#ravage of red lamp

[ariadne-mouse]

[samcat18]

This candela obscura party continues to absolutely knock it out of the park, character/party comp is fantastic and these players gel so well and bounce off each other, and the mysteries matt is presenting are really interesting?? Especially this one is such a who-dunnit, i'm fascinated 🤩

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

to leave the blood stay in the veins

monster!könig x f!rcursed!reader (no use of 'y/n') 6.6k words NSFW!

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT‼️CW: extremely NSFW, descriptions of gore, implied consumption of human flesh by a non-human monster, mention of necrotic curse, monsterfucking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, knotting (no omegaverse), outdoor sex, ambiguous ending, pre-established relationship, 0% proofread, könig and reader are both fucking unhinged.

Day 01 of the Haunted Hoedown Challenge by @/inklore

taboo au (monsterfucking) + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into." + oh no i'm dating the town serial killer

There is a beast in the woods, and it leaves so little meat on the bone that not even carrion birds find value in the corpses it leaves behind.

It’s a strange town in the foothills of the Austrian Alps, full of little sicknesses hiding in the corners, and you learned them well when you moved here. No one goes past the treeline at night. Hardly anyone is outside of home if they can help it. Tourists are the beast’s fodder.

Your boyfriend thinks it’s funny. 

König, under his ever-present hood–a not altogether uncommon sight in your town, people come here when they have something to hide, something they are uncomfortable with or find hideous in themselves, and he has given an unimaginable amount for you out of love–laughs, sharp in the tooth.

“Anyone dumb enough to head into the trees is dumb enough to die,” he teases, but there is an arrogance and a contempt swimming deep in his bloodshot blue eyes. 

“That’s coldblooded, but not wrong,” you tell him, from behind your own mask. Plain thing, blank in expression, modeled from the one from Eyes Without A Face. It covers the ravages of a curse, numb necrosis slowly spreading up your face through the years. “I still want you to get me a gun.”

“What’s a gun going to do against a thing like that?” he asks, tilting his head, the hood bagging off the curled horns that start at his temples and sweep back over his ears. “Something like that, you need silver. I’ll get you a knife. Big one. Nice and fucking sharp, Schatzi.”

The knife isn’t a comfort when the beast begins to hunt in town. It stalks from house to house, preying on people in their beds, their living rooms, their bathtubs–there is no rhyme or reason, not a whit of discernable pattern. 

Only teeth-gouged bones and viscera ground into wall, tile, and carpet alike. Your neighbor falls victim, and you watch the police from your window, flinching when a veteran officer stumbles out into the fall-frosted grass to vomit, sobbing and pulling his hair.

“It got Emil,” you say, still watching through your sheer curtains. 

König nearly cackles from your bed, lounging as he visits. “Good. Emil was a piece of shit. Depperte Fut.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, over your shoulder, before returning back to the circus in the yard next door. “‘Stupid cunt’ is a pretty strong insult. He was an asshole, but I don’t think he deserved to die like that,” you mumble.

“You don’t know all that much about your neighbors, Schatzi.”

You begin to rock side-to-side on your hips, the enormous silver blade König gifted you turning over and over in your hands, the point digging lightly into your palm. 

It’s insane, the way you begin to tell yourself that you’ve seen König’s face nearly everyday for the last two years—you can see it right now. He lies on your bed, pointed teeth gleaming under his split philtrum in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp and the red-blue flash of the cruisers. You know there is a man under the hood, however odd and satyr-seeming.

And yet. And yet.

The blade digs a little too deep, drawing a curse-blackened bead of blood. König’s eyes burn into the back of your neck, and you can only guess his horizontal pupils dilate into black holes. 

Just quit your job. I’ll take care of you.

It’s a simple enough promise, and one you know König will keep, but not one you’re willing to make. You have few shreds of independence, hard-bought through years of fighting back against misfortunes and setbacks, and, no matter the depths with which you love him, you’re not willing to trade your shit wage on faith for love of a man. It doesn’t matter how helplessly besotted he is. 

It’s this molar-cracking grit that delivers you right to the beast. Because you were forced to pick up an extra half shift at the hotel to fold towels behind the front desk, because you needed the money, because you wanted to pay back your beautiful, bloodthirsty boyfriend for the ridiculous blade he begat you. 

The god forsaken thing lumbers down a deserted street, blocks from your little rental, and something fucking horrendous seizes you. It’s enormous, walking on cloven hooves and back-bent legs. Its arms are too fucking long, clawed, jagged. And worst is the skull, bleached white and glowing like a beacon in the dark, an enormous rack of brutally sharp horns dripping trinkets of bone and gold that glints in the street lamp it approaches. 

A horrible fact hits you. It’s not lumbering, it’s wandering. Putting a massive, craggy hand on fences and peering into houses, taking its time, evaluating. You swear you can almost hear it humming. 

You don’t know when your hand found the handle of the silver blade strapped to your belt under your coat, but the leather on the grip bites your palm with the force of your grip, a nauseous, cold sweat terror tearing apart your ability to think. 

It’s a primal fear, one that makes you want to protect your soft, vulnerable neck, even if the blood that warms it runs venomous. 

It’s a bad choice, but there are no good ones. When the beast lifts its head and scents the air, skull snapping your direction and shaking its grisly trophies, you run. You snap the huge blade off your hip and drop into a dead sprint, cutting between yards, trying to escape the horrendous bellow that reverberates through the bony chambers of the monster’s skull.

Choosing to run instead of freezing maybe bought you a few extra minutes before death decided it was time to seize your pulse in reclamation, and it hurts. The physical exertion it takes to bomb through the last stretches of suburbia before the forest closes in feels like you are breaking every bit of your body by forced choice, listening to that awful fucking thing chase after you. 

Your blade makes a slicing sound cutting through the air at your side, the monster’s hooves pound the dirt as it digs in and chases after you, but, good god, it doesn’t sound like it’s even trying.

You don’t dare look back, pushing your body past agony, your lungs shredding in your chest. You’ve never moved this fast, you’ve never run this hard for this long. Your body is TV static—hissing, popping, distant—and, insanely, the urge to cry drills into your eye sockets.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die, stupidly and dumbly and pointlessly, because you wanted to pay your boyfriend a stupid sum of fucking money, for a stupid fucking knife that he bought you on a stupid fucking joke. 

Two meters from the second worst decision of your life, the monster snaps out, rough hand between your shoulder blades, crashing you into the goddamned dirt. Your eyebrow splits on a tree root, your eyes roll in the back of your head, your hand stays manically tight on the blade, slicing your other arm. 

“Schaaaatzi,” the miserable fucking thing hisses, pressing that same hand between your shoulder blades, pinning you into the freezing dirt. 

Oh, god, no, it has König’s voice. It’s—it’s not him, but it has his voice, thin and washed out as low-hung fog, but you would know that voice. In hell, in high water, in the dirt with a massive, bark-rough hand grinding your skin raw through your coat—you - know - his - voice. 

Furiously, you slash the blade over your head, behind your back, screaming and digging your feet in the dirt. For a brief second, as you hack at the wood of the monster’s hand and wrist, you’re even able to push yourself off the ground by mere inches. The beast growls and shoves you back down twice as hard, knocking the wind out of you, spasming your hand open. The knife drops, and you begin to blindly try digging and dragging yourself away. 

“Stop…hurting…me,” the beast lows, still in your boyfriend’s voice, and you imagine a bathtub full of gnawed bones, a living room with scattered body parts, your kitchen smeared with blood like cave wall art, and you start to scream as loud as your lungs will allow, your mask filling with dirt in your horrendous and futile bid to escape. Bloody murder bellows, filled with rage, wanting to kill and consume and conflagrate.

If König is dead, you will take your pound of flesh. You will either die fighting, or win, and you will hack apart this freak-fuck’s corpse to burn in your woodstove to warm your home. You’ll mount its fucking skull on your front door, so anything else in these woods will know you won’t hesitate to make trophies of them either. 

Bone, warm to the touch, presses against the back of your head. When it breathes, the air is as hot as exhaust, almost scalding your back. “Schatzi,” it bids you slowly once again.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” it rips your throat raw to shriek it, reaching back and almost dislocating your arms to rip at anything you can. Your hands fall on the dressings attached to its horns, you tear off a vertebra, and a gold wedding band, and a bracelet of rave kandi in plastic beads. “IF YOU HURT HIM, I’LL YOU FUCKING KILL YOU!”

The head presses harder, driving your face into the dirt. There is something desperate in the pressure. It spits all at once, grating and wide in a voice you know better than your own, “You pissed off a fucking witch, because you ran out of riddles to tell her, when she was ransoming you to your arshloch grandmother. She never paid. That’s why you were cursed—no one gave a fuck. But I gave her my face for you, to stop it halfway, better than fucking nothing.”

Your rage freezes immediately, your chest heaving under the weight it presses down on you. 

No one knows that. Only König. He’s the only person who would know about his lonely and quiet climb up to the Scottish highlands. Besides you, and the witch, König is the only one who would know why his human face was distorted, malformed, made animalistic. 

“Lee?” you pant, unleashing part of his first name, the only one he ever tolerates. And, fuck, instantly the pressure pulls away, the skull rubbing against your back to soothe it.

“It’s me, Schatzi,” the slow voice promises, nuzzling you. There’s rustling above you that you don’t dare turn to see. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

A tinkling piece of jewelry lowers in front of your eyes, and you can see that it dangles from an enormous, ligneous finger. You’re being shown a sterling silver charm bracelet. You’re being shown your bracelet, the one you thought you had lost months ago. 

Your hand shoots out, wrapping around the finger, the peeling bark shearing off under your grip. You find instantly that you can pull yourself up on your hip, sitting, caged and protected under the beast’s massive body—under König’s massive body. 

He shifts back onto his digitagrade haunches, holding himself over you, still offering your bracelet. He shudders at your touch on his hand, and you imagine that he may’ve never been handled with kindness in this shape. Which makes a certain amount of sense. Because he fucking kills and eats people.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, staring dead into the hollow sockets of his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, turning his head. “Why—you have me so fucked up—what have you been thinking—?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, do you have to—”

“Yes, I have to, fucker.” It’s impossible to wrap your head around the magnitude of what a simple secret and a silver bracelet has done to your understanding of the world. A complete unraveling—upheaval, utterly. 

You take the bracelet from his finger, on which it fits like a ring, and push it into your wrist, sitting up on your knees and grabbing him by the underside of his jaw. Though it puts you in his blind spot, staring dead center at the sinus dimples between his eyes, it feels like you have a mote of power over him. 

(If he were asked, he would say the power you hold over him could corrupt, absolutely. He would badly like you to ask someday.)

“Why are you—what are you? Have you always been like this? Or was this new, with the fucking witch? Are—Jesus Christ—why are—the monster isn’t supposed to come into town, why are you in TOWN?” you run off at the mouth, words stalling and crashing and fusing together as your thoughts overwhelm just how quickly you can speak. 

And up from that impossibly deep throat–simultaneously from the center of your brain, and from all around you all at once–crawls König’s pitchy hyena-laugh, edged, always, with cruelty. He butts the jagged end of his nasal cavities into your stomach, catching on the threads of your sweater. 

“Leshy, Schatzi, say it for me.”

Your hands pull his jaw closer, digging the bone into your stomach, wondering if he can feel the pressure of your deep breathing. Oh, fuck, you could crack. This is your König. You start to wonder how many of his perverse buttons you can hit, the part of you that felt shame for your attraction to what the world discarded as ‘ugly’ long ago removed from your emotional bank.

“Leshy,” you say, really leaning into the word, saying it deep in your chest. One of your hands travels the long length to the hinge of his jaw, gripping tight, directing his head to turn so you can meet one of his empty eyes. “Answer my fucking questions.”

The laugh doesn’t come this time. In its place is a near-violent whole-body shudder that wracks through you. 

“Old! Alwaaays been this way,” and even in the strange disconnect of his voice from his physical form, you can tell his arousal is eating away at him in big bites–clipping his speech, broiling his brain with body heat, “can’t remember ever being young, haa-haa. And why do you think I’m hunting in town?”

Another trap, a stupid pop quiz, wanting to test your knowledge of him, or a gotcha! to check your observations and what you had missed.

Your hands get tighter, and you pull his jaw open, marveling at the sharp grooves ground into his teeth, like nightmarish, ivory rook pieces, tall and straight in the dry sockets. His chest begins to heave, his breath fogging into steaming clouds over your hands, and, remarkably, it smells like nothing at all apart from pin needles and snow.

You’d thought you’d smell decaying flesh or rotten blood. The only blood you can smell comes from your own busted brow and sliced arm, crusting black on your skin and in the fabric of your sweater as it coagulates.

“If I was working on a hunter’s instincts, I would say that Schladming has become too good at keeping people out of the forests. Even during daylight hours. It cuts down on prey,” you say, ice cold and clean as a slit throat. Your eyes flick back up to the socket, surrounded by the feeling that those glass-blue eyes of his humanoid form are drilling into you. He’s waiting for you to hit the hook. “But I’m working on your logic.”

“Oh, yeeaah,” he drawls, his hips shifting, and you feel as if he would bite his lips in anticipation now, if he could. 

“Oh, yeeaah,” you echo him, “the logic of a fucking crazy asshole.” He feels like a huge grin, hands on his muscular, bunched, and flexing thighs. That detail is not lost on you. “You’re hunting in town because you’re pissed off. You reached a limit, and you got tired of sitting on your fucking reaction.”

You swear to god he moans a little. Just softly. It could be a breath, but you know him too well to dismiss it out of hand. 

“That’s good, Schatzi. I like that. I like that you figured that out,” he says, definitely panting in rhythm now, his fogging breath giving away the rhythm secondary. “People are looking at you too much. I don’t fucking like it when they look at you too much.”

That’s a sudden thought that had not occurred to you, and you lash yourself silently because it hadn’t. König has always been possessive of you. Jealous. Protective. And he held grudges in ways that could spark blood feuds and successive generations of death.

Like a curse.

It’s a testament to how fucking cracked and perfectly matched the two of you are that you start laughing, stroking his orbital bones in big, pleased pats, kissing the bridge of his nose. 

“Schatzi, please,” he groans, pressing into you insistently. “Promise you won’t tell. Promise me.”

“Why the fuck would I tell?” you laugh, losing track of your faculties, your very sense. What does it matter? What does it all even mean? You’ve found a man that loves you so deeply and truly and twistedly that he slaughters those who desire or deign you. You’ve found, and fallen in love with a man that would sell his face to save as much of yours as he could. “Who the fuck would I tell?”

The slope of his shoulders relaxes, and he moves closer to you, once again shielding you with the massive bulk of his body, warming you in the cold air. Tucked under his chin, you can study the soft suede-like material of his body, how the bark covering his arms gives way to a ruff of dense, double-layered fur around his shoulders and his long, muscular neck. 

The rest of the muscle on him is horrendously hard, flexed like steel cabling under a layer of fat. There is something about this body that reminds you of the shape of the human one so well–long legs, a nipped waist, and flat hips built to strut and rock, all of it buttressing a broad set of shoulders.

You press your face into the ruff, pushing your fingers into it. Dear god, your hand goes deeper and deeper, and it just never seems to stop. His scent is–it’s almost familiar. He’s in there, somewhere–his musk, the metallic tang of blood seemingly sunken into his skin–but there’s so much more to it. Green, and earthy, almost like soil and moss. 

A sound comes from his body, like a house settling. A deep, broad creak. The trophies on his horns rattle together, clinking like dull wind chimes. “More,” he says simply, leaving you to figure it out. Simple enough.

Your hand drops from the ruff, tracing over his convex chest, down to his stomach. Another shudder, and he pulls those big arms around your entire body, a fuller, more protective hug than you’ve ever felt. 

“Schatzi–would you let me…” he breathes, a heaving sigh. 

Another laugh cracks out of you, hysterical, constricted by your mask. Why not? Why shouldn’t you? You’ve always been a woman that loves monsters. You, yourself, are one. You can’t find a reason to halt your hands, nor your body, nor his desire.

In an odd show of tip-to-tail, you push the mask off your face, and kick off your boots, going for your zipper. “Yeah. Yeah, honey, come on. Show me,” you urge him, pawing at his massive waist as you struggle out of your jeans. 

He groans and this obscene trill escapes his body–a low, rattling moan that travels miles through every cell of your body, his legs spreading wider. You laugh in delight and mania, watching rapt as his cock slides out of a sheath you hadn’t even caught sight of, his monstrous body a foreign land you hadn’t traveled yet, but, fuck, do you want to learn the lands well enough to call them home. 

It’s heavy in your hands, a little slick, and, childishly, you almost giggle (holy shit, that is a sound that has never left your mouth in your living memory, and yet, here you are). It’s hot, hotter than you expected, and a vulnerable shade of pale, like a plant slip. Oh, and it’s elegant, almost spiraling. He huffs as you stroke the length of it, pushing your fingertips into his sheath at the base. 

“I don’t think this is gonna fit,” you warn him, and it somehow feels as if you’re challenging yourself with the statement.

He takes it as a challenge for himself, though, and an aspiration to hold for you, “You are going to take all of it. I’m going to make sure.”

His massive hand comes to the back of your waist, finding your fulcrum without needing to search, pulling you off your knees to hold to beneath him. “You naked yet, or still fucking around?” he asks, breathing heavily, and you shove your jeans off the rest of the way. 

“You’re being a little bitch,” you snipe, a dumb swipe at reclaiming dignity after you realize you’re so wet that it slicks your thighs, having darkened the crotch of your freshly abandoned jeans pathetically. 

He throws another coarse laugh, haa-haa, shifting his massive body long, pulling you into place. 

It’s on you, then, to figure out the logistics. Somehow, it just works, even through layers of physical translation. Under your hands, he reads König, loud and clear. 

There’s a brief, flighty moment of terror as you rub the head of his cock between the lips of your cunt, rolling your hips to stimulate your clit against it. It is just fucking enormous, almost half again the size of his human cock. But then you grit your teeth, tipping your weight back so your shoulders rest against the dirt, bleak and unyielding ruthlessness seizing your mind.

You do not back down, you have never done it once in your life, and tonight is no different. 

His head lifts, bottom jaw dropping, and he bays as you push yourself down on his length. The sound crashes into you, rocking your entire body, and the stretch burns, but you buckle down. What are the people in the houses just at the edge of suburbia thinking? Has the fucking abberation that has been slowly killing its way through their number taken to a different form of punishment? Has someone unlucky fallen to its new tastes?

It cuts your mouth into a horrid grin. If they only knew that you were no victim at all, if only they had an inkling of the fact that you are a victor. That you are the hand holding this nightmare’s collar, and he attacks for the sake of you.

Inch by inch, a slow journey, he fills you, pressing completely against your walls, body shaking with the effort it takes not to thrust fully into you. Oh, what destruction that would result in, what a wreckage that would make of your body, what lengths he would go to not ruin you in such a fashion.

“Fuck–fuck–Liebes,” he mutters, just for you, the moment he is as deep in you as he can go, most of his length still outside of what your body can handle, pleading, “I can’t–I. I have to move. Please, meine Liebes.”

“Go. Go-go-go,” you answer back, almost frantic, too full and occupied, needing motion or you might split apart into atoms. The way he answers is instant, undeniable, desperate, rocking into you as if testing waters, going faster as if he finds them warm and welcoming. 

You lose yourselves to it, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, gripping onto the elbow of the arm suspending you, blood rushing to your head in an ache from the way you hang off him, forcing you lightheaded. Sap-like blood from where you’d hacked at him in rage drips down your arm, your waist, clinging to your skin in a way that feels permanent. 

He tenses all around you, panting, clouds of steam fogging the air over your head from his pants. Words escape him, leaving nothing but animalistic grunts, the grinding of his dry, exposed teeth as your desperate pussy sucks him deeper and tighter.

You’d taught him as a human to find your g-spot, to destroy your brain with a steady climb, and he doesn’t even need to search now, every movement pressing every inch of his cock into it, and unrelenting onslaught that makes you shake and nearly drool, being fucked like a sacrifice. 

König raps his other fist above your head and pulls out without warning, shaking his head and breathing roughly. 

You imagine brutally grabbing him by the scruff and biting his ear–what kind of punishment would that even be, no worse than a bug bite to him, more likely than anything else–for the loss of his cock. Mostly just an impulsive fantasy, too barbaric and stupid to actually act upon, but you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, and it feels like hell to be split open against him with nothing inside you.

Breathless–and naked, sweating, and trembling in the woods–you start to sit up on your elbows, cunt throbbing. "What is it? Are you okay?" you ask, your love for him–your fear for him–overwhelming even your damnation-worthy starvation. 

König, massive and so dark he's almost indistinguishable from the night apart from his skull, shakes his head again and puts up a clawed hand. Fine, the gesture says, and you’re realizing he’s beyond words now, but trying his best to communicate. Then he curls it into a loose fist and pantomimes masturbating and finishing.

"Christ!" But you’re laughing, tugging at a tuft of fur on his chest, spun out in your giddiness. It’s still him, you’ve already known, but to see it. To find him through this–this utterly new reality. "They teach you that signal in the forces?"

In his hollow sockets, twisting his body to watch you closely, he looks pleased with himself, ducking forward, bracing on his free hand to one side of your head as he nuzzles into your neck and breathes deeply.

He huffs, rough fingers running over your back, claws trailing the parts of your spine he can reach as he holds you, before he taps the side of your thigh with his other hand. At your eye level, he turns his finger in a slow loop. Roll over, maybe? It's worth a shot.

"Okay. Alright," you sigh, relieved. When you try to roll in his palm, he shakes his head and sets you down, pressing down against your body, pushing his arm under your ribs. With his other hand, he gestures a flat line on the ground. You ask, "On my stomach?"

Two knocks against the ground next to your head. Yes.

You stretch out flat over the frost-crisp grass, too hot to even register the chill against your bare skin, and König lowers with you, sliding the arm under you down to your diaphragm. With his knuckles, he taps your outer-thighs until they're drawn back together, and your breathing hitches when you understand what he intends.

With his legs on the outside of yours, he uses his free hand to run his cock up the length of your seam to tease your pussy, but he takes his sweet time with it. Impatient, you slide onto your knees with near-perfect timing, driving your entrance against his head, snarling with indignation when he bows away. "Fucker!"

He rumbles something almost humanoid, between a laugh and a gruff, trilling ‘rrrr’ you recognize as cousin to a sharp, challenging hum he makes when faced with an idiot comment in his human shape.

"Stop teasing me. I can't stand it," you try instead, turning to give him big eyes over your shoulder because you know that it works well on him.

He bends down and barely-barely nips the top of your ear, a startling move that leaves you perfectly inflamed all over again again. Greedy brat, it says to you, so pleased in the fact he is so desperately wanted. 

The feeling of him inside you is extraordinary. He lubricates in this state, but you hardly need it with the nearly absurd way you’re wet, slick down your thighs. You wonder if your cunt is glimmering under the dim moon and streetlamps, because he'd said that to you once. Heilige sheiße, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen, could just stare at how wet you get for me forever, he'd laughed during one delirious, marathon session of staying sunken between your legs.

He begins to rock his hips, growling quietly and pleased at the wet sounds of your of cunt squelching around him–another sound he enjoys, a marker of pride, how wet can I make my girl get–settling onto his forearm and pressing a little weight against your back. 

He rests his head across your shoulders, burying his snout in your hair, breathing in hard-bought bursts of restraint.

"Yes, honey," you almost seethe, loosening your body, giving up a little of your own iron will to become just a little lost in the feeling of him. You relax your walls in a bid to take more of him, breathing tight, voice pitching up into a plea, "Yes, baby, that's perfect. That's so perfect, keep going. Just like that."

He rocks a little faster, thrusts a little deeper, breathes a little harder. The hand around your waist shifts up to your breast, but isn't dexterous enough to do more than give it an encompassing squeeze. 

With your thighs pressed together, you feel as if your body can't stretch properly to take as much of him as you want (and you want all of him, every burning hot inch, fucking him so well that he cannot disappear into one of his miseries where he will not let you follow, because they all live in his head). 

He ratchets back his speed, tries a new motion with his hips. He rolls instead of thrusting, a more fluid movement, brushing your insides in new ways that leave your swollen clit screaming for attention and your eyes watering. You breathe in ragged pants, fingers digging into the turf over your head, trying not to rip it with the force of your grip by the fistful.

You might cum. You might cum. You want to cum, and you might, and he's so much deeper now, panting hot as fire against your shoulders. You can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench and dance, his horns cutting the air in swipes of agitation above you, and he is so much this way. König: bigger, sometimes bloodier, but always so, so amplified.

"Honey, honey, honey," you whine in a chant under your breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to encourage him. You squeeze your thighs together for the extra stimulation, but you know you’re going to orgasm from him alone, no extra assistance needed. You’re just greedy, you just want it all, but you want him the worst.

When he pulls out this time, you snarl loud and gnash your teeth, digging your dirt-packed nails into his unyielding skin. You were full to the brim and on the wire-edge of climax, and he is so suddenly fucking gone it's almost as abrupt as violence. 

"KÖNIG!" you shout, his callsign cutting from between your teeth like the desire to slit a throat, shattering the quiet around you both, reeling to find him with your burning eyes. 

He collapses onto his side, cock jumping and leaking, and he whines deep in his throat, pulling at you with the flat of his hand. Your thigh, then his hip, your chest, then his–more hand signals, a story-told like a man with a sucking chest wound needing saving. He snakes his arm under you again, whining growing deeper, and you understand.

You roll, throwing your thigh over his hip, tucking tight against his chest. You give yourself one second of feeling cool air against your overheated pussy before you take him in hand and direct him home, and his deep, slick slide into you knocks the air out of your lungs like a punch to the solar plexus. 

You’re only seconds away, and he can't be much farther, driving his head under yours to give you something to rest on that isn't the ground.

You don't utilize his offering, craning your neck as if you'll somehow get a glimpse of your connection from this angle–flat against him from belly to breast, resting your cheek and forehead against his heaving chest. His whine turns into a series of small, strangled howls and gasps as your voice crawls from whimpering to keening.

You’ve known you were going to cum, but you’re still somehow surprised with yourself at how quickly it's raced up, and how overwhelming it feels like it's going to be. You feel like you’re going insane.

His other arm wraps your ribs, too, squeezing you to him like you’re the only thing in the world worth keeping close, and damn him for it. You don't know why, but damn him.

"Cum, baby, cum," you instruct, gasping when you aren't clenching your teeth. You curl close to him, as close as your body will allow, spreading your legs as wide as you can. You drive back down into his thrusts, giving as much of yourself as you can, taking as much of him as you’re able. 

You want it all–everything–every little bit of blood and bone that's built him into a home he offers only to you. "Cum in me. I'm ready, I want you to cum," you demand, finding it truer than true, finding yourself right on the razor-edge.

The command is all it takes. Three hard thrusts, and he's buried in you to the base, punching the wind out of your lungs, and filling you to the point of what feels like impossibility with his spend. It forces you to finish as well, lighting you up like a lightning storm, swallowing him deeper as you cum and cum like you'll never be able to stop, soaking the both of you. 

You gasp a raw-throated howl, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and you praise him as his cock kicks and kicks, emptying everything he's got to give into you.

A pressure builds inside you, beginning nearly unpleasant, until something just gives and his knot anchoring him to you feels right. 

It feels special and dazzlingly intimate, and you’re boggled, again, with the knowledge you’re the only person in the world that he's ever shown himself to this way. It’s just a thing you know in your marrow, an immutable truth, like the sun setting in the west, or the cruelty of witches without their wants.

You wind down, sweating and panting and filthy in each other's arms, and you rock against him,  holding him inside, clenching around him what little you can. You feel so wonderfully safe, so immaculately powerful, so stupidly, crazily, fantastically in love.

When your combined breathing evens, and the knot between you retreats, you groan when König shifts back into his human form, but only for the resituating you both have to endure. 

The body against yours is familiar again, and you’re dreadfully sleepy, though you want to clean yourself and eat. You crave something raw, something bloody. You hunger the way an animal hungers after a hard fuck. His spend drips out of you now that his cock's returned to normal, and it forms a trail of cooling wet down the crease where your thigh meets your ass.

You feel lovely.

König laughs, rough and spent, tucking hair out of your face and kissing your closed eyelids. "Holy fucking shit, Schatzi," he marvels, looking at you like you are the only god that has ever mattered. 

Your smile cuts sharp, and your fingers find his pulse point, tracing it thoughtfully. “You hungry? I bet you're fucking starved,” is all you say in return, eyes trailing the way his hand finds the charm bracelet newly returned to your wrist, touching it like a token.

It’s late and dark when you both manage to stumble your way back to your rental. He stays close, needy and soft, his hand on your hip, tugging you into his body when he can, careful of not knocking into the big, silver knife you’d placed back in the scabbard on your belt. 

The hood is back on his head, rolled up to his nose, and his split mouth kisses against your neck and behind your ear, his eyes closed like he endures a waking dream. You, in your own filthied mask again, allow it, craning your neck to give him more room, anchoring him with an arm around his waist in return.

It is late now, and the neighborhood is silent. Again, you wonder what the quiet lives inside must be thinking–whether they think the crimes have increased into a new field of brutality, if they are fearing and wondering what body parts they will find at the treeline come dawn. 

You know they will not leave the safety of their homes to investigate. They would be stupid to do something like that.

“That shower is going to feel so goddamned good,” you mutter, unlocking your door, and he nods against your skin.

“Oh, yeeaah,” he says, and the familiarity of the phrase makes you hum a laugh, shutting your eyes as you push through the threshold. "Get that blood off your skin before it stains. Your poor face, your poor arm. Poor Schatzi."

He splits off from you with a facsimile of a kiss–your masks pressing together at the mouth–and he pinches your ass before he takes off to the kitchen, his stomach growling, not even bothering to take off his boots.

You, however, kick off your shoes, and pull together clean clothes, heading toward the bathroom in the hall, the one with the big shower, in case he decides to join you.

Sleepy and content, you listen to his boots move heavily over the kitchen tile, the sound of the fridge door hissing snickt as he pulls it open, and shoves things around in his search for food. You nearly sway up to the closed door–why is it closed, you barely manage to wonder–your eyelids lead-weighted.

It takes only one thing to make them snap open wide, your back going ramrod straight. A dark smear, curling around the knob, around the edge of the door where it seams to the jamb.

Cold grips your lungs, sending your heart galloping painfully in the cage of your ribs, wondering if it really is copper you smell, or if it is a trick of your mind. The hall is too dark to tell if the swipe on the white door is red or black–if it is blood, if it is König’s or yours. 

There is a presence at your back, and enormous hands on the door on either side of your head, so fast you cannot tell if you were even able to blink before you saw his wide, scarred, and knuckle-broken limbs spreading wide across the wood.

Your hand finds the grip of the knife, looking at the brutal gouges you had hacked into his forearm earlier in the night, and you are thinking faster and harder than you ever have in your life, realizing in a terrible microsecond that you will have to make a decision–that you will have to choose what reality you are willing to live with, or that you are simply mistaken. 

Either way, you are moments from learning.

“Something wrong, Schatzi?” your boyfriend’s familiar voice asks, low and raspy, hot against the nape of your neck.

The laugh in his tone is cruel, and you can’t tell whether it belongs to König, or something pretending to be him.

tag-list: @alittleposhtoad @bitchoftoji @dotcie @kastlequill @miyabilicious @moths569 @parttimeprophet @pssytrux <3

[greetingfromthedead]

8. Death's Mercy

Series: Apple Blossoms Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader Word count: 3k

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The tent is filled with heavy breaths as the canvas doesn't keep out the scorching air, making the people, who are already in bad shape, gasp for breath. Sweat drips from their brows, fevers ravaging their meek bodies. It is hard to watch and even harder to ignore, but you turn your back anyway. The guilt gnaws at you as you set up the gas burner on a rickety old table and fill a pot with water you brought with you. Knives lingers next to you, watching as you go through some of the bags with your own supplies, pulling out vials and packets that you will need to prepare the venom. Carefully you start measuring powders and liquids into the simmering pot, the clear water turning cloudy as you add the ingredients. The man beside you steps back, but you don't look, instead just listening to the footsteps as they leave.

Knives chooses to walk to the other side of the tent. The lamps from last night are put out, and the dim light filling the space creeps in through the cracks of the canvas, turning the sunshine a dull orange. He watches the people lay on the mats with their faces red and swollen, yet their bodies appear starved and thin. Bandages peek out from under their tattered clothing, hinting at wounds that will never heal. He wonders if he looked as helpless and miserable as these people do. After all, from what you've said, it sounds like they are in a very similar condition than what he was in.

He doesn't even realize that he has squatted down next to an elderly man to get a closer look. The wrinkled face is filled with silent suffering, the bushy eyebrows in a deep frown as his whole face crunches in due to something he must be dreaming of. The man's eyes are closed tightly, lost in his own world. He is still tall, but age and famine have left just a skeleton behind. Suddenly his eyes shoot open, his gaze scanning quickly left and right before stopping on Knives's face. The old man grabs hold of his hand with surprising strength, the bony fingers clutching tightly.

"My son! You've come for me? Is it finally time?" The old man takes a deep and ragged breath before continuing with the same hopeful tone of voice: "How I have waited for you, night and day! Please take me with you to see the good Lord! Relieve me from this suffering and pain."

Knives is taken aback, surprised by both the request of the old man and being called someone's son. It feels like a blade twisting somewhere in his gut. He doesn't know what to say or what to do. His voice catches in his throat as he searches for words to respond, but you already kneel down beside him, shifting the old man's gaze from him to yourself.

"Doc?" the man mumbles weakly, clearly confused. "Help me."

"I will," you promise solemnly, putting a cup into his shaking hand that releases Knives's. "Drink this. It'll help with the pain."

Knives stands up again, taking a long step backward to watch as you take his place without looking at him. You seem so sure of yourself. Confident in your decision, calm in the face of someone who is clearly dying a slow and painful death. Your hands don't shake, unlike his, as you help the man drink from the cup, lifting his head just like you had done with Knives when he was too weak to do anything at all.

"Go clean your hands," you instruct him firmly, barely turning your head to speak to him.

Knives doesn't know what to do anyway, so he takes your advice and slowly walks away towards the table where he pours some of the distilled alcohol over his hands, watching as the liquid drips off onto the ground as he rubs it over his skin, his fingers still trembling from something he himself doesn't quite understand. He hides his hands in the hoodie's pockets, not wanting you to see them and not wanting to think about the reason they won't stop shaking. He still feels the way the man's fingers squeezed his, the desperate plea they conveyed. It reminds him of the way you had grabbed his hand earlier; you too felt desperate, but for very different reasons. The concern he recognized in your voice and eyes was the same you displayed while taking care of him. The same kind of determination to keep him alive.

It bothers him that you're taking over his thoughts again. You always worm your way into his mind. Everything you do threatens to drive him crazy. Every time he gets even the slightest feeling that he understands you, you do the opposite of what he expects. He watches from a far corner of the tent as you walk between the pot and the patients to administer each one some of the liquid that he knows has worm venom in it. Your expression is serious, yet every time you speak to one of the people here, he sees softness and kindness in your eyes. Your voice is comforting and reassuring, even if it is answering a plea for death.

After seeing the last patient, you return to the pot to add more venom to it, turning it slowly with the metal ladle until Knives comes back to your side.

"Would you stir this until it starts boiling and then bottling it?" you ask and point at some empty vodka bottles.

"Alright" Knives answers and takes the ladle from your hand.

"Thanks," you shift away to gather the supplies you will need from the different crates.

"What are you going to do?" Knives wonders aloud.

"Going to get them all cleaned up."

"What for?"

"Because their families will want to say their goodbyes before they go, and the people here deserve to go out with as much dignity as I can give them, and it helps keep safe those who aren't infected yet." you speak as you continue to pick up bandages and cloth.

"Isn't that a waste of resources?" Knives asks.

"Perhaps. But it's important to me."

"So you currently gave them just enough poison to help them sleep and not feel pain?"

"Yes. I don't want them to suffer anymore. They will get the chance to say farewell with as much comfort as I can provide, and then... I will give them the medicine you are stirring up. That way they get to pass peacefully and painlessly."

"Why not continue giving them what you just did?" Knives doesn't understand.

"Mercy." You sigh heavily. "If I continue with the same dose, it will kill them anyway. It will cause organ failure and damage their mind. Not to mention, we will need the venom to treat others. If you think I take any pleasure or satisfaction from this, I don't. I do what I can and what I am asked to do. You're welcome to think I am cruel."

"I don't," Knives says quietly, turning his eyes to the simmering liquid in the pot to avoid meeting your gaze.

The look Knives saw in your eyes for the rest of the night made a pit form in his stomach. He saw the helplessness and pain in them as you watched people come and go from the tent to say their final goodbyes. It was heartfelt and touching, but all he could focus on was your silent suffering. The weight of their grief and loss was almost suffocating in the space, yet you kept comforting both the dying and the ones left behind. Together with Jenny's help, you guided everyone through the difficult decisions and the burdens that come with them. No complaint left your lips, not even a heavy sigh as you carried the weight of their pain with grace and compassion.

It was a long night. You tried to send him away to go to sleep, but Knives refused with an indifferent scoff. He couldn't rip himself from this agonizing display: the suffering of humanity and their fragile bodies. One by one, he watched the weak flames die out, accompanied by the cries of those who are left to suffer despite what you call mercy. And if that wasn't enough, the same people came to thank you, tears still streaming down their faces as they expressed their gratitude for killing the people closest to them. Humans are strange. Perhaps they do take satisfaction in death and suffering. But your eyes will continue to haunt him. There was nothing but sorrow in them.

You returned to the inn together. You spoke no words, and neither did he. A heavy silence sticks to both of you. As soon as you enter the guesthouse, the receptionist stands up from her seat and addresses you, but as she gets no answer, she falls silent. Knives notices the tray of food in front of the innkeeper, clearly meant for two, untouched. You don't hear anything but the ringing in your ears. Your limbs and eyes feel heavy; your only goal is to go to bed and put this day behind you. While you continue up the stairs, Knives stops, first watching you leave and then turning to the woman behind the table.

"I heard… about the people," the woman says softly, hesitant with every word. "I got some food for the both of you. It's the least I can do. If you don't mind… would you take it with you?"

She grabs the platter and offers it to Knives. He looks at the tray and the woman, not suspiciously, but with curiosity. She offered breakfast too in a similar manner, free of charge. It seems strange to Knives; the usually greedy and selfish people in his head would never offer something for free.

"I will take it," he finally says, not with any particular emotion, before taking the tray and heading to the stairs. He stops on the landing without looking back. "Thank you."

By the time he makes it to the top of the stairs, the hallway is empty, and the doors to the different rooms are all closed. He walks over to the one that belongs to your room and is about to push it open when he hears sobs coming from inside. His hand hovers over the doorknob, unsure of what to do next, but he decides to pull away. With the tray still in hand, he turns around and leans his back against the metal that separates you from him. Knives feels like it is hard to breathe, almost like something heavy is sitting on his chest and closing their fingers around his neck. He still wears the mask, and he blames it for the lack of air, but he knows you wouldn't want him to walk around without it, so he makes do. He stands by the door, unable to shut out the way you cry.

"Excuse me," a small voice speaks up. Knives didn't even hear anyone approach. As he looks down, he sees an elderly woman. "This is the doctor's room, isn't it? I was hoping to get the chance to say thanks."

"Doc's not taking any walk-ins at the moment," Knives speaks calmly, still standing by the door like a sentry for the second time in one day.

"It will only take a moment," the granny insists.

"No. Not tonight. Anything you want to say now, you can say tomorrow," he stands firm, putting more gravity into each word. He isn't even quite sure why, but he refuses to have anyone walk in on you like this.

"Very well," the old woman says with a sigh, clearly disappointed, and heads back towards the stairs, where she stops and turns back. "You know, your eyes, my boy, they remind me so much of my long gone son's. They are the same pale blue of the early morning sky. The same as my husband's, whom I lost today. Thank you for reminding me of them."

Knives is shocked by her words and focused on the echoing footsteps on the metal stairs, the distinct click of a cane hitting the steps with each slow and deliberate movement. He doesn't even notice that your room has fallen silent. As you push down the handle, it sends a jolt through the rest of the door, alerting Knives that you're about to open it. He steps away and turns around to see your puffy face appear in the crack. He notices the wet stains on your sleeve where you wiped away your tears. You look around the hallway.

"Who were you talking to?" you ask him.

"Nobody," he replies, his gaze lingering on your face.

"Why didn't you come in?"

"I didn't want to interrupt." Knives shrugs one shoulder slightly, committed to looking as careless as he can.

"Sure, but you can interrupt me all you want; after all, it's your room too." You step more into the chamber, opening the door wider for him. "Come on in."

Knives steps inside, his eyes moving over the dimly lit space. He notices the cloth you had around your face earlier. It lays on the carpet as if thrown aside. The space in front of the bed is littered with the contents of one of your first aid kits.

"I was going to take your stitches out, but…" you sigh, looking at the mess. "I'll clean it up."

"No." Knives says resolutely, capturing your gaze as the door closes behind him, leaving the room in darkness, except for the shaft of moonlight intruding through the window. He steps closer, the pale light creeping up over his body. He reaches out the tray of food.

"I don't…" you begin to protest.

"You need to eat," he interrupts you. "Do you need me to get creative with feeding you?"

He remembers how you kept pushing him to eat even when he didn't want to. You kept insisting, even threatening him. So he echoes your own sentiment, as it is the only thing he can think to do. You look up at his stern eyes and then back at the outstretched tray before wiping your face again and taking the food. With Knives's hands finally free, he pulls the mask off, taking a deep breath, but his chest still feels restricted. Uncertainty lingers on his mind; he shouldn't care about any of this. Not about the people, not about what you did, and certainly not about you. He should not take it on himself to cater to what you need, especially when you don't even want any of it. Yet he can't resist the itch.

While you go to sit by the small table, Knives walks over to the bed and squats down to pick up the plasters, bandages, and tools that lay about. He places each of them on the edge of the bed until he picks up the bag that used to hold them. He sees the ripped seam by the zipper, threads hanging out from the fabric. He carefully examines the bag, realizing that you must have used quite a lot of force while pulling at the stuck zipper, clearly frustrated by the events of the day. Knives adjusts so he sits on the floor, back resting against the frame of the bed. He doesn't know how to repair the bag, so he simply stuffs it with the supplies that escaped earlier.

You finish your share, only now realizing the ravaging hunger within you that was awakened by the delicious food in front of you. The rest is Knives's, but you can't help eyeing what's his.

"Go on, eat as much as you want," he says, looking up at you from the floor. He sits in the shadow, away from the puddle of moonlight on the floor, yet you see the reflection of his eyes shining back at you.

"I can't. It's yours," you protest.

"All you've done for as long as I have been stuck with you is make sacrifices. For once, be selfish; eat the food." You reluctantly pick up his food and take a small bite, feeling guilty for indulging in something you don't believe to be yours, but the heavy sorrow of the day quickly overwhelm those feelings.

"I don't understand," Knives finally admits. "Why did you waste so many resources to save me? I wasn't doing much better than the people from today, was I? Yet you pulled every trick you could for a sliver of hope. Why didn't you do to me what you did for them?"

"I don't know," you say, but Knives realizes the lie in those words. He chooses not to dwell on the matter for tonight. Silence falls over the small room again until you finish most of the food that's left, handing Knives the leftover apple, his fingers brushing yours as he takes it.

"About the sleeping arrangement," you begin, but Knives shakes his head.

"You get the bed. I'll take one of the mats we used on the way here," he insists, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling while taking a bite from the apple.

"No, I mean that it is a wide bed. There's plenty of room for both of us. I don't mind. I would feel bad if you gave up the bed just for me, unless you disagree with my proposal."

"Alright," he says almost dryly while chewing.

"Alright," you echo lightly, "I'll get ready for bed."

Knives doesn't look away from the ceiling as you pick up some clothes and head for the door to go to the shared bathroom at the end of the hallway.

"Also. Nothing about saving you was a waste," you say quietly before pulling the door shut after yourself.

Knives sighs deeply, unsettled by the mix of feelings bubbling inside him.

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[pawseds]

Dear Hrodwyn

[843 words; a Lancer RPG fic]

06 SEP 5010u

Dear Hrodwyn Vorobyev, what to say to you? You have her eyes You have your father's name When you came into the world you cried And it broke my heart

Here, on this ice planet in its lonely orbit, life thrived.

As the sun's first rays carve peaks out of darkness, see how bones of copper and steel are nestled between treacherous mountains. See how they are buried beneath white snow and frozen in azure depths, weathered by the elements but preserved by solitude.

Quickly, before the sun parts with the land again, look how this metal skeleton twists along the planet's veins, the great frozen river. The river streaks blue and green across white, and with the sun's warm blessing, it brings forth minerals and algae, water and valour.

From afar, this planet is death. But closer, the river carves a path through the white void. The river carves life.

I'm dedicating every day to you Domestic life was never quite my style When you smile You knock me out, I fall apart And I thought I was so smart

Here, on the fringes of exploration and expansion, life thrived.

No one recalls when the first colonies arrived, but the winds remember what they came here for. It was not for the bones of metal, but it was for what the bones once were. It was for the red-hot core of energy housed within, the dying heart of a star.

See how greed tries to dig its venomous claws into the stars. See how, in greed's self-declared war against itself, it tears apart scraps of alloys, weapons of titanium, and frames of carbon fibre. It is a hunger that ravages; it is a hunger that tears its stomach inside out to house the mass graves of the first colonies.

It all ends like how it all first began: with silence. Life, innocent in ignorance, crawls out of the graves to start anew. No human remembers what they came here for.

The wind warns them in whispers, but it cannot control who listens.

You will come of age with our young nation We'll bleed and fight for you We'll make it right for you If we lay a strong enough foundation We'll pass it on to you We'll give the world to you And you'll blow us all away Someday, someday

Here, on footsteps that follow the river eternally, live thrives.

From dust, tiny specks come together like ants to form new colonies. Though humans have greed, they also have resilience, intelligence, and creativity. Observe how they dig through the snow with their own hands, wrangle with tooth and leather and stone, and explore for years to reignite the machines that first brought them here. Watch as they create tools with the guidance of ghosts. Watch as they teach themselves to walk, to run, and to fly once again.

What was first a single colony in the beginning has now scattered into multiple colonies -- some big, some small. The biggest colonies were grown on the secret to reawakening cores. Their strength fuels machines, their warmth radiates from hearths, and their light is a beacon from which cities are built around. But though their light welcomes all to hide from the frigid cold and dark days, the secret of the cores remain tightly grasped within the palms of handpicked engineers.

Cores are scarce and so are the cities that followed. In their wake, smaller settlements are nurtured around other sources of life: the geothermal energy volcanoes bring, the lamps and heaters machines bring, and the fresh food and water rivers bring. Trade routes are forged between these settlements, and when the first port to the rest of the galaxy opens in the largest city, the settlements begin crossing paths more and more like constellations across the ink-black sky.

But some colonies do not settle. Some continue to fare across the white void as their ancestors once did. Forever walking, forever migrating, these nomadic colonies follow the planet's orbit as they seek the longest days of warmth, the longest hours of light. The sun is their beacon, their core, so these colonies continue to follow it: living off the river that melts and freezes and melts, marching across the planet's equator back to where they began again and again and again. ⠀ Nothing changes from this never ending track. In these nomadic colonies, the scouts go scout for shelter and danger on foot, the hunters go hunt the feared and the fearing on machines, and the rest of the farers follow the path cleared through the snow.

Nothing changes until a settler hears the song of a farer.

Nothing changes until the settler, with her wit and her machine, joins the farer on his eternal voyage; and the farer too embarks on a new eternal voyage of walking in the settler's shoes and seeing through the stars in her eyes.

With time comes love, and with love comes life.

Yeah, you'll blow us all away Someday, someday...

Life learns, life changes, and life thrives.

---

I wrote this all the way back in 22 May this year, and here it finally is with some light editing! (Don't mind the grammar errors, it is late and I am tired lmao). I ported the Birdfam yet again into Lancer, in which Gavrill Vorobyev is, yet AGAIN, my PC! (I just really want him on a Swallowtail idk I think it fits him well) The biggest differences here is that he's 21 instead of 41, his wife Leyna is alive, his kid Hrodwyn was just born (coincidnetally, the campaign kicks off a day after), and he doesn't have thirty four mental illnesses.

I do not take credit for this worldbuilding! This planet is directly ripped off of the planet the Birdfam originally came from, which was from a 4e campaign. So it's my GM who came up with this; all I did was write about it here.

(i'm gonna throw in all the hamilton references i want FIGHT ME)

[that-irrelevant-ricecakeaddict]

OK but imagine heavily making out with Kim Seungmin (SPECIFICALLY THIS VERSION) and feeling that lip ring in y- nvm u get the point

This was a rlly rushed post let me feed my delusions rq 🤚

I'm not over 5 Star yet how tf am I supposed to deal with the upcoming October-november comeback--

(Suggestive content under the cut)

Seungmin sighs heavily as you pull him in by his collar for a kiss. He easily slid his duffle bag off his shoulder, moving his hands to slide around your waist. After a long day at his tiring job, your idol boyfriend was understandably exhausted. The new comeback had him working nonstop for an inhumane number of hours. His motivation for working so hard was coming home to your open arms and plush lips every day.

The two of you stumbled clumsily into your shared apartment, with Seungmin hastily closing the front door behind you. You guided him over to the couch, allowing him to lean his warm body against you as you continued kissing. It wasn't long before you started pushing your tongue past his lips, eager to go further. You wanted to ease your boyfriend's stress; you knew how overworked he was. But before you could deepen the kiss, a cold, metallic taste hit your taste buds.

You pulled back immediately. Seungmin tried to follow your lips, and furrowed his eyebrows at you when you just moved back even more.

"Why'd you pull stop? I was enjoying it..."

"I tasted metal in your mouth, Seungmin. Are you bleeding or something?"

The brunette gazed hazily at you for a few moments before it occurred to him what you were talking about. He grinned sheepishly and moved closer to the standing lamp by the couch, illuminating his face with light and allowing you to get a clearer look at him. A metallic glint on his bottom lip caught your eye, and you leaned in further. The cold, bitter taste on his mouth made so much more sense when you realised what it was.

"I got a fake lip piercing for the comeback album's photobook shoot...Guess I must've forgotten to take it off."

"...oh."

"Sorry, is it weird for you? I'll take it off--"

He was cut off by you smashing your lips onto his once more. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but chuckled into the kiss and settled his large hands on your back. Unexpectedly, you suddenly pushed your tongue against his mouth. Seungmin was even more surprised when you started sucking lightly on his bottom lip, specifically the spot where the lip ring was.

He whimpered at the feeling, his nails digging into your back. You, on the other hand, sighed at the cold tinge in your mouth. He looked so hot with that new accessory, how could you resist? You sucked harder on his bottom lip, drawing out a series of sighs and groans from your now shuddering boyfriend. Eventually you pulled away to give him a break.

A shiny string of spit connected your lips to his, making the lip ring look even more prominent under the lampshade's light. Seungmin's face was tinged with a light red blush, and he was still shaking a little, clearly still recovering from your sudden ambush on him. You made a mental note to thank his stylist for the new comeback.

Noticing the way you were practically ravaging him with your eyes, Seungmin chuckled lowly.

"So...you like the lip ring?"

"What do you think, genius?"

V delulu today yes

Fun fact I typed this while streaming it for my friend to watch he was taken aback but not surprised at my writing process 🤓

[beastinthebelfry]

Well, I failed miserably at my Halloween Challenge so have the last part of The Ravaging on account. Still working on the Halloween story, it's just going to be awhile before I post anything for it.

Ao3

A cold breeze bellows through the trees, heralding the end of another encounter. You look up, watching as the man and the female constructs grow farther away, the vines cradling you as you're lowered to the ground. You're amazed to realize just how far into the air you’ve been this whole time, the darkness and bio-luminescence playing tricks on your depth perception. 

The Vines set you on your feet, holding you up until they're sure you can stand on your own and only then do they retract. You stand in the darkness, willing your vision to adjust to the darkness, but no matter how long you stand there, the inky blackness is too thick to penetrate. You supposed you can stand still and let whatever monster that passes by catch you. That’s certainly not the worst scenario, but it's also not the most appealing. You’d like to explore. 

You’ve always wanted to go camping, or hiking off trail in the woods, but the very real possibility of being lost and cut off from civilization weighs heavily on you every time you consider it and so you’ve always talked yourself out of it. But here you can’t get lost. You're being monitored and there are any number of other people and creatures here as well, so you aren’t alone. This may be the only chance  for you to do something like this with this level of certainty. 

Perhaps the forest is wondering why you haven’t moved, or maybe the man in the bark is still watching you, either way, the darkness is suddenly chased away by the same bio-luminescent mushrooms. Blooming all around you, sprouting up the trees and along the ground they form a cocoon around you. You take a step forward to study them closer and more mushrooms sprout in the same direction. 

Testing a theory, you turn and take a step in another direction, watching as the spores bloom the same as before. You smile to yourself. “Thank you.” you say out loud and the leaves about you rustle in a light breeze. 

You stand at the center for a moment longer, determining which direction you want to take before choosing the right and following the glowing mushrooms until you come to a well worn trail where lanterns hang from wooden posts along either side. You step into the light of the lanterns and turn to watch the mushrooms recede the way you’d come. 

“Well well well, it must be my lucky night.” a deep voice like gravel sounds somewhere out into the darkness. The sound slides across your sensitive nerves and you shiver as your arousal spikes again. A chuckle reverberates through the trees and you turn abruptly trying to pick out the source from the darkness. “Here I am, searching for the perfect dessert to end our night and there you are, emerging from the forest like a gift from the gods.” 

You turn once more in time to watch them emerge through the trees. A werewolf of enormous size, even bigger than the one at the beginning of the night. Standing at, at least eight feet tall on his hind legs, his shaggy black hair is run through with silver and his piercing yellow eyes seem to glow in the lamp light. He licks his lips, taking you in from head to toe. It’s easy to assume he likes what he sees as his thick red cock rises to attention. 

“What’d ya say sweetheart? Want to finish the night out with a few old dogs?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

You nod dumbly, eyes transfixed on his leaking member. He chuckles again before he’s moving too fast for you to register, scooping you up and planting your back against a tree. 

“You flatter me,” he says. “Why don’t we have a little warm up before I take you to meet my boys?” 

You whimper, the feeling of his massive paws on your body overwhelming your senses. “Mmm please.” 

He hums, the rumbling sound traveling through your body where you’re pressed together.  “So polite.” he says, bending his thick neck and nuzzling at yours. You feel the sharp points of his teeth pressing against your skin as he lathes his tongue across your pulse. “You smell divine.” he tells him, his paws coming around to cup your rounded bottom. He hikes you up a little higher, the bark biting into your skin, but you barely notice as his heavy length comes to rest against you. 

The wolf shifts to one knee, hoisting you up and throwing your knees over his shoulders in one smooth motion. The display of power is intoxicating all on its own. You grip at the fur around his massive head as it settles between your legs. You hear the rush of air as he takes in a deep breath, letting it out with a deep rumbling chuckle. 

“Quite the adventure you’ve had tonight.” he says before flicking his tongue out against your folds. You gasp, still sensitive after everything that happened in the trees. 

The wolf chuckles, vibrations rumbling through you. And then he’s devouring you, rough tongue lashing across your clit, still so sensitive from every adventure so far. A growl rumbles deep in his chest and the feel of it vibrates across your nerves tipping you over the edge as he dips his long tongue in to lick up the slick that gushes from you. 

The wolf hums. “The old man rarely takes more than one offering, you must have put on quite a show to draw their attention. Lucky us, they decided to let you go before the end of the night.” he unhooks your legs from his shoulders and stands, cradling your body to his solid, furry form. “No one seeds a mortal better than the Green Man himself.” he licks his muzzle obscenely and you shiver at the sight. 

The wolf maneuvers you around in his arms, then steps back into the treeline where he emerged before. As you move away from the lanterns, the darkness swallows you up, but the wolf clearly has no trouble seeing, his footsteps nearly silent through the underbrush. 

Experience so far has taught you that there is nothing to fear here, that you're safe, so you hunker down in his arms, his warmth fighting off the chill of the night. You're soon rewarded for your patience as you catch a faint glow in the distance. As you move closer, the glow grows brighter and you can hear the crackle of fire and the low murmur of deep voices. 

The wolf steps through the brush into a clearing, drawing the attention of four other wolves sitting around the fire. They’re all about the same size, in varying shades of gray and brown, white around their muzzles and streaked through their fur. 

You just barely manage to hold on to what remains of your dignity as they each stand, towering over you, even in the first wolf’s arms. 

“I hope you're all still hungry.” he says to what you can only assume is his pack. “This one was blessed by the old man himself.” 

“They took more than one?” a russet brown wolf asks, the shock clear in his voice. “She must be something special.” 

“She tastes divine.”  

There’s a cacophony of growls around you then, each wolf responding with a low rumble that sets off your nerves like someone holding a vibrator to your clit. You feel your body come alive, tingling pricks against your skin peaking your nipples. You clench involuntarily, breath stuttering. 

“That’s his doing.” the wolf holding you explains. “The sensitivity will eventually wear off, but until then, you’ll feel everything more acutely now.” 

As if to emphasize the point, you feel him press his thumb against your folds, sinking the meaty digit in. You gasp, clenching around him, body shuddering at the intrusion. 

“Please.” you moan, willing them to understand what you need as words fail you. 

They laugh. “Of course sweetheart.” a stocky gray wolf replies, stepping forward, his one eye is a crystal clear blue, a scar running from his brow over his left eye, the lid closed. 

“Get her ready quickly.” the first wolf says, letting the gray wolf pull you from his grip. His thumb pops free and you groan in disappointment. “The night is almost over and it’s going to take all of us to satisfy her.” 

You don’t resist, letting them manipulate your body, feeling boneless and heavy with arousal. The gray wolf carries you to the other side of the fire, where a wooden contraption sits, metal chains fastened to the bottom. He lays you on your stomach on the padded surface, knees braced on an outcropping on either side. You feel the cold weight of the cuffs against the skin of your wrists and ankles. 

“She’s ready, boss.” one of them says and you peer over your shoulder watching as the wolf who brought you here steps up behind you. He grins, flashing his pearly white teeth and for a moment the haze of lust dissipates enough for you to consider how handsome he is. And then just like that the thought and all thoughts are gone, arousal rushing through you at the feeling of something thick pushing at your entrance. 

You’ve had a very interesting night. Thick cocks galore, but there’s something about this, right now that feels different. The stretch is more intense, lightning shooting across your nerves. You grab on to the edge of the wooden structure, nails digging in. The wolves howl and laugh around you watching you tremble with each thrust through you.

Words are lost to you, the only sounds you can manage are animalistic, grunts and groans and whines. You’d be embarrassed if you could even think that clearly. 

Your first climax among these beastly men hits you so fast and unexpectedly that you scream, shrieking into the night like a banshee. Laughter erupts again but you can barely hear it through the rushing in your ears, your body never leaving that pleasured plateau as the “Boss” continues to fuck you through another and another. 

When he nears his own end, he bends over you, pressing your body into the wooden beam, hips pistoning into you with short, powerful strokes. Your screams are swallowed up by his howls as he unloads inside you. You can feel his cum gushing out around his thick member. 

Eventually he pulls free, stepping away to let the next wolf have his turn. It’s much the same as before. At no point have you become desensitized to these intense sensations. Each wolf fucks you in their own way, slow and deliberate, fast and rough. It’s all different and yet all the same, a steady unyielding wall of pleasure building inside you until you feel like you can’t breathe. 

You’ve long since stopped screaming, whimpering now as exhaustion sets in. But even then you don’t want it to stop. You feel like it’s not enough, like it’s never enough. They rotate again and again, taking turn after turn. At some point you lose track of who's using you. 

As the blue hour rises around you, the “Boss” takes his turn again, his thrusts, slow but powerful, as if he can feel the magic that kept you suspended in bliss beginning to fade with the coming dawn. 

You feel his rumbling chuckle against your back as he leans against you, nuzzling at your neck. “Give me one more, sweetheart.” he growls against your ear. You whimper, clenching down around him. “That’s it, a little more.” Your final climax rolls through like a warm summer breeze, you stretch and curl into it savoring it like a cat in a beam of sunlight. 

There’s movement around you, the chains fall away. You're lifted from the bench, warm soft fur a soothing balm to you over sensitive skin. You carried somewhere not too far away where you're wrapped in warm, soft fleece. And then there are people there. People in matching charcoal jumpsuits, surgical masks over their nose and mouths. There’s a logo of some kind embroidered on the left breast, a swooping elegant M. 

One of them asks you if you can stand, if you need assistance walking. You push to your feet, steady yourself and when they're satisfied you won’t fall over, they lead you along the lantern lined trail from before where groups of people are walking along with other jumpsuit clad people. 

You breach the edge of the forest into the clearing where private ambulances with the same logo painted across the side sit waiting. Medical personnel filter out to meet the crowd, passing out water and evaluating anyone who seems a little too out of it. You spot the pink haired man from before limping toward an ambulance as a stretcher passes with the sulking man with the tree people, a blissed out smile beneath the oxygen mask. 

“Congratulation,” the automated voice from before sounds through the early dawn hours. “You have survived The Ravaging.”  

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Bigger

Scott Lang x plus size reader

They have always said bigger is better and by god they were right.

Warnings: smut, size kink, incorrect use of a super suit, size/dick growth, unprotected sex, consent, safe-words, spanking, implied switch!Scott, use of lube, creampie

WC: 2.2k

Minors DNI

“Come one Scott. You promised.” She whined, looking up at him from their bed. She was an absolute vision bathed in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. Her generously curvy body clad only in a sheer red teddy that she knew turned Scott’s brain to mush. She was seducing him tonight and the rational part of his brain telling him that this wasn’t a good idea was quickly being overtaken by ‘pretty lady wants to sleep with me’.

Y/N smirked victoriously as she watched his usually kind brown eyes get darker with lust and his suit pants grew tighter around his crotch. She knew she was going to get what she wanted, and oh how badly she wanted it.

The idea first came to her when the news broadcast newly acquired footage of the Avengers fighting in Germany. She had been sitting in Hank Pym’s living room after making the both of them a cup of tea (without ants helping her) and listening to the older man ramble on about his ideas for a new suit when a flash of red caught her attention.

A fond smile came over her face as she watched her boyfriend fight the world’s greatest heroes. It was undeniably a turn on to see her normally goofy and very uncoordinated man weave and twist between the likes of Iron Man and Black Widow. But when he, out of nowhere, turned into a giant, his massive body looming over the airport, the breath was knocked from her lungs.

Her mind spun intricate images of his monstrously big body pinning her down and ravaging her without any regard for her pleasure. She could see him leaning over her, force feeding his massive cock as she begged him for a break. She had to get him to keep that suit.

So now here they were, Scott fully decked out and tentatively ready. Y/N’s knees dropped open, exposing her glistening folds to him. She watched as his breath hitched and the last of his reservation melted away. “Come to bed.” She cooed, holding a hand out to her boyfriend. 

“Fuck. You’ll-you’ll tell me if it’s too much right?” He nervously stuttered out, shuffling closer. Even just vanilla sex was nerve-wracking for the man. He always wanted to make sure that she felt good, forgoing his own pleasure to bring her to the very heights of ecstasy, but this, this was insane.

Her smile was kind as she looked up at him, but her eyes were so black with desire that he felt a thrill of fear roll through him. “Just fuck me already Lang.” That definitely made his knees buckle.

Faster than he had ever moved before, Scott found himself on top of his girlfriend, his lean body nestled between her soft thighs, their stomachs pressed tightly together. As always, his kisses started off soft, barely a peck against her lips. It was a reminder that he loved her, that their love for each other was deeper than the frankly mind blowing sex they had.

But soon enough, her fingers were buried in his short brown hair, yanking him even closer. Their teeth clicked together as the kiss became hungry. Y/N’s dominant hand slipped from the back of his head, her touch just hard enough for him to feel it through the course material of his suit. “Fuck.” He groaned into her mouth, his hips bucking forward.

She smirked against his lips but it quickly fell away as Scott forced his covered erection against her core. The spark of pleasure grew in the pit of her stomach. “Hmph Scott. I need you please.” Her palms spread across his strong back as he pressed his face into her neck, nipping the delicate skin above her pulse.

“Just another minute.” He mumbled against her throat. “J-just a little longer.” But Y/N’s nails bit into his suit. It was a warning.

“You and I both know that -fuck stop that- if we spend another minute like this, you’ll never fuck me tonight.” Reluctantly, he pulled away, face red with both excitement and terror but his hips continued to roll down into her own. She cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing against his salt and pepper scruff. “Scott, we don’t have to do this if you aren’t comfortable. You know that right?”

His shoulders dropped in relief as if a massive weight had been lifted from them. “I do want this, I just don’t want to hurt you.” She guided his gaze back to her, making him see that she was being honest with him.

“You won’t hurt me, and besides, that’s what lube and the safe word is for.” He nodded in agreement.

“Baskin Robbins.” He repeated the word and planted one last soft kiss to her swollen lips. Then suddenly, she was on her front, hips hiked off of the mattress as her shoulders were pushed down, her face firmly planted in Scott’s favourite pillow.

He admired her plump backside for only a moment before - smack! His palm collided with the soft flesh, making it jiggle under his touch. “Goddamn I love doing that.” Y/N giggled and wiggled her ass for him.

“C’mon big boy, fill me up.” Smack! 

“Shush, let me enjoy myself before I wreck you.” His voice was deeper, darker, the pitch lower than she had ever heard come from him before. It was like he was another person, not her shy and vanilla boyfriend, but a man on the edge of losing his mind. Her cunt clenched around nothing as he landed another smack to her ass. He hummed at her reaction, fascinated by the way the red silk of her panties darkened with each slap. “Think you’re ready for me?” He asked absentmindedly, fingers slipping to the hem of the silk, tracing the edge delicately.

“Yes! Yes! Please!” She begged, attempting to push her weight backwards into him as if to show him how ready she was. Smack!

He shrugged like he didn’t care that she was pleading for him but inside, he was absolutely melting. “Fine, if you’re sure.” There was barely a moment for her to catch her breath before the blunt tip of his cock was notched against her entrance. She hadn’t even felt him move her panties to the side. “Now keep still, like a good girl.”

“Fuuuuuuck.” She moaned into the pillow as he pressed forwards, prying her apart. He went slowly, forcing her to feel every inch of him, every vein and pulse. And by the time he nudged against her cervix, Y/N was gasping for air, desperately trying to accommodate his thickness inside of her.

“Not so tough now are you?” He mocked. “If you can barely take me like this, how are you going to deal with me getting any bigger?” He rocked forward onto his knees, somehow pushing himself deeper inside her.

“Scott.” She reached back for him, needing to touch him. He took her hand without thinking, leaning over so he could fit his chin against the dip between her neck and shoulder. It was so painfully intimate, a complete juxtaposition to the way his hips slammed into her own, driving her up the bed with the power behind it.

His voice came out as more of a growl against her ear as he spoke. “I’m gonna do it.” She nodded into the pillow, whining softly when he pulled away from her back to sit on his haunches. Y/N was vaguely aware of the sound of buttons being pressed.

“Oh shit!” He grew only slightly, going from 5’8 to 6' 2, a measly difference considering he had grown to the size of an airplane hanger before but Y/N felt like he was in her throat now. Her fingers curled into the bed sheets as her walls struggled to take his now even thicker cock. “I- fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He didn’t even have to move to hit all the right places inside of her.

“So fucking tight.” He moaned into the air, his head thrown back in pleasure. In an unconscious move, Scott bucked forward and she shattered. Her vision went white as her orgasm crashed over her. “Holy shit!” His body collapsed on top of her, consumed by the feeling of her orgasm.

“B-bigger.” She groaned, her voice raspy and broken. “Please Scotty.” With great effort, he paused and gazed down at his wrecked girlfriend, highly doubting she could take anymore. Her cunt was stretched so tightly around him, it looked like she could break at any moment and he was already too long to fit inside of her, the last inch of his cock was stuck out in the cold, coated in her release.

Gently, he placed a hand on her lower back, stroking the skin in a delicate motion. “I don’t think you can, you’re already so full.” Her head whipped around and she glared at him with a look so powerful it made him feel like he had shrunk. She drew forward slightly and then threw herself back, impaling herself on the entirety of his now 9 inch cock.

“Go. Bigger.” This time, there was no hesitation. He quickly grew to a staggering 7’3. The bed dipped under his added weight and Y/N hoarsely screamed into the pillow beneath her. More than half of his cock was not inside her anymore but she didn’t seem to care, too consumed with the pleasured pain of being stretched beyond her imagination.

Scott felt like he was losing his mind, she was so tight around him it was painful but another gush of her release broke him out of his stupor. He was far more gentle with his thrusts now, too scared that he would seriously hurt her. He dropped a leg off of the mattress to get a better angle and immediately Y/N’s body seized beneath him. “Lube!” She gasped, barely able to get the words out of her mouth as another thrust knocked the breath from her lungs.

There was a clatter beside her as Scott rushed to grab the bottle from their bedside table but with his new height and accompanying incoordination, he succeeded in not only getting the aforementioned but also knocking everything else to the ground. “Come on, come on.” He muttered as he tried to open the cap with shaking hands. 

“Cold!” The clear liquid smeared over the place where they were joined, soothing the burn. She sighed in relief, muscles going lax.

“I know but it’ll warm up.” He cooed, rolling his hips softly against the fat of her ass, spreading the lube even more. The thick vein underneath his dick was nestled perfectly against the bundle of nerves within her, sending sparks up her spine with each movement. “Can you give me one more? You’re doing so good.” 

His stomach was tightening with his own end, the feel of her insanely tight and wet pussy around him was too much, especially with how small she looked below him, how vulnerable and susceptible to his lust. He planted his right hand on the wall above her head and picked up the pace again. Squelching filled the room. The thighs of his suit were absolutely soaked with not only her juices but lube as well.

Hank was going to kill him but at this moment, he truly didn’t care. Y/N’s pussy tried to squeeze him through another, far less powerful release, but he was spreading her so wide that it was impossible for her to get any tighter. “Gonna cum.” He moaned through clenched teeth.

Hands clamped down on her wide hips, most certainly leaving massive hand-shaped bruises that would be tough to explain away. “Scott.” She breathed and that was his undoing.

“God!” His back arched with the force of his orgasm, forcing most of his length back inside of her as he filled her with his release. He slumped forward and barely caught himself in time before he crushed his precious and positively fucked out girlfriend. “Y-Y/N, you ok?”

“I have never been happier in my life.” She groaned after a moment of trying to gather her breath. 

“Not even when I asked you out?” He asked, slightly offended.

“Including then.” She wiggled happily below him, enjoying the afterglow. Scott bent down and kissed her sweaty shoulder before pressing another button on his suit and returning him to his normal sized self. Y/N hissed at the overstimulation and sudden shift in size but he just carefully stroked down her spine and slowly pulled out, releasing a huge rush of his seed from where it had been trapped inside her. 

It stained the sheets below them but Scott only hoisted her into his arms to carry her to the bathroom, silently reminding himself to clean up later. Her face settled into the crook of his neck, laying a small kiss to the slightly scruffy bit of his throat where he had missed when he shaved. “Thank you babe.”

“Well, at least we got that out of your system.” She pulled away only slightly to give him a truly devious look.

“Oh no baby, you don’t get it. Bigger is so much better.”

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[nightsandreala]

something short i wrote in april for reala day 🥺 post-canon (kind of au?) fic where nights finds a nightopia based on a mall and gets reala a stuffed animal (it’s very unserious). can also be read under the read more lol 🤭 thanks for reading

For most Nightmarens, collecting things was almost instinctual. They would take bits from each Nightopia they ravaged: any Ideya the dreamer possessed was the first and foremost goal, of course, but they would also take pieces from the world’s landscape, any effects that happened to strike their interests. NiGHTS certainly wasn’t any different— in only a matter of decades the elegant nighttime garden scene that made up their lair had become absolutely trashed, cluttered with anything and everything they could find during their daily searches through Nightopia, the dark grass and cobblestone walkways littered with out-of-place seashells and jewels and stones of all shapes and sizes. Stray feathers and scraps of cloth and linen formed makeshift nests among beds of thorny vines; out-of-place flowers, long since plucked from their original lands, decorated the heads of stone-carved statues. NiGHTS’ things weren’t so much trophies as other Nightmarens claimed their possessions to be, just things that made their lair feel more ‘theirs’— it was the least they could do, a lair and whatever was inside it was the closest any Nightmaren could really get to owning anything, and even so, their lairs could be destroyed by Wizeman just as easily as their bodies could be.

Right next door, however (or at least as ‘next door’ as lairs could be in a world as twisting and turning as Nightmare), was quite a different room: Reala’s. Reala, as far as NiGHTS could remember, had always kept his lair the same way from the very beginning: red and black everywhere, making up a majority of the room from the checkered floor to the backing of Reala’s majestic throne. Jagged spires of rock lined the outside of the ring, but he made sure that not even a pebble strayed out of place if they happened to crumble. The three blue-flame lamps flickered on eternally at a steady pace, keeping a constant, comfortable level of warmth and low light. Reala’s room was always immaculate, and he had prided himself on that fact in those days, had tried to use it as an example of how NiGHTS should have kept their own space. Of course, it never worked.

“It’s so… empty, though,” they would argue, shifting uncomfortably in the seat of Reala’s throne, “You don’t have anything, it’s like you don’t even live here!”  

They would offer their twin some of their own trinkets, or perhaps sneak some in when he wasn’t looking (only to have them promptly returned soon after). And Reala, time and time again, would explain, “Everything we need, Nightmare gives us. All of your… things aren’t necessary.” 

NiGHTS would never admit it, but when they made that sudden decision to leave Nightmare behind, all their things did seem unnecessary. Maybe they had forgotten how fun it was to be able to collect things, living the way they had for so long— wandering between dreams without settling in any one place for too long, residing in the nearest tree or riverbank or warm, grassy field. With no permanent place to come back to, nowhere to keep things after their journeys ended they had learned to travel light, with only their own outfit and their flute, really, and it wasn’t as if that took up much space (none at all, actually, they would simply summon it when they wanted it and wish it away when their performance was through). More important than the lack of storage space, though, was the need to stay hidden, to not leave a single trace or clue as to where they’d been, should Reala be sent looking for them.

Those days, at long last, were far behind both of them now, though. And NiGHTS wasn’t going to be a minimalist ever again.

A majority of their house’s decor were the results of NiGHTS’ newest hobby— traveling to new Nightopias not in search of Ideya, not even in search of food or building materials for the house or anything remotely useful in Reala’s mind, but in search of things. Human things, at that. They had explained the process with a joy Reala couldn’t comprehend, about how they’d found a Nightopia fashioned after some kind of Waking World market, full of different shops, full of various items, empty of any dreamers. They had come home that day with as much stuff as they could carry with only their own two arms, absolutely beaming with delight.

“It almost reminded me of how humans used to dream back when we were still… you know, hunting,” they’d said, offering a vague hand gesture as they spread out their items on the floor to show off to Reala. “Remember? How they were always dreaming about castles and markets and feasts and all that?” 

Reala couldn’t help but smile— perhaps humans were still just as disgustingly greedy even now, but he had to admit that outrageous human desire had always made for fun dreams. The two of them had crashed many a royal banquet in centuries past, made quick work of the dreamer’s Ideya and then spent the rest of their time making even quicker work of tables of dreamed-up food, helping themselves to tastes of the Waking World that simply couldn’t be found in their regular meals of Third-Levels. 

NiGHTS had spun a similar tale of their adventure that day: “It was bigger than a castle, I think, and it had these staircases—“ They were all but flailing their arms about at this point, in a wild attempt to replicate something, “—that were moving! All the shops were inside, and each one had different things… look!” 

They had gone back several times since then, always returning home with arms brimming with whatever piqued their interest: soft and warm things to cover their bed with, small and colorful things to line their windowsills. Anything and everything in-between. Reala had to admit that their room was neater than their lair had been, at the very least. And, knowing Reala’s dislike of trinkets, they only ever brought things home for themself. Except for this particular day, when they’d merrily entered Reala’s room and tossed him… this.

“…What is this?”

“It’s a cat,” NiGHTS told him, like he already should have known. “Well, y’know, a stuffed one. I would have gotten you a red one, but pink was the closest they had.”

Reala stared at the object in his hands, soft plush material looking out of place in his rough, calloused hands and sharp yellow nails. A cat? That was the creature Clawz was supposed to resemble, if he recalled correctly. But this didn’t look anything like Clawz, save for the little triangle-shaped ears and sewn-on whiskers, maybe— and he doubted that, in pretty pink fur and black plastic bead-eyes, it looked much like its Waking World counterpart either.

Reala tried again. “But what is it, what is it for?”  

“Well, it isn’t for anything, really, you just have fun with it. I felt like you needed something like that, y’know.” NiGHTS lightly tossed their own ‘cat’ (theirs was a nice shade of light purple) in the air and caught it again, switching it between hands like a basketball. “But you could use it for a pillow, maybe. Or you could use it like this!”

Reala, too distracted and, admittedly, slightly enchanted by his new acquisition, completely missed NiGHTS winding up across from him, and only looked up just in time to be met with a faceful of stuffed animal. He reacted a second too late, clumsily swiping at nothing but air with an annoyed grumble. NiGHTS hesitantly reached for their cat, gathering it back into their arms with a hint of shame. “…I could keep yours if you really don’t want it, Rere.”

Reala tested the plush again. It would make a nice pillow. And it was soft, easy to hold and squish and knead his claws into. He could see himself becoming used to it, really, just having something for the sake of having it.

“No, I suppose I’ll keep it,” he told them, rubbing the cat’s ear between two fingers. “Just as long as you don’t bring me any more. I don’t need my room ending up looking like yours.” 

NiGHTS grinned, tossing their cat upwards again. “Fine! I’ll only get them for myself, and then I’ll have more to throw at you.”

…And just as long as he could hit them back soon enough.

[boygina-philosopher]

You've got my body, flesh and bone

Feat: Scout/Medic

Meta: MLM - one shot - mild injury

Tags: body worship, kisses, transman scout, knife play, fear play, safe and consensual but absolutely not sane, giving head, bottom scout, top medic, fur coats, references to Venus in Furs, divine gore, flaming June, Pygmalion reference, god/worshipper, neck kissing, grinding, dacryphilia, religious imagery, hairy scout pussy got me acting devout, the god worships his followers,

the nude body, to the eye of Ludwig, was pristine. not in the prudent manner that it was not touched carnally, but rather, pristine because the sacredness of blood hadn't been spilt out onto his hands. when in the hands of surgeon, what was sacred? the now exposed viscera of the flesh was no longer sacred to any god now that it was tainted by human intervention, but in the moment, medic was the god now, and what was sacred to him was grotesque. Medic will treat the pristine body with the handling one would give to a lamb, and draw out the divine blood of scout.

The scout lay idle across from The Medic, upon a red velvet couch most definitely stolen. Draped in sheer coral fabrics, scout was naked, save for a thick fox-fur coat. He warmed his arched feet by a warm amber light, emanating from a green and gold lamp.

Medic crouched to the ground beneath his apostle, scout's legs slung lazily over the other's shoulders. The lamp above medic's head gave him a holy glow. they were both gods in their own rights, devout to one another like the holy union of the soul and mind. Medic carved this man from stone and brought him up with him to the heavens. Medic caressed his ample thighs, smooth and real, yet hard as marble. Beyond the reach of his very nose lay scouts cunt, noticeably throbbing and glistening wet, forested with dark brown hair.

scout moaned gently when medic rose up and away from his aching heat, pulling the older man closer with his muscular legs. medic chuckled in crackles and leaned down towards the scout's neck, open and inviting, for no one else. should he take this hint, sink his teeth into the flesh, it would mark the beginning of a holy rite. of course, he took it. Medic scraped his teeth along the supple flesh, eliciting a gasp from the muse. Today, medic would bring forth much more from the other, awarding him with worship for being such a patient disciple.

"keep going, please doc." scout's breath hitched ever so slightly, biting down on his girlish pink lips. so much for patience. he deserved this treat anyways.

Medic licked a stripe along the hot muscle running from scout's jawline, down towards his clavicle. Suckling and peppering kisses along the pink skin, watching his Galatea shiver where his mouth was not. Oh, to condition him to associate the cold with needing medic. to associate everything with how medic makes him feel. Scout was noisily huffing as Medic threatened to bite clean into his throat. clean would not describe the scene, medic would ravage him. the younger man shook and trembled when Medic dragged a scalpel from an unknown area, bringing it to his chest and dangerously close to his skin, tacky with sweat.

"You can't keep me like this. it's not fair, fucking gut me."

Medic groaned and his stomach flexed with arousal, a current sent straight to his cock.

"I would love nothing more." medic huffed. "but for now, I'd just like to drink from you."

"would'ja now?" scout smirked below him, so annoyingly smug, well aware that he held just as much control as the man above him. Scout threw a curvy leg above Medic's shoulder, prying him down towards his cunt.

medic grinned evil and sly, dragging the flat side of his scalpel along Scout's skin until he relented. He dropped to his knees, (a stupid idea, given that medic's knees would usually pop out of their sockets,) and brought the sharp blade towards the other man's thighs. a stripe of blood in an instant invaded the still air, the smell filling medic's mind, as if he were a piranha. Scout's pleas fell silent on the ears of the man below him, lapping up the red-hot blood. Medic already knew what Scout wanted.

"I wish to carve you open from below, straight up and into your throat." medic crooned to his statue of sex, who, in return, moaned in a high-pitched tone.

through several more shallow cuts, medic felt his appetite could not be satisfied by these small morsels. scout was caught in another tangent, and interrupted when Medic licked along his aching cunt.

"woah-ahh! holy shit..." scout flung a fur-clad arm to his own face, shuddering as medic worked his tongue over his clit, standing hot at attention. Scout bit into his hand, attempting silence for once. currents of painfully acute thrill jolted towards his nipples and each throb from his cock burned him brighter.

Scout ground gently onto Medic's mouth, chasing the high of orgasm. He keened and moaned freely into the air, arising from his chest sang praises and pleas for more. his eyes here glossy with involuntary tears. Medic payed no mind, fucking him deeper with his tongue, rubbing along his cock with his thumb

"F-fuck, 'm gonna-hah! faster! pleeease-!" scout was nearly yelling at this point, squirming his hips, digging his wet cunt into medic's face, messy hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. he loved seeing the man let go like this, so ready and hopeful to rip him apart and use him. Scout loved the way how everyone, especially medic, told him to shut up, knowing that they couldn't deny how behind closed doors, his very voice brings them to their knees, lapping up his sexual delights.

Medic sped up his pace, and Scout's legs spasmed over his shoulders, crashing into an orgasm whimpering and sobbing. loud moans filled the fiery golden room, ecstasy evident through the drenched bottom half of medic's face.

"c'mere, let me finish you off." scout panted through the thick air, humid with sex. unceremoniously, medic lifted himself up, wiped his face with a silk handkerchief, and leaned over scout. he grazed his fingers over scout's nipples, drawing out a hiss of post-orgasm overstimulation.

scout led the other man closer to him, laying his knuckle-y hands on Medic's erection. Medic threw his head back, leaving it in the air as she coaxed his cock free from his britches.

scout sat up just a bit, with Medic's cock cradled betwixt his soaked folds. slowly, medic thrust forth, grinding his cock into the other man. He growled hungrily into the nape of the other man's neck, face drowning in soft furs. he whines a bit, attempting to catch up to a neon release, orgasm.

every one of scout's breaths was capped with an overwhelmed mewl, tears dripping limp along his flushed cheeks.

medic shouted out in pleasure, gripped with the primal electricity of orgasm. Scout threw his heavy arms around the neck of Medic, shouting his name like scripture. they came at once, singing of their sacred bodies with pants and moans, silenced by the clasing of mouth together.

medic looked up at Scout, by now now with drying tears, and kissed his face tenderly. scout looked red as a beet, wide-eyed as if the act of kissing was more lewd than what they had been doing.

[ravenbirdyyz]

lava lamp

paring: oblivious!gerard way x drug addict!user

summary: surroundings are bright and colourful your insides feel like jello, more a lava lamp to be exact, will gerard realise and help?

warnings: drug use, self harm, angst, needles, getting high, smoking, weed, bad Spelling, use of y/n, mention of puke.

A/N: hai!!! this is my first post on tumblr. minors dni!! this includes heavy angst and drug use everyone experiences stuff differently! I have never done drugs so it isn't perfect. I am writing my about me as you read this x_x . you: purple. gerard: red. other: green.

Gerard had gone out with frank a few minutes ago giving you the chance to get high before he came back home.

as soon as you heard his car pull out of the driveway you perked up from your spot on the couch and ran to yours room.

scavenging through your drawers to find your stash, you found the ziplock bag and pulled it out. you had what looked like about 4 ounces of weed left. you grabbed it and put it all in your grinder deciding you would get more later.

grabbing the paper as you finished grinding your leftover stash and rolling it into a cigarette. you walked into the bathroom ang locked the door and opening the windows, you grabbed a lighter and lit the cigarette before taking a drag. the smoke filling your lungs before you blew it out and coughed.

immediately feeling relaxed after your second drag. as you put it out you let the smoke go outside the windows before leaving the bathroom and walking to your backyard, giggling at the birds eating the seeds you left out earlier.

you felt hungry. so you went to go get food. what tho? a sandwich, bag of chips? oh I know! leftover pasta from yesterday. you only had to reheat it. you grabbed it from the fridge and put it in the microwave for 8 minutes. accidentally pressing the 1. 18 minutes you didn't realise and went to sit down and watch TV.

it had been a while and you smelt something burning and saw smoke coming from the microwave. you got up and opened the microwave door. it was burnt.

you groaned and immediately felt upset. deciding to just eat a bag of chips. you sat in your room after eating them. you felt exhausted and passed out on the bed. waking up after who knows how long.

finding gerard still wasn't home you felt even more upset. "is he cheating on me?" "he said he would be home soon!" "am i good enough for him" before you knew it. you found yourself standing in front of the mirror insulting yourself.

. . .

you broke down as you stared at yourself. blade in hand. your arms bleeding. filled with cuts. trying to stop the bleeding but you just made the cuts deeper. you dropped the blade. you fell to the floor. ravaging through under the bathroom sink for your needle. you know you washed it the last time you used it.

you had the needle in your arm. injecting the heroine into your bloodstream. you felt nauseous. you laid down and stared at th3 ceiling. everything was colourful and bright. you barely heard the front door opening and gerard calling your name.

"y/n! are you asleep?-"

he froze at the bedroom door as he saw you laying next to a needle. fresh cuts on your arm with dried blood. staring at the ceiling. he walked over to you and sat you up. you finally realised him and felt shocked

"you told me you stopped.."

"I'm sorry."

"I- I'm. I'm staying with frank..while you sort yourself.. out"

"gerard- wait-"

you heard the front door open and close and his car drive off. you grabbed your phone and called your dealer.

"I need alot more. at least 30 ounces."

"that's enough to last you a week? and it's going to cost alot."

"I need it. how much is it."

"550."

"shit..alright"

. . .

who knows how long it's been, since you downed nearly 2 bottles of alcohol. injected yourself with the heroine. you laid on your floor. getting lost in yourself.

it was all too much, the white powder left on your bench for who knows how long. the spoon, lighter, the needle laying somewhere in your house. the headaches the next morning, the alcohol bottles left broken, or empty around yours and gerards your apartment.

you had to face it. he left. because of you. your addiction. you knew he wasn't coming back anytime soon. or was he?

you barely heard the front door open and gerard appear from the hallway. he stared at you in shock. you didn't know what was happening, you couldn't see, your breathing was erratic.

the last thing you heard was your name being screamed.

Gerards pov.

i finally had left franks house to go check on y/n it had only been maybe 3 days since I left for them to figure themselves out. bad decision gerard.

as I pulled into the driveway and got out, locking the car, grabbing my key. damn key never worked. I jabbed it into the door and pushed it open.

silence. dead silence

I walked down the hall too the kitchen, seeing a mess on the bench then a mess on the floor. . . then a pale looking y/n. oh.

the mess, the needles, the powder on the tip of their nose, the gross smell of vomit lingered. before my eyes fell to your face.

Oh. My. Fucking. God

their face. it was so pale. cheeks sucked in. hair was a mess. a puddle of drool beneath them. oh God. the foam. it was a unsettling sight. greenish gray foam falling out of their mouth.

"what the fuck happened here?"

I couldn't stare any longer. I knew they were in pain. I grabbed my phone and dialed 000/911.

"oh God it's horrible. please hurry"

I left my phone on the bench, I rushed to y/ns side. so unsettling, but I couldn't handle staring at my partner. who looked half fucking zombie I should've never left them alone.

it had been a few minutes before the sirens came into ear distance, the front door opened and the people took them, they would be fine, right? right.

. . .

it had been weeks. at least and you were still passed out on the hospital bed. until late at night gerard got a phone call. you had finally woken up.

gerard immediately got out of bed, snatching the keys and running outside. locking the front door and hopping in his car. trying not too speed, it felt like hours (15 minutes) before he arrived, he parked and got out the car, rushing to the hospital doors, buying a visitor ticket and getting in elevator.

he dreaded as he walked towards your room. he pushed the door open and saw the once again, unsettling scene before him. you were hooked up to wires. tubes going down your nose, leading down your throat. he felt sick knowing it was partly his fault.

your eyes widened and tried speaking but nothing came out. these dumb tubes. you kept trying.

"n-ot. your- fault..please- com-e 'ere.."

the rest of the day was filled with hugs, and sobs.

hurrah I hope this was good for a first time post!! let me know if u want a part 2 :3

[ariadne-mouse]

sorry we pulled your fiancé through a portal doorway hole to another dimension yeah we absorbed him into the void and left a little bit on your hand sorry

[peskyrequeskys]

Neopronouns for a TangoTek Fictive

With Themes of Fire, Decked Out, Blazes,

Redstone, Ancient Cities, Mysteries, Music,

Hearts, and Rancherduo.

Fire/Fires/Fires/Fireself

Burn/Burns/Burns/Burnself

Crack/Crackle/Crackles/Crackleself

Spark/Sparks/Sparks/Sparkself

Card/Cards/Cards/Cardself

Game/Games/Games/Gameself

Dungeon/Dungeons/Dungeons/Dungeonself

Frost/Frosts/Frosts/Frostself

Ravage/Ravages/Ravagers/Ravagerself

Nether/Nethers/Nethers/Netherself

Fortress/Fortresses/Fortresses/Fortressself

Smoke/Smokes/Smokes/Smokeself

Blaze/Blazes/Blazes/Blazeself

Red/Reds/Reds/Redself

Dust/Dusts/Dusts/Duself

Redstone/Redstones/Redstones/Redstoneself

Observer/Observers/Observers/Observerself

Dropper/Droppers/Droppers/Dropperself

Dispense/Dispenser/Dispensers/Dispenserself

Hopper/Hoppers/Hoppers/Hopperself

Button/Buttons/Buttons/Buttonself

Lever/Levers/Levers/Leverself

Lamp/Lamps/Lamps/Lampself

Echo/Echos/Echoes/Echoself

Deep/Deeps/Deeps/Deepself

Skulk/Skulks/Skulks/Skulkself

Sensor/Sensors/Sensors/Sensorself

Ward/Wards/Wardens/Wardenself

Ancient/Ancients/Ancients/Ancientself

City/Citys/Cities/Cityself

Lantern/Lanterns/Lanterns/Lanternself

Myst/Mystery/Mysteries/Mysteryself

Search/Searchs/Searches/Searchself

Secret/Secrets/Secrets/Secretself

Clue/Clues/Clues/Clueself

Note/Notes/Notes/Noteself

Hymn/Hymns/Hymns/Hymnself

Song/Songs/Songs/Songself

Disc/Discs/Discs/Discself

Tune/Tunes/Tunes/Tuneself

Melody/Melodys/Melodies/Melodyself

Harmony/Harmonys/Harmonies/Harmonyself

Jukebox/Jukeboxes/Jukeboxes/Jukeboxself

Love/Loves/Loves/Loveself

Heart/Heart/Hearts/Heartself

Heartbeat/Heartbeat/Heartbeats/Heartbeatself

Adore/Adores/Adores/Adoreself

Canary/Canarys/Canaries/Canaryself

Ranch/Rancher/Ranches/Rancherself

Soulmate/Soulmates/Soumates/Soulmateself

Mine/Mines/Mines/Mineself

Coal/Coals/Coals/Coalself

Revenge/Revenge/Revenges/Revengeself

Goat/Goats/Goats/Goatself

Horn/Horns/Horns/Hornself

Double/Doubles/Doubles/Doubleself

❤️/❤️s/❤️s/❤️self

💕/💕s/💕s/💕self

🔥/🔥s/🔥s/🔥self

⛓️/⛓️s/⛓️s/⛓️self

🗝/🗝s/🗝s/🗝self

[howlingmidnightmoonlight]

Times up

Moonlight dries on the stars, pouring time out over the river tonight

Devils in your eyes, just hanging on the bridge tonight searching

Hope swimming between the thoughts curling round records

Spinning under the needle can you feel the hours missing now

Now you know what you have done, the years etched into your mind

The mindless divisions you have tried to understand to play the game

Games in the streets, since you were a child you know it wasn't so simple

Dollar paid, dollar earned thats the world's answer to salvation

Know the cost its written in the frost feeding on your veins

Jukebox broken don't need it for a tune, singing out under the lights

Cop just smiles miles padding pockets coasting on the devil's lie

You know why your here tonight between the red lights flashing

Ghost in the windows, jazz between the rooftops sitting

Sparking nightmares, selling tomorrows as yesterdays again

Again your empty under the lamp light waiting for such strange delights

Ravages of the city echo across your voice, the eyes sunken by the sea

Too many tears, too many fears in the dark between the shadows

Cooking blues, ocean cured hues paying for the devastation you brought

Sleepless nights churning across the soulless days

What did your stay in never land provide when the years came

Turned gray whispering on the wind as the dust evaporated

Never could pay for the tomorrows you believed you were owed

Now you can't even pay for the ride across the river

[amazingnerd]

The Dragons Fire.

Chapter 6.

Pairings: Daemon Targaryen x OC!Fem!Reader

Themes: Cursing, fluff, mentions of violence, mentions of death threats, mentions of an assassination attempt.

Previous: chapter 5

Next: Chapter 7

Gaelyra is stirred from her sleep as the bright rays of the morning sun shine down on her face, practically blinding her even with her eyes closed. How odd, doesn't she usually keep the curtains closed when she sleeps? This isn't the only difference however, she notices how uncomfortable she is. She doesn't feel the softness of her bed like she usually does and she doesn't feel her blanket over her either. In fact, she seems to not be laying on a bed at all, but leather. A couch?

She opens her eyes slowly, groaning at the bright sun in her eyes and turning away from the window, coming into contact with a chest. She looks up and she sees Daemon asleep beside her, naked. She notices that she is naked too. Her eyes widen and she instantly feels more awake as the memories of last night flood her mind. Their argument, the kisses, the words they exchanged, the way their bodies ravaged each other...

Her cheeks turn red and she sits up, feeling an ache radiate through her body, making her groan. The sound makes Daemon stir, and as she turns to him, she finds that his eyes are open and watching her.

She gives him a slight smile, "Good morning, my prince." She glances to the window closest to them, "At least, I believe it is morning." She says.

He hums behind her, sitting up and moving her hair from her shoulder so he can rest his chin there. His arm slings around her waist and he pulls her close to him, "Good morning, my fire." He says softly. Ñuha perzys. Yet another term of endearment that she can't understand.

"Ñuha perzys..." She turns her head to look at him in question, "What does that mean?"

He angles his head to meet her gaze, and he smirks, "Perhaps I will tell you one day." He answers.

She rolls her eyes at him. But then she gets an idea and she smirks, looking at his face, "Or perhaps I will figure it out on my own." She says in Valyrian.

He looks at her in surprise, but then he smiles, "I see those lessons with Rhaenyra are paying off." He says. "How much do you know?" He asks.

Gaelyra turns her body so she's facing him, and she rests her hands on his shoulders as she gives him her answer, "I know enough. How does it sound? Am I speaking it correctly?"

He smiles and leans forward, brushing his lips against hers, "You speak it beautifully. I'm impressed." He whispers. He places a light kiss to her lips, a tease, and as he goes to pull away she follows him. She kisses him again and he let's out a pleased hum, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close.

Just as they deepen the kiss, the doors to the library open and in comes a collection of people. The lamp lighters. They move around the castle every morning to exchange the old candles in each room with new ones, and they're walking in now. With Daemon and Gaelyra still naked on the couch.

With her lips still over his, Gaelyra opens her eyes and she sees the approaching lamp lighters. She gasps and pulls away from him, Daemon looks at her in confusion when he suddenly hears the footsteps of the servants. He acts fast, grabbing Gaelyra and pinning her down on the couch, practically covering her body with his own as he sends a fiery glare at the lamplighters. The poor servants stop in their tracks and their eyes widen as they see their prince and his betrothed, quite naked, in the library.

With her body as pressed against Daemon as it is, Gaelyra can feel the growl in his chest as he speaks to them, "Fuck off." And they do. They completely abandon their work and they take off out of the library. Once the door closes with a loud thud, Gaelyra relaxes, and she looks up at Daemon. She sees the look in his eyes, and she grins, "A little possessive, my prince?"

He scoffs and looks down at her, "Only I am allowed to see your naked form. No one else can see you like this, certainly not a collection of lamplighters." The way he says lamplighters is full of distaste, and it just confirms that the prince is indeed possessive of his betrothed.

She chuckles and tucks a stray strand of his hair behind his ear, "As I said last night, I do not intend on flouting myself around the court. So you have nothing to worry about, my prince." She assures him.

He hums, "Good." He pushes himself off of her and he gets up, collecting his trousers from the floor and putting them on.

She looks down, "I may have to run to my quarters, lest I be seen like this." She says. She gestures to the torn remains of her nightgown on the floor, "I can't exactly walk around with that on. I might as well be naked with how you tore it up." She says.

He snickers in response, leaning down and picking up his night shirt. He tosses it to her, "Wear that." He says, "It should do the job nicely."

Gaelyra nods and stands up from the couch, ignoring the ache in her joints from sleeping on the couch and the soreness in her body from the passionate sex. She puts on the shirt, it drapes down to her thighs. It will be just fine to keep her body covered until she can properly dress herself for the day. She looks up at him, and she notices that he is watching her. She tilts her head at him, "What?" She says.

Daemon can't deny that the sight of Gaelyra in his clothes makes him feel a warmth within his chest. Not desire. Nor lust. But warmth. A pure, tender warmth. He does not understand it. He realizes that she's speaking to him and he clears his throat, "Nothing," he says. He decides to be bold. He smiles and walks over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. "It's just, you look very alluring in my shirt... and nothing else..." He teases, bringing his head down and brushing his lips down the muscle of her neck.

Her shoulders tense up at the ticklish tingles that his touch gives her and she laughs, pushing his head away from her neck, "Control yourself, Daemon. I cannot spend all day fucking you in the library." "So you'd fuck me in the corridor?" He counters. She laughs and nudges him away with her elbow, pulling away and looking at him, "I have lessons with Rhaenyra and I'm sure you have duties of your own today," she says.

He groans in response, rolling his eyes, "I can miss one small council meeting."

She raises a brow at him, "Betrothed, since I have been here, I do not believe I have heard of you attending a single meeting." She points out.

Daemon frowns, "Since when do you listen to the chatter of the other lords?"

"Since the man that the chatter concerns is to be my husband." She says. She sighs and she walks forward, placing her hand onto his chest, "Go to the meeting, see what is happening in the realm." She looks at his face, and she gives him a gentle smile, "And when you get back, you can tell me all about Otto Hightower's incompetence," she says, trying to lighten his mood.

It works, because he actually smiles. He nods, "Can you promise me a bottle of wine as well?" He questions.

Her smile grows, "I can."

His smile grows as well, and he leans down to her face, "Well then, I will see you later, betrothed." He says, speaking Valyrian to test her.

She is quick in her response, her voice a whisper in the air between them, "Until then, my prince."

••••

Daemon hates the politics of King's Landing. Hearing lords bicker amongst themselves about the realm while his brother listens, waiting to intervene and give orders when it calls for it. Daemon does not understand why he needs to be there. He has made it very clear to his brother that he has no interest for the dull day to day that is discussed in the small council. And yet, he is expected to attend.

If it weren't for the promise of a goblet of wine shared between himself and Gaelyra later, he would not even bother going today.

After making himself look semi-presentable, he walks to the meeting room. The doors are opened for him as he enters, and he heads to his seat. All of the lords are there, except for his brother, which confuses him as Viserys is usually the first to arrive to meetings such as this.

Daemon stops in his tracks as he sees a new face amongst the usual gathering of the meeting, Jaegar Vaela. Gaelyra's father. Why is he here? Didn't he go back to the Riverlands? Does Gaelyra even know that he's here?

"Lord Vaela," Daemon greets, taking his seat at the table, "I was not informed that you had arrived. How long have you been back in King's Landing?" He questions. He himself couldn't care less, but if Gaelyra doesn't know that her father is here, perhaps the prince could give her some answers.

Jaegar looks at his prince with a bow of his head, "I arrived late last night. There is an urgent matter that I must discuss with the king. Lord Hightower-" He answers Daemon swiftly before he turns his attention to the hand of the king, "When will the king be arriving?" He questions, and Daemon notes the hint of anxiety in the old lords voice.

Otto, ever the calm lord, looks at Jaegar with a nod of his head, "The king will be here soon. His delay is thanks to his arm, it has been giving him much trouble lately."

Speaking of Viserys, first of his name, the doors to the meeting room open and in comes the king. All of the lords present stand as the king enters, and they do not sit back down until Viserys takes his own seat at the head of the table. "Good day, my lords." He greets, wearily, as he leans against the table, "Let us begin."

The lords of the small council discuss matters of the realm and they give their reports. Much time passes, and eventually Daemon feels like he'd rather jump out the window than continue sitting in this meeting. However as the meeting drags on, Daemon keeps a close eye on the lord Jaegar. Even from where the prince sits, he can see the nervous expression on the lords face. From what he knows of the lord of the Riverlands, Jaegar is not easily shaken up. Something must be wrong. Wrong enough that Jaegar came all the way here from his home at the edge of the Riverlands.

Wrong enough that Gaelyra doesn't even know that he is here.

"Why are you here, Lord Vaela?" The words that come from the prince surprise everyone in the room. All eyes fall upon him, but he meets the gaze of no one in that room. No one except for the lord Vaela. His eyes stay on him, and Jaegar looks at the prince with a solemn expression, before he looks to the king, "If I may, your grace, I would like to discuss why I am here." He says.

Viserys's brows furrow a little. He has known Jaegar a long time. If there is any lord in all of Westeros that the king can trust, it's Jaegar. He knows that Jaegar is a stern man. A man not easily shaken or bent, but the look in his eyes shows so much fear, so much dread. He feels worry for his friend, so he gives him a nod, "Of course, lord Vaela." He gestures with his hand for him to continue.

Jaegar nods and adjusts his position in his seat, leaning forward so his elbows rest on the table. Every eye is on him as he begins to speak, "Threats have been made against my house as of late. Both of my sons, my wife, and myself have received disturbing letters promising disturbing things against my house, my home, my lands, and all of my children." His eyes flit to Daemon for a moment, and the rogue prince's hand clenches around his cup as he realizes what Jaegar is implying with his glance. Threats have also been made against Gaelyra. Threats that she does not know of because she has been here in King's Landing instead of her family home.

Lord Jaegar looks to Viserys once more, "Less than a fortnight ago, my daughter by law received a gift from someone within the towns surrounding my home. When she opened the parcel she was met with a hissing manticore. Had my son not killed the insect in time, I believe I'd be planning a funeral for my sons wife as we speak." He says.

It is king Viserys turn to speak, "My sympathies, lord Vaela. But I must ask, why do you come to me with this? Wouldn't those in your service be better equipped to handle a threat in your territory?" He questions.

Jaegar nods, "I have sent some of my finest men to investigate the threat and all have come back with nothing. Yet the threats continue. I fear for not only the safety of my house but for my family as well. I have come here to ask for aid. I believe that if whoever is doing this sees the kings army protecting my family, they will go back to where they came from."

Otto frowns, "And how many men would you take from King's Landing?" He questions.

Jaegar looks to the hand, "One hundred. Two hundred at the most. All I ask is to borrow a small fraction of your army, for a short while."

The request is simple enough. There are thousands of men here in kings landing that serve the crown, fine men that could strike fear into the hearts of whoever is terrorizing the house of Vaela. There's a short moment of silence before Otto looks to the king, "Your grace?" He says.

Viserys sits in thought for only a moment before he gives Jaegar his answer. He looks at him, "My old friend, I will grant your request. Take a hundred men. I will see to it that your house and family are safe again." His tone is sincere, his eyes warm as he speaks.

Jaegar visibly relaxes, and he bows his head, "Thank you, your grace. Truly." He says.

Viserys nods, giving him a small smile, before he looks to the rest of the lords, "Shall we continue?" And they do. They speak of many things for the next long while, however Daemon doesn't engage in the chatter and reports of the lords, his mind is elsewhere.

Who in the seven kingdoms would dare to threaten one of the most powerful families in the realm? Who would be stupid enough to try and strike them?

Who would be stupid enough to dare threaten Daemon's fiancé?

He knows not. But he is going to find out.

••••

The sun is low on the horizon. Not dusk quite yet but late in the afternoon. Gaelyra is sitting in the godswood, reading a book in Valyrian. Rhaenyra gave it to her after their daily lesson so that she may practice reading the ancient language. Her back is rested against a tree, her legs folded up with the book resting on her lap as she reads.

"The words of the knight rang true in that moment as the heat of battle swirled around them all..." She reads softly aloud in Valyrian, "And as he plucked his sword from the skull of his opponent, he turned to face the battle behind him-"

"What his eyes beheld was a frightening sight. The river stained red with blood, the sky black with the smoke of castles burning."

Gaelyra looks up at the familiar voice, and she smiles as she sees Daemon standing there, "My prince," she greets, "You know this story?" She asks, holding up the book in her hands.

Daemon smiles slightly, walking over and taking a seat beside her on the grass, "I do. I read it many times as a lad." He says.

Gaelyra's brows raise, "Your parents allowed you to read this? It is quite descriptive towards the atrocities of battle." She points out.

Daemon chuckles, "My parents cared not what their second son read in the late hours of the night." He tells her. He looks at her face, "Why are you reading it?" He questions her.

She looks back down at the book, "Princess Rhaenyra wants me to read it so I can practice reading in Valyrian. I thought speaking it aloud would help me practice the pronunciation of the words as well." She plucks a blade of grass from the ground beside her and she uses it to mark her book, closing it and looking at Daemon, "How did the council meeting go?" She asks.

She doesn't miss how the smile that found its way onto his face disappears, nor does she miss how he turns his gaze away from her to look towards the corridor he just came from. She frowns, "What's wrong?" She places the book beside her on the grass and she turns her body to face his, "Did something happen?"

He sighs and looks at her, "Your father was there at the meeting." He informs her.

She furrows her brows, "My father? Why would he-"

"There have been threats." He stops her in her questions with his words, and her gaze urges him to continue. "Against your house. Against your family. Against...." He looks into her eyes, "Against you."

Gaelyra is silent as she processes this information. Who would threaten her family? Who would threaten her? And why? As far as she knows her family are thought of well in the minds of the common folk. They care about the people who live in their lands, they protect their people, they are patient and kind. She cannot recall anyone alive who would want to harm her or her family. No one that would threaten them directly. The particularaties do not matter. What does matter is that there someone out there who wants to hurt her family, that is all that matters.

She looks at him, "Has anyone been hurt?" She questions, her voice calm. Too calm.

Daemon shakes his head, "No. But there was an attempt against your brothers wife. They sent a manticore after her, but your father said that it was killed before any real harm could be done."

The anger that rushes through Gaelyra's viens is more than obvious now as she realizes that someone tried to hurt Fiyona. Her brothers wife. The love of his life. If anything were to happen to Fiyona, Gaelyra is certain that her brother would never be the same. A death by an assassins blade would be a quick and simple death, but a manticore? Their venom is painful. It kills slowly. It kills the body bit by bit, vein by vein, if that creature stung Fiyona, her death would have been long and agonizing in every sense of the word.

Only a coward would inflict such a death upon someone. Only a monster would harm someone as kind and gentle as Fiyona.

Gaelyra hums and stands up, "Well then, I suppose I know what I must do next." She says, brushing the grass and dirt off of her dress.

He assumes that she is going to talk to her father while he's still here, perhaps to offer him some comfort, but what she says instead surprises him;

"I must return to my home."

Gaelyra looks down at Daemon, "I need to go home and protect my family." She looks down in thought, "I could be there by tomorrow if I leave by nightfall. I will ride all night if I must."

Daemon frowns, "Gaelyra, do you think it wise to go straight to the place where there have been threats made against you?" He questions her, standing up from the ground. He stands in front of her, "Perhaps your brothers and father could take care of matters on their own. You going there would just give them more to defend." He says.

Gaelyra scoffs at that, looking up at him, "Daemon, I love my brothers very much, but they will need me. My father is much too old to defend our lands alone, Graehar has never lifted a sword in all his life, and Sam..." she shakes her head, "He is a fine warrior. A great warrior. But I am better." He opens his mouth to respond, but she places a finger over his lips, silencing him before she continues. Her expression is serious as she meets his gaze, "All my life, I have trained and worked and bled to be the best warrior there ever was. My brother did not spend night after night on the training grounds to perfect his technique. I did. He did not destroy rebellion against the king in our territory. I did. I have had to work twice as hard, no, thrice as hard just because I am a woman and I truly believe it has made me stronger. I truly believe it has made me the greatest warrior of my family."

She pulls her finger away from his lips, and she takes a step back, "I must go to my family. I have to." She says. She tilts her head at him as an idea comes into her head, one that may keep him from arguing against her decision, "You may accompany me if you wish." She adds.

It only takes him a moment to think before he nods, "I will go with you." He says, "I shall inform my brother of our departure. Go and pack, we will head for the pit at nightfall."

Gaelyra swallows nervously, "You wouldn't rather ride on horses?" She says.

He chuckles, "Dragons are faster than horses. We could be there within hours." He says to her. He takes her arm into his hand, gently running his hand down her arm to her hand. He looks down at her, "Caraxes will take us safely there. He will help to protect your family..." He gives her hand a small squeeze, "He will help me protect you..." He whispers.

Gaelyra's expression softens at his words. She squeezes his hand back and she leans up, placing a light kiss to the corner of his lips. She lets the touch linger for a moment before she pulls away and looks up at him, a small smile on her face, "To the Riverlands then?"

He too smiles at her, bringing their joined hands up and placing a kiss upon her knuckles. His eyes look directly into hers as he whispers;

"To the Riverlands."

A/N: Ohhhh man things are really about to get real my friends *evil laugh*. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! The taglist is still open so if you'd like to be tagged in the next chapter then feel free to ask me! I won't bite 💙

Taglist: @writtingforfun @simbaaas-stuff @dragon06fire @immyowndefender @clarym @vilmakamunen @livinthesweetlife @addie333333 @luma6 @enchantedbones @the-baybieruth @cxstrophobic @strawberry07cake @saramarvel07 @harrietgamersstuff @paranoyse

[candelaobscure]

Candela Obscura Chapter 1, Episode 2 | Ravage of Red Lamp

What Horror Ravages The Red Lamp?

As a hunger stalks the streets of Newfaire, The Circle of the Vassal and the Veil toil to unravel the mysteries of the city's ancient history before another life is irrevocably altered...