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jacesvelaryons · 8 months ago

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The Reluctant Empress (Jacaerys Velaryon x Female!Reader)

Act II. Burgeoning

(19th Century Imperial Austria AU)

summary: crown prince jacaerys gets to know his prospect betrothed and future bride whom he has been arranged with to marry, your sister helaena targaryen, but true to your wild spirit, you cannot help but wonder what awaits in the world behind gilded castles and royal splendour.

word count: 2.4k words

a/n: i'm so sorry this took an entire year before an update but it is finally here! i apologize as I had some health things to settle, and with brain fog and got more distracted by other fandoms but here we go! once again, please comment and share what you liked, what you'd want more for me and request and let me know as my inbox is always open <3 let me know if you want to be on the taglist or not getting tags!

series masterlist

previously: prologue | act i

masterlist

requests OPEN

“Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” ― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Seated between her mother and sister, Y/N eyes roamed around the dining hall in the palace that hosted the royal family and her covey. Changed into an emerald green gown, wearing the necklace and earrings her father gave her on the last name day before his passing, she paid no mind to the significance of the occasion and was just glad to be there, surrounded in the splendor of the castle walls.

She knew that it was Helaena’s time to shine, and she would not want to rob her of her light, of the opportunity that would change their fortunes and not have Alicent scrabbling and worrying over the last penny of their expenses.

Twirling her fork on the pesto noodles in front of her, Y/N remained silent and just patiently listened to all the conversation around her, between her mother and her childhood friend the Queen, who inquired about Helaena’s well being, her lifestyle and assessing on how she would adjust becoming the next consort upon wedding Jacaerys.

Dazed out in a world of her own, Y/N did not hear Jacaerys reverting his attention to her aptly, until her sister nudged her ankle with her shoe, repeating her name on his tongue like it was the sweetest honey, curiosity and amusement on his features.

��Lady Y/N, what do you do in your free time, my lady?”

Stammering like a cat bit her tongue, she cleared her throat as she gathered herself and make her look and sound presentable.

“I ride horses, my prince. I hunt and I have picked up the sword a few times.” Lady Y/N bluntly replied, already feeling the burning glare of your embarrassed mother. Queen Rhaenyra only watches in amusement, how her confidante could have a daughter who was nothing like her mother.

Jacaerys was intrigued, leaning forward to hear Y/N better and scooch closer over to Her. A curious smile on his handsome, chiseled face, his curly brown hair starting to grow out and neatly groomed behind his ears.

Plates and utensils remained untouched as Y/N and Jacaerys were engrossed in an engaging, animated conversation, passionate replies to uncontrollable laughter.

The older women present at the table watched with trepidation, Lady Alicent’s habits of digging into her fingernails returned while the silver-haired queen’s expression turned unreadable.

Helaena swallowed her wounded pride of being ignored and not found as an interesting companion, playing with her knife and fork, digging at the roast beef the same way her young daughter would.

As the servants gather the finished main course meals and replace them with fresh fruit and lemon cakes for dessert, Rhaenyra swiftly suggests for the elder Targaryen sister to read out some of the poetry her mother praised earlier.

“You must share with us your talent in verse and poetry, Lady Helaena.”

Relieved, the indigo hued girl stood up at the end of the table, grabbing her little booklet hidden in the pockets of her skirt. Flipping through its parchment pages, she settles to a recent entry close to the end of the worn out leather bound book, covered with an embroidered beetle.

To want is the most natural thing Inherent in the blood through our veins The very primal urge of our being Yet we will always want, and want With no end like a black hole What better to want what is not ours? To covet what the other possesses To take away what is given as easily as it was owned?

Her raspy voice echoed through the halls mellifluously in perfectly rehearsed High Valyrian. Yet you could not help a guilty perception weighing on you, blossoming at the pit of your stomach and you could not shake it off. You were doing nothing wrong, you told yourself, wanting to believe in it but it felt wrong.

Y/N’s fears arose to the surface when she could feel a burning stare on her face intensely, as if memorizing her very form and that she would disappear into nothing anytime. You were listening as intently as you could, yet when you turned, Jacaerys did not pay mind to a single word Helaena said as his focus was fixated on you.

No, no, no. Nothing was going as planned. Everything was going wrong. She praises whatever gods intervened when the heir’s brother Prince Lucerys gracefully diverted the topic into the new cuisines created by the cooks of the Keep with the freshest catches of seafood from Driftmark.

…

“Y/N, what do you think you were doing out there?! Do you think I do not notice your need to always be the centre of attention?” The shrill shrieking of her mother’s voice pierced through her ear drums, yet Y/N was unsurprised and used to such altercations with her mother.

Following the uneasy supper, the three ladies from Dalston Keep returned to their chambers to change midday in preparation for the tour around the gardens with the queen and her heir again after a few hours of respite.

Silently humiliated as they reconvened in private, the illusion of propriety that Lady Alicent carried in front of the queen and prince ripped away, unleashing a ferocity unrestrained like never before.

“I did nothing, mother. I was polite and engaged in a conversation when I was spoken to.”

“You did more than that, you foolish girl! It was about your sister. All of this was about her, not you! Is it so difficult for you to tone down your tendencies for once so we can go according to the arrangement? You put our fortunes up to be desolated. You are as careless as your father!” The sting of her final words hung in the air, salt over the open wound for such a loss. Y/N knew her mother did not love her father, who was older than her own father, and only did her duty to her ailing, troubled, aging husband.

“Mother, that is enough! Do not bring father into this.” Helaena countered exasperatedly, holding onto her sister by her shoulders in defense. “Y/N did nothing wrong. It was..it was me. I should have engaged with the prince more. She did me a favour.”

Y/N gasps in disbelief, astonished her beloved sister would keep taking her side when it was clear she was the wounded party.

“Do not worry about it, mother. I promise I will remain silent from now on. I want this to be Helaena’s night.” Y/N swears sincerely, wanting to defend Helaena and stay away from any trouble from now on.

Alicent does not fully believe her youngest, but nods solemnly as she seeks to move this behind them, returning to her dignified, contemplating gaze with her perfect posture and arms clasped at her waist.

Subsequently, a drove of maids and seamstresses poured in, as Alicent went to her solitary room while the sisters shared a larger room. Each stepped on the raised wooden platform. Taking lush gowns from the closet, they plucked out a rich emerald green gown with fitted sleeves for Helaena.

Meanwhile, a muted seafoam gown was placed on Y/N, as maids scuttered behind her to tighten the corset and laces. Y/N whimpered quietly in discomfort, never finding any gratification in restrictive court dress upheld by centuries of protocol and conduct. It barred her sense of freedom, clipped off her wings from flight and reminded her of a bird in a cage.

Heirloom pieces of emerald silver lined jewelry were given to Helaena, designed to accentuate her beauty and prepare her for her upcoming role and ascent into her duty. As the daylight trickled in through the lace curtains and open windows, she looked like a future queen. A role she was raised to be. Otherworldly and ethereal, while Y/N was grounded to the earth, locks like flames and soil.

Y/N beamed in delight for her older sister, squeezing her hands in reassurance. Helaena reciprocated not as enthusiastically, the nerves still getting to her as her palms were sweating and shaking.

“You have nothing to worry about, Hel. We would not get this far if he did not consider you his bride already.”

“Truly, do you really think so?”

“I do. Without a doubt. You already look the part. It is only the formality left we are waiting for at the ball.”

The elder genuinely chuckled this time in relief, her joy finally meeting her eyes from the comfort and encouragement of her sister.

“Now, all that is left is for you to step into your destiny.”

…

Manicured gardens flourished in the peak of spring, cicadas chirping from the branches of oak trees. Lilies and carnations in hues of apricot and blush, while the outlying paths were paved in blue hydrangeas and violet peonies.

Queen Rhaenyra adorned a lapis lazuli blue gown adorned in gold trimmings and sapphires sewn onto her bodice, matching the stone necklace of the color on her neck and matched her tiara, a reminder of her late mother and former queen.

She pleasantly strolled with a natural confidence, carrying herself with an ease afforded by one who has known privilege and power all her life. Guiding a tour around the Red Keep at the height of its social season, Rhaenyra proudly showed off her domains, and subtly if so, the lands that Helaena would take care of as its hostess after she marries Jacaerys and becomes his queen when the time comes.

Behind her was her eldest Crown Prince Jacaerys, always without a hair or trivet out of place, the picture of perfection that she had groomed since his birth. Dressed more casually in teal with the seahorse emblem on his chest, he honoured his late father Lord Laenor Velaryon, further dispelling any rumours or uncertainty around his paternity.

Although he did not directly resemble his father, he has begun to share features with his paternal grandmother Princess Rhaenys with her Baratheon colouring, and the shape of his nose and chin mirrored her father, who was another Prince of Dragonstone, Prince Aemon the Pale Prince. As rider of Vermax, it was undeniable he was the prince long awaited by the realm, whom millions of hopes and dreams were instilled in.

Standing beside him was Lady Helaena Targaryen, his expected betrothed in everything but formality. Raised with the intention of becoming a princess consort, she was demure, shy, obedient and trusting, exactly what the people of Westeros wanted of their model future queen. Proven in her success of childbearing, onlookers examined her critically on baited breath as they wanted to know who will bear the next generation of Targaryen rulers on the Iron Throne.

Their chaperons trailed behind them, Lady Alicent arm in arm with Lady Y/N, in the same shade of muted green, but her mother had visible symbols of the Faith of the Seven from her necklace, her dark headdress and veil, and on the cuffs on her wrist and belt. Y/N distractedly took in her sights, studying every nook and cranny of the storied palace with eagerness and pursuit.

“This garden still follows the design plan created by Queen Rhaenys the Conqueror herself, yet it was only finished years after her passing in Dorne.”

The queen continued the tour of the keep, while she discreetly eavesdropped on the conversation between her heir and his expected betrothed. The two were engaging pleasantly yet amiably on the surface level, their dialogue not reaching too far. Unaware of a figure parting at the fork and heading another direction.

…

When she is assured she’s clear and no one can find her, Y/N Targaryen smirks victoriously as she heads straight and turns left towards the barn, near the dragonpit, where the horses and grazing animals were located.

On nimble footsteps, through the mud and manure, she makes a run for it as two stableboys turn the corner and miss her, as they forgot to close the stables and she sneaks in.

As the afternoon light trickles in, Y/N looks around curiously, before her attention is caught by this white mare, with its freshly brushed mane and shining horsehair, an anomaly among ebony and hickory. Not wanting to startle the majestic creature, she prances until she’s in front of the horse, hushing and cooing at them as she latches onto the reins.

She holds the mane by her reins, tugging gently as she walks through the barn and the empty backwaters of the ancient castle. It is quiet, with most servants resting for their annual nap and their morning duties finished, so Y/N is able to ride the stallion undiscovered.

The lingering scent of the manure and greenery turns into salty waters of aegean and spruce and the earthy, musty petrichor from the rain on the fir and cedar trees earlier in the morning.

A hint of the cool breeze tingles through her skin, a dress and not proper riding gear in its leathers and furs, but she brushes it off, as King’s Landing in the spring at this time of the year has turned warm and the rain from earlier is long gone.

She rides as far as her companion will allow, until the peripheral view of the Red Keep grows distant from over her shoulder. Y/N stops at the fork of the road before it joins the greater Kingsroad, diverting by the forest with towering trees and fallen logs. Sitting by the foot of a trunk, Y/N pauses for some stillness, her back pressing against the hard trunk as she closes her eyes, before grabbing an apple and vial of water to share with her stallion.

As she and the mare finish the fruit, she stands up to brush off any leaf and dirt on the back of her skirt, about to mount once again before she hears echoes of confrontation growing closer. Y/N has barely begun to leave the forest and return to the artery before she is surrounded by hooded, disheveled men with smug expressions.

Unable to avoid contact, she politely acknowledges them and pulls her cape over her flaming locks before she is stopped from moving in either direction. “Good morrow, sirs.”

She yelps as she’s grabbed by her wrists by the men, struggling to stay on her saddle as the mare turns skittish. “Not so fast, my lady. We need something from ya, and you gotta pay up for our silence. Comes with a price.” The men smirk, distant galloping approaching them.

Y/N yelps as she is knocked off her horse, hitting her head against the rock and all turns into darkness around her. She hears a distant echo of another mount heading her way, furious yelling and clattering swords. Her head throbs, feeling the blood dripping down her nape, as her eyes flutter closed.

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petit-etoile · 1 year ago

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Oh oh I have an AU I haven't had the chance to write anything for. It's pre-vampirism magistrate Astarion and criminal tav who is incredibly well-versed in law. They keep committing crimes and getting caught in purpose just to see Astarion who fucking hates their guts because he can't ever convict them of anything bc they find loopholes and somehow manage to evade the law. It's an "at each other's throats" kinda romance and they kiss with teeth between cases

darling, if you love me say it back

pairing . ⊱ astarion x tav wordcount . ⊱ 3,604 content warnings . ⊱ canon compliant temporary character death, tav isn't a human but can be whatever else you like, astarion isn't a vampire yet, tav is gender neutral other tags . ⊱ canon compliant, canon temporary character death, introspection, p.orn without plot, oral s/ex, desk s.ex, inappropriate use of a cravat, c.reampie archiveofourown . ⊱ here.

taglist . ⊱ @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia, @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added . ⊱ here .

summary . ⊱ The Magistrate Judge Astarion Ancunin has a soft spot for you. You like to exploit that fact.

‘I need to see you in my office,’ Astarion hisses — and the tips of his ears are so red you think they might catch flame. He grabs you by the elbow roughly and tugs. ‘Now.’

‘Let’s do it, baby,’ you say smugly. ‘I know the law.’

Knowing the law might be an overstatement. You have studied the law for only one purpose, and that purpose you know like the back of your hand. So when Astarion presses you, you don’t argue. You do as the magistrate says and allow yourself to be dragged across the court. He admonishes you like one would get onto a dog who misbehaves. You can’t help but laugh.

It isn’t like Astarion isn’t a super serious magistrate with a focus on criminal prosecution. He wants to nail you for your sins, for your crimes. The only catch is that no matter how amazing Astarion is at his job, you’re simply better. If you’ve stolen something, you’re more than capable of hiding the evidence. If you’ve murdered someone, you know all the best ways to hide a body. It comes naturally.

Astarion is wearing that ever familiar frown as he marches through the elegant halls. It’s a frown that says you’re in trouble and there’s nothing that I can do. But that isn’t necessarily true. Astarion will do anything you ask so long as you ask nicely, and you’ve been getting good at asking nicely lately. He prides himself in training you even if it isn’t that simple. He calls it rehabilitation. You call it sex.

‘You can’t keep doing this, you know,’ Astarion snaps at you. ‘At some point you must give it up!’

He isn’t good at whispering when he’s riled up. He runs his free hand through his curls in anger, pushing them away from his face like his bangs being wild make it hard to think. It makes him more attractive.

‘You don’t mean that,’ you say with a shrug.

‘I do,’ he says, ‘very much mean that.’

You grin. ‘You would miss me,’ you tell him lasciviously, and he groans. ‘I know you would.’

He huffs. ‘The only thing that I would miss is the peace after the headache you’ve given me. It’s as though you aren’t even aware of how vexing you are.’

You laugh, and the fine line of Astarion’s temper snaps. He all but throws you in his office and locks it behind him. He’s annoyed with the way you stagger dramatically to one of the velvet couches before his desk. You lean over the arm and kick your feet up.

‘Does the idea of cuffs around my wrists excite you?’

You look over your shoulder. Astarion clenches his jaw. It must hurt to frown as hard as he is. You pull yourself onto the cushions and sit demurely. You study him. His rigid lines, tense gaze. He comes and sits on the edge of his desk, pressing his forehead into his hands as if that will relieve him of his headache. You’re determined to make it worse.

‘I apologize,’ you say sweetly. ‘I’ll behave from now on.’

‘We both know that you are not capable of behaving,’ Astarion says thinly.

He shouldn’t have said that. You can’t help yourself, but most of the time, Astarion makes it so easy for you to dig into his weaknesses and exploit them. You stare at him with wide, innocent eyes.

‘You should teach me,’ you suggest.

Astarion’s patience snaps. ‘I beg your pardon? Have some decorum, please!’

‘Having decorum is so boring,’ you say, pouting. ‘Life is much more fun when you live freely.’

‘And committing crimes is your definition of living freely?’

‘What is the point of living if not to live?’ you ask. ‘Why confine myself to rules of good or bad when I can choose what makes me happy.’

‘What exactly makes a criminal like you happy?’ Astarion asks bitterly.

You’ve always been possessed by a sense of otherness. You rise from the couch and carefully twist your fingers in his cravat, tangling yourself in him as he has become entangled in you. The Silverymoon lace tickles your skin. You pull Astarion closer and he begrudgingly caves to your strength. Your lips barely brush against his and already you can sense it. The barely contained restraint. The hunger. Astarion longs for you. He’s carefully hidden it beneath the scent of bergamot.

Slowly, you slide him free of what pressures him most. The cravat slides from his neck easily. It excites Astarion. His eyes glitter like you’ve never seen before. Being a magistrate isn’t about caring about the laws he’s vowed to uphold. It’s about power. You give it to him. You hold your wrists together with a wicked grin.

You balance the fabric on your fingers. Astarion swallows. Being proper isn’t really his thing. It’s thrilling to watch as he changes his mind. You annoy him — he detests you, wishes you gone. You are the object of all his improper late night dreams.

But as if he’s moving through water, he takes his cravat from your hands. You almost think it’s going to be a rejection. Astarion bundles your wrists together with an expertise that suggests he’s done it before. The binding becomes tight but not too tight and you relish in the way it twists your wrists. He fastens the knot into a pretty bow.

And then he kisses you. He grabs you so roughly by the back of the neck that your teeth slam together, but Astarion sighs so prettily against your mouth you decide you could withstand anything.

It’s a passionate kiss made up of teeth and spit and tongue. Astarion is both pushing you and pulling you. He can’t make up his mind. Does he want you and the stain you’ll bring to his reputation? A magistrate with a weakness for a criminal is such an interesting dynamic, but Astarion is a proud man. You are almost certain he would throw you into harm’s way if a situation ever occurred that deemed it necessary. You would do the same given the chance. This is simply a tryst.

You like to pretend it is, at least. You hate coming across as a romantic. You chase a freedom so exquisite no one will ever understand it, but when Astarion pushes you towards the couch, you don’t complain. You fall across the cushions with ease and catch him as he falls between your thighs.

‘You,’ Astarion accuses hotly, ‘are an irrevocable annoyance I may never be cured of.’

‘You are so very frank in all the ways you despise me,’ you say, moaning softly as he kisses your neck. ‘I think you’re capable of being freed after all.’

‘I am glad to see you are finally aware that it is hate that drives me,’ Astarion murmurs thickly. ‘It repulses me that you think you could possibly be endearing.’

You laugh and Astarion sucks a bruise into your collarbone. He’ll pretend to be aloof and noncommittal to your very presence, but he’s invested. You can feel the weight of his pleasure against your thighs even as he denies his feelings for you. Astarion doesn’t bother with your shirt or his own. He clings to your waist as he finds the lace of your breeches and tugs you free.

Astarion pushes his hand inside of your smallclothes and touches your flushed skin, spreading his fingers so that he can touch every inch your body has to offer. The fervor of the motion is what causes you to gasp. He’s a man on a mission, and he touches you at your core so adoringly it makes the bite of his words all but disappear. He fondles you like he’s never touched your skin before. Your gasp turns to a sultry whine, and he bites your neck like a punishment. You almost think he’s going to admonish you, that he’ll say your silence is worth more. He doesn’t. If anything, the echo of your voice spurns him to go further.

Astarion presses two fingers inside of you and the laughter dies in your chest. He’s trying to rearrange you through a perverse method. If he fucks you good enough, crime’s appeal will turn to dust within your mind. It makes you wonder what it would be like to dote on a magistrate. Would it be enough? Could it be enough? Sinning feels just as sweet.

He curls his fingers against your core and your back arches prettily off the velvet cushions. You bite your bottom lip and try to quell the pining, but then you catch a glimpse of him from beneath your eyelashes. Astarion is watching your every move. His lips are parted. His pupils are dilated. His cheeks have colored at the sound of your voice. He is torn between watching your face for your reactions and glancing down at his hand underneath your breeches. You meet his gaze bravely, chin lifting, and smile.

He adds another just to watch you struggle. The angle, the curve of his wrist, and the situation are enough to make your thighs squeeze together, but Astarion doesn’t let you. He roughly throws himself between your legs so that you can’t, and it’s hot, too hot that you cry weakly. He grins at the sound like he always does, like he always will. It’s his victory this evening.

But as quickly as Astarion deigned to touch you, he releases you. He stands up and drags you by the wrists, turning his cheek the other way when you try to taste his skin.

‘The prosecutor is ineffectual — ’

You snort without meaning to, and Astarion digs his fingers into the swell of your hip. You allow him to maneuver you, bending at the waist while he presses you forward, chest against the chilled wood of his desk. You have to rise on your toes to stand comfortably.

‘Is that what you’re thinking about?’ you ask breathlessly.

‘I’m thinking about the necessary reform,’ Astarion snaps.

You press your cheek into the wood and stare at his door. The prosecutor, the defense. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Astarion is the only one who cares. You’re somewhat glad he does. It means he’s taken your case to interest, and when he presses himself to your lower back, you’re excited. He shoves your breeches to your ankles.

‘Are you going to take me here?’ you murmur. ‘On your desk. Where is your propriety?’

‘You dare speak to me of decency?’ Astarion snorts.

‘The weight of my sins will be forever embedded on your desk,’ you say. ‘You flatter me, your honor.’

‘Do you ever stop talking?’ Astarion asks. You can hear his patience snapping.

‘Well, you’re just so boring,’ you say, laughing. ‘Why don’t you do something that — ’

Astarion kneels down behind you and shoves his way between your legs. You shiver when he presses his lips against your core. He mouths at you hungrily. He grunts low in the back of his throat and digs his nails into your thighs. It steals your breath away. He’s so determined to change the very essence of your being that his tongue and mouth searching where his fingers first were makes you go weak in the knees. You whine.

You press your fingers into the dark, rich mahogany of his desk and try to keep focus. You want to taunt him. You want to tease him, but that wanton desire is almost forgotten entirely by the way Astarion feasts upon your flesh. He parts you with his thumbs and groans against your skin and you almost forget who you are. This is what he wanted. He wanted to pull your desires from you and replace them with his own.

You let him. He works you up as easily as anyone can be worked up, his fingers and his mouth exploring every inch of your skin that’s exposed. He goes to slide a finger in curiously, but you twist your hips away. Astarion is all work and no play. He will tease you relentlessly as it suits him, and he will do what interests him. You interest him more than he’s willing to confess. That’s why he works so hard for your pleasure.

When he’s done with you, he kisses the base of your spine soothingly. Your legs tremble beneath you. Astarion smooths his hand across your hip. You glance at him.

‘Perhaps I can fuck some sense into you now,’ Astarion mumbles.

He has the audacity to sound inquisitive. It’s not like it’s possible, but he seems determined enough to try it out regardless of his intuition. His hands are warm against your skin, and the excitement only builds in the pit of your stomach as you feel Astarion’s skin touch yours. You hear his clothes rustle and his breath catch in his throat. You hide a smile against your arm.

When Astarion slides into your core, it’s like a possession. The breath steals from your lungs. His touch is a familiar constant — you would recognize him anywhere by scent alone. You cry weakly. Your toes crunch from the angle, but there’s nothing you want more at this moment than to learn to be good.

Astarion hums behind you as well, his fingers digging into your hips as he tries to steady himself. The desk crunches uncomfortably against your belly but it’s a welcome pain. It keeps you focused. You still have the energy to wiggle back against him as his cock slowly pushes in until there is no more room left to explore.

‘Be good,’ he whispers, ‘and I will give you what you deserve.’

What do you deserve exactly?

It’s hard to say. You enjoy your life of crime almost as much as you love the way Astarion bends you over his desk. You’re good at stealing, you’re good at killing, but you’re good at being soft and pliant as well, giving in to that sentimentality that keeps you coming back from more.

At first it was an elaborate game. What could you do to ensure that Magistrate Judge Astarion Ancunin looked your way? He was a noble elf, and your hands were covered in fresh dough from the baker you stole from. There was a curious glint in his eyes when he looked over you, yet somehow the gods had deemed the yeast and honey on your fingers was not honest enough to be proof.

You are smitten. You bounce taller on your toes with every aggressive thrust, arms struggling to support your weight. Astarion fists his fingers into your hair and pulls until your throat is exposed. He wants you to sing for him, so you do. You arch your back and moan loudly. The sounds of it bounce around his little office.

‘You wouldn’t shut up before,’ Astarion says breathlessly, a hoarse laugh.

‘Do something — worth talking about — ’

Astarions laughs incredulously, but he does fuck you harder for it. He releases your hair without much flourish and focuses on dragging your hips back onto his cock, punching forward so hard you see stars. It’s wonderful, it’s powerful. If Astarion’s entire goal was to make you forsake the world, he’s done a good job of turning your life around. The cravat rubs against your wrists as you try to seek purchase on the desk. Your fingers drag across the polished wood, and you shudder as you clench down around his cock.

You sound so breathless and silly, groaning while he fucks you against his desk. He fills you full until you’re certain you can take no more. You press a hot cheek against the wood and try to catch your breath. You hook a foot around his ankle for support, twisting on his desk. You tuck your arms beneath your chest. You feel as though you’re coming undone. All your years of villainy, and it comes undone by the consistency of Astarion’s presence.

Your arms are stiff from constantly being up, but you’re almost grateful when Astarion pauses. He helps you turn on top of his desk so you’re on your back instead, and even though the edge digs into your lower back, you prefer that to anything else.

You meet Astarion’s gaze. He tells you he hates you, that he wishes you were out of his hair, that he despises you, but the gentleness of his eyes tells you otherwise. He slides back into you with a small moan, and you wrap your legs around his hips to guide him in further.

‘It’s good,’ you gasp. ‘It’s good, you’re good — ’

Astarion doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. You can see it clear as day in his eyes. Astarion won’t say he loves you, that in his ardent fervor he seeks you out, but he knows that you know. Why else would fate lead you back together? You reach for his face with your hands, and his eyes flutter closed to avoid the wistfulness. He leans into your touch.

You cry softly as Astarion begins to grind into you again. He helps carry you as he does so. And it feels so good, feels so overwhelming that you briefly consider the fact that he has changed you for the better.

A spirit that slides into your very marrow. Astarion is hauntingly beautiful, and if he is a spider then you are a fly tangled in his web. He calls you a pretty thing and you give into the struggle. You press your wrists against your forehead and strain against his cock, unable to hide from the waves of crashing pleasure.

Astarion finishes inside of you with a low moan. He presses a rough hand against your belly to stabilize himself, and shyly, you touch his wrist with your bound hands just to feel his pulse. As soon as he’s caught his breath, he releases you from your bonds.

You almost miss him when he pulls away from you. He uses one of his hanging cassocks to clean himself with and is kind enough to do the same for you. You’re almost certain that your legs won’t work, so you sit up on his desk to rest and damn his paperwork to the hells. You kick off your breeches from around your ankles and sit, legs crossed, while Astarion tries to fix his reflection in the mirror.

‘You are truly an astute teacher,’ you say casually. ‘The art of lockpicking is all but gone from my mind. Thank you, your honor.’

Astarion snorts and shakes his head, torn between ignoring you and giving into your wiles. He curls his hair back into place and then walks back to you, leaning forward until you’re nose to nose.

You think he won’t kiss you, but then he does. His lips taste like summer oranges and you taste him until it’s the only thing you can think of. He hugs you tenderly. It isn’t the same as when he admonishes you. It makes your chest feel warm. You almost feel weaker for it. Your bite is being taken away.

‘I can’t keep protecting you,’ Astarion says softly against your cheek. ‘You torment me day and night. When I lie down in my sheets, I find myself consumed with worry.’

‘You think about me?’ you tease. ‘In your sprawling manse?’

‘Move in with me,’ he murmurs. ‘Then you can be inferior yet vain inside my sprawling manse.’

Astarion is not there that evening. You try to wait as long as you can without seeming suspicious. There are maids, family members, and their admirers who come inside and out throughout the evening — but not Astarion, never Astarion. You wait until the sun sets and fireflies light up the streets of the Upper City but eventually, the malaise of abandonment guides your feet away. You walk the streets aimlessly until a shiver runs down your spine. A chill so violent turns you away from the courthouse.

But in the morning, there’s a fuss. It draws you back into where you left and you can’t help but to lose yourself. Astarion is dead. His mother sobs. The members of the city watch who bear the bad news look equally as morose. Astarin’s father nearly falls to his knees in despair.

When you break into their manse that evening, you look for one thing. You steal a cravat from his wardrobe and tie it around your neck.

Then, you leave Baldur’s Gate.

You aren’t sure where your feet are going to take you.

Part of your yearns for the Underdark. Baldur’s Gate is a cursed city, you decide. You wander back to it after two hundred years of avoiding it like the plague, and not an hour within the city are you spirited away on an adventure you never longed for.

You have changed. You can’t really remember who you were all those years ago, or the hopefulness you might have felt in your chest once. You’re different now. A folk hero. You used to steal from the rich and give to the poor before the mindflayers fed you their parasite and stole that part of you. But you aren’t alone this time. You wander the beach for hours searching for anything that can be of use and pause over a love letter that makes you sob.

It isn’t all bad. You meet a half-elf who scowls as much as she mumbles to herself.

On the other side of the beach, you meet a ghost.

His eyes are different from what you remember. The warmth he once looked upon you with is gone and replaced by unfamiliar sanguine.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #astarion smut #bg3 smut #from ，carcosa .#my fic #hyliandreso #you know i hit the prompt square on & then threw in a plot twist #is it really a carcosa fic if there isn't a plot twist somewhere #* say what you want，even if it's bad

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artchvies · 2 months ago

Note

i would love to read abt a threesome in the bunny oscar verse… maybe max and charles get to him before he goes to carlos…!!

kink prompt list

me when i go insane and write almost 4k words for a tumblr prompt game….

anyway. here’s the bunny fix au where charles and max get to oscar before he goes to carlos (this is my first time writing a threesome so if the logistics are fucked. no they’re not. just go with it 😔) enjoy bunny oscar 🐰

—

Oscar stands at the edge of the room, arms crossed, glaring at Max and Charles perched on his hotel bed.

He takes a second to process.

First—he’s got fucking bunny ears on his head and a dumb little tail twitching above his ass.

Second—Max fucking Verstappen and Charles fucking Leclerc are staring at him like he’s the daily special and they haven’t eaten in weeks.

Alright.

He clears his throat. “Care to explain?” He pauses. Then, deadpan: “Please.”

Max answers, casual as anything. “We’re here to help.”

Charles nods, smiling.

Oscar squints, suspicion creeping in. “Why?”

Charles tilts his head, thoughtful. “Do you want the truth or the PG version?”

Oscar just scoffs, arms crossing tighter.

Max grins. “Oscar, you’re hot. And you’ve got bunny ears.” A shrug, like that should explain everything. “It’s cute.”

…Huh.

“You know Charles said your cat ears were cuter, right?” Oscar says.

And—holy shit. Max blushes.

What the hell.

“Not the point, Oscar,” Charles cuts in.

This is the dumbest situation of Oscar’s life.

Max moves. Grabs his wrist. Tugs him in with zero effort.

“Come on, baby.” Low voice. Too smooth. “Just yes or no.”

Easy. Yes or no.

Except it’s not easy.

Oscar stands there, heart in his throat. He’s never had a threesome before. And, look—he’s not stupid. He knows Max and Charles are hot. He’s not blind, and he’s definitely gay enough to notice.

It should be simple.

But then he thinks about what Lando said earlier.

What about Carlos? Lando had teased. You two could finally work out all that crazy sexual tension.

Would Carlos even want him like this? Would he pull Oscar close, kiss him slow, murmur Yes, Oscar, of course I’ll fuck the bunny ears off you against his skin?

Or—worse—would he laugh? Say something stupid that would leave Oscar crawling out of his own skin with secondhand embarrassment?

It’s too much. One fucking day with this curse and he’s already at his limit.

So he looks back at Max and Charles, their gazes heavy, waiting.

“…Yes,” he whispers.

Charles lights up, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

And then Max moves again. Closes the space. Slots their mouths together.

Oscar makes a soft noise—surprise, maybe.

It barely registers before Max deepens the kiss, the hand on his waist sliding up to grip his hip. Oscar moans into it, flushed hot with embarrassment when Max’s hold tightens, fingers pressing into skin.

A tongue slides between his lips, shameless, licking into his mouth like a man starved.

Oscar barely has time to process before Max pulls back, lips shiny, a thin string of spit connecting them.

“Bed, yes?” Max murmurs.

Oscar nods. Too fast. His brain is definitely short-circuiting.

Charles tugs him onto the bed, barely gives him a second to breathe before he’s straddling Charles’ lap, hands warm on his hips.

One slides up, fingers curling into Oscar’s hair, the other pressing low against his back, riding his shirt up as he leans in.

Charles kisses him. Really kisses him. Deep. Wet. Tongue and teeth.

Oscar just melts.

The tension in his shoulders dissolves as Charles sucks on his bottom lip, pulling a noise from him that he definitely didn’t mean to make.

Behind them, Max chuckles. “You look good like this.” His hands skim up Oscar’s sides, fingers pressing against the curve of his ribs.

Oscar shivers.

And then—hands.

Inside his sweats. Charles cups his ass, thumbs pressing right at the base of his stupid, twitching tail.

Oscar shudders, gasping into his mouth, hips grinding down before he can stop himself. Charles’ fingers trail over the fluffy base, and Oscar jerks—whimpers—rubs against him.

“So sensitive,” Charles murmurs against his lips, but Oscar can barely think past the needy little sounds slipping from his mouth, past the way his skin burns hot.

When they break apart, Oscar’s lips feel swollen, raw, already aching for more.

Max’s firm hands peel Oscar’s shirt off, toss it aside, drags him to lay down against the pillows.

Oscar’s chest heaves. His floppy ears twitch wildly. His tail probably gives him away entirely.

Max settles between his legs, fingers already at his waistband, and Oscar exhales—

Lifts his hips eagerly, lets Max pull his sweats down in one smooth motion.

And fuck—

He’s so hard. Already leaking. Already aching. His ears flatten for half a second, heat crawling up his neck.

Charles hums in approval beside them. Beaming.

Max shrugs off his shirt, and Oscar stares. Like, full-body frozen, pupils blown wide, mouth dry.

He wants to touch. Wants to bite. Wants—

The bed shifts. Charles moves in, propping himself up on one elbow, so close that Oscar can feel the heat of him, can smell his skin.

And, okay. Look. Oscar knows he looks good. But right now? Spread out, practically presenting for two of the most unfairly attractive men he’s ever met?

Yeah. His instincts are going haywire. He needs.

His thighs twitch, caught between spreading wider and rubbing together for any kind of friction—but Max catches his knee, presses it back down.

“Don’t hide,” Max murmurs.

Oscar shudders, a sharp, needy tremor running straight down his spine.

Charles hums, dragging his fingers up Oscar’s chest, teasing over his nipples.

“So pretty, mon lapin,” Charles whispers.

Heat floods Oscar’s face—hot, humiliating—but the words, the praise, only make his cock twitch, dripping against his tummy.

He bites his lip, tries to keep quiet, tries to breathe—

“Let us hear you, baby.” Max’s lips brush against his ear.

Then Max wraps a hand around his cock, strokes slow, and—

Oscar moans. High and needy, hips bucking wildly into Max’s fist.

Charles laughs, pressing kisses down his neck, nipping just enough to make him writhe.

Oscar’s brain is gone. His body knows what it wants, and it’s this.

“Please,” he gasps, barely aware of the word leaving his mouth. “Fuck, please—”

Charles tugs lightly at one of his floppy ears, then brushes a teasing stroke over the fur. Oscar whines, the sound breaking as Max drags his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the precum around.

“Making a mess,” Max murmurs, pumping him slow.

Charles shifts, stripping down to his boxers before pressing in close again, bare skin against bare skin. Oscar moans, feeling Charles’ fingers skim over his belly, dipping low, almost brushing against Max’s hand.

Max grabs him behind the knee, pushing his leg up, spreading him wide.

“Charlie,” Max says, “hold our bunny open for me, baby.”

Charles sighs, but he’s eager, grabbing Oscar’s thigh and draping it over his waist. Oscar feels the hard line of Charles’ cock pressing against him, making his breath stutter.

“Shit,” Max swears, running a thumb around his dry hole, then swiping lower, pressing briefly against the base of his fluffy tail, smushed against the sheets. “So fucking hot, Oscar.”

Oscar whimpers, nerves sparking, body thrumming with need.

“Want us to fuck you?” Charles murmurs, lips brushing his ear.

Oscar doesn’t even need to think. He nods immediately.

Max hums. “Lube?”

Oscar barely manages a breathless, “Suitcase.” He points weakly toward the corner of the room.

Max pulls away instantly, leaving Oscar’s cock to drop against his belly pathetically. He makes a frustrated noise, pouting without thinking.

Charles laughs. “Poor bunny,” he coos, and before Oscar can complain, Charles wraps a hand around his cock, stroking him just as slow, just as teasing as Max had.

Oscar whimpers, hips jerking. “Don’t—”

Charles grins, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Don’t what?”

Oscar glowers. “Tease.”

Charles just laughs again, fingers tightening. “I won’t.”

Max is back in an instant, tossing the bottle of lube onto the mattress before leaning in, kissing Oscar again. At the same time, Charles picks up the pace of his hand.

Oscar whines into Max’s mouth. Jesus—he feels wrecked.

Four hands, two mouths—touching him, kissing him, pulling him apart piece by piece. Oscar is dizzy with it.

He’s so overwhelmed he can’t even think.

Max kisses him deep, tongue slipping past Oscar’s lips, swallowing every whimper. Charles is stroking his cock faster now, twisting his wrist just right, the way Oscar likes—and fuck, he’s—

His fingers clutch at Max’s shoulders, nails digging in as he whines, hips stuttering, body tensing all at once.

Charles chuckles against his jaw, breath warm. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Come for us, bunny.”

Oscar does.

His body arches, a wrecked sob catching in his throat as he spills over Charles’ hand, pleasure crashing over him so intensely he can’t even focus, only aware of Max kissing him through it, of Charles stroking him through the aftershocks.

Oscar shudders, gasping against Max’s lips. His body feels boneless.

Charles hums, swiping his fingers through the mess on Oscar’s stomach with a smirk. “Cute.”

Oscar groans, already feeling the embarrassment creeping in, but Max just kisses him again softly.

He lays there, disassociating slightly, floating somewhere between bliss and disbelief as Max and Charles move around him.

It was just a handjob. A fucking handjob. Why does he feel like his soul just left his body?

But he doesn’t even have time to process it before there are hands on him again.

“Wait—” he starts, but Charles is already flipping him onto his stomach, pressing a warm hand to the small of his back to keep him in place.

Oscar tenses immediately. He knows what they’re looking at. He knows.

“Oh,” Charles hums, pleased. His fingers ghost over the base of Oscar’s tail, right where it meets his skin.

Oscar groans, shoving his face into the pillow. “Don’t laugh about it.”

Max is laughing, the bastard. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he teases, dragging a finger down Oscar’s spine. “It’s adorable.”

Then Charles’ fingers curl around the little fluff of his tail, giving it the tiniest tug—just testing, just playing—

And Oscar whimpers.

“Don’t do that,” Oscar breathes, muffled into the sheets.

Charles tilts his head. “Why? You don’t like it?” He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Oscar’s shoulder blade.

Oscar doesn’t respond. He just shifts his hips back, trying to escape Charles’ hands, feeling overwhelmed.

But then—oh, fuck.

His movement presses him right into Max’s crotch. Ass to dick.

Oscar freezes.

What the fuck? When did Max lose his pants?

Slowly, Oscar turns his head—

Max is right there, naked, thick and hard and heavy against Oscar’s skin, looking entirely unbothered by the situation.

Oscar swallows. “Jesus.”

Charles giggles beside him, delighted. Oscar thinks he might actually die.

Even the drag of the sheets against his oversensitive cock is too much, but now there’s this—Max pressed up behind him, big and hard—and Oscar feels like he might just combust on the spot.

Charles kisses him again, slow and distracting, maybe to pull his focus away from the sound of Max uncapping the lube.

Oscar swears he hears Max mutter something like, “I have to do all the work,” before slick fingers slide up the curve of his ass, spreading the warmth over his skin.

Oscar moans, into Charles’ mouth. His body is thrumming, humming, aching with sensitivity, but it feels good—so good it’s almost unbearable.

Charles breaks the kiss first, lips pink and swollen, breathing a little uneven. “Oscar,” he starts, but Oscar doesn’t open his eyes, too caught up in the feeling of Max’s fingers teasing around his rim.

Charles makes a pleased little sound, then tugs lightly at Oscar’s floppy ears, making them twitch. “Bunny,” he coaxes, “look at me.”

Oscar barely manages to crack his eyes open. Charles is watching him, pupils blown, looking half-amused and half-starved, and Oscar doesn’t even get a chance to ask what he wants before Charles is leaning in close, murmuring against his lips—

“I want you to fuck me.”

He says it at the same time Max pushes a finger inside him, sinking in with zero resistance.

Oscar chokes on a breath, body jerking. “Christ—”

Charles just smirks, dragging his fingers over the tips of Oscar’s ears again, playful and teasing. “Is that a yes?” he murmurs.

Oscar nods, eager, desperate. “Fuck yes—”

Just as Max adds another finger.

Oscar gasps. His grip tightens on Charles’ waist, fingers pressing into soft skin before he fumbles clumsily at Charles’ boxers, trying to shove them down. Charles huffs a quiet laugh but lifts his hips to help.

And just like that—everyone’s naked.

Oscar barely has time to process it, the sheer absurdity of it.

His tail twitches again but he doesn’t notice, too caught up in the slow drag of Max’s fingers inside him, stretching him open.

Max notices, though.

And he fucking laughs, pressing a kiss to the back of Oscar’s neck.

Oscar would argue—he wants to—but then Max crooks his fingers just right, and any protest unravels into a sharp, punched-out breath.

He tries to focus, to be useful, to help Charles open up for him. It’s difficult when Max is knuckle-deep inside him, but Oscar doesn’t want to be selfish.

“Charles,” he murmurs, sliding a palm over Charles’ waist, pulling him closer. His hand trails lower, fingers dipping between Charles’ cheeks—

And he feels it.

Cool metal, smooth against his fingertips.

Oscar stills. Blinks.

“What the fuck,” he breathes.

Behind him, Max huffs a quiet laugh—watching, obviously—while Charles just smiles, biting his lip as he tugs playfully at Oscar’s floppy ear.

“Something wrong, bun?”

Oscar doesn’t answer. Can’t.

Max pulls his fingers out of him with a slick sound, and Oscar shudders, his round, fluffy tail still wagging—pathetically.

“He wanted to be prepared for you, Oscar.”

Charles hums, tilting his head. Then he lays back properly, spreading his legs, feet flat on the bed. His fingers hook around the plug, twisting once before pulling it out.

The stretch of it makes his mouth fall open, cheeks pink, breath catching as it slides free.

“Come on,” he murmurs.

Oscar makes a broken little noise. His cock twitches, leaking, his tail fluttering all excited.

Max’s hands are warm on his waist as they guide him forward, pressing him between Charles’ legs, close enough that Oscar can see—pink, slick, stretched just enough. Waiting for him.

“Go on, bunny,” Max purrs, breath hot against Oscar’s ear. “Be good for him.”

Oscar doesn’t need to be told twice.

He presses in, slow at first, just the head slipping inside—and fuck, Charles is tight, warm, soft.

Charles exhales, a breathy little oh, barely even a sound, but it shoots straight through Oscar, makes his thighs tremble as he pushes deeper, sinking into heat that wraps around him like a vice.

His breath stutters. His tail twitches, thumping against Max’s stomach where he’s still pressed up close behind him.

Max laughs, dragging his hands down Oscar’s sides, not helping.

“You feel that?” Max murmurs, fingers squeezing at Oscar’s hips. “So tight for you. He’s been waiting for this.”

Oscar groans, drops onto his elbows on either side of Charles’ head. His ears flop forward, stupid, falling into his face, brushing against Charles’ cheeks.

He growls, annoyed, shaking his head, but they won’t stay back—fuck, is this how girls feel when their hair gets in the way?

Charles giggles. “Let me hold them for you,” he whispers, reaching up, fingers curling around the base of Oscar’s ears, holding them back as he pulls him down for a kiss.

His fingertips brush through the fur, soft, barely-there, and Oscar shudders. His whole body tenses, a sharp, instinctive reaction that makes Charles gasp beneath him, makes his cock throb where he’s buried deep.

Max hums, knowing. “Sensitive there, aren’t you, bunny?”

Oscar makes a helpless, wrecked little sound. Max chuckles, dragging one hand up his waist, the other sliding lower, fingers pressing between his thighs, teasing his hole already so open and fucking wet with lube.

“Let’s see how long you last.”

Oscar barely has time to breathe before Max spreads him open, thumbs pressing into the soft give of his ass, exposing him as Oscar shudders.

Charles keeps kissing him, keeps nipping at his lips, holding him close. His cock leaks between them, smearing wet against Oscar’s stomach, and Oscar can feel the way he jumps horny.

Then Max presses in, forcing Oscar open around the thick stretch of it, and fuck—

Oscar yelps. His tail wags—pathetic—kicking uselessly against Max’s stomach as he sinks deeper, stretching Oscar wide.

It’s too much. Too full, too overwhelming, his body torn between the heat swallowing him up front and the impossible pressure behind.

Max bottoms out, buried to the hilt inside him.

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fuck him.

Just stays there, cock thick and heavy in his ass, his hands firm on Oscar’s waist.

Oscar whines, twitching his hips, trying to move, but Max’s grip stays firm.

“Work for it, Oscar,” Max murmurs. His fingers press into Oscar’s waist, thumbs dragging possessive circles over the dip of his hips. “Make it good for us.”

Okay.

Oscar moves.

And fuck, it’s insane.

Every thrust has him caught between them.

Oscar just whimpers. He doesn’t know where to focus—

Max, thick inside him, stretching him deep, pressing against everything that makes his body sing. Or Charles, tight and slick around him, needy, clenching like he wants to pull Oscar deeper, hold him there, keep him.

Max groans behind him, fingers digging into his waist, guiding his movements, controlling the rhythm.

Charles tilts his head, lips brushing hot against Oscar’s throat right over the two tiny freckles there, breath ragged as he whispers, “Feels good?”

Oscar makes a sound, half a moan, half a whine, too overwhelmed to answer.

Max just laughs. “Look at him.”

Charles hums. “So pretty when he’s gone like this.” His lips trace up Oscar’s throat, pressing soft, almost affectionate kisses against the flushed skin. “Nothing going on in that bunny brain, huh?”

Oscar tries to glare, but Max snaps his hips forward, punching the air from his lungs and the moan that leaves his mouth betrays him.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Charles breathes, tightening around him.

Max groans behind him, dragging his hands up Oscar’s ribs. “Think he even remembers his own name right now?”

Charles huffs out a quiet laugh, tilting his hips up. “Doubt it. Try asking him.”

Max’s grip tightens, his next thrust sharp enough to make Oscar keen. “Oscar,” Max murmurs. “What’s your name, baby?”

Oscar makes a wrecked noise. His brain isn’t fucking working, everything drowned out by the stretch, the heat, the feeling of being caught between them, used and ruined and owned.

“Shit,” Charles laughs, dragging his nails down Oscar’s back. “Nothing. All gone.”

Oscar hates them.

He loves them.

His thighs shake as he tries to move, but it’s too much. He can’t keep up.

“Aw,” Max coos, leaning in, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear. “You need help, bunny? Want us to take care of you?”

Oscar whimpers, nodding fast.

Max grins, grips Oscar’s hips tight, and snaps into him, knocking a moan from his throat. The pace has Oscar’s body moving helplessly, his own cock grinding up into Charles, every thrust forcing his tiny little jerks into Charles’s body.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m close—” Charles gasps, suddenly high, and Oscar feels it when he clenches down around his cock.

Oscar whimpers because fuck, Charles is so pretty like this. His flushed cheeks, his damp curls, his mouth falling open in a soft, ruined little O—and then he’s coming, hot between them, making a mess of their stomachs, shaking as his hips stutter.

“Jesus—shit—” Oscar whines, body tensing, “me too, me too—”

Charles barely opens his eyes, still dazed, pupils blown as he presses their foreheads together. “Fuck, bun,” he whispers. “Inside me, yes? Want you to fill me up.”

Oscar breaks.

He comes with a whimper, pleasure ripping through him, his nose scrunching up, mouth open, bunny teeth peeking through.

Charles kisses him through it, licking into his mouth, swallowing every little sound, his hole milking Oscar’s cock as he fills him up.

“Fuck,” Max growls behind them, his pace turning sloppy, even harder, dragging out Oscar’s over-sensitivity with every deep, wet thrust. Oscar whimpers, so overstimulated he can barely breathe.

“Gonna cum,” Max mutters.

Oscar just nods, too gone to do anything else—just lets Max spill inside him.

—

Oscar is wrecked. Properly, thoroughly, blissed-out wrecked.

He hopes it worked, hopes the curse is fucked off for good, because he’s tucked against Charles’ chest like a very satisfied, very well-used plush toy. His ears twitch sleepily, tail flicking lazily, no longer the frantic thing it was before.

Max is watching it with way too much interest.

“It’s still moving,” Max murmurs, reaching out to press a finger into the soft fluff of it.

Oscar groans, barely lifting his head. “Stop.”

Max, predictably, does not stop. He taps it again, grinning when it twitches. “I think it likes me.”

Charles snorts, arms locked around Oscar like a weighted blanket, fingers scratching lightly at Oscar’s scalp. “Doubt it. Bunny’s just too blissed out to fight back.”

Oscar makes a noise, part whine, part groan. “I hate both of you.”

Max taps his tail again, watching it twitch, fascinated. “Do you, though?”

“Yes,” Oscar grumbles. But he’s too warm, too sated, too heavy with post-fuck satisfaction to put any real venom behind it.

Charles hums, pressing a lazy kiss to Oscar’s forehead. “Bunny’s lying. He loves us.”

Oscar pointedly does not answer.

His tail flicks again, slow and sleepy.

Max grins. “Guess that’s a thank you.”

#i don’t even know what to say #lestapiastri #choscar #maxcar #kink prompt game #f1 rpf

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lsunstreakerl · 2 months ago

Note

Cat!Max and dark!Charles when someone tries to take Max away and he goes absolutely feral.

Charles just holding up Max by his armpits as Max is covered in blood like “oh who’s my special boy!!! Who’s the prettiest and best boy!!!”

Pierre looking on in horror as Esteban gently tugs on his arm.

feral max. love that for him. 670 words, charles POV.

don't ask me what verse this is in, we're at like, an AU of an AU of an AU. I'm not keeping track anymore.

violence! catboy violence, but still violence.

"Charles!"

Charles looks up from from his interview, and he's already pissed- their qualifying was not great, and he's having to play nice for cameras, so to be interrupted on top of all of that- he's not thrilled.

It's an FIA worker, frantic at the side of the press pen. They're going to cause a commotion- although they've already made one, so Charles murmurs his apologies to Sky Sports with a smile he doesn't mean, and quickly makes his way over.

"What?"

He hisses it out quietly, but the worker is already backing away.

"It's- you need to be back at the garage, sorry, it's your cat-"

Charles is already moving. Max is perfectly well behaved out in public- Charles would know, he trained him- so for there to be a problem...

Something has happened.

He breaks into a jog as he gets closer to the garage, and he can hear shouting- English and Italian. Security is there, trying to break up some kind of scuffle on the floor.

There's red smeared across the concrete.

Fred turns as Charles gets closer.

"Charles! Tell him to let go!"

Charles frowns, because he can't see, but he raises his voice.

"Max! Lascialo!"

There must be some change in the middle of the pile, because security lunges forward, pulling it apart.

Charles sees a man being dragged out- unfamiliar to him- with blood dripping from his throat, eyes wide and panicking.

That's not what Charles is concerned about.

There's a loud hiss a few feet away, and Charles is moving, shoving people aside.

"Move! Max, come here."

Immediately there's a blonde and red blur, and then a heavy weight slamming into Charles' chest, Max shoving his head under Charles' jaw. He's shaking, but he's rattling out a weak purr.

Charles sees red.

"What the fuck happened? Someone needs to start talking, now."

One of his mechanics steps forward- a man Charles trusts.

"We didn't realize- he came up in the high-vis vest, we thought he was with the FIA- and then he was trying to grab Max, and, uh..."

One of the other mechanics pipes up.

"He tried to scruff Max."

Oh.

Charles gets a grip in Max's hair, pulling his head away from the crook of his neck. Max makes a plaintive noise, but he listens.

There's blood smeared on his lips and teeth, down his chin and neck, splattered droplets on his sweater.

Charles knew he should've gotten him in a collar. The regular one had been delayed in transit, and he'd figured it was probably fine for the one time- what were the odds that someone would try and kidnap Max?

Higher than he thought, apparently.

"Oh, baby."

Max blinks at him. His tail is still moving in agitated flicks, and Charles can see that his fingertips are smeared red as well.

"You did a good job, yes? Didn't let that terrible man take you anywhere, such a good boy."

He drops a kiss onto Max's nose, avoiding the blood. Barely.

Max starts purring, snuggling back into Charles. He's going to have a velcro catboy for the rest of the weekend.

Charles glares at the rest of the garage over the top of Max's head.

"Never let this happen again. Understand? When I leave Max here, it is because I trust him to be looked after. You are lucky he is so fierce, or this would be much worse."

He looks over at Fred.

"I want that man's name and address in my inbox before the end of the day."

Fred nods, and Charles can see the garage dispersing out of the corner of his eye.

Max is still trying to become one with Charles, so he's running his hand down his spine, brings the other to pet gently between his ears.

"I'm done with media for the day- let them speculate."

He kisses the top of Max's hair. His boy smells like coppery blood, but there's the faint scent of the conditioner Charles likes to use- keeps his ears soft.

"And you are getting a bath."

#dark!charles and catboy!max #charles is quite fond of him when there's blood on his teeth #max does not tolerate scruffing from anyone BUT charles

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shallowseeker · 4 months ago

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theres a cut line from the drafts of ouroboros where jack says "i'm a winchester, i'm the chicken And the snake" and i think about that line a lot.

he gave up something he loved (his soul) to destroy something he hated (michael) and he was too "greedy" (in a sense, he missed his old power a lot and had he not healed cas he mightve had a sliver of his soul left) and it killed him (his soul). i understand why that line was cut (redundancy was probably a factor) but i wish it had been kept. hes the chicken and the snake......

Yes, I do love this line. It's the duality of it all. And I think it's also the horror of the cosmic hierarchy. To the livestock, we are their Leviathan. But the Leviathan treating us as livestock in season 7 is a campy horror show!

I don't think Jack is uniquely dual-natured (because I think everyone in the entire show is), but Jack's symbolic nature is pretty heavy-handed in its symbolism!

Here again we have the word "nothing," that is so often applied to Jack. He is the chicken sacrificing his soul and becoming the snake (angel).

youtube

The grace twists like a snake, as Jack becomes an ouroboros after sacrificing his soul, the snake consuming the snake.

I love this moment because Jack is specifically saving Rowena, the same woman his father murdered:

////

I think this has some interesting things in common with Cas's consumption of Theo, way back in season 9. It certainly characterizes Cas's panic. Jack is becoming like Cas here, like Cas's family, specifically. Snakes. Beasts. Burning serpents. Barbarians. Creatures of war. (War, where even Lucifer is happiest, needed. Note: Lucifer was attentive to Kevin Tran, the AU refugees, Jack, and Dean during his stent in Apocalypse-verse. He was happy there, too. Lucifer is happiest as the underdog, not God.)

///

CASTIEL: I'll – I'll need a moment to make contact. (THEO waits.) And you have something that I'll need. THEO: Anything. CASTIEL grabs one of the medical implements and slices THEO in the throat, letting his white grace slip out; CASTIEL opens his mouth and swallows it. Mm. (CASTIEL groans; the grace fills him up; his eyes turn blue; THEO stares in dazed recrimination, blood dripping from his neck. CASTIEL looks at him, then puts a hand to his forehead; THEO screams, his angelic white light bursts out of him, and he falls to the ground his eyes burned out. 9x09

CASTIEL: He had me. I, uh, I was tortured. But I got away. DEAN: How? CASTIEL: I... I did what I had to. I became what they've become. A barbarian. ...

CASTIEL: It's better I stay away. They're gonna want me even more now. But I'm gonna be all right. I... I got my Grace back. Well, not mine per se, but it'll do. DEAN: Wait, you're – you're back? You got your mojo? CASTIEL: I'm not sure. But I am an angel. DEAN: And you're okay with that? CASTIEL: If we're going to war, I need to be ready.

You are an angel, once and forever. (Hannah, 10x01)

JACK (to DEAN): I don't think you have a firm grasp on what snakes eat. (14x15)

DEAN: There's no use asking "why me?" 'Cause the angels – they don't care. I think maybe they just don't have the equipment to care. Seems like when they try, it just... breaks them apart. (7x21)

CAS: You understand? I can't. I destroyed...everything, and I will destroy everything again. (7x23)

It's what serpents do. When they enter gardens, all they know how to do is consume and destroy.

#spn 14x14 #spn 14x15 #spn 7x21 #spn 7x23 #spn 10x01 #jack stuff #the story of the chicken and the black snake #dean thinks he's venomous... but it's actually--#anyway the worst fate mary could imagine for her kids was to become hunters #and the worst fate cas imagines for jack is to be an angel #to cas a hunter is quaint even noble... which is why claire's path is not one of horror for him in the end #what he REALLY doesn't want is angelic nature which is to him the worst bloodiest fate he can imagine #a hunter's nature dialed up to 10000000 in the worst way with no emotions no life

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tj-dragonblade · 3 months ago

Note

Hello, dear!! Do tell me about 🛋️ , please (It's been very nice to accompany this WIP getting written!)

Hi Macca! It's been nice to get this written, lol! I appreciate all the asks and it's exciting to see that this AU-verse still resonates with people. Here's another snippet, still e-rated, following the last 🛋️ entry in the wip tag:

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; he's already done a lot of lifting 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 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.

#askmemes #TJs Writing #Sandman #Dreamling #wip: Turbo Lover

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dykecassidy · 27 days ago

Text

unfinished dustjim body swap au

this is from like 3 years ago and stopped at the bullet point planning part. theres a bit of spitballing at the start.

@deezy1478 bc you asked ✌️

WHAT HAPPENS: JIM N DUSTIN CHANGE BODIES; DUSTIN HAS A BODY DYSMORPHORIA CRISIS. CRIES, I BET. JIM ENJOYS BEING TALL. I GUESS THEY CAN FUCK.

Okay im not doing caps the whole time i was just excited. So, like, what happens beyond just that idea. I wanna explore, like, low-self dustin, for sure, but like. I need more than just that. Like, what the fuck makes them swap. Even if i cant explain it, something needs to be the catalyst. Catalyst found, jim picks up dustin, they wake up as each other.

“ something jim saying like “whether i’m me or in your body, i always wanna take care of you, dust””

dustin is excited about it at first— they both are. there's some bafflement, some confusion, but, like, perhaps once they've confirmed its temporary (or maybe not even then), they're both pretty excited about it. maybe it happens separately, go back to roomies verse, and dustin sees that he's in jims body. excited, elated, hot boy Jim. and then i want them to see each other, and I want dustin to look at his body from the outside- for the first time, for the millionth time.

and I want jim to be like "my god i look like this to you? I’m little?”

OKAY SO SET UP: normal fucking times in roomie verse, theyre palling around, play fighting, a little tipsy. Dustin is in Some Anguish but the alcohol dulls it.

And jim declares, “bet i could pick you up”

Dustin brushes it off, but jim insists, gets his arm around dustin

And that cold wash of fear

“No, really, don’t—”

But jim grabs him and hefts him up and spins, and cackles.

And hes all joyous that he fuckin deadlifted him, this is great, and hes stil all handsy

And the night melts away, and dustin has a lump in his throat

He wakes up the next morning with a normal and proportional hangover. Which he wants to ignore, and roll over and go back to sleep, but hes gotta piss, so, fuck. Wake up ungodly early (8:45) and go take care of it

Wobbles getting up, wonders if hes, somehow, still drunk.

He gets to the bathroom and stops dead instantly, knows something is off

Stomach clench of startle, somethings wrong, then relief that its all fine— thats just jim hes seeing—

Seeing him in the mirror??

Gets this feeling like hes falling, like he stepped off a curb and he’s waiting to jerk awake in his bed— but theres nothing. Just falling.

How do i bring in jim.

I think its the same thing. He shuffles to the bathroom, also hungover, and hes complaining.

“Dustinnnn,” dustins own voice complains. He’s gotten over that ‘ugh thats my voice?” feeling a long time ago, but thats for like. Seeing it back on video. Not in his fucking hallway. “Dustin, my heads fucking killing me, don’t hog the bathroom—”

And theres dustin, in the doorway, staring down at jim on the precipice of a panic attack

Chaos

Idk what happens exactly but theres yelling and panic

And they figure out that theyve swapped bodies

Dustin gets excited first. That hes. He’s hot boy jim.

Jim panics a bit more, mostly, “how the fuck are we gonna tell people” but dustins like “iunno maybe itll go back. Maybe we just need to get drunk again tonight.”

Okay i think i want them to both just stand in front of the mirror, both jammed into the bathroom, looking at themselves

Jim says “well, i could lift you way easier now, i bet”

Dustin weakly chuckles, yeah, thats true.

He cant stop looking at himself. At jim’s body. Turning his face, touching his skin— his abs, his muscles.

He looks down at the sink, and its— its higher, or it feels like it is. Doesnt seem like it would hurt his neck the way it does now to look down at it all the time.

Okay i really wanna dwell on dustin looking at jims body. First is the ‘oh the counter is higher now’ and then he really looks in the mirror

Like he makes eye contact with himself. Turns as much as he can to see his back, see him self from an angle he might recognize

And i want him very giddy that hes, like, perfect now. Hot boy abs, his wisdom teeth dont ache, hes-

Hes little.

His eyes trace around his waist, where the gut on his body is. Where its all muscle now. Nothings soft, his body pulls itself to stand straight

“Oh my god,” in a half laugh from next/above him. He looks. “Is that what i look like?”

“What?”

Its weird, seeing his own face smile. Not like for a picture but— like how jim does when he corpses, kinda.

“I look so little” and he puts a big hand on dustins head, slides it sideways and taps his fingers to his jaw. “Oh my god.”

And jim always gets a little combative when dustin would point this out. Now that hes on the other side— losing 5 inches of height, dustin should be just the same

Whens he ever done what he should, tho

He looks in the mirror again, and looks at him and his body. Jim measuring his height to the jaw was generous, still, they could go chin to crown of skull.

It made dustin go hot and pink thinking about.

AND THATS IT IM SORRY

#dustjim #off the cuff

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tooxmanyxships · 11 months ago

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Hiii, i have a prompt for Maxiel if thats alright? Would be *is that my shirt?* But also with like gettin together? If nah thats good too. Thanks ❤️

Ah Maxiel, my beloved ❤️‍🩹

Have some soccer AU

Being in a changing room full of men was always quite a....mess. With the lack of a better word.

Clothes were strown around haphazardly, so at the end of training or match, they always had to look around to find their clothes.

Some already looked for theirs before they hit the showers. Others just jumped straight under the water stream.

It was always funny to see grown men scramble around in search of their shirts or even pants sometimes.

It was easy to leave without a shirt. Without some pants would be a little more frowned upon.

Sometimes shirts were just being forgotten in the changing room.

Or they ended up with someone the shirt didn't belong to.

That's exactly what happened to Max.

Max hated walking around without a shirt. Sure, when he was on vacation at the beach or on a boat it was fine. But in normal dayly life, Max always wore a shirt.

The problem was---he couldn't find it.

He thought he placed it on the seat on the bench beside where he was seated, but it wasn't there anymore.

He looked a second time. And a third. Even looked underneath it. His shirt wasn't there.

He looked around the room and finally found it. Or at least he thought he did.

Until he pulled it on and it was just a little too big on him.

He was the only one in the changing room. The others were still in the showers.

He simply didn't feel like waiting on them to ask whose shirt this was, so he just pulled it on and left.

He always was the first one to get there and the first one to leave. Nobody would be surprised.

~~*~~

Max was late. He hates being late.

He quickly pulled on the first set of clothes that didn't smell too bad, shoved some food down his throat, grabbed his bag and out he went.

By the time he made it to the changing room there were already some guys there, luckily for him they didn't pay him much attention. Only a few eyebrow raises at him being late.

There was one person who seemed to keep on staring at him tho as soon as he dropped his jacket.

Max raised an eyebrow, but their number 3 didn't look away.

Max deliberately turned his back to him as he took off his shirt and got into his training gear.

When he turned around again, he didn't feel any eyes on him anymore.

But that had been a little weird....

~~*~~

It's after the training and all the other guys are hitting the showers, so Max gets out of the way, towel wrapped around his waist.

He pulls on his boxers, then drops the towel. He towels off his hair one more time before pulling on the shirt that's miraculously still in the same spot he left it.

Now he realizes it's that shirt that's just a little too big on him....

"Is that my shirt?"

Max's head whips around. Daniel, their number 3, is standing in the doorway between the showers and the changing room.

Then he starts moving towards Max and Max panics.

"Hmm," Daniel touches the hem of his - - - - of Daniel's---- shirt that he's wearing, inspecting it. "Yep. That's my shirt, Verstappen."

The way he says his last name makes Max shiver.

Damn.

Damn his stupid crush on this damn man.

"I---" Come on, Max. Speak. "I can give it back."

Daniel lets go of the hem of his - - - the shirt. Runs his hand over the fabric. Over Max's chest

"Nah. You can keep it." A smile. A damn wink. "It suits you, Maxie."

Maxie

Daniel turns around, having no shame in wiggling his towel hidden ass as he walks towards his space on the bench.

Max has no shame in watching that ass wiggle as it walks away either. No matter how stunned he is.

Will there be more of these 2 in this verse? Who knows....

#f1 fanfic #f1 rpf #maxiel #Daniel Ricciardo x max verstappen #Daniel Ricciardo/max verstappen #My writing

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anewkindofme · 7 months ago

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Thank you for the tag @the-flaming-nightmare

This is a look at one of my Whumptober one shots. It's not related to any of my verses, but is an AU of "what if TK went into a coma after his overdose in the pilot, meaning Owen didn't know the reason behind it and called Alex because, ya know, you should call your son's fiance..."

---

A nurse enters as Owen slides his phone back into his pocket. “I need to grab my son’s fiance. I’ll be right back. If you could…” He knows TK is not her only patient. Asking her to babysit is silly…

And yet, the older, grandmotherly-looking nurse smiles. “Of course I can stay with him until you get back, Mr. Strand.”

Owen nods. The first smile since he realized TK was missing forms on his face. “Thank you.”

Alex is still in his work clothes: a suit and tie. He’s looking at his phone when Owen approaches him, only glancing up after the fire captain has to disguise a cough as him clearing his throat. The phone remains in hand.

“What happened?” Alex asks.

“I was hoping you could give us more answers,” Owen says. “I found TK in his apartment this morning. He overdosed.”

Alex stiffens. “What?”

“Did you know he was using?”

“I can confirm he certainly wasn’t before last night,” Alex says slowly. as if he’s carefully choosing his words. “Unless he hid it very well, but I don’t think so.”

“He’s in a medically induced coma,” Owen explains, trying to stay positive as he repeats the story for the 15th time today. “By the time I found him, he was out of it for 6 hours, give or take. They only put him under to help his lungs heal, but they say he should be up within a few days.”

Owen doesn’t give into the negative “almosts” that the doctor rattled off. No. His son will wake up.

He already lost one Tyler, he will not lose another.

Owen draws a deep breath. “What time did you leave his apartment this morning?”

Alex stares at him for a moment. The look on his face brings back Owen’s frown. When he speaks again, his voice is still slow, but now in a condescending manner. “Why would I be at his apartment this morning?”

---

No pressure tag: @pimento-playing-hopscotch, @actualalligator, @snowviolettwhite & @cianmarstoo

#wip wednesday #owen strand #tk strand #alex whatever his last name is #i don't know i don't care #9 1 1 lone star

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crow-aeris · 1 year ago

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WIP | Timkon sicfic ft. damian

This takes place in the Benign feathers verse, bcs i’m absolutely normal about my own au 👍🏼

===

He gasped, clenching his teeth as his dislocated wing was jostled. Tim limped along, forcing open the window to his safehouse before slipping inside.

A low whimper of pain stuttered through his throat as sweat beaded along his skin. His claws dug into the thick material of his pants, and he pressed his forehead against the cool, wooden floor. A feverish haze flitted through his mind, and Tim cursed himself for going while sick. Duke had said he'd take over for Tim, but past-Tim had been an idiot and insisted on going out as Wraith.

The falcon whimpered again, the pain throbbing uncomfortably in time with his heartbeat.

"Wraith!" someone's voice filtered through Tim's ears. Did he forget to disconnect his comm? "Wraith, what's wrong? What happened? Where are you?"

He quivered weakly. Pained chirps and calls for help escaped his lips as his trembling fingers refused to detach from his pants. Tim could hear the voice continue to call for him, but none of the words seemed to register.

There was a whooshing sound followed by something opening and closing. Tim twitched, but he couldn't lift his head from the floor. His chest felt tight, but the falcon couldn't breathe. Where did all the oxygen go?

"What happened, Birdie?" a familiar voice sighed. Dry hands gently lifted Tim's face from the floor and brushed back the sweat-slick hair that clung to his face. The cool skin pressed against his forehead, draining away the heat and peeling off the damp and uncomfortable mask.

Tim chirped weakly, his eyes still closed as he leaned into the person's touch. His claws remain fisted in his pants, and Tim doesn't think he'll be able to let go soon.

"Yeah, his right wing is dislocated, and he's running a pretty high fever," the person said. Tim whimpered at their disapproving tone, tears springing to his eyes as his grip tightened. "No, sweetheart, I'm not mad at you."

Careful fingers tugged through Tim's hair, brushing the strands, untangling the knots, and lightly scratching his scalp.

"Yeah, he's really out of it. I don't think I'll be able to pop his wing back in while he's like this. Can you send Seraph? Yeah, he'll be fine- I need whoever's closest... Okay, thank you," the hands shifted, and Tim was pulled closer into the person's embrace. The movement jostled his wing, and Tim couldn't help the pained gasp.

"I'm sorry. I know it hurts, Tim, I know. It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be alright. Your brother's coming over to help pop your wing in, and you'll be all better. I know you hate it when he finds your safehouses, but I can't fix you up like this. Honestly, this is your fault. Why did you have to go out?" the person sighed, their tone incredibly fond yet equally exasperated. Tim burrowed his face into the crook of their neck, the words passing through his ears like salt through a net.

"You just had to go out patrolling today, didn't you? You know, when we first met, I thought you were gonna be an asshole like all of those other rich Gotham people. You already knew who I was back then, didn't you?

If someone had told little me that I would fall for you of all people, then I would've called them crazy! But... when you died, when I heard your heart stop... God, I think a part of me died with you. Bart just... stopped, and Cassie didn't speak at all afterward. I'm so glad you're back, Tim, and I know I don't tell you this enough, but-"

"Clone."

"... Reaper," the person's tone shifted, and Tim whined and pressed his cheek against the person's.

"Hand him over."

"I… don't think he'd like that very much."

"...Fine. Hold Timothy steady, I don't want him to jerk around and make things worse."

"Will do," they said, and Tim felt a familiar sensation spread across him. It felt similar to a comforting blanket.

Hands grabbed onto his wing, sending a shock of pain through his entire body. But before Tim could react, his wing was popped back into his socket, and he screamed.

"It's okay," the person breathed, their voice close to Tim's ear lips against the strands of his hair as the falcon sobbed, "You're okay, Tim, you're okay."

"Kon," he sobbed, "Conner, Kon- Kon."

The name tasted like a plea and a prayer on Tim's tongue as the tactile telekinesis faded from his skin.

"I'm here," The Kryptonian held him close, and Tim's talons reached up to cling to Kon's back. Tears ran rivers and trails down his face, dampening Kon's shoulders as Tim sobbed and blubbered, "I'm here- I'm here."

"He's running a fever," the other voice commented with disdain, "and delirious."

"You're just jealous that he's clinging onto me instead of you," Kon huffed, his voice bordering on smug under the worry.

"Silence yourself; you are the most inferior Kryptonian I have ever met."

"And you are the most jealous Bat I have ever met," Conner returned as he braced Tim against his hip; the alien was strong enough to carry the vigilante anyway.

Tim leaned back and rubbed his cheek against Kon's face, sighing as his feverish skin cooled slightly. A happy chirp fell from his lip as Kon pressed back, his instincts crowing in glee at the physical contact.

"You are so fortunate that I am susucceptible to diseases."

The vague cotton that stuffed his brain quickly cleared to reveal a bright recognition. Tim blinked open his eyes, wincing at the bright light before peering past Kon's shoulder to see Damian rummaging around the kitchen.

"Tt. Timothy's kitchen is so... bare."

"This isn't his main safe house," Kon said, "I'll try and get him to change into something else. Can you go and grab some medicine or something? Anything to lower his fever before it gets worse."

There was a vague hum before they were moving. Tim's eyes had slipped shut again, and he returned to his boneless state within Kon's arms.

"You're really out of it, aren't you?" Kon mused as he tried to peel a clingy Tim off of him.

He whined, pouting up at Kon when he finally managed to detangle Tim's limbs from his own, a fond smile on his face. "Come back."

"Wow, so demanding," Kon rolled his eyes, "not even a please?"

Tim pouted, "Please?"

"... Okay, that's not fair in the slightest........ Alright fine. C'mon, you shady bird, arms up!"

He grumbled but complied, sighing as Kon carefully tugged the suit off him, and the cool air graced his too-warm skin.

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lenreli · 2 years ago

Text

Day 31 - Reverse!verse [AU]

[AO3] Life!Hob my beloved. Also see wild blue yonder for more Life!Hob goodness!

Dream heaves, axe heavy in his hands as he descends Fawney Rig where Life ― Hob, another name he prefers to be called ― is being held. Life being held has caused insane damage: plants and people growing backwards, decay halted, people dying from something as simple as a papercut, the planet itself switching seasons suddenly, the sun shining bright enough to start making oceans recede.

It’s only been a year, but it feels too long already, especially since he’s been searching for Life, finally ending up here. Even as a run-of-the-mill immortal human that Life kept challenging him for, Dream a bored noble in the 1300s, life itself was hard to think about in full until brown eyes smiled at him and dared for them to meet in 100 years.

Dream’s heart is in his throat as he stares the basement, the guard’s having already met his axe, splattering his black clothes with blood as he stares at the cheery yellow walls, almost a mockery of the entity in a glass sphere, Life naked and curled up in it. “Life!” He wheezes, hands touching the sphere as Life ― blinks, recognition slow before a bright smile appears.

There’s a sound from above, shouting and running as Hob points to the floor ― a golden circle around the sphere, and Dream steps back to wack into the sigils with the axe, ears popping as bullets fly past him, as he pulls the axe back to go into the glass sphere, can feel a bullet in his back, in his leg―

―And golden light engulfs him.

―

Dream wakes with a gasp, looking around to see the green of Fawney Rig, skin tingling and heart beating quickly as he gets his bearing, body feeling ― new, completely reset, the way it is after he’s died. “Dream?” A voice says, and Dream blinks, Life next to him, dressed in a simple dark blue suit, brown-and-gold eyes worried as a hand cups his jaw. Dream inhales sharply, the spark of Life touching him bright and zinging through him.

“You’re okay?” He asks, voice rough and Hob smiles, the sparkling gold in his eyes dimming.

“Not at all ― but I’ll start getting better again, thanks to you,” Life says, eyes flickering over beside them. “I went a bit overboard,” Hob muses, and Dream looks over to find ― nothing, an abyss of nothing, only black and dark and nothing where Fawney Rig used to be, all the way down into the Earth, the blackness of it consuming and piercing― “sorry,” Hob pulls his face back to him, aching head receding, “that couldn’t of been a fun death to come back from,” he says with a grimace.

“As long as you are out of there, it didn’t matter,” he says, body still feeling new and tingling as he takes a breath, the smell of nature now right and fresh and Hob beams at him, eyes going a full amber and gold and Dream’s so ― relieved, that his friend can still smile so after this, that he’s not trapped anymore ― that he can even see Hob’s smile again, after that year of anxiety and catastrophizing. Dream, almost out of his control, leans forward to kiss Hob deeply, hands going up to the other’s beard.

Hob gasps, kissing him back, body warm and solid as Dream falls onto him, and Dream shivers as rough hands go under his shirt, “Life-affirming sex, right?” Hob asks with a grin, and Dream freezes, mind catching up to his body, “this isn’t a no, just asking,” Hob kisses his jaw and Dream relaxes.

“Yes,” he breathes, so desperately relieved as Hob smiles, surging up to meet him as they kiss, as clothes get unravelled, and Dream can feel vines and flower stems grabbing onto his legs and arms as warm hands touch his dick, vines winding around his thighs. “Hob,” he pleads as they rut against each other.

#dc #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fanfic #smuly 2023 #dreamling smuly #dream x hob #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #writing #not sfw #another month done yay~

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cactusracoon · 1 year ago

Text

TIM DRAKE AU HEADCANONS!!

______________________

Omega Verse

_________

Bruce is an Alpha

Dick is a Beta

Jason is an Alpha

Tim is an Omega

Damian is an Alpha

Cass is a Beta

Duke is a Beta

Steph is an Alpha

Babs is an Alpha

Alfred is a Beta

_____

Tim is the only omega because he's the Wayne Pack's Omega. Tim's nest is well The Nest, though he claims that it's not. He also has a nest in his room at the Manor where he normally spends his heats.

Tim can't take heat suppressants because of his antibiotics for his lack of spleen. He tends to hide his heats because that's what he had to do at Drake Manor.

Janet and Jack were going to marry him off when he got his first heat but Jason nabbed up after the scent of neglect, sadness, and fear filled the room one back while they were doing a school project.

Tim has stabbed a guy for trying to grab him while he was stalking Batman.

When Dick saw he promptly beat the shit out of the guy and didn't let Tim go till he dropped him off at Drake Manor.

The other Wayne Pack members tried to intimidate Tim's boyfriend Bernard but it didn't work all that well. They couldn't do that to the poor kid after they smelled pain come from him. He now comes over for family brunch.

_____________________

High School/Teacher Au

_________

Bruce is the Principle

Dick is a senor

Jason is a Junior

Tim is a freshman

Steph is a sophmore

Duke is a freshman

Babs is a senor

Cass is a Junior

Damian hasn't been born yet

______________

Tim meets Jason and Dick though theater club. Tim joined to do back stage work while Dick and Jason joined to be in the plays.

Jason actually didn't like Tim at the beginning. He was to quiet, to small to be a freshman, and far to good at back stage work for a 14 year old.

Dick on the other hand latched onto the freshman. He basically adopted him as his school child which confused Tim immensely.

Tim has a habit of working himself sick. Once Jason warmed up to him he started aggressively taking care of him. Oh you didn't eat lunch yet? Here's a bag of chips thrown at your head. Haven't drank water? Ok I'll just shove it down your throat. You haven't slept? OK you are going to nap in the back seat of my car while I go run some errands.

Tim likes to help with set painting and costume design.

The rest of Dicks and Jason's friend groups noticed how attached they got to the small black haired freshman and promptly also got attached.

Tim is just confused through it all.

________________

GIVE ME MORE AUS TO HEADCANON PLZ!!!

#dc #timbern #tim drake #batman #bruce wayne #red robin #damian wayne #tim drake & dick grayson #tim drake & Jason todd #tim drake headcanon #au headcanons #high school au #omegaverse au #we love clueless Timmy #god just give him a hug omg

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kitakami-zorua-kin · 9 months ago

Text

//ooc post

helloooo im not dead as i think i mentioned in the tags of my last post i just. dont have a ton of inspiration right now because unfortunately for my pokemon blogs starrail has grabbed me by the throat (i am fighting The Demons. the demons say start a honkai star rail rp blog. i Should Not but i have Many OCs and am Very Tempted). however that said i would still like to do things here. so. i am thinking. an Event. so,,, what would y'all prefer to see, i guess...? (i am being Indecisive and don't want to make decisions)

uhhh. okay so HSR Russet is one of the honkai star rail versions of russet i've made because i fling this poor guy into whatever media i'm obsessed with. little darker than the normal blog tone on account of uh... honkai star rail being Like That. everything would be tagged though. would essentially be a "faller" with his memories intact spending some time in the pokemon verse trying very hard to get back to his universe. lots of lore, lots of silly. little alien guy is Very Lost.

time shenanigans are... pretty self explanatory. you either see russet post-healing or pre-horrors (well. partially. the horrors of Growing Up In Kitakami are Still There, unfortunately). i can simply take advantage of the fact that hiroki the beloved does have a very mischievous Celebi. could also be fun and interesting and a cool way to explore the character.

uhhh random shenanigans!! either you guys pick an event for me or if i don't get suggestions i go to my beloved groupchat in which one (1) person is involved in pkmn irl and get them to give me an event scenario and go with whatever nonsense they craft up.

#//ooc post #//mod posting #//event planning #//anyways hello friends who read tags. i mentioned health issues in my last post #//i have an appointment to find out if i do or do not have POTS lmao. but uh. yeah that's what's been happening #//im just verrrry tired a lot still despite some new medicines that were supposed to fix that #//it's a little better but not a lot?? so. in diagnosis limbo currently

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cephalog0d · 1 year ago

Note

"He could smell something warm and full of aromatic spices, which was a good sign nothing had gone disastrously wrong. The door was mostly closed and Damian had music playing, so Bruce couldn’t make out any individual words, but he could faintly hear Damian speaking in Arabic. He caught an exasperated exclamation of “Mother”, followed by slightly tinny laughter from Talia over the phone, but it was much more performative than genuinely distressed, so he decided to leave them to it."

I was finally reading Comfort Food and this paragraph grabbed me by the throat!!! Like adult Damian calling him mom just to cook for his baby brother and they're having a fun/pleasant time?? I NEED the DVD commentary

Biggest Brother Damian does all sorts of little nice and helpful things for his siblings but if you make a big deal about it and call it out he gets real awkward. XD He's like a brownie, he can only do nice things if no one's calling attention to it. (That's mostly a joke, but a little bit true that he's a lot better at actions than words. He is, in some ways, his father's son and not so great at the whole "using your words to express affection" thing, so he just does stuff for them instead. Like making soup! Because feeding people is a great way to show you care without actually having to talk about it much! See also: Damian throwing a granola bar directly at Tim's face when he's been on the computer too long without a break, because they get along better now but they don't get along that well.)

I was thinking about the fact that Dick's life has been totally upended, and how beyond losing his parents he's also lost a whole slew of other things that were familiar and comforting, and then thinking about parallels there with Damian having to adjust to living in Gotham/with Bruce (compared to Tim and Jason who were at least from Gotham already; Cass has her own complicated relationship with her childhood vs her time with Bruce that's kind of a different thing than just a change in culture). And that led to thinking about food, specifically, in that context and here we are!

And the great thing about doing an AU is that you get to choose if/how you want to incorporate canon and in my case I am BLATANTLY IGNORING all of the "Talia is a horrible, abusive parent" canon and letting her actually be a good mom, dammit. (At least within the bounds of her being a somewhat morally ambiguous comic book character. Good parenting is kind of a sliding scale in the DC verse, and particularly in the Bat verse.) She's not a perfect parent, but neither is Bruce (and they share some of the same parenting flaws! Like extremely high expectations for themselves and everyone around them, or weird ideas about what knowledge and training is and isn't appropriate for a child to take part in, or having very strong opinions on What's Best For Damian that don't necessarily align with each other OR with Damian himself and have definitely never been a three-way point of contention at any point during his childhood).

There's been some rough patches over the years, but by this point Damian is on mostly good terms with both of his parents, and while he mostly lived in Gotham growing up (after the point where he actually met Bruce, obviously) he did also split his time visiting Talia in various parts of the world for various lengths of time, depending on what exactly she was up to. (Yes, as he has acquired more and more younger siblings he has started bringing gifts back for them. He says it's because they won't shut up and leave him alone if he doesn't, but you know. Literally no one believes that.)

His phone call to Talia here definitely consisted of equal parts helpful instruction in what to do and deeply unhelpful commentary on the state of Bruce's pantry and what he does and doesn't keep stocked. Or honestly probably a lot more of her dragging Bruce and less actual help. Damian definitely just asked her to text him a recipe and instead she was like "Nope, phone call" and he only complained like twice about how a text would've been easier when she spent like five minutes explaining what not to use instead of actually offering a suitable substitution.

(This story also sent me down a rabbit hole trying to research what type of food different parts of the world consider "sick people food", a la chicken noodle soup in the US, and mostly consisted of me being frustrated that the first page of results was almost entirely the same list of a dozen things repackaged by different sites, and then it devolved into articles with titles about "what country's food will make you sick?" Super helpful, internet, thanks. I did find a big reddit thread that was somewhat helpful, once I skimmed past all the answers that weren't really an answer or didn't bother to say where they were talking about. And it's funny because it was a very minor detail that got glossed over anyway due to the POV involved. Whoops. But I have several recipes I want to make now?)

#fic commentary #ceph writes things #reverse robins #damian wayne

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