#red raw stump

[unreesonable]

Psychoville character concept art, drawn by Reece

[dontopenfairies]

“Do you need your diaper checked?”

“No, I’m okay for now.”

“What was that, honey?”

“I said no,” he says, eyes on the jigsaw puzzle strewn out before him on the dining room table. He lifts a piece and finds its place easily.

“Sweetheart, you’ve been doing this puzzle for two hours straight and you haven’t gotten up for the bathroom at all. I know that pull-up is soaked.”

“Can you get out of my hair for five seconds?” he says, irritated. “I’m making really good progress on this.” He really is, quickly snapping together four more pieces.

“Are we really going to do this today?”

“I’m not doing anything. Except for this puzzle.” He scans what he has so far and swaps around a couple of big pieces. She watches his fingers moving quickly, sliding over the loose pieces and flipping them around, and almost gets distracted. That and the cute face he makes when he’s concentrating…She snaps out of it when he glances up, an angry crease in his forehead. “You’re breaking my concentration! Don’t you have something else to do?”

“You’re being such a brat! I can’t believe you! You’re being very, very bad!”

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all, and snapping together two more pieces. “Wow! That one almost stumped me earlier! Look!” He turns around to show it to her, excited.

“Really? You were just telling me to leave and now you want me to praise you because you’re doing a good job at your puzzle? Come on, get your butt over here. I know you need a change, bad.”

He hesitates, hands on the back of his chair.

“Come on, sweetheart, come over here like a good boy and let me check your diaper. I know you want to hear me call you a good boy.”

“No! I don’t!” He’s blushing. His eyes are looking at the puzzle but his body is still turned towards hers.

“Do you need me to manhandle you?” She comes a little closer, getting ready to lift him out of the chair. She is just a little stronger than he is and she knows this is a sore spot of his.

“No!! I’m coming over.” He stands up slowly and carefully. Oh, yeah. There’s a little round wet patch on his pants on one of his thighs. And as he walks towards her she can see where his pull-up is sagging.

She takes him to the bathroom and pulls his pants down. The pull-up is completely saturated with piss. “Jesus, baby,” she says. “You should have told me sooner.”

“Why is that my job?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

“Dude, really? Did you want me to check you by force every half-hour? You’re an adult man pissing himself on purpose and I’m changing your literal diapers, and you’re this ungrateful? Hands on your head, right now.”

He obliges immediately, knowing that he’s gone too far. She yanks the pull-up down and slaps his wet ass roughly. And again. And again, until it’s completely red and raw. He’s silent during the entire ordeal but when she turns him around and eases his hands off his head he has tears on his cheeks. It can’t be all bad, though, otherwise he wouldn’t also be sporting a huge erection.

“Aw, baby,” she says, roughing his hair and standing on tiptoe to kiss him. “It didn’t hurt that bad, did it?”

“No, mommy,” he says quietly.

“Let me wipe your eyes. Then I’m going to wipe you up down here. Does that feel better? I’m going to get you a new, clean pull-up.”

“You didn’t say it yet.”

“What was that?” She looks over her shoulder, hands in the diaper drawer.

“You said if I agreed you’d call me, um…”

Ohhh. That’s right. Wouldn’t it be fun to play dumb and make him say it? “What was that? I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey. I said I’d call you something?”

He fidgets with his collar, looking down, while she stands in front of him with the fresh pull-up. “Um, yousaidyoudcallmeagoodboy,” he says very quickly, looking away.

“Ohh, that’s right, I did. But even when you followed me into the bathroom, you still talked back to me. Are you ready to be a good boy now?”

“Yes, mommy.”

“Okay,” she says. “Step into this, honey.”

“Wait…can I go poop first, please? I really need to.”

“Okay, go to the toilet. I’ll wait right here.” She crosses her arms but he looks at the toilet with a weird expression, like suspicion. “What?”

“Um, that’s going to hurt. Um, sitting down…”

“Ohh, right. Yeah, it’ll hurt. Are you gonna go?”

He starts twisting his shirt between his hands very fast. “I was wondering, if, maybe, um, just this once, I could poop in the pull-up?”

“Sweetheart…Okay, fine. You can go poop in the pull-up. Help me get it on you.” He tries to hide his excitement as she slips the pull-up up his legs and makes sure it’s snuggly on his hips. “Squat over the floor.” She points a finger down and he obeys, wrapping his arms around her legs. “Now go poop in your pull-up.”

His face scrunches and she hears a crackling sound from the diaper. “Umf,” he groans.

“Are you finished?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Stand up. I want to see the damage so far.” The pull-up has a huge lump in the back and is wet from where he involuntarily pissed himself while pushing. She wraps a hand around the lump and shakes it a little. “That’s not a very big log,” she says.

“There’s definitely more,” he says. “I really need to go.”

“Can you finish standing up?”

He nods and braces himself on the counter, and then she watches as his pull-up expands to its limit, a huge, hefty log pushing against it. Holy fuck, that’s hot, she thinks to herself as he groans again.

“I’m all down now,” he says.

“Good boy,” she says, wrapping her arms around him and ruffling his hair again. “Come on back to your puzzle. I’m going to put a stack of towels down on your chair so you can keep working for a little while without worrying about leaks, because there’s no way I’m changing you again so soon. Besides, that’ll feel better than sitting on the hard chair right after a spanking.”

“What!! You expect me to sit in a—“

“At-tat-tat,” she says, shaking a finger.

“Sorry. Thank you for changing me, mommy. And thank you for letting me go number two in my pull-up.”

“Good boy. Let’s go back to the table.”

[little-cereal-draws]

If Ghosts had a more mature rating and was able to do more creepy ghost powers/death side effects:

Pat, Humphrey, and Thomas are eternally bleeding. Their clothes are wet, their hand gets wet from touching it, they'll leave trails of blood down the hall, etc. The blood on their hand or the floor disappears pretty quickly as their ghost powers make them reset but their clothes are always soaked

Thomas's whole stomach and the top of his pants are bloodstained. Pat's is all located on his shoulders/necktie and has the most obvious stains due to the color difference of his clothes. There are a few drops here and there down his sleeves and chest. It's pretty heavy because of the major arteries the neck that would've been punctured. Humphrey's is by fair the heaviest and is all over the front of his torso. Like the whole thing. When he died he fell face down into the growing puddle of blood that would've been pooling from his stump

Fanny can turn her head frighteningly far. There's a sick crunching sound that happens when she does this and it always sends shivers down Alison's spine even after years of hearing it. The other ghosts have joked and compared Fanny to an owl because of this and she chews them out every time

Pat coughs a lot because he's got blood stuck in his throat. He'll randomly have a huge coughing fit, cough a bunch of blood into his hand and then go "Oh no. Anyways..." He also has trouble breathing and has to take breaks to sit down during physical activities like dancing or running. It annoying but not too much of a hindrance to his daily life; it's like having asthma or allergies. The blood can make his voice sound a little weird sometimes too, like he's gurgling smth while he talks. He just clears his throat and keeps going

The plague ghosts vomit up bile every once in a while. It's black, steaming, and putrid but disappears almost instantly

Kitty also throws up when she's excited... which is a lot. She also gets chills, lightheadedness, fevers, and uncontrollable shaking. There's not much the other ghosts or Alison can do to help her besides sitting with her/trying to distract her. She'll lay down and try to breathe through it while Alison reads her a story or the Captain infodumps abt smth or Robin holds her hand. Sometimes she falls asleep, sometimes she doesn't. She's always better after a few hours tho

Fanny gets really bad migraines. Alison's theory is that they're caused by her broken vertebra. Fanny doesn't particularly care why they happen. When they happen, she's in an even worse mood than usual so it's best to steer clear of her. She doesn't have the energy to yell at ppl but will remember the slightest fault and wait until she's better to go on a lecture. Again, there's not much Alison or the other ghosts can do to help besides let her lay down and try to be quiet

Mary and Robin's skin peels off. It's white and flaky and leaves raw red spots underneath. The dead skin disappears once it leaves them but the skin underneath is never healthy and flakes off too

Both Robin and Mary smell like burning flesh but only Mary is detectable by living people. Robin only smells when he uses his powers. It really puts a lot of the ghosts off, especially newer ones

Robin's body also gets affected by his powers in other ways. If it's something small like flickering a light, his hair will stand on end. Something bigger like turning a light on/off or flickering a more powerful light will cause him to spasm. It's usually just his arms and wears off after a minute. Smth really big like redirecting that lightning bolt for Mike will be the equivalent of him actually getting hit w the lightning. His body seizes up, falls over unresponsive and twitching for several minutes, but he's always ok in the end. Alison and the other ghosts get very worried but he walks it off

Julian and the Captain both feel remnants of their heart attacks. Shortness of breath, tingling/numbness in the arms, dizziness, heart palpitations, etc. They both choose to keep it a secret from the others and cover it up but if they're particularly stressed abt smth, they'll start getting chest pains which is harder to cover up. The Captain has excused himself from many social situations to go sit on the floor and try to breathe through the pain and calm his heart. Robin's the only one who knows about Julian's because it happened once while they were hanging out. Logically, they both know they can't die again but it's still scary

Mary likes to sit in the lake because even tho she can't feel it like she would if she was alive, the cold water is soothing on her burns

All the ghosts have days where they just lay abt bc the pain is too much to move. From who does it the most to who does it the least it goes Mary, Humphrey, Pat, Fanny, Thomas, Kitty, Robin, the Captain, Julian

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

On Rotting Planks

Part Six of The Pirate!AU. MDNI 18+, CW: some crass language, blood, death, and remnants of the smut from the last chapter. (We finally get back to sea!) ~3.5k words

The rest of the night passes as a blur of whispers and in bursts of stars. Jason doesn't let you rest until the candles have long since burned to the wicks, leaving nothing but stumps of wax.

Your bath was seemingly good for nothing, as he covers your skin in sloppy kisses, makes your body shine with sweat, leaves your thighs, and the bed covered in a mix of his and your releases. You try to lose yourself in him, in desperation.

But it's hard to ignore what's between you when his steady, gentle hands tighten around your thighs. When he crawls up your body to settle his hips against yours.

When he tells you he knows you wanted to get caught. That a city only a day and a half ride from the nearest port could have never really hid you from him for long.

You rake your nails over his back, catching scars, in an almost desperate attempt to get him to stop talking. He doesn't, not until his voice is raw with words of devotion and love and heavy feelings you don't know how to hold in your heart.

He doesn't fuck you into the sheets. He does something you would argue worse. He makes love to you. Over and over until your brain is mush and all that exists is him and the idea that he loves you.

Only then does he kiss your eyelids and entwine your limbs together. Only then does he let you sleep.

You don't wake until sunlight bathes the room in a warm, golden glow of dawn. Your husband snores softly, arm thrown over your waist. His face is relaxed, and he looks so much like he did back when you were first married, hair falling into his eyes and lips slightly parted.

The thought drives you out of bed, almost stumbling over yourself to get dressed. You're lacing your shoes and tugging on your cloak when Jason calls your name.

Your head whips towards him, but he doesn't seem bothered to see you dressed.

He lounges lazily on the bed, eyes half open, "You should wear the pin, treasure."

You hesitate, but it's a simple request. So, you pull the silver rose out of the pocket of your cloak, and fasten it to your hair. You leave the room without another word. You're confused that he lets you do this, that he doesn't offer any sign of resistance.

At least you are until you get to the exit of the inn and an arm drapes itself over your shoulder, "Going somewhere, Sweetheart?"

You shouldn't be as excited to see Roy Harper as you are. You hadn't realized you'd missed his easy-going smile so much, that it almost distracts you from the fact that he's guiding you away from the door and to one of the tables scattered around the inn.

"Harper," You breathe out, eyes darting for the rest of the crew, "I was only– I was going to look for an apothecary." It's the truth, you weren't planning on going far. You had only wanted something to prevent any accidents that may befall from last night.

His hands settle on your shoulders as he guides you to sit down in a chair, the rest of Jason's crew smiling and continuing their conversations without missing a beat.

"No need to worry about that. Just get comfortable, I'll get you your favorite for breakfast," Roy chirps, not acknowledging your attempt to leave at all. You stare after him as he saunters off.

It's disorienting, how they're acting, including you like this is an everyday occurrence. It's like your months away from them never happened. That it's just another morning enjoying food that's not from the ship's galley.

You've hardly gotten to center yourself when the inn falls to hushed whispers. Your eyes trail to stairs as Jason swaggers down into the dining area. He grins when his eyes land on you.

It's not the sight of his fabled dark red tricorn hat that makes your breath catch. It's not even the way his long overcoat seems to sweep across the room that pulls the air from your lungs.

No, it's the sight of red and purple marks bitten into his skin that makes your eyes go wide and your face feel hot. He didn't even attempt to try to hide them. If anything, he looks smug as he settles in the seat next to yours, resting his arm on the back of your hair.

"Jason, your neck," You hiss immediately, looking between his crew and him. They seem to be pointedly ignoring the telltale signs of you mauling their captain last night.

He seems to just grin wider at your embarrassment, "My love, I'd let you leave all the marks you desired on my skin, just so that I may carry you with me."

You laugh, out of pure disbelief, "You cannot be serious."

"It's a pleasure to hear you laugh, treasure, even better to be the cause of it," he says happily and seemingly more interested in playing with the threads of your cloak.

Roy sets down a large tray of food in front of you both before you can argue further, "Eat up, we best be leaving soon if we want to make port before noon."

He's followed by a few staff members, who place more food down around the table.

Jason haphazardly tosses a pouch of coins to the staff, and pushes a tray closer to you, "Enjoy, love."

The crew dig in, and the atmosphere of the inn relaxes for the first time since Jason appeared on the stairs. You eat slowly, too wrapped up in how easy it is to fall back into a rhythm with them.

Teasing, tales, and laughter sound around the table, and Jason's relaxed grin grows with every time you crack a smile at his crew.

You're so distracted by one of Kori's stories that you don't notice how you've fallen into step with the crew as Jason guides you towards the stables. It's not until he offers his hand to help you into your horse that you stop short.

"I wanted– I was supposed to stop somewhere," You start, trying to avoid the reason why you want to stop at the apothecary.

"All the necessities you could need are on the ship, treasure," he drawls, lifting you by your waist despite your protest, "and anything you desire we can find in the next port."

He doesn't give you a chance to argue more as he pulls himself onto his horse, and before you know it, you're on the road towards port, surrounded by Jason and crew.

They don't let you get too wrapped up in your mind, and you have a feeling it's to prevent you from planning any escapes. You're not sure how you could even escape from them, if you wanted to.

Donna has just left you in a fit of giggles, recalling how Jason had reduced a well renowned naval commander to a blubbering mess with just a point of his finger, (You're almost positive it's more fiction than fact) when the smell of the sea and the sounds of the city reach you.

The clear blue of the ocean fills your vision as your traveling party crests the hill. It feels like your heart gets tugged in your chest. You hadn't realized how much you missed the water. How much it had felt like home.

"Beautiful," Jason murmurs, as if it's only for you to hear. You turn to face him, but his gaze is already set on you. He holds your eyes for a long moment, then slowly turns to face the ocean.

You exhale shakily as you follow his lead into the city. He always seems to find a way to make your head spin.

The people mulling about the city have the same hushed awe as the patrons of the inn did. Jason– The Red Hood and his crew of Outlaws are well-known, respected, and feared.

Just the sight of his signature red leaves the crowds parting, leaving a clear route to the docks.

The closer you get to his ship the more eager he seems, you catch him drumming his fingers over the pommel of his sword, and he's off his horse as soon as you get to the docks.

"My horse," You start to ask, swinging your leg to lower yourself to the ground.

"Will be well taken care of by people we trust," he promises, threading his hand with yours to pull you towards the ship.

You let him, but it feels like your world is closing in on you. Your throat tightens, and you come to the stark realization that this is it. There's no way out, nowhere to hide.

Jason leads you right to the familiar sight of his ship, and you stop short when his boot hits the plank. You rip your hand from his, and his head snaps to you.

"I can't," You choke out, hating the panic that catches your voice.

He stares at you for a moment. It only makes your heart pound harder. He reaches for you, and you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut.

You wonder vaguely if he'll haul you over his shoulder again, the same way he dragged you from Gotham to the sea.

He doesn't.

He takes your hand gently and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles.

You open your eyes in time to watch him reach into your cloak pocket and remove the shiny ring you've been keeping alongside the hair pins.

You freeze when he slides it onto your finger. "Treasure," he says quietly, "there is nothing to fear from me. From my crew. From my ship. It is yours as much as it is mine."

You are scared. You just don't think he understands of what. It's the fear that it could be perfect again. That it's so easy to believe in him and the family he's found for himself. It's the fear to trust in your marriage– in him again, only for it to all be ripped from you.

You don't know how to tell him, how to make him understand. So you follow his measured steps up the plank, and before you know it, he's shouting orders to haul in the lines, to cast off the dock, and drop the sails.

You stand at the railing the entire time, grip tight around the edge of the ship.

It rotates, who stands watch at your side. But they hover so close that you're sure that they're expecting you to jump.

You have no intention of jumping, not that you don't think you could make the swim, but more that you don't think you'd get very far before someone followed you in.

You watch the port grow smaller and smaller. It feels like something is ending, but the salt, sea air that blows at your skin is almost soothing.

You're pulled out of your thoughts when Artemis presses a telescope in your hands, "We're being followed."

You blink once, then twice, "What?"

She gestures to the ship, flying the colors of the navy off the ship's stern, "They're hardly a danger. A few months ago, they wouldn't have dreamed of–," She cuts herself off, like she's trying to save you the guilt, "You'll be safer below deck."

"Or," Roy says happily, leaning onto the railing at your side, "You can stay and watch us work."

You frown, as far as you're aware, Jason's ship is the fastest on the seas, "Can't we out run them?"

"We could," Artemis agrees, "but the captain is intent on refreshing our enemies' memories."

Roy pats your arm, "He's not called a pirate lord for nothin', Sweetheart."

"That title is ridiculous," your husband mumbles, inserting himself between you and Roy so he can hook his arm around your hip.

"It's good for inspiring fear," Artemis supplies, and you have to agree. Before you know who Red Hood was, the idea of an unbeatable pirate lord did sound foreboding.

Jason hums reluctantly, watching the naval ship grow closer, "Take over the helm, Roy." He turns his focus to you, "I'll escort you to my quarters, treasure."

"I want to stay on deck," You say quickly.

He raises an eyebrow at you, "It could be bloody, my love."

"I know," You tell him, but if you're going to be a part of this, a part of his life, this is a piece you'll have to learn.

He studies you, then gestures to Roy, "Stay with him. Keep a weapon on you."

You nod quickly, and follow Roy to the helm of the ship.

Roy doesn't question you, doesn't push, just cracks lazy jokes as the navy ship gets closer, "Commodore Bullock's been after us for years. Thinks he can get his big promotion this way. I think he's lost more ships to us than the entire navy combined."

The knowledge is reassuring, even as the ship sails parallel to Jason's, even as they shout for him to surrender.

Jason offers the sailors a wicked grin, points his pistol, and shoots. Your eyes go wide when the feathers set in the commodores hat explode into bits and pieces.

You have to stifle your giggles at how red his face gets, how he gestures wildly to Jason. Your giggles fade when the sailors start to grab ropes and swing themselves to the deck of the pirate ship.

None of the crew seems half bothered, and Roy draws his sword with all the rush of someone who just woke up from a long, relaxing nap. He offers you a dagger, but you pull your own, one you keep hidden under your clothes.

He grins at you, and turns to the approaching men. It's almost embarrassing, how easily Jason and his crew disarms and takes down the sailors.

It's like dancing, how they evade slashes of swords and duck under wide swings. They laugh as they trip their opponents, shout to each other how many they've taken out, making bets and teasing without a care.

It's almost fun to watch, until you notice how the men seem to be converging on you and Roy.

You'll be the first to admit, your little training with a knife was months ago, and Ted focused more on showing you how to throw a solid punch.

Roy seems to notice this, too, and he sets himself closer to your side, trading his sword for bullets.

But you don't quite realize how much danger you're in until a sound of wood hitting the railing draws your attention. The Commodore himself walks across the creaking plank, sword drawn and smiles dark and gleeful.

"If it isn't the Captain's whore. Quite a pretty thing. I can see why he abandoned the sea for you" he says, eyes raking over your form.

Roy, for his part, does try to get between you and Bullock. It only takes a wave of the commodore's hand to send a group of men to keep him occupied.

For as sloppy as Bullock seems to be with a sword, his years of experience outweighs yours, and terror grips your throat when he knocks your knife out of your hand.

It all happened too fast. He raises his sword, swings for your chest, and all you see is red.

The dark, telltale red of Jason's coat. He stands steadfast between you and the sword, his fingers wrapped around the blade.

You don't know if you want to cry for yourself, or over the sight of blood dripping down his hand and onto the steel.

"It seems as though the seas have forgotten how I earned my name in my absence. But do not worry, commodore, I will remind you," Jason says lowly, voice flat and full of threats.

The atmosphere on the ship shifts. Any fun and lightheartedness disappears. Silence falls, and Bullock visibly pales, stuttering out nonsense and pleas for mercy. You could only imagine what he sees. How dark Jason's eyes must be.

The commodore tries to pull his sword free, but Jason doesn't budge. A few of the sailors rush to help their commander, and then your world goes dark. Fabric covers your eyes, a bandana thrown over your head, you think, and someone pulls you back.

"You shouldn't have to see this," they murmur, and a steady hand settles on your back. It's the only thing that keeps you tethered.

You might not see what happens. But you hear it. Smell it. Iron permeates in the air. Begging and screams fill space around you.

It's a massacre.

It's evident there's no fight that the sailors can put up. There's no sounds of metal on metal, only the tearing of flesh, the thumps of bodies hitting the wooden deck.

You stay still the entire time, fingers clenched into fists, and sight obscured by the fabric throwing over your head.

Eventually, the screams fade, and are replaced by the sounds of splashes in the water. They're throwing the bodies overboard, you realize.

"Sink their ship, Harper," Jason's low voice makes your head turn. You want to speak, but the words catch in your throat.

"Aye, captain," Roy answers, and the safety of the warm hand against your back leaves.

You lower your head to stare at what you can see, the familiar wood that makes the deck of the ship. And the tips of Jason's shoes, stained with drops of blood. That's not so familiar.

"Can you walk," he asks softly.

You nod, fingers twisting into the fabric of your clothes.

"I'm sorry, my love. I would carry you but," his voice trails off. You appreciate it. You think getting blood on you right now would send you spiraling.

He offers you his hand, carefully holding it out to where you can see it.

It's the hand he didn't use to catch the sword, you notice, and it's surprisingly clean of any blood. You take it, and he squeezes gently, as if he's trying to reassure you.

He carefully leads you away from the helm, off the deck, and to his quarters. He helps you sit at the edge of his bed, "I'll be right back, treasure."

You nearly laugh. You're back where it all started. You hear him rustling in the closet, and then hear a door open and close.

You tug the bandana off your head. The room is empty for the moment, and you start to fidget with the ring on your finger.

You're not alone for long, Jason returns freshly changed and not a drop of red on him.

"Are you hurt," he questions immediately, walking over to kneel at your feet.

You want to laugh again at how familiar this all is. You shake your head instead and reach for his hand, prepared to see a deep, nasty cut from when he caught the sword. You're ready to clean it, to bandage it, to apologize for being a poor fighter.

But when you lift his hand, there's only a fresh scar.

"What–" You breathe out, the shock of seeing his hand nearly completely healed, pulling you out of your dazed state.

He winces, "I wasn't– I haven't told you the whole truth. About what happened to me."

You drop his hand, hurt flashing across your features, "What?"

He starts slowly, avoiding your gaze, "I didn't know how to tell you. Back when– when I was captured, I died."

"Died," You echo, almost hollow.

He nods a little and looks up at you, "Died. The League, the people that brought me back– I don't understand it completely myself, but I– when I'm at sea, my injuries heal. No matter how major, no matter how small, wounds that should be deadly, simply turn to scars."

"What does that mean," You ask weakly.

"Nothing," he says firmly, "it means nothing. It only makes me a better captain. It only lets me protect you better."

You twist the ring in your finger faster. It makes your stomach churn. He jumped in front of you because he can't die on his ship. He threw his life around, risked everything, because there was no risk. Not for him.

You're almost relieved that he was never in any danger. But you can't shake the thought that maybe he wouldn't have done it if there were actually consequences. You know it's unfair, but the idea grows louder by the second.

"I'd like to be alone," You murmur.

His face hardens, like he can see exactly what conclusion you've come to on your face, "Treasure, whatever you're thinking–"

"Please," You don't mean to sound like you're begging, but it slips out nonetheless.

He falters, stares at you, then slowly stands, "Very well, darling. I'll send Kori to check on you."

He hesitates for a moment longer, and then he leaves.

A part of you wants to break down. A part of you wants to cry the same way you did on that wagon. But you don't.

You stare out the porthole, stare at the ring sparking on your finger. Cannons begin to fire, and you watch as the commodores ship begins to sink. And for the first time in a long time, you don't have a plan.

Part Seven

[writteninsunflowers]

Another Crappy Day 🌶️

A deep growl rumbles in Katsuki’s chest as he picks up his keys for the third time, huffing when he finally slides the key into its slot. He kicks his shoes off angrily, throwing his keys in the nearby bowl, and drops his gym bag haphazardly on the floor. He’ll clean up everything at a later time, currently, he is focused on finding his girlfriend.

To say the least, Katsuki had a shitty day. Anything shitty that could have possibly happened had definitely happened. He damaged yet another set of gauntlets on patrol with Shouto while trying and failing to apprehend a villain. How the fucker was able to blow up his gauntlets had him stumped and he is the one with the Explosion quirk. Late that afternoon while assisting some of the other heroes in a nearby city, he was stuck with a baby whose parents had been trapped under some rubble of a damaged building. Contrary to how the media paints Katsuki as a hero with an explosive temper, he did like children and wouldn’t mind having a few brats of his own someday. This child in particular was one of the cutest chonky-legged babies that he’d ever seen and immediately volunteered himself to babysit while his parents were being examined by the medical team. The child gave him no trouble, giggling and drooling with the cutest gum-filled smiles. The trouble appeared once it was time to change his diaper. Truthfully, Katsuki had no experience in diaper changing, but Katsuki Bakugo never backed down from a challenge.

It couldn’t be that hard, right?

Well…nobody had informed him the proper way to change a diaper was to not remove the used diaper until you were sure that the child was finished releasing their bowels or bladder. Katsuki had only turned away for a second to grab a fresh diaper from the Medivan, only to turn and have his chest covered in warm baby urine. Thank All Might for his quick reflexes or it would have been his face too. Then to make matters worse, he wasn’t allowed to leave the scene to shower until he assisted with cleanup. For the next four hours, with growls and mumbled curses, Katsuki had to walk around smelling like a hot, wet diaper. When he was finally free to go shower and burn his uniform, he scrubbed himself until he felt clean, his skin red and raw, got dressed and headed to his desk to complete his paperwork. Once he had somewhat calmed down, just happy to be going home, he sees an instant replay of him getting peed on being broadcasted on every damn screen he passed.

You don’t hear Katsuki enter the apartment, too focused on cooking dinner and completing your weekly hero reports. You turn the rice cooker off just as Katsuki trudges toward you, lifting you from the floor and kisses you hungrily. You instantly melt into the kiss, your hands fisting his shirt. He pulls away, letting you down to give you a moment to breathe while he tugs your shirts from your bodies, tossing them to the floor.

“K-Katsu, w- “

“Don’t wanna talk…,” he mumbles into your neck between bites.

“Bu…”

“All I need you to do is shut up, take this dick and we’ll deal w’the consequences later.”

You nod your head wordlessly, biting your bottom lip, pupils blown. Big hands tug your shorts down, grateful that you weren’t wearing panties. Fingers dig into thick hips as he wraps your legs around his waist and walks you to the nearest wall, instantly pressing inside, twin moans kissed into each other’s mouths.  Katsuki didn’t move immediately, choosing to first suck hickies into your exposed neck and breasts. He feels the cool band of the ring he’d gifted you against his neck, sending a shiver to travel down his spine. Katsuki circles his hips slowly, then snaps them forward with a groan as you twitch and squeeze around him. “Shiiit…,” he groans as his pace increases, hissing as nails drag down his back which he retaliates with a nip to your earlobe, chuckling low and breathless at the squeal you release.

What a way to end such a crappy day.

Katsuki smirks, knowing that you’d assuredly receive another noise complaint from your neighbors, not that he gave a fuck at the moment. Usually, you are the responsible one in the relationship, having to remind Katsuki of the noise ordinance when he was on the phone with his mother during their monthly yelling matches or on game nights with friends. Today though, you’re the loudest, filling your shared apartment with squeals and moans and he couldn’t wait to tease you about it.

“Fuck K-Katsu!”

“Mhm, fuck yea, take this dick,” he pants breathlessly, his hands moving under your knees to spread your thighs wider. Katsuki leans to bite your bottom lip, chuckling as your eyes roll back when he strokes deeper. “Hold on tight,” he warns, allowing you a moment to wrap your arms tight around his neck. He pulls out, hands gripping your thighs, then drops you down, slamming his dick directly into your g-spot. Dazed carmine eyes darken at the stuttered moan of his name, responding with labored curses and growls of his own, steadily fucking into your dripping pussy.  He watches your mouth form into a small “o” as he penetrates deeper and deeper with each bounce. Your eyebrows furrow with a bite of your lip to silence yourself, finally realizing how loud you are. “Uh Uh…let it out.”  He smiles at the jittery whine that escapes when he presses you into the wall. Katsuki loved moments like this when he could come home and ease his mind after a long day. Some days you’d order take-out and watch a movie or pick a simple dish to cook together, which always led to both of you slow-dancing and singing to each other. There were also days like today when barely any words were needed, only grunts, moans, and mumbling.

You lean forward to nibble on Katsuki’s lip, moaning as your tongues tangle together. “Hngh fu-fuck, y’feel so good.” Hot hands clutch your thighs, guiding them to keep the rhythm. Your fingers grip the sweat-moistened hairs at the nape of his neck, tugging him into a breathy kiss. A whine of ecstasy escapes as your walls throb, clutching tight around the thick girth that feels like it’s now in your chest.  “B-baby, ah f-fu…th-there…gonna cum.” The man curses with a hiss as you’ve somehow gotten tighter and wetter around him. He drops one of your legs, the other still hooked over his arm.

“I feel it baby…give it t’me. Cum for me.” He groans low and breathless as his eyes travel down your glistening frame, his free hand now rubbing your swollen clit. “Come on babe, cum on this dick,” he commands with a smack to your clit. “I can tell you’re gettin' close…drippin’ all over me. C’mon, wanna feel it.” Katsuki’s legs shake from overexertion and strain, hips still rotating. His legs could give out and he would keep stroking. He refused to stop until you came at least once for him. He feels you tug him into a sloppy kiss, all spit and tongue. Your spongy walls tremor around his length, followed by a gush of warm sticky liquid cascading down his dick and balls. He pulls away from the kiss, watching as your mouth drops open in a silent scream. He loves to watch you cum, your face contorted in bliss, kiss swollen lips releasing jumbled words as you wheeze, your orgasm shaking your entire being. Katsuki’s eyes roll back as you cum, an elongated curse forced from him as he presses himself deeper. His forehead is pressed into your shoulder as he shoots a load of hot cum into you. He trembles at your moans of “fill me up”, his dick continually shooting thick strings of cum deep in your walls.

You both slide to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs, the man still seated deep inside of you. You slide your fingers through his hair soothingly, silently catching your breath. Eventually, you’re standing on shaky legs, walking shakily to the bathroom to shower and redress. You return to the kitchen together to reheat dinner and eat in comfortable silence. “Katsu how was your day,” you inquire, breaking the silence. Katsuki chuffs and places a kiss to your forehead. “Shitty until I saw you, he responds with a small smile. “Just like any other day.”

[starlight-incarnate]

House of Feänor as Aesthetics:

Fëanor  —  loud voice, commanding presence, analytical, natural leader, piercing eyes, foggy hillsides, black boots, tipping their head back to breathe the air, mirrored lakes and everything below the surface, tearing leaves from trees, blunt sarcasm, long dark hair, deep sleeper, rotting tree stumps, black leather jacket, songs that makes you want to create a storm, rebellious, ambition, unstoppable passion, fast trains, polaroids, empty castles.

Maedhros — walking silently, stronger due to all the stuff meant to kill them, ignoring their mental health issues, fiery red hair, crumbling marble, oversized hoodies, raw voice, lingering touches, faint music in the distance, calming down from a panic attack, long heavy cloaks, cold hands, disillusioned with the world, insomnia, unhealthy habits, sighs made visible by cold night air, strong hugs, never sleeps, loud music, freckles, dark under-eyes.

Maglor — hypnotising smiles, a broken mind, melancholy, driving through mountains and the woods, iced coffee, the faint feeling of raindrops on your cheeks, ripped jeans, tight hugs, whispered compliments, deep conversations, late night texts, nimble hands, thin blades, white lilies, vertigo, unkept journals, lightning and thunder, rhythms so raw the heartbreak is showing, shattered glass, walking alone on a cold night, silver necklaces, regret.

Celegorm — bright eyes, climbing rock formations, cold-hearted, hard breathing after running, wood cabins, gladiator arenas, wicked smiles, twisted branches, wild hair, growing more and more dangerous, night drives, adrenaline rushes, bruises, bloody cloaks, running from society, breathless laughing, that animalistic unpredictability, silver and leather bracelets, strong coffee after a sleepless night, city lights from a high rise, addiction, barking dogs, hurricanes.

Caranthir — ironic smirks, bitten nails painted black, lightning in summer, empty threats, sunglasses hiding dead eyes, thick chain jewellery, temperamental, goes to car races just to watch the crashes, deep glares, tongue/lip piercings, midnight walks, lightbulbs burning out, diamonds, crushed ice, a glint of cat eyes in the dark, gold coins in storm drains, cold hands, storm clouds rolling in, theatres, suppressed emotions, wrought iron gates, motorcycles. 

Curufin — cherries and Diet Coke, white marble, a studio apartment on the 67th floor, tattoos, neon lights, sweetened coffee, smudged makeup, too-loud music, cursive notes written in red ink, veiny forearms, sharp canines, fresh snowfall, high rise buildings, white light, sheer robes with nothing underneath, fog, stained glass windows, colourful hair, slow heartbeats, long-forgotten love, cold mountaintops, eternal silence.

Amrod — burnished copper, feverish eyes, hues of orange and gold, stars and spades, brewing tea, freckles, hardwood floors, poisonous flowers, listens to Hozier, messy hair, fake circle glasses, bullet point notes on a restaurant napkin, comfortable silence, broken wings on insects, old hungers, the whispering of trees, kicking stones on deserted paths, forgotten places, origami stars, old overgrown stone castles, morning mist, horse riding.

Amras  —  misplaced keys, wandering aimlessly, selectively mute, deep lakes hiding secrets, pine trees, restless nights, misunderstood, reliving the same day over and over again, graphic tees, dead moths, visual mind, muffled screams into a pillow, listens to asmr, doc martens, profanity, burned cigarettes, zoning out often, heart fluttering nervously, confusing satellites for stars, comic filled bookshelves, radios, old jeeps, glowing keyboards.

Celebrimbor — ravens, white-hot metal, the darkest shade of black, glittering skin, low waist pants, stars falling, the heat lingering in the evening, petals falling off dead flowers, trusting the wrong people, blue veins, cobblestone paths, linoleum tiles, bruises/scars easily, the heat lingering in the evening, cities awake late, card games, overanalysing everything, shiny fabrics, the slamming of a shot glass, the sting of betrayal.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - The Stretcher - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

An ugly reckoning...

tw: gore, violence, medical trauma, limb loss

cw: suggestions of inappropriate relationships between mentor and student

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Silco walks on.

Inside, the odor of stale chemicals seeps through the air. Jinx's containment pod is a plexiglas sphere resembling a transparent hive. Inside, she is laid out on a narrow cot. Her left hand—the two clever fingers so cruelly excised—is strapped to a splint.  The stumps are a little red, but clean and dry. Each one is neatly sutured with black thread.

Black as the sucking hole in her chest.

Through the covers, Silco can see the delineations of the wound, a map of gauze adhering to her torso.  The flesh is still flayed. But it is no longer a disaster-site of hideous spillage. The raw tendons are scored with tiny stitches. Each one, a testament to Singed’s ruthlessly meticulous handiwork.

The rest of Jinx is bone pale as if the scant pigment on her skin has been sucked dry. Her freckles stand out in stark pinpricks.

Two bags of fluid hang on a metal pole, drip-drip-dripping down a tube into a needle jammed into her arm. The steady flow of antibiotics, morphine, and synthesized Shimmer will bolster her vitals and keep her under.  Her breathing—a tarred constriction of bubbles caught in her perforated lungs—has smoothed over the course of the night.  But it remains an effortful jag: deep, dragging, discordant.

Silco's guts churn. The instinctive grind of rage is offset by guilt.

Then: shock.

Jinx is not alone.

A longer body's curved around Jinx's small one. One arm, the sleeve rolled to the elbow, is flung over her hip. Fingertips splay against her thigh: an anchor. The other arm, metallic, makes a protective arc over Jinx's skull. The cybernetic fingers, tipped with steel, are threaded in her blue hair. The head, half-obscured in lank brown curls, is tipped to Jinx's own.

Their temples mirror. Their eyelashes kiss.  The cadence of their chests rises and falls in concert.

The Hexcore, with hypnotic rotations, bathes Jinx and Viktor in a violet glow.  

From his own extremities, Silco feels pure rage blast open as the Monster unlocks.

"What the hell—?"

Singed looms from the corner of the medbay: tall and fleshlessy thin as a mantis. He's clad in a white smock resembling a butcher's apron. The barest smear of blood is caught in the weave. He glances up at Silco's snarl.

Apart from an expression of insectile alertness, he shows no other signs of concern.

"Ah," he says. "You've returned."

"Open the pod." 

"I beg your pardon?"

"Viktor. What in the frozen hell is he—?"

"He's aiding her retrieval."

"What?"

"Her retrieval," Singed says, in the same imperturbable tone. "From what I understand, a plunge into the Void is not unlike falling into arctic waters. It takes a strong grip to pull oneself out. J17 is a skilled swimmer. But she remains partially submerged. She'll need a guide to drag her to the shore."   

"He has no right to—"

"To what? Hold his companion's hand?"  

"Companion?"

Singed nods.

Silco's jaw locks as the Doctor's meaning sinks in.

Guardians and Mages. He'd known, in his bones, that the bond between Viktor and Jinx held a strange, unearthly resonance. A tie that binds, like gravity does a comet: two celestial forces, inexorably pulled together by the galvanic charge of their shared potential. 

He'd assumed the nature of the bond was intellectual. That their kinship was a matter of mathematics: two minds, one wavelength.  Then Jinx's spells of strangeness and self-enforced secrecy began. He thinks of the audio recordings in the Aerie: the susurrations and whispers. The ungodly silence.

It wasn't sex—no matter the wildness of his paranoia, he knew Jinx was still too innocent, and that her tastes lay elsewhere. But the overtones—of communion, and a deeper, almost otherworldly intimacy—were terrifying.

Now, seeing them together—a tangle of arms, a knotting of fingers—his worst fears have been made manifest.

It's plain, from the ease between their bodies, that Jinx has slept in Viktor's arms before. Plain, too, that it's happened enough times for this closeness to take on overtones of trust.  A trust Silco had invited: to his doorstep, past his threshold, and straight to his daughter’s bed. 

A trust that’s been repaid with disaster.

Reflexively, Silco's fists ball.

"Open the pod," he says. 

"What?"

"Open it."

"With all due respect, that is not the wisest course of action." Singed remains maddeningly equable. He could be discussing a minor surgical procedure: the pros and cons of local versus general anesthetic. "The Hexcore—from what I gather—is acting as a buffer. It is protecting both J17 and Viktor as they work to draw her out. To separate them at this juncture would risk a backlash."

"Backlash?"

"I'm speaking in metaphysical rather than medical terms. From what I have gleaned, the Hexcore is a living organism. It has its own will and wants. I am not privy to the nature of the bargain it has struck with Viktor. But I hazard that it is his key to the Void. And that, in exchange for entry, it protects his and Jinx’s corporeal forms. To rip them apart would be... traumatic. For all parties present."

In Viktor's embrace, Jinx expels a sigh.  There's a subtle alteration in her breathing. The Void creeping across her brainwaves, perhaps. Viktor's arm flexes around her. His own breathing—that half-mechanical, half-organic rasp—deepens. His lips touch her temple. 

The Hexcore sings. The pitch is nearly ethereal.

Two spirits: locked in orbit.

Silco's jaw grinds. A vein ticks in his temple. Whatever's happening, it is not something he comprehends. Not something, he suspects, meant to be comprehended.  But that doesn't stymie the rage. Nor the dread.

The former, he can dissect with a cool eye, peel it down to the viscera of what it is: a primal need to keep his child safe. 

The latter, though...

That's a formless shadow stretching over his psyche. The sense of something very, very huge: a force the size of a godhead eclipsing the horizon. And the stormfront, lightning-laced, is rolling across the sea straight towards his ship of destiny.

It's not often Silco feels his smallness. But he does now, and the fallout is brutal.

"You knew," he says, deathly soft.

"Hm?"

"You knew. About Viktor. Compromising my child."

Singed is not a shrugger. Hedging is not his strong suit. But his silence speaks for itself.

"I would not call such a bond a compromise," he says at length. "In some ways, it was inevitable.  Viktor is extraordinarily gifted. J17, a creature of pure potential. They are both seekers in the dark. It makes sense that they'd find each other." A slight cant to his head: a gesture of self-reproach. "I will admit: I should have informed you. But there was no reason to believe the entanglement was of a carnal nature."

"No reason to believe they weren't fucking?"

The vulgarism stirs Singed out of scholarly calm. He doesn't smile. But his lipless mouth shows a glint of teeth. It's the same expression he'd wear when Silco would return to the Cannery after prowling the dank cloaca of the Lanes.

Always: with a plaything on his arm and ill-gotten gains in his pocket.  

He'd often likened Silco's gravitation toward vice as a form of self-medicating. The sex, the drugs, the power-plays: all symptoms of a man whose eye could not close, and needed other means to unwind. Other ways to blot out the light. 

It was a diagnosis Silco only partially agreed with. It was not autonomic impediment that kept his bad eye from closing. Simply the refusal to look away from the world as it was.

Now, his bad eye smolders in its socket. It's a marvel the Doctor doesn't wilt in its heat. Then again, Singed's always been a hard man to burn.

It's what he and Silco have in common.

"No," he says. "That, I do not believe."

"Is that so?"

"Given Viktor's... condition... it's unlikely."

"I'm not sure if you're aware, Doctor—" Silco's tone, beneath the frigid civility, is honed to cut jugulars, "—but there are ways around that."

The glint of teeth deepens. A grin, however cold. "Oh, I am aware.  But I'm also aware of Viktor's nature. I've known him since he was a boy. Frailty's always been his cross to bear. But that has not diminished his drives. Only... redirected them, as it were." 

"Sublimation."

"You sound dubious."

Silco's good eye slits. Singed's grin fades.

"I understand. We're men of pragmatic bent. There will always be a selfish component to our pursuits. A willingness to see the big picture, even if it means putting our better selves on the backburner."  He turns to the pod. "Viktor is different. His nature has a singular trajectory: up. He wants to ascend. To break free of limitations: both inborn and self-imposed. Sex, in comparison, is a dead-end. Love, though? That's something else. Something that can take him to the stars." 

Silco follows his stare. The pair, entwined, are haloed in violet. Their breathing is slow and steady.

A duet.

"The boy's always longed for a taste of the transcendent," Singed muses. "I imagine, in J17, he's found it. A force of pure creation. Pure entropy. It is only in chaos that order can thrive. The sense of a divine plan is what gives meaning to the world. And a multivalent, fractal reality is what allows a scientific theory to evolve into law."

Silco's knuckles pop. He says nothing. 

"If it helps," the Doctor adds, "I doubt the boy's done worse than hold her hand. The way he speaks of her, one would think her a... psychopomp. Someone to guide him to a higher plane of knowledge. Someone whose existence is to be worshiped. Not possessed."

"Worship and possession," Silco replies, in the voice of cold prescience, "often end the same way."

"Oh?"

"With someone on their knees."

Singed doesn't laugh, exactly. The sound's too measured. But his mangled lips stretch to show the full set of teeth. They hold the implacable sheen of scalpels. Each one slitting its careful way through the tissue of Silco's self-control.

"A cynic's view," he says. "And one I disagree with."

"Do you, now?"

"I'll grant there is a physical element to their closeness. But, I suspect, the physical is merely a conduit to that higher plane. A literal touchstone to guide them through the dark. The true roadmap, as it were, is the end each of them seeks."

"That end being?"

"Balance," Singed says. "If my theory is correct, they each serve as a counterpoise to the other. J17, in her unbound potential: a spirit of half flesh, half catalyst. A force in constant flux. Viktor, in his rigid catechism: a being forged in metal and magic. The very dictum of death. Each is, in their own way, an anomaly. Together, they are a paradox. One that introduces a new paradigm."

"Paradigm."

"Cause and effect." The grin's gone. Only Singed's eyes shine: a cold, methodical zeal. "Or, in your language: cost and reward."

A chill steals through Silco.

It's not the first time Singed's dissections of the metaphysical have taken a macabre turn. For the Doctor, the two are indistinguishable: the duality of life and death reduced to quantifiable variables of mess and mass. In his laboratory, Silco's witnessed the results firsthand.

The Doctor's a man who understands that knowledge only goes as deep as the knife cuts.  And Silco, a man who has cut to the marrow of humanity's ugliness, knows there's no limit to the incision when the rest's been pared clean. 

"If your intention was to disarm me," he says flatly, "you've failed."

"Disarm." Singed's chuckle is dry as bone dust. "Old friend, you are not the weapon. Only the steel that whets its edge."

"Flattery?"

"Fact." The corners of Singed's eyes crinkle. "We are, both of us, mere tools for a greater design."

Jinx cries out.

In the pod, the Hexcore spins rapidly. The rotations, faster and faster, become a multicolored blur. The fluctuating glow—sometimes blue, sometimes red—is phantasmagoric. Silco has the sense of something primordial unspooling into existence. The birth of a star, on a spiritual scale: chemical fusion gone mystic.

A subsonic hum fills the air. Jinx's cry spikes.

Her whole body begins shaking: a subtle network of pain radiating, it seems, from the epicenter of her wound. Viktor's embrace holds. But beads of sweat pop on his temples. His breathing goes choppy.  The pod's plexiglas walls turn milky as if with steam.

No—frost.

Silco can see the lattice of ice spreading. The cracks, fanning in jagged starbursts, resemble spiderweb.

Meanwhile, Viktor and Jinx may as well be under a full rig of stage lights: both of them are simmering in their skins.

Jinx's pallor is engulfed by a bright pink flush. Her breath comes in rapid drags. Her good right hand, fluttering, finds Viktor's good left. Their palms align, fingers twining. The twin rows of knuckles, flesh and bone, are deathly white.

The Hexcore's singing deepens. Jinx's own cry climbs to a keen.

Silco races forward. "Jinx!"

Before he can touch the pod, Singed seizes his arm. The grip is cold, cadaverous, yet somehow comforting.

"Not yet," he urges, as Jinx's wails echo and re-echo. "It's not done yet."

"Let go! She needs me—"

"No." Singed's grip is as unyielding as his gaze. "She needs to finish this. As does Viktor. Let them see it through."

Silco stares. Blood beats in his temples. He understands, remotely, that he is terrified. Paralysis, its predictable residue, clings like a second skin. It's a heaviness he despises. It's why he is so quick to reassert self-dominion with a dose of violence. To defend himself, monster and man, from threats that would otherwise devour him.

But what if the threat's taken root in the tenderest parts?

What if it can never be excised?

(Is that fatherhood?)

Tossing her head, Jinx screams. Viktor, gasping, shudders.

The Hexcore's pulsations go critical.

Then—with a flash of brilliant blue—the humming ebbs. The pod's opalescent frost, in icy bloom, evaporates. Within, Jinx and Viktor subside into stillness. Their hands are still twined, their foreheads together. Both breathe in unison. 

But there's a dissonance in the rhythm. A harmony, that, while still in tandem, is their own.

Viktor is the first to wake.

His arm loosens its cradle around Jinx. His head stirs, the dark crown dislodging against its blue perch of her skull. The gold eyes—with their black-rimmed core—flicker. They are glazed in shock.  Then he blinks, and they regain focus. The lineaments of his expression—grim-lipped and hollow-cheeked—are ones Silco knows well.

The sense of a spirit coming to the limits of its endurance, and shattering the barrier.

Now he's unsure what awaits on the other side.

Slowly, the golden eyes swivel. They find Singed. They find Silco. Then they fall on his and Jinx's still-linked hands. Something flickers across his wan face. Not a smile, exactly. But a certain softness around the hard brackets of his mouth.

As if he'd held on to a fear for dear life. And now, finding it unfounded, can let it go.

With a gentle tug, he unthreads their fingers.

Jinx doesn't stir. But she lets off a long slow exhalation that could be sadness, or a deep release of tension. Viktor disentangles their bodies. He does so with a delicate, deliberate care, keeping a light contact of fingertips all the way down her torso. Silco follows their path to Jinx's ribcage.

Under the gauze, the wound is closed. The meat is seared like a brand. But there's no trace of torn skin. Even the stitches—each raw suture point—have shrunk into a smooth pink furrow.

Jinx breathes. Each rise and fall—seamless—is a small miracle.

Silco is not a devout man. Contemptuous of all matters devotional, he treats prayer like a poor business transaction: an unstable currency of sacrifice, with no guarantee of success.

Now, the gratitude that floods his lungs is nearly a baptism. He hates every iota: the helplessness, the loss of agency.

But loves, gut-wrenchingly, what it's restored.

With effort, Viktor straightens. His bare feet, touching the tiles, let off a metallic clink. One hand grips the bedframe. The other reaches for his cane. Every muscle delineates the difficulty of keeping his balance.

The sheer exertion of willpower in holding his mind and body together.

As with all impossible endeavors, he does not falter.

"It is done," he says, hoarse but steady.  "She is back."

"Back?"

"Within herself. The Void... has touched her heart. She has seen its own. But she is intact."

"Intact?"

"She will recover." He swallows with a liquid click. "In time."

Silco nods.

On the rumpled sheets, Jinx sleeps. Her breaths hold a deep-sea serenity. Her delicate features are preciously girlish and lost-looking. The sight suffuses Silco with a tenderness that yet calls up the horror of it all.

He takes himself to a place of stillness, and allows himself to feel it. Not just last night's ordeal. Everything leading up to it. Strategy after strategy, error after error, so the outcome is the same as when Zaun first emerged from its ravaged shell.

His child in a sickbed. His paternal devotion in a deathmatch with politics. His and Vi's blood game no more than a war against specters.

A war they've both lost.

Badly.

Silco's eyes pass from his sleeping beauty to the man who'd saved her life.

"Doctor," Silco says. "Open the pod."

Singed does not argue. With a deft touch, he flips the controls. 

The plexiglas shell retracts. The air, trapped, is instantly sucked out. It is unseasonably warm from Jinx's and Viktor's body-heat. The smell holds a sterile bite of disinfectant. Underneath, a faint trace of musk lingers.

The unforgettable odor has been imprinted on Silco's olfactory landscape since Jinx began working with the Hex-gem. The permeating ozone-stink of night sweats and lightning strikes.

The afterglow of the Void.

Now Silco detects the component he'd not dared to put a name to: that singular, almost sexual tang. Two spirits, intertwined, coupling in a realm without flesh. 

Right under his roof.

His eyes lock on Viktor's. The younger man's ambivalent features, caught between exhaustion and relief, shift. Wariness creeps in. It's not the fear of reckoning. More the full awareness of a gamble gone sour.

Now the ruin, no matter how cataclysmic, must be accounted for.

The gold eyes—infinitely patient, infinitely reckless—do not waver.

"I believe," Viktor says, "you have questions."

"I do," Silco says. Then: "Doctor. Fetch the stretcher."

Singed's head takes on an insectile slant. As if he's caught the taste of blood in his mandibles, and is trying to parse its source.

"Stretcher?" he repeats. "Whatever for?"

"Viktor."

"The boy seems perfectly—"

Crossing the distance, Silco lays a hand on Viktor's shoulder. A steadying, almost paternal clasp.

The Monster, unsheathing its claws, rakes down.

His fist slams into Viktor's gut. The young man staggers with a strangled cry. His cane clatters. The rest of him slumps, jelly-legged, as Silco follows with a snapping right hook, smoking it straight through the boy's frail defense and connecting with his jaw.

There is a satisfying snap of bone on bone. The sound, visceral and rich, kickstarts a tidal wave of blackness that seethes from the balls of Silco's feet and climbs all the way to his hairline.

The Monster is awake, and it is hungry.

"Doctor," Silco says, as Viktor crumples to the floor. "The stretcher."

Wisely, Singed obeys.

[hell-drabbles]

Gabriel 3

Summary: Did you know? Did you know that when your head gets cut off, you start to whisper the most beautiful prayers? Gabriel knows, and only he will be allowed to hear them. But, of course, he must break another human first.

(I was in the mood for something sufficiently fucked up. So! Have an Angelified Embittered Companion who's head gets dangled in front of Ra-on, and where Gabriel finds himself unable to let go of said head. Keeping it close to him.)

"The deed is done." Michael tossed your head at Gabriel's feet, not bothering to glare and concentrated his venom into his voice instead, "Next time, do it yourself." And so he left without so much as a glance at the human below.

There was a garbled cry, choked out from a throat that cried itself raw. The sound has long lost it's allure. Just how long will this Son of Solomon continue with his whining? But then again, can Gabriel really expect better from a bloodline such as his? How funny, the way humans function. Look at that little human on the ground, gripping the crude pipe you once held, barely able to keep balance.

One chase and a bad fall was all it took to lure this Son of Solomon away from his protection, and render him unable to even properly balance himself.

Gabriel lifted your head after lightly dusting it off with his wing, and presented it before the human. Blood of red and gold languidly dripped from your stump of a neck.

You looked as if you've simply fallen asleep.

Gabriel stepped down, just so this human can get a good, long look at your face.

"Well? Take good, long look. You see? Your very existence will only continue to bring about tragedy. So long as the blood of Solomon continues to run through your veins, suffering will always latch onto you. So wouldn't it be best for you to end yourself right here?"

Gabriel has always been swift in his tasks. Back when his rage was a fiery white inferno, his blade rarely went a day without the blood of a descendant on it. It was the only thing he could think of, the only task he would allow himself to concentrate on. He would ignore food, the need for sleep, and even to keep himself clean, because to take any sort of joy without God there, it felt like an insult. How dare he try to enjoy himself in any little way when God is missing?

But, even Gabriel can't stay stagnant in the tides of time. His rage would burn, but it would be tempered eventually. And so, here he is, clothed, clean, well fed, and dangling your head right in front of this Son of Solomon's sight with more joy than he's ever felt.

Now, Gabriel knows he doesn't have to rush. This one, this 'Ra-on,' was the last of them, the last evidence of Solomon's line. He will die here, in this Hell he's been prancing through as a flowery paradise. And when death does claim him, Gabriel will make sure that he goes a broken man.

"Now what did they call you, 'the key to our victory?' How laughable. All I see is a small, weak, and overly indulgent human that can't see past his own lust. Your greed has laid your precious companion's head into my hands."

This is the funny thing about humans, how they visibly age as their soft hearts break. The way their faces wrinkle as their eyes widen, how their breath dies in their lungs along with any hope for sweet dreams. How the only thing they can possibly focus on is the source of misery.

This is what they deserve. This is what the descendants of Solomon deserve, for being connected to that hated man that took away Gabriel's god.

"…give it…" Ra-on's voice was a shivering whisper as his fingers reached out towards your head. "please…give them back…"

Oh, the sweet sound of begging. And here Gabriel thought he has long grown tired of such mutterings. And this human was kneeling, as though Gabriel was worshiped altar to a fabricated deity. The Son of Solomon's eyes shook, his lips and fingers bitten raw.

Gabriel took flight, because why would he bother telling this human 'no,' when he could leave him there? Humans love words and responses, so he will him with nothing but the image of your head forever seared into his thoughts.

Your eyes were open but Gabriel know you weren't seeing anything. You stared but the vision before you was something even he couldn't hope to grasp.

Gabriel has long since cleaned you up. He wiped your skin, cleaned up any dirty cuts and wounds, and placed you upon a downy pillow filled with only the best angel feathers. His own feathers. He can't help it. After all, you deserve such things when you're currently in the middle prayer.

Honestly, there's no point to keeping your head around. You've been fed an especially potent seed, and so simple decapitation wouldn't be enough to kill you, and you'd spring back up with a new body without much issue.

But, well, Gabriel has always been a selfish one. This was his due reward. He's allowed a little odd habit or two. God will surely allow this, for his love knows no bounds.

Gabriel must go. There is another land of Hell that must know their wrath, but he has to pay a visit before he goes.

He took your head between his hands, made sure his fingers weren't gripping your jaw too tightly, and leaned in.

"You have rejected us, God," those words flowed over your tongue, "and burst upon us."

The prayers you whisper always speak of hatred, of longing, of wishing to stray farther and farther from the light of God, but your voice, lately, has been pouring over his ears. Every delicate pop and hiss sends shivers over his spine, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Gabriel shifted, and subtly ground his hips into the side of the mattress.

"Go on," he breathed into your cheek, "speak more. Fill my head with all your hatred."

"Sanction me from this life, from this suffering, and touch my soul no longer," you spat. "Let the hatred within be the last all light shall see."

Soon, you will recover your old body back. And soon, your hatred will spellbind all of Gabriel's thoughts. He looks forward to the day.

[dangerliesbeforeyou]

ok so ive been rewatching psychoville and saw on the wikipedia that there were a bunch of websites made for the series (they were all written by reece and steve btw) which i've been looking through cos they are genuinely SO fucking funny & also just amazingly creative lol!

anyway i know people in the fandom probs already know about this (since the show came out literally 15 years ago pfft) but i thought i'd share some of my fav bits (but honestly would just recommend just checking them out if you haven't i have been crying with laughter for literally hours lol)

i will say that a lot of the media (videos, games, etc) no longer work on the archived sites rip but i'm sure people have uploaded some of the stuff (vids especially) to yt or other places lol

so a) i love that we get some background stuff on jelly and 2) 'captain CRACKERS' bernie clifton's dressing room reference question mark ??????? (ofc bcdr was AFTER this but i know love the idea that mr jelly trained under len pfft)

what that red raw stump do though 👀 (sorry pfffft)

mr jolly's website wasn't that interesting soz tho i did like him comparing being a doctor to being a clown lol

the comment about fag bears did make me wheeze i'm afraid lol i also loved the blurry photos of lomax's commodities lol (kinda reminded me of the bit in tlog w/ that terrible old photographer guy lol)

when i tell you i DIED with laughter at the 'now known as hull' bit like u just know reece wrote that bit pfft

not really a funny thing but this poem written by david honestly kinda breaks my heart lol... i think it also a lot of additional context to david's guilt when he thought he'd killed his father(faver) because perhaps he felt guilty about NOT feeling guilty you get me? like, it felt to me that when maureen told david it was SHE who killed her husband, it didn't feel like he was mad at her for doing it, but more that she kept the fact from him. it's about... the mutual oedipus-coded obsession with one another that couldn't even be destroyed in death and in this essay i will....

ghoul_lass23 is just like me but about tumblr lol fr

nothing feels more cursed than the phrases 'the river minge has burst its banks', 'crying creamy tears' and 'fleshy rapunzel' (which i've just noticed they misspelt lol... don't think that was intentional lol?) so if i had to read this so do you <3

the way that i kinda wish this actually existed tho pfft... also, it does kinda remind me of that video where jenny nicholson talked about that insane reality show 'opposite worlds' lol

'cross between seven and glee' is honestly sending me pfft

also on this part there was a script from stinkfinger (which is a show mentioned on the show) which sounded suspiciously like a reference to tlc lol

the less said about swastknickers the better

(will say i did nearly piss myself laughing at the nazi section of the hoity toity website lol which wasn't a sentence i thought i'd type today lol)

i just love these kinds of jokes pfft

also the whole biography sections of each of the pantomime cast are fab lol tho i AM kinda pissed they made debbie from yeovil and yet didn't give her a west country accent lol!!! (i guess they thought it'd be a bit much w/ joy being bristolian but i'm still mad about it lol)

also i know people have probably already pointed this out but i do find it funny that brian in the in9 episode last night of the proms is a closeted gay guy who likes watching drag was probably a reference to brian in this show that was a drag queen like... is anything these guys do NOT a reference??? u know those gaylor fans who obsessively look for clues in her songs about her apparent secret sexuality? all i'm saying is that i think they'd really like the extended reece shearsmith & steve pemberton universe pfft

all three of these made me cry with laughter lol

ohh this is interesting lol so obviously they suspected that some people might be all 'um why didn't the sprinklers go off during the fire at ravenhill? plot hole much!' so they wrote this into one of the websites so they could be like SEE! WE'RE ONE STEP AHEAD OF YOU DUMBASSES lol

both the jeremy kyle reference (remember when that was a thing? yikes... my mum used to watch his show CONSTANTLY...) and nurse kenshington's thoughts on david and maureen are interesting lol.. also there's a reference to the serial killer top trumps in this bit lol! (do people still play top trumps?? man i LOVED top trumps lol...)

the entire sunnyvale care home section is so fucking funny (both the website AND in the show lol mrs wren/mrs ladybird face is unironically probably my favourite character on the entire show) these were just some of my fav gags lol...

ok but why is this the SECOND reference to a guy punching a child who was apparently looking at his dick lol!??!! did this happen to one of you ??!!?!? reece did you punch a child ??!???!?!??

&&&& that's it lol

there were a few websites i didn't spend long on or generally weren't that interesting (coughmidgetgemscough) but honestly? i was really captivated with just how funny and well put together all these sites were! you can tell they had a lot of fun making it and i'm sure fans at the time LOVED being able to have this semi-interactive element of the show lol

there was just something so wonderfully late 00's about these websites lol i genuinely don't think i've laughed this much at anything in literal months and all of this is just solidifies that psychoville is a criminally under-appreciated masterpiece lol

[a-whispering-echo]

Band!Killers lock pin is 34055

Band!Dusts feet are FUCKED and horribly warped and scarred from his years on the streets.

Band!Nightmare, for the longest time, believed Cross' legal name to be 'Christian' because... well, he chose the nickname 'cross' and hes a 'Chris' so, it just... No. Cross' legal name is legit just Chris. like, its not short for anything. just Chris. he hates it. he plans on changing it it like, Christopher or something, hes just never got around to it

Band!Horror decorates his wheelchair with spikes. sometimes when the band are preforming live, he attaches LED's to the metal parts, so, even though hes behind the drumkit most of the time, you can still see the neon red lights on him.

Band!Ink remembers stuff better when hes told it in french or japanese, and tends to forget things told to him in english.

Band!Blues legal name is Jay Prince - his nickname comes from people calling his 'Bluejay' for years growing up, which eventually reshortened to 'Blue'

Band!Dream copied his brothers nickname, and is the reason that HIS friend group all have nicknames too.

Ash's favourite food was spaghetti. the closest he got to it most days was uncooked, raw and old pasta out a trash can.

Band!Nightmare and Band!Dream grew up playing piano and violin respectively. they still play their instruments to this day

band!Cross has nystagmus

Band!Nightmare is deathly allergic to apples.

Band!Joku Brothers had an apple tree in their yard growing up.

Band!Dream cant look at apples without having a panic attack.

Band!Cross wakes up at 6am sharp every morning.

Band!Dust has narcolepsy.

Band!Horror has a favourite 'scar scarf' - its a navy one with little yellow stars and moons over it. Nightmare got it for his as a present years ago.

Ash was a natural redhead.

Band!Dust has 'Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust' tattooed across his back

Band!Nightmare and Band!Cross talk in spanish all the time. though sometimes, Cross latin american spanish and Nightmares canerian sometimes stump them on the odd word, which causes a lot of confusion as they dont, for some reason, ever think to clarify what theyre saying in english...

Band!Killer doesnt consider himself Muslim, but still to this day, refuses to eat bacon and such like.

Band!Nightmare has his hair chemically straightened.

Band!Horror likes it when his partners play with his hair. he keeps each little braid they give him for as long as he can.

Band!!CRoss is very sensitive to light due to his albinism, though he got lucky in that his eyesight is mostly alright. going on stage with all the lights is actual hell for him.

Band!XGaster specifically wanted an albino child, like him, because he saw albinism as 'humanities perfection'. he chose a columbian surrogate to carry for him, who had the same type of albinism as him. who knows what might have happened it Cross turned out to.. not be albino..

Band!Nightmare sometimes uses Dusts sleeptalk as lyrics.

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2023: October 3rd

Day 3: Rimming, Fingering/Handjob, Dry Humping

Ezra (Prospect) x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Spit, filthy language, hand jobs, self image issues, cum

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

His curses reach your ears, making you glance over your shoulder discreetly to where he was fumbling and berating himself under his breath. 

Since coming back from the Green, Ezra has been different. Churlish and short tempered with his shortcomings that have become apparent with the loss of his dominant hand. 

He had insisted that he needed work, that he could do it. Coming to you with an almost desperate plea in his eyes that was very unlike the loquacious and enigmatic prospector. Tugging on the strings of friendship and occasionally more when you both were of like mind. 

The job was pretty straightforward. Harvesting was Ezra’s passion and his skill. Needing to bring in five cases of latinum, processed from the crystals near the cobalt vein on Fero 2. 

Except….Ezra is struggling. Unable to do what he could before that fateful tour on the Green’s treacherous surface. The ragged and red skin that has been patched together over the remaining stump of his arm is a testament to what he has lost. 

More than that, he’s not the same charismatic, confident floater that had talked his way into your bed and into a split of your profits. He’s lost. You can see and worse, so can he. 

“Mother fuckin’, mong nonger, flipper cunt, son of a bitchin’ floatin’ piece of shit.” Ezra hisses, slamming the palm of his left hand against the cursed zipper that it stuck. It’s been one hundred and twenty cycles since he had lost his fucking arm and still he’s unable to do most of the simple tasks he had taken for granted. 

It doesn’t help that it’s been nearly a hundred and twenty-five since he’s had anything resembling pleasure. 

Ezra isn’t a greedy man, but he is one who sees to his needs. Now, he’s unable to. Not just because of proximity, there’s no privacy in the smaller tent you are both residing in with most of your gear taking up the space. It’s because it doesn’t feel the same. There’s no pretending it’s a lover stroking his cock when he closes his eyes. The damn phantom pains knock him out of any fantasy. 

Now he’s here with you. A woman that he intimately knows and he cannot even bear the thought of touching you. Knowing that his skills are woefully inadequate for being considered a lover. Unworthy of treating you to a fumbling, unsatisfying encounter with a man who is unable to perform at the peak of his ability. 

He wants to cum, he needs to. But he can’t even drag the zipper down on his suit right now. 

You watch him, sighing softly at the stubbornness of the man. That was something that has been consistent from the Ezra prior to the Green and the one in front of you. 

He’s spoken about his fears. His shortcomings and his desires. Not in verbal words, but the way he has acted has been louder than any story he could have told you. 

The cot you are sitting on is yours, the only space you have to stretch out and relax. Where you unwind from a day of dealing with Ezra’s increasingly short temper and the work of extracting the crystals you had promised to fulfill the contract. Your boots off and your suit stripped down to the soft, worn underclothes that protect your skin from the rubberized suits. 

“Ezra.” He grunts, not even looking at you as he continues to struggle with the protective outer layer of his outfit. Another few creative curses filling the tent. 

There’s a hazy idea on what would soothe the rough and raw man. It’s the same that always mellows you out when you have an itch that needs to be scratched, the pulsing pleasure of an orgasm making your rough day better. 

It makes you move, standing and quietly shedding the layers until you are bare. Your feet padding quietly across the thick canvas flooring of the tent. Moving closer and reaching out to touch his shoulder gently, soothingly. 

“Gem- please-” You can hear the rejection of help in the tone of his voice, the haggard resignation.

Instead of saying anything, you shush him and circle around his body. Bringing your own to stand in front of him and for once, Ezra is quiet with the exception of a strangled groan as his eyes widen. Taking in the sight of you nude in front of him. 

Taking advantage of his silence, his frozen movements, you take the zipper that has been giving him so much trouble and drag it down after a few good, hard yanks. “Let me help you.” Is all you whisper, looking up at him under your lashes as you start to push the fabric off his shoulders. The neatly pinned sleeve on the right easily drops, but the left side is still caught on his bent elbow. 

“Gem-”

“I’m going to jerk you off.” You tell him, concentrating on undressing the prospector while he stands stiff as a board. “I’m going to get on my knees and wrap my hand around your cock. Stroke you until all you can think about is cumming on my tits.” 

You smirk when he groans, knowing how much Ezra once enjoyed painting your body with his cum when he was feeling particularly wicked. Filling your mouth and covering your face when you gagged on his cock. Or splattering his seed on your tits and belly. Seeing himself on you was something he had enjoyed. 

Ezra exhales, a ragged sound that you imagine costs him dearly. The round curve to his shoulders as you strip down the suit to his waist and then to his ankles. His cock is half hard, poking up in the threadbare sweats that hang on his hips. Obviously interested in the helping hand you are offering despite himself. 

He doesn’t say a word, barely breathes as you pull off his boots, strip him of the suit, pull down his sweats and reveal the body underneath. He never wore underwear, didn’t believe in it, and you’re glad some things haven’t changed. 

Leaving him in the ripped, holey shirt, his cock curves up, hardening even more as you had knelt down and proven to him that you were going to do this. Eyes dark and piercing as he stares down. 

Your own eyes are meeting his when you spit in your hand. Coating it generously and reaching out to wrap around the bobbing, quivering length. 

“Fuck.” His hiss is gloriously raw when you squeeze him, sliding your hand up loosely to coat his dry skin. “You are really going to treat me, aren’t you, gem?” 

He’s not expecting an answer, no when you had very clearly told him what you were going to do. Spitting in your hand again and then leaning forward to allow the spit to dribble directly on his cock from your mouth as Ezra swallows a moan. 

His cock is perfect. The foreskin rolls back beautifully and reveals the pink, shiny head, begging for your mouth but you aren’t going to suck it. Wanting him to take this bit of pleasure that you will give him. Allow him to relax for a moment without lamenting his inability to do anything. 

Starting slow, making sure that the long, luxurious tugs to his cock are pulling every ounce of pleasure out of him that you can. Letting him feel the crevices in your hand and the warmth of your grip. 

“You’re too good to me.” He groans out, head tilting back and exposing the long length of his stubbled chin and neck. “Undeserving of your beauteous consideration. Your curative touch.” 

His cock throbs in your hand, twitching when you twist your wrist as you stroke back towards the base. You had watched him several times as he had stood over you, jerking himself off to finish after he had finished wrecking you. 

“I should be servicing you, dear gem.” He grunts, biting his bottom lip until it is plump and bruised with his eyes fixed on the slow, steady movement of your hand and the feeling it brings him. If he closes his eyes, it would almost feel like his own touch. “For so readily dealing with a cantankerous, feeble man.” 

You huff, not finding him to be feeble, but you don’t argue with him, knowing it would be useless. His hand finds the curve of your face and you turn your head, pressing a kiss to the palm of it, enjoying the roughness of his skin as you nuzzle into it. 

“So pretty with my cock in your hand. Imagined that image so many times as I tried to pleasure myself. Angry about having no means to give myself love. It was not nearly as sweet as the grip you hold my length. My fumbling attempts to stroke myself falling sort of your angelic touch.” 

There’s the Ezra you want to hear, to see standing above you. His chest rising and falling under his shirt as he starts to pant. His mouth running more and more as he slowly starts to rock his hips forward. “You’re gonna let me paint you, gem?” He asks breathlessly. “Adorn your glowing skin with the white hues of my pleasure?” He twitches again, obviously looking forward to such a thing. 

You hum, nodding up at him while your grip tightens slightly, enjoying the feeling of soft, velvety skin over the hardness beneath. Growing wetter as you remember how that hardness feels as it is pounding into you. Perhaps you will bend over your cot tomorrow and beg Ezra to fuck you. He would be able to manage that position with ease. 

When you squeeze his cock, moving your hand faster, you seemingly steal Ezra’s ability to speak. The groans and moans of his pleasure all the music that your ears are privy to. The symphony of his sounds shooting straight to your cunt and if you weren’t focused on relaxing him, you would have started touching yourself. This is for him. A handjob for a man who continually laments the loss of his own. 

“Shit- gem, gonna-” Ezra barely manages the strangled words before his cock is pulsing in your hand. Giving you a split second warning before ropes of cum start spurting from the tip. His warmth splattering your skin and his whine of joy at the release nearly enough to make you cum. Working him, milking his cock of every last drop until Ezra reaches down and wraps his fingers around your wrist. 

You are covered in him. The milky white seed coating your tits and chest is thick, viscous. Copious amounts that speak of it being a long time since he had cum.

“Kevva, gem.” He hums, almost drunkenly. “I am humbled by your assistance and have yet begun to sing your praises, but my cock is nearly untouchable from how pleasured it is at the moment.” He closes his eyes and sighs, a small smile on his face. “Have I ever told you about the orgy that I had the pleasure of engaging in on Rynock?” He asks, showing glimpses of the man you know.

[dalliansss]

awakening

When Fingon returned from Thangorodrim on the great eagle’s back and first handed over the wrapped bundle of what’s supposed to be Nelyo to Maglor and Celegorm, Caranthir stood a little bit at the back. He saw a bony arm dangle from beneath the folds of the bloodied blanket, and at the end of that bony arm was a crudely wrapped stump, the cloth Fingon used soaked with too much blood it was black. Caranthir admitted he recoiled at that moment, if not physically then mentally, fortified his own mental barriers against the gaping wound that was Maedhros’s mind. 

He hung back even as Maglor and Celegorm rushed Maedhros to the healers’ tent, and for the next stretch of days an unease and tension descended upon both camps of the Noldorin factions. That first night, when Maglor and Celegorm first gathered the rest of the brothers, Maglor wept as he described the extent of Maedhros’s injuries.

Yet Caranthir said nothing of the injury of the mind; so raw and deep that he could almost taste the half-rotting, metaphorical flesh, a putrid kind of a hint of sourness at the back of his throat, a sensation. 

Helwion, who would be the chief healer of Himring, barred visitors except from the brothers during that first week.

On the eighth day after Fingon’s miraculous rescue, Caranthir awoke in the middle of the night.

He opened his eyes against the darkness of his tent, and he could hear the night insects humming and thrumming. The footfalls of the night-shift guards as they enacted their patrols. Around Caranthir the minds of the Noldor swirled, a gigantic mass of color blurred and slipping together, such that if he focused hard enough on a single train of thought, he would know who is thinking it, and where they are. But this is not what drew him from Irmo’s hold.

Just beyond his guarded perception is the sensation of Maedhros’s raw mind, and it is the first time Caranthir felt it unfurled. A wound, gaping, the flesh at the edges rotting and dotted with black, bone and marrow faintly visible. Again, the faint hint of rot and the ghost stench of decay threatened to overwhelm his mental perception. Caranthir mustered his strength against it, just as he swung his legs over the side of his cot. 

He shrugged into a coat, tied the belt, picked up a Feanorian Lamp, kindled it, and he went out into the cold night, the mists rolling from the mountains offering low visibility, punctured only by the light of the torches and lamps. His feet crushed dew-stained grass, and he followed the rot and decay of Maedhros’s mind as he navigates through the pathways between tents indistinguishable in the half dark. 

He steels himself, and peers even closer at his brother’s mind. Raw and open, but there is something else in the midst of that exposed ‘flesh’; something dark and veined with gold, throbbing there at the very center of the hurt. 

He closes in on Maedhros. His brother is inside a supply tent, and Caranthir wastes no time ducking into the tent, the flaps pushed aside with his free hand. The proximity increases the ghost stench and the ghost aftertaste at the back of his throat. He almost retches.

“Nelyo?”

The name rolls off Caranthir’s lips just as his breath mists white before him. Caranthir navigates through the crates and boxes, and he finds his brother crouching by an opened crate, scarfing down thick-crust bred like an animal. Bony, scarred arms appear to him like the limbs of some eldritch insect under the light of his lamp. Maedhros’s hair glint red, like dried blood. Telperion-silver eyes mirror alarm when Caranthir look into them for the first time, then recognition, then relief.

It happens too fast for Caranthir’s taste.

For someone who supposedly hung from Thangorodrim’s precipice for some decades, Maedhros should not be capable of such quick clarity and alertness, much less quick recognition of who had come to seek him out. It clashed against what Caranthir could feel of his mind, the wound of it, the throbbing blackness at the center of that wound that–

“Here, hanno, do not eat so fast,” Caranthir tries to dissuade him from eating the entirety of the loaf of bread. “If you want, I will find some soup for you, that’s all you can eat for now, soup, something light and easy on the stomach…”

“No,” Maedhros whines like an elfling when his bread is taken away. His voice is akin to a river flowing over some jagged rocks. “My bread–.” Yet his bony fingers slacken, and he recognizes the futility of his struggle, and grudgingly surrenders the bread.

Again there is clarity that should not be possible, for someone exposed to the elements for thirty, forty years.

There is something else here, that Caranthir rapidly begins to understand despite himself.

He helps Maedhros to his feet. He supports his brother’s bony weight, then decides to just carry him back to his tent, which smelled of medicated herbs and concoctions. Maedhros limps in his hold and hides his face into Caranthir’s chest.

There is something here.

As he lays Nelyo back onto his abandoned cot and pulls the blankets back over his brother, their eyes meet. Telperion silver and the dark gray of storm clouds. 

Memory comes unbidden to Caranthir: Morgoth’s echoing laughter, then the black chain wrought with song, and how the Vala hung Maedhros on that precipice five days before Fingon claims his ‘miraculous rescue’.

Caranthir understands.

Maedhros wasn’t rescued.

Maedhros was hung precisely to be found.

The awful truth and all of its implications rises in Caranthir’s mind, like a rogue wave out in an open, stormy sea, threatening the land yonder, and all that the Noldor think they know so far.

[thebelugawhalefriend]

Hii! Love your writing. Do you do any sub character content? If so could you do Sub Muzan x Fem or GN reader?

Hihi!! I'm very excited to have a first request! I actually had to go back and watch the fourth season and read his wiki page because WOW this is gonna be a DOOZY to write! I mean this is a man who has every demon praying for mercy at any cost. But, I love a good challenge, so let's get into it!

Merciful - Sub!Muzan x Demon!Fem!Reader

CW: DEMON SLAYER SPOILERS, NSFW, Gore, Death

Note: I have really only watched the anime, so anything from the manga will stump me here ^^

It was 150 years ago when you first met him.

"You BASTARD! Let him go!"

Human and feeble. So weak and small to even your own kind. A towering man stood above you with pure spite behind his green eyes. Muscular with sleek black hair tied tightly behind him. In his hands he held your little brother, ready to slit his throat with a sickle.

"What, him? I caught this boy trying to swipe from my shop! If I had half a mind, I would slice him into tiny pieces."

You were but 18, shivering and scared. Your own blade looked pointless compared to his- only being a mere dagger. And yet, you clung to it tight. This rusted piece of junk was your only chance of your brother's survival.

"I said let him go! Not just for his sake, but yours!"

"And what are YOU going to-"

With the quickness of an eagle, the blade in your hand was digging into his shoulder. You clung to this man as if you depended on him not to fall. It's then you plunge into his back. Again. Again. And again.

"Sister, stop! Stop!"

Your brother was trying to flail from the man's arms- trying to free himself from his grip. It was, however, of no use. Even with a crazed woman stabbing into his body, his sickle made quickwork of the boy's neck.

SWING!

Thud...

"BROTHER!!"

And from there, those moments were a blur. Faint images came back to remind you of your crimes. The shop owner's once proud physique now a pulverized, sad corpse. Bystanders horrified by the situation now also blood on your hands and bodies on the road. Even nearby pets ended up slaughtered by your palms. But... You wanted more. Even if you were still human, this man deserved the most painful death and afterlife you could imagine. Taking his sickle, you carved his chest wide open and ripped out his heart.

"Now wait, young one. Wouldn't you want eating him to matter more?"

Now this man... He gave off a completely different feel than the man who'd killed your brother. Despite a similar look, he held ruby red eyes that peered right through you. You pause for a moment with the heart in hand.

"And just who are you?"

"Such raw emotion and strength... And yet still so weak. You couldn't even save your brother, and here you are, eating a man's heart just for your body to waste it."

"You don't know me! I'll-"

With a finger to your mouth, your body freezes.

"Hush. I'm here to help, just for a small price. I can tell you'll be of great use..."

---

"Lord Muzan~"

You call from one of the halls, flashing this man a daring look. From the moment he met you, you would never let this man have the respect he's earned. Even the Kizuki tremble in fear just uttering the wrong word to him, and yet for you? He would tolerate just enough teasing to let you have fun.

"Now of all times, ____? Can't you see I'm busy?"

His tone is cold, but your glare is chilling.

"Ten months, Muzan. You've left me wasting away for ten months! I understand tending to your other wives and taking care of those demon slayers, but ten months?"

His silence speaks volumes... But you? You've never realized the pure fear that comes with messing with Muzan. He's never put you in your place, and maybe... Maybe a twisted part of him likes that. You remind him of the authority he only had when he was human. No one could command or demand anything. Except... You.

"Come with me, Muzan... Please, just spend one night with me..."

Those (color) eyes you give him... His glare simmers down into a rare soft gaze, backing away from his desk to approach you.

"You're the most fortunate woman alive, ___. Any other would fall to their knees if they spoke to me that way."

"That sounds like a yes to me."

---

For every rough move Muzan would make, you were twice as bad. The poor lord of demons was pinned by the hands while you rode his cock for everything it was worth. Your fangs were oh so close to his neck, and yet Muzan was only encouraging that you bite him. Just one move and he could pulverize you. End your life over your own rush for power. And yet, you were headstrong and uncaring. His breathing was quivering and shaky, eyes of blood red looking up to yours with a submissive lust.

"Like that, dear- Fuck! Like that!"

You could barely focus on his blissfully soft voice. The most powerful man to exist and yet he's under you... Your fangs sink right into his neck yet stay absolutely careful not to drop an ounce of blood. After all, wasting anything precious of his was a death sentence. When his hands shift under yours, you let them go to see what he does.

"Don't be shy now... I know you want more..."

His voice is so quiet and soothing that your focus slips for just a moment, just enough time for him to grip your sides and push you down on him. Keeping you absolutely still. Is this a trick? Some sort of act? You sit up for a moment to look down, seeing him with a playful smile.

"Muzan... Are you sure you want to toy with me?"

One of his hands slip down to tease you as his member sits inside. Pulsing and needing more despite his cool demeanor.

"I want to see that fire I know you have. I let you take over too easily this time... Prove you're worthy to actually let me finish inside of you, ___."

Before the blink of an eye, your claws are quick to dig into his own sides in an attempt to keep going. And yet, one of his hands keeps you still.

"I know you have it in you. I can see that frustration in your eyes, dear."

Oh, you have a plan alright. While your hands worked to mess with his body and neck, your legs were building up strength to keep things going. Just a little longer... One of your claws lunges for his neck, Muzan quick to catch it with the hand that was teasing you.

"Too eas-"

While he was only slightly distracted by your lunge, the sheer force of your legs resumed the session despite Muzan's grip. The free hand practically pouncing to hold his chest down while your speed threatened to break the bed. Once playful eyes now looked to you in awe as he twitched and let out just the tiniest of pathetic whimpers.

"Don't you toy with me, Muzan. I know you like this too much to stop me!"

He really couldn't hold back. Just mere seconds pass before ropes of his semen come through and fill your insides. Yet, your body is absolutely sure not to let a single drop seep from your womb. You can't go wasting even his cum, now can you? Shocked red eyes look up to you, now with a renewed sense of pride.

"Y-you're so damn lucky I'm merciful towards you..."

[majorasnightmare]

like dirge for example. weird fun bhaalspawn anatomy

dude has multiple sets of functional canines replacing some of his molars (around 3 total), and the muscles in his jaw demonstrate unnatural tensile strength, letting them exert far greater bite force than anatomy should permit. 25-30 seconds of sustained pressure lets him crack an ox femur between his back teeth, and a human hand is comin off the stump significantly earlier than that

his tail is fully functional as a balancing aid and he can displace his leg and shoulder joints to rotate them in the socket to sprint on all fours with relative ease

in addition to the normal human color cones with additional eye structures for darkvision, he also perceives a greater variety of subtler shades of red, the same way humans can perceive incredibly slight differences in shades of green. meaning he can probably tell exactly how long its been since bloods been spilled since he would perceive a myriad amount of unique distinct shades as it dried that literally nobody else would be able to notice (color matching in his bhaaltist era must have been HELL)

dirge also has a canid like sense of smell, able to identify and track specific scents, and uses that to avoid attacking allies in the midst of a combat induced blood fury, where everyone stops resembling people and instead become a faceless blur of meatbag colors and shapes

his stomach and intestinal tract are more robust and can safely and regularly consume raw or rotting meat with a low risk of illness

the sharpened nails you typically see on tieflings are actually fully functional claws on dirge, being rooted into the bone for a stable foundation, meaning he can actually use his claws as a weapon (as typical nails are too flimsy and poorly supported by the nail bed to actually claw things).

in purely supernatural physiology changes, as the scion of bhaal if a blow doesnt kill him outright, it isnt GOING to kill him and his body will slowly try to recover from its injuries. this is affected by circumstance as a prolonged combat encounter pushes him closer and closer to deaths door, meaning any particular injury has a greater and greater risk of outright death, just like normal combat. in practice this means that if you start off combat by trying to puncture his heart, he'll still be able to finish the fight and limp off somewhere to recover, but if hes been taking blows in a fight for a while, death via blood loss and shock poses the same immediate risk of death as it does for anyone else. its more or less a high resistance to first-round-initiative-ending blows, but its also why he survives orins betrayal, because the stab wound to the brain doesnt immediately kill him. this also makes it so he rarely, if ever, scars. the scars on his face are a result of summoning his patron for a warlock pact, and kressas repeated surgeries slow his recovery down so much, and she carves him open so often, that he has faint autopsy scars from the experience

as a metaphysical trait, as a godspawn carved from bhaals flesh, dirge can technically process faith as an actual consumable power source to access the aspects of divinity he inherited from his Father, but pre tadpole dirge suffered too much internal conflict to have the clarity of purpose and intent to access it, and post tadpole dirge doesnt have any inclination such a thing is possible. it DOES mean that when minthara swears her paladin oath of vengeance to him, he develops an unconscious sixth sense for it that contributes to his feelings of comfort and ease around her. if he did manage to meaningfully access that particular part of his heritage, itd produce a nonphysical hunger for faith in a similar manner to how The Urge craves bloodshed, killing and slaughter.

id imagine both of those traits apply to dame aylin as well, just with less struggle because of her amicable relationship to her mother and awareness+acceptance of her own nature as a fellow godspawn. sarevok, being technically a demigod and not actually made of godflesh like dirge or aylin, can only really enjoy the benefits of being Human Plus and doesnt have the same deathless durability, nor is he capable of sensing or utilizing faith the way they can

[thebrickinbrick]

The Heroes, Part Three

The façade of Corinthe, half demolished, was hideous. The window, tattooed with grape-shot, had lost glass and frame and was nothing now but a shapeless hole, tumultuously blocked with paving-stones.

Bossuet was killed;

Feuilly was killed;

Courfeyrac was killed;

Joly was killed;

Combeferre, transfixed by three blows from a bayonet in the breast at the moment when he was lifting up a wounded soldier, had only time to cast a glance to heaven when he expired.

Marius, still fighting, was so riddled with wounds, particularly in the head, that his countenance disappeared beneath the blood, and one would have said that his face was covered with a red kerchief.

Enjolras alone was not struck. When he had no longer any weapon, he reached out his hands to right and left and an insurgent thrust some arm or other into his fist. All he had left was the stumps of four swords; one more than François I. at Marignan.

Homer says: “Diomedes cuts the throat of Axylus, son of Teuthranis, who dwelt in happy Arisba; Euryalus, son of Mecistæus, exterminates Dresos and Opheltios, Esepius, and that Pedasus whom the naiad Abarbarea bore to the blameless Bucolion; Ulysses overthrows Pidytes of Percosius; Antilochus, Ablerus; Polypætes, Astyalus; Polydamas, Otos, of Cyllene; and Teucer, Aretaon. Meganthios dies under the blows of Euripylus’ pike. Agamemnon, king of the heroes, flings to earth Elatos, born in the rocky city which is laved by the sounding river Satnoïs.” In our old poems of exploits, Esplandian attacks the giant marquis Swantibore with a cobbler’s shoulder-stick of fire, and the latter defends himself by stoning the hero with towers which he plucks up by the roots. Our ancient mural frescoes show us the two Dukes of Bretagne and Bourbon, armed, emblazoned and crested in war-like guise, on horseback and approaching each other, their battle-axes in hand, masked with iron, gloved with iron, booted with iron, the one caparisoned in ermine, the other draped in azure: Bretagne with his lion between the two horns of his crown, Bourbon helmeted with a monster fleur de lys on his visor. But, in order to be superb, it is not necessary to wear, like Yvon, the ducal morion, to have in the fist, like Esplandian, a living flame, or, like Phyles, father of Polydamas, to have brought back from Ephyra a good suit of mail, a present from the king of men, Euphetes; it suffices to give one’s life for a conviction or a loyalty. This ingenuous little soldier, yesterday a peasant of Bauce or Limousin, who prowls with his clasp-knife by his side, around the children’s nurses in the Luxembourg garden, this pale young student bent over a piece of anatomy or a book, a blond youth who shaves his beard with scissors,—take both of them, breathe upon them with a breath of duty, place them face to face in the Carrefour Boucherat or in the blind alley Planche-Mibray, and let the one fight for his flag, and the other for his ideal, and let both of them imagine that they are fighting for their country; the struggle will be colossal; and the shadow which this raw recruit and this sawbones in conflict will produce in that grand epic field where humanity is striving, will equal the shadow cast by Megaryon, King of Lycia, tiger-filled, crushing in his embrace the immense body of Ajax, equal to the gods.

[justporo]

Deep Insights

A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies: Chapter 11

Astarion has promised Tav that "when I'm done with you, everyone in this room will either be you or be with you", so they share a final dance.

Or you could say, they dance the fantasy version of an intimate tango.

Author's Note: I haven been REALLY excited about this chapter. Mainly because it was a scene I've had in my head for a very long time... Writing it nearly broke me, describing these poses - nuh uh, not happening again soon. But I hope you enjoy these two basically getting it on on the dancefloor...

Songs: Habanera (Carmen) - Bizet (their final dance!)

Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Tav (You)

Warnings: light smut

CHAPTER LIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER |NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

~~~

Another dance ended. Astarion slowly brought you to a hold while the last notes of the waltz chimed off. As you stopped you noticed that you were quite out of breath, but in a way that felt pleasant. You looked up at your soulmate who answered by bowing his head slightly to you, leaning his forehead to yours while you were trying to catch your breath. You let both of your hands rest on his shoulders.

Your chest was heaving as you closed your eyes shortly to enjoy the touch of Astarion’s cool skin on your own heated one. One of his hands wandered up your arm, his other he lifted to your face.

Your mysterious host had been right: dancing had made your blood pump. And the heat you felt from racing around the giant room was easily supported by other origins of warmth flooding your body while you could practically feel Astarion take in the sight of your flushed face. Some of the raw joy you had felt from being twirled around until you felt dizzy rose up again within you, bringing a fierce smile to your lips.

Delightfully cool fingertips wandered over your face. His index slightly tapped down the tip of your nose, then your lips – making them smile more – before it went on over your neck and then deeper still, along the neckline of your dress – making your smile turn sultry and having you bat open your eyes again. You observed him from under your brows. Saw his piercing red gaze drink in every last detail of you, causing your heartbeat to gallop again.

“Dare say, my love, did I make you lose your breath?”, he asked while he hooked his thumb onto your chin, raising his head from yours, his expression becoming haughty. Then his hand wandered deeper again, fingertips pressing to your exposed skin.

Your heart tumbled treacherously at his playful words. And from the way his eyes glinted you knew he felt your thundering heartbeat under his fingers.

“You always do, Astarion,” you answered truthfully and felt how your quickening pulse made your chest rise and fall even more.

“Good,” the vampire replied and splayed his hand flatly over the delicate skin of your exposed neck and slowly dragged it upwards until his thumb and index were loosely around the base of your throat. He pressed a quick, quite forceful kiss to your slightly parted lips. And you knew the rush of dancing was not just getting to you alone.

“Don’t catch it yet, darling, I’m not done with you,” the pale elf promised, tongue in cheek. You loved the ambivalence in his words – deepened by the low, almost rumbly tone of his voice.

Then he withdrew, quickly and elegantly, leaving you to almost stumble.

“Not done yet,” you parroted helplessly and saw Astarion roll around his tongue in his mouth. His expression had become mischievous.

“I’ve promised you that when I was done with you everyone here would want to either be you or be with you. I tend to keep my promises, my heart”, he replied with a quick courteous bow before he elegantly turned on his heel and quickly hurried towards the orchestra.

Your heart tumbled for an entirely different reason now as you were too stumped to do anything more than look after him hurrying towards the musicians taking another short break.

“Astarion!” you scream-whispered while he was already halfway there. He heard you, but he only threw you a kiss over his shoulder without even slowing down.

The man obviously had a plan. And you didn’t particularly like that – his plans tended to end up in chaos and landing you in a whole mess.

Suddenly, you felt very alone on the emptying dancefloor. You saw your elderly neighbour carefully be led off by her noticeably younger beau. And more couples left until you were basically the last one in the middle of the ballroom. That realisation didn’t exactly calm you. In attempt to deal with anxiety laying claim on you, you wrapped your arms around yourself as much as the draped silk flowing down from your elbows would allow.

Observing how Astarion spoke with the elven singer, you tried to be inconspicuous. You wouldn’t have needed to be worried though. As you looked around some more, you noticed that the unravelling of manners and sobriety you had noticed earlier had certainly continued.

Before people had seemed haughty, backs had been straight in an effort to show superiority. And insults and viciousness had at least been hidden by a sheer layer of civilisation, like palmed blades hidden in plain sight. But sharp tongues seemingly weren’t in their sheaths anymore. And the same was clearly the case for some base desires: as your eyes wandered over the crowd, you felt like some of the excess from everywhere else in the mansion had now reached the core of the festivities as well. As if the crowd as a whole had gotten more than just a little too much to drink, manners and stances becoming slouchy and sluggishly while minds loosened up – along with laces and buttons - to indulge in fantasies that were usually neatly tugged away behind tightly laced up corsets or heavily starched collars.

The atmosphere as a whole had become more sinful: intoxicating – but slightly unsettling if not threatening as well.

Your head snapped back to Astarion who had just said something to make the elegant, elven singer laugh before she placed a hand over her heart and bowed graciously in thanks. Your eyes narrowed a little, knowing exactly, that Astarion was working his charms on her. And for what, you didn’t know yet. You weren’t sure you wanted to find out either.

Shortly after, your vampire returned to you while behind him you saw the singer and some of the string players move into position to start performing again.

Astarion came back to you with a huge, mischievous grin splitting his face as you heard the strings pick up a melody already. The rhythm immediately felt awfully familiar. Not a waltz, but another dance Astarion had been very eager to teach you. Mainly because it had involved moving so close to each other that it had easily felt as intimate as letting yourself be seduced by the vampire.

In any case it had led to the same conclusion – more than once.

If that was really, what Astarion had planned, he’d be playing with fire. The thought immediately sent heat throughout your body. You looked around once more and to your own shock noticed that a few heads had turned towards you and Astarion – noticing that something unusual was about to happen.

The vampire prowled closer to you, red eyes focused on you as if you were his newest piece of prey as the elven singer’s voice began to rise over the strings. You saw her sway sensually to the music, hands stretched out lightly while her eyes were closed – taken and fully fulfilled by the slowly swelling music.

And you felt how the music and her ethereal voice started to tug on you, luring you with its spell while Astarion closed the rest of the gap with his expression speaking of how much he anticipated what was to follow. With a quick last step, he grabbed one of your hands and with his other arm pulled you flush against himself. Immediately he started moving with you again, not leaving you a second to hesitate.

He moved his face close to yours while you both slowly eased into this dance. “Now, my love,” he began to whisper into one of your pointy ears, his cheek almost pressed against your temple, while his hand on your back pulled you even closer. You felt how his thumb brushed over your back.

“We can keep this tame, my sweet, or we can give the people a show. Which” – he stopped moving with you, one of his feet leisurely placed between yours and as he continued whispering into your ear with a low voice, he used it to gradually slide your legs further apart, his body shifting forward “will it be?”

But instead of answering you just gave in to the motion, let yourself be swept away by your vampire.

Your pulse began racing, breath quickened as his movement made you slowly lean back and more onto his steadying arm while he slowly but unyieldingly slid your backfoot further. The hand on your back held you securely.

His crimson eyes were piercing into you. You saw how his pupils widened and his lips parted as an almost feral kind of joy spread over his face while he held you like this.

When his knee came in, you had no other choice but to slowly let your foot wander up his leg before finally hooking it around it.

And even then, he didn’t stop. The vampire leaned further, until he had you hovering bare inches above the polished wooden floors from which the golden light of the chandeliers reflected. Your leg was almost straddling his hip now and your skirt had ridden up, bunched up between your entwined legs now. Cold air blowing in through the still wide-open glass doors to the gardens brushing over your now naked skin, sent shivers up your spine. And the way Astarion sent a glance down your bodies to gaze at your exposed leg sent countering jolts down, resulting in a treacherous throbbing between your now helplessly spread legs.

You gasped when Astarion looked into your eyes again, corners of his mouth curling up, showing his fangs.

And when you slowly let your head fall back, exposing your neck to him, his eyes were immediately drawn to where your pulse was racing so close under your skin. You heard him gasp as well.

He craned his neck to reach your throat. The tip of his nose felt cool on your throat. You closed your eyes, focusing on everywhere your bodies were touching and gasped once more when you felt Astarion press an open-mouthed kiss atop the curve of your exposed neck.

This couldn’t have possibly felt more sensual and intimate if you had been completely naked and the only two in the room. The throbbing between your legs became stronger.

Astarion’s lips left your neck.

“So, we give them a show. Very well, my love,” he exclaimed cheerfully while you began to grin with your head still fallen so far back, your partner couldn’t even see it yet.

With swift grace Astarion pulled you both up again.

“I hope you’re ready to scandalise some nobles, my darling Tav,” the vampire pondered as he held you close, one eyebrow raised high. A dangerous smile was your only answer. And so, you began to dance.

This was slower than before. Your and Astarion’s movements were characterised by controlled, swift elegance as you swept over the large open dancefloor.

The rush was caused less by the dizzying speed now but the fluid, sensual motions you shared with Astarion. Your bodies were so close it felt almost illogical how you were still able to move to dance.

Shortly, you noticed that you had quite an audience now but you completely forgot about it when you looked at your partner again: Astarion’s ruby eyes were ablaze, only focused on you. His one hand was firmly entwined with yours and lifted high, his other on the small of your back continuously pulling you back in and slowly wandering lower.

There were barely any other couples still dancing around you, leaving you offered to the other guests  similarly to how the servants carried around crystal glasses on their silver platters: meant for their enjoyment, ready to be consumed. You were aware of that, as was Astarion. But neither of you did care: this was your evening. You merely cared about your own entertainment. The vampire had only eyes for you anyways as he watched you closely, forehead almost pressed to yours. He observed and delighted in how you let your hips shift from side to side, both your legs swept between each other time and again and he led you around on his arm as if parading for all of the world to see what was his.

Sometimes he had you lean away from him, out of his embrace, showing you off even more. And when he pulled you in after letting you turn under his arm, he basically crushed your hips into his, resulting in you almost moaning whenever he did that. Astarion looked at you, acting as surprised as you felt, but then the grin of a cheshire cat crept onto his face and he made you lean back, held firmly against his body by his arm.

A telltale throb between your legs as you had no choice but to comply with the vampire’s movement had you try and rub your thighs together to subdue it. But of course, Astarion noticed, eyes immediately boring into yours. You would never get away with something like that.

“Is it getting a little heated for you, darling?” he purred and leaned you even more until you were in a similar spot as in the beginning.

Then to make it worse he disentangled his fingers from yours and grabbed one of your thighs to make your leg loop around his hips. And all of this with a quickness that did nothing to resolve the heat rising up within you. In fact, it had you gasp and involuntarily buck your hips into him. To that Astarion’s eyebrows jumped up shortly and he hummed in content. His grin was unwavering, only growing lewder. At least he was enjoying himself mightily it seemed.

“Astarion, we’re still in public!” you hissed when you felt his hand on your back wander even lower, moving to your butt.

“Not prone to a little public fun, my sweet?”

His voice was dropping lower in time with his hands. With the music still spurring you on it must already seem ridiculous how long he held you there – and how. His arm was firmly around you, so it was easy for Astarion to make you rub against him just a little bit. Against where you clearly felt his desire for you grow as well, not unaffected by the show the two of you put on.

Your eyes flew down along your body in shock, unbelieving how the pale elf dared to act while being fully on display for Baldur’s Gate’s high society – even though they were mostly fully out of it by now anyways. The skirts of your blue dress were carelessly bunched up and you felt how the garment – however beautiful it might be – restricted your ability to move.

Astarion’s teasing had been more than enough though. A small lewd moan left your lips which you tried to stifle as quickly as possible by biting your lip. But you had also felt that it hadn’t been just you that was getting agitated from how you moved to the sensual music. And when your eyes wandered back to your partner’s face you saw that he was biting his lip too. His adam’s apple was working in his throat.

Maybe it wasn’t just that he dragged you a little too close to the fire, but that he was quite possibly about to burn himself as well.

You licked your lips. An idea forming in your mind.

And if you saw an opportunity to turn the tables on this man at his own game, you would take it.

With one of your hands you pushed against his chest, nudging him to stand up tall again. And he did – with you still in his arms.

You followed his movements and used the opportunity to inconspicuously get some more friction out of it. Astarion’s mouth opened and formed a grin.

He knew he was in for a treat now.

“I’m always up for fun, Astarion, but I don’t need you to take me on this dancefloor with the whole nobility of the city to witness,” you muttered and then pushed him back with your hand on his chest.

The vampire staggered back a few steps looking a little surprised - but intrigued. Then put on a performance of being hurt. “A downright shame, really, darling.”

But you didn’t even look at him and his histrionics even more. While the music drifted around you and beckoned you to finally get back to the good part, you bowed down and grabbed the hem of your skirt. The silk was beautiful. But you were used to nothing this pretty lasting long in your hands, anyways. So, with both of your hands you tore and felt a satisfactory rasping noise as you pulled the fabric apart.

Meanwhile, Astarion was truly shocked by your actions right now. He stared on in horror as you tore up your skirts up until there was a somewhat straight rip almost up to your hips.

The vampire wasn’t sure if he was more scandalised by your behaviour or how your naked leg was almost fully on display now.

But when you came over him, grabbed his hand once more and leaned onto him in an attempt to get back at him. He wasn’t left with a choice. His glinting burgundy eyes spoke of nothing but longing.

Using your full bodyweight, you moved onto him quickly, forcefully. Daring him as you pressed your knee high up on his thigh while still leaning, until you were almost kneeling on his leg with your now free leg.

The vampire let it happen, caught a little on the backfoot figuratively and literally, as he stared at you in awe.

“You little minx,” he whispered while he recovered his wits and delighted in letting his hand wander up over your bared thigh. “I know I picked the right one with you.”

You let your eyelashes flatter at him dramatically at his generous praise.

And then, to go a little further you rolled your hips a little, evoking a surprised but not unpleased groan from your vampire. His arms wrapped around you tighter.

“You’re making it increasingly difficult, to not take you right here on these polished wooden floors, darling.” He almost growled the last word.

Good, you had him where you wanted him. You rolled your head around to loosen the muscles.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish then, love,” you gave back and then withdrew your leg from his, eager to finally get back to dancing.

The vampire grunted but wouldn’t be told twice as you started moving again.

All nervousness had left your body now – and with all possible shame - as you had basically fully forgotten about the world and the party around you. Instead, you felt confident now, bold even, as you began swaying your hips with new vigour and Astarion did his absolute best to make you look your best.

Your skirts flew around you as you kept dancing and the vampire made you lean, sink into him, take bold turns – and always pulling you back into him. And with each time a little closer and more forceful you felt like. His gaze was burning into yours and you clearly saw the hunger in them. A desperate craving that you were very well responsible for.

You kept dragging and sliding each other over the shiny wooden floors. Knees and thighs and calves brushing and rubbing against each other. Sometimes on accident, but more often on purpose when you hooked your legs around each other for a moment – only to move away again. It was a constant game of cat and mouse now, trying and testing how to get a rise out of the other.

The looks you threw each other became increasingly fiery.

Had you told Astarion not to take you with everyone around watching, this barely made a difference anymore. Not that either of you cared still, with the state that you were in. You didn’t dare think about what would happen once the music stopped – but you couldn’t wait to find out.

Fittingly to that thought crossing your mind increasingly clouded by lust, you heard the crescendo announcing the end of the piece. Your gaze fell on Astarion’s face: his curls messed up a little, falling into his face and his gaze that was positively glowing at you from narrowed eyes, lips unconsciously agape.

His pointy ears seemed to perk up when he noticed the music coming to an end.

You saw the vicious grin just before he grabbed you, made you spin a final time, before he moved your knee up as high as possible against his torso and made you lean back one last time in a dramatic end pose. Your leg covered by your skirt was sliding up his body while he held you and made you dip. Your other leg was bare, fully and stretched out as he hovered you mere inches over the floors when the music chimed off. And then he held you there – at his will.

Some of the guests seemingly deemed it appropriate to clap for your performance. You noticed it somewhere off in the back of your mine. Because what was right in front of you was gripping your attention far more.

Your breathing was hitched, as was Astarion’s. His eyes wandered hungrily over your form, eyebrow twitching, when he noticed just how much of an insight the slit in your skirt revealed.

The corners of his mouth curled up and with his swift hand he moved the skirt before it could slide off even further.

“Let’s leave something to the imagination, shan’t we?” he murmured while his fingertips lingered just where your leg connected to your hips. He was still looking down at your body. You could see his lashes and how they cast some shadows onto his cheekbones. Red eyes glowed under them, telling you how much the vampire wanted nothing left to just imagination.

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