her cell. The crashing waves now reached her knees. Guards and convicts started yelling, muffled by her creations. That didn’t stop Jinx. Pink blossoms drifted from flowering trees and kelp tangled up in the salty ocean water that shimmered like gold. Silco waded next to her. 

“This could all be yours, Jinx,” Silco spoke, “someday this could all be yours.”

She stepped forward. The floor of her cell was sand now, and her feet dug into it. Fresh air filled her lungs. She ran, ran towards this painting given life, her creation, and the water rose up to her stomach, her chest, her neck. The guards were getting closer now. Jinx floundered in the water. Silco yanked her into his arms, Jinx resting her head on his shoulder. His hands were rough, but they held her, they kept her safe. Now, now she was truly free. She couldn’t stop the triumphant whoop from escaping. She looked behind her. The guards were at her cell, trying to unlock it, calling after one another. She stared back through the painted gate. Guilt filled her. Maybe she deserved to be in there. For Vi, Vander, Claggor, Mylo. Her smile fell. But then Silco took her hand, gently squeezing it.

“Let go now, Jinx. There’s nothing left there for you,” he whispered. 

Jinx stared at the cell. The rift in reality she’d caused started to fall apart, pieces of the sky starting to close like a wound. Slowly, bit by bit, the gate closed. The world healed around it. Clouds and endless sea filled the place that once was her jail cell. Jinx let out a deep breath, pressing her head against Silco’s.

He was right. There was nothing left for her there. Here, she could have a second chance. Maybe she could paint herself into a person Vi would be proud of. Create something worth loving. Fatigue crashed into her like a wave. Making a person and a portal must’ve been too much, she realized. She slumped against Silco, knocking her head into his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna draw you a friend,” Jinx sleepily spoke, “She’s gonna be big and tough and I’m gonna name her… something like my sister’s name, Vi.” “How about Se-Vi-ka?” Jinx nuzzled her head against her newfound friend’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” she muttered, “and she’s gonna have a big sword and never lose a fight, and she’s gonna be so strong.” Silco ran a hand through her mess of hair, humming at her musing. “Get some rest, Jinx. It’ll all be okay.” And she believed him, drifting off to the sound of the ocean.

[leolithe]

OGH I need to promo my Griftlands fanfic on here. This is essentially a continuation of Rook's campaign, in a timeline where he sides with Fellemo but leaves Kalandra alive. I even snagged the ending slides for the fic summary B)

It's not the subject matter I'm used to writing but Griftlands has such meaty story potential that I had to make use of it. So I did, and for two things in particular: Laying out some Salandra headcanons, and whumping the shit out of Sal!

Feel free to give it a read if it strikes your fancy 🥰

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Steve's not obsessed with Eddie's hands.

He's not.

They're just... he happened to notice them, once, when Eddie was listening to Dustin talk through how he might want to make his first DM campaign play out.

Steve wasn't even really paying attention at first, just reading some comic he'd found lying in Eddie's room. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen it. Movement.

Eddie and Dustin were sitting at the small kitchen table, Dustin talking about puzzles and traps and monsters and Eddie was smiling, nodding encouragingly, looking more and more exicted. But it wasn't the movement of his head that drew Steve's attention.

It was his hands.

They were resting on the sides of his legs, tapping.

Steve could only see one hand really, but he could see Eddie's other arm jumping the same way, his hands moving faster and faster the more excited he got, until they were just hovering near his legs, flapping in the air beside him as he smiled widely at Dustin. He suggested a few things, to Dustin, Steve's pretty sure that's what he was saying anyway, his ears weren't great anymore if he wasn't focused, and right now, all of his focus was on Eddie's hands.

Dustin slapped his hand on the table, pointed at Eddie and then started scribbling as Eddie laughed, Steve always managed to hear Eddie's laugh, his hands flapping harder, slapping at his thighs.

Steve vaguely hears his name, cocks his head to the side, but doesn't respond, his eyes still locked on Eddie's flapping hands, and then they stop moving. Both of them freezing, the one Steve can see clamps down on Eddie's thigh, fingers pressing into his jeans.

Steve blinks. Tears his eyes away. Looks at Eddie.

He's staring at Steve, his cheeks tinted pink. Steve swallows, gives him a little smile before Dustin has his attention, chatting at him about what he and Eddie had just come up with.

Steve hears about half of it. Nodding when he thinks he should, trying his best to sound interested. It's enough for Dustin. The barely there commitment. And usually Steve is better at engaging with him, even though he has no clue what he's talking about.

But he's distracted. His eyes keep wandering to Eddie's hands. But they don't move again the whole time he's there, Eddie's knuckles turn white as Steve's eyes linger on his hand. His fingers still pressing into his thigh, they drum a quick beat here and there, but his hands don't move.

Steve sighs, drags his eyes away, and tries to keep them off Eddie. Somehow feeling like Eddie is embarrassed, or upset, that Steve had seen... whatever it was he'd seen.

~°~

It keeps happening.

Eddie's flapping hands.

Steve's eyes on them.

But he's careful now. He doesn't stare. Just steals glances when the movements draw his eye. And Eddie always has his hands under tables, or tucked close to his sides, when it happens. Like he's trying to hide it.

Steve doesn't understand why. He likes it. Every time he sees Eddie's hands moving excitedly it makes his chest flutter. Like he's so happy that Eddie's happy it just fills him with warmth.

But it happens other times too.

Not only when he's happy.

It happens when he's nervous.

Happens when he's scared.

The movements are more erratic when he's nervous or scared. His hands flap, shake, clench, and unclench at his sides.

Every time, Steve wants to reach out and touch. To take his hands, hold them in his and tell him he's okay. That whatever it is. Steve will help.

But he hides it. Behind distracting smiles, and under tables, and behind his back, sometimes. But Steve sees him, watches him, and he wants.

Wants to ask. Wants to touch. Wants to be touched.

Wants to feel Eddie's shaking, flapping, hands against him. Wants to be the reason they flap happily at his sides sometimes. Wants to feel them flap happily against his sides. Wonders if Eddie would do that against his back if he kissed him.

Or if he'd do it lying underneath Steve, clutching at his shirt before his hands just taptaptaptapped against his back as Steve pressed him into his matress.

Or maybe he'd hold Eddie's hands, up above his head. Feel his fingers tapping against his hands as Steve kissed him, nice and slow. Eddie would just tap faster, if he was happy, if he wanted that, with Steve.

Steve sighed, deeply, and glanced at Eddie's hands, his left one resting in his lap, thumb twisting at his ring. His right one, hanging down by his leg, shaking happily as he listened to Will and Dustin make plans for their new campaign, and wished he could reach out and touch him. Even just settle his hand against Eddie's, just to feel the joy shake out of his body.

~°~

The first time Steve reaches out and takes Eddie's shaking hand, is at the summer carnival.

It's hot. And crowded. And loud. And they're waiting in line for some ride the kids want to drag them on. People laughing and screaming and crowding around, jostling them and bumping their shoulders.

And Eddie had gone quiet about five minutes ago. Steve keeps glancing down, watching his hands. It takes three more minutes. But they start to shake, flapping at his sides before he grabs at his jeans, wipes his palms, lets them shake again.

Steve leans forward, tells Dustin they'll be over by the benches, and he grabs Eddie's hand, gently slides his hand into Eddie's. Eddie looks at him, blinking rapidly.

"You wanna come with me? Get outta here?" Steve asks, jerks his head to the side. Eddie nods immediately, his fingers clamping down on Steve's hand, hard. But Steve doesn't care, because Eddie's hand shakes, just once or twice, and then it stops. And his hand is warm, and strong, inside Steve's as he leads them to the benches and sits Eddie down.

He gives him a drink of his lemon shake up, snorts when Eddie makes a face at the sour taste, and then sits next to him.

Eddie takes a few deep breaths, his eyes closed. He takes his hand out of Steve's, leaving him aching for his touch. Steve just lets him go, rests his hand in his lap instead.

"Thanks." Eddie sighs, after a long moment, his eyes finally opening, they don't land on Steve. Stay locked on his lap.

"Anytime." He says, and he means it. Deep in his chest he means it, he'd do anything for Eddie. Always. Eddie smiles, finally looking at him.

"Can't believe you tried to kill me with that though." Eddie huffs, kicks Steve's shoe with his own and nods at the cup sitting between them.

Steve laughs, watches Eddie smile, his fingers twitching in his lap, his wrist twitches once, Steve's pretty sure it counts.

~°~

The second time he touches Eddie's hands, Eddie's just made them grilled cheese, his signature dish. And he's stitting in front of Steve, his chin resting in one hand, his other hand hidden under the table. He's watching as Steve chews his first bite.

"Weeeell?" He asks, impatient, as always. Steve makes a show of chewing slower, his eyes lifting to the ceiling as he hums, thinking. Eddie kicks at his shin under the table, his socked foot not hurting at all. Steve snorts, kicks back, and says,

"It's good. Really good. Best grilled cheese I ever had." He's serious, knows he sounds like he's teasing.

"Yeah? You like it? I didn't burn it? I mean I know you said you like them crispy but I thought maybe I got it too dark. Might have burnt it." Eddie rambles, and Steve just smiles, shakes his head.

"It's perfect, actually. You're a grilled cheese wizard. Or a... grilled cheese... bard. No I don't think that's a thing. Wizard applies more here, pretty sure." Steve says, waving off his own words like they're nonsense, looking toward the ceiling again to avoid Eddie's, no doubt, exasperated look.

But that's when he sees it.

His eyes are on their way to the ceiling when he sees Eddie's hand, flapping next to his thigh. Steve looks back to him, sees him beaming, and can't help himself when he reaches out and grabs Eddie's shaking hand.

But it's a mistake. He didn't know it would be. Didn't think. Had forgotten about that first day when Eddie had caught him staring and froze.

The smile drops off Eddie's face and he tugs his hand quickly away from Steve, hiding it in his lap, scooting back in his chair, away from Steve, his eyes on the table.

"Sorry. I can't- sorry." He stammers, shaking his head, his cheeks are red, his eyes darting around the table top as he curls in on himself, arms wrapped around his stomach protectively.

"What are you sorry for? You don't have to be sorry." Steve says, his voice soft, just a breath between them really. Eddie frowns, shakes his head again.

"No. It's annoying. I know it is. It just happens. I can't help it." Eddie's voice is firm, his words sound rehearsed, like he's said them a thousand times. It makes Steve's chest ache, with pain for Eddie, and with anger for whoever told him that any part of himself was annoying. Especially this part, a part of him that Steve is sure is pure joy, made visible, made tangible and expressive.

"It's not annoying." Steve says, and he sounds... mad? A little. But not at Eddie. Eddie's eyes snap up, lock on Steve's face, he doesn't blink.

"It's not." Steve reaffirms, one shake of his head. He moves his hand, slides it across the table top slowly, towards Eddie, and then turns it, palm up, waiting.

Eddie's eyes twitch from his face to his hand and back again. Steve smiles, small, and wiggles his fingers, gives Eddie a nod.

"C'mon. It's okay." He nods his head again, eyes dropping to his hand and then back to Eddie's face. Eddie swallows, sits a little straighter, unwraps his arms from his stomach. Steve sees his arms flex, knows Eddie is squeezing his thigh under the table, nervous. But then he moves, slowly brings his hand up, and places it in Steve's.

He sighs, the contact he's been waiting for finally made, Eddie's breathing is shakey as he watches Steve curl his fingers around his hand, pull it closer across the table.

"It's not annoying Eddie it's-" Steve pauses. Eddie frowns, a grimace really.

"Hey. No. I mean it. I like it." Steve says, and Eddie looks at him, his eyes moving back to their tangled hands over and over.

"You do?" He asks, and he sounds so fucking small. So unsure. So Steve does the only thing he can think of, he stands, drags Eddie to his feet as well, and then presses a kiss to Eddie's knuckles.

"I do. I really do. That's why I was staring." Steve says, breathes it against Eddie's hand, smiles when Eddie's fingers twitch against him.

"I'm sorry it made you uncomfortable. But it wasn't because I was annoyed. I promise you that. You believe me?" Steve ducks his head a little, tries to get Eddie to look at him, he's got his free hand up by his mouth, his nail worrying between his teeth. And Steve has to smile, can see Eddie thinking, trying to make sure he does, believe Steve. One moment more and Eddie nods, presses his lips together, and looks at Steve.

"I believe you." He says, teeth worrying into his lip.

"Good. So you- I mean you don't have to hide it. Around me. If you don't want. Cuz I meant what I said. I like it. A lot." Steve feels heat rush into his cheeks and closes his eyes, breathes against Eddie's knuckles for a moment before he looks back up to see Eddie smiling at him. Looking a little in awe. A little breathless.

"You like it that much?" His nose scrunches and Steve just want to fucking kiss him. He nods instead.

"Yeah. I really do. It's like you've got... I don't know... happy little bat wings. Just flapping around you when you're having a good time. I love it. I love-" Steve stops, the words caught in his throat, because that's too much. Maybe. For right now. But he feels it. Has felt it for Eddie for awhile now, the warmth of it humming beneath his skin when Eddie's near him.

Eddie's beaming at him now, tears shining in his eyes, he hides behind his hair, for just a second, before he darts forward, presses his lips to Steve's, a quick press, and then he's gone again, and the space between them is small but still too much.

"Sorry. I've never done that before." Eddie breathes. Steve watches something that could be fear, or regret, pass over Eddie's features like a shadow, and refuses to let it stay there, not even a second longer.

He drops Eddie's hand and cradles Eddie's neck, draws him closer, til their sharing breath.

"Stop apologizing. I want this. You." Steve whispers, pressing his forehead to Eddie's.

"I want you t-"

And Steve kissing him. Slow. Sweet. His hands holding Eddie close. Steve moves his tongue along Eddie's bottom lip, smiles into Eddie's mouth when he gasps, and then deepens the kiss, just so, tilting Eddie's head a little for a better angle. Eddie moans into his mouth, his hands scrambling to grab at Steve's back, clenching in his shirt and unclenching as Steve tilts his world on it's axis.

And then Steve feels it, Eddie's hands, tapping against his back, like he'd thought about since that first day, like he'd dreamed about, on several occasions. Too many to count.

Steve hums into Eddie's mouth, smiles against his lips, their teeth clicking together as Eddie smiles too, laughs into Steve's mouth, his breath filling Steve's lungs as they cling to each other.

See, Steve's not obsessed with Eddie's hands.

He just knew they'd feel perfect tapping out happy rhythms against his skin.

And for once, in his traumatic, full of bullshit life, Steve was right.

He's not obsessed with Eddie's hands.

But he does love them.

The way they move, and shake, and show all of Eddie's joys, wild, and uncontrolled.

And his to hold.

[judasofsuburbia]

something something the spicy six go to vegas and...slightly nsfw below

“Oh God, no” is the first thought that runs through Steve Harrington’s head as the morning light pulls through the windows and into his eyes. He buries his face into his pillow as he feels his stomach lurch, the sins from last night’s alcohol consumption returning with a vengeance. He knows he has to get himself out of bed and into the bathroom before disaster strikes but another thought hits him.

He’s naked.

Probably done in a fit of being too drunk and too lazy to leave his boxers on. He just hopes Eddie didn’t see him because they’re sharing a room on this trip. Though Eddie was just as plastered as he was so it’s unlikely he cares. Still, the idea of Eddie seeing him like that makes his face flush. That could also be the nausea though. 

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin when an arm wraps around his bare waist and a nose buries itself into his spine. There is hair, a lot of hair touching his skin.

Holy shit, did he bring someone home? To their shared hotel room?

Eddie must have bunked with Robin and Nancy or Jonathan and Argyle. They’re all going to be so pissed at him. 

Steve lifts his head just enough to turn over his shoulder and sneak a peek at this mystery person, already figuring out how to get them out of his hotel room before the others wake up and pound on his door for breakfast. 

It’s not someone sleeping next to him. It’s Eddie.

The someone as far as Steve’s heart is concerned. 

Steve’s head whips back forward as he tries to steady his breathing. Which ends up in not breathing at all as Steve stays completely still. Steve studies the way Eddie is curled up next to him. Not really holding him, more laying his arm on Steve’s hip. Hair tickling his back. Hot puffs of breath on his skin. It would make him smile if he wasn’t seconds away from throwing up. 

Steve exhales dramatically because his body is finally fighting back for air. Steve’s still naked, dear God, and Eddie’s kind of cuddling him, and this is bad and it’s going to be so awkward if Eddie wakes up in the midst of this.

Why are they sharing a bed? Why is Eddie so close to him? Does Eddie think he’s someone else? Is Eddie even conscious yet?

Something’s conscious but it’s not Eddie. It’s what’s attached to Eddie. 

Steve gets pulled back tighter into Eddie’s embrace as an erection is suddenly poking into the back of his thigh. Steve feels his stomach lurch again but this time it’s not the nausea. It’s everything he’s wanted over the last two years but he has no way of knowing if Eddie is even aware of his actions as he continues to snore right into Steve’s ear. Did they…how are they…they’re both naked as the day they were born in the same bed and nothing about this feels like a platonic mishap. 

Steve is trying hard to remember anything. Any detail of last night but it’s all a blur. He rubs his hands over his face and groans into his palms. He’s going to be sick and it’s no fault of the beautiful man lightly scratching on his stomach, making his cock slowly stir. As much as he wants to live in this fantasy world where he gets to wake up next to Eddie naked in the mere hours of the morning, he gently yanks Eddie’s arm off of him and rolls out of bed. 

He darts to the bathroom and crouches over the porcelain bowl as his body makes him pay for his crimes. 

After he’s emptied everything from his system, he stands shakily and turns the faucet on to rinse out his mouth. He looks positively debauched in the mirror. Hair standing at all angles and holy shit…hickies littering his neck and chest. His hands instantly go to them, pressing into them to make sure he’s not making them up when he notices a ring on his left finger. 

Eddie’s mood ring. 

No fucking way. 

[naffeclipse]

What if Eclipse from AP was a naga? And this took place in the deep jungle of the amazon, where photographer y/n is trying to take pictures of the wildlife?

I'm vibrating at the speed of sound over this ask while also nudging my naga au

Naga Eclipse from AP would have the tail of a Green Anaconda, with an olive green scaly color dotted with black, framed by burning-like flares of orange along the length of his slithery body. He's also decorated with orange-yellow striping on either side of his long, slipper form. His upper half is scaley with a lithe deadliness to his musculature and decorated by frills surrounding his head with brighter orange-yellow colors, almost hypnotic in their gradient hues. One eye is deep emerald green, and one is midnight blue.

Lucky you—you're out on a once-in-a-lifetime expedition to explore a jungle closed off to the public, funded by Fazco, and occupied by two researchers who will be your bunkmates for the next few weeks. You're itching to take photos of the large river, including swamps, marshes and streams, and whatever wildlife is out there.

The few locals you did meet before you left to hike the rest of the way to what would be your new, isolated home warned you of a dangerous snake—a large, mythical beast. You take note of the local folklore. You understand the truth is hidden in there somewhere, and you are well aware of the dangers and diseases you could be met with in such a harsh environment, but you're determined.

It doesn't take long for you to feel eyes watching you when you first venture out by yourself. You take beautiful pictures of freshwater fish, big and beautiful, unlike any you have ever seen. Of course, you have hundreds of snapshots of the local flora, the trees, the floating meadows, the thick vines that drape each branch and hang thickly about the ground. You almost forget that you eerily don't feel alone.

But you swear something moves in the water—the ripples stop as soon as you look. The stillness is suddenly stiff, lifeless. Even the birds have stopped chirping.

You lower your camera and carefully put it away. A trickle of fear slips into your heart. You turn away from the river's edge only to be met by a low hiss and a creature, unlike anything you witnessed in your travels, spooling itself neatly out of the water, blocking your path to the base. An incredible creature with long arms and a great, serpentine tail that seems to stretch for yards and yards. You can hardly breathe in his presence—he's otherworldly with his frills and scales and fangs.

His eyes contain a mesmerizing shine as if staring into a fire as it burns or watching the ocean as it laps up against the beach, drawing your attention, demanding you don't look away. You couldn't anyway. Half-frozen, you struggle to keep from collapsing. He beckons with a sharp talon. He hisses softly for you to come closer, mouse. He wants to see you. You try to beg no without revealing how terribly you tremble. He doesn't let you go. He insists. His eyes flash with an allure. You almost step close when he murmurs that you need to be good.

But then your sense of survival kicks adrenaline into your heart, and you turn to run—

He strikes faster than your eyes can follow. Two loops of his green and orange tail surrounded you in an instant. You're dragged to the ground, your arms pinned under his mass, and the back of your head cradled by his large palm as powerful muscles squeeze you in the slightest—a gentle rebuke for thinking you could get away. You're hyper-aware of the terrifying bulk of muscles as you lie trapped in his coils. One strong twist and your eyes could pop out of your skull, and every bone protecting your heart and lungs would crumble to shards. You gasp. An urge to kick your legs and struggle erupts in your panic; a sinking feeling tells you it would only make things worse.

He coos over you, hissing and humming in an ancient song of the jungle you have no name for. When you whimper, he shushes you and strokes your cheek. He tells you how lovely you'll be. When you talk back to him, somehow finding your tongue amid your horror, you find out his name. Eclipse. He moves you more upright, resting you on his tail so you're not petrified by how vulnerable you feel lying down, but he never loosens his scaly bindings. He hovers over you. You gaze into his stunning frills of yellow-orange and wonder how a being like him came to exist. He studies you as you study him. He grins at how you shiver when he traces your collarbone with a sharp fingertip.

You remind yourself that you can still breathe. He hasn't crushed you—yet—but you don't like how wide his smile is. Sometimes, his jaw stretches a little too long as if dislocating from his skull, ready to devour you. His eyes gleam with a ravenousness as scales twist around you, holding you close enough to smell the slick green water he had been in and deep musk.

He tells you that he'll see you again very soon—away from other humans, lest you bring him a fine gift for a meal. You can only flex your fingers, silently pleading in your heart that he won't unhook his jaw and eat you alive.

Then, he unravels himself from your limbs. But before he lets you go entirely, he leans in close, his serpentine tongue flickering close to your neck and by your hair, tasting the air around you as you muster all your strength to not scream. He inhales deeply, pleased, before he murmurs, "Sweet mouse. You are mine. Say it."

You don't understand, but you echo his command, and when he taps your chin once in what might have been a loving gesture, you force your jelly legs to solidify before you run and run, all the way back to base. You slam the door to your room behind you. You touch your ribs, your arms, still caught in the heavy sensation of his loops as if he were upon you right now.

The stories are true—there is a giant snake in this jungle, and he wants you. You're afraid to discover if Eclipse's intrigue with you is only an exotic way to satisfy his hunger.

[adhdslugcrimes]

I have many so have one of my brain worms ♡

Klarian adopted by Danny, and who grew up in ghost zone and with ghost zone culture.

Klarian, who legit thinks he's friends with YJ cause fighting, is how you play with friends in the GZ.

One day Klarian summons Danny to show his friends to his mom, and danny is just "oh sweetheart, they're human, not ghosts, honey, I don't think they think you're friends. I'm sorry, in most living culture, humans especially, fighting doesn't mean friendship unless explicitly communicated verbally."

Klarian speed-runs a redemption arc once he realises the culture barriers and actually explains things from his side with some help from his mom when concepts are hard to put into words

I love klarian adopted by Danny so much

Rhdhdhdhdhdhdhdvdhdhdhdhd BRO THANK YOU YOUR BRAIN WORMS ARE DELISH OH MY GOD YESSSSSSSSESSS

Klarian being like Starfire was in teen titans having to explain his culture and everyone is not trusting him but my chaotic baby boy is trying oh my god, momma Danny so proud of him I'M AN EMOTIONAL GLASS CASE AND THIS SHATTERED ME WHY SO FUCKIN CUTE FJXBSBHDHDHDJDBDBD

Can me write this??

[ghost-proofbaby]

OH SAY LESS 14 WITH ASTARION PLEASE

so this is my first time publicly writing and posting astarion, so please be gentle. higher word count solely because i felt the need to add lore because, ya know, first time writing him! also, i changed the line just a tiny bit to better fit the character and scene. ALSO, uh... this is a little fade to black. i'm sorry. it just got too long.

14. "Oh, you're hard to please."

warnings: foreplay, sorta fade to black smut (it's there if you squint your eyes), an ungodly amount of pet names, mentions of past sexual abuse and healing from it, technical game spoilers, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: astarion x afab!reader (no pronouns used)

wc: 4.4k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

How long had it been since Astarion had actually enjoyed sex? Craved it, even? 

If he recalls correctly, it had to have started to become tainted well over a century ago. Somewhere between the first and the third victim, when he’d realized how every single beautiful soul he had entrapped were simply being lured to their own death. And then, the sour taste left in his mouth only became more pungent the longer it went on, the more he came to the realization of just how used he felt. His body was no longer his own – it technically hadn’t been his from the very second he’d emerged from his own grave, and Cazador had been waiting for him – and everything about the act became an old rehearsed dance that he’d grit his teeth through. A chore, something to make his stomach churn, something to regret. A means to an end. 

Plainly put, it had been a while. 

But then you happened. You, who hadn’t blinked an eye when the first time you met him, he’d literally threatened you with a gods damned blade to your throat. You, who had repeatedly trusted him, even when it had been an objectively stupid thing to do. You, who had always offered him the utmost patience and genuine understanding, to the point in which if he thought about it too hard, he’d probably cry. You, who had led your group of misfits with brain worms right into victory, with plenty of personal demons defeated along the way. 

Personal demons including Cazador. 

Maybe that’s when things changed for Astarion. He’d already fallen for you before your group had reached Baldur’s Gate, he’d already gotten to know your body intimately before ever laying eyes on that ridiculously oversized brain you somehow made look easy to defeat. But that had been different, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really wanted to do that (not meant as an offense to you – certainly not after all was said and done), but had thought he needed to. To gain your trust, to gain your protection. And in the end, it turned out he never needed to do such a thing. You’d never said it outloud, probably at risk of making him feel even more regret after you’d learned all his secrets and darkest corners, but he knew. 

And knowing that you didn’t view him as something purely sexual, as a means to an end, as an item to use – well, it had the opposite effect of his request to no longer be viewed in that light. 

“What are you doing?” he says as he quickly looks up from his current book he’d been pursuing the moment you’d entered the room. He hardly cared for the words on the page – he just needed a way to pass the hours until you were available again. 

It was a hard habit to kick. Being so codependent on you, even with the end of the world resolved and the gift of safety being handed over to him on a silver platter. 

“We received mail,” you’re grinning wickedly as you hold up an embellished envelope, delicate fingers pinching the parchment as if it were the greatest gift to ever exist. He’d argue the real gift at hand was the last three months – time spent with you, in a place he can call home. But nothing could impede on your good mood as you throw yourself down on the mattress beside him, “From Withers, of all people!” 

His brows shoot up for just a moment before his face twists up with something akin to distrust, “Withers? What in the Hells does that sack of dust and bones wan-” 

“A reunion,” you cut him off, the look on your face warning enough against his attempt at an insult. “He’s reaching out to all of us to bring us together for a celebration, to check in on everyone, let us see each other again. Apparently, we were the easiest of the bunch to find.”

Astarion quickly lets out a tut as he snaps the book shut and discards it on the bedside table closest to him, “Well, we certainly need to fix that. Soon enough all of those little shits are going to end up on our doorstep, preaching about the power of friendship and how they want to check in on us.” 

You snort at that, laying flat on your back with your hair wildly spread out in a makeshift halo behind you. The sight causes something to stir within him, his gut twisting as he watches the way your knees knock together before slowly falling apart, your legs settling down as flat as the rest of your body.

He hadn’t taken you since that night at his grave. Before the epic final battle, before the two of you had made the decision to settle down somewhere for some well-earned peace and quiet. 

The moonlight dances past the open curtains, and his breath catches in his throat at the way the blue shadows dance across your skin. It almost reminds him of the first time he’d seen you fight. It hadn’t just been the blood splattered across your cheeks that had really gotten the better of his curiosity (even if that’s what he had told you when you asked), it had been the sunlight. Those rays of gold that had mingled with your own aura of warmth after you had helped the tieflings for the first time. 

You put the sun to shame, truly. And he missed it – Gods, did he miss it – but he was content to bask in the peace of night for a few months more before he finally cut you loose from the leash to begin your next phase of adventures to find him a cure. You had promised him you would, had already dedicated plenty of free time to research, and all you really needed was his word to begin. 

He’s selfish. The two of you can find a way for him to walk in the sun once more another day; all he wants right now is to bury himself in your warmth, to slot his body between your thighs, to hear every breathy gasp and the way you’d practically sing his name-

“Star?” you’re looking up at him from an awkward angle, eyes owlish and chin tilted painfully far back as you clearly await an answer to a question he’d been too lost in a daydream to overhear, “Did you hear me?” 

He clears his throat and adjusts the pillows behind his back, keeping him propped up as he admires you, “Of course I did, darling.” 

“Then what did I just say?”

“Something about how we’re absolutely not going to this reunion, yes?” 

Your smile is nothing but patient as you flip onto your stomach. He watches the way your shorts ride up your thighs, how the top of the soft fabric bunches at your waist. His fingers practically twitch with the need to weasel their way under it, to press his cold fingertips into warm flesh and hear you preen. 

Whenever you’re ready, you had whispered to him one night shortly after saving the world. Just tell me when, and I’m yours. 

He was ready. Insatiably ready, really. 

“Very funny. I said we should go, though. It’d be nice to see everyone again, wouldn’t it? All our friends?” 

You’re still talking about this damned reunion. Astarion has half the mind to figure out a way to summon the insufferable skeleton right here, right now, and drive a dagger into his bones until he’s truly nothing but dust. Solely for the distraction. 

“Your friends, my dear,” he corrects gently, “We both know they’re only overly fond of one of us in this relationship, and it certainly isn’t the one that they repeatedly threatened to stake.” 

The furrow of your brows is impossibly cute – he knows that look of determination. It’s the same one you wore when he mentioned it was likely that the two of you would never find a cure to his condition. 

“Our friends,” you insist, “Karlach adores you, Star. And Wyll has always been proud of you, whether he told you as much or not.”

“And what of Gale?” 

Your lips twitch at that, “Gale… certainly wouldn’t stake you on sight.”

“Ah, yes,” he flourishes, trying to keep his eyes from wandering anywhere but where your hands press into your cheeks as you prop your face up to speak to him, “Not staking me. The ultimate sign of kinship.” 

Focusing is a losing battle when you roll your eyes, and he finds his mind overtaken with insatiable lust again. Imaginative ways that he could have your eyes rolling for him under different circumstances. 

“You’re not getting out of this. They are your friends just as well as mine – so argue all you want, but we’re going to the reunion.” 

“Are you sure there’s no other way I might be able to…” he pauses with intent, finally lifting one of his docile hands to your cheek, letting his finger graze the skin with a feather light touch before it travels back into the mess of your hair, “Persuade you otherwise?” 

You almost fall for it, too. Your eyes flutter shut, your head tilts into his touch as if you were starved for the connection. But even with the lack of sexual intimacy, you both know there hasn’t been a day that has gone by in the last three months where Astarion hasn’t found a way to get his hands on you.

Holding your own, resting his cheek on your shoulder, spinning you like a child in the kitchen – he had quite the sudden arsenal of romantic gestures that didn’t involve old wounds. It had been awkward here and there, some of them landing and some of them leaving you both looking like fools, but he was trying.

Almost as hard as he was currently trying to not jump your bones. 

When you recognize the innuendo for what it is, however, you harden immediately. Your shoulders set, a frown settles, and your eyes open with set determination he knows he can’t falter without speaking plainly to you. 

“No.”

“No?”

You’re quick to lift yourself up onto your knees, putting distance between yourself and his hands, “The days of weaponizing sex are over. I don’t even want to joke about that.” 

And, oh, he’s finding himself in quite the mood tonight, because as soon as you’re retracting, he’s following. As you settle on the haunches of your calves, he’s lifting up from his reclined position, leaning forward so that his face is breaths away from yours. 

“I mean it,” you warn, narrowing your eyes and holding up a finger in that small space between you two. 

He tests his luck, wasting no time in snapping his fangs just millimeters from your skin. You both know he wouldn’t actually bite you, but it still humors him to see the way you whip your hand out of his reach. 

“Were you not the one who insisted that we ask before we bite?” you snap, and his smile only worsens. Like a cheshire cat, like a child never scorned by the world – he’s radiant and basking in the moment. 

He lets out a small hmph before saying, “You’re no fun, my dear. Come on – just play with me for a moment, won’t you?” 

Your face softens at his teasing tone, and he can see the way he’s withering away your defenses one by one. There was once a time where he’d done it with malicious intent, but this time around, it’s with nothing but good intentions. 

If you asked him, he’d go as far as to swear it on his own grave. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize as if you’d done something wrong, and it makes more than half of his own playfulness drain from his face in absolute displeasure. Before he can so much as open his mouth to scold you about unnecessary apologies, you’re continuing on, “I just… After everything we’ve been through, it’s not something I find particularly joyous to joke about.”

What a rare thing, to have found someone to bare your soul and all your burdens to, and watch them offer to help you shoulder the weight without second thought or regret. 

He’s never met someone like you in all his years, and he might never again. 

“And if I told you I wasn’t joking?” he asks slowly, carefully, trying to choose each word with the utmost care, “I’m not weaponizing – I’m offering.” 

Whenever you’re ready. Just tell me when, and I’m yours.

He was ready. Very, desperately, sorely ready. 

The topic of the reunion is all but forgotten as you process his words, nose twitching as you decipher all that’s he laying out before you. “I want more than an offer.” 

“Excuse me?” 

He can’t help the small laugh that leaves him as he sits up properly, leaning into your space fully now with one hand pressing into the mattress just beside one of your thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from you, smell your blood rushing to your head as you try to be sensible. It’s a pitiful excuse for an internal war; all he has to do is close that conveniently small distance between your lips with his own, and you’ll have lost all sense of logic. 

“You’re…” you trail off, searching his eyes as if he holds the answer you’re currently looking for, “You’re sacred to me, Astarion. You must know that. And it will take much more than some joking offer to convince me to have sex with you when I know-”

“I’m not joking,” he’s nearly whining, letting his forehead fall forward to press to yours, “Gods, I am not joking about this. Cross my heart and hope to die again.” 

If he has to beg, he will. 

He’s spent two hundred years in an insufferable position of pure misery, pure shit, and the realization that he’s finally free has everything clicking into place. Proof of the change exists solely in the fact that he could have resorted to his tired old seduction routine from his life before to get what he wanted, but instead, he’s trying to just communicate. 

It was a novel moment. 

But he could appreciate it later, when the crotch of his pants wasn’t becoming increasingly uncomfortably tight and he wasn’t watching you closer than prey. When his stomach wasn’t so tight with desire and anticipation, just waiting for your word to indulge. 

“Do I need to beg?” he sighs, his lips brushing against yours ever so slightly from proximity. He catches the shiver that runs up your spine. “We both know I’m not particularly fond of it, but if I have to get on my knees for you- well, actually, that’s the entire point of what I’m asking.” 

You laugh at that, and his gut twists again, because it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever had the opportunity to hear. Something more breath than any vocality, something sharp and spelling out the loss of words on your tongue. 

Your silence is enough for him to push it all a step further. Forehead still leaning against yours, he properly presses his lips to yours this time, slotting them between softer than a feather’s caress. Finding home as he can physically feel himself steal your breath away. His fangs just barely nip your bottom lip, unintentionally but still eliciting a delicious reaction of a gasp that makes him graze you a second time just to feel the way you’re leaning into him more, becoming absolute putty in his hands. Pliable for his taking, and Gods, he wants to take you. 

Something snaps. 

All hesitation has vanished as he grabs at your hips quickly, making use of the way your brain has gone blank from a simple kiss in order to lay you out below him. He moves you with ease, incredible speed in slotting himself between your legs before he’s caging your entire body in with his own. The squeak that leaves your lips from his manhandling affects him even more than your gasps had, a low growl shaking his chest as he kisses you deeper. Tasting, begging, searching – he wants this, but he needs to know that you want this just as badly. 

Your hands find purchase on each of his shoulders, squeezing tightly as if needing something to tether yourself to. You pull him in closer for a second, eagerly returning the kiss, almost feverish in the way you drink him in. But the next, you’re pushing him away, a game of want and sensibility still clouding your judgment impossibly. 

You always were stubborn about things like morals. And, well, it wasn’t very moral to just jump right into sex with your traumatized boyfriend who had explicitly said not to view him in terms of sex, was it? 

It was Astarion’s own damn fault. 

He could have just acted like a normal person, initiated a normal conversation in which he renegotiated his boundaries. But you’ve been on his mind all day, and he’s long since proven since the very day that you met him that he has little to none impulse control. 

“My, my,” he murmurs, pulling back from the kiss, eyes wild, looking at you with even more hunger than he had the first night you’d given him a taste of your blood in camp, “You’re just an impossible thing to please, aren’t you? Do you want me near, do you want me far? Tell me, my love, what do you want?” 

He settles all his weight onto one of his forearms as the other slowly brings his hand to your side, caressing over the soft fabric of your shirt – a shirt he’s quickly realizing is actually his own. He recognizes those flowy sleeves, that lacing across the chest, the off-white tone that had seen better days. Given all its wear and tear, he’s almost sure that it’s one of his shirts he had grown most comfortable wearing during the nights of your adventures against the Netherbrain. 

It’s cute. A sort of domesticity that he can ponder over later, when your legs aren’t hanging on his hips and your breaths aren’t coming out staccato as he hovers just out of reach from you. 

“I want whatever you want,” you whisper. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him with pupils so dilated they could swallow him whole. 

“Let me be very clear, then,” he hums, cold fingers creeping their way to the hem of the shirt, slipping beneath with practiced ease to find the smooth skin of your hips below. They dance and skitter up, up, up until he’s brushing against your ribs, “I want you. I want that warm cunt of yours, I want to feel every gasp and breath as your walls squeeze around me. I want to fuck you until you’re unable to walk on your own two legs, until you can only remember my name. I want to watch you come undone, my dear, and for it to be my own undoing.”

Your lips quiver in anticipation, and he feels your thighs tighten their hold on him, “Such pretty words. And… and no ulterior motives? No sense of obligation?” 

“None at all,” he smiles, a predator closing in on his prey, “I’m choosing this. If you want it, if you’ll have me, then I’m ready, pet.” 

Pet. The nickname rolls off his tongue, and he can imagine your walls fluttering just as your eyes do. 

Your hands lift from his shoulders to bury in his hair instead. One cradling the back of his head, the other resting on the nape of his neck as you toy with a snowy curl. It unfurls him further, has him humming lowly as he dips down to recapture your lips and bring you into him even closer. Closer. He needs all and any space between the two of you to become nonexistent. To feel every inch of your skin pressed to his, to allow you to physically curl up into his chest just as you had his mind all those moons ago, to make a home in a room with your name on it already somewhere between his third and fourth rib. 

“Do you really have to doubt if I’ll have you, my love?” you mutter against his mouth, smile breaking the kiss momentarily before he’s back with a vengeance. You don’t care – you’re apparently in a chatty mood, dodging his kiss to get your last words in, “There’s been a space in my heart for you since the moment I first met yo-”

“Yes, yes, very romantic,” he interrupts urgently, suddenly tugging your shirt up, “But, truth be told, love? I’m hoping there’s a space between your legs for me at this moment.” 

You snort, eyes pinched shut as you attempt to shake your head at the ridiculousness of the words that just left his mouth. At any other moment, you might point out how the outrageous comment is just another defense mechanism, veering him away from having to acknowledge the gentle sentiment behind your own words, but now’s not the time. When you open your mouth, probably to say something exactly along those lines, he rolls his hips down against yours, pinning your lower half deep into the mattress. You feel just how hard he is through his trousers – it’s impossible to miss, but he’s deliberating being sure that you feel it as he lets the tips of his fangs sink into your bottom lip. 

The resolve of fighting against his wishes is quickly dissolved. One thing after another, and Astarion has you bare beneath him before any other distractions or annoying conversation can send the two of you further off track. Your, his, shirt is tossed to one side of the room. Your parents fly to the other side of the bed. Only once he has the entire spanse of your body nude and vulnerable to him does he take the time to pause, to look down at you with absolute adoration. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” 

He’s said those words to you a million times before. Consistently greeting you with them, muttering them in the dead of night, whispering them as he kisses you awake. But they never lose their weight. And certainly not now, as he’s looking down at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen that freckle on your chest or the curve of your stomach barren before him. 

“Please, if you’re comfortable with it…” you start, voice laced with desperation, but he shakes his head. 

He’s full of interruptions tonight, “Consider me comfortable with anything unless stated otherwise for this moment, my sweet.” 

“Take off your clothes, Astarion.”

His giddy smile should annoy you. That smug satisfaction in finally, finally getting his way as he undresses himself at almost twice the speed that he had stripped you. And yet he knows you’re enjoying yourself just as much as he is. You’re reveling in drinking in the bare caricatures of his body, every inch and every curve exposed to you just as you are to him. And when his cool skin meets yours again, his body sinking right into that space between your thighs that you’ve granted to him, you let out a short gasp that reminds him that you want this just as badly as he does.

You’ve waited just as long as he has. 

It almost mirrors that night on his grave. The slow descent of his body against yours, the way he slides a leg up to spread your own even further for him as he crawls his way back home to your lips. Unlike that night, however, he isn’t taking quite as much care, his movements far faster and far more needy. 

He’s been waiting long enough. He’s denied himself long enough. 

It really doesn’t matter when the last time he had enjoyed sex had been, because all that he cares about is that here and now, in this moment with you, there’s not a trace of imperfections to taint his enjoyment. 

Cazador is dead. The brain has long since been defeated. You are both safe. 

As he sinks into your heat, the only thing on his mind is that contentment, overwhelmed with the feel and smell of just you. 

He’ll never be a slave again. Never be viewed as something to simply be used and disregarded again, if you have any say. And one day, some day, he’ll even feel the warmth of the sun again. Thanks to you.

But until that day, the warmth of your love is enough.

When you sigh his name out so delicately, jaw all but unhinging itself in bliss as your back arches in reaction to his touches, he knows he’s made the right choice. 

And he supposes he lied, in a way, earlier. 

You’re not that hard to please – not when it comes to him, at least. Not when it’s his hands trailing along your skin, not when it’s his lips and fangs nipping at every opportunity. And certainly not when it’s his name that’s being chanted like a prayer from your lips in time with every thrust, every stroke, every single movement with the sole purpose of making both of you come undone. 

Astarion no longer questions when the last time he enjoyed sex was in the aftermath of it all. With you, pressed into his side, sweaty forehead nuzzling his chest, the only thing he cares about is the next time he’ll be able to do so. 

“We’re still going to that reunion,” you murmur, half asleep, fading away from him quickly to fall into blissful unconsciousness. 

He almost doesn’t breathe in fear of disturbing you. He’ll waste the night away, laying here, still as a statue for your comfort. 

It’s no surprise when he refuses to put up a fight, instead his hand simply drawing soft stars across the back of your bare shoulder blades as he sighs, “Yes, dear. We will. Now sleep.”

“I love you.” 

The words tumble from your lips so carelessly, so easily and without hesitation, he nearly shakes you awake to hear them once more. Again and again, he needs to hear them, to be reassured that you feel for him as ardently as he does you. 

But he has the rest of your forever to hear them. So he lets you sleep, sending you away with a simple press of his lips to your temples as your breathing evens.

“And I love you, my dearest sun.”

[pokimoko]

The fact that Main-verse Ooo is as good and as kind as it is (relative to the other universes shown so far, at least, it's obviously not perfect) all because of the same character that starts off as the OG series' antagonist, the person we were made to see as the bad guy (albeit an often ineffectual one) for several seasons, is making me lose my mind.

Imagine finding out the guy you spent your childhood beating up and saving princesses from is in fact a driving catalyst behind you being able to exist, and not only exist but also live in a world that knows what kindness is. All because that man, the same man who you've witnessed do terrible things, once met a little girl and taught her how to be good.

Simon's story really shows us that even if you lose your way and forget how it is to be good yourself, the world keeps the memory for you. That act of love Simon showed Marcy by protecting her and seeing her as more than the monster she thought herself to be created ripples upon ripples, small at first but eventually enough to help give their wreckage of a world—a world that easily could have been forsaken, its goodness overlooked because of its inhospitable remains—a chance to grow into something beautiful. Because of those very same ripples Simon created, the people of Ooo grew up in a world where they know enough about kindness that they were able and willing to spare the 'bad guy' some, to see beyond the wreckage and allow him to grow too.

In saving Marceline, Simon helped to not only to save the world, but also himself.

[thelonelyempath]

Sick Prompts III

"You feeling okay?"

2. "I literally never get sick. Why is this happening?"

3. "Relax, babe. It's just a cold."

4. "It tastes terrible, I know. But it'll make your fever go down."

5. "I don't think I've ever seen somebody pass out so hard while taking a nap."

6. "Why are your hands so cold?"

7. "You okay? You're never this quiet."

8. "Weren't you sick just last month?"

9. "Come on, baby. It's time to wake up."

10. "Just let me take care of you, okay?"

11. "Your face is white and your hair is a mess, but it's actually pretty cute."

12. "I poked your nose once and it made you sneeze. That's not normal."

13. "This is what happens when you don't sleep."

14. "Bless you."

15. "Do you know where you are and what time it is?"

16. "I made you tea."

17. "I just can't get warm."

18. "Stay here. I'll go get you a blanket."

19. "You look like death."

20. "Can you stay awake for me?"

21. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

22. "You're sick. If you overexert yourself, you're gonna get sicker."

23. "Go back to sleep, honey."

24. "Lightheaded, huh? Perhaps I should carry you to bed."

25. "I don't need to have the heater on when I can just cuddle with you, you human fireplace."

26. "Don't feel bad if you puke this up. At least you tried to keep it down."

27. "I don't care if I get sick. Give me a kiss."

28. "I'll try my best to not sneeze on you."

29. "You have a fever, sweetheart. Of course I'm not going anywhere."

30. "I'm right here if you need anything."

31. "Feeling any better?"

32. "I wish I could make your sick go away."

33. "Here's some medicine, love."

34. "Let me just swim through this ocean of tissues first."

35. "Sit up for me, baby. Just for a second so you can take your medicine."

36. "Don't push yourself so hard. Let me help you."

37. "Go lie down before you pass out."

38. "When were you planning to tell me you were sick?"

39. "Follow my finger."

40. "Sick cuddles are the best."

[txmxkis]

can't take my eyes off you

pairing. kuroo tetsurou x gn!reader

genre. fluff

wc. 1236........

warnings. HIGHLY self indulgent as usual, basically self ship coded but hopefully still entertaining and relatable, reader has confidence/self worth issues, sappy af, almost certainly has grammar mistakes

a/n. based on me hating being photographed irl. also why is writing so fun but so scary. TENSES ARE SO HARD

“tetsurou. if you take one more goddamn picture of me, i swear i’ll—"

the sound of his phone camera capturing a picture cuts you off mid sentence, followed immediately by your huff of frustration.

"you'll what, hmm? you don't scare me."

he flashed you a big cheesy grin, all the while still pointing the camera at you. you scowl at him, ready to risk it all and attempt a lunge at his phone in order to stop this madness.

you hated having your picture taken and he knew it, but for some reason he chose to ignore that fact, as if possessed by the need to piss you off. he could be really good at that when he wanted to be.

as soon as you initiated your plan of attack, your hand getting tantalizingly close to the offending device, he pulled it just out of reach. hopelessly, you flopped back onto the bed, groaning in frustration.

“why do you hate me."

“now now. would my camera roll be full of someone i hate?"

“if you were planning to kill me, yea. besides, i dont think having hideous pictures of me is exactly helping your argument.”

he just rolled his eyes in response.

you heard the shutter sound once more while your defenses were down. the last straw.

before he had time to react, you grabbed the nearest blanket and covered your head with it, holding on tightly so that he couldn't expose you to humiliation all over again. you probably had a better chance of ruining his plans by hiding than by trying to overpower him anyway.

“hey! get back here!"

his attempts to uncover you were met with shrieks of protest and a tightened clutch on the blanket. not to mention a few wild jabs of your limbs into the air, which if he hadn't so skillfully dodged, might have hurt just a little.

“fine. time for me to look through these and admire the fruits of my labor."

you cringed at the thought of how the pictures looked. how you looked. most of them were probably blurry anyways because of the thrashing that you were doing to escape the lense, thank god.

maybe you could persuade him to get rid of them. maybe you could sneak into his phone later and delete them yourself. maybe—

“you're beautiful, you know."

all thoughts of treachery came to a screeching halt. after sitting there with your mouth open in shock for a good few seconds, you shook your head, moving the blanket with it.

“nuh uh."

“yuh huh."

“nope."

“without doubt."

his tone of finality made you want to scream your throat sore, but instead you lay there quietly, silently disagreeing with him again.

it was relatively quiet for far too long after that, with quiet cackles drifting over from the other side of the bed being the only sound you could hear from underneath your shield. presumably brought on by pictures that were extra stupid. not to mention revolting.

your thoughts were spiralling right along with your mood now, eyes almost welling up with tears, but you stubbornly pushed them back. it seemed ridiculous to get this worked up over something that wasn't necessarily that serious. kuroo was just trying to be playful and you knew that. it was hard not to feel this way, though, especially when it came to something that was such a big insecurity.

he sighed loudly, snapping you out of your head momentarily.

“can you please come out from under there? i swear the camera's not open. i put the phone down and everything.”

“liar."

“am not! i just wanna see your pretty face with my own eyes now."

you grumbled a weak protest before relenting.

“fine. but i swear if you—"

“would you just hurry up already."

“oh my god, alright."

you slowly pulled the blanket from your face, and you could see that he was telling the truth. for now at least. he was lying there right next to you, already staring, as if straight into your soul. god, you wanted to shrivel up and disappear immediately.

“it's rude to stare, you know."

“don’t care."

you felt so awkward and exposed, and the only thought in your mind now was getting out of this conversation.

you started to try and untangle yourself from the blankets and get up out of the bed, only to feel your own arm being pulled out from under you. falling back next to kuroo, you covered your face and made a noise of frustration.

the first thing you saw after pulling your hands from your face again were those amber eyes still fixed on you, a slight grin on that smackable face.

“ummmm, hello? can I leave?"

he shrugged.

“you can do whatever you want."

you tried to sit up and leave again, only to be pulled right back down next to him a second time.

“i- what's happening right now?”

“good question. i changed my mind, you don't get to leave anymore.”

you masked your face with a deadpan expression, only because you were desperately trying to avoid giving him the satisfaction of seeing you crack a smile.

“are you serious right now?"

“as the plague."

at that, you couldn't help but snort.

“and why is it that you're trapping me here?"

“i decided that you have to lie here and listen to me tell you why you're amazing."

“yea, sure, whatever you say."

“i really can make you a list if you want. although i think it would take less time to make a list of reasons why i don't like you."

“i pick that one."

“ha! nice try. hmm, now let's see... you're endlessly stubborn. quiet and standoffish with most people.”

you raised an eyebrow. maybe this wouldn't be so difficult after all.

“though still kind to everyone who deserves it. alluring. determined. passionate even when it's hard. you care so much that it's scary sometimes. ”

you avoided eye contact. okay. at this point you were starting to feel far too exposed again.

"you try way too hard to keep people at arm's length, but if they're lucky enough to be loved by you, they're taken care of whenever, wherever. you're smart, even if you don't think it's true. stunning as well as irresistible.”

when he said that, he caressed your cheek while you basically became one with the mattress.

“and so independent that it feels like you don't need me around sometimes. but also soft and gentle and giving.”

his voice had dropped almost to a whisper when he spoke those last words. at this point, your face was nearly burning off. you were almost sure that he could feel the heat radiating from you.

“okay, okay—"

“and, oh yea, did i mention beautiful? enough to be my wallpaper."

he picked up his phone and flashed it at you, a slightly blurry picture from not twenty minutes before illuminating the screen. you could tell he was proud of himself from the smug grin stretched across his face.

“you're an ass."

“come onnnnn, you love me, admit it.“

right then, your chest swelled with affection for him, so much that it felt like you could suffocate. still, you paused just long enough for him to start acting offended, before smiling softly and speaking quietly.

“yea, i really do. thank you, tetsurou.”

thank you for reading! <3 — txmxkis

[flowercrowngods]

yes yes robin or eddie teaching steve about bisexuality that’s all good but consider!! steve talking to mike and explaining to him that sometimes people just like boys and girls, and that it’s okay. steve coming out to mike, telling him that he’s, like, kinda sorta dating eddie munson, and that that doesn’t mean he never loved nancy.

and then mike — prickly, ten walls around his heart, snarky comment on his tongue even when no one’s around, suppressed, confused, kinda scared, super in love with will — wheeler has a first, very tentative coming out. to steve harrington, of all people. and maybe that’s okay.

update: theres a fic now

[tealquacks]

Secret Ingredient

Written for Arcane Halloweek 2022! The prompt is Curse

@fandom-events

Warnings for cannibalism, gore, blood, etc. Read it either here or at Archive of Our Own

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42626889

Enjoy!

Hunger was its own curse. Viktor knew that, his life in Zaun making him well acquainted with the feeling, the gnawing in his gut that refused to be quenched. People had their ways around it. Drinking, chewing mint, and simply ignoring it. Viktor’s family did the same. By the time he’d finally made it to Piltover, hunger was an old, hated friend. No matter what he ate, nothing made him feel full. Back in Zaun, the food must’ve been different, he concluded, thinking about the rare occasions his mother would come home with an armful of fresh, red meat. Pork, by the taste of it. He’d eaten pork in Piltover, though, and it did nothing.

It took years of not feeling full, his health slowly deteriorating, for him to realize what was happening. Looking through his mother’s old letters opened the curtains, exposing the truth. The nights with his family, eating thick stew that stuck to his bones like growing mold were now stained dark red. Viktor brushed his hand over his prominent ribs. He almost wished he didn’t know, that he’d never read those letters. Not knowing would’ve let him die in peace. The meat wasn’t pork.

Cannibalism, it seemed, had a curse attached to it. Another layer to the divine comedy that was Viktor’s life. He couldn't blame his mother, though. He’d never blame her. She was simply doing what she believed would save her family, unaware of whatever consequences eating human meat had. 

Which raised an important question.

His ribs had started looking less prominent. Even as he brushed his fingers over them, there was a thin layer of fat over them. More than he used to have. He felt more energetic than he ever had while in Piltover. His teeth even looked better, strong and sharp. By itself, that fact was strange enough to keep Viktor awake, prodding at his body and wondering what he’d done differently. Maybe the curse he’d read about had lifted. No books mentioned it lifting, though, which worried him.

Even stranger, Jayce had been cooking for him almost every single day. It wasn’t uncommon for Jayce to make meals for him or offer to share his food, but now he showed up to the lab with food every single day. Whenever Viktor asked what he made it with, Jayce smiled.

“The secret ingredient is love.”

Every time Jayce said that, it made his heart flutter and his face flush. It didn’t do anything to sate Viktor’s curiosity. So when Jayce said he was going to be staying late that night, Viktor lingered in front of the closed door, listening in. He heard the shuffle of papers. The scrape of metal. Jayce grunting with effort. Normal noises. Viktor stood by the door, trying to hear inside. There wasn’t anything peculiar. 

That is, until the scent of blood wafted through the door, thick and inviting. Viktor salivated at the scent, hind brain lighting up with hunger. He opened the door, stepping into the lab, and froze. 

Jayce stood in front of the Hexcore, only in his underwear. His back glistened with sweat, the powerful muscles flexing as he raised his arm. Viktor flushed as he took in the scene before him. One arm laid flat on the table. The other held a heavy backed knife in his hand. 

“Jayce!” Viktor exclaimed. 

Jayce flinched and whirled around. Viktor gasped.

Jayce’s arm had been torn up with the knife, a few strips of bloodied meat next to him. He wasn’t bleeding profusely, but his arm still drip, drip, dripped with blood in a way that made Viktor’s stomach rumble. His thick, muscular thigh had a few small slices on it as well, as if he was considering starting to hack it up as well. His handsome face had a few spatters of blood covering it, like little rubies. Viktor stared. 

“Oh my god, Jayce, what are you doing?!?”

Jayce had the audacity to smile nervously at him. He wiped the last bit of blood off his face with his good hand. Viktor gawked at him, shaking all over. 

“I’ll be fine if that’s what you're worried about! I can fix myself up with the hexcore, just like you showed me.”

“Why?”

Jayce flushed. 

“Because, uh, going around with my arm like this would probably worry Sky,” he responded. He said it as plain as ever, as if he wasn’t covered in blood and holding a knife. 

“Aren’t you in pain?”

“I used a local sedative. I’m fine.”

Viktor stepped closer. Jayce stood still with a tiny smile on his face. Like a proud kitten clutching a bird in his teeth. His arm had been stripped of its meat, and from where he’d started carving, it was clear he was intending to start hacking into his thigh for more meat. Viktor salivated at the thought. Meat. Thick slabs of fresh meat. 

He blinked, clearing the thoughts from his mind. He stepped back, overtaken by disgust. 

“I needed to do this, Viktor,” Jayce explained. Viktor huffed.

“That doesn’t excuse the fact you… You’re butchering yourself! as we speak! And— and…” Viktor’s eyes widened slowly, “this wasn’t the first time, was it?

Jayce shook his head slowly. He stepped towards Viktor with a dripping hand extended, as if trying to calm a wounded animal.

“No, I’ll admit that. It wasn’t the first time. The first time was a bit of a mess, honestly. I almost hired someone to do it, but then figured that it would probably end up in the papers. So I… did it myself. I hacked a little bit off. I just took a piece at first. From my stomach. I rendered the fat down and cooked your food with it. The way you lit up, scarfed everything down— I knew I could save you. But man can’t live on fat alone. You needed meat so you could get better, and that’s what I got you. Meat!” Viktor’s eyes traced over Jayce’s bloodied body, then the flesh on the table. He stared at Jayce. His bloodied hand. If he turned his arm right, Viktor would probably catch a glimpse of his ivory bones. He salivated. Wiped his mouth. 

“Jayce, you’ve eaten meals with me. You’ve eaten the same food as me.”

Jayce gave an awkward little laugh. How he managed to look just as charming as usual– hell, even more charming, was beyond him.

“Honestly? It was an accident at first. I’d taste the food before I gave it to you to make sure it was seasoned properly. Then I remembered the whole… meat curse thing. But now? I have to eat at least a little. And I always have access to it. Oh! You can even substitute blood for eggs, so I used it to bake for you.”

“How did you know?”

Jayce laughed softly, rolling his eyes.

“You checked out all those books about cannibalism and curses, Viktor. I’m nice, not stupid.”

“You’re not very kind to yourself,” Viktor snarled.

“This is just temporary, until we can figure out something better.”

Viktor sighed. He looked Jayce up and down. He’d been eating him.

“Why? Why would you hack yourself up?”

Jayce tilted his head. 

“It’s better than killing people, I guess?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Viktor growled, “why would you do this, all of this?”

“I did it for you.”

“What, so I could stick around and keep helping you with Hextech?”

“It’s not just about hextech, Viktor.”

“Then what is it about?”

Jayce flushed. He turned his back on Viktor, and sat down in his chair. His thigh dripped blood in thin, dark rivulets. 

“Ever since you saved me… I was so alone, Viktor. You’re my favorite person. I don’t know where I’d be without you, not just with hextech, but in general. The pain of this doesn’t matter. Losing you would hurt more.”

Viktor’s face softened.

“…Jayce—“

“What I’m trying to say is that I love you, Viktor. That I’m in love with you.”

Viktor’s eyes went wide. 

“I love you too. Which is why I can’t… I…”

“You don’t want to see me in pain. I don’t mind it, Viktor. I really don’t. At least until we can come up with a better solution, I don’t mind having to use the hexcore.”

“Jayce…”

“This isn’t your fault. I did it for you, because I love you and I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to be hungry, Viktor.”

Viktor stared at Jayce. His bleeding arm. All the words he wanted to say, about how Jayce saved him too, how he never knew someone he clicked with like a joint, were smothered with the ravenous urge to bury his face into Jayce. Jayce seemed to notice. He sat up straight in the chair, smiling softly at Viktor. He raised his arm, the bleeding one. Viktor could see the fat and straining muscle. He shook. They’d find another way to get Viktor food, certainly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy what he had in front of him. Jayce noticed him staring.

“Go ahead, honey. I know you’re hungry.”

Viktor moved without thinking. He crossed the room and almost threw himself into Jayce’s lap. A bit of blood soaked into his pants from the slices in his thigh. Viktor didn’t care. He reverently took Jayce’s arm, the mangled one, in his shaking hands. He trailed his tongue up Jayce’s arm. The taste of blood, thick and rich on his tongue sent a shiver down his spine. His teeth ghosted against Jayce, and he gasped beneath him as Viktor bared his teeth, and bit a chunk out of Jayce’s arm. Jayce let out a pained groan, but all Viktor could focus on was the hot blood and meat filling his mouth, chewing at the flesh so lovingly offered to him. Jayce’s hand settled heavily on his head, fingers running through his hair as Viktor bit and ate his fill. Viktor swallowed heavily, then stared up at Jayce. Jayce looked blissed out, staring down at him.

“Do I have something on my face?” Viktor joked. Jayce laughed breathily. Viktor ghosted his fingers up to Jayce’s throat. Jayce let his head roll back. Viktor pressed his fingers against Jayce’s pulse point. His heart pounded quickly. Viktor moved his hand back, cupping Jayce’s head in his hand. Jayce smiled. He tipped his head back up.

“Enjoying your meal?”

Viktor smiled, dazed.

“Very much so.”

Jayce wrapped his fingers in Viktor’s hair. He stared at his bloody lips. He pressed their lips together. The taste of blood lingered thick between them. Viktor hummed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Jayce. Jayce pulled slightly at his hair, and Viktor bit Jayce’s lip hard enough to bleed, lapping eagerly at the cut, the taste of blood renewed. After what seemed like years, they pulled apart. Viktor felt himself drooling blood down his shirt. He couldn’t bring himself to care, gazing at Jayce like he’d hung all the stars.

“Shit, that was… you taste really good. Is that weird to say?”

Jayce laughed. He knocked their foreheads together.

“I think everything about this is weird, and I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

Viktor hummed.

“The secret ingredient is love,” Jayce whispered. Viktor snorted with laughter. He kissed Jayce again, slow and deep. One day they’d find another way, surely. But for now, all that mattered was the taste of Jayce’s blood in his lips, teeth grazing hungrily at the body of the man he loved. 

Maybe it wasn’t a curse after all.

[denimshortsdean]

sometimes i think about how many fan works there are for spn and I get a little bit upset because I'll probably never see it all and I just want to love on the fan work as much as I can. Like what do you MEAN you made this yourself just because you love the show/characters that much, that is the most beautiful thing you could possibly do!!

[python333]

task force 141 reacting to [reader] telling them corny jokes during a mission — python333

— — — —

synopsis just as the title says, tf141 reacts to you telling them some corny dad jokes during a mission!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], bad jokes.

note ME AND MY 23 FOLLOWERS ARE STRAIGHT CHILLING RN. i love all of u. anyway gaz is in this one!! yippee!! i thought about ghost and his jokes in that one part of one of the cod games idk ive never played them i watch other people play it but you guys know what im talking about. i also just figured out that i should probably specify gender neutral reader for my fics?? so i'll start doing that! ANYWAY enjoy!! this is all fluff and has some classic tired parent & hyper toddler energy in the first part :}

JOHN “BRAVO SIX” PRICE

➥ insert exasperated sigh here.

➥ he will let you keep telling him jokes, however he will only respond to them with a simple, tired, “Uh huh. Good one. Very funny. Nice one.”

➥ tired dad energy.

➥ the first one you told was okay. he laughed at that one. the tenth one? please, god, just stop talking and put him out of his misery.

➥ he wonders how you know so many jokes, and then wonders if you got them all from ghost.

➥ if you did get them from ghost, trust that he will be telling the man himself all about how you constantly told him bad jokes over comms.

➥ if you just happen to know all of these, he won’t be surprised.

➥ he’ll put up with all of the jokes, for your sake, of course.

➥ the first time this happens, you’re both on a pretty insignificant mission compared to other ones you’ve done.

➥ you’re both talking over comms, just making sure you’re both okay.

➥ that’s when you started your attack.

—

“Captain?” You’d asked, listening as Price hummed in acknowledgment of you talking, “Wanna hear a joke?”

You could practically hear his hesitation, before he responded with a tentative, almost scared, “... Sure, [c/n].”

A delighted grin split across your face as you asked him, “How does dry skin affect you at work?”

He thought for a moment before asking, “How?”

“You don’t have any elbow grease to put into it.” You heard Price give a small chuckle, and decided to ask, “Wanna hear another one?”

Price’s second mistake of the evening, “Sure.”

“Where do boats go when they’re sick?” You asked, still keeping a lookout on your surroundings on your end while focusing on telling your Captain shitty jokes.

“Where?” Price asked.

“To the boat doc.” It took Price a moment, before he huffed out a small laugh and muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “Jesus, that’s terrible.”

Without warning, you tell him another one. He asks why, when, how, or what, whichever was appropriate for the joke you told, and slowly but surely his questioning tone became tired and exasperated. You don’t know why, but somehow his miserable tone made you even more motivated to tell him corny jokes.

“Do you just… memorize all of these?” Price asked in the middle of you telling a new joke, sounding almost astonished.

“Yes I do. Just for these missions, I do,” You answered confidently, smiling when Price sighed. You continued on with your joke, and even though Price didn’t respond verbally, you still told the punch line. You had repeated this for at least ten minutes, all of those minutes appallingly slow to Price, the poor man having to endure your bullshit for such a short yet such a long time. At the tenth minute, the only thing that stopped you from continuing was Gaz’s voice coming on over comms and interrupting you, telling everyone else on the mission that they could head back to the rendezvous point. Price, relieved at the interruption, gave a thankful sigh and you could hear him getting up from his spot before he muted himself.

You sighed as well, yours a direct opposite of Prices, full of disappointment, but you let it go. Besides, you’ll always have more opportunities to terrorize Price with your jokes on the ride back to base!

—

JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

➥ he has the same reaction he had with ghost telling him corny jokes.

➥ he’ll call your jokes terrible, but will still laugh at them somehow.

➥ will 100% put up with your jokes, will laugh every time, even if his laughter slowly becomes more and more strained, he’ll laugh.

➥ tells you some jokes back, but after your 4th joke, he gives up and accepts his fate.

➥ he will suffer for your entertainment, guaranteed.

➥ he will be sure to remind you of how terrible your jokes are though!!

➥ he’s honestly impressed by how many jokes you’ve memorized.

➥ he’ll happily support you doing this to other people, no matter how much it damages his soul when you do it to him.

➥ the first time you do it to him, he starts getting deja vu from when ghost did it to him.

➥ “Oh, God, no’ ye too,” he’d groan playfully the moment you start telling him jokes, getting flashbacks.

➥ enjoys your jokes, even if he would do anything for you to shut up, he still enjoys them.

—

You and Soap were camping out in the same spot—atop a roof of a tall building that was just tall enough to give you a view of practically every other building in the area as well as the ground. It was cold up there, the air so cold that every time you’d exhaled, your breath turned to white condensation before fading into the clear sky.

It was fair to say that you and Soap were fairly bothered by the cold, so you really had no other option, you just had to start telling your jokes. How else could you warm the both of you up? Sure, it wouldn’t do anything physically, but mentally? It was sure to practically melt Soap’s brain.

“Soap?” Soap hummed and looked over at you, “Wanna hear a joke?”

Soap smiled, and decided to humor you, “Sure. Joke ‘way.”

“Why couldn’t the bike stand up by itself?” You asked, turning fully towards Soap. He didn’t bother to think before asking, “Why?”

“Because it was two-tired.” It took him a moment, but eventually he huffed out a small laugh and nodded.

“No’ bad,” He’d hummed, “Want me to say one?”

“Go ahead.”

“How did vikings communicate with one another?” Soap asked, turning fully towards you in turn.

“How?”

“By Norse code,” Soap had said with a grin on his face, clearly proud of the joke. You laughed quietly at it.

Without asking, you tell another joke. “Why did the bed wear a disguise?”

“Why?”

“It was undercover.”

Soap chuckled and turned back down to the ground, assuming you were done. But, oh boy, did he assume wrong. You told another one. He asked for the punchline. You delivered. You told another. He asked again. You delivered, again. Can you recall just how many jokes you told that fateful night? No. Does that make the memory any less funny to look back on? No.

Soap’s expression slowly turned to one of misery, his laughter becoming strained and slowly coming to a stop, the light in his eyes fading away as God himself seemed to appear behind you and reassure him that it would all be over soon. God, how he wished that were true.

Soon enough, you were both told over comms that you were able to safely make it back to the rendezvous point, and Soap couldn’t be happier.

He let you tell him more jokes during the walk over there, of course, and made sure to tell you how awful they were, but still endured them for your sake.

—

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

➥ it’s like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life.

➥ he’ll put up with your jokes and will tell you a joke back every single time.

➥ at some point you guys will probably use a joke on each other that the other one told you.

➥ he actively enjoys the joke-telling.

➥ he probably tells the first joke and that’s what triggers you to tell him your own.

➥ he’s annoyed soap, gaz, price, and a few others with his jokes, yet you’re the first one to go back and forth with him.

➥ every time you tell him one he’ll make a mental note of it and remember it for annoying people on future missions.

➥ probably thinks some of the jokes are genuinely funny but still knows that it annoys people.

➥ if you tell him a corny joke related to ghosts, he’ll probably laugh more.

➥ i am aware that that is pretty corny in itself but look at the title man what did you expect.

➥ he’ll probably tell some jokes about your [c/n] to you back.

➥ he’ll know when you’re reusing a joke and calls you out on it.

➥ “Does this require more creativity than you expected, [c/n]?”

➥ [in a perfect imitation of matpat’s voice] i find his jokes delightful! [in regular voice, now whispering as if scared i’m going to get caught by ghost saying this] i’m lying. he’s my fictional father figure so i am very much obligated to enjoy his jokes.

—

”[c/n], how copy?” You heard Ghost’s voice crackle through over comms, and pushed the PTT button on your small ear piece to respond.

“Copy, doing just fine,” You responded, “Little bored, if I’m gonna be honest.”

“Oh really?” Ghost breathed out, sounding amused. You could hear some gunfire on his end, and the wind his his earpiece making the annoying whoosh noise you hated. Just a few moments later, Ghost spoke up again, “Y’wanna hear a joke to ease your boredom?”

“Sure,” You’d hummed, looking around to make sure you were still safe to just stay where you were and chat for a moment.

“What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back?” Ghost asked, his voice dry and sarcastic. You thought for a moment before shrugging—even though he couldn’t see you—and asking, “What?”

“A stick.” Ghost delivered. The stupid joke made you huff out a small laugh and mutter under your breath something about how good it was, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could practically hear Ghost’s self-satisfied smile.

“Another?” Ghost offered.

“How about I tell one?”

“Alright. Go ‘head.”

“How do ghosts stay in shape?” You asked, listening to Ghost’s amused huff on the other end of the line, like he knew where you were going with the joke but decided not to say the punch line for you.

“How?”

“They exorcize,” You responded, grinning, proud of yourself for thinking of that one.

“That’s not bad,” Ghost hummed, “Not bad at all.”

Ghost stayed quiet for another moment before asking, “Where do fish keep their money?”

“Where?”

“In a river bank,” Ghost said, his smile almost audible in his words.

“Nice one, L.t,” You breathed out, laughing quietly.

“We could do this all night,” Ghost mused, oddly happy at the sound of your quiet laughter, a little rustling audible on his end.

“Is that a challenge?” You asked in response to his musings, to which Ghost responds with a simple, affirmative hum. You think for a moment, before asking, “Why can’t a leopard hide?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s always spotted.”

Ghost hummed, mentally writing that one down before asking, “Why did the scarecrow get an award?”

“Why?”

“Because he was outstanding in his field,” Ghost delivered. With each joke you cringed more, and yet you kept responding with the same bullshit. The two of you went back and forth with the shitty jokes, eliciting responses from each other like, “That’s a good one,” or, “God, that’s awful.” It really had no in between, it was one or the other.

Eventually, and just in time because you were beginning to run out of jokes, Price’s voice crackled through over comms, letting you both know that everything was now under control and gave you both the coordinates for the rendezvous point. Before you get up from your spot, you can hear Ghost asking Price, “Wanna hear a joke?”, and Price’s quick response of, “I’m good”, the quick interaction making you laugh quietly.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on,” You muttered, voice full of amusement.

“Damn right he doesn’t,” Ghost huffed out, chuckling quietly when Price groaned and muted himself.

—

KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK

➥ he just gives up and accepts his fate.

➥ i’m actually in full belief that he’ll just let you tell jokes and won’t even respond.

➥ if y’all are in the same spot, he’ll just stare at you in astonished silence, wondering how you know all of this and also wondering if he’ll make it out of this alive.

➥ i think he’s lovely, i also think that he would just let you do whatever.

➥ it’s like an older brother participating in his younger sibling’s tea party with their stuffed animals and bright pink plastic tea cups and fake tea.

➥ he considers taking out his earpiece but then realizes that that’s a bad idea so he just suffers through it.

➥ surprisingly, it’s easy to focus on his tasks even with your voice in the background.

➥ he’s only heard of ghost’s shitty jokes, and thinks that this might be worse, somehow.

➥ i mean, it’s not like he can’t ignore it, but he feels kind of bad that he does.

➥ he hums every now and then to remind you that he’s listening but he’s too caught up in pretending to listen to actually listen.

➥ when the mission’s over and you eventually stop telling your jokes he realizes how quiet it is without your voice in the background laughing at your own jokes.

—

“Why do bees have sticky hair?” You asked, this being about your twentieth joke of that evening. Gaz hummed in response, tone questioning, and you delivered the punch line, “Because they use a honeycomb.”

Gaz didn’t pay much attention to any of your punchlines, really just letting you get all of this out of your system, figuring that if you didn’t do it now it’d happen to some poor soul later. He accepted his fate early on, the moment you told your third dad joke, he knew it wouldn’t end. Call it a sixth sense of his, knowing when you’d be persistent in your quest to annoy every member of the 141, but he just knew.

“Where do surfers learn to surf?” You asked, giggling quietly at your own joke, despite the punchline being stupid. Gaz didn’t even respond, yet you still delivered, “At boarding school.”

Gaz considers taking his earpiece out for a moment, then thinks again and decides it’s probably better not to, knowing Price’s voice could crackle through into the earpiece and let you both know to head to the rendezvous point. Sighing quietly, he continued to look around him, scanning the area as he walked around, making sure no enemies were left alive. Your voice still hummed in the background, the sound becoming more normal to him and less distracting.

“Why did the tourists feel disappointed after seeing the Liberty Bell?” No response from Gaz. “Because it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

“What do rabbits need after getting caught in the rain?” A small, questioning hum. “A hare dryer.”

You continued to tell your jokes, and in the middle of one, Gaz interrupted.

“Y’know,” He started, “If you didn’t already have a call sign, we’d be calling you Jester.”

“I’d love to go by Jester,” You laughed quietly, lightly, “I feel like it’d be more fitting.”

“Probably, yeah,” Gaz chuckled quietly, about to say something else before Price’s voice came through over comms and let you both know to head over to the rendezvous point. After you stop telling your jokes and mute yourself, Gaz can’t help but notice how quiet it becomes.

He got a bit too used to your voice, it seems. He muted himself and sighed, pulling up the coordinates to the rendezvous point and heading over there.

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Tom!Peter Parker x Reader | Headcannons + Oneshot

A/N: I don't know how to write confession scenes, (I'm a hopeless romantic if you remove the 'romantic' part because I've had no experiences with romance) but I tried my best.

Peter is a hopeless romantic.

He'd always steal glances at you whenever you were in class, turning away when his spidey senses told him that you noticed him.

He had a whole list of date ideas if the moment ever came.

Peter knew that it may not happen, but he still liked to update the list whenever he saw a cool place where he could take you.

If he wasn't going to use it, he could always give some of the places to Ned if he needed them, but he mostly kept them to himself.

Especially any places little people knew about.

10/10 thinks of scenarios that would most likely never happen (not unless one of you actually make the first move)

When he does confesses, he has everything planned out.

Sitting down next to him, he lifts his hand to the sun, checking how many fingers fit under the it to give him a rough estimate of something.

“5 more minutes until the sun sets,” He breathed out.

How he knew this was beyond you.

Perhaps he learnt it whilst being in extension something?

Yeah that’s definitely it.

He flicks his gaze at you. He had come here early to make sure the two of you didn’t miss the sunset.

This had to be perfect.

The silence between the two of you was comfortable as you gazed at the waters, the warm oranges of the sun being reflected below.

Hearing Peter sigh, he shifted closer, not enough to invade your personal space, but still closer.

It wasn’t long before the sky was painted with vibrant pinks and oranges,

"There's been something-"

Peter pauses, closing his eyes he lets out a soft exhale, trying to pull himself together before opening them, his chocolate ones meeting your vibrant ones.

"I've wanted to tell you something."

You couldn't help but stare at him, the warm tones of the sunset kissing his face, making him look like an angel sent from above.

With the amount of lives he's saved, he might aswell be one.

He holds your gaze, taking something out of his pocket, only glancing away as it almost slips from his hand.

You freeze as you watch him quickly snatch the object, not giving you any time to process what it is. You've always known his reaction speed was quick and sometimes you swore that he wasn't human.

"I- It's-"

He stammers a bit, his awkward personality seeping back in as he looks at the sunset, only sneaking a glance when you follow his gaze towards the blazing star.

"It's okay if you don't feel the same, but-"

Another deep breath escaped his lips. His chocolate doe eyes meeting your gaze as he fidgets with the object in his hand.

Taking your hand in his, he turns it so the palm is facing up and places the object in his hands into yours.

Closing your hand, his eyes flicker to the object, which you could feel is packaged in something,

"I like you- I've liked you for a while now, and- are you free this Saturday,? We could go to that one Cafe you always talk about-"

[lyn-ne]

teehee dystopian aus are my favorite