once again thinking about how deep down naruto was still so angry at konoha and how he didn’t really like the villagers and how he knew the sudden admiration they had for him was fake and that he was just being used and he couldn’t trust them etc.. and when confronted with his OWN negative feelings against the village and the people he did nothing but say “i have to be the man they have faith in” aka i have to be what they want me to be even if they’re using me… because naruto’s biggest fear is loneliness and being hated again and he’d literally rather swallow down his trauma (which his other side had just described as torture) than risk losing the attention he had even if wasnt genuine ¿¿??? that kid is so mentally unwell. and the waterfall of truth scene tries to paint this interaction as some sort of closure but denial isnt closure its just fucking denial omg… and for all we know deep inside naruto will always be that lonely traumatized hurt child who’s trying desperately to prove how he isn’t worthless or a nuisance and how he can be of some use bc he never acknowledged his pain
hey so what if. curly thought that his favourite crewmate was at least a little experienced and then found out that they actually haven't even kissed before. like maybe if he overheard daisuke making fun of them for it. what then 👁️
ship. captain grant mccurley x reader
content. power imbalance, curly calls you kiddo but you aren’t his kid
“You’ve really never kissed anyone before?”
This was not the type of late night conversation you expected to be having with your fucking boss, but alas, the stars aligned and hexed you stupid, it seems. Curly’s blue eyes practically glow despite the dim lighting in the common room, peering at you with gentle amusement.
You shift in your seat. Suddenly the couch isn’t comfortable anymore.
“No…being on hauls back to back doesn’t give me much time to date and stuff…”
You answer, scrambling for any sort of excuse. It’s genuinely embarrassing. Why has someone your age never kissed anyone yet? Ridiculous. Now Curly probably really thinks you’re some fucking kid.
“I know, it’s weird. Daisuke already made fun of me enough, so please…just drop it.”
The blonde chuckles—deep and gravely as it rolls in his chest. He’s an insomniac, but he still gets that sexy ‘just woke up’ tone this late in the evening.
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s cute, really. Someone your age still being so pure…that’s rare.”
That familiar feeling of heat starts to burn your cheeks. Oh God. It’s not just from embarrassment anymore. Curly finding it cute…it makes you wanna explode.
“Seriously? You don’t think I’m, like, weird?”
Of course he wouldn’t. Curly’s your captain. Confidant. Friend. At least that’s what he’s made himself out to be. This pseudo-fatherly figure that you can always rely on. The one that’s there for you. Takes care of you.
He shakes his head.
“Not at all.”
His hand’s on your knee.
“Were you waiting for someone special? I mean, a first kiss is a big milestone,”
It’s moving up your thigh. You don’t question it. It’s Curly. He can touch you like this. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s comforting you.
You consider his question. Were you waiting for someone special? Or had you been so consumed in work you just never had the time to grow outside of pursuing your career? It’s probably a mix of both. Curly’s been at this job for over a decade, yet he’s definitely managed to kiss a plethora of people. And with a body like that, you bet he even has quite a few notches on his bedpost too.
Would he want to add another?
That thought’s admonished when he gives the fat of your thigh a squeeze. You swallow, but your throat’s dry.
“I mean…I guess.” His gaze pierces through you, causing a shiver to run down your spine. The boring screen full of stars is now quite interesting.
“I just, I don’t know, I—“
“I can show you how to kiss.” It’s offered as casually as a handshake. “So you know what to do when you find the right one.”
This isn’t something a captain should offer his subordinate. Nevertheless, one that affectionately refers to you as kiddo. You’ve called him dad before, either on accident or on purpose—that you aren’t sure. There’s layers of nuance to this situation that makes it inherently wrong. But it’s dangled in front of you like a treat.
“Really…?”
Obedient as ever, you take it despite the risks.
Aren’t you well trained?
But what else is he for? If not to teach you, his favorite crewmate, his sweet little kiddo, everything they need to know to succeed?
“Of course.”
The hint of Southern drawl in his sultry tone is enough to rid your inhibitions. You’re drawn to the soft, pink curve of his lip as he leans forward. Your chin’s gently cradled by his index finger and thumb, the callouses on them now hyperaware to your senses.
“It’s easy.” His eyes lock on yours. “You just close your eyes, then pucker your lips.”
You try to follow these instructions, prompting a laugh from Curly.
“Cute. But try to relax, okay?”
It’s hard. You feel his breath on your lips, and it makes you shake like a leaf. He’s so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating off his body.
Curly’s lips touch yours. It’s soft. For such a large, imposing man, the kiss is chaste and sweet. There’s so much care put into the gesture, a testament to Curly’s personality. A shock runs through you, but you find yourself easing into the kiss and relaxing.
His other hand, the one not perched on your thigh and kneading the flesh, moves to cradle the back of your head. This feels like a fantasy. How you’d imagine a leading man would kiss the object of his desire. So much passion exists in such a tiny gesture, your heart feels like it’s going to pop in your chest.
And then, it’s over. When his body moves from yours, you still feel in a daze. Your heavy eyelids open slowly to be met with Curly’s half-lidded ones. He’s close enough you could count his golden lashes if you wanted.
“See? Nothin’ to it, right?”
Curly’s beaming. And even more obnoxiously, the simulated moonlight is highlighting his masculine features in all the right areas. You’re starting to feel dizzy.
Curly’s thumb graces your bottom lip.
“With a little more practice, you’re sure to be a natural.”
childhood friends who became family, who blurred the lines of sibling-tight bonds and something softer, sharper, and more yearning — it's a trope that feels like sitting in the quiet hum of a summer evening when the sun lingers too long on the horizon. because the truth of it is: nothing lingers forever. and you both know that, but you’ll still talk about the old days like maybe you can bring them back. like maybe if you name the memories, you can summon them. like if you say, “remember when we built that fort in the back garden and swore to live there forever because i had a fight with gran,” it’ll mean something now that the garden has been bulldozed and forever has been whittled down to awkward meetings where you can't talk about the elephant in the room.
it’s the uneven ground of being the one who died and the one who was left behind, or the one who grew and the one who wanted to keep the other captured the way they used to be in a snowglobe — or maybe just the realization that you’re both standing on shifting sand now. you talk about the past like it’s a shared secret, but neither of you knows how to talk about the present. maybe you’ve started running out of things to say because the summer nights you used to fill with fun and games are quieter now, and you don’t know how to breach the distance between you that yawns exponentially bigger every single day.
because that’s the ache of it, isn’t it? thinking you’ve grown together, but ending up having grown apart in the blink of an eye. the ache of seeing his face and realizing you don’t know him the way you used to — not like when you could read the curl of his lips or the way he bit the inside of his cheek and know exactly what he was thinking. you still know the shape of caleb, the blueprint of who he was, but he's a house rebuilt in the same place, and you’re standing on the porch like a stranger.
and you miss the summers, the cicadas, sleeping on the floor together with the attic window wide open, sharing ice cream together and being carried because of a scraped knee. even being scolded you refused mosquito spray because you hated the smell. you miss the easy, endless days of being inseparable and being spoiled rotten because time didn’t mean anything then. now, every second feels like a countdown. you sit across from him at a diner, laughter ringing too alien because it doesn’t reach his eyes the way it used to, and you’re counting the minutes until he leaves for skyhaven. or maybe it’s until you leave, because isn’t that the worst realization? there's always a deadline. you tell yourself it’s enough that you were everything to each other once, and there's still something between you like the transition between summer to autumn. but there’s a kind of grief in knowing you’ll never be those kids again, barefoot in the grass, shouting at the stars.
grief. you thought you knew it well.
because you know how to grieve a death — you’ve rehearsed it in your head, folded it into something manageable. it’s a well-worn myth, a story you tell yourself when the silence gets too loud: he’s gone. he’s not coming back. you cried once, twice, a hundred times in the soft, gold-light glow of dusk, in the places you once knew together, and you thought that was the worst part.
but then caleb came back. and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.
because it’s him, isn’t it? same voice, same face, same hands that once shoved you playfully into the lake on a summer afternoon. he looks at you with eyes that are so painfully familiar you want to throw up, but something in them is off — like a song played just a fraction of a second too slow. like the ghost of a childhood home, walls the same but empty, the warmth gone.
you want to say, you’re different. you want to say, what happened to you? but all he says, over and over, with that too-smooth, too-homey certainty is, i’ve always been like this.
and that’s the part that burns. because no, he hasn’t. you would know, wouldn’t you? you spent summers mapping out the topography of his voice, the way it cracked when he laughed too hard, the way he whispered conspiratorial plans under the sheets when you were supposed to be sleeping. you knew his every restless fidget, every dream he had about taking you away to somewhete but never actually going through with it. you would know if this was always him. wouldn’t you?
but what if you’re the one who’s wrong?
the memories are there, but they feel like borrowed pages from someone else’s story now. he tells you, remember when we built a treehouse in the oak by the creek? and you nod, it's like he's trying to coax the sparks out. remember how you used to hum under your breath when you were nervous? and he smiles, but it’s an aching, tight thing.
so you sit there, across from him, trying to measure the distance between the boy you knew and the man wearing his face. he talks about the past like maybe he can drag you back to it. like maybe he can make you remember. but you're here, waiting for him to join you in the present.
but the worst part isn’t the change.
the worst part is the knowing that he’s still here. still breathing, still existing, still talking to you. and yet he’s light-years away with the you of the past.
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old time movie
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well
(Gordon Lightfoot, If You Could Read My Mind)
-> i'm no dog but still, your post makes me want to whine like one. the grieving of the past is what's killing me really. wanting to stay in the memory of childhood, in the feel and comfort of it, even though time frays memory and bias exaggerates the good, the tenderness, the cling-worthy highlights. but really the past is dead, it's a room whose lights have gone off, and if you decide that staying there is the wisest and only rational choice then it can become a warm tomb. and caleb's fine with burying himself in the solace of it, isn't he?
-> yeah. there was a time you could slot your body against his, thigh against thigh with an innocence only childhood is capable of, but the time spent apart is a deep, dark lake that's swallowed that carefree familiarity and spewed you back a man who's not quite your friend. came back but there's a silence and the question of the same? and no he is not. you can't blame him. that would be beyond cruel. but you wish the days had been kinder instead of carving knives in a butcher's hand.
-> this is meant to be a i-love-your-writing thought vomit thang so. cracking my knucles.
'you spent summers mapping out the topography of his voice' YEAH? you ever write specifically about the lads' men voices and i'll be at your door, roses in hand on my knee bending my back LIKE. SICK. YEAH YEAH WHAT A LINE it's so. you're so poetic LAWD don't make me turn my gaze on mc because she sounds so sweet and devoted and loving. MAPPING THE TOPOGRAPHY OF SOMEONE'S VOICE phew.
'remember how you used to hum under your breath when you were nervous?' cue mc humming under her breath :)
'the one who grew and the one who wanted to keep the other captured the way they used to be in a snowglobe' the imagery of that cool glass capturing the perfect holiday, encapsulating the snapshot of an idyllic celebration and warm orange windows and safety and love, so very dear. that imagery does things to the psyche. and mc has broken out of that homely dome and is no longer restricted to well-known, trusted walls and that's a very scary concept. it's a concept with badly defined bounds. it's a concept that invites danger. caleb can take a lot, but he can't take the thought of you marred or shot open or torn outwards and those are all possibilities in your line of work. too real.
'but he's a house rebuilt in the same place, and you’re standing on the porch like a stranger.' well there's always the chance the door will open. you won't have to wait like a runt outside, under heavy winds or cold temperatures. there's a chance you'll pad through a 'welcome' mat and be presented some recognizable dish and gaze at invitingly painted walls with frames of moments you can think back on in a split second but it is a different house, isn't it? there's a corridor that leads to a basement whose door you've never seen before.
childhood friends who became family, who blurred the lines of sibling-tight bonds and something softer, sharper, and more yearning — it's a trope that feels like sitting in the quiet hum of a summer evening when the sun lingers too long on the horizon. because the truth of it is: nothing lingers forever. and you both know that, but you’ll still talk about the old days like maybe you can bring them back. like maybe if you name the memories, you can summon them. like if you say, “remember when we built that fort in the back garden and swore to live there forever because i had a fight with gran,” it’ll mean something now that the garden has been bulldozed and forever has been whittled down to awkward meetings where you can't talk about the elephant in the room.
it’s the uneven ground of being the one who died and the one who was left behind, or the one who grew and the one who wanted to keep the other captured the way they used to be in a snowglobe — or maybe just the realization that you’re both standing on shifting sand now. you talk about the past like it’s a shared secret, but neither of you knows how to talk about the present. maybe you’ve started running out of things to say because the summer nights you used to fill with fun and games are quieter now, and you don’t know how to breach the distance between you that yawns exponentially bigger every single day.
because that’s the ache of it, isn’t it? thinking you’ve grown together, but ending up having grown apart in the blink of an eye. the ache of seeing his face and realizing you don’t know him the way you used to — not like when you could read the curl of his lips or the way he bit the inside of his cheek and know exactly what he was thinking. you still know the shape of caleb, the blueprint of who he was, but he's a house rebuilt in the same place, and you’re standing on the porch like a stranger.
and you miss the summers, the cicadas, sleeping on the floor together with the attic window wide open, sharing ice cream together and being carried because of a scraped knee. even being scolded you refused mosquito spray because you hated the smell. you miss the easy, endless days of being inseparable and being spoiled rotten because time didn’t mean anything then. now, every second feels like a countdown. you sit across from him at a diner, laughter ringing too alien because it doesn’t reach his eyes the way it used to, and you’re counting the minutes until he leaves for skyhaven. or maybe it’s until you leave, because isn’t that the worst realization? there's always a deadline. you tell yourself it’s enough that you were everything to each other once, and there's still something between you like the transition between summer to autumn. but there’s a kind of grief in knowing you’ll never be those kids again, barefoot in the grass, shouting at the stars.
grief. you thought you knew it well.
because you know how to grieve a death — you’ve rehearsed it in your head, folded it into something manageable. it’s a well-worn myth, a story you tell yourself when the silence gets too loud: he’s gone. he’s not coming back. you cried once, twice, a hundred times in the soft, gold-light glow of dusk, in the places you once knew together, and you thought that was the worst part.
but then caleb came back. and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.
because it’s him, isn’t it? same voice, same face, same hands that once shoved you playfully into the lake on a summer afternoon. he looks at you with eyes that are so painfully familiar you want to throw up, but something in them is off — like a song played just a fraction of a second too slow. like the ghost of a childhood home, walls the same but empty, the warmth gone.
you want to say, you’re different. you want to say, what happened to you? but all he says, over and over, with that too-smooth, too-homey certainty is, i’ve always been like this.
and that’s the part that burns. because no, he hasn’t. you would know, wouldn’t you? you spent summers mapping out the topography of his voice, the way it cracked when he laughed too hard, the way he whispered conspiratorial plans under the sheets when you were supposed to be sleeping. you knew his every restless fidget, every dream he had about taking you away to somewhete but never actually going through with it. you would know if this was always him. wouldn’t you?
but what if you’re the one who’s wrong?
the memories are there, but they feel like borrowed pages from someone else’s story now. he tells you, remember when we built a treehouse in the oak by the creek? and you nod, it's like he's trying to coax the sparks out. remember how you used to hum under your breath when you were nervous? and he smiles, but it’s an aching, tight thing.
so you sit there, across from him, trying to measure the distance between the boy you knew and the man wearing his face. he talks about the past like maybe he can drag you back to it. like maybe he can make you remember. but you're here, waiting for him to join you in the present.
but the worst part isn’t the change.
the worst part is the knowing that he’s still here. still breathing, still existing, still talking to you. and yet he’s light-years away with the you of the past.
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old time movie
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well
(Gordon Lightfoot, If You Could Read My Mind)
-> i'm no dog but still, your post makes me want to whine like one. the grieving of the past is what's killing me really. wanting to stay in the memory of childhood, in the feel and comfort of it, even though time frays memory and bias exaggerates the good, the tenderness, the cling-worthy highlights. but really the past is dead, it's a room whose lights have gone off, and if you decide that staying there is the wisest and only rational choice then it can become a warm tomb. and caleb's fine with burying himself in the solace of it, isn't he?
-> yeah. there was a time you could slot your body against his, thigh against thigh with an innocence only childhood is capable of, but the time spent apart is a deep, dark lake that's swallowed that carefree familiarity and spewed you back a man who's not quite your friend. came back but there's a silence and the question of the same? and no he is not. you can't blame him. that would be beyond cruel. but you wish the days had been kinder instead of carving knives in a butcher's hand.
-> this is meant to be a i-love-your-writing thought vomit thang so. cracking my knucles.
'you spent summers mapping out the topography of his voice' YEAH? you ever write specifically about the lads' men voices and i'll be at your door, roses in hand on my knee bending my back LIKE. SICK. YEAH YEAH WHAT A LINE it's so. you're so poetic LAWD don't make me turn my gaze on mc because she sounds so sweet and devoted and loving. MAPPING THE TOPOGRAPHY OF SOMEONE'S VOICE phew.
'remember how you used to hum under your breath when you were nervous?' cue mc humming under her breath :)
'the one who grew and the one who wanted to keep the other captured the way they used to be in a snowglobe' the imagery of that cool glass capturing the perfect holiday, encapsulating the snapshot of an idyllic celebration and warm orange windows and safety and love, so very dear. that imagery does things to the psyche. and mc has broken out of that homely dome and is no longer restricted to well-known, trusted walls and that's a very scary concept. it's a concept with badly defined bounds. it's a concept that invites danger. caleb can take a lot, but he can't take the thought of you marred or shot open or torn outwards and those are all possibilities in your line of work. too real.
'but he's a house rebuilt in the same place, and you’re standing on the porch like a stranger.' well there's always the chance the door will open. you won't have to wait like a runt outside, under heavy winds or cold temperatures. there's a chance you'll pad through a 'welcome' mat and be presented some recognizable dish and gaze at invitingly painted walls with frames of moments you can think back on in a split second but it is a different house, isn't it? there's a corridor that leads to a basement whose door you've never seen before.
you think gambit's love for rogue a constant through the multiverse. you would know best, since you have traveled through time and space. it is comforting: when chaos takes so many forms you find refuge in the few impermutables left. and so, you take liberties with him you wouldn't with others: you let him press down on your open, bleeding wounds (touch is so awful with others but not him) and you don't care if he sees your staggering morning form (knocking into furniture, blinking blearily at him with one eye, confusing salt for sugar) and you sometimes strip off damaged clothes in an aftermath of battle without a second thought in front of him because what's there to see? and who's there to hide from? and—
it's when you are downed, half-blind, bleeding and with little sense that gambit's hands hold your head. they're warm, radiating heat even through leather. not dissimilar to obscure glass, a film blinds your eye - and you can't hear the words tumbling out of your mouth.
must sound like i'm sorry, i'm sorry, remy.
you did apologize a lot, even when not obliged.
'm'sorry charle's not here
sorry i'm not rogue
wish i could do better by you, rem'
the world becomes a bleak dark. you wonder if the others will be okay. you fret, helplessly. you pass out.
lovers to enemies with charles: where you tried to dig yourself a home in his mansion and burrow there even though you felt like your body didn't fit in a hole meant for a smaller body; you really tried to be content with people's hatred - surely love would get you through? but you were always hungry for scraps of respect and slops of decency. so after years of starving you crawled out of that man's arms and the house and its people and you fell in with. well. who else? magneto was always right. you should have gone to his side sooner, but you were such a sorry thing. pining for ideas. for a future that couldn't be yours if you kept company like xavier's. such a loyal dog.
better be a mutt without a leash.
and magneto agrees.
(spoilers: lovers to enemies with charles and some weird boss x subordinate with magneto where you don't cross over into his bed but he's got a stronger grip on your heart and body than charles ever did)
and. hand feeding: where he tucks his thumb a little too far into your mouth. presses your tongue. pulls out and licks off the sticky residue (there is so little food and it was instinct and he's really sorry (he's not))
Valentine's Day is approaching! You know what that means! Oh... no plans? No worries! Here at Luvit Inc., we have you covered. Just answer our short questionnaire and we'll send you something to make this holiday season worthwhile ;)
RAFFLE ENTRY - up to FIVE (5) winners will be chosen for a little extra holiday loving this season:
your first step is to take a quick uquiz assessment! there are 14 possible results.
reblog + let us know your results in the tags (this counts as your entry!)
you have until 11:59pm pst, feb. 16th to enter. any entries after that time and date will not be counted (but you can still take the quiz <3)
winners will be selected through the wheel of names and then privately messaged with your result (pls have your messages open so i can let you know!)
winners will have until 11:59pm pst, feb. 17th to confirm response
PRIZES:
a personalized blurb up to 750 words (can be either fluffy or suggestive)
reader-insert or OC-insert - i'll use whatever name/pronouns you let me know of!
will include your tagged result as the character
select a prompt starter from a provided list
prizes will be distributed on feb 19th unless otherwise notified
*eligibility requirements are: cannot be a blank blog, this cannot be the only post on your blog, reblogged and tagged with your result, entered before the time and date
**i've never made a uquiz before so i apologize in advance if it's bad 😭 it is mostly random and gives you a little dive into how i personally characterize and associate things with the different cod men. this is for fun and not meant to be taken super seriously! i just decided on 5 people since i'm still recovering from the sick but wanted to do something interactive and let y'all know that i really DO appreciate you ❤️
Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.
Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throws of ecstasy.
This is what happens when you eat half the bar.
Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, succubus magic, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk), more tags will be added later.
Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Dubcon (if you squint), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence
Read on AO3: Here
A/N: Remember the dead spider? I remember the dead spider. Anyways, the reception I've been getting on Starvin', Darlin' has me wanting to thank everyone with a one-shot. This got away from me so I went ahead and split it into two parts.
I've never written anything like this and it was significantly more difficult than a multi-chapter fic. I hope everything comes across the way its supposed to! And a huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for...you know... encouraging me to post this, despite everything.
From what you could tell, there wasn’t much to the apothecary.
As you push open the dilapidated doors, your first thought is to search for supplies - anything that could help if things went south on your way to the goblin camp.
Dried herbs hang from the rafters beneath a thin veil of cobwebs, filling your lungs with a pungent clash of scents. Empty bottles lined the shelves along the wall, caked in several months worth of dust. Large chunks of the building were missing where stone met splintered wood, some areas almost entirely overtaken by greenery.
You step over broken shards of pottery, scanning over the floor and countertops for something - anything that may be of use, but to your disappointment, it seems like the shop was entirely ransacked long before your arrival.
You sigh deeply, knowing you’ll likely never hear the end of this from your companions. It was your idea to search the village. You were the one who suggested taking out the goblin scouts, exerting everyones’ energy, and now you’re afraid you’ll have very little to show for it.
You catch a glint of gold, an object reflecting the sun's rays beneath a pile of rubble. You kneel down to brush away the surrounding debris, thankful for even the smallest promise of coin before your hands catch on… some sort of serrated edge?
You pull at it, and it easily comes loose. It's a thin, rectangular block, just barely larger than the length of your hand. You wipe away some of the dirt with your sleeve, revealing an intricately designed foil wrapping underneath.
As you speculate what this might be, you hear footsteps approaching from behind, light and familiar. You turn to face the elf with a smirk.
“You’re supposed to be the stealthy one.” You chide at him, playfully, “Or has my blood put a little skip in your step?”
Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been here the entire time, watching you fumble around in the dirt.”
Crimson eyes study you, then the object you’re holding. He places his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side with a raised brow. “Is that what you’ve dragged us all the way here for?”
“First of all,” you waggle a finger at him, “You’re especially grumpy when you’re tired. I’ll have to make a note to prioritize your beauty rest. Second, I haven’t finished looking around, but check this out.”
You hand the bar to him as you stand. The cool skin of his fingers brush against your own, and you’re irritated with the way your heart skips at the brief contact. Why did the one man you found attractive in your camp have to be such a primadonna? And such a huge pain in the ass?
Astarion’s eyes scan over the textured paper with suspicion, angling it towards the light to get a better look. The golden wrapping is stamped with an image of red lips On the back, letters twist and curve in a language you don't recognize, following a single circular pattern where they meet in the center. You’ve never seen anything like this, neither in your travels, nor within the city walls of Baldur’s Gate.
“Where did you find this?”
You shrug, then point to the pile next to you. “It was buried right there.”
He silently stares at the foil, mouth pursed, until your patience begins to wear thin.
“Well, can you read it or not?”
His nose scrunches. “Of course I can’t read it. It’s written in Infernal.”
That’s… odd. Why would an ordinary apothecary sell goods made by devils? Or, worse, for devils. Unless, of course, it was some sort of marketing trick, perhaps a play on the phrase ‘sinfully sweet’, or some other cringeworthy branding.
You take it back, turning it over in your hands before tearing at the corner of the wrapping. It's sectioned into dark, rich squares, and smells indisputably like chocolate.
“It looks like candy.”
“An excellent observation.” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we go? We’ve spent more than enough time here already.”
You roll your eyes and stuff it into your bag, setting off for camp, vampire in tow.
–
During dinner, you decide not to tell the others about what you found, knowing Astarion’s likely already forgotten the event. You set down your empty plate, thanking Gale for tonight’s meal. He smiles at you and bids you goodnight as you excuse yourself to your tent.
You pick up your rucksack, thinking fondly of the dessert that awaits you inside. Having lived at the beck and call of your companions for weeks on end, you can’t help but smile at the idea of selfishly indulging in a small treat like this.
You tear open the rest of the wrapping and snap off one of the squares, immediately popping one into your mouth. It melts - buttery in texture, with a smokey, slightly bitter flavor. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten something so rich. Maybe weeks of the same rations have made you easier to impress, but this felt especially notable.
As you break off a second piece, a strange tingling sensation begins to spread across your lips - a pleasant buzzing that starts at your neck and spreads down through your chest.
Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. You’ve heard of such inebriating chocolates, ones laced with alcohol or species of flowers that numb one’s senses for a short while. All harmless, of course, and you don’t have watch tonight. You may as well enjoy yourself. If worst comes to worst, Shadowheart is just outside with an assortment of spells and potions. Always better to ask for forgiveness.
It only takes you minutes to finish half the bar. You set the rest next to your bedroll for later and turn to blow out your candles, enjoying the lingering physical effects of the chocolate. Your skin feels flushed and delightfully warm as you settle down for the night.
When sleep finally takes you, it's dreamless, at first. Your consciousness sways, floating in an empty abyss, until colors begin to bleed onto the blank canvas of your mind.
A trickle of red morphs into the shape of familiar eyes, piercing you with their intensity..
Droplets of white spatter over a dark background, diffusing, blending into whisps. They curl and twist before settling into soft, coiffed fibers.
Hair , you recognize immediately, his hair . His eyes.
Astarion.
His image fully takes form, as if it had been waiting for you to make the connection before entirely revealing itself.
He reaches out and seizes you, grabbing painfully at your hips as you crash into his body, hands exploring you - tight, possessive, squeezing at every inch of exposed skin before settling on the curve of your ass. He digs into your flesh with the blunt edge of his nails.
His lips press hot, wet kisses to your throat, mouthing just below the ear, before dragging his tongue along your nape and sucking, hard . You whine at the pressure, eliciting a grin from the elf, so characteristically pleased with the pathetic little noise he’s managed to pull from you.
“You thought sleeping would allow you to escape this - to escape me , unscathed?” He growls against your skin, his voice almost unrecognizable - as if it’s layered beneath a lighter, somehow more arrogant, feminine one.
“No, no, no. Wake up, darling. You’re in for a very long night.”
–
You startle awake, gasping - loud, labored breaths struggling to make use of the unbearably thin air. The edges of your tent bleed in and out of focus, spinning at a nauseating pace as you attempt to recollect yourself.
You wipe at the sweat collecting on your brow, the muscles of your arm heavy and aching, and find that your skin is absolutely drenched.
Hot. Why is everything so hot?
It's as if you're being cooked alive beneath your blankets, strangled beneath the furs. You throw them off; normally soft to the touch, the fibers now only worsen the prickling beneath your skin.
Could this be some sort of illness? A fever?
No, this doesn’t make sense. Everything feels off.
Fleeting thoughts of Astarion cross your mind - quick flashes of a sinful smile that was not his own.
It didn’t quite match the one you’d silently come to admire, and now that you think of it, the hunger in his gaze was much too intense for the reserved elf.
His hands, his mouth, the way he touched you -
Your abdomen cramps, bringing your thoughts to a screeching halt.
A stabbing, visceral pain; a knife plunging into your organs. It overwhelms you, forces your body to curl into itself. You hold your pelvis, grunting, and grasp at your sheets. Tears sting the corner of your eyes.
This is - well, you have no idea what this is.
You can’t think past the pounding in your head, the throbbing in your midsection. You're compulsively twisting, writhing, begging the gods for some sort of reprieve, but it's then when you make the most mortifying discovery of the night.
You’re soaked .
N ot just your smallclothes, which may have been understandable given your strange dreams, but through your damned pants. Not even the sheets were spared.
“What in the hells…?”
You run your fingers over yourself, only intending to confirm the horrifying reality of your situation - that this is not, in fact, some sick, perverted nightmare, but the lightest touch sets off every nerve.
You wail at the sensation: one massive wave of bliss giving way to several small jolts of pain.
Pleasure to the point of agony.
The shock of the sudden orgasm courses from your sex through every limb, clenching and releasing pitiful, warm slick. It leaks freely out of you into your already thoroughly ruined underwear.
Your heart pounds. You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, toes curled, limbs twitching, waiting for your body to settle.
After a minute or so, your breathing evens, and the thick haze surrounding your thoughts begins to lift just slightly, along with the suffocating heat.
But something within you knows this isn’t the end - knows this isn’t enough . A desperation lurks beneath the surface that you can’t quite name. It screams at you. You need more.
‘Aw…’ A familiar, feminine voice prods at your mind. You quickly recognize her, the woman from your dreams who wore Astarion’s image.
‘All alone, are we? Empty and needing to be filled? Doesn’t that hurt?’
It does. It aches unlike anything you’ve ever known. The lingering buzz of your orgasm just barely quells the worsening cramps, and they’re beginning to rear their ugly head again not minutes later.
You choke out a sob. “Wh- why are you doing this? What do you want?”
Sharp, wicked laughter fills your head, echoing off the walls of your skull. ‘I’m not doing anything, dear. Just enjoying the show.’ She hisses, ‘I told you, it’s going to be a very long night.’
You must be hallucinating. This fever - whatever this is, is simply cauterizing your senses, or possibly interacting with the tadpole? But the tadpole doesn’t speak, not like this. Never so clearly. Not with words.
Think, please. There has to be a reason this -
“Is everything alright?” Shadowheart raps on the canvas of your tent. “I heard a yelp. Are you hurt?”
Shit.
‘Ooh, this one might do!’ You feel an unwelcome… eagerness flood you.
No. No. Absolutely not.
You try not to panic.
Under no circumstances should she or anyone else come in here.
The best strategy may be to ignore her - pretend you’re still sleeping. It seems like a good plan, but before you have a chance to follow through with it, another sharp contraction hits. This one is somehow even worse than the ones before.
You pull your sheets up to your mouth to stifle your whine, but the half elf’s ears are sharper than most. “I’m coming in.”
She opens the flap to your tent and gasps when she sees you there - skin flushed pink, doubled over and covered in sweat.
“Gods, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her hand reaches out towards you.
Without thinking, you swat it away with your own. Your skin tingles at the contact, and the essence of a smile crosses over the threshold into your mind. The intruder giggles with satisfaction.
“Don’t,” you plead, “Don’t touch me.”
She scans over you, taking in your humiliating state. Her face twists with concern. “I need to know if you’re feverish. Please. You look awful.”
‘Well, I think you look delectable.’
You groan.
At this point, you know it’s no use fighting this thing on your own. You go back and forth on whether you want to tell her the whole truth, about the voice in your head and its influence on your body, but the idea mortifies you into silence.
Regardless, a cleric is likely your best chance of fixing this literal mess, so you nod, close your eyes, and brace yourself.
Shadowheart’s palm meets your forehead. It’s somehow worse than you anticipated. Even the simple, chaste touch sends you reeling, as if her soft hands are caressing your entire body. Flashes of heat wash over you, burning your skin, threatening to pull you back under another wave of ecstasy.
It’s too much. You try your hardest to suppress a moan, but the muffled sound manages to escape from between your tightened lips, pitiful and broken.
The disembodied voice squeals with delight.
She quickly retracts her hand, clearing her throat. “Apologies. I can confirm your temperature is… elevated, but the rest…” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
You want to scream, cry - anything to release your frustration, but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to risk making any more unsavory noises.
“I believe I can give you some relief by treating the fever, but I’ll have to consult the others on the rest. This doesn’t look like any ordinary sickness.”
Consult the others? No. Gods, no. Nobody can know about this. Is she mad?
You intend to protest, beg her not to share this with anyone, tell her whatever death awaits you on the other side of this would be preferable, but she’s speaking an incantation before you have the chance.
A bright, green aura envelopes you, cooling your skin and ever so slightly easing the cramps. With the pain dulled, it's as though you can finally think again.
You want to laugh. This situation is so utterly ridiculous that you’d find it hilarious, were it anyone else, but with the modicum of relief comes exhaustion - eyelids heavy, vision blurring with weariness.
“Get some rest. We’ll figure this out.”
Her reassuring words are the last thing you hear before you’re overcome by darkness.
A lil sneak peak of part 2 under the cut (18+ MDNI OR ELSE)
He grabs you by the jaw, tilting your head this way and that, admiring his handiwork. He's quite pleased with himself, with the mess he's made of you - lips pinched between your teeth as you ride out the first of many waves, squeezing around his fingers.
-> you are not alone in finding the concept of a physically gutting aphrodisiac affecting you in the presence of the companions an alluring idea, so don't feel bad & also thank you for bringing it to concrete form GOING FERAL IT'S UNREAL
-> having a third party get mental over your debauched state is naughty hot and the perverted lady's dialogue and reactions were delectable.
-> hope the whole party gets woken up for the unforgettable freak event of their leader getting blasted into horney land. i'm not being sarcastic because i love putting characters through sweet torture and what's more torturous than the prettily flushed face of tav? kudos to sh for being so gentle despite the bizarre goings. i hope she can remain gentle even when she realizes you thoughtlessly inhaled enough viagra to rev an army up and i hope she strangles astarion for good IF he recognized the wrapper the moment he took a good look at it and still let you pocket it.
-> the dream the dream THE DREAM that was so good!! going to bash my head against the desk because of how well wrought the sequence is!! even the vocabulary you used is so dreamy!!! "a trickle of red" "droplets of white spatter" "soft, coiffed fibers" the imagery is incredibly soft and amorphous until you think of the one person and astarion takes shape, and then 'he' takes you with the movements of another and with malice and bemusement which doesn't take away from how sensual it reads but amplifies the effect??
continuation below v
-> "You thought sleeping would allow you to escape this - to escape me, unscathed?" hottest line what even. i'll bite through my phone's plastic and the battery is going to explode on my mouth and i'm still not gonna recover from the mental impact your dialogue smacks me with.
-> the intensity of the bloody chocolate is so visceral and tangible that it allows for the sense of urgency and wrong to be felt and sympathized with & decapitates the possibility of the character simply bearing it - there's no way you're gonna glide through waves of stabbing pain without considering a way to mitigate the damage and get back to your feet in a timely manner. no way the prospect of relief is going to be ignored if somebody offers comfort and safety on a silver platter.
-> also the sheets getting soaked is.
-> :))
-> this is supposed to be abnormal and the portrayal is just perfect.
-> the moment astarion takes over and gets drunk on just the thick air of the tent and feels the 'telltale slick' and knows you are as pliant as can be and that you want him and have wanted him for a while now and that there are no consequences to pleasing you in the given context and that you trust only him to get you back to normal and that he's going to be in full control and can do as much or as little as he wants and
-> ‘All alone, are we? Empty and needing to be filled? Doesn’t that hurt?’ i was wrong this is the best i'm deceased
-> reader here is so damn cute can we havE A SNIPPET OF ASTARION'S POV?????? PRETTY PLEASE???????
(Nsfw) Golden king & queen, I raise you: reader with oral fixation + Bandit. Gotta wanna will ah suck on hm. Fingers yeah? :))))))))) suppressing my shame
I concede, you genius.
Dominic "Bandit" Brunsmeier NSFW Headcanons:
You've always been a bit of a snark.
Always got something to say, you. Never without your trigger finger on a ready quip. No terrible, groan-worthy pun is ever left unturned on your watch. Sarcastic witticisms galore tucked in your belt right next to your gun. Some can appreciate it, and some think—
You have a smart mouth, Schatzi. He tells you, a dark gaze boring into you, first holding your eyes, then flicking down to your lips, lingering. Be careful with that.
But it's more than an attitude problem, you just can't help it, like an itch. Your mouth, you have to use it, else you go crazy. When you're not verbally running it off, you need to keep it busy, constantly chewing gum, biting your hangnail into a bleeding mess, sucking on the insides of your cheeks like candy, or gnawing the rubber-covered wires of your coms to near destruction, or bringing your hand up to your quivering bottom lip, caressing… imagining… imagining…
the memory of a glove being shucked off, exposing trimmed nails and rough inked skin. you watching in a dumbed stupor as he brought his other gloved hand to wrap around an uncovered wrist, flexing those big fingers, tendons and strong veins a stark relief.
Longing breeds strange actions. Alone in the short hours that you have to yourself, your own hands have become a poor substitute of what you recall. Your fingers, so much smaller and not as rough hewn, tracing the shape of your mouth, nails dipping in the parted seam, feeling the boundaries between dry skin and soft warm wetness, drunk to the imagination that it's his finger instead.
What would he do? What would he say? If he knew how bad you want to put your smart mouth on him, so bad that it hurts. That you got off on it, to the mere thought of him inside your mouth. That it didn't matter where— his hands, or his lips, or his cock– anywhere he lets you. Anywhere.
Bandit knows. Of course, he does. Your longing is such a plain thing to sniff out. The need in your stares so visceral, it would take a complete fool to miss it. Even in the midst of sassing him—you know that he knows, when he reaches over and plucks your smiling bottom lip from the worry of teeth, and holds it between in a firm pinch, scruffing you into a paralyzed state, a deer caught in headlights.
Ah. Bandit's slow, unblinking study of your flustered face and trembling lip is akin to a triumphant victory lap. So this is how I make you behave.
Behaving can only mean that your mouth is being lazily fucked by two of his thick fingers while you’re kneeling between his legs, his half-lidded eyes meeting the tears brewing underneath your lashes and the saliva running down your neck as he fits himself knuckle-deep in, the lewd squelch of your throat working to accommodate him, and your tongue soothingly lapping around the worn leather of his gloves.
How nice and agreeable you become, his little troublemaker, at the mere touch of his gloved thumb on your presented tongue. Oh, but what a good girl you are.
Good girl. Good girl. Good girl. The praise does something to you, hurtling straight to the unintelligent goo in your primitive brain, takes deep root and festers. makes you mewl and suck on him harder, wanting to please him, like a good girl.
Sometimes you're sweet as sweet can be, preening with his rumbling chuckles, laced with amusement and hot with want, when you slowly suck in his bottom lip, or when you pepper kisses up his neck to take the lobe of his ear and drag it lightly through your blunt teeth. Or when worshipping his hands— so beautiful in their dangerous masculinity— tugging his gloves off with your mouth and finding purpose in kissing every hardened callous and licking the pathways of his scars and tattoos with care.
And sometimes, you don't really care about being a good girl for him, smartass comments rolling off your tongue until he's had enough of it, snapping, close your mouth.
And good girls certainly do not try to unsuccessfully hold back their excited grins and exacerbate their grave situations by purring, thought you liked it wide open.
For that, he's making you warm his hard cock in your throat for hours, unconcerned with the whimpers coming from below the work bench as he takes his time cleaning out his guns and mending his CED, periodically reaching down to pinch your nose shut, uncaring that his fingers are filthy with grease, until you're frantically gagging on the thickness for air— or thrusting his hips deeper in your mouth when he feels like there's not enough drool leaking down his balls.
Maybe Bandit might regret what a little fiend you’re turning out to be from all this. Because punishments don't really mean much if you enjoy what he does to you, and the proof is right there in the pudding when he finally sets aside his CED and checks under the bench, tenderly brushing out the hairs from your soaked cheeks—and look, look at the mess, the sobbing, the saliva, the grease marks. Look, how utterly wreaked you are, and yet, still how you glow with such enraptured bliss, as if there's no place you'd rather be then there on the floor, sucking on his cock.
The way you wrote Bandit's focus as unblinking and steady makes me abnormally interested in his displays of concentration and how he slinks from mere observer to lenient leash holder ( consensually ofc ;3 ) 'so this is how i make you behave' what a bastard what an unforgettable line im getting rabies. frothing! melting also.
Also reader is so so cute I want to bite their cheek and squeeze them like a scrunkly scruncklo--admiring Bandit so openly while he is paying attention back... legend.
Oh and, Bandit going in for the kill and touching reader first??? bet his brain was entertaining itself with THOUGHTS for a while too :9
smart mouth, good girl, schatzi... he likes dishing the praise hUH!!! N I C E
If i were awake-r this post would be triple the length. someday it will be.
AHHHHHHH OPEN REQUESTs FOR R6 AND COD ?? BABE U ARE THE HERO WE NEED BUT DON'T DESERVE !! Smooching ur sad face... bratty teasing pining reader with Mute, maybe? I heard his exhale in his trailer and AJWOOWKSJJAK WOOF WOOF i will tug his clothes steal his ammo tie his shoelaces GRRFFFF he gives me grief by existing and i wamt to give him some back. Ummm hcs obvsly those are great. Sfw would be aweeeesome ♡ thank u for your seggsy writimg always
MAH FIRST R6S REQUEST!!!! Thank you so much for coming to the call and fueling this madness!!! I shall make him suffer 🫡
Mark "Mute" Chandar Headcanons:
He fascinates you.
His every measured exhale under that impersonal gas mask. The restrained grace of his gloved hands by his sides. The controlled turn of his head. The absolute stillness of his presence. People say he's too quiet, and you suppose he is, but you think quiet is not quite the right word to describe Mute. No, "quiet" sounds more fitting for a shy, diminutive man. Mute is not shy or diminutive, quite the opposite. He's... imposing. Yes, imposing. He fills the space with his silence, and when he speaks, with his curt words (and you've heard him talk, that commanding drawl that is his Yorkshire tongue), with his austere build, and with the efficient prowl of his body over the playing field. It captures your eyes and ensnares your attention, makes you wonder where he gets that stoic composure from. And makes you wonder then, how you can break it.
He hates you.
Or at the very least, he dislikes you, because hate is strong word that requires time and energy—you don't think someone like Mute would bother giving time and energy into someone he deems a waste of it. He hasn't expended himself into saying as much, but it doesn’t take even a genius to guess, how he must see you.
That babbling ninny. That scurrying busybody. That gravel in his boot.
All unflattering sobriquets of yourself— but hey, you take full responsibility for it. After all, you've got no one but yourself to blame for wrapping up in a terrible mischief with him, especially with how quick you come to realize that he isn't as stone as he appears.
What is a barrier to others is a mere suggestion to you. His guarded silence is a perfect opportunity you've taken yourself to fill with chatter that you're sure grates his nerves. Cheery greetings that are unreciprocated, questions that are ignored and questions that receive one word answers that you treasure and mull over and over in your head like a smitten idiot.
(Whatcha doin? No. What's your favorite color? No. You like jazz? No. Can I see you without your mask? No.)
You breathe in temerity and breathe out obstinacy. Audacity kindles every fiber of your being, and Mute with his frosty ire is the fuel that keeps it burning. You reach out with fluttery fingers and, like a seeking child, tug at his straps and pockets for attention that he refuses to give. You poke his sides and scritch the underside his mask like you would a cat, and you are reminded of the delicate bones of your finger when he grabs it and gives a warning squeeze.
It doesn't work, but make it worse. Your offenses grow bolder still. You camp out under chairs and tables so you can tie together his shoelaces and yell boo! to his unaffected countenance. And he fishes you out and puts you back on your ass so you can go ahead and lace his boots back properly again. You steal a gun from a holster and empty out it’s bullets into your shirt, offering a generous exchange: one kiss per bullet.
and you pout as he fists the front of your clothes, and shakes you, metal falling off you like candy from a piñata.
You fill in some of his blanks with what you hear from others, snippets of the snippets. That he's a genius, a child prodigy of some sort. University at 14. Operator at 25. Impressive.
"You a nerd, Mute?" You have to ask, toeing the line between bravery and plain stupidity, wanting to push him into something beyond pale of his stoic irritation. And you think you come so close to that, your breath held as his head slowly turns to you. And you can sense it, the simmering red that lies under his skin— but only after a stretch of strained silence, Mute dismisses your existence all together by turning his head back away.
This is a risky and nonsensical game that you’ve initiated, one that he wants no damn part of, and one that you’re determined to see to an end.
Like a stray, you follow him around so much, one quick step behind his long, impatient strides, that Smoke jokes that Mute has picked himself up a miss little poppet of a shadow.
You enjoy this. You think that you can do this forever. Bug him until he snaps and, and kills you or whatever. Or until, one day, the front of your shirt is grabbed and you're suddenly hauled up to the height of six foot one, until you can see nothing beyond your moon eyes blinking in reflection of his dark lenses.
Piss. Off.
His low, harsh voice forms each growled word with punctured vehemence.
Oh, you've done it now. This is too much. This. The wide expanse of his armored chest flattening against your much smaller and softer form, pushing deeper into you with each heavy, angered breath, filling your ears with no room for quarter. Like this, he is not quiet. Like this, he is not stiff. No, he's alive, full of furnace heat and motion, and very much pissed off.
He means to scare you off like this, to use his height and menacing anonymity to cow you into submission, into leaving him alone.
But this is what you want. All that you have craved for and more. Everything you've worked towards built on the hope of seeing just one sliver of this scene.
So instead of cowering away, you all but arch forward into his grip, into his chest, your excited pants picking up to sync with his. And in the mirror of his mask, you see how your lips slightly part, the roundness of your shiny eyes. In that moment, you see yourself exactly as how he must see you. Just how— adoring, you look.
He stiffens— in rage? in disgust? you don't know, you don't care youdon'tcare– and his grip tightens in your shirt, your collar definitely ruined beyond repair. You hear your quivering breath pick up and feel the pulse in your throat throb as you are dragged further into him until there is only a gap the width of a piece of paper separating your trembling mouth from kissing 'X'.
(and if you let out a whimper here; what would happen?)
Apparently, a fuckin’ hell in the form of a tempestuous snarl ground out through gritted teeth is what you get.
and you are unceremoniously thrust back to Earth, your shirt’s neckline gaping horribly around your throat. Left behind to dazedly watch with a pleased smile at the retreat of his broad back and the string of colorful choice words he leaves in his wake.
-> i never thought i'd yap for the nickname 'gravel of his boot' but here we are HERE W
-> whew i can't even really what have i become human goop? microwaved this post like a piece of defrosting steak in my head and i'm pretty sure that beyond living rent free in my heart it has scored a core memory spot in my box of favorite fiction. you could bat any best seller author right out of their cozy spot goldenpapi where's your autobiography book & where do i buy it??? 20 pages would be worth the 20 bucks ooooaaa
-> ooh 'he fascinates you.' i want to pin him like one of those pinned butterflies under crystal clear glass and keep him for posterity in intact tip-top shape... but more than that YIOUWwsjnzz the way you wrote all the ways the reader snags his attention thank you thank you thank y--
-> he would shake like reader a PIÑATA??? how would he do that ? does he grab reader by the shoulders or does he fisty up the shirt's middle does he actually untuck it from the pants and makes all them bullets splatter on the ground? is reader picking them up now? is that a thing n
-> OH NO NOT THE PAINFUL AND SWEET REWARD OF REDOING HIS SHOELACES I WANT TO DRESSSSS HIM UPPP but yes imagine having to kneel by his side and gently fumbling with his laces and growing hot in the face while time ticks by and oh is somebody coming over? it's just imagination playing tricks on foolish minds and ahehaeha mute is sitting all still and pretty what kind of hell and torture is that. wha wha wha i want to do acts of service (and deferential debauchery) for this piece of this PIECE OF AWOOGA
-> 'you a nerd?' 'you a nerd?' 'you a nerd?' x 100 echoing in my head now. i am becoming readersexual because omg the moxie i want to kiss them myself
-> smoke part is precious. puppy puppy love
->"PISS. OFF." IN HIS ACCENT? :))))) my lips are gonna wobble ughhgughghu what have you done to me
-> i can't even begin to describe my character arc sprung about by the last points. it would take twice the length of this post to explain to you my mental and emotional combustion. i'm dead i'm dead i'm sooo
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
annaxmalina
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
origamiaround
gummygunk
