#always the ambient temperature

[crazysodomite]

wa...

[varreblogger]

a naga wouldnt even like me for real im always fucking cold

[netscapenavigator-official]

It actually makes water boil slower, so there absolutely is some other reason we do it. Like, actually. Adding salt to water increases its boiling temperature. It’s the same chemical property that we exploit when salting roads in the winter. To over simplify, adding salt to water makes it want to stay water. It increases the boiling point and decreases the freezing point. We add salt to roads because doing so means it’s need to be a LOT colder before the roads start to freeze. That means that ice won’t form on the road until well below 0°C/32°F, giving us an extra safety buffer, which could make the difference. The same is true with boiling water. If you add salt, it’ll take longer to come to a boil because of boiling-point elevation. Salt water will not boil at 100°C/212°F. It’ll boil a few degrees higher than that.

My baseless theory is that the "adding salt makes water boil faster" was a clever ploy by Italians to make efficiency-obsessed protestants put the bare minimum of flavour into their cooking.

[thebibliosphere]

Joy I have to ask - what temperature do you think it is inside Wayne Manor?

Is it essentially outside temperature except where the fireplaces are? Does Alfred have a one man war against climate change? Is that why Bruce spends so much time in the basement?

Depending on which timeline you follow, Wayne Manor was built in the late 1800s. Having worked in giant historical homes, I'm telling you now it's a fucking pain in the ass to update the heating systems in those buildings. I know we've got comic book logic to contend with, and they've got massive generators in the basement to keep the cave running (sometimes it's turbines powered by the water flowing through the caves), but I also think it's plausible that to avoid damaging the historical facade of the building, you might walk around the house and see box fans shoved into the window frames during the summer because fuuuuck trying to install modern AC through 18th-century brickwork.

As for heat, well, for a frame of reference, the James J Hill house up here in MN—built roughly around the same time during the Gilded Age when the Waynes were pioneering industry in Gotham—was forced to rely on a boiler roughly the size of a steam engine to heat the house and used 250 tons of coal each year to keep it warm. That boiler provided hot water and ambient heat through steam radiators, but they also still had fireplaces in almost every room to try and compensate for the winter. The house was updated for modern heating and air conditioning within the last 40 years, but with a house that size and ceilings so tall, it's not particularly efficient. They still rely on box fans and space heaters to keep the space habitable during summer and winter.

New Jersey is not as far north as Minnesota, but the temperatures can still drop comparably low, especially when you factor in the seafront Gotham is on. So, while I do think they likely upgraded the heating systems at some point (they can't keep guzzling through coal like that), I also can't help but feel it's got to be cold as hell in that house unless they're being meticulous about lighting fires and airing every room out to prevent damp.

Because that's another thing. If you're not keeping your stone house warm, you risk damp and water damage, and I feel like Alfred would rather gnaw off his own arm than let Wayne Manor crumble to dust with black mold festering in the original French plaster.

So he's not so much fighting a one-man war against climate change as he's fighting a one-man war to keep the house dry. He's walking through rooms no one even uses, making sure the steam radiators are working and opening the windows a crack to let the condensation out.

Is he also turning off all the light switches as he goes? Yes. Is he always yelling, "Why is every screen in this house turned on if no one is using them?" also, yes.

Is Bruce also down in the cave huddled under an extra cape, overclocking the batcomputer to stay warm? Also a distinct possibility.

[canisalbus]

Please please share some info on your Claydol/Umbreon sona 👀 👀

Well they're not a very lore heavy character ´v` Just a fun design I got attached to more than I intended I guess.

It's genderless, sexless and doesn't seem to age (it/they pronouns)

It's sentient but in a hard to decipher way. It prefers solitude and sparsely communicates with other beings.

It's seven eyes can move independently from each other.

The head can rotate and spin freely, and while it's not attached to the body, it usually maintains it's position, hovering at the end of the nonexistent neck.

The ears and tail are fully rigid. The tail can be bent from the base but the ears are always static (I think of them as baseball bat-like).

The mouth is a dead end and disappears completely when closed, but it can open very wide and is full of teeth (canines in particular are very sharp, curved and prominent).

The skin is firm, smooth, hairless and matte, similar to unglazed ceramic, and it matches the ambient temperature of the surroundings.

It's mostly odorless but has a faint aroma of dirt and myrrh.

It's resistant to heat and cold but can't stand water. It gets slow, lethargic and confused and starts to suffer tissue damage if it gets wet enough.

It's about the size of a caracal.

It doesn't breathe.

It doesn't seem to need to eat, and it doesn't have a working digestive tract. The internal organs it has are only vaguely reminescent of organic viscera and don't have a clear purpose, they're all uniformly orange and have the consistency of hard boiled egg yolk.

It sleeps a lot, or maybe hibernates, often in oddly upright and stiff positions.

It's generally a quiet and fairly inactive creature, but when it moves it can be surprisingly swift and nimble, the locomotion is mostly a mix of cat, dog and hare movements.

Sometimes it makes various hollow hissing and rattling noises when it moves, or sounds similar to two pieces of pottery or stone being ground together.

It's most common active vocalization is barking and it sounds like the clack of hyoshigi:

It's not aggressive, but can inflict feelings of anxiety, disorientation and mild catatonia on onlookers when threatened, and being on the receiving end of it's psychic attacks sounds like a bullroarer:

[icallhimjoey]

please bestie i want some soft love that's so second nature joe doesnt even have his attention with you whilst he gives it, please can you write something like that?

im not allowed to write right now because work and stress and boundaries and mental health etc etc so 🥰fuck you🥰 for this Wordcount: 1.8K

---

Cotton Soft Touches Gentle Voices Smooth

“What are you doing?”

You barely even heard Joe ask the question from across the room. You were so buried in whatever was happening on TV, focus completely zoomed in, mind somewhere else entirely. It took Joe another try for you to register the question directed at you.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” you turned your head to Joe before your eyes followed and for a moment, you just slowly blinked at him. Something about his face combined with the fact that it really took you a minute to find yourself back in the room made you smile. You were so cosy.

“Watching TV.” you answered innocently, because you were, eyes back on the screen already.

You were warmly nestled into the sofa, curled up, knees pulled in, all comfortable in your white ribbed cotton pyjamas. The throwpillows and blankets on the sofa created the perfect nest for you to happily curl up into.

Snug.

Soft ambient light from several lamps placed in strategic corners lit up the room just enough. If you stood and opened the curtains a bit more, you could still catch the faint and fading oranges of the sunset.

You were shower fresh, limbs covered by white clean cotton, nose still a little cold from the difference in temperature after getting out of the hot stream, and wet hair cool where it touched your skin.

But you felt so warm.

So fucking cosy.

When you’d walked back into the living room post shower, skin glossy and wet hair brushed back, Joe had installed himself at the dinner table with his laptop and a notebook.

He’d cleared away the mess from dinner and had turned his spot into a desk.

“Just need to do these e-mails,” he said after you’d let your arms curl around him from behind, arms that he grabbed hold of for a second, and you kissed the top of his head.

“Will only be a minute.”

You’d left him to it then, not minding that Joe had some work to do, just happy that he was in the same room instead of hidden away in what he called the office and you called the guest bedroom.

The ‘only a minute’ easily turned into an hour plus. Joe kept busy on both his computer and his phone, and would sometimes scribble some things down onto paper. There was a phone call or two, just quick “Sorry to call so late, but have you seen the...” and, “Hey, yea, I'm just reading it now, can I call you back in a minute?” type things.

Joe became background noise to you the second you snuggled up, and similarly the low sounds coming from the TV were just a nice reminder that Joe wasn’t alone.

But then, halfway through typing a response to an e-mail, something in Joe’s peripheral vision caught his attention.

Something moving slowly.

A little rhythmically.

When he peeked over his laptop screen and saw his girlfriend looking just about the most comfortable she’d ever looked, he didn’t even think you were aware that you were doing it.

In your layers of soft cream fabrics, head slumped to the side, Joe saw how you let your fingers softly skim over the area below your ear. They danced in circles and lines by your jaw, onto your cheek just a little before trailing back to your neck and—

That was what Joe always did.

That’s where Joe let his fingers draw shapes.

He would brush some hair from your face and would then let his fingertips linger, and it always made you hum. Made you relax. Gave you tingles that made your hearing go funny for a second.

Joe watched you lazily self soothe, and after a moment he decided that he’d actually done enough work. He could finish this e-mail tomorrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm? Watching TV.”

Your eyes were back on the screen before Joe could’ve even said anything about how you were touching yourself.

It was nothing sexual - not really. Not what he was witnessing right now anyway. He imagined it just felt nice.

He closed his laptop and got up from his seat, and without looking away from the TV, you moved to make space for Joe next to you, knowing he’d make his way over to press himself into your side.

Joe smiled as you moved blankets aside but kept that one hand near your ear, index finger mapping out your hairline towards the nape of your neck and back.

Instead of sitting down though, Joe pushed a knee into the sofa right next to your thigh and placed his fingers right were yours were, pushing them aside.

“I do this,” Joe said as he hovered over you, and you grinned as you let your head fall to the side more. “This is my job.”

Joe tickled his fingers along your soft skin, fresh and clean from the shower, and it only took a few seconds for you to sigh into his touch.

It was nicer when Joe did it.

“S’nice?” Joe murmured, still with just one knee on the sofa, and you hummed, eyes closed, nodding.

“Is nicer when you do it.”

“Yea?”

Joe leant forward to press a kiss to your cheek, getting you just under your eye, and then he moved to sit down next to you.

After a shuffle of throws, pillows, and limbs, you found yourself under Joe’s arm, curled up into his side.

You were comfortable before, but this would always be infinitely better.

“Hmm, you smell nice.” Joe commented after taking a moment to press his nose into your still damp hair.

“Yea? What do I smell like? Shampoo?” you whispered, voice not wanting to be any louder.

Joe easily bit, taking the invitation to get another real good whiff of you, his whole face now pressing into the crook of your neck.

You relished the attention, feeling fuzzy on the inside, heat blooming in your chest.

“Yea, sort of lemony… all fresh and clean.”

You blushed and were unable to hide your smile as you settled together for some TV watching, warm bodies pressed together, always fitting just right somehow.

Joe’s arm rested on the back of the sofa and bent around your head just right for his fingers to play. To touch the skin around your ear like you’d been doing before. To lightly trail and leave goosebumps down your whole body.

You could easily fall asleep like this, legs intertwined, head on his chest.

You lazily watched TV in silence for a while and if Joe was going to keep up the barely there shapes drawn down your neck you knew you actually would fall asleep.

It was becoming difficult to keep your eyes open, every blink a comfortable invitation to just keep them closed, but then the soft buzzing of Joe’s phone pulled you both from your haze.

Joe had your earlobe in between his fingers when he answered, and for a moment you were fully expecting him to get up. Move to where his laptop lay shut to open it once more to maybe finish something he hadn’t yet.

But when you tried to sit up a little for Joe to slip out of this cocoon you’d created, you felt his arm tense. He wasn’t letting go of the soft skin of your ear and to make sure you stayed put, he bent a leg to keep yours in place.

“It’s past ten, mate,” Joe answered and although you didn’t know who was calling him, just from his tone of voice you knew it wasn’t work related.

Joe gently rubbed your earlobe between his fingers and it felt so nice, it turned the world blurry as you unfocused your eyes.

When you relaxed back into him, sinking into the line of his body, Joe tilted his head down to look at you, barely catching your little smile but happy to see you were still enticed by whatever was happening on TV.

You weren’t though.

Not really.

Because as Joe spoke, he let his fingers continue what they’d been doing and if he thought you were able to try to follow his conversation as well as what you were watching whilst he made you melt with his touch, he was wrong.

You were bad at multitasking on a good day, and you knew Joe was too. The fact that he was somehow able to keep you lax and floating whilst simultaneously being mentally present for this phone call was impressive.

Joe laughed through casual conversation with a friend who had some questions about future plans they’d made. Their chat quickly turned into a hey-now-that-I’ve-got-you-on-the-phone catch up.

The low vibrations from his smooth voice were nice. You felt them where your face rested on his chest and relished in the tender love you were receiving that felt like a second nature sort of thing.

“No, I’m just at home. Watching TV.”

Not being mentioned suddenly made Joes fingers feel a little scandalous. Like the person on the phone wasn’t allowed to know you were there and how he was making you feel right now.

It got a little worse when you felt how Joe let his fingers trail down your neck to disappear into your pyjama top where they slowly caressed over your collarbone.

Your voice let a little noise escape when his hand snuck back up again, finding its way into your hair, and Joe chuckled lowly.

You let yourself balance on the borders of consciousness, half asleep with thoughts so far removed from where you were, yet half laser focused on Joe’s fingers and where they tickled your skin.

Unsure of when you’d drifted off, or when Joe had finished his phone call, the next thing you registered was a soft and low far away, “Have I done a plait?” that pulled you back into the room a little more.

With your eyes still closed you reached a heavy hand up to feel what was essentially just a twirled strand of hair, not a plait at all.

You couldn’t hide the little smile that spread at how adorable you thought it was that Joe’d just been playing with your hair and thought he’d actually done something.

He hadn’t.

He just made you feel loved, which was actually far better than a plait.

“Mhm,” you hummed approvingly, snuggling up into Joe more, understanding that it was likely much smarter to just get up and find your way into bed, but you’d quite literally never been more comfortable before.

“I’ve done a plait.” Joe whispered, gleefully proud of himself and making sure that you knew, that you’d heard him, give him some praise.

“Well done.” You lied, because he’d not done a plait, but that was okay.

You weren’t going to shoot yourself in the foot, because you were about to sink back into sleep and there was just one thing that’d make you feel even more comfortable.

That would send you right back off into sleep.

 “Do another.”

---

The Taglisted

@alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @demonsanddemogorgons

@djoseph-quinn, @dolcevit4, @eddies-puppet, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer

@everythinghasafacee, @figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @gri959, @hanahkatexo

@harringtonfan4, @hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven

@kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @mandyjo8719, @mexicanfolklore, @munsonluvrr

@munson-mjstan, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @notverywise

@pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @prettiestboyreid, @readergf, @royale1803

@skulliecadaver-blog, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @yunirgo

add yourself

[gilverrwrites]

Summer Loving

Ft. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Roy, & Tim.

AN: Have a lot of lengthy and/or smutty wips on the go atm and I can feel them bogging me down a bit, so I decided to take a break and work on some short summer themed slice of life/domestic fluff to cleanse my palate. I feel I must apologise for my gratuitous and obvious Roy Harper thirst but I wont, enjoy!

CWs: Some are more suggestive than others, reader discretion advised. Minor swearing and minors swearing, mentions of alcohol. GN! Reader

Bruce: Tan Lines

It’s moments like these where you wish Bruce didn’t have to spend his nights on the endless pursuit of justice. You knew what you’d signed up for, but you’d missed him all day and god, the feel of his strong fingers massaging after sun into your skin was euphoric. Would you be such a bad guy for trying to convince him to stay home?

“I like this.” His hum pulls you from your train of thought, and you look down to see his fingers trailing against the tan line your shorts had caused. He spares you a quick suggestive glance, the look a wolf might give a rabbit it’s particularly fond of before dipping down to replace his hands with his mouth.

“Ohhh, stay home tonight Brucie?” The look he gives you this time maintains its warmth but there’s an air of warning to it. Despite his simmering combativeness, you add a charming “Please?”

To that he lifts his head, just far enough to deny you of his lips, but close enough that his low voice still seems to reverberate through your body as he speaks. “Crime doesn’t take the night off, neither can I.”

“I know.” You sigh, admitting defeat before the battle has even begun, and he rewards you by assuming his barrage of kisses to your lower body.

“Just don’t go out too early.” You advise, trailing the tip of your finger from ear to ear, estimating the line where his Batman cowl ends. “Don’t want to get any tan lines of your own.”

“Trust me.” There’s humour in his tone now as he works his way upwards, ghosting his 5 o'clock shadow along the skin of your stomach as he prowls closer. “The evening is young, and I have plans for you yet.”

Dick: A/C

The A/C is broken. Again. To combat the heat the whole household has resorted to wearing nothing but their underwear, except of course for Haley who is always naked. Lucky dog.

Additionally, all the windows are open in an attempt to let the cool night air circulate the humid apartment but all it’s really doing is letting in the ambient sound of Blüdhavens boisterous nightlife and countless flies.

“Want one?” Dick asks from the kitchen spaces as he digs into his second ice pop since dinner, you joke about envying his metabolism despite knowing damn well that’s not the real reason for his physique. Although between the food and the heat-induced skipped workout, he’s bloating, just a little bit; the tiniest, most delicious bit of plumpness and you can’t take your eyes off of it. “Are you checking me out?”

“Always.” You reply with a brazen smile, continuing your laser-focused stare even as he begins approaching your spot on the couch.

“How about you stop looking and start touching, huh baby?”

“No.” You finally cease your objectification of his stomach to look him in the eyes. The intended sternness in your tone is stifled by the way his icy confection has turned his lips blue. “I already told you, no sex in this heat until the air con is fixed.”

Despite your posturing, you don’t fight his closing proximity, nor do you stop him from dragging his cool-raspberry-stained tongue along the length of your throat, it’s still cold from the half-eaten lolly and the sensation sends a welcome chill through your body. As inefficient as it may be, you much prefer this method of cooling down to an A/C.

Jason: Sunrise

The metal grate of your fire escape is surprisingly cool against your bare feet. It’s early, pre-sunrise early but the air is still thick, a combination of the arid summer heat and steam of the cities underground. Despite the unpleasant temperature, you settle onto the grill, with nothing but a pillow for comfort and two ice-cold glasses of lemonade.   

When 15 minutes pass, and you start to notice a growing tinge of orangeness in the sky, you start to worry you’re being stood up, or worse; something awful has happened. Something that would prevent him from coming home, but then you hear it; The heavy steps of Jason’s steel-toed boots approaching from your apartment’s rooftop.

You glance up just in time to see him dropping down. A loud clang rings out as he hits the floor, causing the whole structure to vibrate and you wonder if he does that every night, surely not, there’s no way you could sleep through it or that your neighbours wouldn’t complain.

“Aren’t you sweating balls?” You ask, taking in his gear as he sits down beside you. The boots, the cargo pants, turtleneck, jacket, gloves, and the full-face mask.

“Nah.” His voice is muffled by the headpiece until he takes it off, shaking his head to support his answer. “It’s weird but I’ve kinda run cold ever since I died, you know?”

Obviously you don’t know, in fact having felt his searing, naked skin pressed to yours on multiple occasions, you highly doubt him, but you nod regardless and hand him his drink. Unlike a man on the chilly side, he chugs half of the icy drink in one go and you wonder if he’ll ever stop jumping from buildings and telling white lies to impress you.

“Want some help warming up?” Before he can respond you lean up, brushing your nose against his and watching as his lids flutter closed in anticipation, his breath is cool on your lips and when you finally press into them you can taste nothing but the tartness of the lemonade. Regardless, it’s heavenly; soft and tender. Every kiss with Jason makes your heart flutter in the same way it had the first time.

When he pulls away you chase after him, eyes only opening to meet his heterochromatic irises when your pursuit for more becomes an abundant failure.

He’s grinning as he tells you; “We’re missing the sunrise.”

“I don’t care.” You answer, trying again, and this time succeeding in drawing him in for another kiss.

Roy: Paddling Pool

If ever anybody asked you to describe a moment of pure domestic bliss, this moment would be a strong contender. Your lower body is submerged in a paddling pool as you bask in the sun, enjoying the occasional splash of water caused by Lian’s uncoordinated but enthusiastic dancing beside you. She too is basking, but hers is under an endless stream of hose water being directed by her father; Roy, who is watching the two of you from a sun lounger, hosepipe in one hand and a non-alcoholic beer in the other.

He's quite the vision, no shoes, no shirt, just tastefully tacky swim trunks and his iconically worn-out grey baseball cap that may be protecting his head, but is doing little to tame his mop of fiery hair. From this angle, you’ve got a great shot of some of his lesser-seen tattoos, but every time you look over at him you find yourself far more smitten with the countless freckles that adorn his chest and shoulders, made darker and more noticeable by the recent heatwave.   

“How’s the Heineken?” You ask, genuinely curious how he’s enjoying his first taste of alcohol-free booze.

“Crap.” He replies, lips briefly curving into a self-amused smirk before dropping to woefully panicked as you both turn to look at Lian. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to have been listening in, content in her own toddler babblings. Relieved, he turns his attention back to you and corrects himself. “Um, not good babe.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.” You offer your condolences, but he seems completely unbothered.

Instead, he turns the glass bottle around in his hands a few times before chucking it over his shoulder. It sails through the air before seamlessly landing in the open bin by your backdoor. Your concern about it leaking into the rest of the recycling is seconded by how impressed you are. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times his trick-shot hit, you’re always at least a little bit captivated by his impeccable aim.    

“It’s cool, hon.” He shrugs and leans back into the lounger. His eyes flicker back and forth between you and his child, a slow, contented smile spreading across his face. “Got everything I need right here.”  

Bonus:

Hours later, you’re sorting through the soggy contents of the recycling as Roy scoops Lian up in his arms and takes her sleepy frame inside. The sun is still high and bright, but it’s past her bedtime, and it’s been a long, exciting day for her. He dries her with the softest towel he can find, careful to pat down every pruned finger and toe before putting her to bed.

“How was your day, sweetie?” He asks, strong fingers petting her soft hair to help soothe her to sleep.

“Crap!”   

Tim: Ice Cream

Tim is still sleeping off a rough, muggy night of crime fighting as you circumnavigate the boat's sad excuse for a kitchen. The bags under his eyes had been growing darker each day under the stress of hunting down a mysterious new bank robber. You’d hoped to lift his spirits by surprising him with a tub of homemade ice cream, but so far all you’d managed to make is a mess.

After having a falling out with the thrifted ice cream maker you’d stuffed in the back of a cupboard months ago, you settled for hand mixing. By the time you put the concoction in the freezer to set, your wrists are aching, and Tim has begun to stir. You’re just finishing up the dishes you’d created when he finally emerges from the bedroom in shorts, flip-flops, and a not-so-summer-appropriate hoodie.

Before you can offer a ‘good morning, Timmybear’ his arms are around your waist, pulling you close from behind and settling the weight of his sleepy head on your shoulder.

“What’s this?” He asks and then he’s licking what you can only assume is a stray splash of the mixture from your cheek with the bravery only a man raised by Batman could possess. It could have been literally anything. “Banana?”

“Chunky monkey actually.” Goddamn. Surprise ruined in less than a minute. Oh well, at least you can give him something to look forward to. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get ice cream without you, I made it for you.”

“I figured.” He hums, sounding so very drowsy despite the ease with which he manoeuvres your body against the kitchen counter so he can keep you close while brewing his morning tea, occasionally planting soft kisses to the side of your neck as his hands move absentmindedly. “You’re the best, you know that? Can’t wait to try it.”

“You figured? How did you figure?” You skip right past the justified praise; he’d been practically comatose since 4 AM, how could he have figured?

“It’s on the ceiling.” He’s right, you look up to see a cream-soaked walnut lodged above you and let out a dramatic sigh as you fall deeper into Tim's arms.

Taglist: @wandalfnation

[fence-time]

Playground AU but the children are powerful supernatural creatures that just so happen to be children the parents drop off so that the poor caretakers have to deal with.

Grian and Pearl are avian fledglings, are are always seen digging up and eating bugs from the playground. They don’t have enough feathers to fly, but just enough to glide, and their love of heights makes it a common occurrence for them to start climbing on the bookshelves and tables.

Gem and Lizzie are fae creatures, and are from different courts. Gem is from the Summer Court, while Lizzie is the heir to the Spring Court. They have this… really creeping unblinking stare that bore into your soul. They trained the small animals from the nearby forest to attack people, and have on multiple occasions, let a bear try to maul someone.

Scott is a unicorn satyr. He can create rainbows, is always photogenic, and can heal minor wounds. What’s the issue you may ask? Scott will more often than not, waltz out of the building, plop down in the soccer field and begin eating the grass. He’s also very fussy about his clothes. One time a tree branch tore his clothes, so he used his horn to set it on fire, causing a minor forest fire.

Scar and Cub are vexes and are basically the twins from the shining. Always at the end of a hallway, asking for something. They also are entirely carnivorous, so they sneak out into the forest, find the nearest wild animal (squirrel, bird, a god forsaken wolf at one point), kill it and just… eat it. Blood gets everywhere, and both use the blood and viscera as art supplies. Scar once gave Grian a bird’s head, covered in glitter, stabbed on a stick covered in a mixture of blood and paint.

Joel is an ogre. He’s also quite temperamental. He’s also egregiously strong for his age and once threw an entire desk out the window. He often gets into fights, and has difficulty controlling his strength. He has currently destroyed a window, 2 desks, 4 chairs, 1 door, 12 bathroom doors, several paintbrushes, a wall, a concrete wall, a metal and wooden baseball bat, and the monkey bars.

Skizz and Impulse are an Angel and a demon respectively. Their true forms are enough to make anyone faint or go temporarily insane, and they can control the ambient temperature around them. Their clans are at constant war with the other, despite the two of them being extremely close, and whenever their parents pick them up, the two families immediately start fighting in the parking lot.

Bdubs is a sandman. He’s able to make dreams literally materialize out of sand, and he uses this to create giant sand kaijus, tanks, dragons, monster trucks, and even a castle, all made up of sand. He also has a bad habit of sleeping in the most weirdest and convoluted places in the school. They once found him on the school’s intercom system sleeping peacefully.

Etho is a boogeyman. He is a living nightmare, able to meld into the shadows themselves and cause horrific nightmares. Unfortunately, due to his inexperience with these powers, he often just ends up tripping into someone’s shadow or unleash a torrent of spiders into the classrooms. Did I forget to mention he’s made up entirely of spiders?

Jimmy is the token human. He’s just a dude who’s entore class is made up of the supernatural. He’s well liked, but often starts or gets roped into one of his classmate’s shenanigans. He’s also chronically unlucky, causing him to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He breaks a bone at least once a year and is a regular at the nurse’s office.

This is getting long so I’ll just list off the rest: BigB is a creaking dryad, Cleo is a zombie (duh), Tango is a blazeborn, Ren is a werewolf, Martyn is an oracle, Mumbo is a vampire, Zedaph is a jabberwocky, and Doc is a… goat cyborg thing.

Awhhhhh this is really cuteee :0

I have a feeling this etho and Scot wouldn’t get along 😭 a single spider crawls onto scotts jumper or smth and suddenly the buildings on fire :P

[ranticore]

wanted to very quickly make up an interesting & engaging culture for the lil kobold guys so that it hurts more when they all die. here's my ramble about that.

they are not reptiles but like many reptiles they develop into male or female based on ambient temperature during embryonic development, but they also evolved into endothermic livebearers. so with the parent at regular body temp it's a fifty-fifty sex-at-birth split, but in conditions of colder-than-average daughters are produced, and hotter-than-average gives you sons. other sex traits are temperature linked so it can also be possible to trans your sex if you go through a temperature shock in either direction (hypo/hyperthermia) but that's pretty rare because you'd be more likely to die. other traits are temperature-linked including skintone saturation, hair coverage, etc and can change over time throughout an individual's life.

all of these are evolutionary traits to allow them to survive seasons without a dragon in the cave providing warmth; the lairs are usually high up in cold mountainous regions. a dragon's lair then has zonations of temperature from hottest (dragon) to coldest and kobolds are able to exploit the widest range possible. when there is no dragon, there's almost no warmth (as campfires and the like are lethal in tunnel systems), and in extreme circumstances colonies can become all-female and propagate by parthenogenisis until a dragon settles the lair again and provides warmth. naturally their little colonies are matriarchal, and the matriarch has to commune with the dragon in an area that is extremely hot (because of the dragon). this causes her to only bear sons. it means that there also has to be a mother of matriarchs whose job it is to produce a matriarch, which she does by staying in the cold parts of the cave, to give birth to daughters. the daughters can be next in line for matriarch if they can survive the dragon (i.e.. if it chooses not to kill em) and thereafter have to stay in the hot zone.

anyway this results in a kind of alternation of generations and two complimentary ruling bloodlines who, while related, can never meet past birth - if a matriarch has a daughter it's an indication that she was not as close with the dragon as her duties demand (she is supposed to interpret the dragon's moods and provide predictions of future prosperity based on them). and if a mother of matriarchs has a son it means she was also not being dutiful enough (but i mean. ice baths all day everyday aren't fun either so this scenario is more common than the reverse). once a mother of matriarchs has a son then she's out of a job due to old superstitions that sons, being smaller at birth and easier to produce, will permanently taint a uterus by showing it the easy way out, and thereafter it will always pick that route. that's only superstition tho. the matriarch & mother of matriarchs both have a group of consort malewives. these usually have a mix of cold and hot phase traits and tend to bounce between temperature zones so they don't become too inclined in any direction.

the colony does not have only two reproductive members ofc, these are only ruling bloodlines. most individuals are not born from a matriarch or mother of matriarchs, and when the lair is occupied by a dragon there should be an even bimodal distribution of sex traits. a child is named based on imagery from both parents' dreams during the baby's first sleep (there is no day or night. baby is left out unattended by the dragon while it sleeps and the dragon 'decides' if it's worthy to live or not. dragon doesn't give a fuck and is barely aware of all this btw). if it survives it gets two names, one from each parent. then later in life those two names are used by the matriarch (if upperclass/Important) or the division leader (if lowerclass; hunters, scavengers, etc) to pair up one individual with another who has a complimentary name. the four names should go well together and paint a nice word-picture. the two individuals then become partners in a kind of culturally-enshrined buddy system and do their tasks together. it's very dangerous in the warrens and tunnels after all and it's best to go in pairs.

for example holly's full name is Holly Burn (due to being the very unlucky son of a mother of matriarchs, who had to retire; he 'burned' her) and his partner's name is Red Leaf. the names when spoken together make a little four-word poem which is optimally good in their culture

so that's what i got since last night but i have more Ideas. anyway all that's going on including some intense interpersonal drama between himself and red leaf when the knights come

[marlynnofmany]

I Know A Guy

The post office on this space station was close to the landing docks, nice and convenient, so several of us went to check our mail while Captain Sunlight met with the sister ship. Not all of the crew had mail drops set up, but I did; this station was a big hub that we stopped at with some regularity. Perfect for relaying the occasional news from home.

And care packages, as it turned out.

I opened the box with some curiosity, sitting on a bench while the others waited in line and the spaceport bustled around us. Inside I found multivitamins, a letter from my parents, a type of cereal that I’d loved as a kid, and a smaller box with a sun logo.

“Ooh, what’d you get?” Paint asked, trotting over with her own box clutched to her scaly orange chest.

“A lot of stuff,” I said in distraction, turning the sun box in search of words. No luck. I opened it to find a fist-sized yellow globe and a base with lots of buttons. And an instruction booklet, thankfully. “Oh, it’s a sun lamp!”

“It even looks like a little sun; how nice! Is it warm, or just bright?” Paint gave it an appreciative look while she opened her package.

“Not sure yet.” I skimmed the instructions and decided to leave that for later. “It’s thoughtful, though. I think my parents were concerned that I’m not getting enough Vitamin D up in space. And other vitamins.” I rattled the bottle.

“That’s a lot of vitamins.”

“Yup. And look, they found the discontinued cereal! I thought it was gone for good.” I carefully opened a corner and fished out a palmful of the maple syrup flavored crunchy goodness that I hadn’t had in years. It was just as tasty as I’d remembered.

Paint sniffed the air. “I don’t recognize that smell. What kind of food is it?”

“Breakfast food,” I said. “I think it’s wheat based, so it’s basically made from ground-up seeds, and flavored with sweet tree sap.”

“That’s … creative,” Paint said.

“Delicious, too. Most tree saps aren’t worth eating, but this one is.” I crunched another mouthful. “Want some?”

“No thank you,” was the prim answer that I’d fully expected. “But look what I got! Fancy heat stickers!” Paint held up a stack of vividly colored starburst shapes, fanned out like playing cards. “I’m going to see if Sunlight, Coals, and Eggskin want any.”

“Thoughtful of you,” I said, closing up the cereal. All four of the lizardy Heatseekers on our ship enjoyed warm things. The ambient temperature was always kept at a comfortable compromise for the various species onboard, but a handy little warm sticker that wouldn’t get in the way was bound to be appreciated.

“Oh, they’re even scented,” Paint said, rubbing one against her snout. “I’m going to have to order more of these.” She sorted through the stack, checking scents and color variations.

Mur and Zhee were still in line, stuck behind a Frillian who was shipping many things to many places, so I settled in to read the note from home while I waited. It was a nice update on the various goings-on of the extended family; all reasonably good news, nothing earth-shattering. Somebody got a scholarship, somebody had twins, somebody was doing well in a competitive bumper-ship derby league, and was incredibly excited about it. There was a lot of detail about that one. I got the impression that this particular second cousin had given everybody a rundown at a family gathering, so now they all knew more about the best types of shrapnel shielding than they probably wanted to. Sounded like the favorite was a human-made version, combining tech that other species had already come up with. The force field worked with the ship’s scanner to predict which parts of the shield would need the most power for a given impact. My cousin was a big fan.

The quiet slap of tentacles on the ground accompanied Mur. “Well that was a long wait,” he said. “But now I’m all set for media for the foreseeable future.” He held a data chip in one tentacle.

Zhee was right behind him, hissing in what sounded like joy instead of irritation for once. He set a box down between his bug feet, not waiting for a bench, and tore it open with his pincher arms. Inside was something that looked like another kind of data chip, and something with straps that I couldn’t begin to figure out.

“Excellent,” Zhee said. “The correct version, the highest quality, and Trrili does not get to listen to it, heathen that she is.”

It took me a second. “Oh, that’s music?” I thought back to the impassioned rant about Trrili’s incorrect opinions on traditional Mesmer leg-singing. I hoped Zhee played it quietly. “And is that — I want to say ‘headphones,’ but—”

“Personal speakers, yes,” Zhee said as he stuffed it all back in the box. “I will be able to listen to the glorious arias in privacy.”

Paint nodded. “Great idea.” She’d heard the leg-singing when I did, and probably wasn’t eager to hear the artful screeching again.

I was trying to guess whether Zhee would be offended if I asked where his ears were, since it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know. But the others were gathering up their things to head back to the ship, and I decided to put it off until later. Maybe I’d ask Eggskin the medic instead.

Something occurred to me as I put the letter back in the box. “Hey guys, pose for a second. I want to send my family a picture with some of my cool alien coworkers.”

The three of them agreed that they were awesome and worth photographing. (Their responses ranged from excited to confident to egotistical.) A few moments later, I had a fantastic group selfie to send with my letter back. Paint’s open-mouthed lizard smile was adorable; Mur stood tall on his blue-black tentacles; Zhee loomed over all of us with the lights shining off his purple exoskeleton; then there was me grinning in the front. I’d definitely be keeping a copy of this.

We made our way back to the ship where it was parked next to a similar lemon-shaped courier ship with folded solar sails. The two captains hadn’t gone inside yet, which made me wonder what they were discussing with such intense expressions.

As we approached, Captain Sunlight was saying, “I may know someone who can help us out, but I’d hate to give him the satisfaction.”

She broke off when Paint trotted up to give her a handful of heat stickers and to show off the blue-white one she herself was wearing. Apparently it smelled like a plant I’d never heard of.

“Thank you; that’s very thoughtful,” Captain Sunlight said. “Those sound like just the thing.” She picked out a green one and pasted it to her own chest, where it contrasted nicely with her yellow scales.

Zhee and Mur tromped into the ship. I lingered, curious. “Is all the ship business going all right?” I asked.

“For the moment,” the captain said as she stowed the rest of the stickers and the backing for that one in her belt pouch. “Just considering our options with some monetary considerations.”

Captain Kamm waved a tentacle. “Both ships are on the family plan for damage insurance, and the rates have made an unpleasant jump.”

I shifted the box to my other side. “Do we need to earn more money?”

“No, it will be all right.” Captain Sunlight shook her head. “I have a lead on a better deal. I just need to make a call or two.”

Captain Kamm ushered us all into our ship, wasting no time. Paint disappeared to share her heat stickers while the two captains adjourned to the lounge. I put my things away and hurried back. No one had told me to mind my own business, so I was going to listen in before writing a letter to send back home.

I was quick, but Captain Sunlight was quicker. She was just ending the holo call when I arrived. A green-scaled Heatseeker gazed earnestly from the projection, urging her to get back to him as soon as she could.

“If you can get better shields, I can promise you a savings of at least 15% compared to your current plan!”

“Yes, thank you,” Captain Sunlight said. “I’ll see what I can do. Say hi to the elders for me.”

He said he would, and she turned off the projection with another deep sigh. Captain Kamm sat next to her, weaving tentacles together thoughtfully.

Captain Sunlight tossed the communicator onto the table and sat back with folded arms. “Of course it couldn’t be that simple. He talks a good game at every gathering, but oh no: prerequisites.”

I sat down at the end of the couch, absently petting Telly who was curled up in the center. In proper cat fashion, she responded by stretching to take up even more space. I was thinking about what the captain had just said about shields.

I asked, “Does he need a certain kind in order to get us the better deal?”

Captain Sunlight waved a hand. “Just a higher degree of resistance to micrometeorites. The shielding we have is perfectly serviceable, but it’s apparently not enough for the good rates.”

“Would we need to overhaul everything, or would it be enough to layer another kind over what we have? Like, say, a kind that connects to the ship’s scanners?”

The captain gave me a look. “Do you have a specific type in mind?”

“Possibly,” I said. “Are you familiar with bumper-ship derbies?”

Captain Kamm twirled a tentacle. “That’s some of the human ‘adrenaline junkie’ nonsense, yes?”

“I think there are some Smashers and other races that really get into it as well, but yes,” I said. “The letter from home I just got mentioned the shielding they use.”

I explained what I knew while they listened intently. Paint came in to join us and sat on the other side of Telly, who took the extra attention as her due. By the time I was done talking, everyone in the room was looking optimistic.

“Go ahead and reach out,” Captain Sunlight said. “We don’t have to rush off anytime soon. With any luck, we can get all this settled at once.”

“Here’s hoping!” Captain Kamm said, touching four tentacle-tips together over her head in what looked like the Strongarm version of crossed fingers.

“I’ll see if I can route a call through to home now,” I said, getting up.

Telly meowed in protest at the movement, then crawled onto Paint’s lap and rubbed her head against the heat sticker, purring audibly. Paint looked delighted.

I left with a wave, hurrying off to my quarters with plans to make a phone call, potentially save the day, then set up the sun lamp for the benefit of a certain fuzzy little heat-lover as well as for my own sake.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[gracien-system]

Hey, everyone living in hot and humid places? We have a tool you might find useful!

This is a calculator from the US government that calculates the wet bulb temperature if you plug in ambient temperature, pressure, and humidity.

If you don't know what the wet bulb temperature is, that's alright, it's not a very well-known term. It's a really simple measurement, though, and it's a useful number to have. It is the temperature that a thermometer would read if its sensor was fully wrapped in wet cotton, and it measures the absolute limit of purely evaporative cooling in given atmospheric conditions.

If the wet bulb temperature is equal to the ambient temperature, do not attempt to cool yourself off with evaporation, and try to minimize sweating as much as possible. In an environment like that, sweat and water can actually heat you up by conducting ambient heat into your core.

Now, let me clarify: you can always cool yourself down if you have access to water that is colder than your body temperature. Pouring that on yourself will wick away heat. But if the wet bulb temperature is equal to ambient, you should dry yourself off immediately after doing so.

If the wet bulb temperature is lower than ambient, though, it means that evaporative cooling is possible. In that case, sweating and getting yourself wet are both helpful.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Love Machines in Harmony

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 5244 Tags: PWP, Human AU, Rich Guy Dream, Mechanic Hob, the garage doesn't feature in this one though, Service Top Hob Gadling, Enthusiastic Bottom Dream, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, brief appearance by glass sex toy, anal sex, spünkelcouchen, strength kink, manhandling, burgeoning feelings, which shall continue to go unspoken, eye candy wardrobe choices, oral sex, mild temperature play, brief mention of come swallowing

Notes: Fifth (5th!) in the Turbo Lover series. This is an immediate sequel/continuation to Shift to Overdrive. Title (of course) taken from Turbo Lover by Judas Priest. Previously in the series, in case AO3 is down: Customer Service With Every Nerve Alive Loyalty Rewards Program Shift to Overdrive

Summary: Passions are running high after the limo ride home, and the drawing room is closer than the bedroom

On AO3

Hob pushes Dream up against the door as soon as it's shut behind them, seizes him by the biceps and kisses him fiercely. He's managed to calm himself a little between the limo and the house and he's not in danger of popping off immediately but his fancy tailored trousers are very distinctly tented and it's all Dream's fault, the way he'd just crawled over and taken Hob out and licked and sucked him like candy all the way home—

"Your mouth," he pants, breaking the kiss, moving his hands to Dream's face, "Dream, you magnificent creature, your fucking mouth—you drive me insane—"

Dream surges back into the kiss, tongue squirming into Hob's mouth, the same tongue that had teased him so relentlessly—he can taste himself on it, still. Fuck. Dream is whining hungrily and grinding his hips against Hob's; they're both hard, and god but it's gratifying to know that Dream did what he did in the limo because it turns him on, he's not just trying to get Hob off. Which Hob has certainly picked up on by now; Dream has loved sucking his cock from their very first tryst but it's always nice to see the proof of how much he enjoys it.

But Hob is so, so wound up from all that teasing; he needs to fuck Dream right now or he may go mad.

He grabs Dream around the back of his thighs and hefts him up, swallows down the delighted noise that Dream makes and swings them around off the door as Dream's legs wrap around him. Dream has this big house with all these rooms and most of them are closer than his second floor bedroom; Hob kicks his shoes off there in the foyer and moves for what Dream calls his 'drawing room' with its sturdy antique-style furniture, pauses in the dark.

"Lights, dove," he manages, pulling free of Dream's kiss and dipping to suck a soft mark to his throat.

"Computer. Lights. Ambient," Dream says, a bit breathlessly, but the automated system that's keyed to his voice obediently brings up the lights in the room to a soft cozy glow. Hob, able now to see where he's going, heads straight to the green velvet couch and drops Dream onto it gently.

Dream makes a highly-pleasured little sound as he lands on his arse and scrambles up to turn and kneel on the sofa, hands gripping the back. "Hob, please," he gasps, with all the urgency that Hob feels, and Hob's not about to keep him waiting.

"Can I assume you've got lube on your person?" he asks, reaching around front to undo Dream's trousers and take them down along with his pants. He strokes over Dream's cock as he goes, and Dream shudders.

"Yes—but Hob—" He sticks his arse out out, bounces it a little; Hob takes the hint and draws back to look.

He sees the broad jewel-like base of one of Dream's favorite glass toys peeking from between those milk-white cheeks, and it makes his breath catch.

"Oh my god, Dream—" He wriggles the plug, tugs gently without any intent to remove it, and relishes the way Dream squirms. "All night? Or did you just sneak this in before we left the restaurant?"

"All night," Dream gasps, clutching at the green velvet upholstery of the couch back. "I knew—I knew that you would be absolutely mouthwatering in your suit, that I would need your cock without delay once coming home—" He bears down with a whine, the plug surging gently into Hob's grip as he pushes it free; Hob sets it aside as Dream babbles on. "I had to be ready, Hob, fuck me, please—"

And who is Hob to argue with that? He drops his own trousers, lines his dick up and slides in.

Dream moans, a sound of pure pent-up relief and decadent joy, and Hob answers him in kind. It's so good, to have him open and ready and gripping hot around Hob's prick, finally, finally after that limo ride. He groans again, draws back and thrusts in repeatedly until he's fucking with more enthusiasm than finesse, and Dream's voice is just one long note of pleasure warbling out of him every time Hob slams in.

Dream is stretched and slick, but obviously he's had the toy in all night and while the friction that develops as the lube thins out is good for a moment, it quickly becomes too much, uncomfortable. "Need more lube, darling," Hob pants, pulling out reluctantly.

Dream fumbles into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket and hands a slim tube over his shoulder without a word, breathing hard. Hob can't help the delighted chuckle that escapes him; of course Dream is prepared, of course it's the good stuff. He slathers it onto his dick, strokes the excess into the rim of Dream's hole and sinks back into him with a groan of relief, squeezing Dream's hips as he sets into a steady measured rhythm. Part of him wants to pound hard and fast and get them both there as soon as possible after the work up Dream had given him in the limo. Part of him wants to calm down just a hair and draw this out, carry the frenzied need as long as he can, and it's that part that wins out.

"Can't believe you're real, sometimes," he pants, splitting his focus with words meant to also wind Dream tighter. "I mean. Course you're real, you're here, I can feel you"—he thrusts in, grinds deep, and Dream gasps a breathless cry—"but I just. You picked me, you let me have you; feels too good to be true and god, I'm so lucky—"

Dream is pushing back into every thrust, mindless and eager, fingers clenched on the wooden frame and emerald green upholstery of the couch back. "Picking you—ahh—picking you was the best decision I have made in—in months. Hob—" He tosses his head, lets it drop forward again as Hob keeps driving into him. "I nearly crawled into your lap in the car, Hob, I needed you inside me so desperately—"

"That sounds like a lovely idea," Hob gasps, a vision blossoming in his mind. Can he manage it? He's not a hundred percent sure, but he has learned by now that Dream goes a little feral for displays of Hob's physical strength when they fuck; it'll be worth the try. "I do like the sound of you bouncing in my lap—here, lean up—reach back, grab my arms—" He braces his legs and tightens his core, breathes deep as Dream obediently grabs backwards at his biceps; he scoops his arms under Dream's thighs and lifts, leaning back at the same time for balance.

Dream mewls his surprise, trousers round his dangling knees as Hob bears him up, dick still inside him. Hob trembles, straining under his weight, but manages a couple good strokes into him and Dream's head thunks back onto Hob's shoulder with a breathless whine. Hob thrusts up into him a third time, a fourth, and Dream moans desperately.

"Hob—Hob—!"

Hob grunts, shuffles a half-circle in place and drops to sit on the couch, only partially-controlled. He lands heavily, Dream still on his cock, and he feels the way that gravity drives him deep as Dream comes down on top of him. Dream cries out, chest heaving, clawing at Hob's forearms in their tailored sleeves, thighs working for more.

"Hob—fuck—Hob—!" He's squirming on Hob's dick, feet scrabbling in an awkward shuffle to kick off his shoes and yank one leg free of his trousers; as soon as he's got it both feet are planted on the edge of the couch on either side of Hob's spread thighs and he's fucking up and down on Hob's cock, eager and desperate and unconcerned for the clothes still tangled about his right ankle. He arches back against Hob, panting, frenzied, the sounds spilling out of his mouth a symphony of effort and satisfaction.

Hob is just along for the ride at this point, soaking in every little moan and cry, grunting his own pleasure as Dream rides backwards on his prick like a man possessed. He glances over Dream's shoulder, down past the open black jacket and loosened silk tie, moves one hand from Dream's hip to push his shirttails up out of the way so Hob can see his pretty pink cock straining tall, pearly-wet at the tip as it bounces in rhythm.

"Christ, I wish you had a mirror in here. Wanna see full-frontal how pretty you are writhing in my lap, fucking yourself on my cock—" He has a great view, all things considered, but god what he wouldn't give for a spectator's angle too. He wonders how Dream would feel about filming themselves.

Dream reaches up and back, grasps the wooden frame of the couch behind Hob's head, his body drawn into a beautiful half-dressed arc as he continues to fuck himself with feverish abandon. "I will—get—get a mirror—for next time—" He shudders, grinds deep, circles his hips in sharp little jerks that make both of them moan, then starts bouncing again.

Hob is struggling to keep himself from getting too close to coming; he's generally very good at pacing and stamina maintenance so that his partners get everything they need from him, but sometimes Dream makes it terribly difficult. And this is definitely one of those times, Dream arched backwards in his lap fucking like it's his mission in life, both of them still in suit jackets and shirts and loosened ties, Hob's trousers still around his ankles and Dream's still hanging from his right foot—the urgency is tangible in every move they make and Hob is hanging onto control for all he's worth. He won't come before Dream is ready for him to, he won't—

Dream is starting to flag.

He's slowing, getting less coordinated, the noises he makes tinged now with frustration and Hob can't blame his thighs for giving out on him, the pace he's been going. It's impressive he's kept at it this long.

"Ho~ob—" Dream whines his name, arches, squirms low on Hob's prick, still clinging to the back of the couch behind them both.

"I've got you," Hob murmurs, taking his cue. He shifts his hips forward a bit, grips Dream firmly under both thighs and lifts, just a little, just enough. It gives him room and leverage to thrust, taking over the rhythm that Dream had established and the way that Dream collapses into his support is so, so gratifying. "I've got you—" He fucks into him gently for a few strokes, the effort of holding him up muting the urgency of his own arousal somewhat, focusing and gathering himself before gradually picking up the pace.

It's no time at all until Dream is coming undone, hands clenched on the back of the couch, voice crying out in one long continuous note as Hob pumps steadily up into him. It's work to keep him slightly aloft like this, yes, and it would be easy enough to change positions for something less challenging but Hob won't, because he knows Dream loves this. He is forever grateful for the upper body strength his job has gifted him that lets him do this for Dream, who deserves every happiness and every fantasy that Hob can give him. He lifts just a little more, feeling it in his chest and every arm muscle; he'll be sore tomorrow, definitely, but it's so entirely worth it for the way Dream is arching and shivering and wailing under his care.

It's only another moment of this, Hob trembling under the strain, Dream crying out his pleasure, and then Dream's voice climbs higher, urgent and desperate and breathless. "Hob—Hob—Hob—!"

Hob doubles his efforts, fucking for all he's worth until at last Dream comes, shaking against him with the sweetest little scream, semen jetting into his crumpled shirt and jacket. Hob lets him down, flush into his own lap, pushes deep into the spasming clutch of Dream's body and holds, riding it out until Dream goes limp.

God, but he is such a lucky bastard.

Dream is panting, sharp little whines off the end of each heaving breath as he comes down from it, body gone slack against Hob, hands settling on Hob's forearms and head lolling back on Hob's shoulder.

Hob nuzzles into Dream's skin below and behind his ear, drunk on the smell of his sweat and shampoo, his dick positively throbbing in the sheath of Dream's clutching arse. "Do you want me to finish now, beautiful?" he breathes, nosing at Dream's earlobe, flexing inside him and earning a breathless whine. "I'm close, I'm so fucking close after everything you've done to me tonight and the way you just came on my cock; it wouldn't be long at all." He flicks his tongue up the back of Dream's ear, spreads his hand—his blue-collar work stained mechanic's hand—in the sticky mess of Dream's expensive shirt tails. "Or do you want me to take you upstairs, put you arse-up in your gigantic bed and fuck you until you come again first?"

"Please," Dream says, still a little glassy-eyed and breathless. "Strip me bare. Carry me upstairs. Fuck me as you see fit and fill me with your seed—"

Seed. As if anyone else would ever actually call it that. Hob smiles into Dream's neck, helplessly besotted. He adores this man, this horny rich weirdo who can drive Hob out of his mind with pleasure but can't drive stick to save his life, who somehow thinks Hob's cock is the greatest thing he could spend his time on. He chuckles, kisses Dream's damp and heated skin. "As you wish."

Dream arches against him, languid and restless; carefully, Hob shifts him forward just enough to start pulling at his clothes without dislodging him from his cock. He gets Dream's shirt and jacket freed from between them, wraps Dream in an embrace that's maybe a little softer than what they actually are, tells himself it's just a good excuse to unbutton Dream's shirt and cuffs. He helps Dream pull his arms free of both pieces, lifts the tie over his head, sets everything aside on the green velvet couch. He reaches, manages to free the trousers from where they're stuck around Dream's ankle, then sets to work on his own shirt buttons.

Dream shifts carefully on his prick, leans forward and works his own socks off while Hob struggles out of his suit; this would definitely be easier if he removed Dream from his lap and stood up but Dream hasn't dismounted and Hob's not going to make him until he has to. He tosses his suit and tie aside with Dream's; part of him cringes at how carelessly they've treated the clothes knowing that they cost more than he could afford, but on the other hand if Dream is unconcerned then he's just going to roll with it. Dream's probably got a guy he can take them to for cleaning and pressing and next time Hob sees them they'll be just like new.

He's got more important considerations right this second anyway.

He wraps his arms around Dream again to keep him steady while he kicks off his own trousers, does a little bit of contortion to get rid of his socks, and takes just a second to bask in the delight of having Dream held naked against him, held close in his arms. Normally the cuddling comes once they're all done and he enjoys sneaking it in mid-coitus far more than he should, probably, but he's also beyond caring at this point.

He likes Dream. A lot. And Dream likes him too, he's very sure, even if they'll never be more than whatever casual arrangement this is. It's good enough.

"Gonna have to move you off my dick," he says, with a soft kiss to the side of Dream's neck.

Dream makes a small sound of protest.

"Come on, precious, let me get you upstairs so I can fuck you senseless again." He moves his hands to Dream's hips, lifts him up enough to slide his dick out.

The sound of loss Dream makes almost has him sliding right back in, but that's not the current goal just now.

Shakily Dream stands and Hob levers himself up after, makes sure his path out of the room is clear of discarded clothing or other tripping hazards, turns Dream around and back into his arms. He'd asked to be carried upstairs and damned if Hob isn't going to indulge him. He briefly considers doing it bridal style, but no. Another time perhaps; his muscles are already complaining about the amount of lifting he's done tonight and they'll be better balanced if he's got Dream wrapped around him instead. "Arms round my neck, sweetheart, up we go," he says, gripping the backs of Dream's thighs and hefting him up, and then, because how can he not, he kisses Dream.

Dream clings around his neck, locks his legs around Hob's hips and kisses him back, soft and eager and the little whine in his throat sparks the heat still bubbling in the pit of Hob's belly.

He is so, so gone on this man, and so very ready to come.

And he's promised Dream another orgasm first.

Dream kisses all along his jaw as Hob maneuvers around the furniture, makes his way out to the staircase and climbs the two floors up to Dream's bedroom. He slings Dream gently onto the bed, an enormous and insanely plush comfortable affair, and clambers after him. "On your stomach, love," he says breathlessly, grabbing Dream by the hips, rolling him over and maneuvering him into position.

Dream whimpers, scrabbles to get his knees under him somewhat and pushes his arse up prettily, presenting it, all but begging for Hob's attentions.

"Christ, you're so gorgeous," Hob murmurs, splaying both hands over Dream's cheeks, squeezing them, spreading them. Dream's hole is right there, slick and ready and open, and Hob's dick twitches in anticipation. He leans to grab the lube from the bedside drawer, smears it generously over his first two fingers, sinks them deep into Dream's body.

"Hob," Dream moans, clenching around him, as if to draw him deeper, and Hob can't help the warmth that floods through him. He puts it aside, fingers Dream slowly for a moment, stroking him with steady unhurried attention and letting his own dick settle a bit so he doesn't pop immediately. Dream is so responsive, squirming on Hob's practiced touch and loudly voicing his pleasure; Hob can't help working him harder, deeper, zeroing in mercilessly on his prostate until Dream is a frenzied incoherent mess.

"Hob—please, Hob—please—!" Those seem to be the only words he can manage, voice raw and begging, fists clenching again and again in the duvet as Hob expertly drives him higher. He's squirming helplessly, knees splayed, hips rutting into the bed, arse clenching and unclenching on Hob's relentless fingers and Hob again counts himself the luckiest bloke in existence, that this is all for him.

He's sure it won't take much more to get Dream over the edge, and his own need is becoming unbearable. He gives Dream another half a minute or so, stroking deep and thorough, savoring the way he keens, and then pulls out.

Dream makes the most desolate sound of protest, squirming wantonly, bereft and needy and uncoordinated in his desperation; Hob seizes him by the hips, pulls him around and up into position, spreads his pristine cheeks with calloused workman's hands and sinks his prick in between.

Dream takes him with a low trembling moan, an eager gasp, pushing up for more and Hob swears.

"Fuck, Dream—" He resettles his hands on Dream's hips, draws himself out and pushes back in again, slow.

"Hob," Dream moans, like he's the only thing that matters, writhing up to meet him, and that's that. Hob gives a few more slow strokes, feeling every inch of the slide in and back out, and then shifts position. He leans forward, one hand still tight on Dream's hip while the other braces himself on the mattress, and starts moving faster. He watches Dream's back, the little ripples of his spine as he pushes up into Hob's thrusts, the sheen of sweat on his pale skin, marks the contrast of his own black-stained nails next to it.

Perfect. Beautiful. God, he loves this, this whole thing, but Dream most of all—

He pushes the thought aside, gives in to the heat of his own desire and fucks, barely holding on as Dream cries out. He keeps going, thrusting and pumping harder and harder until Dream is shaking underneath him, sobbing his pleasure into the bedclothes, screaming when he comes undone again at last. And then, only then, does Hob let his need slip its leash, plunging hard and fast and fierce into Dream's pliant overworked body, fucking and fucking until he spills.

"Dream—ohh, fuck, Dream—" He's trembling as it hits, wound tight in the heat they've built up all night and struggling to keep his tongue in check, to not let the overly-amorous words flow from his mouth while he's pumping the last of his spend into Dream's arse. That's not what they are; he's not going to ruin this with his inability to keep from falling all-in head-over-heels at the slightest provocation. He'll be whatever Dream wants, and that's enough.

Dream makes the most decadent satisfied little noise as Hob finishes, squeezes around him, wriggles happily. Hob, despite himself, drops to plant a kiss between his shoulder blades.

"There we are, love," he breathes, panting, spent. "Was that what you needed?"

"Exactly that, yes," Dream says, breathless and hoarse, shifting languidly underneath him. "You are so very good to me, Hob." He sighs, content, never mind that he's face down in his own wet spot with Hob's dick going soft in his arse.

Hob chuckles, fond and exhausted. "It's my pleasure, truly," he says, and carefully disengages before climbing off the bed. "C'mon, let's get cleaned up and I'll tuck you into bed, if you like."

"You will join me, of course." Dream says it like it was never a question, and it really isn't. But it's nice to know he's earned the welcome.

The duvet will have to be laundered; he should have put down a towel but in the moment it just hadn't crossed his mind. He uses a washcloth to clean it up as best he's able while Dream gets the shower going—they're sleeping under the duvet, not on top of it; it'll be fine for the night.

Dream is languid and cuddly in the shower (a big glass-enclosed affair with optional rain features and plenty of room for two), and Hob is delighted to indulge him; they trade lazy, sated kisses while washing up and Dream lets Hob towel his hair dry, lets Hob gently scrub his body dry as well, and offers his own help in rubbing down Hob's chest hair, his arms, his legs. And his back, of course.

It's so easy, deceptively domestic, and Hob loves every second of it. He picks Dream up when they're done, a proper princess carry this time despite the protest of several muscle groups, and takes him back out of the en-suite.

Dream makes a delighted little noise, snuggles into Hob with both arms around his neck, warm and content as Hob carries him to bed. Hob manages to hold him up with one fatigued arm and turn back the covers with the other, lays him down and tucks him in before skirting around to the other side to climb in himself. He scoots in close to Dream, who's made very clear by this point in their arrangement that he enjoys cuddling, and murmurs gently into his hair. "Lights, dove."

Dream gives a quiet little huff. "Computer. Lights out, whole house."

The lights dim out obediently and Hob settles in, arms around Dream, skin to skin, sated and content and sleepily certain that he is the luckiest bloke in the whole wide world.

~

He wakes slowly the next morning, on his back in Dream's enormous bed, warm and hazily blinking awake. Eventually he stirs, tries to roll onto his side to pull Dream in for sleepy snuggles, but every muscle in his body protests and he groans, biting his lip to stifle the sound. Beside him, Dream pushes up on one elbow and smirks down at him.

"Good morning, Hob Gadling," he purrs, eyes gleaming, hair a tousled mess, and god, but he's beautiful. Hob's heart gives a little thump.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he groans, flexing his leg muscles experimentally. Yep. Gonna be feeling last night for most of today, definitely. His arms protest in equal measure, but he can't complain. Totally worth it.

"It is already past nine," Dream tells him. "Were you needed in the shop today?"

"Later, maybe." It's Saturday; they're not actually open. He had plans to go in and catch up some paperwork Matty had asked him to see to, but there's no rush on that. "Right now I'm all yours, if that's what you want." He's pretty sure it is.

"Wonderful." Dream dips to kiss his cheek. "I should like to keep your company awhile longer, yes."

Hob smiles, warm, content, delighted.

"Let me find you something to wear," Dream says then, wriggling out of the bed. Hob watches as he crosses to the wardrobe, noting the very careful way he walks, and grins to himself. He knows better than to offer apologies; Dream has told him how much he enjoys carrying the feel of Hob with him the next day when he has demanded a hard and thorough fucking the night before. And Hob believes in giving his lover everything that he wants.

"Here," Dream offers, pulling out a short silky robe. "I should be very pleased to have you wear this; it's brand new." He tosses it to Hob, who picks it up gently.

He rubs the silky fabric against itself, careful of catching it on his rough calloused fingertips. It's beautiful.

It's not Dream's color.

It's a rich dark teal, the same color as the shirt that had come with his ensemble last night, the color that Dream had said would suit his complexion perfectly. Did Dream buy this for him, specifically?

Probably so. He's made no secret of the fact that he loves spoiling Hob with whatever suits his fancy.

Hob slips the robe on, wincing as his sore muscles protest, and finds that it isn't quite large enough to pull closed across his chest. He stands with a groan, pulls it all into place and finds that yes, it'll belt around his waist and nominally cover his bits and arse but it still doesn't meet across his chest. He's wondering, as he goes to use the toilet, if he's wrong about Dream buying it for him, or if perhaps Dream has badly misjudged his measurements (unlikely, given the tailored suit from the night before).

When he's washed his hands and come back out he finds Dream waiting for him. He's wearing a long black worn-soft t-shirt that hits him mid-thigh and probably cost more than Hob made in one day, with nothing underneath. It's a very appealing look and Hob forgets about his too-small robe until Dream reaches to smooth the lapels, clearly arranging them to optimally frame Hob's chest.

"Perfect," he purrs, with a sultry half-lidded stare, and drops a kiss on Hob's chin. "Come. I will cook you breakfast."

Hob follows him down to the kitchen, coming to terms with the fact that Dream has explicitly dressed him to be eye candy, and finding that he's actually one hundred percent on board with that. It's heady to have someone as pretty as Dream attracted to him, turned on by him, wanting him on display, and he's more than happy to oblige.

Breakfast is delicious, the tea Dream makes is perfect, and it's absolutely delightful to feel Dream's eyes devouring him and his silk-framed bare chest while they eat.

Dream makes coffee after they've cleaned up the dishes, puts his usual ungodly amounts of milk and sugar to it, and takes an appreciative sip. His eyes are on Hob, half-lidded with pleasure as he lowers his cup, and languid heat stirs in Hob's belly.

"It needs something more, I think," Dream pronounces, making an indicative toast-like motion with his cup, and pushes off from where he leans against the counter in his barely-long-enough tshirt. He splays the fingertips of his free hand in Hob's chest hair, directs him back and pushes him gently down into the high-backed kitchen chair in the breakfast nook. Dream sets his coffee aside on the table and folds to his knees, runs fingers warm from his cup over Hob's exposed thighs, down their insides, pushing them wider. The skimpy robe barely keeps Hob's dick covered and he's stiffening up beneath it; it'll do little to keep his modesty in another minute and the fact that Dream designed it that way only heightens the whole effect.

"Love the robe, by the way," Hob says, because he hasn't said it yet and he wants Dream to know he's one hundred percent okay with being dressed up and ogled like this if it's getting Dream hot.

"I should like to open it, if I may?"

"'Course, love." It's hot that he's asking, actually.

Dream's slim fingers pluck at the knotted tie delicately and Hob bites his lip; by the time Dream has the belt undone Hob's dick is already poking eagerly between the folds of the robe barely covering his lap. Dream peels the silky material back reverently all the same, like he's opening a gift, and Hob has to remind himself to breathe.

When Dream has laid Hob bare he reaches up to the table beside them, retrieves his mug and takes a long sip, then another. His eyes are on Hob's the whole time and when he finally sets the cup aside again, he takes his time about swallowing his final mouthful.

And then he speaks, voice low and suggestive. "Might I have a splash of 'cream', for my coffee?"

Oh, but he is insatiable, a seductive menace, and Hob has no interest in resisting. "Whatever you want, sweetheart, take it. It's yours." I'm yours, he'd like to say, but holds his tongue against the spectre of Being Too Much.

"You are so good to me, my Hob," Dream purrs, smile ripe with promise, and bends to his task.

His mouth is coffee-hot and talented as ever, and this time Hob needn't worry about holding back. He slouches his hips forward, buries his work-roughened fingers that Dream so loves in Dream's messy bedhead, groans breathlessly as Dream's tongue wriggles along his shaft; Dream pauses after a moment to drink more coffee and the renewed heat when he takes Hob's cock again pulls a deep whine from Hob's throat.

Truly, Hob thinks, as Dream works him steadily up to the edge and over, swallows him down greedily, chases it with another swig of coffee and a satisfied smile, he is indeed the luckiest bastard alive.

= Started: 7/25/24 Drafted: 1/27/25 Posted: 1/30/25

[becca-e-barnes]

"Here comes trouble."

Getting back to the 'Shit He Said' series because I've been missing it and you've said some truly wonderful shit recently.

This one is pure fantasy. I'm fully just indulging myself and I'm okay with that. I've thought about this way too much.

Pairing: CEO!Bucky x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Semi-public, vaginal fingering, dom Bucky, sub reader, power imbalance, degradation, choking, penetration, creampie, this is bound to be so unhygienic irl but I can enjoy the thought leave me alone 😩

Summary: You manage to find some time for a quickie with the CEO

For some extra vibes: “Out Of My Mind” by The Killers

Minors, do not interact

Heat meets you the second the door opens but you only feel the true intensity of it when you’ve stepped inside and closed the door behind you.

Everything is hot.  Stiflingly, oppressively hot.  Even the glass panel of the door is warm under your touch.  Between the humidity and the ambient lighting, your eyes struggle to focus.  Taking a seat inside seems like a good idea.  Sit down before you fall down.  

It’s impossible to get a deep, satisfying breath.  The air feels so heavy, water droplets forming on your bare skin, clinging to your eyelashes and dripping from the ceiling onto your hair.  As the seconds pass, you feel your body begin to adjust.  Your breathing starts to regulate, albeit faster than usual.  You succumb to the weight in the air, taking a seat on the wet bench to the left of the door.  You close your eyes for a few moments in an attempt to shield them from the heat, breathing in the fresh scent of eucalyptus essential oil.

“Here comes trouble.”  Fuck.  You hoped this might happen but you hadn’t fully let yourself believe it was actually a possibility.  Your eyelids flutter open again, looking in the direction of the voice but you don’t need to see the silhouette of the person sitting at the back of the room to know who had spoken.

“Hello, you.”  He speaks again, low and soft and this time you’re more focused on ensuring you’re alone.  A quick scan of the room and it’s empty, save the two of you.

“I didn’t think you’d be down here!”  You feign innocence.  It’s a lie.  You knew he would.

He’s always been wonderfully talented at seeing right through you.

“I mentioned earlier that I might go try out the steam room.”  He’s right; he did.  These work trips get awfully long sometimes and it’s hard to keep your head in it without giving yourself a break.  In fact, you’re surprised more of your colleagues aren’t down here taking some time to themselves.

“Might.  I had no way of knowing you actually would.”  You’re not wrong.  Nor is he.  It’s an elaborate dance around the fact that you’re both now exactly where you want to be.

God, he’s gorgeous.  His usually soft, fluffy hair has drooped under the weight of the steam, curling a little.  Droplets of water roll slowly down his bare chest, meeting at the waistband of his swimwear but the condensation gathering on his body makes his skin look slick and kissable.  Your thoughts wander, daydreaming about how you’d love nothing more than to trail your tongue down his chest in the wake of those droplets until you’re able to sink to your knees in front of him and find a better use for your mouth.

“Stop thinking.  Get over here.”  He perhaps doesn’t mean to sound as sharp as he does but with time being of the essence, he’s not wrong to be demanding.  Anyone could walk in any time now so you might as well use the time you have wisely.

You’re so eager it’s difficult to slow yourself down.  Within seconds, you’ve moved to the bench at the back, beside Bucky and his lips are on yours before you even realise it.  They’re soft and plump, his mouth tasting faintly of the coffee you saw him drinking earlier. His tongue rolls gently against your own and you feel yourself moan against his lips more than you hear it.

Your heart is speeding up, thumping in your chest and with your elevated body temperature, it feels like it’s pounding against your ribs.

Once you start touching him, it’s impossible to stop.  His chest is wet against yours, your bodies pressed together and your hands wandering with an urgency that would have you thinking you’ve never touched him before.  You’re desperate and the humidity does nothing to help you both think coherently.  You aren’t thinking about what might happen if someone walks in.  You aren’t thinking about the fact that if they did, they’d catch you and the CEO all over each other.  You certainly aren’t thinking of any of the consequences that would follow.

“Fuck, you’re desperate.”  He rumbles out a low groan against your lips, his fingers pulling the bottoms of your bikini to one side to let his fingertips graze your soft folds.  You’re soaking wet but it’s very distinctly nothing to do with the fact you’re currently in a steam room.  The slickness of your arousal is unmistakable, not to mention the all too evident desperation in the way you roll your hips into his touch, silently begging for more. “You could take me right now.”  His fingers tease your entrance, testing the resistance from your body and it’s delightful to feel him slipping into you so smoothly.

“You’re filthy, you know that?  Getting fucked in a steam room knowing anyone could walk in and see you.  Anyone could see what a slut you are for me.”  His ‘for me’ hits you hard because this is only for him.  You wouldn’t do this with anyone else.  You wouldn’t ask anyone else to do the depraved things you ask him to do.  All of the darkest, filthiest thoughts you have are about the man who’s now got you seated in his lap, your back to his chest with your swimwear tugged to the side so he can tease your cunt with his throbbing length, rather than his fingers.

“Beg me for it.”  Confidence drips from his tone and he’s got every right to be this confident.  You’ve never wanted sex as often as you have since you met him.  Your sex drive goes through the roof when he’s around, a testament to how comfortable and confident he makes you feel.  He makes you feel desired and God, you want to be desired.

The head of his dick strokes the softest part of your body, teasing from your entrance to your clit and back again.  You have no doubt he’s smearing his precum over your cunt, claiming you.  The thought alone makes your walls flutter.

“Please fuck me.  Hurry up, Bucky, please.”  You sound pathetic and it only makes you wetter.  Only he gets you like this.  There’s not a hope in hell you’d beg anyone else for anything at all.  Anything you need, you can do for yourself.  Except this.  He’s let you feel safe and able to live out your wildest fantasies and that’s not something you’d experience with just anyone.

You feel him hum, kissing your shoulders, lowering you down onto his tip and stopping after the head has just slipped inside you.

The first glide into your body always leaves you breathless but this isn’t it.  He isn’t fully inside you yet and he’s stopped already.  “Just the tip, sweetheart.  That’s all you’re getting.  Unless you act like the little slut I know you want to be.”  He kisses down your neck, as far down your spine as the angle allows him to reach before licking back up and the shiver it sends through your body feels like a cold electric current.

“You’re delicious.  Go on, be a good whore for me.  Take what you need.”  You don’t need to be told twice, lowering yourself to take the rest of his length.  He glides into you beautifully, sliding into the wet, inviting heat between your legs.

“Oh God, that’s it.  Stupid girl.  Acting like you’re just a hole for me to fuck.  Maybe you are?”  He knows that will get to you.  You’re more than that.

Your head shakes, your hips rolling mindlessly, your body enjoying his presence inside you of it’s own accord.  “I- I’m not just a hole.”  You argue, trying to stifle your own moan at the feeling of him rubbing against the soft little sweet spot inside you.

“You’re not.  I know you’re not.  But for now, sweetheart, that’s all I want you to be.  You’re just a pretty little hole and I’m going to make you cum like it’s all you’re good for.”  You didn’t expect the punch to your chest that his kindness delivers but it’s appreciated all the same.

His hand cradles your throat, applying just a nice amount of pleasure.  The humidity was already dizzying but Bucky’s grip on your neck adds another dimension.

“God, the way you gripped me when I put my hand on your neck.  Pretty little pussy just doesn’t want me to pull out.”  He’s rutting into you, groaning against your shoulder but he still can’t drown out the obscene sounds of wet skin on wet skin.

“Feels perfect.”  You feel your eyes rolling back in your head, barely able to string more words together than that.  

“No sweetheart, you feel perfect.  Fuckin’ made for me.  Pretty little stupid fuck toy.”  His free hand squeezes and massages your breasts in turn, giving each of them the attention they deserve while he fucks himself into you.  “You’re dripping.  Fuck, you were made for this.”

You grip the wrist of the hand that’s massaging your breasts, trailing it down your body to settle between your legs.  “Can’t even tell me what you want, can you?  Can’t manage the words anymore.  Did my cock make you that stupid already?”

You nod and it only makes him chuckle, rubbing your clit almost entirely out of sympathy.  

Deep breaths don’t help.  The steam feels like it’s catching in the back of your throat with every breath but it only heightens the pleasure.

“I want you to cum.  Now.  I want to fuck you full while your cunt is trying to milk every drop from me.  You got that?”  

“Faster.”  You plead, right on the edge of slipping into an unbearably intense orgasm.  Bucky obliges, rubbing your clit faster, tightening his grip on your neck just a little and it sends you spiralling, your walls clamping around him so tight, it coaxes him to spill his release into your body.

You hardly notice his climax until the crest of your own subsides.  “Such a perfect cunt.  Fuck, I can’t stop.”  His forehead rests on your damp shoulder, panting and groaning as he fills your body with ropes of cum.  It’s messy and rushed but it’s an overwhelming ecstasy and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

When he’s entirely spent, he lets his hand fall from your throat but that does nothing to help you take a deep breath.  Water drips rhythmically from the ceiling onto the bench beside you both while your bodies separate and you allow yourselves a few seconds to enjoy being together.

[heylittleriotact]

𝓐𝓵𝓰𝓸𝓻 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓼:

The normal cooling of a body after death as it equilibrates with the ambient temperature.

Takes place immediately following the ending of Act 3 and features Emmrich and Amina taking a moment to themselves after all is said and done. Emmrich takes care of his beloved Reaper, and following a brief discussion about their respective plans for the future, she returns the favour.

Rating: Explicit

Under the cut or on ao3:

The roar of victory was a dull thrum that followed them through the ruined streets of Minrathous, part elation that the Elvhen threat had been bested, and partly devastation for the many lives their success had cost. Amina acknowledged every single person she passed by: hugs and handshakes were reciprocated without question, and condolences were extended to the bereaved with all of the dignified sincerity of a Watcher. It took them nearly two hours to make their way to a damaged but still structurally sound estate secured for them by the Shadow Dragons but if asked, Amina would do it all again 

The ornate doors of the manor closed behind them and the cacophony outside was muffled. Amina took two steps into the manor, bent at the waist, and splattered the floor with the contents of her stomach. 

Emmrich was on her in an instant, holding her long black hair aside with one hand and running the other comfortingly down her back.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong with her?” Taash demanded, taking a step forward. Their voice was distant - drowned out by the screeching whine in Amina’s ears.

She felt her legs wobble and give out, her armoured knees colliding roughly with the ground as she threw out a hand to steady herself, barely registering that it landed right in her sick. Everything was too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too… real. It felt like she was being driven out of her own body like a wayward spirit, her essence clinging desperately to whatever it could hold onto that would tether her here. 

Just as distantly, Amina could hear Emmrich respond to Taash but his words were lost on her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her arm and lurched clumsily to her feet.

“Harding - I need to go to her mother–” Her voice broke: she hadn’t had time… she had intended to visit Harding’s mother in person to check in on her in the days following her daughter’s death, but Elgar’nan - and Solas - had made that impossible.

She clenched her teeth at the sensation of hot tears cutting through the accumulation of grime and gore and sweat on her face, snarling defiantly through the deluge of agony crashing through her, breaking her from the inside. 

There’s still work to be done…

She was pulling away from Emmrich, her course uncharted but steadfast as she attempted to draw strength from that agony as she always had: she needed to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter, as long as she was doing something… as long as she was helping. But no matter how she pulled and tugged, he wouldn’t let her go: slender as Emmrich was, he wasn’t weak by any stretch.

With some effort he managed to put himself in front of her, gold rings clinking against silverite where he gripped her shoulders before pulling her tight against him. 

“Breathe, darling.” He instructed, enshrouding her diminutive frame in his own. “I need you to breathe… can you do that for me?”

She managed an anguished sob in reply but nothing more: any attempt to draw breath was met with unforgiving resistance as her airways slammed shut in seeming rebellion against life itself.

Arrangements need to be made - things need to be taken care of, and I’m the only one left to take care of them… 

“I’ve got you: you’re safe with me.”

More tears rolled down her cheeks as her eyes clenched shut and she forced a thin, ragged inhalation into her lungs.

“Well done, darling.” Emmrich encouraged, ever calm, ever heartening. “Now let’s try for another one, shall we? I’ll do it with you. Let out your breath on the count of three: one… two… three…” 

She felt Emmrich contract against her as he slowly exhaled with her. None of this was new to her: Nevarran breathing techniques were required learning for Watchers. Claustrophobia could present unpredictably, and if one found themselves turned around or overwhelmed in the Necropolis, being able to stay calm was vital to survival.

“Perfect. Now another breath in…” He waited while Amina drew another shaky breath then loosened his hold on her to gently cup her cheek. Within moments she could feel the familiar soothing tingle of Emmrich’s magic coursing intimately through her, seeping through her overloaded nervous system and providing some relief until another horror blundered into her mind with nauseating insistence. 

“Shit.” Her eyes went wide. “Manfred… Emmrich, wh-where is Manfred?!”

“Manfred is perfectly safe,” he soothed, “He’s in the abundantly capable hands of Myrna and Vorgoth for the moment. In fact, before I left, I overheard Myrna explaining to him Karloff’s Five Principles of Ethical Reanimation.”

“Emmrich,” she rasped, clutching at his chest. “I… I need to–”

“Do absolutely nothing.” He interjected sternly, his voice absent of any playful familiarity or scholarly flair, though it softened almost reflexively as he continued. “You’ve overextended yourself, Amina. You’ve been overextended for some time, but you’ve pushed through to see this to the end - and you have - but my love, you can’t evade the reality of what you’ve been through indefinitely… you need to rest and take time to come to terms with things.” He drew his thumb over her cheek, speaking to her like she was the only person in the room.

“But–”

“It’s so incredibly kind of you to want to give your condolences to Lace’s mother in person, but it need not happen this instant. The… actions of the Inquisitor will be communicated to the south in due course.” He hung on the word ‘actions’ seemingly unsure of its accuracy but ultimately too focused on Amina to care enough to select a different one. “You need to rest,” he repeated.

She opened her mouth to argue, but likely having anticipated this from her, Emmrich spoke first.

“You’ve done so much and helped so many without asking for anything in return - please let me be the one to help you now?”

His eyes searched hers, soft and pleading, and she studied the face of the man she loved: each pleasing curve and angle that she had committed to memory etched on her heart. The crinkled lines at the corners of his eyes, and the creases around his familiar mouth spoke of years of smiles offered to comfort and soothe. 

He was filthy too, and his hair was limp and dishevelled, strands of it hanging into his face… but oh Maker how she loved him…

“I love you…” he whispered for her ears alone, his lips ghosting over hers, “And I so look forward to reminding you of that fact every day for the rest of our lives… so let me begin now: let me take care of you.”

She couldn’t bring herself to speak: emotions overwhelmed her capacity for words. The immeasurable highs and lows had won out, capped off on the highest of highs by Emmrich’s solemn declaration: she would never face anything alone again. The fight left her as she closed her eyes and nodded, and this time Emmrich caught her tears and wiped them away. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead before turning to the others. 

“She’s in no danger,” he assured them. “The gifts of a Reaper are channelled through a place of deep sorrow and grief where one should not dwell indefinitely: she is merely exhausted, and in light of this ordeal coming to an end, her body and mind are insisting upon rest and recuperation for a time. I shall go with her to find a room and get her settled in.” 

“I’ll scour the pantry.” Lucanis announced without hesitation, already shedding his gore-slicked coat. “A house like this will have a well stocked larder: I cannot do much else to assist, but I will see to it that Rook gets a good meal.” 

“And I’ll find something strong to drink -  I think we could all use one - especially Rook,” Taash volunteered grimly. 

Davrin finished checking over a cut under Assan’s eye, deeming it to be harmless. “Assan can keep her company after I find him something to eat. I’m sure he’d love to cuddle up with his favourite person after a day like today.”

“I’ll make sure word gets around that she’s not to be disturbed under any circumstances - Maker knows there’ll be all kinds of people at the door wanting her attention.” Neve remarked. “She’s in good hands with you, Emmrich. We’ll take care of everything else: you take care of her.” 

Their words echoed in Amina’s mind as Emmrich started to lead her away towards the carpeted stairs. It wasn’t long ago that she would have fought tooth and nail to avoid accepting their help for fear that she didn’t actually deserve it - that she had somehow tricked good-hearted people into thinking that she was worth any amount of concern. But now with this aching, vacuous hole in her chest threatening to devour her from the inside, knowing that she had many sets of arms to fall back into… it meant everything. 

“I love you too,” she said as they walked, the gold rings tied to her boots to alert any nearby spirits of her presence chiming with each tired step. “I love you so much Emmrich, I - I…” Her voice wavered and broke again.

He shushed her gently as they rose the stairs and took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips to place comforting kisses to bloodied and dented metal. “It’s alright, darling. I know… I know.” 

They made it to the landing at the top of the stairs and Emmrich loosened his hand from hers only long enough to gesture through the air, causing the lamps lining the long hallway to illuminate with the familiar and consoling green light of veilfire - it reminded her so much of home… their home.

Meandering down the hallway, they apraised a few rooms - a study and a nursery among them - before finding a well-appointed bedroom near the end of the hall. 

The same veilfire that illuminated the hallway flooded the room with a self-assured wave of Emmrich’s fingers through the air, revealing the gilded frame of the largest four-poster bed Amina had ever seen. 

A modestly sized house would have fit comfortably within the textured red walls of the room, and every square inch was bedecked with glittering opulence and expensive furniture.

What had happened to the people who called this place home? She thought of the nursery, silent and dark, her heart sinking further.

“I know…” Emmrich’s sigh was put-upon. “It’s practically a hovel isn’t it? But our only option currently, I’m afraid.” The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a wry smile and despite everything, she couldn’t help but smile a little too if only for the fact that his dry humour was at its most uplifting when things seemed bleakest: it was a rarely praised trait of a good Watcher to be able to maintain a sense of humour - sometimes being able to laugh was the only thing that could keep said Watcher sane.

He closed the heavy cherry door behind them softly and turned the latch, his definition of ‘recuperation’ clearly non-negotiable to anyone who found themselves outside of the bedchamber wanting to talk to her.  

The silence was inescapable now, contrasting strongly to the overwhelming chorus of sound she’d been subjected to for hours. It filled her head - made it feel full of cotton - and she frowned, standing perfectly still, observing Emmrich as he hung his staff from the rack by the door and shed his bloodied and tattered coat, hanging it with care before turning to Amina. 

“We need to get you out of that armour.” 

He set his gloves on a nearby console table and rolled up his sleeves, agile fingers performing the task with an ease that suggested he hadn’t personally assisted with the culling of a tyrannical elvhen god today. Amina felt her mouth go dry under his perceiving gaze - she’d taken direct blows from Hurlocks that winded her less than the intensity of those eyes. Overwhelmed and at her wit’s end or not, he was capable of sending something in her soul aflutter even at a time like this… that could only mean that she was still alive, right? That she hadn’t laid the last shred of her own mortal conscience on the pyre in the name of saving what little of Thedas remained to be saved?

She swallowed thickly. “I’m experiencing some sort of deja vu, I think,” she murmured, as he closed the distance between them and began loosening her baldric. “Because I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”

An amused smile visited his face, his eyes downcast and focused on his task. “We have, haven’t we? I recall that convincing you to allow me to stitch you up on that occasion was also similar to pulling teeth.”

He kissed her again and went back to work, stripping away pieces of moulded metal in silence, shucking away the intimidating, unrelenting shell of a Reaper and exposing the soft, vulnerable person underneath. 

He had made it all the way down to her greaves when she emitted a sharp gasp and clapped a hand over her mouth. 

“My shield! Where’s my shield?!” She twisted in his grasp as if to look around the room for the worn and dented buckler she famously refused to part with. 

Emmrich’s brow furrowed and he worked another strap loose. “It was broken, darling, remember? By Elgar’nan.” 

At his words, the memory rushed back to her: massive fingers curling over the edge of her shield as she held it aloft in the darkness, determined to stand her ground, her body protesting with the sheer effort of keeping her defence up in the looming shadow of her ancient enemy… the sound of metal whining as it bent in that ungodly strong grip and finally shattered…

I dropped it and finished the fight with only my sword and the dagger…

“Oh, right… how silly of me to forget…” she said distantly as Emmrich finished with the greave and rose with a gingerness that at last indicated his own fatigue.

“Details will likely come and go in a disconcerting haze over the coming days.” He parted from her and peered into a secondary room off the one they were in and disappeared into it when it seemed to contain what he was looking for. The sound of running water soon followed and he re-emerged. “Try not to concern yourself with them: they are of little importance right now. You have no need for a shield or sword - we are safe.” He ran a hand down her shoulder affectionately. “I understand that contradicts a large part of your vocational education, but you must trust me. Now if you’ll follow me, we’ll take care of all of that… debris in your hair.”

‘Debris’ was hardly what she would call the grisly amalgamation of fluids and various clumped tissues that would make even the most decay-happy embalmers back home feel squeamish, but Amina took Emmrich’s hand and followed him without complaint.

A gigantic clawfoot tub was filling with water in the middle of the cavernous bathroom, and judging by the calming aroma diffusing through the air, Emmrich had helped himself to some of the scented bath oils that belonged to whomever owned the manor. 

He brought her to the sink and pulled over an upholstered stool from the nearby vanity, placing it in front of the sink and gently directing her to sit, his hand on her lower back guiding her. “The bath will be more relaxing if at least your hair is clean before you get in,” he explained, turning the taps and motioning for her to lean back. 

“Is this supposed to fix things?” Her voice was so quiet and insubstantial over the rushing water - she was surprised Emmrich even heard her as she settled the base of her skull at the rim of the sink basin and he began sweeping her long hair into his hands, wetting it and carefully picking out pieces of marble and bone and viscera as he found them. 

“There is nothing to be fixed, my darling - least of all you, if that’s your primary concern. You know as well as I that our work can be exhausting - mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. It’s why we are well compensated and encouraged to take time away from the Necropolis when we feel we need it. A lesson was learned at some point over the untold years that the Necropolis has existed and people have vowed to serve its departed souls, and that is: one cannot effectively fill the cups of others when their own is dry.” He reached over her and Amina looked up at him, hanging onto his every word. She did know all of this - in fact she’d dispensed similar advice to other Watchers and mourners alike in the past, but… hearing it from someone else… being told that it was alright and that she didn’t have to be strong right now was deeply comforting. “It is not demonstrative of carelessness to the plight of others to think of oneself. I’m of the mind that it’s one of the more selfless virtues a person can aspire to.” 

Amina closed her eyes and sighed, her nose filling with the delicate floral scent of the soap that Emmrich had started methodically working through her hair. “You always know just what to say, don’t you?” 

A tender caress passed over her temple. “I do try. Are you feeling a little bit better? It looks as though some colour has returned to your face.” 

“Now you’re just laying it on thick by implying that my face had any colour to begin with, but yes… I feel steadier, more grounded.” 

“That’s music to my ears, darling,” and indeed Emmrich seemed to sag in relief, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he rinsed away the lathered soap, his touch unerringly mild. Washing the hair of the deceased required a gentle hand - the follicles on the scalp dilated as the skin began to dehydrate in the hours after death, making it easy to accidentally pull out clumps of a decedent’s hair if one handled it too roughly.

So much of the world thought their calling was one of macabre vulgarity when it was actually an ineffable devotion of love and tenderness when it came to the handling of all things… alive or dead.

Excess water trickled down the drain as he wrung out her hair and gestured for her to sit upright with a light touch of his fingers on her shoulder - he was so good at that - so confident in his ability to impart instructions that he didn’t even need words to make his expectation clear. She turned on the seat, putting her back to him so it was easier for him to weave her damp hair into a braid.

She closed her eyes again and a satisfied hum resonated in her chest as slender fingers stroked through her hair, separating it and passing the strands from hand to hand. 

When he was done, he took her hand and helped her to her feet. “I’ll leave you to the privacy of your bath, but I will remain close by: if you require anything at all, my dearest love, just call.” He bowed his head respectfully, his thumb tracing the soft skin at the inside of her wrist before he turned to depart.

“Please stay,” she entreated, locking her fingers between his before he could step out of reach. He halted. “I… I would rather not be alone right now, if it’s alright with you.” 

He lifted their entwined hands and kissed the back of hers. “Of course. In that case, I’ll step out while you make yourself comfortable and will return when you’re ready for me.” 

Ever the gentleman. He clearly wasn’t going to let their passion in the Necropolis the night before get the better of decades of deeply ingrained propriety. She felt her pulse quicken slightly at the fresh memory of their night together and wondered if the invitation to keep her company while she sat naked in a bathtub made his heart pound too, but a wave of shame crashed through her just as quickly, smothering the heat that had started to smoulder in her belly: people were dead, and now was not the time for such thoughts. 

When the door closed behind Emmrich, Amina clambored out of her stiff, smelly clothing, grimacing as she peeled sticky fabric from her skin. She left everything in a heap and nudged it to the other side of the room with her bare foot, wanting to be as far away from the stench as possible. When she was satisfied, she sank into the bathtub, a purely reflexive moan slipping from her lips at the feeling of relief as warm water enfolded aching muscles. The water was almost instantly dirtied, but she didn’t care - it felt amazing. 

“You can come in.” She drew her braid over her shoulder and folded her arms on the porcelain edge of the tub, resting her chin on her hands. Even if it mattered to her there was no need to fear for her modesty: whatever Emmrich had added to the water made it semi-opaque and it looked very pretty in the light of the veilfire.

Emmrich sat on the vanity stool. “How is it, darling?” 

“It’s perfect.” She found his hand with hers again - it seemed she couldn’t bear to be parted from him for long… not when they’d come so close to losing one another.

“You have no idea what a relief that is to hear.” 

Her lips curved into a smile as she studied him silently, turning thoughts and feelings over in her mind. Her heart was heavy, and her body was spent. People had indeed died - tragedy and victory apportioned in equal measure, but Emmrich was right: she had given as much of herself to the cause as she was capable of giving… and then some. There was still work to be done - the restoration of Thedas would be long and difficult. But it was time to rest and take a hard-earned moment of peace for what it was, even though a persistent voice in the back of her mind screamed at her to cease dallying in the bath and get back to work. 

No.

“Would you like to join me?” 

The question was posed such that it caught Emmrich off guard, causing his eyes to widen and a flush of colour to creep over his pallid skin. His mouth hung open slightly.

“J-join you? I can wait until you’re done - that is to say: finished - I would hate to impose, you see–” 

She listened to him stumble over his words, enchanted by his flustered demeanour until she decided it was time to rescue him, and said, “It’s no imposition at all. Besides, if you’re in the same state as I am underneath all those clothes, I suspect you’ve got bits of darkspawn in places where even your flexible limbs can’t reach: a collaborative approach to bathing would serve us best in this situation.” 

Emmrich’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “You make a compelling argument, I admit, but–” 

“We had sex in a coffin under the Necropolis last night because we knew the world might end in the morning, Emmrich - I think it’s fair to say that any notion that this is in any way a traditional courtship has gone out the window.” She reached out and popped loose the topmost button of his shirt. “Besides, the idea of having to wait through an entire courtship before I can have you sounds torturous…” her thumb and forefinger found another button, and he didn’t move to stop her. “I think I prefer our abridged approach, if I’m being honest…” she smirked and went for the third button but he intercepted her, graceful fingers catching her wrist.

“That may be the case, dearest, but I still intend to treat you with the veneration you are owed as my beloved.” 

A shiver ran up her spine - it might have been the sentiment - my beloved - or the fact that it was delivered in a tone half an octave lower than usual. She couldn’t settle on a conclusion, but she felt emboldened regardless.

“Then you can start by getting into this ridiculously large bathtub with me,” she whispered coquettishly, and she followed the path of his hand with her eyes as it released her wrist and drifted to that third button, slipping it free with a practised twist.

She felt herself smile properly for the first time that day as Emmrich disrobed and lowered himself into the water across from her: it was real - he was real - and he wanted her. Wanted her enough to occupy dirty bathwater with her without complaint. 

His legs brushed against hers under the water and she resisted the very compelling urge to launch herself at him just to feel his skin on hers as she had the night before. Instead, she grabbed a bar of soap and a sponge off the tray on the side of the tub and held them up. 

Emmrich tilted his head inquisitively but said nothing: the amused curl of his lips said it all. He turned his back to her and slotted himself between her legs and Amina wet the soap and began wiping away the worst of the dirt from his shoulders and back with the sponge. She took her time, relishing the warmth of him under her fingers as she washed away the remains of the day. 

“So… about those plans you mentioned earlier: care to expand on them?” She ventured. 

She didn’t want to think about today anymore, didn’t want to linger on thoughts of Varric and Harding… those would insist on themselves enough over the coming months as she grieved them, she knew that for certain. Right now turning her mind to thoughts of a future that was almost lost seemed like a better distraction.

Emmrich chuckled warmly, the comforting lilt reverberating around the room. “It’s an extensive list, I’m afraid, too lengthy and detailed to summarise neatly in a few breaths.” She squeezed the sponge and sent a stream of water and suds meandering down his arm, tracing the shape of his sharp angles and lissom composition. “Truth be told, I was actually hoping you might render some assistance.” 

“Oh?”

“As you know, I have pupils awaiting my return to the Necropolis: their studies have been regrettably delayed in my absence, not to mention Manfred will require oversight as he embarks on his own educational journey.” 

“But…”

“I’ve rather enjoyed my time beyond the walls of the Necropolis, and now that I’m not… now that I will most certainly…” He seemed unable to settle on a palatable way to say ‘die’. 

“It’s alright,” she squeezed his shoulder softly. “Go on.” 

“Thank you, dear - it’s only that my priorities have been somewhat reorganised given the revised trajectory of my life: I no longer have a theoretically unlimited amount of time in which to see the world, and I find myself wondering if it would be terribly selfish of me to defer the date of my return for a while longer - take a sabbatical of sorts so that I may continue to experience the wonders of the continent without the looming threat of annihilation… with you, should you wish to accompany me.” He looked over his shoulder at her and Amina wasn’t ignorant of the fleeting glance that wandered down to her soapy breasts, nor the desire that shadowed his eyes at the sight of her pale nipples just peeking over the surface of the water. Oh dear, he was getting distracted…

“Don’t know how much of the continent there is left to see after everything.” She wrung the sponge, making a subtle but very deliberate show of pushing her breasts together with the insides of her arms. Emmrich’s throat bobbed and he seemed to win some inner struggle after a moment and looked forward again. “But yeah… I think a break would do us both some good. Besides, ‘seeing the world’ was what I was supposed to be doing anyway before this nightmare started. I’ll go anywhere with you, Emmrich,” she smiled. “Especially if there’s a beach involved.” 

She scooted closer to him, bracketing him between her thighs, finding his skin with hers as she reached around him to start soaping up his chest. Spurred on by the breathy little gasp he made, Amina continued to wash him, kissing up the line of his neck as she did. 

“What other plans would you like to make with me, darling?” She whispered, softly catching his earlobe between her teeth and earning a tantalising whine for her trouble. 

“At the moment, none that are fit for polite company…”

“Good thing it’s just the two of us then.” She let go of the sponge and dipped her hand beneath the surface of the fragrant water, unable to see, but able to feel her way, fingers dancing over his abdomen, following the neatly tended to strip of hair that started at his navel, down, down, down until she found him - and she found him to be rock hard. 

He moaned in earnest now, his head falling back against her shoulder, hand rising to cup the side of her face as she slowly stroked the length of him, humming contentedly, unable to help herself: she wanted him in her, on her, and around her at all times.

“Care to hear about my plans?” She pressed a kiss to the expanse of skin under his ear. “We can compare notes after.”

“Please,” he breathed, eyes closed, a contented smile spreading across his face - the very definition of the cat that got the cream. 

She drew nondescript shapes on his chest with her fingers, lingering on the patch of hair at his sternum, the bar of soap forgotten and lost to the bottom of the tub. “First on my list when we get out of this bath: I’m going to make love to you - slowly… sweetly.” She drew her lower lip through her teeth at the throb of his cock under her fingers and the shudder she coaxed from him when she ran the tip of her thumb over his slit, feeling the slick texture of his anticipation even in the water. “... and after that, I’m going to do it again, and Maker-willing, a third time after that if I have my way…” 

His eyebrows rose, but his eyes remained shut, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “Aren’t we ambitious?” He purred, arcing up into her touch a little. “One can’t help but wonder what you’ll do after that…”

“Oh, find something to eat.” She answered matter-of-factly, entirely at the mercy of the rising heat between her thighs. “I expect I will have worked up quite an appetite, you see.” 

“It’s important to stay nourished,” Emmrich agreed, exhaling deeply as she continued to fondle him under the water. “That feels so good, darling…” 

“Good.” She smiled against his skin and kissed his temple. “Because that’s also part of my plan, broadly speaking: I’m going to make you feel amazing for the rest of our lives, Emmrich. Not a single sun will set on a day where you feel alone: your joys will be my joys, your sorrows my sorrows.”

His eyes opened at that and he regarded her with that soft look of utter adoration that he was so adept at. He stroked her cheek and she nuzzled into his long fingered hand. “My dear… that was quite possibly the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.” 

“Delivered whilst pleasuring you no less.”

“You are beyond compare, darling Amina.” He sighed and lazily thrust up into her hand again. “And I daresay our respective plans indeed bear many similarities. I would even go so far as to say they align perfectly.” He sat forward and turned so he was face to face with her again, collecting her arms and drawing her close so their noses were almost touching. 

“Lucky me.” 

He traced each vertebrae of her spine with lithe fingers, bangles clinking together as they slipped down his arm one after the other, his hand finding the curve of her rear and drawing their centres even closer together. She positively ached with need for him as he cradled her face and kissed her deeply, unabashedly exploring her mouth and tasting her with a dominance she was not anticipating. When they parted her lips and cheeks were flushed, her pupils blown wide. 

“I’m going to make a home with you, Rook - that is my plan.” 

Amina considered him - his intelligent bottle green eyes inches from hers, their breath shared, their bodies practically flush. Despite how lust-addled her exhausted brain was, tears returned to her, driven by the sheer depth of Emmrich’s ambitions for them: A home. A life together and all that could come with it if she only dared to dream it - her: the Necropolis foundling who never felt like she truly belonged anywhere or mattered to anyone beyond the basic charity of some.

“We need to hurry up and finish with this bath,” she rasped, her voice low to keep it steady. “I need you. I need you now.” She crushed her lips to his hungrily and breathed, “I love you.” 

What immediately followed was a frenzy of soap and bubbles and water splashing over the tile floor as they finished scrubbing each other down with much less sensual flair than before. The plunger was pulled from the bottom of the tub and they towelled off as it drained, pausing intermittently to passionately embrace. 

“I never thought I could be this happy,” she panted, rising on her tip-toes to pepper his jawline with kisses. 

“Nor I,” Emmrich concurred. He turned her head and buried his nose in her neck, sucking a rosy mark onto her skin, unable to help himself as her hands roamed. He snaked his arm around her waist and hoisted her aloft, racing for the bedroom, her legs tight around him, her entire being coursing with the anticipatory thrill of their imminent union. 

He placed her on the bed with a tenderness that contrasted heavily with the urgency of their flight from the bathroom and prowled over the bed towards her, the inherent grace of his body setting her heart aflame as he splayed one hand over her lower belly and slid her leg aside with the other, opening her like the cherished pages of a beloved tome. He looked positively sinful between her legs, his hair dishevelled and dripping rivulets of water down his neck and shoulders. 

Her breath hitched at the feeling of his lips against her, the soft tickle of his moustache over the sensitive skin at the peak of her thighs. “Ohhh…”

His eyes were locked on hers. He parted her with his fingers, dipped his head, and —

Thump-thump-thump.

Of course there was someone at the door. 

Amina heaved a massive sigh and dragged her hands through her hair in exasperation. She’d seen Emmrich annoyed before - or at least she thought she had - but the look on his face now was one of primly murderous intent: the face of a man whose nearly boundless patience was being sorely tested in this moment. The expression softened, though, when he looked back to her and said, “I’ll see to it, darling - I shan’t take long.” He placed his lips sweetly against her swollen bud - a parting kiss - before sliding from the bed. 

He quickly donned an elegant paisley dressing gown that he snatched from the wardrobe, and Amina knew he would never have considered helping himself to someone else’s things under normal circumstances, but his clothes were in a filthy heap on the bathroom floor, and while they had all grown quite close during their time together, Emmrich preferred to keep some things private. 

She propped her head on her hand and stifled a giggle as he walked past a shelf, flung out an arm, grabbed a book without looking, and arranged it in front of him in such a way that it concealed his prominent arousal. She couldn’t tell who was outside as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, so she let her head fall to the pillow and rolled onto her back. It was a very comfortable bed: soft pillows, expensive linens.

Terribly comfortable. 

Weeks of broken sleep caught up with her all at once as she fought to keep her eyes open: she was so tired all of a sudden. 

So incredibly, inescapably tired…

If Lucanis had drawn any conclusions about the reason for his state of dress or his wet hair, he kept them to himself but for the briefest arching of a brow as he handed Emmrich the tray of toasted cheese sandwiches and bid him a long and restful night of sleep. Emmrich wished him the same and watched the Crow disappear back down the stairs before retreating into the room and locking the door again.

“Lucanis managed to scrape together–” he looked towards the bed and paused: Amina was sleeping soundly on top of the comforter, her face peaceful and unvexed: a rare sight indeed. Something in his chest pulled as he watched her even, deep breaths, her mouth slightly open as she slumbered. 

He set down the sandwiches and the book very carefully on the console table, not daring to make any noise that might startle her awake before making his way over to the bed and positioning her under the blankets with the same amount of care, manoeuvring her battered and scarred legs so she was covered and warm.

She had such plans for the evening, but as he shed the dressing gown and slipped into the bed alongside her, he was grateful that she had found rest at last: they had the rest of their lives to make love.

The veilfire light in the room was snuffed with a wave, and as he curled around her in the dark, losing himself in the scent of her, he found his own respite in the rhythm of her heart beneath his hand and the unpromised gift of tomorrow. 

[sanctus-ingenium]

hi im so sorry if youve already answered this but how do u go about selecting the colors you use for your works!

hi! i've had this question a few times and every time i've only been able to answer with a vague sort of 'ehhh i just pick them'. but i think i'll actually talk some more about it now since a lot of my art actually takes a lot of beating before i decide on a final palette. but with a lot of them admittedly i already know what palette i'm using, and i organise the whole composition around those colours.

i use like two main palette methods and here they are (once you see it in my art, you won't unsee it). It mainly involves picking one main hue, and then a contrasting secondary colour.

So the most basic is to have a drawing be mostly a small range of hues, in this case the reds and oranges, and adding a single contrasting shade. Here it is the bounce light on the metallic metal parts, and doesn't appear anywhere else. It looks blue but it isn't - if I used actual blue, it would be too jarring and the colours would not appear unified. This is a warm and nice scene. So instead I pick that strong blue and blend it into a small swatch of the base colour. Then I pick from the blended portion, and what I get will be more blue than the base, but not actually blue. In fact it is yellow-orange :) The entire drawing looks warm as a result.

When working with marginally stronger contrast, here I have a cream unicorn on a green background. The main shadows on the unicorn will be the colour of that ambient room temperature bg - green. So I use the same test swatch method to pick a shadow colour which LOOKS green without being too disruptive of the cream unicorn. I increase the saturation and darken the value (moving the colour dot diagonally to the lower right hand corner of the box) and also spin the whole wheel towards green just a bit. Then I blend into the cream and colour pick a shade in the middle. But for the bounce light, I chose to use a common contrast of green - pink. It looks like pink in the drawing but in fact it is a low saturation orange! Using that real pink would be disharmonious. I do the exact same thing - I blend the pink into the bg colour and come up with that orange shade. It looks harmonious.

Now (top example) I am using two contrasting hues side by side. I decide the shadows will be warm, and the highlights in that contrasting zone. That means that for every colour i pick - Islin's skin, hair, his glasses, his shirt collar, his coat - every colour gets slid around the colour wheel until it falls inside that narrow band. And when I am highlighting his skin, I turn the wheel towards green. When I am shading his skin, I turn the wheel more red. I do this for every single element in the drawing.

It's the same for the Rua cover but this time I am not using such a wide band of available hues on the colour wheel, it's much tighter. I did this to replicate the look of a faded print, intentionally lowering the available contrast I had to work with by removing black as tool. It's all in that small cream to red window but it LOOKS purple - it looks like Pascal wears a purple shirt and that the smoke in the bg is lilac. Well, it isn't. That's all red and orange. I pick those colours by, again, choosing my goal "look" - a low-saturation purple, and then turning the wheel into the red range.

Okay so! for this it's just... the exact same thing again. Literally it always is. But since this one is recent I still have the process fresh in my mind. I envisioned it in the car, and I wanted this empty sort of desolate blue bg and a cold, distant overall tone. I ended up making the white on the chessboard & white pieces warmer, cream instead of white-grey, which worked out great. I wanted the blue, I wanted the pale cream/white, and the black of the chessboard. I didn't envision a colour for Pascal's shirt. but when the time came it was an obvious choice. It has to contrast with the bg both in value and hue, without falling outside the cream range already established by the chess pieces. So it's shiny salmon pink :) or orange, whatever you think it is. The only disharmonious part of this palette is the red velvet under the black knight piece - it works, but if I'd taken more care I might have spun the wheel more into orange and it would stand out less. But I don't mind.

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

Shadowsongs

Summary: After Rhys and Feyre decide to take a trip away to the Summer Court for the night to escape the thralls of their newborn, Azriel is left caring for Nyx and finds that his greatest battle might just be getting him to sleep. I also recently rewatched the Labyrinth and forgot how much that movie slapped so the song from that is included.

As the Velaris tower clock chimed midnight, the sitting room of the River House was enveloped in the soft, ambient glow of faelight. Azriel sunk deeper into the plush, green, velvet couch, his expansive wings draped elegantly over the back of the chair, eyes heavy with exhaustion. His hand rhythmically patted the back of the squirming bundle nestled snugly against his chest. The babe, Nyx, resisted sleep with the tenacity of an Illyrian warrior, his tiny fists punching the air as if to protest the very concept of bedtime. 

The room was a playful mess, strewn with toys - dolls lay abandoned, blankets were tossed aside, and bottles had rolled under chairs. Azriel had assured Feyre and Rhys he could manage babysitting for a day and night. They desperately needed a break after months of non-stop parenting in tandem with running the Night Court, and a trip to the breezy shores of the Summer Court was the only thing keeping Feyre from collapsing into tears. Feyre had sobbed when they left, overwhelming Azriel with reminders of Nyx’s schedule and a litany of do’s and don'ts, which Azriel already knew inside and out. Her maternal instincts flared to the point where Rhys had to gentle pull her away, reassuring her that Nyx would be fine for one night, and, if anything, they should be more concerned about Azriel surviving Nyx than Nyx surviving Azriel. 

Typically, everyone shared babysitting duties throughout the week day, but with Nesta and Cassian off in the Autumn Court, Elain incapacitated by her first fae cycle, and Amren claiming she would rather cut out her own tongue than be left alone with a babe, the responsibility had fallen to Azriel. Leaving Nyx overnight for the first time might have been a tad ambitious. 

“Come on, Nyx,” he coaxed with a whisper of amusement. “You’ve got to give in at some point.” Azriel briefly considered that perhaps this was how the victims of his torture efforts may have felt when they had been kept awake for hours on end. Perhaps he should start having them babysit a fussy Illeryian babe instead of cutting off fingers. He chuckled to himself before pushing the thought away.

Yet, Nyx remained defiant, his violet eyes locked on the ceiling, deep in thought, as if unraveling the secrets of the cosmos rather than giving in to slumber. Azriel exhaled deeply, his fingers threading through his tousled black hair. After learning about Feyre’s pregnancy he had stealthily devoured every parenting book Feyre had purchased, to the perfect formula-to-water ratio, optimal bath temperatures, and baby sensory activities, he had learned it all. When Feyre faced challenges with breastfeeding, Azriel had accidentally revealed his clandestine studies by suggesting a particular latching technique. Cassian had teased him relentlessly since. Despite employing every baby battle strategy known to him, Nyx was relentless.

With a resigned sigh, Azriel sank even further into the plush cushions, resigning himself to a long night. As he watched Nyx’s tiny chest rise and fall with each breath, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer stubbornness of the new babe. Azriel couldn’t tell if that was more from Feyre or Rhys, and then decided that that trait most likely came from his Auntie Nesta, whom Nyx had wrapped around his tiny, chubby fingers.

In the dimly lit room, Azriel’s gaze followed his shadows as they danced across the ceiling, capturing Nyx’s rapt attention. With a grin, he watched them twirl and twirl – they were always more playful when Nyx was around. His shadows seemed as curious about Nyx as he was about them. During gatherings at the River House, it wasn’t uncommon for the shadows to envelop Nyx, tickling him and teasing him, eliciting peals of laughter from the delighted babe as he reached out to catch them. 

Elain had said before that the shadows and Nyx reminded her when she and her sisters were young, a black barn cat would seek her out to frolic among the late summer heat. Azriel wondered what Nyx made of these ethereal companions, if they were like an animal to him, or another playmate. He also pondered whether the shadows would maintain their fascination with him as he grew older. Azriel, himself, hadn’t spent much time around children this young, and his shadows seemed to be so gentle with the babe, as though they somehow could sense his innocence and hoped he would keep it forever.

As Azriel and Nyx both kept their gaze to the ceiling, the shadows began to craft intricate shapes and forms, transforming into a mesmerizing puppet show. Nyx’s restless squirming subsided as the shadows danced across the walls, casting enchanting silhouettes that swirled and twirled in their silent ballet creating a tableau of delight.

On the ceiling, an array of animals appeared in what resembled a grand ballroom scene. Pegasus, birds, and sheep mingled before parting to reveal a single swan, its wings unfurling with ethereal grace. The swan bowed elegantly before twirling loftily above its admiring audience. Then, emerging from the gathered shadows, a sly fox approached, gracefully taking the swan’s wings in its paws and spinning it in a delicate dance. Although the room was silent, one could easily imagine the soft strains of music. Nyx reached up excitedly, prompting Azriel to adjust his hold, lifting him slightly higher for a better view.

As the dance continued above, some shadows descended the walls and playfully twirled around Nyx, their cool touch eliciting giggles from the dark-haired babe.

The shadows conjured forth visions of Nyxs’ family, distant echoes of life beyond the cozy sitting room. 

In one corner of the room, the shadows morphed into delicate snowflakes cascading down the wall. Above the floorboard, three figures raced across the scene – two winged Illyrians and one without wings. The winged males playfully lobbed snowballs at their wingless companion, who shielded his head with his hands. Suddenly, a log sprung from the ground, causing the wingless man to trip and tumble face-first into a pile of snow below. The two other males doubled over with laughter, one even dropping to his knees as the snow continued to fall. Nyx’s eyes widened with wonder, his tiny fingers reaching out to grasp the fleeting shapes. The snowball fight between his father and brothers drew excited coos and giggles from him, his laughed echoing around the room.

In the other corner, the shadows drifted into a scene of a woman standing at an easel, the woman's stomach swollen with child. The shadow woman stood before an easel, her brush moving across the canvas, she ran her hand over her stomach, glancing down towards it when a man walked in behind her, twirling her around into an embrace. The man leaned over, placing a tender kiss on the woman's stomach. Nyx babbled joyfully, his tiny feet kicking Azriel’s chest with delight, which while uncomfortable brought a smile to his face.

Across the ceiling, the shadows painted a scene of a great battle, a field of war and chaos as two winged males fight back to back against a vast army, shooting arrows and swinging swords. 

While the shadows swirled the tapestry of memories, Azriel looked only at Nyx, who giggled and babbled in delight at the unfolding scenes. With each passing moment, it became increasingly apparent to Azriel that while the shadows were doing their best to soothe Nyx to sleep, they had only awakened him more. It became glaringly obvious that bedtime stories wouldn’t work. 

Nyx’s giggles and coos echoed through the River House. With a sigh, Azriel gestured for the shadows to cease their dance, and the room was once again plunged into a soft, dim glow. 

“Alright, Nyx,” Azriel murmured, his voice gentle but tinged with exhaustion. “Let’s try something else.”

He drew Nyx back into his arms, cradling him close against his chest. Rising from the enveloping comfort of the couch, Azriel’s footsteps were muted against the plush rug of the sitting room as he began to meander through the house. Moonlight streamed through the towering windows, casting the ornate corridors in a serene silvery light, illuminating the walls adorned with Feyre’s vibrant paintings. 

Feyre and Rhys had both endured their share of sleepless nights, pacing the same halls with Nyx in their arms. Rhys had noted that being the babe of the Night Court it seemed all Nyx wanted to do was explore the world when the sun had set and all had gone quiet. Perhaps Nyx was more bat than babe.

Undeterred, Azriel pressed on, his footsteps echoing through the halls as he swayed in arms in a steady rhythm. But Nyx remained stubbornly awake, his eyes darting from window to window cooing loudly. As he reached the grand staircase that spiraled upwards, a faint cry echoed through the silence. Nyx stirred in his arms, his tiny fists clutching at his shirt as he let out a wail. 

Azriel attempted to shush the fussy baby who now was wailing louder for what seemed no apparent reason. Perhaps Nyx was finally fighting exhaustion as well. With a sigh, Azriel retraced his steps, as he stepped into Nyx’s nursery. 

Feyre had taken months to finally get the nursery the way she envisioned it. She had wanted Nyx’s room to encompass the entirety of Prythian as they were unsure what powers Nyx might hold. 

Each wall of the room was a canvas of vibrant colors and intricate designs including the bay window that Feyre had insisted be where Nyxs’ bassinet be. 

Painting the Spring Court wall had been a battle unto itself with Rhys and Cassian joking constantly that the wall should be burning to the ground, or that she should paint Tamlin being pursued by a dragon. Feyre had just shot them an obscene gesture and instead painted spring blossoms of pastel pinks and greens. Delicate flowers bloomed amidst emerald meadows, their petals unfurling in the warmth of the sun. Amongst the meadow was a warm pool with a waterfall cascading down a mountainside. 

Opposite, the wall of Summer blazed with the fiery hues of the sun, a tapestry of gold and crimson beamed down onto the deep blue sea, where Tarquin’s white castle glistened atop the white sandstone mountain. 

Next to it, the wall of Autumn was a symphony of earthy greens, oranges, reds, and browns. The Autumn Court forest held deep shadows which made the wheat fields protruding from them seem like shining gold. Lucien had helped Feyre paint this wall, and his awkward-looking, disproportionate deer and fawns clearly showed that. 

Beside the Autumn wall, the Winter Court lay shrouded in a blanket of icy blues and silvery whites. Snowflakes danced amidst frost kissed pines, their branches bending beneath the weight of the winter embrace. Bears and arctic foxes scampered on the piles of snow, wearing the traditional colors. Elain had insisted on giving the little foxes scarves. Azriel had reminded her they were made for that sort of weather but Elain had only glanced at him sadly before saying “But what if they get cold” before she painted tiny mittens on the bears. 

On the half of the ceiling closest to the door, Feyre had painted the Dawn and Day courts. Sunlight streamed through branches of ancient oaks as it rose from the corner of the room, and hills of rolling green with children from each court playing amongst them filled out the space. 

Over Nyxs’ crib, Feyre had painted a deep blue color of the sky with a sparkle of stars strewn across it. Rhys had enchanted the space just below the ceiling to be constantly in motion with sparkling star dust which moved in and out of constellations, with the occasional shooting star flying high above. 

As Nyx continued his tirade of shrill cries, Azriel rocked him around the room, shushing him as much as he could. As he continued to sway gently with Nyx in his arms, the baby began to quiet, his tiny body nestled into Azriels chest as his breaths steadied. With a tender smile, he began to sing, his voice a gentle melody through the darkness, like a whispered prayer. 

“I saw my baby, crying hard as babe could cry,” he sang, “What could I do?” 

With each note, Nyx grew more and more relaxed, his eyelids fluttering closed from the gentle cadence and rocking. 

“My baby’s love had gone and left my baby blue” he sang, his voice soft and tender, “Nobody knew.” 

Azriel watched Nyx’s tiny fingers curl against his chest, his breathing slow and steady and sleep drifted closer. 

“What kind of magic spell to use, slime and snails, puppy dog tails, thunder or lightning,” Azriel continued to sing as he wandered carefully over to the crib. 

“Dance magic, dance magic dance, dance magic dance,” He lowered Nyx into the soft blue oasis. “Jump magic, jump, jump magic, put that baby’s spell on me, kiss my baby, make her free,” Azriel placed his palm onto Nyx’s chest and continued to rub back and forth soothingly. 

“I saw my baby,” He continued, softer, more of a whisper, “Trying hard as babe could try, what could I do?” Azriel dropped to his knees, his fingers tracing the lines of the baby's face as he rested his arm on the side of the bassinet and laid his head atop it. “My baby’s fun had gone, and left my baby blue, nobody knew.” Nyx’s soft pink lips fell open slightly as his eyes finally closed and his head fell to the side. Azriel smiled and found his eyes drifting shut as well. 

Feyre found them the next morning that way. Nyx sprawled on his back, his tiny fingers wrapped around Azriels, and Azriel, a piled heap on the floor, his wings splayed on the floor behind him with his head still resting against the crib. 

Rhys walked up behind her as Feyre motioned him silently. “I guess he does sleep,” she whispered.

“Who?” Rhys chuckled, “Az or Nyx?”

Feyre turned her head to look at Rhys, “Both I guess.” 

Rhys asked Feyre if she planned to go in and wake either of them up but Feyre only shook her head, “I think they both could use a little more time.” 

With that, Feyre shut the door quietly, leaving the warrior and the babe to sleep a little longer.