#Expire Erect

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hey! So this isn't a particularly exciting ask or anything, but I'm sending it bc I literally do not know who irl I can talk to.

Basically, my boyfriend and I (both virgins) tried having sex for the first time tonight, and it pretty much didn't work. It was kind of horrible and awkward, which was expected, but really it just didn't get anywhere at all. First the condom broke when he tried to put it on, which freaked him out so he couldn't get hard again. And we didn't really know how to just /start/ so we tried just going for it, but he, like, couldn't get his dick into my vagina? Which I'm pretty sure is not a me thing because I've fingered myself before just fine.

Anyways, we kind of just called it quits after kissing for a while, and now I just don't really know what to make of the whole experience. I want to have sex but rn I'm not even really sure if I want to try again. It was just so mortifying and unfun. Do you have any advice whatsoever?

hi anon,

oh boy! here are a few crucial points that jump out to me:

if the condom is breaking just from trying to put it on, something is wrong. the condom might be too small, or it may have been expired (which can make it brittle), or it may have been stored in a space that was too hot or too cold and weakened the condom's integrity. your boyfriend's nails may have had sharp edges that damaged the condom. maybe he just did a spectacularly bad job putting it on! review the best way to put a condom on together for better results next time.

you boyfriend's penis being flaccid definitely wasn't helping to make penetration any easier! generally speaking, you're going to want the penis to be erect for that.

everyone has different preferences, of course, but it's often helpful to do literally anything else prior to putting something directly in the vagina. kissing, cuddling, touching each other's genitals with hands, mouths, or any other body part you desire, etc. particularly for vaginal penetration, giving yourself time is helpful: it gives the vagina time to lubricate as well as for the process of tenting, during which the cervix and uterus draw back to create more space in the vaginal canal. much in the same way that you (probably) can't just stick a finger into your vagina without any warning or lube and have an enjoyable sexual experience, you need time to get ready with a partner.

having said all of that: this was your first time doing this. very few people are great at things on their first try. the first time I tried rollerskating outside I fell over a million mortifying times where all my neighbors could see. the first time I tried to cook chicken flautas I accidentally smoked up my kitchen so badly that my housemates and I had to temporarily evacuate our home while it aired out. the only way you learn how to do things is by fucking them up a few times. that's the most normal thing in the entire world.

try again or wait a while, whatever you prefer, but know that you're not missing out on some secret hack to have Perfect Cool Guy Sex that everyone knows but you. the way that good sex happens, which to me just means mutually enjoyable and comfortable sex, is by understanding that sex is a fundamentally messy and silly endeavor and finding someone with whom you can laugh through the dumb shit.

[strawbeerossi]

Insecurities

Pairing: Gender Neutral!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: You realize Spencer has been avoiding sex the past year of your relationship. You need to get to the bottom of the reason.

Content/Warnings: Body insecurity, comfort, handjob, blowjob, cock worship (I think that’s it)

Word Count: 1.2K

Kinktober Day Twenty One: Cock Worship

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

Dating Spencer was a dream. He was a very sweet man, spoiling you with books or coffee whenever you were at work. At home, he was the same way. He would read to you, hold you, and spoil you with nothing but warm love. 

You had been together for nearly a year, the both of you finally deciding to move in with one another as soon as your lease expired for your apartment. You enjoyed living with Spencer, even if you were both completely different people. He wasn’t a slob but you were definitely a clean freak, always cleaning and straightening up the apartment even when it wasn’t too bad. 

You’d gotten to know each other in every aspect, besides sexually. Spencer always mentioned how he wasn’t ready, which you understood. Some people wanted to wait a while before touching one another and you would wait as long as you needed to.

Tonight, you actually thought you two were going to seal the deal. You’d just gotten back from dinner with the team, the both of you getting hot and heavy on your living room couch. 

Your hips had rocked against his lap, however whenever he was hardening in his pants, Spencer was nearly panicking as he pulled away and gently nudged you off of him. “I need to pee.” He excused his actions in a poorly crafted lie before he was going to the bathroom. You were quickly standing and following behind. “Wait, Spence!” You called, sighing as the door was locking you out from seeing him. 

“Is it something that I’m doing wrong? I thought you were into it, I can stop being so forward, I’m sorry.” Spencer’s squeak could be heard from behind the door as he was working to unlock it and open it. “I was into it!” He assured while putting his hands on your upper arms. “Please don’t apologize. This is my fault. I’m just.. Embarrassed.” He finally admitted, cheeks as red as a tomato as he was rubbing the back of his neck.

“Why are you embarrassed? Spencer, you should’ve told me this before..” You sighed while offering an assuring smile. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You know that I love you.” Your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders in an effort to hug him close.

“I just don’t like being naked, you know?” He spoke softly while slowly letting out  a breath of relief. Thank god, you weren’t upset with him. “I think it’s a self conscious issue. I just don’t want you to be.. Unsatisfied.” He admitted, your eyebrows raising. “Spencer.. I could never be unsatisfied with you. I love you and that means I love every inch of you.” Hearing his fears now made things much clearer for you. 

“You’re just saying that..”

“No, I’m not. Let me prove it, Spencer.”

The words had a rush of blood going straight to his half hard cock, making him fully erect as he cleared his throat. “I, uh, okay. Yeah, let’s do that. I don’t wanna make you think I’m ashamed to be with you sexually cause that’s not it at all!” He’d rambled while you offered a smile, leading him to your shared bedroom before nudging him to sit on the mattress. 

“I know you’re nervous but I promise that I’ll take care of you.” After pressing a chaste kiss from his lips, the both of you were fumbling to get his pants and boxers tugged down to his knees.

“You’re sure you are ready to go through with this?” You asked, not daring to drag your eyes down his body until he gave you the okay. “I’m sure.” He assured, watching as your eyes finally trailed down to the part of his body he’d desperately been hiding from you. 

You let your head dip down before you were pressing a kiss to the tip of his leaking cock. “You didn’t have to be shy, Spencer.” You assured as your body sank to your knees while getting settled in front of him. “I think you’re perfect. There was nothing to even worry about.”

Insecurity was hard but you didn’t mind letting him see just how much you were attracted to every inch of his body. As your tongue swiped over the thick tip of his cock, you were collecting the bead of precum that had already bubbled over. You let your lips press a few kisses on the underside of his shaft, knowing that you wanted to take your time and savor the experience Spencer decided to share with you. He definitely wasn’t complaining, his head tilting back as he took in a soft breath. 

As your tongue was licking alongside each vein, he was letting out a soft whine. “Fuck. Feels really good.” He spoke softly, slowly bringing a hand down to rest your hand over the back of your head. The way your mouth worked his cock without trying was enough to make him kick himself for not talking about this with you sooner. He snapped out his thoughts as your thumb swiped over the sensitive slit of his cock to smear some of the slick on his cock. “You’re so pretty, Spence. Everything about you is just so..” You paused while offering a smile. “Perfect.”

The words had his face flushing, shyly looking away as he let out a soft whine at your hand squeezing the base of his cock. “What do you say?” You asked, an eyebrow raised as you expected an answer. “T-thank you.” 

He was swiftly awarded as your tongue was trailing over the tip of his dick, collecting the salty taste of precum on your tongue while now suckling on the head. Each moan, whine or whimper was motivation for you to take him further and further in your mouth, head bobbing at a quick pace.

“Ah- I might last much longer.” He whispered, nose crinkling. It was too early, he was sure of it. When you didn’t complain and instead brought your hand to play with his heavy balls, he was letting out a groan of appreciation. “C-Can you swallow it? I just-” He blushed as you were moaning around his cock at the suggestion, the vibrations jolting through his body and causing the shaft to twitch in your mouth.

As your mouth and tongue worked wonders, it wasn’t long until he was painting the back of your throat with ribbons of cum, your eyes fluttering shut as you welcomed the substance and milked Spencer for all he was worth.

Pulling off with a pop, you brought your thumb up to wipe a bit from the corner of your mouth. “I should’ve talked to you sooner. I’m sorry, Spence. I wasn’t paying enough attention to know why.” 

His hand came up as he was letting another hand gently grab your hand to help you stand. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve talked with you instead of running away.” He offered a gentle smile while tugging you close, arms around your body.

“Is it too soon to ask you to return the favor?” You asked teasingly, laughing as your boyfriend was tossing you back against the mattress.

“I owe you. It’s only fair.”

[holylulusworld]

Papillon (3) - Caged bird

Title: Papillon (3) - Caged bird

Square 6 filled for @theslumberparty-blog presents bingo (expired): Overstimulation

Written for @anyfandomdarkbingo: Square filled: Criminal AU

Summary: Your secret is out and there is no way out…

Pairing: Mobster!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Warnings/Triggers: possessive Clark, threats, dubcon bordering on non-con, forced proximity, mafia au, dark!Clark Kent, power imbalance, fingering, somnophilia, oral (fem rec), overstimulation, degrading/praise kink, smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, corruption kink, use of plugs/ bondage horse chair, a lil aftercare

A/N: This one kinda got out of hand...👀👀

Words: 2,5k+

Papillon (2) - In his hands

Papillon Masterlist

Please heed the warnings for this chapter before reading it!

“Papillon, I can be kind and only clip your wings, or I’ll crush them…”

He hoists you up, strong hands forcing your legs around his waistline. You hate that you feel like a crushed butterfly in his hold. Clark is not wrong. He can simply end your life with one flick of his wrist.

He crushes you against the wall with his thick and hard body. You’re helpless. Not only because you’re naked while he’s still fully clothed. This bastard does it on purpose to show you who’s in charge.

“I hate repeating myself, Papillon,” he growls against your kiss-swollen lips. Again, he kisses you, harder and more demanding this time. You can feel his erection press against your bare pussy. He rubs himself against you, groaning like a beast. “I’ll ask again, this one time. Whose whore are you from now on?”

You whimper. His cock rubs against your clit, and he’s teasing you with his lips against your neck. Clark bites your neck, adding pain to the pleasure he forces on you while rubbing your clit with his cock.

You’re already breathless, and your mind is a mess. You hate this man; hate everything he stands for. At the same time, he fulfills all of your dark desires.

He lifts his head from your neck, teeth gritted like some animal. Clark looks you straight in the eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. He already knows the answer. With only a few words, he has you tethering on the edge. “Answer me!”

You wrinkle your nose. If you don’t give in, he’ll take what he wants and kill you afterward. But if you take what you want and fulfill your kinks tonight, and pretend to give in you can play the game by your rules.

He’s just another man believing he can take advantage of you. When in reality, you will bring him down. Clark Kent, his organization, and the people breaking your trust.

He curls his upper lip. His eyes fill with anger and he’s about to drop you when you wrap your arms around his neck. You wiggle your hips and rub yourself against his length.

“I’m your whore, Sir,” you breathe the words against his lips. “I always dreamed of a strong man like you taking me like the whore I am. Can you do this for me…Sir.”

His lips crash against yours, and you need to hold back a chuckle. Men are so predictable. Give them a wet cunt to stuff and they’ll purr like a cat for you. “Please fuck me,” you purr between kisses. “I know only you can pound this cunt like a man.”

It’s Clark’s turn to smirk. He holds you against the wall with one strong arm wrapped around your body while his free hand slips between your body. He smacks his cock against your pussy lips, sending a spark through your lower half.

“Do you honestly believe I’ll fall for your lies?” He laughs in your face while slipping the tip in. Clark fills you with one hard and cruel thrust. For only a second he stills his hips to savor the moment of his win over you. “You’ll be good for me either way, Papillon. I don’t care if you want to kill me or not. You and your body are mine from now on.”

You whimper when he starts moving inside of you. Every time he slides back in he looks you in the eyes. You were right. This is a fight for dominance and control. Sadly, Clark won this round. You gave in too easily, believing he’ll make a mistake. Now you are the butt of the joke and get pounded by the worst man you can imagine.

“Sir…” You babble and whine. All you can do is hold tight onto the man you wanted to bring down not hours ago as he fucks you into the wall. He uses all his strength, ramming into you while your back hits the wall.

“Aw, Papillon,” he claims your lips again, tugging at your lower lip, drawing blood. “I’m not a gentle lover. You’ll only get to cum if I decide to let you.”

You shake your head. An orgasm is the last thing on your mind. You want to get this over with and form a new plan. If only his cock wouldn’t hit the right spot.

You hate him… fuck… you hate him … Right?

His forehead presses against yours as he speeds up. Clark rocks your whole body anytime he rolls his hips.

“Fuck, this cunt feels good, Papillon—” He hisses and moves his hands to your thighs, spreading you wider to watch his cock disappear inside your cunt. “Look at you taking my cock like a good girl. A federal agent getting tainted by me.” He smirks when you drop your eyes to watch him slowly fuck into you. “What if I put a bastard in you? I could do it right now.”

“Ngghh…” You whine. How can he know about all of your secret kinks? “I’m on…” You don’t get the words out. Your orgasm hits you as if Clark slapped you again. You’re gushing all over his cock, wetting his length.

“You can deny it as much as you want to…”

You’re suddenly empty, and on your feet again. Disoriented you let him twirl you around to bend you over his desk. He slides right back inside your slicked cunt. Clark’s hands hold you down by your shoulders, his grip bruising.

“You want this, Papillon. A man, taking you how you need it. Someone, protecting you from this cruel world.”

You are babbling incoherent words. Dizzy, and weak you cum again, groaning and wheezing because he doesn’t stop. One of his hands moves between your thighs to slap your clit and pussy lips.

“God…” He does it again, and again until you whimper his name.

“Fuck say my name again!” He growls in your ear. You do it. This is the point of no return. You came on your enemy’s cock and at one point you even begged him to cum inside of you.

Clark roars your real name through his high. He’s still lazily thrusting in and out of you long after you rested your head on the cool surface of the desk. You just lie there, letting him slip out of your cunt to shove his cum back inside.

“Stuffed with my spunk,” he kisses your shoulder before biting it again. He leaves an angry mark, but you’re too out of it to care. “I’ll get you something nice to keep it inside…”

You let him move your body onto the leather couch in the room. He bends you over the furniture and spreads your thighs. Clark opens a drawer. You don’t know what he’s up to, but you know, there is nothing you can do about it. You’re at his mercy.

“You’ll love it, Papillon.” You hear him rummage in the drawer for a moment before he kicks the couch with his foot. “Don’t fall asleep yet.” He grunts, and then something presses against your cunt. “Open up for me one last time.”

Clark laughs when you try to wiggle away. “No more…”

“Aw, poor Papillon. There will be lots, lots more.” He slaps your ass meaningly. “No fighting me. I want to make you even prettier.” This time he slips a vaginal plug inside your cunt. “A pretty rose-shaped vaginal plug for my Papillon. This will keep my cum inside of you, and make it bloom.“

Clark laughs at his bad wordplay. He admires your cunt stuffed with the plug, humming to himself.

“Next time, we will stuff both holes. What do you say?”

“Do you want me to get rid of her?” Jimmy looks at your naked form still lying on the couch. Clark didn’t cover your body. He enjoyed watching you sleep peacefully with your pussy still stuffed with the vaginal plug. “Boss?”

Clark furrows his brows. He’s staring at your cunt again, hand cupping his jaw to rub his scruffy chin. “Did you get the cat and the shit I told you to?”

“Uh-the cat is in the guestroom, her shit too,” Jimmy glances at your ass. “Do you want to keep her? She’s a federal agent.”

“She’s mine,” Clark flicks his wrist dismissively. He looks Jimmy straight in the eyes, making sure he knows that you belong to him now. “Tell them all, her holes are mine. No one touches or even looks at her. I decide when it’s time to kill her.”

“Got it, boss,” Jimmy hastily makes his way out of the room. He stared at your naked ass for a little too long and fears, Clark will kill him for it.

“Hmm…that’s a good pussy.”

You feel something wet lapping at your cunt. Oddly, you can’t move, or wiggle away. Your eyelids are heavy as you try to fight the heaviness in your body and the sleep holding you in a tight grip.

You groan and finally snap your eyes open only to find Clark between your legs. His mouth on your overstimulated flesh. He suckles at your clit while shoving three long fingers inside of you.

“Ah, finally awake?” Clark only stops eating you out to smirk at you.

“What are you doing?” You’re already breathless when you look at him between your legs. “What?” You look at your ankles and then at your wrists. Clark spread your legs wide and restrained your ankles and wrists to the bedposts.

“I told you.” He smirks darkly before biting your clit, making you jolt up the bed, “there will be lots more. I got bored waiting for you to wake up and decided to prepare you for round two.”

“You’re insatiable,” you try to close your legs because your overstimulated flesh is thrumming. “I need a break.”

“You need a cock and someone teaching you respect!” He grunts and pushes his fingers deeper into you. “Maybe I should just use you and gag you. I’m done listening to your lies.”

His eyes drop to his fingers inside your cunt. He curls them, earning a whine from you.

“Please…”

Clark slips his fingers out of you. You already came twice while being out cold and he knows, you’re ready for more.

“I got a better idea.” He suddenly moves away and slips out of the bed to remove the restraints. You dare not to move until he grabs your waist to drag you out of the bed. “You don’t deserve to get fucked on my bed yet. A whore like you needs to feel me in her bones.”

You get pushed through a door; ending up on a plush carpet. Your eyes round, and you whimper. This is not a wardrobe, it’s a sex dungeon.

“Welcome to my playroom,” he laughs when you look at the breeding bench, and the bondage horse chair standing in the middle of the room.

He follows your eyeline, laughing as you wiggle lightly. “Aw, we get to that one.” He points at the wooden padded St Andrews Cross. “We will get you there, Papillon. I’ll break you down to nothing and turn you into my perfect slut.”

He grasps for you, helping you stand only to push you onto the bondage horse chair. Your legs quiver, but slick runs down your thighs.

He’s the epitome of a ruthless mobster, but at the same time, he’s the fulfillment of your wet dreams.

You don’t fight Clark when he restraints your ankles and wrists. It’s a lost cause, and you hate to admit it, you’ve never been more turned on.

“Perfect,” he hums, satisfied with your submissive behavior. For a moment, he toys with your clit and pussy lips. “I love to fuck your holes. How about I give this underused cunt another load?”

It’s not a question. Clark already shoves himself inside your hungry cunt, groaning as you clench tightly around him. “I should eat that cunt while you’re out cold more often. It makes you so compliant.

You grit your teeth when he cups the back of your neck to force you to lift your head to look in one of the large mirrors on the wall.

“You will watch me fuck you. That’s all you’re good for, Papillon. I have your life in the palm of my hand.” He starts thrusting in and out of you. His hands grip your waistline hard enough to bruise. Clark smirks at you, holding your gaze in the mirror while ruining your abused hole all over again.

His hips move at a maddening pace, punching every strength left in you out of your body. You whimper and moan, but glare at him in the mirror. He cannot know that you’re about to come all over him again.

“Yeah, I know you try to fight the tidal wave, Papillon,” he growls your name and speeds up. His hips crash into your ass, leaving bruises there without a doubt. All you can do is watch him having a blast fucking you like a whore over one of his toys. “If you wonder, I got this nice bondage horse chair after seeing you for the first time. I knew I’d ride you like a needy mare one day."

You grit your teeth in disgust. That vile asshole planned on fucking you all along. “Fuck you.”

“I’m on it, my little federal agent. And there will be lots of fucking, Papillon. You’ll soon find out that I got a lot of stamina and hunger,” he leans over your body, now jerking his hips into your ass with quick but deep thrusts. “This cunt is mine, baby. You will never need another cock because this is where I belong. Inside your needy holes.”

Times flew by, or so you believe. Clark forced you to cum on his cock thrice before he finally slipped out of you. After he was done, he once again, shoved the vaginal plug inside your sore cunt.

Clark cooed gentle words when he carried your limp and weak body out of the playroom. This time, he showed mercy and prepared a warm bath.

He joined you in the tub, of course, he did. Not only to toy with your breasts and mark your neck with his teeth some more but to make sure you’re not doing anything stupid.

“Hmm…so soft and nice when you’re fucked dumb.” If not for his crude words, you could’ve enjoyed the warm water and that he ran the sponge over your body. “I knew you’re the perfect choice. Tomorrow, you will tell me everything you know about your boss, your colleagues, and your role in all of this.”

Your head lolls back, and you rest it against his shoulder. Clark is right. For the first time, you’re too exhausted to even argue. You can think about a plan to bring him down tomorrow, while you’re not still fighting the afterglow of your orgasms.

He runs his hand over your chest, groping you lightly while whispering praises in your ear. You know what he’s doing. Clark tries to coax you into submission after he fucked you raw.

Talking about carrot and stick… and he's got a fucking big carrot dangling in your face.

“Hmm…you’re so good for me, Papillon,” he makes you sigh, and you hate yourself for it. “You will be even better for me with time…”

Tags in reblog.

[iww-gnv]

Today Teamsters are erecting practice picket lines as the July 31 expiration of their contract with UPS rapidly approaches. After negotiations broke down yesterday, the largest strike at a single employer in US history is a real possibility.

[katyawriteswhump]

love and other catastrophes at the Omega Cafe (4.1/8)

Wohoo! I managed a midweek update! Posting in two parts again, tho', for my sanity Second half should be up later. ETA 4.2 is now up here 💚

Summary: Steve is a runaway Omega who gets a job at an Omega café, where he’s basically paid to curl up and purr in Alphas’ laps. It’s legal, and he earns a living, rents his own place. He’s getting along fine for a packless Omega. Then Alpha rockstar Eddie Munson turns up for an hour of ‘kitty’ petting, and shatters Steve’s fragile little world…

Rating: E; No major warnings; Tags: omega steve, alpha eddie, a/b/o dynamics, fluff and angst, sexual content, slick, scents 💚 

Chapter 1 on tumblr (also index post) Chapter 2 on tumblr Chapter 3.1 Chapter 3.2

On AO3

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

Chapter 4.1

There Steve was, arms flung around Eddie’s neck, humping crazily into Eddie’s lap.  Grinding himself so jerkily that his kitty ears slipped sideways.

That single word from Eddie’s singing voice—HOME—injected itself and spread like a beautiful poison through his veins. What must he do to make this Alpha want him back? Right now, he needed… Crap, he longed to be sucked into that sweet dream of lovemaking in a cosy nest. Or screw it, he’d sure take the one where he got roughly bent over the cake counter and banged to oblivion.

Steve’s increasingly forceful gyrations sent Eddie sliding down on the cushions till he was lying half-flat, a surprised grunt escaping him. Steve arched over him, preening and purring, pawing Eddie’s shoulders then chest, pressing Eddie flatter. Till a pair of firm hands clamped down on Steve’s admittedly out-of-control snake-hips, stopping them mid-twerk.

“Woah there, Stevie. Let’s rewind, huh?”

Eddie puffed out his flushed cheeks, seized back the reins of the situation. Which was what Steve wanted, right? Steve didn’t want this, though—Eddie elbowing himself up straight, leaving Steve feeling shaken, mentally and physically. Above all, confused.

After all, Steve was straddling a truly Alpha erection.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I fucked up.” Eddie huddled Steve against his chest for a waaaaaay too chaste, ‘let’s-not-break-the-rules’ hug. His voice sounded tight, which stressed Steve out further. “Listen, Honey, I’m flattered. Never had such an epic reaction to a demo. But when you said music overwhelmed you, I didn’t realize you meant like that.”

“I d-didn’t,” stuttered Steve, and it was true. Music messed him up emotionally. Not physically, at least never to this extent. Boy, he was messed up now! The echoes of the track faded, and Eddie’s cuddling only made him more needy.

A cold shard of hurt stabbed up beneath his ribs: He doesn’t want me! What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?

Instincts kicked in. He turned utterly limp, flopped his chin back, and offered his throat. He watched Eddie through half-lidded eyes, unable to move a muscle.

Surely Eddie would want him now?

Eddie’s pupils grew huge, and within them, something shifted—a darkness that somehow shone and that Steve absolutely needed in his life. Eddie’s lips peeled back, incisors flashing. Steve’s heart literally skipped a beat and then, “Omega, don’t tempt me too far.”

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, stupid grateful that Eddie was still holding him, not casting him aside like the pathetic limp rag he’d been reduced to. “It’s like… your music sent me into heat.” Wtf? WTF?  A gaping chasm of need had opened inside him and throbbed like a bastard. “Christ, if you don’t wanna help, please g-go. You’ll get a r-refund.”

The seconds before Eddie’s answer stretched like an hour. “You want me to stay and help, Steve?”

Steve nearly screamed, What d’ya fucking think, dipshit? Instead, a mewling whine escaped, “Pleeeeease?”

Eddie conjured his most wickedly yummy grin yet: “Well, seeing as you ask so nicely.”

Steve almost exploded from relief.  Then he all but expired from excitement, as Eddie slowly slithered his fingers down the wispy line of hair beneath Steve’s navel.

He lingered a moment, rubbing softly, growling even softer, then plunged straight down the front of Steve’s shorts. He began rolling Steve’s cocklet around in a fashion that set Steve’s eyes rolling up. His head drooped back so far, his kitty-ears finally slipped off completely.

“This okay? This helps, Sweetness?”

Steve nodded, thirsty for dick, yeah, though he’d take this. Under that rough Alpha palm, his orgasm built already. His gasps gave way to purrs that grew so rapturous they verged on mini roars, then reverted to desperate little hiccups. Eddie was, if anything, slightly too gentle. Steve’s hips reverted to autopilot, jerking wildly into Eddie’s hand. His vulva meanwhile chafed the now-drenched fabric between them.

He needed rid of his ruined hotpants. He needed Eddie to touch him properly there. Somehow, he found the co-ordination to shimmy up, peel his shorts off his hips. On cue, Eddie’s hand strayed lower, finding the soaking wet mess of his folds. Steve’s nerve endings turned live-wire electric, and…

…oh, oh, oh, oh, OH!

The instant Eddie’s finger breached the honeypot of his cunt, Steve was spasming hard and fast. His cocklet spurted messily up Eddie’s vest top. Then he simply kept on coming, wave after wave of bliss set to his own soundtrack of dirty, little cries.

He’d literally no idea he could come this many times. When he touched himself, it was over quickly or faded to unsatisfying flickers. Eddie fingerfucked him relentlessly, grinning savagely, the tips of those Alpha incisors gleaming. He’d gotten two fingers up there now, surely, and it was no longer enough.

The rougher he worked Steve, the more Steve hungered for that fucking tree-trunk of a cock he could feel beneath him. He needed Eddie to stretch his little hole so wide it’d never be the same again, to seal his gaping mouth with a kiss, and…

…Jesus, Steve was still coming. The peachy-camomile scent of Steve’s slick clouded the room.

The fantasy of riding that super-huge dick for real, made the next quivering wave of orgasm the best yet. His latest batch of purrs exploded into a relentless wave of chirrups. Every sinew in his body pulled so taut he feared he’d come apart.

And then, he finally did, because he was suddenly too sensitive down there, something that Eddie appeared to read. Gently as Eddie had pressed in, he slid his hand out. Steve flopped his face to the curve of Eddie’s throat. With his fading orgasms still quivering in his cunt, he lapped at Eddie’s throat like the kitty that’d got the cream.

Eddie’s voice rumbled, “Okay, Honey, I need a raincheck.”

“Huh?” Steve stopped lapping briefly, then resumed.

Eddie tugged at the scruff of Steve’s collar. “Raincheck, Omega.”

At first, Steve couldn’t understand what was happening. Eddie pried Steve off his neck, and then manoeuvred him off his lap. Steve perched on the chais-longue, trembling and confused, as Eddie tugged up the hotpants caught sluttily around Steve’s thighs. “C’mon, cover yourself up, Baby.”

“Th-thank you,” Steve stuttered. He was still giddy, so confused. Was Eddie leaving him? Was he angry?  “I’m sorry, I… that’s not happened before. Nobody has ever, um, helped… You’re kinda the first Alpha, who’s… um… touched… I never chirruped for… um… anyone before.”

Eddie was already backing away, swiping his hair from his sweat-beaded brow. “Oh Christ, Steve. I can’t… Listen, I gotta get out of here, before I… I…”

Steve gawked at the huge bulge of Eddie’s erection. Eddie paused to stare at it too. He was one straining stitch away from a major wardrobe malfunction. The mammoth bulge was shiny with Steve’s slick.

And he’d got Steve’s come splattered up his vest.

“Shit! I can’t walk through the café like this! Is there another exit?”

“Huh?” Steve remained dazed.

“Steve! Where’s the back door? Answer me, Omega!”

“Uh, yeah. To the right… left… Yes, sorry. Definitely left.”

Eddie turned a frosty shoulder and departed, slamming the door behind.

A beat past.

What just happened? What did I do? OH MY GOD HARRINGTON, YOU RUINED EVERYTHING! HE’LL NEVER COME BACK! YOU’LL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN!

An agonised wail escaped Steve, long and wretched and super-high. He curled in on himself, into as tight a ball as possible, as if protecting his soft underbelly from further hurt. Too late, he bled misery and pain. He faintly heard a tiny bell tinkling, then Chrissy appeared, crying out: “Oh my God! What did that son-of-a-bitch do to you?”

She cuddled her little body around him, rocking and shushing him. He was glad she had found him, not Tommy or Carol. He could hardly string a sentence together.  “It’s not… He didn’t… It was my fault, Chrissy. It was my stupid dumb ditzy O-head fault! I’ve ruined everything!”

“Ssssh, Steve, try and calm down. Deep breaths.” They clinched together ever more tightly. “It’s not your fault, Steve. Did he hurt you?”

“No! It was me!” Frustration anchored Steve slightly. “Chrissy, he played his music, his new demo, and I lost control. I went crazy. Like, ‘in heat’ crazy.” He sensed her sharp inhale as she took all this in. “I begged him to help. He could’ve done what he liked with me, and I wouldn’t have stopped him… Oh God, why don’t the blockers help me with Eddie?”

He sank his head down on her chest, sniffling, and she smoothed his hair.  “I don’t know, Steve. Maybe you’ve been using them too long and they’re not so effective anymore.”

“You and the other kitties have been taking them longer,” he pointed out. “Maybe I should take more?”

“No, definitely not. That could make you really poorly.”

As if on cue, Steve’s stomach performed a deeply unpleasant flip. “Chrissy,” he groaned, “I don’t feel so good right now.”

“I’ll get you some water.” She unravelled herself and hurried out.

The room swam around him and the pink drapes glowed a headache-inducing neon. He hunkered into his corner of the couch and a big fat tear rolled down his cheek.  He’d never known rejection sickness—if that is what this was—could hit so hard and fast. Even so, how could he have been so stupid, getting this worked up about a casual customer?

Chrissy returned and shoved the water into Steve’s hand. He took a couple of sips, then handed it back. “Doesn’t help,” he whimpered.

“Okay, I’m calling Robin, right now. I was due in a customer’s lap, like five minutes ag—” She cut off. The door creaked open. A fresh wave of Eddie's scent billowed into the room.

Followed by Eddie.

He was soaking wet, dripping like a drenched dog, with his clothes clinging to every hard angle and plane of his Alpha body.

Chrissy reared toward Eddie, perfectly manicured claws raised, bell jingling, and doubtless flashing her Omega fangs. “Ssssstay away from him!”

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt him. I’m not gonna hurt anyone.” Eddie raised two placatory palms, focus darting from the fluffed-up Omega kitty to Steve. “I’m sorry, okay? I need to talk to Steve, that’s all, and then I’ll go.”

“No way!” Chrissy raised herself daintily on her tiptoes and folded her arms. “You are not staying here alone with him!”

“That’s fine, Ma’am,” said Eddie, with a respectful bob of his head. “You can stay too.”

“Chrissy, your customer,” murmured Steve.

“She can wait!” Chrissy now planted her little fists on her hips like a superhero about to tear some bad dude a second asshole. She watched Eddie like a hawk as he approached the chais-longue, and…

…dropped to one knee in front of it.

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

Chapter 4.2 on tumblr

Thank you so very much for reading. If you enjoyed, every little like and reblog or comment means a lot to me so thank you💚

I am always happy to tag, pls let me know, or you can follow the tag #steddie omega cat cafe 💚

tags 💚🐈‍⬛💚 @disrespectedgoatman 💚 @bumblebeecuttlefishes

@katethetank 💚 @themoonagainstmers 💚 @chaotic-waffle 💚

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

On AO3

[lucifergifs]

LUCIFER | 4.05 “Expire Erect”

[infiniteeight8]

Peter and Stiles get trapped in close quarters.

😇

I’m not even going to try to be original here, we’re going for a very classic, very tropey, pressed together in a closet set up. 😀

-

Stiles was going to die of embarrassment. Just expire, right here, trapped in a closet with Peter. Peter was going to have to stand around with a corpse until the pack found them and then he’d have to explain and Scott would probably kill him and then they’d both be dead. Stiles could feel his breath coming faster, but hey, at least if he had a panic attack, it would probably kill the erection he was struggling to resist. For a while.

“Stiles,” Peter said, his voice low and almost soothing. “We are perfectly safe here. If I can’t break down this door, neither can anything else. We just have to wait to be found.”

“I know that,” Stiles groaned. The low, soothing voice was a little too nice. He was half hard now. Given how closely they were pressed together, Peter could probably already feel it. “That is not the problem.”

There was a pause. 

Finally, Peter sighed. “Look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s clearly freaking you out, so here we go: This is far from the first time you’ve gotten a hard on around me. Relax. I know it doesn’t mean anything.”

Huh. Stiles had expected to be mocked. If Peter didn’t think Stiles’s attraction was laughable, maybe, just maybe, there might be a chance for it to go somewhere. “It kind of does mean something,” Stiles said carefully. “I wouldn’t be freaking out over your reaction if it didn’t.”

Another pause. “It’s been… Quite a while. And this is not new,” Peter said.

It really wasn’t. “I didn’t think you were interested,” Stiles said. 

“And if I were interested?”

Stiles groaned. “Don’t do that, Peter. I already went out on a limb here.”

“Limb is not a terrible descriptor,” Peter said thoughtfully. 

It took Stiles a second to realize he was complimenting Stiles’s dick size. “Peter!”

Laughter filled Peter’s voice. “Stiles. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Stiles blew out a relieved breath. “Yes. Thank you.”

[ms-m-astrologer]

2025 Leo Full Moon

Wednesday, February 12, 13:53 UTC, 24°06’ Leo

Chart erected for Washington, DC

The key phrases for the Full lunar phase are “culminate, fulfill, illumine, manifest;” and “pour all our energy/effort into our intentions.”

We have a Fixed grand cross: the Leo Moon opposes the Aquarius Sun, Mercury, and Ceres; Juno/Scorpio opposes Uranus/Taurus; each end of the oppositions is square both players in the other opposition. Eris/Aries is also a factor, sextile the Sun and trine the Moon.

Some of the feelings I get from this are:

Hanging on to something way past the expiration date (fixed signs don’t always know when to quit)

Something that should have been jettisoned a long time ago, suddenly (Uranus) implodes

People being done with cruelty, coldness, and complacency

People acting out on their alienation

I think we can use this energy to blast through any stalemates or stagnant energy in our lives. But be careful! Think things through, and make sure you’re truly committed to making big changes.

It’s important to stay alert this week - earbuds don’t just wreck our hearing, they diminish our situational awareness. Be loving, take care of yourself and your loved ones, remember your sense of humor (Monty Python is the only thing getting me through life at the moment), and make time to do the things that bring you joy.

After the Moon enters Virgo (Thursday, February 13, 01:07 UTC), we’re focused on more mundane, “daily-life” matters. Run an errand for your Valentine, or clean their kitchen for them! Might be an episode or two of “20/20 hindsight” as we look back over the past week.

[webanglikethat]

Oh Icarus, let the sun have you.

♡ pairing: Tristan/Grant

♡ prompts: “we were never just friends”, “first love” and “first kiss”

›› : word count: 3800.

★: when the weight of green and red pushes down on Tristan's chest, it's Grant's presence he seeks. Tristan is not sure whether unconditional love exists, but when his eyes trace Grant's face, he selfishly wants to start believing in it.

or: an analysis of Tristan's past, and Grant is there, as he always is. it's very OOC but we die like CEOs.

The party raged on in the living room, screams being accompanied by clamorous laughter and the popping of bottles swallowed by the music, while Tristan slowly opened the door to Grant’s room, the familiar walls welcoming him home. Home, he thought with a scoff as he passed the threshold and ruffled his hair. What was home, if the trust your family built it on was money? If the only faith you shared was the green of bills and the red of stamps? When the altar of parental adoration laid solely on your shot at being an asset to be exploited, could you even pray at it? Could it be called an altar of love, or was it a mere prosaic sacrificial shrine? 

He cut off his train of thoughts – too well immersed in the ins and outs of this conversation he had gone through more times than he could count, picking at old wounds while ostracizing new – sighing as he sat down on the bed. The embedded shelves filled with stones seemed to scrutinize him, taking in his dishevelled hair, as though they could seep into his bones and analyze his dishevelled heart too. They seemed to blare alarms, asking why he was there if the owner had left, as though the mere act of existing there was a felony. He was a stranger wherever he went, always searching for more, pushing and pushing till the lines blurred beneath his eyelashes and everything outran him. Perhaps that’s how the stones that built his being were first erected. He remembered being six, as well as one would remember the first fall of snow. Sometimes the memories slipped from his hands, and he ran, stretched out his hands, and held the tears of the sky as if they could last, as if they weren’t holding an expiration date. At times, he simply watched them fall, observing how the wind curled around them, as if trying to transport them, holding out a second chance for him. His fingers would twitch, but he’d blame the cold. If he could, he would melt it all, till he forgot, till nothing remained, till the brown of the wasteland merged with the dark of his head and he could no longer gaze upon it. It was at six that he realized that life was an evergreen winter, that everything had a price, and that even he could be left to be auctioned. His small figure, confident even back then, had stood on a glass panel, watching as everything around him fell. Every facet in his peripheral view crumbled, and although he was unmoored, he stood frozen, It wasn’t till he forgot the touch of his mother that resentment grew inside of him, rooting and stretching in different directions; at his father for thinking money could buy abandonment; at his mother for taking it and leaving him in a place that never was home unless she was present; at himself for not having been enough to be held onto, and at last, money. Green, sickly green. It swirled into his throat till it scratched and scratched, crimson red welcoming its lover home, until he could no longer differentiate the red of his anger from the red of his swollen heart, until the pale of his skin trembled against the olive of repugnance, and he could no longer recognize if the sickness stemmed from himself or if it was a mere reflection of the one purging down society. 

He let himself fall on his back, the soft mattress offering him a quick refuge between the pillows, the sheets rustling as he shifted, trying to find the perfect position. He put his arms behind his head, eyes scanning the ceiling, tracing the lines of the wood, trying to sweep away his thoughts like a hurricane destroying everything in its wake. But he remembered it all too well – infuriatingly precisely, damned be his memory – and so, the lines of the ceiling melted into the lines of his memories, tracing the passage of time trapped in his eyes, and he was transported away again, to the day he was chained to. He remembered that day so well; how he had been playing with his blue toy computer, typing sentences he’d seen his father write on the rare occasions he was home. Those moments, God, he had cherished them so deeply, analysing every moment, as if the blink of his eye could conjure him away like a butterfly he couldn’t reach for. Sometimes, he wished he had wings. He had gotten up after an hour, holding the toy in his hands, and ran to his father’s office. He wanted to show him that he could be just like him, that he saw his potential and wanted to extract it into his own hands. That he too could be adored, prized, not just a broken toy in the corner of his room. But instead, he had been greeted by his mother’s tired eyes, black hair falling messily onto her face, right hand reaching for his face while with the other she carried her life in a big brown suitcase. It was the same suitcase she’d carried when they’d gone travelling a few months ago. Between folding and preparing, she had told him about how suitcases are for the best of items, the ones that are necessary, your favourite ones. In the faint glow of the evening’s rays and the chandelier’s reflection, she had gotten down at eye level with him, fingers sweeping the hair off his face and chuckled about how his hair was getting longer again, and he had leaned into the touch, but it had felt cold, devoid of anything that made his mom herself. She felt like his father, foreign, as if glass grew between them; invisible, but still a barrier he couldn’t tear down. It didn’t fit with her sweet words and her careful touch. She had taken the toy out of his hands, laid it carefully on the floor, and before he could show her his skills, her arms had wrapped themselves around his figure, shaking ever so slightly. He had been confused, but happily returned the hug, and his mother had pulled away, eyes tracing his face; from his forehead, where now a pink lip stain softly laid, to his soft eyes, his small nose, his slightly opened mouth, his ears. All that he was because of her. A little version of himself, she used to muse, watching him run around the house, always in front of her like a knight protecting his queen. She wished in that moment, as she brushed a fallen eyelash off his face, that he’d grow up to be nothing like her. 

Even at the age of six, Tristan had been well immersed in the silent language of bodies; be it the way his father’s steps fastened whenever his eyes met his figure, or how his jaw tightened whenever he spoke of his fantasy adventures. He had quickly learned to bite his tongue, swallowing the words he wished he could say, letting the vocabulary die in his throat, and instead spoke them into the shells he had gathered when his mother and him had gone to the beach. Even then, he could peer into his mother’s eyes, and watch her slowly pull away. So he held her tighter, his hands tightening around the puffs of her dress, and the words lingered on his tongue, demanding to be evicted, and all he could say was mom. Mom, please. Mom, why are you looking at me like this? Mom, why do you have a suitcase? Mom, am I not small enough to fit into it? Mom, am I not your life too? Am I no longer your favourite? Mom, can we go into my room and hide beneath the covers? Mom, can we paint the walls of my room again? But even then, Tristan was his father’s son, and he let the silence linger between them, curling its hands around his throat and on his mother’s hands. With one last kiss to his forehead, she had whispered to him how she loved him, and he’d squeezed her hand thrice, not lingering. For years to come, he would wonder if perhaps, holding up his computer and showing that he too could achieve greatness would’ve stopped her from leaving him. He’d remember the stories she would read to him at night, arguing against his father to let him do this instead of a maid, and how her voice would drop lower, as if the mere existence of sound could enrage him. She’d tell him tales about Greek mythology, and for a while, Tristan would repeat them to himself in the cocoon of the night, trying to repeat her enunciation, replay her cadence. He remembered how Kronos, afraid of his children, had eaten them. At times, he would imagine his mother. Had she given birth to her pain, and when he’d showed up instead, wished she could take him back? Had she been afraid of him, with eyes resembling his father’s? Had she wanted to cut up his chest, take out the organs and undo the stitching of his father’s legacy but then given up? Had she instead been forced to sever parts of her own self to have him? Did loving him meant disintegrating herself? Was that what loving him translated into? He didn’t know, and perhaps the worst part was that he never would. Years would pass and the truth would dissipate like waves rewriting the sand. What would remain peculiar to him however, was how, even in his hurt, it was Mom the word that slipped from his lips. It was almost fascinating how he still reached for her, even when the pain stemmed from her hands. It was Mom that he repeated, like a mantra, as if the mere calling of the word could be enough for her to retrace her steps and find her way back to him. To him, that stood out the most. He never stopped calling her Mom. Even when tears rolled down his face, he could never hate her. A child will not stop looking for his mother’s love even when she herself slips away and that, perhaps, was the worst lesson he would come to learn. How could he hate her without hating himself?

Soft footsteps, a door being opened, and a sigh. Grant stood at the threshold, taking in the sight of Tristan laying on his bed. It wasn’t unusual for him to come and find this view at night – at times he almost prepared for it, keeping spare stuff for him in his room. He closed the door behind him, ruffling his hair and walking over to his desk, where he sat down on the chair. ‘Do you wanna talk?’, he asked, looking in Tristan’s direction. The latter still stared at the ceiling, as if the brown could clear the cluttered road of his brain. He shook his head, and Grant nodded, though he couldn’t see the action. He walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge, looking at the boy he’d known for longer than he hadn’t. Though his face had welcomed the years’ arrival, he could still find remains of the child he’d been. He remembered their first meeting, the first time Tristan's hands wrapped around his own, so light and free of any dark colours, before the world decided to weigh them both down. And even then, they had still held onto each other. Tristan had seeped into every corner of his life, always being right behind him when he needed him. As they grew older, the world seemed to decide to carry the burden of disappointing him. Everything felt upside down, filled with madness, selfishness reigning in the hearts of almost everyone he met, rotten apples circling and circling around their wasteland. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be this cruel, especially given the funds to unravel the pain so many experienced. And when he felt hope slipping from his hands, it was Tristan that held the axis of his world. He balanced the waters and the fires, putting out everything that could ever hurt him. It was Tristan whom he called during his first panic attack, it was Tristan who showed up after driving himself to his house despite the fact that one, it was raining and two, he could’ve asked his chauffeur. But he showed up, and though confessions slipped from Grant’s lips about the fear of the future and the growing, aching expectations his father was burying him with, he simply laid next to him, absolving all of his thoughts into his own chest, the verb “judge” long forgotten. For years to come, Tristan and him would turn that into a routine; at least once a month they’d found themselves laying on the floor, eyes to the ceiling, and let their thoughts finally wash away the tugs at their chest. Tristan never said it, but he sometimes felt guilty, knowing he would soon plan to expose their families’ crimes, and in the dimmed light and warm nearness of Grant's body, he’d close his eyes and ask for forgiveness. He’d find himself doing that a lot, though he never believed in a greater god to take account of his pleas. He knew that perhaps he was sinful – with peccancy replacing his blood, as his father would often joke when he thought he wasn’t listening. While for Christians like the Atwood family there was confession and penance and kneeling in front of priests, for him there was Grant. Plucking the petals of his hurt never burned him when it was in the presence of those same brown eyes he had known for what felt like an eternity. He could let all the ugliness that resided in his being fall, and Grant would look at it and wash it with softness, a kindness he didn’t deserve.

The sheets shifted once again, and he soon felt Grant’s arms brush against his own, and his breath caught for a second. He had finally laid down next to him, stretching out his arms in the air, as if reaching for something only he could see. ‘Do you like my ceiling that much?’, he asked softly, to which Tristan replied with a small chuckle, shaking his head. ‘My room has a better one’, he replied, pointing with his hand to somewhere to the right. Grant then asked, ‘So, why are we here?’. We, Tristan noticed, as though there had never been a moment in time in which the vocabulary shared by them had been egocentric. It had always been ‘we’, ‘us’, ‘me and him’, since he could remember. Their tongues had made space for each other’s lives before they could notice it. ‘Because you aren’t there’, he replied softly, shifting slowly so that he laid on his side. Grant mirrored his movements and soon, they were laying on the bed, staring at each other. His legs were brushing against Grant’s knees, eyes dancing across the features of his face, and he could sense the other doing the same. Grant, he thought while his fingers itched to be moved. Grant, Grant, Grant. The mere shape of his name brought him shame at times; shame for knowing he was going to hack his computer with the USB he’d recently brought, shame for spying on his father’s actions, shame for conjuring a plan to bring down all of their families’ rotten legacies. It seemed perhaps, that the apple hadn’t gotten far enough. It had circled its way back around the hill, brushing weeds aside, caterpillars greeting it, till it turned back to its father tree. In his quest for a greater good, he was fated to eventually hurt the only soul he’d ever felt was an expert at reading his own. Hurting people, that was his father’s specialty, so blinded by his own greed and pursuit of something more, something better, even while sitting on a throne wielding the crown like a knife. Could he sever himself from his father’s hands, amputate the thoughts that sounded like his voice, without turning into him? He didn't know. He could hope, but to hope was naive and that, a sin he could not allow plunging into. 

‘Because I’m not there’, Grant repeated the words, a soft smile blooming across his face. Tristan rolled his eyes, watching how Grant’s hands slowly stretched out, drawing circles in the space between them. ‘So what if I hadn’t been here?’, he asked, to which Tristan immediately responded, ‘I waited, didn’t I?’. Grant nodded, eyes closing as the music outside of their – his – room got louder. He had a peaceful look on him, as if the stars had waltzed their way down from the stairs of cosmos to whisper secrets in his ear. Tristan wanted to reach out for them, to be the one to make him look that way. As if hearing his thoughts, his eyes opened, a teasing smirk brushing its way on his lips. He was beautiful, that much he had always known. Brown eyes capturing the rays of the sun against icy ones reflecting the winter. When they were younger, playing in the meadow, hands gripping each other’s jacket to make the other fall, he had thought it was the cold that made his heart squeeze. But when they’d gathered around the fireplace, blankets thrown over their shaking figures, it was Grant’s hand resting on his face to prove how cold he was that nearly knocked the wind out of his lungs. A part of him had always known that the itch in his hands around Grant wasn’t caused by some kind of unknown allergy, that the poison ivy on his tongue when he saw him with girls wasn’t the aftertaste of a bad drink, but he had kept those thoughts locked in a vault. Not out of fear or shame for he was confident enough, perhaps too much, in himself to know that he was allowed to feel this way. And he knew that the softness that adorned Grant's eyes as he laid next to him couldn’t be a mere reflection of his own. However, could he allow himself this when he was planning the undoing of their lives? He didn’t think so, yet he lingered in the warmth, letting himself be greedy, absorbing every brush and word he could get. 

Falling in love with Grant hadn’t surprised him, not even in the slightest. For it to linger for as long as it did also wasn’t an object of stupefaction. Memories washed over him again, and he remembered with a pang the night of his 11th birthday, when once again his mother’s absence lingered in the empty chair. What good was a long table when only he sat at it? The day after, as though the universe had known, it was Grant that had knocked on his door. For a second, he let himself believe the hands making the noise were his mother’s, but he quickly regained his composure. He had opened the door, noticing how the walls around the alleyways felt hollow, and he realized his mother’s photos had finally been taken down. He had started crying, and before he could say anything, Grant had hugged him, telling his maid to leave them alone. Even back then, Grant had had a way to make his voice sound like the responsible adult he’d soon grow into. They had sat down near his bed, and Grant had held his hands, telling him how, whenever he felt scared, he liked the warmth of another person. Tristan had nodded, squeezing his hands tighter, and Grant had never winced at the pain. Instead, he’d given him his other hand too, ‘so both of your hands are warm’, he had said. Tristan had told him about his mother, how he knew she was gone that same night despite being so young, and Grant had simply sat next to him, and in that silence he had found his solace. A decade later and there they stood again, letting the silence fill the space between them, and it didn’t feel suffocating or like an intruder demanding to be let in. It felt like rain swimming between the grass, letting flowers grow with patience. 

‘I went looking for you’, Grant admitted with a sheepish grin, ‘You weren’t down at the party, so I walked over to your room’. A laugh began on Tristan’s lips and ended on Grant’s face as they laid there chuckling – at what particularly they didn’t know. Perhaps it was how their footsteps traced their way to each other instinctively, how even in the dark they could find each other, or how close they were to meeting each other while they went to the other’s room. Parallel lines bleeding into intersecting ones. Perhaps it laid in the way they always sought the presence of the other, as if the stardust in their atoms recognized their twin, as if the prayers whispered by Grant’s mother had wrapped themselves around the two boys, tied by a string they couldn’t see. Tristan didn’t know for sure, but his hands reached between the empty space and Grant mirrored him, and soon, the gaps between their fingers weren't so hollow anymore. He observed how Grant’s long fingers moved ever so slightly against his own, and he smiled. ‘If you’d just been fast enough’, he said, watching how his cheeks seemed to attract the sunset’s rays, turning his face pink. The sky’s own canvas, he thought with a smile. ‘Then catch me next time’, Grant muttered, pulling away his hand as if in indignation. With one swift motion, Tristan grabbed his hand again, finally closing the space between them. They could barely breathe without their chests grazing and he reveled in the way Grant’s eyes widened and his athletic body felt against his own. His fingers moved featherlight on the man’s face, and he smiled as Grant leaned into the touch. ‘Caught you’, he whispered, eyes dropping to the lips of the other man, watching how they parted. ‘That does not count–’, and before Grant could finish his sentence, arguing that yes, it really didn’t count, Tristan leaned in and claimed the sweetest prize for himself, his lips finally finding Grant’s. A suprised smile appeared on the latter’s face as he leaned into him. He felt lost in him, his scent, his body pressing against him, tentatively, as if testing out a theory, as if trying to find the best equation. With a soft whimper he pulled away, laying his forehead against Tristan’s. ‘That still does not count’, he reported, causing Tristan to laugh. 

Perhaps it didn’t, but Tristan knew he had found his religion on the sheets of this room.

[kotias]

South Downs cottage - Our Eden

Okay, I've decided to create the cottage that I envision for Aziraphale and Crowley's final retirement at the end of the story.

I have used the Sims 4 game, meaning that I have been a bit limited on a few things, but here it comes, the vision I have for it.

Anyone looking for references, for inspiration, whether it is for drawing or writing, is very welcome to use those pictures.

In a story being worked on together with @daneecastle, called Our Eden, here is the full description:

Our Eden

(2836 words)

It felt like it had been two hundred years in preparation. And in a way, it was; the universe had so kindly presented him to the suicidal girl who had made it all possible, after all. It had so kindly given him a way to help her that would change her so dramatically that the effects of it still rippled through current days. His hands started shaking, and he pretended it was the strain of the walk. He had received the rights to that land in 1884, as Elspeth expired in her farm near Fulking, leaving a will addressed to him. He had spent years and years preparing it, honing it to perfection. He had build a proper garden out of the enormous fields, made it something his. Something theirs. Back then, he thought he may have lost Aziraphale, and yet receiving the land had sparked something new in him. He had spent an ungodly amount of time, only planting his trees, giving them time and space to grow into the luscious beauties they were today. He guided him through what felt almost like a forest, infused with his attentions. The apples had started showing- he grabbed one on the way, gave it to the angel. Anxiety spiked as they approached and were about to come into the final view. He pushed him against a tree, blocking his path, and kissed him, passionately, desperately, with all his love pouring out. He was shuddering. He wanted him to- He kissed him, again and again. The tree above them glowed a golden sheen.

"Cro-" more kissing. "Crowley-" Even more kissing. "Mm!" Aziraphale couldn't break away. So he pushed hard. "CROWLEY! What is going on?"

Crowley pursed his lips. Fuck it. He took his shades off, pushed them down into the pocket of his vest. He had never been good at hiding his emotions, his eyes betrayed them all. His anxiety, mixed with unfathomable excitement, was shining through them, he knew that very well. But Aziraphale knew what taking them off meant; he trusted him, he trusted him entirely, and he wanted him to know. "Just... just a little bit longer." He grabbed his hand again, and they were back on the path. Very quickly afterwards, he opened a little garden door, they passed another set of weeping willows, and there they were. The old farm had been rebuilt entirely into a cottage. A ground floor and a first floor, hidden under a dark tile roof. Maroon bricks, intertwined with regular touches of beige on the rims. Big, white windows all around it, giving more than sufficient lighting to the entire place. Large, teal shutters were attached to the walls. The entire garden around it had been fournished as to compliment its outdoor colours, and deeper into it, an enormous greenhouse had been installed, and was already almost exploding with greeneries. "... well. That's-" He forced himself to breathe. "That would be ours, if... if you would like to."

[...]

"Wanna visit the property properly, angel?" While he was swimming in his relief that his companion loved what he had created, and could stay there for days, he saw the looks he gave to the place, and of course he would be more than happy to show him what he had built for them.

Crowley took the hand and heaved himself up, cradled Aziraphale's hands into his own and kissed them. "Come on." He guided him back through the weeping willows, through the little garden gate, and they lost themselves into the near-forest he had taken the time of erecting for a century and a half. The trees who were welcoming them into the orchard were none other than apple trees of various types, blessing them with reds, greens and yellows. They were sheltered under gigantic mirabelle plum trees whose branches were hugging their little siblings, mixing their tame golden with the reds of their counterparts. The wind -or so Crowley pretended- was passing through the leaves, shaking them slightly as they passed below them. Like a finely-tuned music, nectarine trees, mixing their blonde and crimson colours into perfectly round and juicy fruits. Extending lower on the ground, several mulberry trees were offering a dark shelter from the sun and from any external view.

With a few steps, Crowley leaned down to pass under them, and leaned against the trunk of one of them, pulling Aziraphale against him. He gave him a kiss and brought him out of the leafy shelter, opening his view to a little vineyard he had managed to put together in the last decade. The vines adorned themselves with the blush colours of the setting sun, and opened their arms to the view of Devil's Dyke below. The never-ending greenery, the valley and the hills were battling for a chance to be seen by their two pairs of eyes, demanded the full spotlight and, in doing so, enhanced each other even more. Far into the horizon, beyond the curves of this landscape, glittered the shadow of the sea, reflecting the Heavens above like the Sun dropping into it burned like Hell below.

[...]

In his estimation, fifteen minutes passed before he nudged Aziraphale forward in their tour. They circled the orchard, until they reached the peaches and the pears that were hanging proudly from their trees. He guided him back into the small forest, and quickly, they were entirely covered with foliage above their heads. "I wanted to have more than one originally, but... they just don't know when to stop taking all the space. I thought it safer to just leave the one." This one was a fig tree, whose trunk was large, almost veiny with small craters all over, and its leaves and branches were extending so far beyond it that it had made itself a proper clearing. No other trees were allowed in its protection, and its roots were merrily swimming just below the surface of the ground, peeking through in a few spots. "But, strangely enough..." he brought him to the other side of the trunk and pointed to a large bush whose sharp-looking leaves were climbing up the fig tree like a praying Saint. "It seems to have gotten well acquainted with the strawberries. I don't know how they even appeared here, I for sure didn't plant them, but they've been clinging onto it for about ten years, I'd say." He leaned over the bush and picked one of its fruits, offered it to the angel. "Their taste really is unique, it seems that they've taken a bit of inspiration from the figs above them."

He brought him further into the orchard and back out the other side, and they were back into the garden around the cottage. Bushes full of fruits and vegetable patches were trailing their way around the back fence and contained to a single, rather large area, hidden behind rhododendron flowers. Crowley snapped his fingers for a basket, and did that a second time to collect the never-ending stream of growing zucchinis that were trying very hard to take over the entire area. A few pumpkins were starting to show, and the carrots and potatoes were just about to be ready- only a few additional weeks. Snap. The basket was sent into the kitchen directly. The sun was almost entirely set now, and the light was getting very dim. "If we enter the greenhouse now, I don't think you'll be able to see much. How about we go tomorrow morning, and I show you the house?"

"Yes, I'd like to see the greenhouse with the light, I believe thats where I'll find your best handy work so ..." He gestured toward the cottage. "After you?"

Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale's and led him to the cottage's front door and unlocked it. He couldn't help a deep breath before opening the door, feeling his heart race again. That was it. Everything else would mean nothing if he didn't like the inside. The entry was a short corridor where a thin, dark brown table had been placed for usual end-of-the day clutter; it was open in a way that gave some space for the shoes of the hosts and visitors alike. By its side on the wall, a few hooks had been placed for any coat that needed taking off. It was quite simple, with walls painted yellow and a maroon ceiling. On the left, there was a bathroom as Crowley showed, rather large for the use they may have of it; a toilet, a sink, and, behind a semi-clear curtain, a grand bathtub, with enough space for two people to bathe without feeling the tiniest bit cramped. "I figured that you may appreciate visitors. There are a few families around here, and the kids get easily curious, I'm sure they'll pop by eventually. So... thought I'd furnish it properly, with the toilets and all."

[...]

He opened the door on the other side of the corridor, showing the living room, with one mahogany bookshelf taking over the wall in front of them, entirely empty except for two plants crawling their way up to the ceiling and showing off their vibrant green leaves all around the shelves. On their right was a large, arch-like window that would fully lit up the room during the day, in front of which were two armchairs and a small side table. In front of them, he had placed an off-white oak table that would comfortably host six diners, eight if they were feeling generous, but at the moment, a wooden bench and matching two chairs were surrounding it. On the far left of the room, a large couch and a low table were facing a grand chimney. Just before the couch was an archway that gave a hint of the kitchen hiding behind the wall.

Aziraphale wandered into the room, touching the furniture and looking at all the details of the room, a big smile on his face as he explored the living room. "This is so cozy! I love the chairs." He came to the arm chairs and leaned against one. "Do you prefer to have one or the other? Or is it 'whatever closer'?"

Crowley smiled tenderly at the angel. "You seem to have chosen yours already. Go on, try them out- I think you'll like them."

Aziraphale smiled, glad to see that Crowley noticed which one he favored. He sat in the armchair and leaned into it. It almost felt like he melted into the chair. "It's so comfortable and yet not too much so, I can definitely see myself spending a long time in this chair." He got up and walked over to Crowley, "next room?"

He nodded when it was time to get to the next step, and guided him through the archway and into the kitchen. Compared to the other rooms, it was rather small, but, Crowley thought, rather well furnished. It also was entirely Aziraphale, he hoped. Its soft, pastel colours, mainly beiges and teals, were lighting it up quite nicely, particularly considering that the window in this room was not quite as impressive as the one in the living room. It had a small folding table placed against the nearest wall with two high stools, where his basket full of almost overgrown zucchinis was resting. All over the right corner, facing the door leading to the entry, were a large set of counters and cupboards, an oven and a stove. In one of the cupboards, he had hidden as many kitchen appliances as he could find, enough to make the angel's life easier whatever the task he set himself to do. On the left side of the room was the stone staircase leading them upstairs; before it was a glass door bringing them back outside, behind it was one last door to be opened- and that was the big one. His library.

Aziraphale examined every drawer and cupboard. He pointed out the appliances he knew and questioned and investigated the ones he didn't; he was on an adventure through the kitchen, really getting to know everything. He knew this was his place. He had not really gotten too much into cooking,as he usually only made things for himself, but this time was different. He wasn't just cooking for himself. He was cooking for Crowley too, even if his demon only drank alcohol and coffee; he still got to share that experience. He hurried over to Crowley like a little kid. "Apologies dear, I couldn't help but explore. What's the next room?" He tipped his head ever so slightly in curiosity.

"Oooh, I think you'll like it." He really hoped he would. He took his hand, brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss, looking straight into his eyes. "And please, tell me if you would change anything." He brought him to the door, and opened it. While it had not been filled with books yet, the library was covered, on every wall, from the floor to the ceiling, with book shelves. That was a very round and rather high room, crawling all the way up to the end of the first floor, almost eating into the roof of the cottage, and every bookshelf had been designed to embrace those facts. They were accompanying the walls, hugged them perfectly all the way up to the roof. Three more of them, thinner and shorter, had been placed closer to the middle, creating a visual guide to the large window on the left side, mirroring the one in the living room. In that place, he had installed a wooden resting place, with plenty of cushions and plaids to keep it comfortable. Under that bench, he had created a large space to confine all sorts of blankets, tartan covers, pillows and other comfortable fabrics that would prove incredibly useful during the winter period. Covering the ground, he had chosen soft, dark blue carpeting, and placed more ottomans and footstools in the middle of the room, and a small, low metal table had been fixed on the floor for stability. Aziraphale did love drinking something with his reading, it would be a shame for it to stupidly fall on the floor due to a bad movement making the table tumble. Crowley gave plenty of time to the angel to discover his space, sat on the wooden bench while he was looking around, anxiously watching his reactions.

Aziraphale's reaction was bigger than any of the other rooms he was so overjoyed that his wings burst out and stuck to him as he ran around checkout every detail of his library. He would chatter on and on about what books he wanted to stack where, what he wanted to do with which area during which time of year. He even joked about letting Crowley sleep in a little area for him to cuddle with his Angel when he wanted to read. Then he came running back, floating when he leaped, his wings assisting, then pounced Crowley kissing him. "Thank you! This is absolutely wonderful, my love!"

"Well, as you'd have it, that was the plan-" He kicked into the bench's sides, and a little door to its hidden space opened, revealing the overflow of covers. "I know how much time you'll spend in here, angel, and I'd hate for either of us to get cold. Now, since you're already floating- if you go up to the next floor, you should be able to see your study. I made it so it felt part of the library." It was a little space he had created with a desk full of drawers and a few shelves, usually accessible by going up the stairs, and facing the open space of the library with only a fence separating them. Two windows circled it, giving it a fair bit of light.

Aziraphale paused and looked behind him, and giggled, let his wings vanish. "No, I think I'll go up there the human way. Care to show me?"

[...]

He chortled against his mouth and grabbed his hands, dragged him towards the bedroom's door, opened it with a kick and brought him in. It was a great room, he thought; full of warm colours, albeit on the darker side of the spectrum. The walls were burgundy, with large beige accents all over them, and the lamp above them was adorned with golden colours. On their right, the wall was comprised of a large, retractable door, with large mirrors attached to it, opening to what he knew was an enormous walk-in wardrobe, big enough to host all the clothes they had amassed during the last centuries. There were two little, dark side tables with small lamps attached to them. But the main piece was the bed; perfectly outraged with the tiny thing that Aziraphale dared call his resting place in the bookshop, Crowley had taken it upon himself to make it a proper King size, which had been covered with white and teal bed sheets on which slithered a red bedspread.

[ashlelia]

I know I didn't wait for the poll to expire but I was excited to share these thoughts/my advice so here we are lol

and as promised, the majority is under a cut 😇

now then

on writing smut:

• you are going to be horny while writing, get used to that and type with both hands lmao

• but also, hang on to that horny - think about what that arousal feels like, put words to it, keep it in your pocket.

• indulge yourself - write as nasty as you dare because I promise there's already something dirtier out there.

• it may even be worth evaluating why you want to write smut, you definitely shouldn't do it just because it feels like that's what everyone's doing/what's popular.

• keep track of the body parts! 3d models, actual porn, whatever you do, have a good visual reference on hand for the main event. we've all read a smut scene that left us confused on how the bodies are laying. 🥲

• there's no formula to sex and the scene doesn't have to go in a certain order...

• ...but pacing is important! so if I'm really excited to write a specific part, I write it first and then write around it until the story progression feels natural (to me, ymmv on what feels natural).

• keep a body language/emotion thesaurus on hand, it'll help you vary the ways your character can respond to stimuli.

• consider tense: something I do, and like, is writing in present tense because, to me, the urgency I am looking to convey comes through best that way.

• choose your level of lewd language and stick to it, or ramp up - i.e. stick to just using erection/member/length the entire story or once you've graduated from erection and member to dick and cock, stay there.

...OK! that's all I got haha

[syrupsyche]

Goddd imagine reading Les Mis for the first time and getting to Javert Derailed! The last few scenes in the chapter is so poignant it feels like I'm watching it right in front of my eyes. Especially this final paragraph:

Javert remained motionless for several minutes, gazing at this opening of shadow; he considered the invisible with a fixity that resembled attention. The water roared. All at once he took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the quay. A moment later, a tall black figure, which a belated passer-by in the distance might have taken for a phantom, appeared erect upon the parapet of the quay, bent over towards the Seine, then drew itself up again, and fell straight down into the shadows; a dull splash followed; and the shadow alone was in the secret of the convulsions of that obscure form which had disappeared beneath the water.

Javert becomes nothing more than a "tall black figure [...] taken for a phantom" moments before his death; he's already gone before he even falls into the Seine. And this is, of course, contrasted against Éponine's death (4.14.6), who went from:

It was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had spoken to him.

to

All at once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to proceed from another world:— “And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.” She tried to smile once more and expired.

Éponine, who has been dehumanised and reduced to animalistic and ghostly qualities for most of her story, becomes human once more in the final moments before her death. Javert, who was similarly described with animalistic qualities, sinks even further and does not even register as a person anymore before he dies.

o7 to Inspector Javert! What a fascinating insight to his first and last moment of introspection in the novel.

[pyreofsunflowers]

Craving Intamacy in a world of bloodshed. Must be hard. Pt 1 of. something. more to come soon. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this relationship.

I wrote a lil short to go along with this, under the cut, I recomend reading it for the full expirence. ( Discussions of sex, but nothing fully explicit yet.)

She toyed with the hem of the silky white nightgown. Her gaze fluttered between him and the floor — she was so nervous. He could feel it palpitating through their link, warm and shaky, matching the thumping of her heart. 

“Master…” the words fell from her lips like a feather floating gracefully to the ground. 

“What occasion merits such a beautiful little dress, police girl?” He asked, shamelessly dragging his gaze across her body. The sight of her — kneeling on his bed like a young, virginal bride — lit a hungry fire deep inside his belly, and spoke to the very male parts of him he kept locked away. 

“Well… I… I've just been thinking about, you know, the last time we were together like this,” a faint blush graced her cheeks. It seemed paradoxical, how she was here, presenting herself to him, and at the same time so shy about it. 

Alucard smiled as he remembered that day. Seras had made a home for herself in his room. Seeking him out for companionship, talking to him about her struggles and her feelings. Alucard didn't speak much during these sessions, he just sat across from her and listened to her open herself up and spill out each memory and thought out into open view. 

That was until recently. When she had crawled into his lap and rested her head on his shoulder, and snakes her little arms around his chest. Alucard, despite his mind screaming at him to not engage, couldn't help himself. Gently, he had cupped her small face in his spindly hand, tilting her head up to meet his gaze — and then he had kissed her. It was her first kiss, and oh how he savored it. She had enjoyed herself too, as quickly their hands tangled within locks of hair and slid under fabric, mouths opened to allow curious tongues and the scrape of teeth. Alucard quickly found himself on top of her, her curves wiggling and grinding against him. He intertwined his fingers with hers, and pulled away as their gazes met.

“Fuck me master.” She had breathed through kiss bruised lips, her face red and hot, her maroon eyes wide and glowing with lust.

But he didn't. For once in his life, Alucard had done the right thing. He sat back on his haunches and told her no. It had confused her, and he remembered the glimmer of hurt in her eyes as she had gone back to her quarters.

She had done a similar stunt the next day, and the next, each time she had managed to get him to go a little farther. Touching her naked breasts, letting her paw at his erection through his pants, but each time Alucard had found the will to tell her no. To stop before he did something stupid. Before he did something to hurt her.

But it seems Seras had had enough of his caution — and was dipping her toes into waters far, far too deep for her.  Alucard sighed, and sat on the bed next to her. He hovered a gloved hand over hers, before retracting the limb and looking away from her. This only served to confuse the girl, as he felt her staring emptily at him, and shift closer to his body.

“Master…” She said, “are… Are you not attracted to me?” 

The question took Alucard off guard. Part of him couldn't believe how she could think such a thing. She was so beautiful, and that's what made it so dangerous for her to do this. He gnawed at his lower lip.

“I find you very attractive, Seras.”

He felt her aura flare with warmth as he used her real name. 

“Then why haven't you. Well. You know. Taken my virginity?”

Alucard had gotten himself into a place he very much didn't want to be in. His heart thumped in his chest and he felt his mouth dry up — was he nervous? He felt an overwhelming desire to leave, but he couldn't. It was his duty, after all, to tell her the truth about this — lest he ruin it forever and drive away the only woman he's ever loved. 

He turned his head back to meet her expectant gaze, “There are a lot of things you aren't ready for, police girl. There are many things about me that you don't know.”

Seras reaches her hands out to clasp his wrists, nervously, he allowed her to pull his large hands towards her chest. She said nothing, simply holding his hands in hers

He took that as a cue to explain further. “I am attracted to you, Seras. More than you realize. I want…. I desperately want to give you what you ask for. But I can't. You aren't ready. “

“What do you mean I'm not ready? Master… master, I'm a virgin, not a little girl.” She blushed, and her shoulders hunched inwards. “I… I can handle having sex.” she muttered, so afraid to speak.

“It's not that simple, police girl.”

She went quiet, her grip around his hands softening. He peered into her mind, and was met with an overwhelming crash of swirling, conflicting emotions and anxieties. Alucard gnawed on the inside of his cheek. Desperately trying to think of any way to make this better.

“I'm not human, my dear.” He finally settled on after what felt like hours of deliberation, “I'm nothing like a mortal man. You haven't seen the entirety of who I am, you aren't ready to. If…” he paused, and found his gaze dropped straight to the thin layer of white lace that held her large breasts. She had inched closer to him, to where he could feel each rapid exhale as her chest fell. Electricity jolted through his dead bones, the proximity was tantalizing — the cherry-almond smell of her body wash threatened to choke him, the way her skin shimmered called out for him to kiss and worship every part of her. To bite and drink her dry, to hold until dark bruises blossomed under his touch, to watch her bleed, to break her slow- 

“If what, master?”

Her voice pulled him from his fantasies, and he swallowed dryly. “If… if I have sex with you. I will hurt you.”

“Master… I don't believe you. I trust you, master. You've… you've taken such good care of me. You've been so kind to me. I mean. Just the fact that you're so worried about hurting me…. Doesn't that kinda show you won't?”

Alucard paused, wrestling with himself in his mind. He wanted to tell her she was right, to crash his lips against her throat and to pin her perfect body beneath him. He wanted to take her, to brutalize her in every way imaginable — her openness, her willingness, it all fueled this dark fire. But he couldn’t — he knew he would fuck it up, go too far, push her too much. He would leave her broken, leave her sore — and she would hate him for it. He said nothing, and moved to turn away from her gaze. But in a shocking moment of bravery — Seras kissed him before he could. It was a slow, gentle kiss — one full of trust, of something beyond lust. How foolish she was.

Alucard melted into the kiss, and placed a shaking grasp on her shoulders. Seras slid into his lap,   cupping his face with her small hands. She pulled away, and smiled as crimson blush flowered on her cheeks, gaze dropping to the floor.

“Master… I… I want to please you. I always do. I want to please you in every way. A-and…. Well. You're a man, you… You have your needs. And since y-you're attracted to me and all I… I want to… I wanna help you with that, I want to make you happy and… I want to be a good fledging a…. A good girl. Please… Master… Use my body…”

“Seras…” Was all he was able to choke out through the burning, throbbing urge in his mind to let loose all the fantasies, all the urges he had built up and bottled up since he had lost her a hundred years ago. 

“Master… Alucard… Please, I… I feel so useless, not being ready to drink blood… Not being effective in battle… I don’t wanna be a failure to you… At least, at least use my body. It’s… It’s all I can give to you. I… I can learn to take you, I want to do this… Please.”

Alucard gulped, damn her stubborn soul. She knew exactly what to say to get him going, which wasn’t helped by the fact that she was sitting on his lap — pressing those perfect breasts up against his chest; filling his senses with her sweet scent of cherry blossoms and almond oil; hovering the wet heart of her bare core above his hardening manhood. It was too much for him, her begging had caused the final crack to split in his common sense. Damn the chance of hurting her, damn the punishment he’d face from Integra, damn it all. He had waited too long for this, he needed her — just as she needed him.

[scotianostra]

On October 17th 1850 James Young obtained the patent for the extraction of paraffin from shale.

The following year the world's first commercial oil refinery followed opened.The chemist-cum-businessman James Young, later known as "Paraffin" Young, opened a works near Bathgate that produced lubricating oils and naphtha (for use as a cleaning solvent) from the shale found among West Lothian's coal deposits.

Soon he developed technologies that produced paraffin for lights – Bathgate oil lit a quarter of London's lamps – and paraffin wax for candles. In the 1860s, when many of Young's patents expired, Scotland became gripped by oil mania as dozens of hastily established companies dug pits and erected retorts and refineries in a small stretch of countryside to the south of the Forth.

During its first boom, the shale oil industry employed more than 30,000 people, many of them migrants from elsewhere in Britain. Existing villages grew at a rate bewildering to those who lived in them – Broxburn's population went from 660 to 5,898 in 30 years – while entirely new settlements of brick cottages, with perhaps a store or a working men's institute at their centre, appeared suddenly where no one had previously thought to live. By the 1910's West Lothian shale produced 27.5m barrels of crude oil, which was roughly 2% of then world production.

As the 20th century progressed oil from the Persian gulf became more abundant and cheaper to produce, the second world war and oil shortages prolonged the shale business but the writing was on the wall. The last shale mine closed in 1962, and then it was gone. The pitheads, the retorts, the refineries and the narrow-gauge electric railway that connected them: all vanished, leaving the spoil heaps, the bings, as the most visible evidence that industry had ever existed.

Just north of my home town of Loanhead lays Straiton, not retail parks and most famous for the large Ikea there, but back in the day it was part of the shale works that stretched across the Lothians, all that is left of the Straiton Oil Company are a row of cottages, the head office was in a building that eventually was converted into a pub, The Callyr Inn, sadly the people that bought it years after it closed let it rot, deliberately making it so unsafe that it was pulled down to be replaced by more warehouse type units.

Two of the bings remain, Greendyke and Five Sisters, as industrial monuments protected in law against excavation and reshaping by road builders who want their red waste as hardcore. Whether you love them or hate them the bings are there to stay, as a reminder to a once thriving mining industry around the lothians,, my fave is Greendyke, if you like a good walk, apparently they call it Bing Bashing, it offers great views, you can see the Ochils to the north and the Pentlands to the south, the strange cone of North Berwick Law away to the east and it's possible to make out the shape of Ben Lomond to west, on a clear day. Edinburgh Castle and the Forth bridges are easily picked out and if you walk to the northern edge,you can look down on Niddry Castle, a 15th-century keep where Mary Queen of Scots once spent a night.

There's loads of history, first is the official Shale Oil Museum webpage, promoting the museum itself, it will take you weeks to get through everything here https://www.scottishshale.co.uk/index.html

Pics are James "Parafin" Young, some old pics of the industrialisation, an old Farm eaten up by the plants and pics of the Greendyke bing, with Niddry Castle and Five Sisters Bing from the air

[finniestoncrane]

2.5k Event Request - Maximus x Fem!Reader word count: 750 a/n: you dare maximus to try a bit of roleplay, trying to get him to push past the awkwardness that often precedes sex. i tried to make this just smut, but i am so obsessed with his silly almost innocence so it's actually little bit of goofy flirting cw: dares, roleplay, awkward flirting, suggestive stuff, goofy fluff 🔞minors dni🔞 • masterlist • kofi link • tag: finnie2.5k (to follow or to block)

“It’ll do, right? I mean, it’s not as glamorous as some other places, but at least it’s safe. And it has a roof. Prime real estate out here.”

Maximus turned to you, offering a sweet, charming smile as he tried to convince you both that this abandoned Red Rocket was going to be the best place to hide out. And it didn’t take much convincing. It felt like you had been travelling around the Wasteland for weeks, but it was only days since you had last managed to find some shelter with at least three walls and some kind of roof. Things were finally looking up now, although running from the Brotherhood of Steel hadn’t been all bad. Yes, the lingering threat was constantly on your heels, but it had also given you plenty of time to get to know Maximus, and as it stood, your relationship with him had blossomed, only becoming stronger as you survived with him.

Rushing ahead of you, Maximus declared a race, claiming any leftover colas in the long-broken refrigerators as the prize for the victor. And once inside, and three warm, expired sodas later, you and Maximus were sitting in an awkward silence, struggling to think of how to shift the mood, or event he conversation, to what you both wanted. Mindless flirting, a little bit of physical touch, but you were both stuck on how to take it any further. That was until you had a stroke of what you could only describe as genius.

“Oh! Maximus!”

He looked to you with wide eyes, raising an eyebrow when you spoke.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth… or dare?”

“Yeah, it’s a game! We take it in turns to ask the other ‘truth or dare’ and then, when they choose their option, you either ask them a question that they have to answer with the truth, or you give them a dare that they have to do!”

He raised his eyebrows, considering it for a moment, eventually realising, quite innocently, that he could get you to confess to stealing his last fancy lad snack cake. And then, with a twinge of excitement, that he could dare you to just kiss him already. But you had chosen first, so to get what he wanted, he had to play along.

“Sounds… fun, I guess. Uh… I guess I’ll take a dare. They can be… they can be like, sexy, right?”

You giggled a little, blushing at how quickly his mind had gone to the dirtier possibilities. So you changed the dare you had planned and smiled wide as you spoke.

“Ok… I dare you to… have you heard of roleplay?”

“Roleplay?”

“Yeah! Like… we act out a little fantasy… maybe it makes it easier to push past the awkwardness?”

“Hm, that sounds… interesting.”

He was smiling at you, trying to pretend that he wasn’t as excited as he was. But there was a twinge of electricity that coursed through him, knowing that he might be able to finally have sex with you, after you’d explained to him a week ago that there really was no danger in that act at all.

“Ok then, I dare you to try some roleplay with me. What do you think?”

“Yeah, I could get into that. If, uh… if you want to. And you promise my cock-”

“I promise your cock won’t explode!”

You giggled a little, watching him shift on the bedroll to hide his growing erection.

“So. What kind of roleplay do you want me to try?”

“I think you should act like a Paladin. And I can be your Squire.”

“And I boss you around?”

“Mhm, I’ll do whatever you want me to. I’m at your command, Paladin Max.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, fingers twitching as he considered the opportunity in front of him. His nerves were quieting him, so you took the lead and leaned into him.

“Gosh, Paladin, it must be so stressful doing the work you do. Would you like me to… relieve some of that pressure?”

Your palm slid up his thigh, fingers grazing over the growing bulge. He stuttered something unintelligible, mumbling as he tried to find the words to describe what he wanted from you.

“What is it, Paladin? What’s my first task as your faithful and willing Squire?”

“I… maybe, uh… maybe I would like you to make my cock explode. Sounds like it might be kind of fun.”

You licked your lips, lowering your head into his lap as he leaned back, smiling wide.

[chunkypossum]

Azriel x Eris

4112 words

Part One of Three || or… Read on AO3

1 2 3

- Happy Holidays! Special thanks to my favorite little urchins and gremlins for throwing an eye on this and helping me. Love y’all!! @pippsmcgee @born-to-riot

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Winter Court for Solstice, Autumn for the Equinox, Night for Starfall. While every court had their own holiday they celebrated with the rest of Prythian, these three were the most anticipated.

The purpose of these holidays, officially, was the promotion of peace and goodwill between courts. The idea was that everyone had a chance to show off their hospitality in the wake of the age of war ending with the fall of Koschei. Feyre Cursbreaker, High Lady of the Night Court and first High Lady of Prythian, spearheaded the campaign that quickly caught fire among the direct allies of the Night Court. With the help of her sisters and the High Fae that owed her a life debt many times over, she managed to construct a simple but elegant way forward. Officially, that is.

Unofficially? A true High Lord is nothing if not incredibly vain. Not only did the courts try to one up each other with their respective holidays, they also tried to beat out their own parties from the year previous. Fae lived a very long time, which meant this could get out of hand quickly and three years into the new tradition, it had already started to.

On an unused piece of property, deep in the arctic wilderness, Kallias had constructed a massive five-story ice castle just for the evening. In the way that only high fae can be dramatic, winnow points were erected outside in the blistering cold. That way, when guests were received into the foyer, they could bask in awe and warmth under the cathedral ceilings laced with the ethereal blue light of glow worms. The space was dripping in frivolous luxury. A massive fireplace was situated on the right hand side, its mantle and threshold also seemed to be made of ice, though more opaque than the shining floor and ceiling with its sparkling icicle stalactites hanging from intricately carved beams. The spelled fire within changed colors every few minutes to the delight of those mingling in the space before entering the main hall. Elaborate designs were carved on the surface of the walls from floor to ceiling. They depicted great winterscapes, forests of life size, towering pines, bear drawn carriages sledding through the snow, and so much more.

On the left side of the room were ornate, magically formed displays. Wilderland beasts made of ice carrying trays on their backs or in their paws holding layers and layers of glasses filled with sparkling liquids in bright blues, puffy pinks and simmering champagnes. The displays had tailored cards to match each type of drink with tiny descriptions in the corners and important disclaimers that stated each spell's expiration times and who exactly to find if you needed one immediately removed. Most were labeled alcoholic and not suitable for children warning teenagers of the dire consequences for trying to sneak one away. All of them had fantastical sounding magical effects and despite the warnings, more than one teenage youngling was seen skirting away various drinks to try with their friends.

Navy blue and glittering for staying light on your feet and moving with the grace of a swan on the dance floor. Cerulean for side stitching fun as you become the funniest person in any given crowd (what happens when two or more people drink it in the same group? Well, that’s probably what the emergency instructions are for). Bright pink for adding a layer of glamor over yourself and getting anyone you want to beg you for one dance. The more curious ones had simple labels with seemingly higher alcohol content. Rose for bubbles, glitter or flowers, champagne for weather, baby blue for … hair? From there, they only got more ridiculous with the most absurd listed on a sign by the doors leading into the grand space. It promised floating bubble shots that would do anything one could think of from making you glow in the dark to giving you a high, squeaky voice.

After guests warmed themselves and chose their drinks they were ushered through a set of carved, ice doors at least 25 feet tall and marked with thousands of stars. The foyer was impressive to say the least but the sight that greeted people as those doors opened onto the rest of the castle left many breathless.

Winter, besides being fucking freezing all the time, was known for the animals that eagerly worked alongside the High Lord. There was a special understanding between the Court and the creatures that inhabited it. So much so, that one could often see snow white hares delivering mail or great polar bears donning armor for battle. This year, Kallias and his Lady Viviane had employed every manner of beast to take part in the festivities.

Caribou sentries flanked every doorway, adorned with crystal collars and antlers that shined like freshly fallen snow. Arctic foxes, hares and little ermines jumped, ran and skirted around the ballrooms, playing with the fairy children and earning more than a few giggles from the adults as well.

The first floor was nearly completely overtaken with a dance floor. At its center grew a live evergreen tree which the castle had been built around. The floors above had been cut to accommodate the height which could have been 100 feet or more. Its boughs were laden with snowflake garland and colorful bubbles of ice. Where it wasn’t crusted over with the gem like baubles, snowy owls sat perched in masse. As they preened and fluffed their feathers, shaking the branches, the snow and orbs, lit from within with their own special magic, shook and shimmered, clinking together like little diamond bells.

Polar bears with golden harnesses offered sled rides around the ribbon of ice on the outer edge of the dance floor and white wolves heralded important arrivals with their haunting calls. Spelled against the animals, everything was pristine and smelled like iced cranberries and supple, fresh winter evergreens.

It wasn’t hard to tell who had tried what drink, the evidence of the spells wafted around each person and through the air. Much to the horror of the teenagers who had snuck drinks, not only did the magic sense their age and nullify the alcohol, but once drunk, it made them confess one of their most embarrassing moments to anyone that was near. The space was full of bubbles, and tiny storm clouds that spat soft snowflakes. Some fairies were trailing glitter or flowers in their wake while others were running around chasing their friends to touch their hair and turn it pink or make them grow a temporary beard. Squeals of delight could be heard from every corner.

Eris was eternally grateful for his own foresight as he pulled a flask of whiskey from an inner pocket of his velvet lined coat. He had declined to choose from one of the prepared cocktails, refusing to look too foolish, at least this early in the night. Having stopped reading the information cards after hair, he didn’t dare go near any unfamiliar bubbles floating in the air.

Though Eris would never admit to it, secretly, he thought some of it looked quite entertaining. Namely, he would love to send a little rain cloud over the top of Helion’s head.

“So that’s what ‘hair’ meant.” A gruff voice sounded next to the Autumn Prince where he had taken up residence at one of the tall tables near the sidewall.

“Lucien.” He greeted, without turning. Eris kept his eyes trained on the dance floor, inclining his head only slightly.

“Don’t drink those.��� Lucien said with a shudder as they both dodged a violet bubble with liquid inside. “I’m not sure what all of them do but I’m pretty sure the purple one makes you sound like a mouse.” Eris raised a well manicured eyebrow at his brother before turning away, dismissing him.

Unbothered by Eris’ obvious snub, Lucien asked, “Where‘s dear old dad?” He noted Eris curiously tracking his tumbler of clear liquid as he set it down on the table top and added, “Vodka. There is a normal bar on the second floor.”

“Father sent me alone to represent the Autumn Court this evening. He was feeling rather ill.” Eris took a sip off his flask before returning it to his emerald coat's inner pocket.

“Is that so?” Lucien said suggestively, turning to face Eris fully.

“Believe it or not, I had nothing to do with it.” Eris replied simply. Normally, he wouldn’t bother engaging Lucien, even at these more relaxed events. His brother, who learned well from Eris himself, was just looking for information he could exploit. Lucien didn’t actually care to talk to Eris otherwise. Pretending it was any other way would only lead to heartbreak down the line. That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway.

“Suppose I do believe you. Would you return the favor and trust me about something I’m about to say against my better judgment?”

Eris didn’t turn to him. The only sign of his curiosity was the slight twitch in the tip of his pointed ear.

“Depends.” He murmured.

“You know brother, as much as you piss me off, when it is time… I’ll be there.” They both stiffened at the words, too close something they both needed but neither was willing to properly provide just yet. Lucien added in a barely audible whisper. “Somehow, I’ll always end up in your corner.”

Eris huffed a disbelieving laugh and shook his head slightly. He didn’t have it in him to hash anything out with family tonight. This evening was meant to be about the absence of family, at least the one he was born into. So, he let the words go as if he hadn’t heard them. Giving Lucien and himself the benefit of ignorance for a little while longer. If he hadn’t, there would likely be a brawl before midnight.

As it turned out, Eris, even without the help of a special cocktail, was in a rather good mood that he didn’t want spoiled. His father really was sick and with any luck, the cold he caught would kill him. For the present though, it just meant that Eris was allowed to come to a party, unescorted. Any excuse to be out of the damn forest house without his father was good enough, but one with the promise of something more was especially exciting. Eris’ eyes roved over the dance floor, lingering in the darkened corners of the room, searching.

“Looking for someone?” Lucien asked just a bit too casually. Eris finally turned his eyes towards his brother. It had taken every ounce of his grace not to bite his head off for presuming they could have a brotherly chat like Lucien hadn’t spent the last few centuries dragging his name through the mud. It would take a whole lot more patience than he had to continue to provide him with that kind of privilege.

“What do you want?”

Lucien shrugged before turning to watch the dancers once again. His smirk was anything but innocent. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Why?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Hmm. Quite.” Eris hummed, turning away again and taking another sip of his whiskey.

“Fine, I’ll take the hint, but after you’ve had time to imbibe a little more, I expect you to be nicer to me.”

With a wave of Lucien’s hand, a tumbler full of whiskey appeared in front of Eris. He took it gingerly in his hands and before he could react, Lucien used his own glass to toast them both before sauntering off into the crowd. Unable to help himself, Eris smiled after his brother. He was so used to having to keep a tight leash on his emotions that he sometimes forgot that he could talk to Lucien again. Even though the male didn’t actually want to have anything to do with Eris, at least not anything real, it was still a nice feeling, if not a strange one. One day, he would get used to it. Someday, it would feel natural.

The more Eris drank and the longer he stood there at that table, the antsier he became. He was a social creature after all and sitting idly by while a party went on around him did not suit him well. After nearly an hour he began to make the rounds.

The host and hostess were out mingling with their guests and when an alcohol soaked Kallias spotted Eris he clapped him on the back and invited him to join the conversation he was having with Thesan. The conversations flowed easily enough and the company was pleasant but the longer Eris was at the party, the more irritated he became. It seemed like every time he turned around, there was another face greeting him and never the one he wanted.

After Kallias had been beckoned away by his wife, Thesan and his lover had taken Eris onto the dance floor which he tried heartily to decline. They weren’t hearing any of it and just when Eris thought he might be able to get away, Elain of all people cornered him and asked him for a dance as well. Lucien may not have wanted a real relationship with him but his mate still tried very hard to include Eris. To anyone else it might have felt like a sweet gesture. Eris just tried very hard not to be rude about how suspicious it actually made him. It wasn’t her fault after all.

Chatting with him idly, Eris got the feeling that Elain was not exactly there just to keep him company. She kept him busy well past what would be considered appropriate which is why he almost didn’t feel the eyes on him. Almost.

Towards the end of their third dance, Eris sensed that someone had been staring at him. The back of his neck felt hot and he swiveled the two of them expertly around the dance floor in search of that stare.

“I’m boring you.”

“Hmmm.” Eris agreed, completely distracted by his search.

Elain giggled softly, breaking Eris out of his trance and he looked down at the small female and flushed.

“Oh, no. No I -” He blew out a breath and tried again. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little distracted this evening.”

“I was told you might be.”

Eris raised a brow in question but Elain just shook her head and smiled.

“Very well then.” Eris grinned down at her. “You have my full attention for the rest of this song.”

“How generous.” Elain replied, the sarcasm sounded unfamiliar on her tongue.

“I did apologize.” He joked.

“Well, make it up to me properly. Tell me something embarrassing about Lucien.”

Eris’ heart panged in his chest when he thought about his brother in that way, like they were still family.

“You know little Archeron…” Eris began as those wide doe eyes looked up at him in question. “Lucien and I, we’re not -“

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand in his face making him blink. “He will come around, just leave it to me. You’re my brother now too, whether that sardonic grump likes to acknowledge it or not. I promise to always help you two find common ground.. And… I’d like to be your friend too.”

She looked away sheepishly and Eris, despite himself, smiled at her earnesty.

“I’d like that.” He replied gently.

“Besides, I think the pair of you are far closer to being what you would like to be to one another than either of you idiots are willing to see.”

Eris looked at her in surprise and laughed. Elain was turning pink around the tips of her ears. It dusted the tops of her cheekbones prettily and Eris sighed. He knew Elain was trying and it was a gesture he appreciated so he obliged. Just this once, he told himself.

However, the bastard’s ears must have been burning because as soon as Eris uttered the words “Have you heard about the time he tried to impress a date by putting on my mother’s-” Lucien appeared out of thin air and cut in to sweep his mate away. With a wink towards Eris’ they turned into the crowd of other dancers and were gone. The slightly annoyed and crestfallen look on Elain’s face made him laugh softly to himself as he turned to leave.

Of course he couldn’t be that lucky.

Eris spent the better part of another hour being twisted and turned by what felt like every pair of hands in the room except the pair of roughly scarred hands he really wanted.

Per usual, Eris was pleasant enough, able to fake his way through niceties, even going so far as to actually enjoy himself more than once. Helion even managed to get a light laugh out of Eris when he grabbed the wrong drink and accidentally turned his hair fuschia.

Finally spotting a pair of leathery wings headed straight for him, Eris’ eyes narrowed. They were entirely too small to be the ones he was really looking for but they would lead to the bigger version all the same.

“Hello little prince.” Eris crooned, smiling. He crouched down to eye level with the 6 year old.

“Momma told me to come find you.” Nyx said in a practiced way that made Eris laugh with disbelief. No wonder he could feel eyes on him all night. Eris was being baited.

“Oh she did now. Well, if you want me, you’ll have to catch me I suppose.” Eris tousled the little guy's hair and stood up swiftly, gaining a few feet in retreat before Nyx caught on.

“Wait! Come back!” He giggled, nearly tripping over himself to catch up to his target. Eris, careful to keep a balance between staying ahead of Nyx’s grabby hands and not losing him in the crowd, wove in and out of the dancers towards the giant tree in the middle. Because he wasn’t paying enough attention to his surroundings, Eris nearly careened right into someone carrying a tray of those spelled cocktails. He quickly ducked around them, snatching one of the rose colored ones, downing it in one gulp.

Eris, smiling, made a show of tumbling backward before sitting with his legs crossed under the tree. Nyx came barreling towards him, the look of concern from Eris’ fall quickly turning to a toothy grin. When he collided into Eris’ lap the elder male broke out in a fit of laughter. Accompanying the sound, his laughter was made of pink and gold bubbles spilling out from between his lips. They tasted like sugar. Nyx squealed in delight trying to catch as many of them as he could.

The laughter felt good and Eris knew that it meant he had already had entirely too much to drink but he was safe here tonight and could indulge in the things his heart yearned for. Playing with this child that he hoped someday would be a real part of his family, was one of those things. Nyx was the easy one in the family, as was his mother. Eris enjoyed their company plenty and didn’t hold out much hope for the rest of them. He sighed as those deprecating thoughts wound their way through his brain. That was ok, it’s not like he needed everyone’s approval. Eris was used to having a certain version of himself attach to people in a way they couldn’t easily shake.

They all lived such a long time. Maybe someday it would be different.

Animosity aside, incredibly the only actual unsafe people in all of Prythian were Eris’ father and some of his brothers. Perhaps there were a handful of spies watching the soft way Eris played with the youngling that would love to sell this kind of information back to Beron but Eris couldn’t be bothered to worry about them at the moment. When his family was absent he felt free to goof off and enjoy himself. No one at the party paid him any mind except for that incessant pair of hazel eyes he could feel boring into him but couldn’t yet see.

“You caught me!” Eris exclaimed, making a show of covering his wounded heart. Every word was laced in bubbles and Nyx couldn’t stop laughing. When the bubbles began to coat only every other word, then once a sentence slowly ebbing away, Nyx finally had a chance to calm down. The tiny sprite stood up with all the audacity of his Night Court heritage and grabbed a hold of Eris’ wrist.

“Come on. You’re my prisoner now.”

“Well, fair is fair I suppose. You caught me so I must go with you.” Eris groaned as he stood up, his movements purposely sluggish. Nyx was not impressed and tugged hard on Eris’ arm, grunting with the effort it took to pull him along.

“You let me catch you.”

“Did not.”

“Yes you did.” The little terror sounded smug about his catch either way. They went back and forth like this all the way across the dance floor where Feyre was waiting, drink in hand. She was holding back a smile and winked down at her son who beamed proudly as he presented his prize to his mother.

“I see you’ve finally deigned to make an appearance.” Eris said, bowing to the High Lady of the Night Court. When he stood back up he looked around the room for the rest of the Night Court, for one person in particular.

“Oh.” She smiled wryly right back at him. “We’ve been here the whole time, we were just ordered to stay quiet and hidden.” She glanced casually down into her glass before bringing it up to her lips, her smile widening.

Eris' mouth fell open slightly. “That little-”

“Language.” Feyre chided, glancing down at the little boy still attached to Eris’ wrist. His mouth popped closed and Eris huffed through his nose instead picking up the runt by the ankle and holding him upside down.

He scrutinized the dangling child, squealing his head off and poked him in his stomach where his shirt had ruched up. “Well, do I get the privilege of his company? Or do I need to take a hostage?”

“Put me down!” Nyx swung a fist out in vain, giggling through his aggression. “Momma Help!” He added when Eris did not immediately put him down and began tickling him instead.

Eris smiled gently as he pressed Nyx into his mother’s reaching arms. “Well, “ He sighed. “There goes my bargaining chip.”

“Uncle Az is-” Feyre pressed a hand against Nyx's traitorous mouth and laughed.

“Nyxie! Your uncle has worked very hard this evening. Don’t spoil anything.” She laughed. The image of this tiny fae female wrestling her, not so tiny 6 year old made Eris wistful with longing for his own mother, who had never had the chance to play with her children in that way.

It was a reminder at how different things were going to be for the next generation of fairy children. Eris knew he would make sure his own children would never have to endure the psychological and physical abuse that he had to grow up with.

Feyre glanced up from the mass of wings and giggles that was her son and saw the bittersweet look on Eris' face. She smiled softly at him and set Nyx back on his own two feet.

“Ok my Nyxie, time to go keep auntie Elain company.”

“Wait!” The little imp yelped, running over to Eris. He gestured for the male to bend lower so he could whisper in his ear. Feyre eyed him suspiciously but allowed him to continue.

Eris bent low and winced when the prince’s secret was not as quietly whispered as Eris was sure he intended. “I promise to help you gang up on uncle Az forever.” Feyre grimaced slightly but quickly smoothed over her features into a simple smile. Eris on the other hand grinned like a wildcat at the little one’s promise.

“I’ll hold you to that child.” He told him, rapping a knuckle lightly on Nyx’s cheek before standing tall once again.

“Ok Nyx, let’s go.”

“But momma!” He protested, stomping his feet. “I wanna go with you.”

“No darling. You know the plan.”

“Oh so there is a plan.” Eris cut in, glaring at them both. Feyre and Nyx gave him identical guilty faces and quickly sealed their lips. Well, Feyre did anyway. Nyx’s silence was only temporary. He inhaled deeply about to spill another secret when Feyre pressed her palms to his cheeks, squishing his little face in admonishment and they disappeared in a puff of star flecked night.