#so it does loose that copper thing

[lover-of-mine]

I’m thinking on getting copper hair haha so what maintenance does it has if you don’t mind asking ?

Okay, first of all, copper pigment washes out of the hair real easy and I started off with bleached hair, so my hair was fading faster than it would if you don't start with over processed hair. Second, the dye I was using was the same level as my natural color, but since my natural color is on the cooler side, my roots deeply bothered me. And I was doing treatments to grow my hair, so the roots got big enough to be a problem real quick. So I was doing my roots every 3 weeks and a pigment mask every 10 days maybe? So that was not cheap. I was also dyeing my eyebrows because the contrast was weird, so I did my eyebrows every time I did my roots. So I believe I was an outlier in the situation. If the roots don't bother you, you can probably do that maintenance every 8 to 10 weeks, like it's the standard, but literally no one I talked to about it, and I was in a whole Facebook group lol, managed to go the time between root touch-ups without doing something to revive the color on the length. So my main issues with the cooper was keeping the length of my hair looking a nice color longer, because it can fade weird and I liked it when it was more vivid. But honestly, it would depend on how you deal with the fade and the root situation. Maybe you will like the way it fades and you can just refresh the color when you do your roots and be fine with it. But the main thing is that you will need to refresh the color on your whole hair frequently to keep it up, because it will go from copper to strawberry blonde to just golden blonde real easy. It's not the type of color you can just put it on once and let your hair grow and it will stay like that. Honestly, my maintenance with platinum was easier than my maintenance with copper. Because if your blonde gets too brassy you can use purple shampoo and fix that in the shower, but there isn't a way to do that with copper that doesn't involve taking an hour of your time to section and dye and let it process. So you're committing to frequent touch ups. How frequently will be up to how you deal with that fade, but there's nothing you can do to stop the fade so it will fade no matter what because hair doesn't like to stay copper if it's not naturally copper, unfortunately.

[zwhoreo]

can i request some slutty luffy? just fuck me up fam ☠️

AHH i think this is so beautiful and one of my fav smuts i’ve written!!! :’)

hunger - luffy x f!reader

smut

summary: luffy gets incredibly horny, and he’s confusing lust with hunger

contains: mating press, praise, marking (reader receiving)

words: 2.4k

_______________________________

Luffy’s alone. He thinks, right now, of touch. And his body is sweaty from the day and from his yearning mind, he’s shirtless because an hour ago he lit on fire beneath his skin, he’s been simmering ever since, and it’s healed, somehow, by touch. So his fingers dig into the grooves of his abs, he likes to feel them flex and shift as he traces every corner, mouth open, drooling onto the glass of the porthole. He left his bed an hour ago when he lit on fire beneath his skin. His blanket became too hot, his mind too full to fall asleep. He’s thinking about food now, juicy fruits that drip down his throat, melted cheese, the greasy, fatty pieces of steak that slide so slowly along his tongue.

He rubs his stomach because he’s hungry, that’s it. There’s a burning within him, starvation but if it was beautiful. He needs food right now but he knows, somehow, that food won’t do anything for him, not really. And if he rubs his stomach because he’s hungry then why does his hand go lower, down beneath his waistline, tugging at the hair down there because, why? Why does this feel good? Why is he moaning, little whimpers that fog the glass, what does he need? He thinks of touch. Skin on skin. That’s it, skin on skin.

You’re probably alone. Moonbeams sail one by one from the east with the wind and blackening sky as the sunset turns lilac, fading, gold waves turning silver, copper. Translucent silk the color of the sunset hangs from your shoulders, a slip so loose it barely covers your chest. It isn’t cold tonight and you’re not tired. You saw dolphins this evening and you wonder if you can see them again before the water disappears in the night. Everyone else is already asleep. You hope that when you’re tired you can find Luffy, who’s probably asleep, and curl up with him as everything drifts away.

But as the ocean laps at the ship and you’re calmed by the gentle rocking you feel, suddenly, arms from behind. Arms that run over yours, hands massaging your wrists up to your shoulders. A distinct smell, the feeling of hot rubber, this is Luffy and he’s so, so warm. And his breathing is so heavy in your ear. He places his chin on your shoulder and it’s covered in drool, he begins to slowly lick your neck as he pulls you closer. You haven’t even said hi before he has you in his lap, squeezing your waist from behind. His licks turn to kisses, and then to bites, all over your upper back and then a wet, raw trail up to your jaw. He’s groaning with want, no words yet, he has too many things he wants to say.

“Hi Luffy,” you murmur with a little smile, reaching back to pet his face which is burning up and flushed. His tongue laps your cheek, he’s an excited puppy, you feel his teeth now so you ask gently, “what’s up?”

“Gonna eat you,” he says in a quiet, gravely voice, right into your ear. He whines after this in desire, in hunger, he’s lustful and desperate.

“Yeah?” You lean back against him. His arms are so tight, he’s trying to wrap you up and crush you like a python. And you can feel his heartbeat race in every muscle.

“Mh, ‘cause you’re real pretty. And I’m hungry so I’m gonna eat you.” He’s almost trying to take a bite out of your neck now, his teeth are sharp but his tongue is soothing, he moans because he likes the flavor. “Real pretty…” he hisses again beneath his breath.

You turn so you’re facing him. He needs a kiss right now and he doesn’t hesitate to grab your face and dive in, writhing tongue slipping greedily between your lips. And there’s a gentleness here too, his hand moves to the back of your head, stroking your hair adoringly. He isn’t going to hurt you he just needs you so, so bad and he doesn’t really know how or why or what he should say.

“God, Luffy.” You’re quiet, muffled by his mouth. And just hearing your voice again clouds his mind.

“Love ya, love ya so much,” he says in between moans and kisses. His nails scrape at your chest, delighted by softness, something to grab onto, more to squeeze. “I wanna play, please can we play?”

Trying to get on top of you he’s leaning over you and pulled by instinct, he wants you straddling him but he wants to be on top at the same time. He’s just a tangle of limbs right now, saliva dripping messily onto your neck.

“Of course I’ll play with you.” You’re blushing, eyes closing but he’s squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him, huge sparkling eyes as deep as the Mariana look down on you.

Luffy begins to laugh. Just a breathy giggle at first, blowing air between his teeth in a little joyful hiss. And then his mouth opens, he laughs more, louder, that’s what he does when he’s excited and when he knows he’s about to get something that he wants so, so bad. And then it fades to giggles again, and he stills for a moment, no movement except his chest. Rise and fall, rise and fall. He’s just looking at you.

And then he licks his lips. He dives in.

You make a small sound, surprised and unable to react in time, as Luffy plants his feet firmly on the deck, your thighs slamming his stomach as your legs are thrown over his shoulders. And you’re bent, folding tighter and tighter as Luffy crouches over you. His arms encircle your legs and your back and your waist and constrict again, his legs are spread and ready, twitching, hips pressing yours. He’s forgetting, probably, that you aren’t as flexible as he is.

“This is good, Lu, this right here,” you manage to choke out because you often have to remind him what your body can and can’t take.

He mumbles a little apology and does a once over with his eyes, he wants to make sure that you aren’t hurt but, at the same time, he’s letting his gaze linger on your body, on the silk slip that’s fallen as your waist curls upwards and your breasts are bare now, so delicious, he’s drooling again. You’re tasty, you’re his.

This must take so much strength, the way he’s perched on his toes over your body, his thigh muscles clench and ripple against yours. Shared sweat, shared warmth. His balance is perfect even as he reaches for your chest, rubbing, holding, kissing, now he’s kissing your lips, now your neck. He doesn’t want this ever to be over.

And he says, “I love ya so much.” That’s the third time he’s said it.

“I love you too,” you say with such joy even as you’re breathless still, but before you can finish he’s pressing his mouth to yours hungrily. You said you loved him and he wants to taste it — the flavor of those words — it’s all-consuming.

“Tastes so good, mmh,” Luffy gasps as he takes you into this hot, wet kiss, “can’t wait, wanna play now.”

You’re not sure how he did it from this position, but his pants are off, kicked to the side. His cock is aching and leaking already and smoldering against your stomach, you can see it from here, throbbing and waiting, skin so smooth and thin and perfect like auburn moth wings over red-hot iron.

His chest crashes against yours in a tidal wave now because this new vulnerability makes him want to be closer. Now you can’t see it anymore but god, it’s so hard it feels like he’s denting you, so long and thick like a python, he’s still holding you, and squeezing more and more. Like a python.

With so much pressure he wraps his hands around lower, lower, snapping your panties, thrusting against your stomach in a way that shakes your body but he’s got you. You’re in his arms.

Begging eyes so close to yours, mouth on your lips and cheek, breathing so fast and so warm and he whispers, “can I?” And it’s so scratchy and kind and needy so deep in his throat.

So you pull his hair, you kiss him, yes.

Rolling back on his heels he finds his way, sloppy thrusts that don’t quite make it but god when they do, he isn’t going all the way even though his every nerve craves you but you’re his baby and he can’t hurt you.

Thick tip so soft and gentle, butterfly wings and flowers, impossibly hard and aching in heartbeat rhythms against your clit, moving you with every pulse, searching and desperate like a moth to a flame he finds you.

Shivers that make you clench your legs against his shoulders as he rubs and rubs back and forth and hugs your body and bites your cheek and murmurs, “that feel good? Ya like that?” with such curiosity like he really wants to know, he wants an answer.

“Perfect, so perfect. Please, I need you.” Words in his ear like shooting stars lighting up his body like the darkening sky. He’s made of ochre sunbeams.

He smiles and laughs and with another quick kiss he’s finding you more. Muscles flex and as he leans forward onto you he’s there, right there. He starts to moan loudly and whisper about how happy he is but it’s Luffy so it’s not a whisper, really. He’s not even inside you yet. He’s just so, so excited.

“Feels so good, so good. C’mere,” he giggles against you happily and makes sure he holds you as he’s pushing into your body, you’re filled in an instant and more and more every second.

Amid the panting and moaning you can almost hear that heartbeat and those pulsing veins buried in you. You’re dented again but from the inside now. With a little mh, Luffy finds his home so, so deep. You’re in a cocoon of warmth, wrapped in the sun, filled by the sun, melting.

“My girl’s so pretty, gotta bite, gonna bite.” Those teeth again and their practiced, hungry chewing. He swallows on instinct, abs vibrating and tightening against your skin as his stomach purs. And he’s rocking into you, back and forth on his toes, enjoying that deep, tight massage. He’s inside you, he’s trying to eat you, trying to get you inside him, too.

You’re going to be covered in marks but that’s ok. You like hearing him groan and laugh against you, and something about that swallowing, his throat flexing against your shoulder, that’s so beautiful to feel.

“Mine, ‘kay? Mine.” Luffy’s talking the whole time through his laughter and you’re swept away by him as he continues to crush your body from the inside over and over, tidal waves on a cliff’s edge, he makes whirlpools in you.

“This is so fun, you’re so fun, so pretty,” he keeps huffing and you hear this over and over as he squirms and wriggles on your body, thrusts shallower because he can’t bear to pull out of you any more than he needs to. Luffy wants to be close and never leave.

He tries to have conversations with you that just spill into unending praise. You’re too dizzy and lost in this world of feeling to respond most of the time but you kiss him whenever he wants, you tell him he’s beautiful and that he feels so good whenever your voice is there.

He’s swelling in you, veins bulging and rubbing so far up inside you that you feel him throbbing in your stomach, his twitching cock encouraged by your clenching, leaking, every muscle wracked with craving and overstimulation.

“Gonna fill you up ‘cause you’re real pretty,” he laughs against your lips, twisting into you deeper still, “gotta make ya all mine.” He still sounds so sweet and so soft, just a playful little puppy.

Even as he groans and begins to pump you full.

Love feels like this, love is raw and endless like this, love makes you float away. You close your eyes and now he lets you, you just hold him, you let the rhythm carry you and it feels like so long until he’s done. He doesn’t want to pull away but his legs give out. His knees finally hit the deck, he squeals in delight as he’s pulled from you with a wet little sound. But he’s still hugging you, of course.

“Heh, felt so good.” Luffy’s smiling with all his teeth, his chin sparkles with saliva, and your neck is dripping too, “thanks, darlin’. Love ya so much”

“Love you too. I love you, Luffy.” You don’t want to ever leave from his arms and you feel so empty now. But you’re soaked in him, neck and thighs both shining.

His hand rests gently on your back, helping you sit up, your slip falls back down over your body and it’s all wrinkled now. Luffy smooths your hair, he pets you, now is when he just wants to stare at you and not say a word. But when he sees the blooming red and purple trailing from your ear to your collarbone he starts to shake a little bit.

“Aw, this ain’t hurtin’ right?” he murmurs, tracing the bruises and teeth marks with his fingers so softly, carefully. There’s no blood, it’s just glossy with layers of drool, he’s proud but he needs to check on you first.

“No, it’s not bad. Don’t worry, I like it.” You kiss him right next to his mouth but he turns, quickly, because he wants your lips. “Whole crew’s gonna know I’m yours, that’s all.”

This makes him smile. He sees no reason for embarrassment or shame, you’re his so he can bite you when he wants. You feel his muscles twitch against you again as he laughs. And he’s flushed all red, hibiscus on his warm honey skin. Those eyes, dark brown eyes melting with that lavender of the sunset which is almost gone now, fading silently. So orchid blue then, on loving, deep Bulgarian rose.

“Good! I want ‘em to.” he rubs his head against your cheek, still biting just a little. And now he’s moving like he wants to pick you up and carry you, even though you’re both tired. But it’s because he’s hungry, and in that throaty little voice he asks, “wanna go get snacks?”

[nomazee]

“This is unnecessary.”

At Blade’s snide comment, you pull sharply at the strands of his hair in your hands. He grunts in displeasure before obediently quieting down, only a little scared of you scalping him if he annoys you any further. 

Perched behind him on the couch while he sits on the floor, your hands find themselves coming through his hair (long, smooth, untangled despite the fact that you’ve never seen him take a brush to it). Your efforts to part his hair with just your fingers are fruitless. His hair is thick on the top, so much so that you’re surprised his neck doesn’t constantly ache with the weight of it. Your hands pause, resting on the top of his head while you try and figure out how you’ll style it. 

“Be nice,” you warn, two hands on the sides of his head tilting it from side to side, treating him as a foam mannequin on which you can project your very thorough cosmetology skills. “Your fate is quite literally in my hands. I could knock you out and shave you bald very easily.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says earnestly, and you can’t help the way your lips twinge into a smile. “This is clearly a hassle. My hair looks fine the way it is.”

“It does,” you admit, “but wouldn’t it be nice to try something new? And at no cost to you, aside from mild scalp pain. I’m good at hair. I did Kafka’s that one time.” You fail to mention that it was only one time for good reason. Kafka said that you handle hair the same way a lobster would handle a violin—that is, with clumsy hands and a clear lack of refinement. She had to hide every pair of scissors from you in fear that you'd give Silver Wolf microbangs.

As if on cue, your fingers get caught in an unexpected snag in Blade’s hair, and you pull and tug and yank as if expecting it to untangle on its own. Blade hisses and reaches a hand back to smack you on the wrist, turning around to glare at you. 

“Watch it,” he orders, gentle but firm. There’s not enough heat in his words to scare you, and his eyes are a particularly beautiful shade of copper in the dim, flickering light of this dingy lounge room. Whatever you say, beautiful, you think to yourself hysterically. 

After a few half-willed apologies from you and some nudges of encouragement, Blade finally relaxes enough to turn back around and tilt his head back in your lap, letting your fingers play with his hair nonsensically. A braid, you decide, would look quite nice on him. One long one down the back. If you had ribbon, you’d use some to tie his hair, but all you have is one of Kafka’s tragically thin hair ties. 

“It’s a nice color,” you comment absentmindedly, pretending that you can’t see the way Blade’s eyes have shut in contentment at your gentle prodding. “It changes in the light a little bit. It looks very blue now, but I’ve always thought it was black.” You section his hair off into three pieces, loosely laying one over the other over and over again. The aged gold ornament still hangs securely in his hair, and you don’t do anything to move it. It suits him. 

“It’s natural, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he tells you, the slightest twinge of a joke in his voice. It plays at your smile and at your heart, too. 

“You say that now, but you’ll be scrambling to come up with a lie when I find box dye in your bag.” 

He only hums in response, reluctantly enjoying the feeling of your hands on him—they’re gentle, and you can imagine he’s not quite used to this. It’s an addictive feeling, to have him at your mercy, even with just your hands in his hair. There’s trust, unspoken, lingering warmly in the air and settling like condensation on your skin. You could very easily do a number of things that would hurt Blade—kill him, almost. You’ve only ever thought of it a few times, and those were all a very long time ago. 

You don’t think of it that often anymore. All you’re paying attention to is Blade and the splitting ends of his hair and how nice he’d look with a red ribbon tied in. 

“We should go shopping,” you tell him, voice close to a whisper now. You’ve secured the end of his braid already, and your handiwork is admirable. The strands are neatly crossed over each other, uniform in size with each other as they taper down into the end. “Some clips for you would be nice.” Absentmindedly, you comb through the layers of hair near his face, digging your fingers gently into the sides of his face and scratching at his scalp. 

“And where exactly would we go shopping? We’re not exactly upstanding members of society in some people’s eyes.” 

“Then I’ll make clips for you,” you say, a naive kind of dedication in your tone. “I used to work with metal, a little bit. I could make jewelry. Ornaments for your hair. I’ll put a ribbon in next time.” 

“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” Blade asks doubtfully, in steep contrast with the way he lets your hands roam along his scalp, and the way his head leans back into you as if he’s comfortable. 

“You’re a loyal customer,” you quip, “you’d never let somebody else do your hair when you have me as a dedicated stylist.” 

“I’m your only customer.” 

“I know,” and in a moment of weakness—because at the end of the day that’s what you are, weak, malleable and moveable when you’re with Blade like this—you lean down just a little bit, pressing a stupid clumsy kiss on the crown of his head. Your fingers trail down to trace the bumps of the braid, the divots and grooves in it, made by your hands, and yours alone. “That just means I can put all my effort towards you alone.” 

“You shouldn’t.” And he means it when he says that, and it hurts you, puts a sickly pang in your chest that you want to reach for and tear out before it grows into something worse. 

“But I will,” you tell him. Blade is stubborn, but not stubborn enough to keep it up. Not now, not here, not when the overhead lights are flickering and making his hair look just a little bluer, illuminating the warmer ends of his hair, glinting off the metal ornament still clipped into it. He rests between your hands, still sitting on the cold floor, pretending that he isn’t falling asleep with you like the fool he secretly is.

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

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[sarawritestories]

I Died With Her

Eris Vanserra X Fem Reader

Summary: Beron discovers your mating bond...A cruel prophecy fulfilled.

Content Warning: Death of Main Character, Murder, Unnatural cruelty, Beron's demise.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: Its short and angsty...and I may be persuaded to make a part two. I also apologize if this one is not my best. I'm in a slump but this

Eris’s blood ran cold as he entered the throne room. His brothers grinning in cruel delight. His father standing in front of a throne that he did not deserve. Beron’s hand threaded through the now tangled mess of your hair. Forcing you to look your mate in the eye while your knees dug into the concrete. Tears streamed down your face as you met Eris’s russet eyes. Memorizing every sharp angle of his beautiful face, every freckle that kissed his pale skin, try to remember the feeling of his soft, thick locks through your fingertips. Memorizing the sweet scent of the fall breeze, embers with a hint of cinnamon that brought you so much comfort. Your beautiful mate, best friend, love of your life.

If only you had had more time.

Eris was staring at you as well, memorizing your sweet doe eyes, the plump curve of your lips, your smile, the warmth of your skin against his. The things he may never get a chance to encounter again, your laugh, your soft snores as you laid on his lap, the way you would scrunch your nose when reading your book, or how your body eased and relaxed simply being near him. How you were his equal in every way and how his body sang in harmony with yours. Clearing his throat he placed his cool mask on, “What is the meaning of this?”

Beron’s smirk was cruel as he yanked your hair back causing you to yelp. “I found something that belonged to you. I must say the bitch was hard to find.” Eris snarled as Beron released his grip and kicked your back, your hands and knees preventing your face from colliding with the ornate flooring. “She is yours isn’t she, Boy?”

“I would never sully myself with a common whore.” Lies, lies. The words felt like ash against his tongue. You lifted your head only slightly, and the solitary wobble of your lower lip broke his façade. Eris met his father’s gaze with fury in his russet eyes and fire roaring through his veins.

“There he is. Eris the lover.” Beron taunted pressing his foot against your back forcing you down on the cold marble and you cried out. “I didn’t raise you to be a romantic.” Beron snarled.

“You didn’t raise me at all.” Eris retorted his lip curling upward.

Beron quirked, “I should have known. Well, it’s a good thing I handled that problem already.” The High Lord of Autumn clapped his hands forcing his weight down on you causing you to whimper in pain. You reached out for Eris, only for one of the guards to intentionally step on your delicate fingers and you bit back your scream. As the guard approached with the head of Eris’ mother detached from her body.

Eris felt the bile rise from his throat at the sight and he clutched at his chest.

“Eris, I want you to listen to me.” The Lady of Autumn held her son close to her bosom. Eris, barely six, snuggled close to the warm scent of his mother. “One day, you are going to find your mate.” She smiled and tucked a loose strand of his copper red hair behind his ear and the young fae leaned into his mother’s touch. “When you do. You need to promise me to take care of them. Love them with all your heart.” She gripped his chin, “You keep them away from your father. Run far away from here.”

Eris scrunched his face, “I don’t want a mate. I want to be with you forever.” He smiled up at his mother, He tilted his head as he watched his mother’s eyes line with silver. “Mama, why are you crying?”

She pressed her soft lips against his forehead, “I just love you so much, My little flame.” Leaning her head against the top of his, “You can be with me for as long as you want.”

“Get off me!” You shrieked bring Eris to the presence, flames licking his skins as two of his brothers grabbed a hold of you to keep you in place as Beron fetched for a blade and Eris’ flames banked out. Your eyes found his once more and she mouthed “I love you.”

He mouthed those three letters back and then bolted toward his father, but not before two of his younger brothers grabbed him and forced him on his knees. Tears began to form, blurring his vision, he desperately tried to blink away to memorize every crevice of your face. “Eris,” Your voice cracked, and Eris could feel your fear and love shot down the bond to him and he felt his heart breaking. “I will see you in the next life. Being your mate has been the greatest gift the cauldron could ever have granted me.” Eris let loose a broken sob. “Promise me. You will move on. You will find reasons to smile. Love freely. Remember that I loved you.”

Eris could barely see, his breathing shallowed as the pain flooded his entire body. “I love you, Little Flame. I’m so sorry.”

You smiled, “I’m not. Being loved by you was the closest thing I would get to The Mother. If I could do it over and never change a thing.” Tears streaked your perfect face and yet being the brave female, he knew you where you straightened your posture. And the last words Eris heard, your sweet voice echoing through the throne room. “Long Live the High Lord of The Autumn Court.” Her eyes drifted to Eris as the eldest Vanserra son watched his father approach. “Eris Vanserra.”

The sword sliced through the air and Eris’s scream thundered through the entire continent. Eris’s body moved on its own, consumed by rage and grief and the numbness that came with the bond deteriorating. In the manner of thirty seconds, Eris Vanserra had lost everything…

And then he saw red.

Refusing to look at the floor, not wanting to see your head detached from your body. He refused to think about the plans he had made with you, a wedding, a family, a life of freedom, a chance to run away. Gone. At the hands of the man who was laughing with his brothers about your demise.

No one disrespects his mate.

Eris had no memory of the events that occurred when he rose to his feet, but when he was done, the entire throne room was in flames, the screams of his brothers and his father drowned by the familiar crackling sound of his flames. Letting the throne room burn, he exited out into the forest, your headless body in his arms. Eris felt nothing, the gold thread that once shined bright, fell limp and became ash. As Eris buried your body in your favorite clearing, he knew one thing was certain.

Any kindness he held in his heart died with you.

Story Taglist:

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[itsphoenix0724]

All Things Vile (Eris x Reader)

Summary: A recon mission to the Autumn Court gets more heated than you intended. They say Autumn males fuck like they have fire in their veins-you guess you're about to find out.

Warnings: ROUGH SMUT (this is pure filth and I'm not sorry), kind of dark, oral (m!receiving) choking, bondage

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote for him, been a while since I wrote in general since I'm adjusting back into my school life. Chapter 3 of MMOTI is drafted and will hopefully be released soon! But anyway here's a smutty Eris fic for all of you <3

The Autumn Court was ablaze in moonlit revelry. The scent of spiced cider and ale consumed the grove along with the smell of the blazing campfire. Fog weaved in and out of the shadow-drenched woods, urging the partygoers to follow its trail into the darkness. You could make out bodies against trees, males and females losing themselves in one another, as you jumped silently along the oak’s branches. It was a simple mission; Get in and get out, that’s what Rhys had said, and that’s what you fully intended on doing. Cloaked in darkness, mask pulled up to hide everything but your eyes, you found your target. 

A drunken blush stained his pale cheeks, and the blood-red silk shirt he wore was unbuttoned so obscenely low you could see the dappling of freckles along his chest in the firelight. His auburn hair was unruly; the waves held down only by the circlet of gold leaves that marked him as the firstborn son of Autumn. His lips were stained from the wine he was sipping and his eyes had taken on a seductive half-lid as he somehow fixed his burning gaze straight onto you. 

Fuck, Rhys was going to kill you. 

Eris stood from his chair in one smooth motion, prowling towards your spot hidden in the woods like a mountain cat, amber eyes burning. You jump down from your tree, weaving through the branches like smoke to try to lose the lordling who’s hot on your tail. Nothing but the sound of your labored breathing and the sounds of footfalls echo through the dark wood. You just need to get to the border, Eris won’t have the gall to cross after you. You can see the green grass of Spring, the pastel pink of the cherry blossoms grotesquely clashing with the russet hues of the forest that currently surrounds you.

You can almost smell the sickly sweet air when a hand encircles your wrist like a hot brand.

The world tips and falls, the grass slipping out from under your feet as you’re dropped into a room, landing on all fours against a hardwood floor. Bands of fire wrap around your wrists and ankles, pinning you to the ground, not burning but holding you there. The tell-tale wave of nausea that means you’ve been winnowed somewhere quickly overwhelms you as you try not to heave onto the plush burgundy rug infront of you.

Eris has taken you to his room at Fir Hall, his private estate away from his life wrapped in court politics, you’re familiar with the home after many spy missions here. Your eyes fix on the Autumn Prince with a burning ferocity, and he does nothing but glare back down at you from where he looms above you.

“Well, well what has fallen into my trap,” He fixes you with a wolfish smile as he pulls down your mask, and your lips peel back into a snarl. “Hello Sweetheart,” he purrs as he tucks a loose hair behind your ears. “I’ve missed you, it’s very nice to see you again.” He tries to run a thumb over your bottom lip, but you snap your teeth in his direction like a feral animal and he wisely pulls his hand away. 

“Bite me,” you growl out as Eris crouches down until he’s at eye level with you. A hound cornering a wild fox, it seemed the hunter had won tonight as he lets out a laugh that leaves a burning caress down your spine. 

“Oh, I intend to.” He promises, stroking his hand along the back of your hair, pulling out the hair tie, and letting it fall around your face. “Now will you mind your manners?” He raises a copper brow, eyes dancing with amusement. The bond buried deep in your chest tries to wiggle free of its restraints, begging you to let it play with the other half of your soul. 

“Never,” you vow to him even as the mischief in his eyes turns to longing. This is torture denying yourself of him. 

But how could you not? 

Beron is still High Lord, if you were to tie yourself to him you would have to abide by his rules. You would rather claw your own eyes out. And if your family ever found out, if Mor ever found out, the shame and guilt would burn more than the roaring fire in the hearth. 

So you have this, you take every mission you can to Autumn and collect all the broken pieces and scraps that you can get. This is what you will allow yourself.

“I thought that would be the case,” Eris gets up and languidly strolls away from you, plucking the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and pouring himself a drink. You watch with adept interest as his ring-clad fingers tighten around the crystalline glass, he strolls over to his bookshelf and plucks a well-loved novel off the dark shelf. 

Then the bastard settles himself into one of the plush armchairs and starts to fucking read. He ignores you as though you’re nothing more than a potted plant in the corner, he doesn’t even so much as glance at you, fully enraptured in his novel. A few minutes pass when you clear your throat. Eris deigns to look bored as he lazily turns his head toward you. 

“Yes?” He asks, propping the book against one knee and taking another sip of his whiskey. Your eyes track the movement of his throat involuntarily. 

“Aren’t you going to do something?” You push, urging him with your eyes as you lift your head through the curtain of your hair. You hope your gaze communicates everything you cannot bring yourself to voice, fearing your body will refuse to allow you air if you try. 

I love you, please don’t ignore me, I need you, play with me

He chuckles a dark sound and picks up his book again, pointedly flicking a page as the rubies on his hands glint in the firelight. 

“I’m not in the business of playing with unwilling toys,” Eris supplies, purposely staring at the fire instead of you. “Perhaps I should call Rhysand to collect you and tell him I don’t appreciate being spied on. Perhaps, he will never send you back here.” His brows scrunch in frustration but you both know that the threat is empty. It seems he is tired of your games. 

“What do you want?” You barely grind out, still refusing to relent to the signing inside your soul. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Princely bastard.” You practically spit, and faster than the blink of an eye Eris is in front of you, fisting your hair in one hand and tilting your chin to meet his smoldering gaze. 

“Are you ashamed of me?” He questions, and you can see the vulnerability dancing in his eyes. You shake your head as the fire binding your wrists recedes and you move into a more comfortable kneeling position, hands now bound in front of you. He soothes his hand along your cheek again as your brows knit together. You thought that the two of you had a kind of understanding. You had no idea where this was coming from. “I tire of this ruse, my love.” If Eris notices the mournful look in your eyes he says nothing. He strokes a warm hand through your hair, admiring your eyes in the firelight. “Why don’t you show me how much you missed me huh?” The wolfish grin is back and you hum your agreement as he runs his thumb along your bottom lip again, pleased at your cooperation as he slides his finger into your mouth. He thrusts it into your mouth and as you teasingly run your tongue over the pad he lets out a moan that shoots straight to your core. 

He undoes the belt at his waist, pulling his cock out with his hand, and your mouth waters at the sheer size of him. 

“I’m going to fuck your mouth now,” he rumbles, pure authority and power radiating off of him. A glimpse at the future ruler he will become one day. You nod your enthusiastic consent as he grips the back of your head and thrusts into your mouth at a merciless pace. Your head empties as he hits the back of your throat, the hand cupping the back of your hair surprisingly gentle compared to the way he was brutalizing your mouth. “That’s a good girl, take me down your throat.” It spills out of his mouth like he can’t even control it as your eyes roll back in your head at his praise. Eris pushes your mouth all the way down to the base of his dick and holds you there for a few seconds as your nose connects with his pelvic bone. He’s relentless as he uses you for his pleasure and you think that he might bruise your vocal cords. 

He spills down your throat as your binds dissolve into nothing, leaving behind a warm tingling sensation where the fire licked at your limbs. 

You swallow what he gave you, opening your mouth in emphasis as whiskey eyes blow wide with lust. You’re drenched at the sight of his cock already stiffening again. He walks to the mountainous bed in front of you, making himself comfortable against the pillows. 

“Come here pet.” He growls fisting his cock in his hand and crooking his fingers with the other. You start to rise to your legs on sore knees, but you freeze when Eris tuts–holding his hand out to stop you. “No. I want you to crawl to me.” The order wraps around you like warm silk, voice sliding against your bones. You lower yourself back down to the floor, humiliation burning hot on your cheeks as you sway your hips in what you hope to be enticing. He stops you quickly and you look up at him from under fluttering lashes. “Strip. Slowly.” Your face burns even hotter and Eris can’t take his eyes off you as you rise, slowly undoing every single buckle on your leathers and letting them fall to the floor, leaving you entirely exposed to him before climbing onto the bed. His body is so warm against your skin as he draws your mouth to his, the burning taste of cinnamon whiskey floods your mouth. He dominates you even here, claiming you as his tongue wrestles with yours. The moan that slips out of you comes out scratchy from the abuse of your throat, and in a flash, you’re below him as he grinds his hips into yours. 

“Eris,” you whimper as his cock brushes against your folds. You need him to fill you to the brim, wanting him as close as possible. He shushes you gently as he bites at your pulse point, the only goal in his mind is to claim as he sucks dark marks into your neck. 

You’ll surely be wearing only turtle necks for a few weeks after this. 

His warm hands skate down your body, pulling and prodding at your sensitive nipples, letting out a dark chuckle as you whine at his ministrations. Eris mocks your moans as he rubs a finger at your center, rolling the sensitive bundle of nerves between his fingers. Finally, he slips a finger inside of you rubbing at the spot that makes you see stars. He knows exactly where to touch to get you to dissolve, his beautiful mate bending to him like water running through his fingertips. That ring-clad hand curls around your throat, cold metal contrasting with his warm hands, and you keen as the pleasant dizzy feeling takes over your whole body. 

That feeling combined with the addition of another finger in your core sends you hurtling through gold-flecked oblivion.

He pulls his fingers out of you, sucking them into his mouth and moaning as he relishes the taste of you on his tongue. Staring down at your shaking form with smugness in his eyes as he circles the skin of your inner thigh, enjoying the way the muscles quiver under his touch. Eris sinks himself into you, inch by tortuous inch until you can’t tell where your body ends and he begins. He strokes slowly and deliberately, bruising you with his intensity as your vision goes white with searing pleasure every time he moves his hips.

You want him to leave his imprint everywhere on your body, that unanswered bond begging you to never leave this bed again. Eris must feel it too, that golden thread wrapping around his heart begging him to keep you, to never let another male so much as look at you. That makes something ugly twist in his chest and he almost snarls at even the thought of another male near you as his instincts take over and he draws your legs over his shoulders to hit an even deeper part inside of you. Your walls are clenching and fluttering around him as his pace turns ravenous, all you can do is try to hold on as your nails scrape jagged lines down his back. Eris scrapes his teeth over your neck, then he moves down to your nipple biting down as you scream his name before giving the other one equal attention. 

“Who do you belong to pet?” He murmurs in your ear in time with a thrust that's so deep your eyes roll back in your head. “Who’s the only one that can make you feel like this?” You can barely give him anything but a whimper as he devastates your body, pinching your clit in a way that elicits a pleasure-soaked sob. “Scream it for me,” he punctuates it with a slap against the apex of your thighs. 

“Yours Eris, I’m all yours!” You scream as you orgasm, tears running down your flushed cheeks, Eris follows soon after you spilling himself deep inside of you.

He pulls out, disappears into the bathroom, and returns with a clean rag to wipe up the mess he made between your thighs. He collapses onto the mattress next to you and pulls you to his chest, warming his hands with his power as he rubs slow circles into the small of your back. You look up at him and he’s taken aback at the vulnerability in your eyes. “Eris I-” you choke, unable to force the words you so desperately want to say past your lips. He shushes you with a kiss against your forehead. 

“I know,” he mutters into your hairline “I know.” You hold him tighter, blinking back tears as you lock the bond back down in its obsidian shackles,“I’ll wait an eternity for you.” It’s the last thing you hear before closing your eyes as you let him soothe you to sleep.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I trust everything went well?” Rhys asks, raising a dark brow at your form where you stand across from his desk. You subconsciously pull the dark turtleneck further up, the deep purple marks burning like a brand. You scrubbed yourself raw as soon as you winnowed yourself to your apartment, and you’re praying to the Mother that Rhys doesn’t even catch a whiff of Eris or the frankly copious amounts of sex. The thought of Eris enjoying it this morning, pressing his nose against the crook of your neck to make sure it really stuck, before crawling his way down your body to settle in between your thighs makes you triple-check that the steel of your mental shields was still in place.

“Nothing to report,” You rasp, voice destroyed after last night's events. The attempts to clear your throat are doing nothing to help you

“Are you alright?” Rhys questions, wringing his hands together on his desk as he shoots a concerned look. 

“Must just be a chill I caught in Autumn, those woods get cold at night.” You supply and he hums his agreement. 

“Well go rest, you’ve earned it. Perhaps you should see Madja for something to soothe your throat.” Rhys says and you nod your agreement, taking the cue for your dismissal. You wait until his office door clicks shut behind you to let out your sigh of relief, thinking of nothing but soft sheets and warm hands. 

You can only hope you get another mission there soon.

[calmcoldevening]

Slashers and their babies (including partner's pregnancy)

TW: no?

Characters: Jedidiah Sawyer, Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt

Ps: English is not my native language, so sorry for misspels ♡

Jedidiah Sawyer

• Jed spent all his free time with you; he always felt very comfortable in your company. Therefore, when your condition deteriorated sharply, he became worried. Frequent migraines; morning vomiting; refusal of some food that you, as a guy knew, loved very much; swelling and bad mood. Sawyer was seriously scared and immediately let his mother know about it; Verna always understood her son without words.

• When the woman talked to you, she mentally made some conclusions, but she didn't say anything to you, much less to Jed. The only thing she gave you some instructions to ease your condition: less housework, loose clothes, rest and the absence of human meat in the diet.

• After a while, when your belly became a little more noticeable, Verna talked to you about this topic, but asked not to bring Jedidiah up to date; Sawyer mom didn't know how the boy would react to this news.

• When the deadline was slowly approaching, she personally sent you to the hospital. Thanks to the connections of her new man, she was able to provide you with a place in good conditions.

• Jed was very restless. Why did you leave? Are you tired of him? Was he rude or did he hurt you? Please come back, he will definitely try harder, he will be a good boy!

• After a relatively easy delivery, you were in the hospital for a week. Back at the Sawyer house, you were greeted by a terrified Jed. He came out of the basement, painfully looking at you with his eyes-coals and twisting his fingers. His whole body showed uncertainty and fear, he was afraid to let you down, that you would leave again. But inwardly, Jed was so glad you were back. You're not leaving him anymore, are you?

• "Jed. This is our baby," you babble, gently looking at the child.

• Only now does the guy notice the bundle in your hands. Baby? Your baby? Your common child. . ?

• You hold out the baby to Jed, and Verna helps gently lay the baby in his arms. Jed can't believe his eyes. In his arms now lies a little snuffling miracle, his child, no, your child, the fruit of your and Jed's love. And is it really true? Jedidiah begins to gently sway from side to side, as his mother once soothed him during nightmares. He looks at the wrinkled little man with eyes full of love and all kinds of tenderness.

• "You're gonna be a great dad, Jed," you say, kissing the guy on the cheek.

• Only now does he understand your past state. You didn't leave him, you just went to the hospital! All the time he couldn't do anything, you were carrying your child, fighting for his life.

• Jed looks up at you and you see his copper eyes filled with confidence and readiness for this responsibility. He won't let you down. You will be wonderful parents. Together.

Bo Sinclair

• Bo notices that you've been getting more and more nervous and short-tempered lately. Usually after dinner you sit on the sofa with him and coo softly, laying your head on his chest; now you immediately go to your shared bedroom and fall asleep or spend the rest of the evening there, at least when Bo comes into the room, you will already be asleep, curled up in a duvet.

• Usually Bo does not take into account someone else's mood and puts himself first; because of this, you have frequent conflicts, which, in most cases, end with your hysteria. With this outcome, the man hugs you and presses you to his body, stroking your back and apologizing countless times. Still, it's hard for him to get used to the fact that someone else in this house has a fickle character.

• After a couple of weeks, he begins to notice the plumpness of your lower abdomen. He thinks it's cute. Therefore, with your subsequent proximity, he certainly bites your soft flesh.

• In the third month, he already begins to think about your condition. You spend most of the day in your room and only occasionally go out to your brothers, usually to cook a meal and also quickly go upstairs with a full plate. It's not like you! Without your presence, the Sinclair meal turned into a simple quick swallowing of food; no one else enjoyed the meal; there were no jokes, stories, advice and other nonsense that had annoyed Bo up to that point. Now he just wanted everything to go back to the way it was before.

• You ask Bo to go to the city with you, to which he actively agrees, and you buy a pregnancy test at the pharmacy. Even though you already knew the answer, you wanted to show it to Sinclair. Two stripes. "That's what it turns out. . . Am I going to be a father?"

• The man is proud, very proud and incredibly happy! With the available money, Bo starts buying neutral furniture for the child and various things for you (up to some snotty magazines with cute actors' faces).

• Bo gave you full access to his closet: after all, you've always loved his clothes, especially big T-shirts, which can now make it easier for you to dress with a slowly growing stomach.

• Bo fulfills your every whim. No matter how stupid he is, a man understands that carrying a child is a huge job that requires a lot of effort, so now you are deprived of almost all the responsibilities (he threw off cooking to Lester, and Vincent considered a man who, with his love for beauty, will be able to clean this house wonderfully).

• He doesn't stop teasing Vincent: "Ha, freak! Have you seen that? Have you seen that?! I'm going to be a father, damn it! And you continue to sit and rot among your empty paintings!". After that, you scold Bo and calm Vincent down. "Vinny, this will be your nephew. I'm sure you'll make a good uncle." This significantly affects Bo's self-esteem.

• When Bo finally picks you and the baby up from the hospital, he doesn't let the baby out of his arms for a good five hours. He gives up immediately after he hears the shrill howl of the baby.

• With all his dislike of strong noise, he becomes a good father. At least he knows how to feed a baby, although otherwise he should learn.

• As soon as the child takes the first steps, Bo begins to tell him about the city, in particular about the museum. The kid just looks at his father as if he's crazy.

Thomas Hewitt

• During your pregnancy, Tommy's favorite way to show his support: he picks up your body and puts it on his lap, pressing his back to his chest; his head is buried in the curve of your shoulder and neck; his hands cover your palms on your voluminous stomach.

• Both before and after pregnancy and childbirth, Tommy carries you in his arms. He tries not to leave you alone for more than half an hour.

• You have to give birth right in this house, the nearest city is very far away, and the old man Hoyt does not want to shine. Fortunately, it all ends well.

• Thomas looks at the little man in your arms for a couple of minutes. Flushed, wrinkled skin; clenched fists; kicking feet; squeezed eyes and a piercing scream. This child is literally from one and a half of his palm!

• Hewitt quickly gets used to the smallness of this creature and cradles the child in his arms with uncharacteristic tenderness and caution — Tommy treats the baby like a crystal vase, which, with a little pressure, will burst, crumbling into thousands of small fragments. Although with his superhuman strength, it probably would have been.

• Tommy watches you breastfeed with fascination; it makes you blush a little. A man with unprecedented zeal and interest looks after all your manipulations in relation to the baby. In the end, after a while, he also begins to perform these actions well.

• "Tommy, I need to go out for a while. Luda-May needs help. Can you babysit with [baby's name]?". He nods. When you come back, you see Thomas snuffling on the bed. He put one hand under his head, the other covered your child, who, apparently, followed the example of his daddy and now also drooled on the pillow. Such a cute scene.

• Who would have thought that a Texas maniac with a chainsaw is capable of such tenderness?

• When a child turns two, you stop putting him in the crib at night, and put him between you and Tommy. Hewitt clasps your hands together and covers the baby with them, creating an improvised barrier.

• Thomas turns out to be a very attentive and caring father. He treats the baby carefully and tries in every way to please him/her. Besides, when the three of you are alone in the room, he takes off his mask! The kid feels his father's face curiously.

• The man is still worried that his illness may manifest itself in the child.

• Unexpectedly, but your child and Thomas' favorite game is hide—and-seek. It looks especially strange when a man two meters tall and wide enough in girth is trying to hide.

• Yes, when your baby turned four, Thomas taught him to human flesh.

• The best toy? Daddy's chainsaw!

Okay, it was something a little strange, but I hope you enjoyed it <3

[mintea-in-space]

Thinking about long hair Copia

Teenage Copia growing it out, long enough to reach past his shoulders. Sister teaching him how to braid his own hair so it stays out of his face.

Young adult Copia cutting it to shoulder length, too busy to deal with the maintenance. He always has it pulled back in a low, short ponytail. It has such pretty waves when he does let it down. Him growing out his sideburns to match.

Cardinal Copia, cutting it short because keeping it tied back was giving him headaches, and occasionally migraines. He misses it though, eventually growing it out just a little when he becomes Papa. Still short enough to slick it back for rituals, but just a little longer.

Cirrus opening his eyes up to clips. Big chunky ones that holds her hair back without pulling at her scalp. Dewdrop and Phantom showing him different hair ties that won’t damage his hair when he does pull it back. He becomes overly fond of scrunchies.

Copia growing it long again, to just barely past his shoulders. Copia wearing it half up half down, the top tied back in a little ponytail he can hide under his mitre. Copia with little French braids that start at his temple and connect in the back. Copia with bed head so outrageous you wouldn’t believe it was real. (The ghouls all have a contest going on to see who can get the best picture of it.) Copia enjoying having his hair played with, by anyone. He’ll let Aurora just try new hairstyles on him all the time, just for the fun of it. Cirrus teaching him different kinds of braids and hairstyles until he finds his favorites.

Copia hunched over his desk, hair pulled back in a clip, strands falling out at his temples where his fingers had run through it, reading glasses still perched on his nose as he works.

Copia and the girls going out shopping for hair stuff, Dew tags along just because. Copia coming back with all kinds of bits and bobs.

Copia having all kinds of scrunchies with all kinds of patterns and colors, he loves matching them to his outfit for the day, loves adding a little personal touch.

Copia getting a rat shaped claw clip for his birthday, and he wears it everyday for like a month. It’s silly looking, googly looking eyes and cartoonish shapes, but he absolutely adores it. It’s his favorite clip.

Copia getting dressed up for one thing or another, doing his hair for it. He is partial to French braids, and he adds little hair pins that sparkle in the light, little crystals and gems inlaid in gold that pop against the color of his hair. His ghouls love helping him take it down at the end of the night, like a little scavenger hunt for sparkly things. He hems and haws but he adores it, loves that he doesn’t have to do it himself, and they always get everything too, never missing a single pin.

Nsfw Thoughts Below

Copia’s hair pulling kink coming up with a vengeance. Dew and Swiss absolutely love taking advantage of it, tugging out whatever it is holding it back and tangling their hands in it. Dew will gather it back in his fist and use it for leverage as he fucks him from behind. Swiss just tangling his fingers in it right at the base of Copia’s neck, tugging to make his head tip back and expose his throat so he can nip at it. Copia lets loose the prettiest sounds every single time.

Rain likes leaving it tied back, likes watching as copper strands fall out, as pieces stick to his temples and forehead. He likes seeing how messy he can get it, making Copia ride him until he falls apart. Mountain just loves seeing it fanned out on the pillow, strands of grey sparkling in low light. He’ll just run his hands through it, murmuring in Copia’s ear how pretty he is, such a pretty Papa, all soft words and gentle touches.

Cirrus getting him all dolled up, curling his hair, pinning it back, shiny little hair clips littered all over his head. Sometimes she does his face too, mascara darkening his lashes and rosy blush on his cheeks. She calls him her good girl and he melts, all wound up even though she technically hasn’t even done a thing yet.

Aether gently running a hand through it to hold it out of Copia’s face, his nose pressed to the curls at the base of Aether’s cock. Copia leaning into the touch, eyes fluttering shut as Aether holds him there. Him losing track of time, until at long last Aether pulls him off, pausing for a moment before pulling him back down. Copia letting him use him, those big hands tangled in his hair making his mind melt.

Aurora grabbing it in both hands as she rides his face, every little tug making Copia’s hips jerk. He loves when she gets rough with him, loves when she just yanks him where she wants him. His eyes roll back as she grinds against his mouth, barely able to breathe but neither of them caring. He nearly cums untouched just from that, and when he says so she gets this little glint in her eye. A shiver runs down his spine when she tugs his hair again, and he knows it’s going to be a long night.

Copia all alone in his room, hair pulled back in a normal braid. Copia sliding a hand into his sweatpants and stroking himself to hardness. Copia brushing the loose bits at his hairline out of his face, lower lip caught between his teeth as his pulse jumps. Copia wrapping a hand around the braid and tugging, letting out a squeak as his hips jerk, the spark of pain melting into pleasure. Copia panting as he loses himself in his own touch, chest heaving and back arching as he tugs over and over and over until his head tips back and he spills into his hand with a cry.

Just. Copia with long hair.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

I’m back with the dear Mr Stabby to request the lesser seen Skeleton’s reactions to the beloved Roomba!

(Ie, The mafias, Horrorswap, HorrorFell, ink, error, the Dances, Farmtale, ECT! Whoever you want, I’m just begging for more Mr Stabby ^^!!!!)

Your work is lovely still! 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

The first part of this ask is right here!

Horrorswap Sans - He watches the robot pass by, completely confused. Then just shrugs and goes on with his day. That's probably another human cultural thing he can't understand.

Horrorswap Papyrus - He's stuck in a corner, and that horrible thing is slowly coming for him. Pumpkin is more and more nervous, trying to push it back with his foot to make it go away. He doesn't like it, and he swears it's following him around. Get rid of it, he's scared.

Horrorfell Sans - He stares in silence as the robot keeps bonking his leg. Uh. Is that the best you can do to attack him? Well, that's pitiful. He kicks it, turning it on it's back like a turtle. Now that it's buzzing pitifully, Copper is laughing at it. He's clearly stronger!

Horrorfell Papyrus - He was sitting on the couch, watching TV, when suddenly he noticed his wheelchair was nowhere to be found. The Roomba kinda pushed it to the other side of the room. Chief gasps, angry. How dare this thing attack him? He doesn't care if he has to crawl on the floor, he's going to get his revenge. He's not scared of that knife!

Outertale Sans - You call that a menace? He gives the ability to fly to Mr Stabby. Now that's actually a menace as the Roomba flies back to you, his knife pointing at your face.

Outertale Papyrus - You hear a loud "WHO PUT A FREAKING KNIFE ON THE FREAKING ROBOT?! THERE ARE CHILDREN HERE YOU IRRESPONSIBLE FREAKS!" Uh oh. It seems Sun is not too happy with Mr Stabby.

Dancetale Sans - He tries to keep his serious as Mr. Stabby is cleaning the dance room in front of all of his students, who are clearly trying not to laugh. He swears he's on the verge of laughing too, but he's working and it's already hard enough for him to have authority, it's definitely not helping.

Dancetale Papyrus - Oh come on! Not in the middle of his grand finale! He was about to show his special moves when that stupid robot casually passed by on the stage, making the crowd laugh. You ruined his grand finale. He's so mad! Why does it always happen to him? First that annoying dog! Now the Roomba! Is he a joke for the universe?!

Dancefell Sans - He trips on it, stabbing himself. The knife is stuck between two of his ribs and he can't take it out. So he gave up. When you come home, poor Rumba is dragged by the Roomba around the house, looking depressed. He's not amused.

Dancefell Papyrus - Well, it's obviously free Tik Tok content and he immediately grabs his phone to film an epic chase in the house against the evil Roomba. Mr Stabby is now famous worldwide and everyone wants one.

Farmtale Sans - Why would you clean the house if it's already clean? Sam picks up the Roomba and sets it loose inside the farm to clean the dirt on the floor. Not only he didn't notice the knife, but now Mr Stabby is dead after trying to clean the dirt outside, which killed its engine. Sam is no fun.

Farmtale Papyrus - He uses it to scare the chicken so they enter their henhouse faster. It's like his new border collie, except it's a Roomba. Ben is very proud of his idea though. Maybe he got a new concept for a robot actually.

Mafiatale Sans - He takes Mr Stabby on a mission and uses it as a diversion to confuse the rival mafia members, before attacking them in the back. Mr. Stabby is a lifesaver, you're never seeing it again as Asgore decides he's an official member of the mafia now.

Mafiatale Papyrus - Oh thanks, he needed a knife. He grabs Mr Stabby's knife and stabs his opponent several times with it. He pats the Roomba on the way out to thank it for his services. He's keeping the knife though.

Mafiafell Sans - You're living in a concerto of constant barks. Fang's dogs really like Mr Stabby. To the point they're all chasing it around the house, barking like crazy and trying to catch him. Fang thinks it's cute, but you regret the time when you could do anything in silence honestly.

Mafiafell Papyrus - He watches in disbelief as Mr Stabby ruins his very important meeting by casually passing by in the background, knocking several times against Asgore's legs who seems less and less happy every passing second. He ends up discreetly stabbing Mr Stabby so it stops moving for good and so he can continue the meeting in silence.

Ink - He wanted to see if Mr Stabby could visit other universes, so he opened a portal under it. Let's just say a random Sans will have the scare of his life when he receives Mr Stabby on the head out of nowhere.

Error - He tries to keep his cool, but he's getting madder by the second. That stupid robot is cleaning the antivoid, with its stupid knife taped above it. There's nothing to clean in the antivoid. There's literally nothing in the antivoid. Why did you put that horrible thing in his perfect antivoid? Fortunately, after an hour or so, Mr Stabby gets lost somewhere in that huge blank space. The legend says he's still vacuuming the place to that day.

Disbelief Papyrus - Mr Stabby vacuumed his long scarf and now Delta is on the floor, trying to get it back while avoiding the sharp knife that threatens to stab one of his eye sockets. Once the scarf is saved, he picks it up and sends it back to you. He blocks his door so Mr Stabby doesn't come back :(

Killer Sans - That's his new pet, they're matching! Killer tapes several other stabbies on Mr Stabby so he can stab from every angle he's turning into. The only victim of Mr Stabby stabby stabs is the wall, as the knives are actually very sharp and make huge holes in the wallpaper.

Dustale Sans - You told him Killer transformed into Mr Stabby and now Dune is devastated, desperately shaking the Roomba to ask Killer to come back and to not give up on him too. Killer enters the room half an hour later and is just very confused when he sees Dune cry, screaming his name, hugging Mr Stabby against him lol.

[mintmatcha]

cw: fem reader with she/her pronouns, zbaby and child talk.

"What if they don't like me?"

Osamu turns so suddenly that you're afraid he's going to swerve the car, humor drained from his face.

"They like 'tsumu." He stares at you a bit too long before looking back at the road. Luckily, out here in farm land, in between acres of crops, there's no one else driving.

You glance over your shoulder, expecting his twin to defend himself, but the instead the blonde is slumped in his chair, neck cocked oddly to the side. Despite your attempt to fight it, a smile creeps up on the corners of your lips. Even with drool on his cheek and a bit of a snore, he's beautiful.

"If our friends like him, they'll like anyone," Osamu clarifies.

Osamu is beautiful too, of course. They are twins; it would be strange for you not to find them both attractive, but Osamu doesn't glow like Atsumu does. Not to you, anyway.

You've spent a lot of time looking at their faces. Both men have round cheek bones and low nose bridges, with the same copper skin all year round, but Osamu's nose doesn't crinkle when he laughs, Osamu doesnt hum when he's thinking, and Osamu certainly doesn't look at you with a smile so bright it's as if he's staring into the sun.

You turn back around and stare at the road, flustered by your own romantic waxing.

"Can I talk to you about something?"

Osamu's hands squeak against the pleather steering wheel. "Sure. Why not?"

"I like your brother a lot, but-"

"Oh, fucking shit, fuck," Osamu's eyes are wide, cursing low as to not waking up the man in question, "You're breaking up with him?"

"No! No, I'm so in lo-" you stop yourself for admitting to that, "Things are good. We are good."

"Thank fucking god," Osamu sighs. "He's having a lot of fun with you."

That sentence does nothing to calm the sick feeling in your stomach. You pick at the edge of your dress, pulling away loose strings and nonexistent pieces of lint.

"That's my worry." The road continues straight, almost disappearing into the distance, but a house ha come into view, perched upon all this land, "Osamu, I'm really serious about your brother. I think I wanna marry him one day."

Osamu was your friend before you even knew his brother. At first, he seemed to dislike your relationship, but lately, he's warmed up to it. His hand pats your knee with the platonic warmth, "And that's bad because...?"

"I'm worried he's just having fun with me," you admit, "I don't know if he ever wants to settle down and get married or have kids or-"

Osamu cuts you off with a thunderous, booming bark of a laugh.

"'samu!" Atsumu pokes his head between the front seats with a whine. "You scared me."

"Oh, cram it." Osamu's wiping a tear from his cheek, "Blame your girlfriend for being so funny."

Atsumu squeezes your shoulder with a hum, still drowsy. "She's fucking hilarious."

You watch Osamu, hoping for an explanation, but he just raises his eyebrows and bites his lip, shoulders bouncing with silent laughter. Is he laughing at you? Is this why he didn't want you dating his brother?

The two of them talk a little as the house gets closer and closer, but you can't bring yourself to say anything until the tires start to crunch on the pebbled driveway.

"It's Kiba, right?"

"Kita," Atsumu corrects, "And Aran and his wife and Suna and his Komori are coming too,"

"Can't believe I'm the last single one," Osamu laments.

"You're practically fucking your restaurant,"

"You're married to the store."

You and Atsumu quip at the same time. He laughs, reaching to grab your hand, but you don't connect with him. Osamu's laughter is still ringing in your ears.

Is it that stupid to want to be with Atsumu? Maybe you do need to break up.

When Osamu parks the car, a man is already waiting on the porch. His hair is a salt and pepper splattering, stark against his deeply tanned skin. He has the calm presence that you were told about; you can feel it the second you step out of the car.

"Kita!" Osamu greets.

"Welcome. It's so nice to-"

The slam of the bar door and Atsumu's voice cuts him off. "Where's my girl?"

A puff of curly grey hair streaks from the front door and barrels its way down the dirt driveway, barefoot and dress akimbo. You barely have time to realize it's a child before she's launched herself into Atsumu's awaiting arms. He catches her with ease, twirling her around in a circle as they both dissolve into laughter.

"Stormy girl!"

"Uncle Atsumu!" she giggles,"Throw me! Throw me!"

He squats down a bit and then launches up, tossing the little girl into the air and immediately catching her again. He does that a couple times, laughing all the way.

"Again! Again!"

"Later," he nestles her into his side easily, despite her much too be to be carried, "Me and your aunt over there will play with you all you want, okay?"

You melt a bit. Aunt- as if you're already family.

Kita, who's clearly her father the more you look at the both of them, just sighs, amused. "Please remember that you cannot throw the baby like that."

"Kita-san! I'm not gonna throw the baby!" Atsumu says with mock offense, "I'm just gonna sniff her little head."

"What?' Osamu gawks, turning ro you in horror.

"Don'tcha know babies smell good?" Atsumu turns to you too, "He's hopeless, huh?"

The glimmer in his eye makes your stomach flip flop. He looks so good like this, hair tussled and a baby on his hip.

"Hopeless," you agree.

The other other men start chatting, heading in towards the house, but Atsumu heads to you.

"Baby, this one right here is my favorite girl in the world," he gestures to Kita's daughter, "Stormy girl, this is my girlfriend. Say hi."

"Hi, Miss Girlfriend," she says, "Nice to meet you."

"Aww, you have such nice manners," you say, "It's nice to meet you too, Stormy."

"That's not really my name. Uncle Atsumu is just silly." She wriggles until he lets her down, "Wanna see my baby sister? She's too tiny to walk, so we gotta go to her."

"Please say yes-" Atsumu whispers not so quietly, "I've been dying to hold this stupid baby."

A warmth overtakes your earlier worries. "I'd love that."

-

Hours later, after everyone has arrived and dinner is long finished, the whole group is gathered in the living room. Aran, Suna, Kiba- you almost have their names down - are all reminiscing about high school as their partners mingle to themselves. Atsumu is on the couch, pinned in place by a sleeping six year old across his lap and a fussy baby in his arms. Somehow, he still looks peaceful and content.

"I hate to admit it," Osamu saddles up beside you, qine glass in hand, "Baby head does have a good smell."

"Yeah," you agree.

"About your concern earlier... He'd marry you today if he could," Osamu continues quietly, "He's been telling Ma about how much he loves you."

An elbow bumps against your side. "He's not afraid to say it like you are."

You titter a bit over that, embarrassed but glowing at the thought of being loved back, "I'll say it soon."

"Just be careful," Osamu takes a long drink, "He's gonna have baby fever for the next month, so you better set an alarm for birth control or whatever."

You look at your boyfriend as he stares down at blissed out smile.

"Maybe I want a baby too."

[themultifandomgal]

Tommy Shelby- Expecting

Keeping mine and Tommys relationship a secret wasn't something I wanted to do. I wanted us to be official, but Tommy had other ideas. Instead we would sneak into each others bed at night. All hell broke loose though when I found out I was with child. At first Tommy didn't believe me that it was his, then he told me that he didn't want to settle down and have a family. Offered to find a good doctor to do an abortion. I refused and now I'm known at the Watery Lane Whore. Anger however bubbles inside of me when Tommy announces his relationship with Grace and that they were expecting.

I walk through the door of the Garrison and the first thing I see is her smiling and laughing with Tommy and his family. I roll my eyes and turn around wanting to leave when John calls me over

"YN! Come join us, we're celebrating"

"No thank you John" I glance over to Tommy who's got his arm around Grace "not in the mood"

"Hey wait" John runs over to me "how's the baby?" he asks with genuine concern

"Fine"

"Fuck YN whatever you and Tommy are fighting about now just put it to bed for one fucking nought to celebrate"

"Only if you knew what we are fighting about. Look I'm gonna go. Enjoy" as I leave I hear John say

"If I ever find the fucker who did this to her..." little does he know his own brother is the fucker that he won't do shit to. As I walk the streets to get home I'm called a number of names because I'm pregnant out of marriage, but would anyone dare say the same thing to Grace? No because she's with Tommy. The bitch that tried to get Tommy killed is now having his baby and engaged. It's like he's been brainwashed. Ignoring the comments I get home, deciding to go to bed early.

Over the next few weeks I stay as far away from the Shelby's, that is until I hear a knock on my front door. Groaning I get off the sofa, putting my book down on the coffee table and walk to the front door. I open it up not expecting to see Tommy stood there looking disheveled, but here he is

"Can I come in?" he asks sheepishly which is very unusual for Tommy. I cross my arms and frown looking at him

"I don't know. Why are you here"

"She lied. The whole time Grace was lying to me" still frowning YN doesn't say anything but continues so look at Tommy "YN please let me explain" In YNs mind she goes back at to about what she should do. Let Tommy in and talk, or close the door on him and never speak to him again.

Ending 1- YN and Tommy end up together

Wanting her child to know their father, YN sighs letting Tommy into her house. He walks in and takes off his shoes knowing YN hates mud being brought into the house. Not uttering a word, YN walks into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Tommy walks in behind her also not saying anything

“So. Gonna explain?” YN finally says crossing her arms and turning to look at Tommy

“YN I fucked up”

“Tell me about it” YN mutters

“Grace wasn’t pregnant. Never was. She was helping the copper, get close to me the kill me”

“And why should I believe you?”

“You have no reason to. I get that. But I’m sorry. I really liked.. like you YN and I let that bitch cloud my judgment. When you told me you were pregnant I freaked out. I spoke to Grace about it and she told me shit about you. Said you weren’t actually pregnant with my child, said she saw you with another man. That’s why I didn’t believe you. I was hurt”

“You you don’t think I was? I could have dealt with you not wanting a family, I could have even dealt with you just not wanting to be with me. Yes it would have hurt, but not as much as finding out you were happy to settle with Grace”

“Your right. I’m a fucking dick for that and I’m sorry” this catches YN off by surprise. Tommy never apologises. Yet here he is apologising to her “YN I promise you I will do everything I’m my power to make it up to you” thinking about it YN decides to give him a chance.

Over the next few years YN forgives Tommy, they end up getting married and having more children together.

Ending 2- YN leaves Tommy alone and moves away

“I’m sorry Tommy. I can’t. You hurt me more than I ever thought could be possible. I could have dealt with you not wanting a family, I could have even dealt with you just not wanting to be with me. Yes it would have hurt, but not as much as finding out you were happy to settle down with Grace”

“YN she was never pregnant please let me explain”

“No Tommy. I’m moving away tomorrow. I will tell our child that their father was a good man, but couldn’t look after us. When they’re 18 they can choose whether they come to see you. Until then, this is goodbye” YN closes the door in front of Tommy and heads up to her bedroom for the final time here in Watery Lane.

[see-arcane]

One last thing I’ve been poking at today regarding the issue of the letters. A small glimmer of something other than miserable to take away. 

It’s not a whole silver lining. A copper one at best, and barely there. But the fact of Jonathan’s cleverness with this attempt at sending out a message and the shorthand itself was a small victory.

The big spotlight is on all the defeats in this entry. The foiled attempt at sending private messages. The ruined hope that Jonathan can rely on his fellow human beings for help. The mockery and crushing of spirit in the burned letter to Mina along with being forced to reseal Hawkins’ now-pointless note and being locked in the room for misbehaving. It’s nothing but endless salt in too many wounds. Jonathan is in no state to harvest anything but despondency from the night’s display.

But.

There is something here that is worth noting. And that’s Dracula’s reaction to that shorthand note itself. What are the exact words? The exact actions?

“--one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"—here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.

Now obviously, the whole show of waving the letters in Jonathan’s face was a sadistic power play. Just proof positive of his influence and Jonathan’s uninterrupted helplessness, plus an extra dash of renewed hopelessness. All good fun. Right up until he opens the shorthand letter and sees those strange symbols. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t feign being puzzled by a stranger’s letter--so it must be!--getting in with Jonathan’s letter to Hawkins.

Just like the moment with the mirror and the bloody cut, just like the surprise of the ladies moving in on Jonathan without permission, Dracula is confronted by something that makes a big ugly crack in the careful masquerade he’s been enjoying so far. He likes this game. He likes being literal king of the castle and playing the host and pulling Jonathan’s spirit apart like so many loose unhappy threads. Most importantly, he likes being the one holding all the cards. All the information. We’ll see later in the book just how well others’ ignorance is used as a cudgel to beat any of his would-be obstacles into paste.

But now, here’s the shorthand. A thing Jonathan knows and he does not.

And Dracula is trapped by the performance. The letter’s already assigned as a prop, a stranger’s note, it cannot matter to them, Jonathan’s letters are sacred to him, blah blah. But if the shorthand is a stranger’s, he can’t even wheedle Jonathan to divulge it for him. So it’s stuck as a surprise mystery. Small as it is, ultimately futile as it is, it’s still A Thing Dracula Did Not Plan. A Thing Dracula Does Not Know. A Card Dracula Does Not Hold.

And Count Dracula, as will be revealed, is many things in addition to being a monster: including an utter control freak. Classic gothic edition mastermind. Every t crossed, every i dotted, every detail and solicitor in their proper place. Now here’s his pet-guest-prisoner not only doing a no-no by trying to reach out to others behind his back, but flaunting some 19th century secret cipher right under his nose! The nerve! Granted, he did tear open the letter to snoop on it, but such trifles don’t matter here. 

What matters is Dracula’s reaction being one that briefly breaks through the guise of the game. A genuine sour note that nettles him into burning the letter outright with a sneer and then, happily, steering immediately back on track with Hawkins’ letter and Jonathan’s timeout. Again, it’s a small thing. A mere mote.

But I’d bet money that part of Dracula’s ‘many labors’ ahead of him now include an almost petulant scrounging through his books for any mention of those odd symbols so he can snap it up too. Research he must do alone, at a loss, because Jonathan unwittingly arranged his writing in such a way that it endangers the Count’s game if the latter has to admit the writing was Jonathan’s after all. So he’s left to huff and puff over it in private. Because all the information under this roof is supposed to be his, damn it. 

And Jonathan, trapped and cornered and bereft prisoner that he is, proved that it isn’t.

[miasmaghoul]

Kinktober Day 2 - Quintosis Control

Pull Me Under

Thank you to @kroas-adtam for curating these prompts!

Rating: E

Pairing: Aeon/Dew (but also technically Aether/Dew)

Word Count: 2.3k

Contains: quintosis (obviously), oral, fingering, anal, prone bone, phone sex, Dew getting fucked in literally every possible way

-----

Aeon stares at the ghoul knelt between his legs with a raised eyebrow. Dew tilts his head, palming Aeon through his jeans with a placid smile on his face. His expression remains guarded though, and Aeon supposes that makes sense.

After all, this isn’t the most…common of requests. 

“So,” Dew murmurs, fiddling with Aeon’s zipper, “think you can do it?”

Aeon hums while the smaller ghoul drags the closure down, reaching out to twirl a loose lock of ashy blonde hair hanging from Dew’s bun. It’s softer, somehow, when they’re stuck in glamour like this. Only their unearthly eyes give away their true nature, and Dew’s copper ones burn up at him like miniature suns. Warm fingers wriggle into his jeans, pet at his slowly growing chubby, and Aeon spreads his knees just a little wider.

-----

Read the rest below, or on AO3!

Aeon stares at the ghoul knelt between his legs with a raised eyebrow. Dew tilts his head, palming Aeon through his jeans with a placid smile on his face. His expression remains guarded though, and Aeon supposes that makes sense.

After all, this isn’t the most…common of requests. 

“So,” Dew murmurs, fiddling with Aeon’s zipper, “think you can do it?”

Aeon hums while the smaller ghoul drags the closure down, reaching out to fiddle with a loose lock of ashy blonde hair hanging from Dew’s bun. It’s softer, somehow, when they’re stuck in glamour like this. Only their unearthly eyes give away their true nature, and Dew’s copper ones burn up at him like miniature suns. Warm fingers wriggle into his jeans, pet at his slowly growing chubby, and Aeon spreads his knees just a little wider.

“Don’t see why not,” he replies, cheeks dimpling under a playful smile. “If it’s something you really want.” Aeon groans when Dew pulls him from the confines of his pants, sighs when Dew wraps bony fingers around him. 

“It is,” the other ghoul assures him, leaning in to swipe his tongue over Aeon’s tip just enough to make him grunt. “Wanted to ask for a while, actually.”

Dew’s giving him slow strokes now, languid drags of a loose fist. Aeon knows he’s going to be dripping in no time. He pulls the tie in Dew’s hair, tosses it away in favor of threading his hand into those impossibly soft strands. Dew’s eyes droop just right whenever he does this, and Aeon watches a little bit of the apprehension on his handsome face melt away. His other hand fists itself in the comforter of the hotel bed he’d fallen onto for all of ten seconds before Dew had wrestled him to the end of it. 

Not that Aeon’s complaining, mind. Having any part of Dew on his cock is always an occasion worth celebrating.

“Why haven’t you, then?”

Dew shrugs, that one little crease forming between his eyebrows. The one he wears when he’s focused on a solo, or when Cirrus asks him to do mental math. Aeon thumbs over the spot where one of his horns should be, and Dew’s shoulders slump a hair.

“Thought it might be weird.” Well, he’s not wrong about that. “Thought it might, y’know,” the little ghoul makes a vague gesture, focused only on the way his hand glides over Aeon’s cock. “Thought it might be too much.”

If Aeon’s fangs were out, he’d be smiling with every single one.

“Good thing I’m a fan of ‘too much’, ” he croons, giving Dew’s hair a tug. Hard enough to make his hand stutter and his eyes pinch shut. “And I know you are too -”

Aeon leans down, slow and with purpose. Invades the space Dew has made for himself and earns a surprised blink for it. Aeon sighs while he nuzzles their cheeks together, hearing Dew’s breath catch, basking in the warmth of his skin. He presses a kiss to the other ghoul’s ear, and it carries the smallest of sparks.

“- firefly.”

The word drips in magick, and Aeon can tell by the shocked sound Dew makes that he doesn’t hear it entirely in his voice. He can feel his power sink into Dew’s skin, feels the rush of static that flows beneath his scalp and through the callused fingers curled around him. A pulse of something unnaturally cool that has Dew shuddering. Aeon pulls back to find Dew looking suddenly much looser. Shoulders rounded, eyes wrinkled at the corners and glassy, his smile something more than skin-deep. The very specific visage of someone in the beginnings of quintessence-fueled bliss. 

“That feel good? Looks like it does,” Aeon lilts, the hand buried in the blanket coming up to cup the little ghoul’s cheek. “But you’ll need more than that for what you’re asking, y’know.”

Dew makes an affirmative sound, not quite a word but close enough. His hand starts moving again and Aeon feels the muscles in his stomach jump - Dew’s hands always have that effect on him. He takes a deep breath through his nose, scratching at Dew’s scalp while the first wave of his magick settles into the folds of his mind. Aeon groans with the casual way the other ghoul takes his tip between his lips, hot tongue sliding over sensitive flesh. Aeon gives his hair the suggestion of a stern pull, and delights in the way Dew just…takes it. Takes more of him into that silken mouth, enough so the blunt head of Aeon’s cock pokes his hollowed cheek. Makes a lovely bump that Aeon can’t help but run his thumb over.

“Ready for more?” 

He probably shouldn’t be so breathless already, but Dew’s mouth does have that effect on…well, everybody. The little ghoul pulls off with a wet pop, smears the tip over his own lips to leave them wet and shiny. A decidedly slutty move that makes Aeon’s balls ache.

“Yeah, I think you are,” he huffs, cheeks warm. Aeon runs a hand through his own hair with a chuckle. “Wanna call now? Or after I get my fingers in you?”

Dew makes a strangled sound, scrambles for his phone, and as his dick is left to bob freely in the air Aeon has his answer. 

He chuckles softly, stretches his arms over his head while Dew fumbles through his contacts. Rolls his eyes when the other ghoul drops the phone in his eagerness. Aeon stands, busies himself with gathering lube and arranging pillows, but keeps an eye on Dew through it all. He raises the phone to his ear just as Aeon’s shrugging out of his t-shirt. He hears it ring while he shucks his belt, and Aeon pauses with his jeans around his thighs when his sharp ears pick up a click. A deep, familiar voice follows it, Dew presses a flat palm to his crotch, and a thrill runs up Aeon’s spine when the little ghoul says,

“Hey, Aeth. Got a proposition for you.”

Things move quickly after that. Aether had been immediately, enthusiastically on board with Dew’s idea, faster than Aeon had expected. Something that told him the other two had definitely discussed this before. In no time Aeon had Dew over his lap, sitting up against the headboard with the little ghoul drooling into the sheets with each press of Aeon’s fingers. 

Fingers that, at least for Dew, feel like someone else’s entirely.

“Aether,” he slurs, sounding more fucked up that Aeon think he’s ever heard him, “Aeth, please -”

The word blurs into a moan when Aeon crooks his fingers just so, knuckles rubbing against Dew’s prostate. Aeon feels a blurt of pre leak out onto his thigh and heaves a happy sigh when Dew clamps down around him. He keeps quiet as he can, though. He isn’t the one Dewdrop needs to hear right now.

“That feel good, baby?” Aether’s smooth voice rings tinny through the phone’s speaker, but only to Aeon. For Dew, he’s sure the words flow directly into his veins. “You love my fingers, don’t you?”

Aeon twists his digits the exact way he knows Aether would - one benefit of his unparalleled sense memory - and fills the little ghoul’s mind with the burn of a much more intense stretch. One that has Dew crying out, fingers curling into rumpled sheets and his little hole clenching hard. Aeon only has two fingers inside, but with the way Dew’s writhing you’d think he was taking all five.

Ah, the power of suggestion.

“So good,” Dew mumbles, strands of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. He’s flushed crimson straight down his throat; Aeon can’t believe how fucked out he looks already, but he imagines the magick isn’t exactly helping in that regard. “‘S so much, Aeth, so big -”

“I know, firefly,” Aether trills, gentle, “but you take them so well for me. In fact, I think you deserve another one.”

Aeon takes the hint, pulling back to the first knuckle and running a third fingertip over Dew’s taut rim. The little ghoul makes the most wonderful gagging sound, one that’s only amplified when Aeon slides back inside with three elegant fingers. Dew howls once they’re fully in, fists white-knuckled in the bedsheets. Aeon’s other hand rubs soothing circles into his lower back, just like Aether would, and Aeon makes sure that hand feels heavier too.

It’s a delicate process, manipulating Dew’s mind and body at once. Sending tendrils of quintessence into the recesses of his mind and pulling on wispy threads of memory. The specific timbre of Aether’s voice, the weight of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the scent of his sweat. Immersing the little ghoul into a haze that erases Aeon’s presence entirely. It may be his touch Dew’s feeling, but right now his whole world is Aether and if Dew keeps making these noises then Aeon certainly won’t complain. His own pleasure will be playing second fiddle tonight anyway.

Aeon taps at his prostate and Dew’s leg spasms.

“Aeth - Aether please ,” Dew whimpers, gasping between the words. “'S been so long. Need… need you, please -”

Aeon doesn’t think he’s ever heard Dewdrop sound so desperate. It’s beautiful .

“You’ve got me, sweet boy,” Aether assures. “Can’t you feel me?”

Aeon swirls his fingers, slides his palm up the length of Dew’s spine, and the little ghoul goes boneless in his lap with a noise that speaks to how far gone he is. Aeon’s drunk on the feel of him, the sound, the sight of his lovely face scrunched up in agonizing pleasure. His own erection has long since flagged, but the pressure low in his belly hasn’t dissipated in the slightest. 

“Need…more,” Dew pants, pawing at the bed and mindlessly grinding his hot little stiffy into Aeon’s thigh. “Need…Aeth, fuck me. ”

Dew pleads it like his life is ending and Aeon’s head thuds against the headboard with the effort of remaining silent. Aether must hear the thunk , judging by the amusement coloring his next words.

“Of course, droplet,” he hums, and if he listens close Aeon can just make out the slippery sound of Aether tugging at himself. “Whatever you want.”

Aeon moves the slight body in his lap with mild difficulty - he’s not all that much bigger than Dew when they’re glamoured like this, and the little ghoul is entirely too gangly for his own good. Aether orchestrates his movements, tells Dew he’s going to take him on his belly, the way they do when he really needs to feel Aether. Gets Dew face down with a pillow snuggled under his narrow hips, legs spread just enough for Aeon to admire his pretty pink hole while he gets a hand on himself. He’s hard as diamond again in seconds, impossible not to be with Dew like this.

“Are you ready for me, firefly?” 

The little ghoul gurgles out an uh huh at Aether’s words, and Aeon takes that as his cue to get in position. His heart hammers away while he does, fingers jittery as he straddles Dew’s thighs. Plants his hands on either side of his chest. Leans down to kiss the place between Dew’s shoulder blades. Aeon reaches back to line himself up, prods at Dew’s puffy entrance with his own wet tip, and the way it slips over that wrinkled skin makes Aeon’s eyes roll back.

“I’m gonna put it in now, alright?”

“Yes,” Dew sobs on an exhale, sweat prickling up along the length of his spine. “Fuck, yes .”

Aeon holds his breath, every inch of him thrumming, and then he’s sinking in with a slowness he’s never employed. But it’s necessary with the way he floods Dew’s magick-addled mind with the glorious stretch Aether’s fat cock instead. He can hear Aether talking somewhere distant, but the only thing Aeon can focus on are the stunning cries pouring from Dew’s lips. Aeon has to work to keep his own shut, nails biting into his palms with every rock of his hips.

“Deep breaths, love,” Aether rumbles through the din of pleasure, his tone making even Aeon’s stomach twist. “I know you can take it.” 

Dew wails, and Aeon can’t hold in the groan that bubbles up when he finally bottoms out. Dew’s walls are like searing hot velvet around him, so slick that Aeon can feel it leaking out around his cock. The little ghoul flutters ceaselessly around him, and it’s nothing short of maddening.

“There we go, well done.” Aether coos down the line, soothing. Calming. Aeon brings a shaky hand to Dew’s head, strokes his hair. Plays out the intent so plainly coloring Aether’s words. “Are you ready for the rest of me, baby?”

Dew nods frantically against the sheets, and Aeon focuses. Lowers his own wiry frame down onto the little ghoul’s sweaty back while Aether reminds him again to breathe. Dew needs it - every bit of himself that Aeon settles against Dew’s body seems to knock the air from him in punched-out huffs. Aeon shouldn’t be so surprised, not when he knows that Dew’s feeling a much, much heavier weight.

“Oh, Dew,” Aether sighs, the sound of his strokes much more obvious now, “ you feel fucking amazing.” 

Aeon’s inclined to agree, relaxing his full weight onto the little ghoul below and giving the sublest roll of his hips. Just enough to make Dew yelp. He buries his nose in silky hair and breathes deep, warm spice and tobacco, hands traveling up his sides. Grazing Dew’s straining ribs, caressing his shoulders, mapping soft skin. The hair on Dew’s arms tickles his palms, the veins on the back of his hands so pronounced beneath his fingertips.

“Aeth,” Dew whimpers, patting at the bed, blindly searching. “Aeth, where -”

Aeon laces his fingers with Dew’s then, and the little ghoul wastes no time in holding his hand right back.   

“I’ve got you, baby boy,” Aether promises, husky with lust Aeon swears he can feel through the phone. “Daddy’s gonna take such good care of you.”

His cock throbs, Dew moans so loud it rattles his chest, and Aeon makes a mental note to ask Aether about that little exchange later.

Much later.

[lilac--sugar]

The Epitome of Spring

Summary: It was more of a joke than anything when Astarion suggested a bathhouse. Even more so when Karlach tacked on a nice meal and a large round of beer at a nearby tavern. Yet, after a long and rough few days it was all the gang wanted. (Late act 3. Spoilers in general but specifically: Spoilers for Astarion's Quest, Gale's Quest, and Wyll's Quest.) Pairing: Unascended Astarion/Tav!Reader (gn!Tav) (Tav race with a shorter lifespan in mind) I also wrote it with my Tav, Kieran, in mind (pictured above). If there are any mentions that contradict this being gender-neutral please point it out and I will gladly adjust it! 💜 Rating: E (18+ Minors Do Not Interact!) Content Warnings: (In order of appearance) Cussing Throughout, Near Death Experience Trauma, Heavy Angst (that gets solved rather quickly), Smut (starts halfway through 2.4k mark), Blood (Astarion feeding from Tav) (not a warning but it does end in fluff). (If I missed any please let me know!) Word Count: 4.8k Author's Note: Not betaed. I did my best to comb it over. If you see any mistakes please feel free to point it out! But do so kindly, please.💜 Also, there is some dialogue used that came from the game (iykyk). (Also this was posted last night but I just woke up and checked and it wasn't on the feeds I tagged it in. If the post does exsist please let me know and I'll fix it!)

The last few days had been incredibly harrowing. You’d thought that once you’d entered Baldur’s Gate things would have settled down some. Of course, there were loose ends that needed to be tied but the stakes kept getting higher. Almost impossibly high. Just about literally knocking on Death’s door. You can still hear the loud clanking, hand grasped tight to the metal rung of the ladder, body numb from adrenaline. All wrapped up in the fear that this was it, that you’d be snuffed out of existence, topped with the bow of worry about one man and what might become of him should you not make it.

“Darling?” Astarion’s hand waves in front of your face and you blink back to reality, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, just,” you take in a deep breath, your lungs aching for air and you didn’t even realize, “zoned out.”

His brow knits together in concern, but you don’t bother to look up at him. Can’t stand it. Don’t want to think of that face he made, still just a few hours fresh in your memory.

It all seems rather silly now, being stood in the middle of Baldur’s Gate’s finest bathhouse all awash in melancholy. It was more of a joke than anything when Astarion suggested a bathhouse. Even more so when Karlach tacked on a nice meal and a large round of beer at a nearby tavern.

Yet here you were in a building the size of a palace. The House of Relaxation. Every last inch of it was gilded in luxury. Built with warm sandstone polished to perfection, flex of copper glittering throughout. Etched into the stone were runes of all kind. Upon closer inspection you’d realized they were invocations of relaxation and healing. There were pamphlets left on the counter explaining all of their services. From massages to solitary baths down to more extravagant options that included happier endings. Not one for too much pomp, you opt for something more humble, something that sounded a bit enchanting.

“Uh,” Astarion was there at your shoulder as you paid the attendant and gathered your bathing token, robe, and towel, “Which one did you go for?” he asks, trying to catch a glimpse of your token.

“Something basic,” you say, tucking it between the folds of the towel.

“I rather hoped we could do something together,” his voice is soft, cracking just slightly with something. Disappointment? Sadness? Your heart sinks but you don’t turn around, don’t know what to say really. Frozen in place, mouth suddenly dry.

You can see from the corner of your eye Gale eyeballing the two of you as he often does. With him and Astarion sharing a little corner at camp it made things too easy for him to eavesdrop, feigning like he was lost in thought.

“Oh, go on Fangs!” Karlach lands a rather impactful slap across Astarion’s back, “we all know you don’t do basic! Go ahead and get one of those fancy package deals!” She plops a pamphlet in his hands, “There ya go!” She points down to it, “The Goodberry trio! Facial, massage, and luxury honey bath! Sounds like your deal!”

“Uh, yes, I suppose it does,” he still sounds rather dejected, another pang to your heart.

“When we’re all done we’ll go to the tavern down the street, get something cheap and cheerful!” She ruffles at his hair, “You’ll see your sweet Tav there! And we can head to camp all refreshed and our bellies full!” She smiles wide at him, “Besides! Me and them got the same thing so I’ll keep an eye on them. No worries, Fangs!” As she says the last part she moves to you, tossing her arm over your shoulder.

“Right,” he turns to the counter with a deep sigh. You turn to dare a glance. He looks dejected just like you thought. You feel ill at the sight. Karlach hastily herds you away.

“Karlach,” you say in a hushed tone, “I don’t-“

“I know, doll,” She winks at you, pressing a finger to the side of her nose, “We all need our time alone. I don’t blame Astarion for wanting to be with you after what happened last night. But I also understand that you need your time to process it. I just wanted to help in some way,” she pulls away once the two of you enter the public showers, “If ya need someone, I’ll be in the,” She pulls her token out to read it, “Drunken beer bath falls!” She gives you a warm smile before disappearing into a section of the showers.

Public as the showers were, they were still individual stalls, marble walls and black silken curtains for privacy. You slide into one and turn the water on. The shower hisses to life, coming out shockingly cold. The noise, the feeling of the cold water against your skin- you gasp and press back against the cool marble wall.

A flash of The Iron Throne flitters behind your eyelids. You press a hand to your chest. You and your party had decided to split up. Wyll would get his father, Astarion would get Omeluum. You’d get some prisoners down another corridor and Karlach stayed in the main chamber to take down Sahuagin warriors as much as she could. In your stupidity you’d gone back to help a cell you’d mistakenly walked away from. Determined to help them it cost you so much time. You’d barely made it out. The hatch to the submersible was closing on you. Survivors shouting to go. Astarion, Wyll, and Karlach screaming to wait just a second longer.

That’s when you knocked on the hatch with all your might. Hand holding onto the rung with some strength you can’t even fathom now. Your body goes weak thinking about that moment.

Astarion was the one that pulled you up, looked as though he had been ready to dive back down in there after you. His wide eyes full of tears, the fear. The fear in those eyes.

You’d launched yourself up with your legs at the same time he pulled you. The two of you becoming a mess on the floor of the ship. Silence fell over everyone as Astarion held you against his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He’d shushed you, told you to let it out as you sobbed into him. You weren’t one to cry but that moment made you realize something about you and your relationship with him. An undeniable truth that couldn’t be ignored forever. Forever. The word hurts.

You seem to phase back into yourself. Pressed back against the wall, the water has gone scalding. How long had you let it run? How long had it been burning your feet? You’re quick to turn the temperature down, wincing as your feet burn. You press a hand to one of the healing runes and little to your surprise the burning goes away. Healed. Feet normal again.

With a sigh you carry on with your shower, using the milk and honey toiletries they’d provided.

You slip out of the showers, realizing they’d only given you one towel.

Knowing you were moments from getting wet again anyway, you slip on your silk robe. The smooth fabric clinging to your wet form. You shrug as you grab up your towel and head down to the ‘Nymph Forest’ room. There had been many themed rooms but that one sounded the most whimsical to you.

You turn the corner into the room, body instantly welcomed with the gentle caress of damped leaves. A small pathway into the room opens up into a clearing. Golden sunlight shines down from a lush canopy above, casts the room in shadows and sunbeams. You can’t help but notice dew drops on the leaves act like prisms, a dance of rainbows swirl around you as you walk through. The ground beneath your feet is a soft lush moss, smooth stepping stones placed here and there. Bakers fern brushes at your ankles, sprinkled through them are different wild flowers in an array of colors. Purple foxglove, lily of the valley, pink bleeding-hearts. There are magnolia trees framing the edge of the crystal clear water. The bed of the faux pond is smooth stone like the rest of the building but the copper dances and glitters as the water ripples above.

How this was one of the more basic options you really weren’t sure.

You place your towel to the side over a rather conveniently placed overgrown root, designed to look natural but definitely a bench. No one else is around. Perhaps not many people prefer an overgrown forest like yourself. With a satisfied sigh you dip a toe into the water. Perfect if not just the tiniest bit too warm.

You undo the tie of your robe, let it fall down your shoulders.

“Tav?” Astarion’s voice is soft, tapering off in a wavering sense of unsurety.

You nearly jump out of your skin, quick to pull your robe up, doing the tie once again. You glance over your shoulder but there’s no one to be found.

“I’m sorry. I feel like you wanted some time alone, and trust me I plan to give you that,” he says. You turn your eyes away, focusing on the way the sunlight glitters off the water, “I just want to make sure you’re alright. Ever since last night you’ve been distant. It was horrible, the whole situation, but I’m worried that you’re not so much,” there’s a pause, he’s swallowing a lump in his throat, “in need of alone time but more pushing m- us- away.”

The sound of water lapping at marble fills the air in the wake of conversation.

“I know I’m just being insecure and darling, please, take all the time that you need, but, know that I’m here and as long as you’ll have me, I’m not going anywhere.”

You turn back again, look around the corner and can see him pressed back against the wall of the hallway, facing away from you.

“Astarion,” you can’t help how tenderly his name falls from your lips. You’re scared you’re giving false hope as he blinks, surprised. He turns himself to look at you, you’ve never seen him look more like a lost puppy.

“How did you know which room I’d be in?”

“Well,” he twirls a hand through the air, “I might have taken a peek at the attendant’s ledger when he turned away,” he shrugs trying to hide his sheepishness, “But, uh- I don’t want to intrude, darling, I just wanted to let you know.”

“I know. And I want you here. Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate to cross over to you. Adorned in his own silken robe, towel clutched in his hands. You gently take it from him, toss it onto the bench next to yours.

“We’ve always been honest with each other,” you start, “well, at least since you confessed to me back in the Shadow Cursed Lands anyway,” you follow up, causing him to purse his lips. It was something he still felt the faintest amount of guilt over.

You reach out and take his hands in your own.

“I think,” you take a deep breath, look up at the canopy of leaves, trying to gather yourself, “we should end this,” you say, finally looking back at him, knowing you owe him at least that.

“Oh shit,“ heartbreak and shock spread across his face and your heart cracks in half. Your words, his face, you feel like you’re going to be violently ill, “I- Did I do something wrong? Why? What’s changed?”

“I’m just scared of hurting you. I’m scared that one day I’ll die and leave you alone. I saw the look on your face when you pulled me up on the submersible. I can’t stand the thought…” Your eyes start to water. You close them in an attempt to stop from crying but it’s all feeble as the tears fall down your cheeks. With a thick swallow you nod your head, “It’s easier now when you don’t love me too much, while you aren’t so attached.”

You hear him let out a small laugh, open your eyes to find him with a sad smile, “Too late for that, my love. This little adventure of ours has taught me that we can’t let our lives be ruled by fear or else we never really live. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of our future. When I said I wanted you, I knew what I was getting into. And when I said I didn’t want to lose that, I meant it. Now, if you have an issue with committing to an immortal,” pain spreads over his face, “I understand that and I won’t hold you back from what you truly want.”

“I have no issue in the slightest,” you say, stepping closer to him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug.

“Good, darling, besides, there’s plenty of things that can be done,” he rests his chin on your shoulder, melting into the embrace, “we can try to find me a cure and you can learn Timeless Body at some point. That’d put us on level playing fields. Or perhaps make you immortal somehow? If that’s something you want?”

“Anything,” you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, “anything. I don’t care. As long as I’m with you.”

The two of you rest in easy silence, just enjoying the closeness of the other. After a moment he hesitantly pulls back from you.

“Are you ok aside from that? I know how terrifying it is, standing on the brink, looking out and seeing nothing but the dark void of death,” He cups your face, kisses you softly over your eyes. His thumb swiping away the tears that rolled down your cheeks, “Are you going to be ok?”

“In time,” you say, pressing a kiss to his lips, “Doesn’t help my fear of krakens much,” you’re trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, there were hardly any there,” he grins at you.

“No, but it’s just another layer to it all. Didn’t care much for the sea because of it before and now, kraken, being swept into the sea and drowning,” you shrug, “I think I’ll just carry a general fear of it from now on.”

“Fair enough, reminder, no dates out on a boat. Though, yachts are so nice,” he sees you shake your head, smile on your face, “oh well, Siilen's faen*. There’s plenty of other things I can treat you to. Right now, though, my sweet, I’ll leave you to it. I don’t want to impose.”

“Impose, please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Deadly.”

“Well, then,” his grin grows.

“Astarion,” you pull away from him. He tilts his head, watching your form as you walk backwards from him, “If I’m going to try living again. I’d like to do so with everything life has to offer.”

“Are you sure? Are you in the right headspace?” he asks, following you like a moth to flame.

“Oh yes. If a night of passion is on offer, I could be persuaded,” you say, being coy with his own words. You lean back against the tree, tilting your head to expose your neck.

“Darling,” he comes to you, presses his index finger under your jaw, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, “let me see what I can do,” his fingertip traces down the expanse of your neck, circling down and over your collar bone, pushing your robe open just a bit.

You sigh softly, watching him through heavily lidded eyes. His fingers slide under the lapel of your robe, cool knuckles brushing over your chest, over sensitive skin that prickles under his touch.

He leans over you, his other arm resting next to your head against the tree. With his nose he nudges your cheek, causing you to tilt your head the other way.

You lean into him, go to kiss him but he pulls back slightly with a ‘tut’, shaking his head. With a soft, nearly frustrated, sigh you press your head back against the tree again.

Pleased, he leans back in, running his tongue over your bottom lip, then the top. Your lips part in anticipation for his but he remains a hairsbreadth away. His knuckles brush lower, leaving your chest and going lower, and lower. Your stomach flutters and a choked noise escapes you. He breathes it in, cool air flowing over your wet lips.

“Astarion,“ you say his name as a whispered prayer, sacred worship.

“Tav? Oh! I’-” your own name but not from Astarion’s lips. You don’t care, as you open your eyes, you only look to Astarion. You keep eye contact with him. His hand drops from you, eyebrows twitching in annoyance.

“Gale,” He pulls back just enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, “hold on, darling,” he whispers to you. His eyes fall on Gale, aiming a glare at him so finely honed from years of brooding it could level a small village, “My friend, my pal, my,” he grimaces just slightly, “buddy,” for what it was worth, Astarion, and you for that matter, did rather like Gale. It was just his persistency in the face of the two of you being an item that really got Astarion’s metaphorical blood, boiling.

“As you can see, sweet Tav here is rather occupied at the moment. With me. Their partner. Darling?” He turns to you and it takes you a second to pull your eyes from him, transfixed by him still.

“I’m sorry Gale,” you say, finally managing to look over at him, “I’ve tried to tell you so many times.”

“No, it’s me. I just, sorry, I just wanted someone to talk to. I’m seeing Mystra tomorrow-“ he sighs deeply, “I had hoped.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. Gale only waves you off, shaking his head, “Karlach is in the,” you pause trying to remember, “Drunken falls? She’s a great ear.”

“Right, I’ll go do that. Thank you,” awkwardly he slips out of the room.

You look back to Astarion who has a mix of adoration and contemplation on his face.

“What?” you ask softly.

“You’ve got a tender heart,” he says finally.

“Do not,” you protest, scoffing out a laugh.

“You do. I can feel it when we kiss,” his fingers move, come up to press under your jaw, right at your pulse, “I can feel it fluttering under my hand. Delicate like a little bird. You’re so sweet to everyone, even when they deserve to be told off.”

“He’s lonely, confused, hurt.”

“He’s bullheaded and taking advantage. He saw how you went off without me earlier,” he shakes his head, “an opportunist. I don’t blame him for trying but I do wish he’d stop. We’re together and everyone has recognized that but him.”

“I don’t want to think about Gale right now,” you say, taking hold of his arm, moving his hand up to cup your cheek, “kiss me, for Gods sakes, kiss me.”

He does. Softly at first, but you reach out, curl your fingers into his robe, pull him closer to you. Pleasure. One of the greatest highlights of life. Pleasure with the one you love, even more so. Hands move with expert precision, robes pushed off forms, bodies exposed.

The contrast of his cool body against your warm one causes you to hiss. He reaches under you, scoops you up under your ass and wraps your legs around him. You push back against the tree and cause the two of you to fall back into the open bath.

He gasps. You laugh. As if on cue the magnolia trees that line the bath release themselves of their flowers. Hundreds of pink and white petals falling all around you.

“You wild thing,” he says, coming up for air, “give a man a warning next time,” he scolds, and you grin across the water at him.

“Come here,” you say, taking perch on the smooth steps of the bath. Your body open for him, legs parted, arms resting back against the edge, “let me kiss you better.”

“Brat,” he mumbles. However, he can’t stay mad, not when there are petals adorning your hair and shoulders. His sweet, tender Tav. You look like the epitome of Spring. He knows you are with how you‘ve blossomed life back into the Winter of his own. He thinks Spring used to be his favorite, in a life long ago, knows it will be again.

“Takes one to know one,” you tease as he crosses over to you. He brushes petals off your shoulder and kisses you once more, tongue swiping across your bottom lip, asking permission. You tilt your head and grant it.

You press up against him, hips grinding. He moves a hand down, working it against you, his thumb swirling softly. You moan against his lips.

“Taste me,” you breathe out. Astarion nudges your head with his own, causes you to expose your neck for him once more. He presses his lips to the delicate expanse, “please,” you just about beg and he licks up the side of it, the cool air of his breath causes you to shiver under him. His thumb applies more pressure, wrist twisting just right, and shivers turn to writhing, “fuck!”

“That’s it, darling, I do love your little trembles of pleasure,” he coaxes. His other hand comes down, the pads of his finger pressing against your entrance.

“Fuck, yes, please,” you manage to say through a moan and he slips a finger in, eases in and out, rocking ever so slightly, down right teasing. You push back against his hand, your fingers going into his hair, you curl them, gently tug.

“No foreplay tonight?” he teases and you honestly adore it any other time but right now you need him. You need to feel this connection, to feel alive with him.

Gently, he eases his other finger in, rocks them in and out of you. His lips are at your neck and you tug again.

“Ask nicely, nibblet,” he murmurs, gliding his lips across the delicate skin there, dotting it with the slightest graze of his teeth.

“Please,” you whimper and he obliges, fangs sinking deep into your neck. Ice cold and yet the edge of pain mixed into your pleasure is delicious. You let out a cry, his name is a song from your lips. He curls his fingers up and hits that spot deep inside of you. His hands now working in unison. He goes to pull away from your neck, not wanting to be too greedy, “No, don’t stop. Oh Gods, fuck me, please,” you beg but he knows his limits with this. Just when he’s about to stop, the water around you charges up in a golden glow, and a rush runs through you. You’ve been restored and fresh blood comes pooling out of you, running down your neck, your chest, twisting through the water and white petals like smoke.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps and you press down against his hand again. He removes his fingers, realizing just how ok you are going to be. Limits be damned here. His free hand goes to your hip, his cock pushing lightly at your entrance. You meet him half way, surprising him a bit. He groans against your neck as he sinks deep inside you. Hotter than the bath and ten times more pleasurable. You are his favorite thing to sink into.

With free reign he drinks more deeply than he’s ever done before. The two of you rock your hips in unison, him hitting that spot inside you so perfectly. His other hand working you, never ceasing, thumb switching up in pressure here and there but still swirling perfectly over you.

You are brought to the precipice of darkness, warm numbness spreading over you before the water glows and restores you again. It’s on the third time that you feel the insurmountable heat pool up in the pit of your stomach. You’ve become a mess under him. Moaning and crying out his name. Damn the Gods his was the only name you need remember. The only name you needed to pray to. Your body trembles, the waves of hot pleasure building higher and higher until they crash down over you. You finish under him. You feel him pull back to look at you. You open your eyes, knowing he wants to see you, all of you, see your soul as you reach your release. He wants to see you blossom under him, finds you absolutely gorgeous as you do. It takes a minute later, before he tenses up over you, finding his own release in you. His head falls, forehead pressing to yours. Your breath mingles and you kiss softly, coming down off both your highs.

“Astarion,” your voice is almost weak as if all of this has made you lose it. He pulls back from you, softly licks your neck and down your chest. He doesn’t want to waste a drop of your precious life that you’ve given to fill his. He’s fuller than he’s ever been, the happiest too, he’s sure. It takes the two of you another moment before he slips away from you completely, the two of you wanting to keep that connection for as long as you could. Not willing to leave the other’s touch he turns around in your arms. His back to your front. You wrap your legs around his waist.

The water shimmers silver now and all traces of blood and whatever else have been cleaned from the water. The petals and flowers remain, drifting in the gentle current of the water around you.

“Do you think it’ll be a shock to you?” you ask after a moment.

“What?” he asks in turn, resting his head back over your shoulder.

“When you see your face again. You know, if we find a cure,” You rest your own head against his shoulder. The two of you becoming an amorphous blob, “And I know we’ve gotten you a statue from Stoney and Oskar painted you. But I suspect it’s not the same.”

“Ah,” he watches the sunbeams shimmer through the canopy of leaves above, “No, not quite. They’re great, don’t get me wrong. But they still feel a little separated. Not quite… me.”

“I’ve been thinking,” you say.

He hums in response.

“The courthouse.”

“What about it?”

“Well, they must have paintings of previous magistrates hanging up, no?”

“I-“ He turns his head, attempts to look at you, “I suppose.”

“You think maybe they have one of you? Would that feel less surreal or maybe more so?”

“I don’t know,” he looks off in thought now, certain that what you suggested might just be right.

“You could be in the library’s archives, too.”

“Gods, you really are something, aren’t you?” he sounds astounded and you duck your head into his shoulder, feel your cheeks burn at his praise.

“I wonder what color your eyes were,” you try to change the subject, can’t stand being complimented for long, even from him like you so adore.

“Perhaps a vibrant green. Something distinguished,” he turns his head, kissing the top of yours from your hiding spot.

“Nah, Astarion,” you lift your head, kissing the corner of his lips, “your parents probably named you for how you looked but also what they’d hoped you’d be. Hair like starlight, eyes strikingly blue, perhaps with flex of gold. All together they thought you’d be a beacon to bring hope and guide those who are lost.”

He huffs out a laugh, “A beacon of hope? Guiding those who are lost?”

He’s laughing in your arms, finding it absurd. Still, the thought causes trembles of happiness to spill out from him and you smile, pressing it against the crook of his neck.

“You could be. Maybe we’ll help the spawn once this is all over? You could be just that for them.”

He’s still giggling, wiping at his eyes as tears had started to fill in them, all happy you’re assured, “We could do that. Those pour souls need a leader. All of them are so tragic without one.”

“I take it back.”

“What? That I’m a beautiful beacon of hope?”

“I didn’t say beautiful.”

“Oh, it was heavily implied. We both know you meant to say it anyway.”

“Ok, yes, you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. No, the most divine thing to walk this planet.”

“Good, glad we agree,” He nestles back into you, content smile across his lips, “but really, what do you take back?”

“I think your eyes were brown. Deep and warm like rich dark honey in sunlight,” you press kisses over his shoulder and up his neck, just behind his ear.

“Mmm, that does sound alluring, tell me more.”

You press your lips to the shell of his ear, whisper, “How about, I love you? Is that good for more?”

“That’ll do,” he smiles.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he turns in your arms, kisses you softly once again. The two of you lost to one another. The rest of the gang long gone to the tavern before the two of you emerge.

You spend the night delighting in one another. Making the other laugh, giving a gentle touch, and kissing. So many kisses. You forget your fears of the future. For you know, without a doubt, he will be there and there will be love.

(* Elvish Translation: C'est la vie or That's life. I used a Common to Elvish translator so I'm not even sure it's accurate 😂 Hopefully it is though!) Last little note here! Gale is portrayed the way he is here because, personally, in my playthroughs he's been VERY persistent. I know he's just bugged and he's a darling really, but I just found it funny how often he tries to shoot his shot with my Tav.

My masterlist

[jinko-hellhound]

“over and over, all born into great pain” — bungou stray dogs — chuuya, atsushi, dazai

“Atsushi appears on Chuuya’s doorstep covered in blood and full of drugs. Dazai, despite not being present, dutifully haunts the narrative. or: Strangers who’ve been shaped by the same person. or or: 4,000-ish words of musing and vibes and no plot.” — posted for @dazaibirthdayweek2024 !

words: 3,925

first published: 6/18/2024

characters: dazai osamu, nakahara chuuya, nakajima atsushi

relationships: nakahara chuuya & nakajima atsushi, dazai osamu & nakajima atsushi, nakahara chuuya/dazai osamu

tags: mild hurt/comfort, light angst, introspection, no plot/plotless, implied/reference drug use, non-consensual drug use (off-screen), mild gore, tiger nakajima atsushi, implied/referenced cannibalism (crazy), caring nakahara chuuya

crossposted on ao3

Dazai’s stupid kid is crumpled on Chuuya’s doorstep.

Chuuya had wanted to head down to the liquor store. Instead, his boots hit boy as soon as he stepped out the door. Fucking Dazai, Chuuya thinks, because it must be Dazai’s fault.

Chuuya sighs. He turns back to his empty penthouse, as though expecting Dazai to pop out from behind his couch and shout surprise! then announce to him some stupid plan that absolutely necessitates the weretiger bleeding out in the hall.

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says. The weretiger gives a noncommittal grunt. Copper is already filling the air and seeping into the carpet from a wound that must be in the kid’s torso, way he’s doubled over it. God, the stain in the carpet. Chuuya should just get the carpet ripped out, with how often he has to call the cleaners. Doesn’t the kid have superhuman healing? Chuuya squints. Shouldn’t he be healed already?

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says again. The kid’s shoulder shifts a centimeter and that’s about all the response he gets. Well, okay. Questions later. First things first — the weretiger rises into the air and floats into the middle of the living room. His eyes flutter, but he doesn’t seem to register the red glow around him.

“Bwuh,” the weretiger says. A conveniently stashed sheet of plastic (this is not Chuuya’s first rodeo) lifts up and settles over the couch cushions. The weretiger follows. “Bwuuuhhgggg,” he says smartly into the plastic. His left arm is a long pale line hanging off the couch, which Chuuya’s black Maine-coon is already clawing at. The weretiger seems unperturbed by this.

“Uh-huh.” The first aid kit deposits itself into his hands as he strides over to the couch. “Lemme see that wound.”

Except there’s nothing to see. Under the ripped up shirt and all the clotting blood and bits of loose flesh, it’s just smooth skin. So his ability has done its work, if belatedly. Some of this blood is only a few minutes old. It healed fast, but not as fast as it ought’ve. But the weretiger is still acting all loopy, whimpering like something hurts. Just blood loss? That doesn’t feel right.

Chuuya sits himself on his coffee table, knees bumping the couch. “What’s your name again?” It’s somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he ever hears is Akutugawa’s jinkos.

“Naka…” the weretiger starts, then seems to forget he was saying anything. He turns to the cat as though he only just realized she was drawing tracks down his arm, and coos, scratching at her chin. His pupils are huge. Ah, that’s one question answered at least. A hard drug hindered his healing — and it would have disoriented him enough to panic, go out searching for help. Now the question was what drug, why, and how the fuck did his mind, even drug-addled, end up at Chuuya?

“Naka…” Chuuya echoes, scratching his chin. He really should know this, considering the scuffles and the bounty and the general hot topic the boy was around the Port Mafia. The weretiger does not provide any more help. He is entirely caught up with the cat. Now fully turned onto his side, the weretiger has both hands around the cat’s face, scratching dutifully under both her ears. She purrs like a motorboat.

“Hello,” he says reverently. Big-eyed, he tilts forward until he and the cat can touch noses. When he smiles Chuuya catches braces and grimaces. “Hello, hello, meow.”

“Mrow,” the cat offers.

“Nakajima!” Chuuya finally settles on, triumphant. Nakajima looks up at him fully for the first time, grinning with a Dazai-like edge. Well — tree, apple, falling, etc. Chuuya supposes he’s not so much grinning like Dazai as he is grinning like someone high on nebulous hard drugs, which Dazai often is.

“What’s her name?” Nakajima asks, glossy eyes settling somewhere on Chuuya’s chin.

“Pingus,” Chuuya says, and Nakajima dissolves into giggle fits. He rolls over, pushing himself into the back of the couch, giggling so hard his feet kick out. Pingus, scandalized, climbs onto the couch and begins kneading at Atsushi’s side, trying to force her head under his hands. “What!” Chuuya says, even though he’s listened to a hundred people laugh at his cat’s name before. “It’s a fine Spanish wine, Nakajima, does your idiot mentor teach you anything—”

Nakajima’s laughter stops abruptly. Everything about him stops abruptly. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and Chuuya realizes he hates the sight of him — collapsed on Chuuya’s fine couch, which he’d bought with blood money; white hair and moonlight skin and tatters of a white shirt, all matted and sticky with his own blood, bits of flesh trailing down his stomach. He’s got, Chuuya realizes, red smears all over his chin, his neck, and if he opened his mouth a little wider it might be on his teeth, too. Chuuya had always thought the kid sweet, a bit naive, earnest and reckless. Akutugawa had called him a stupid dog. He wonders about the man-eating tiger stories; wonders what Dazai saw in him in the first place that he thought would make a good partner for Akutugawa. He wonders what Dazai’s taught the kid - what he’s nurtured in him.

“Dazai,” Nakajima says, just as reverential as when he’d been speaking to Pingus. “Dazai told me to come here.” Out of his front pocket, he pulls a crumpled, slightly damp piece of notebook paper and holds it out to Chuuya. He grins big, proud of himself.

A safe place in case of emergency! :D It reads, in Dazai’s stupid messy scrawl. Chuuya will be kind and keep Atsushi for a bit. Tell Chuuya Dazai sent you!

Below these instructions are Chuuya’s address, his phone number (Jesus, Dazai, Chuuya thinks — might as well start plastering Chuuya’s face all over Main Street), and, of course, nothing directed at Chuuya.

Chuuya sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Fucking Dazai — what was he thinking, sending Nakajima his way? Did he tell his whole gaggle of do-gooders Chuuya’s place was a safehouse? And why the hell would he send Nakajima straight into the Mafia’s hands?

(Unless, of course, he believed Chuuya would decline to tell the Mafia about this at all. It was a big risk, believing that.)

“So.” Chuuya leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He studies Nakajima, whose chest is heaving, every breath coming with a hint of a wheeze. Did he overdose? Chuuya taps his foot, considering — he has aspirin in his first-aid kit. Narcan too. “What happened, huh? Too much catnip?”

Nakajima grins lazily (yes, he was right — blood and braces), head lolling against the couch. His arm is limp when Chuuya picks it up, presses two fingers to the pulse point at the inside of his elbow. Nakajima’s offering way too much trust, either because of the drugs or Dazai — Chuuya could stop his blood from flowing at all, if he wanted to. But Dazai would shoot him in the temple, probably.

“I dunno,” Nakajima slurs. His mental condition is definitely unnerving, but at least his pulse feels fine, and his skin isn’t clammy.

Chuuya pinches his inner arm and Nakajima yelps, jolting — his arm becomes monstrous and heavy. Chuuya stares at it, considering the length of its claws. Man-eater, he thinks.

“Huh,” Chuuya says. Then: “Wake up, kid. Tell me what happened.”

“Um.” Pingus is rubbing her face all over Nakajima’s jaw. A deep purr rumbles in Nakajima’s chest to match Pingus’s, which Chuuya is only mildly surprised by. There’s some semblance of awareness in Nakajima’s eyes that Chuuya thinks is due to Pingus’s bothering. She’ll get extra fish with her dinner, as a reward. “Dazai and I were undercover…” Nakajima’s eyes roam the ceiling, running his (both now human, thank God) bony hands up and down Pingus’s back. “Undercover, and… Dazai told me to leave — really fast.”

“Why?”

Nakajima looks frustrated, and Chuuya understands. With a mind addled like his is, it can be hard to put words to things even if you know exactly what you’re trying to explain. But if there’s trouble, there’s no time to wait for Nakajima to sober up.

“Because…” Nakajima says, “He said we were drugged… we were at this fancy party, and I started feeling funny, and Dazai said, go to the Agency, but the Agency was far away… I left him there…” Nakajima jumps up, suddenly, throwing a yowling Pingus off his chest. White knuckling the back of the couch, Nakajima shouts, “Dazai’s in trouble!”

“Calm down.” Chuuya considers reaching out, pushing Nakajima back down onto the couch. That probably wouldn’t go well. “You know Dazai’s fine.” Fine was maybe a strong word, but alive was a fact that seemed to stay true no matter what. “I need more from you. How’d you get injured?”

Nakajima blinks at him. “Injured?”

“Injured,” Chuuya reiterates, pointing at the chunk of yellow fat smeared across Nakijma’s stomach. What a fucking sight. All the hallmarks of a corpse on his couch, except the actual injury.

“Oh,” Nakajima says, squinting down at his own blood. He sort-of snarls as he runs his tongue over his upper teeth, like he just realized the blood on it. “I don’t — remember? I think someone tried to stop me leaving…”

Chuuya puts the images together. Thinks it through — Nakajima and Dazai, both of them completely out of place in some party full of cocktail dresses and tiny sausages. The drugging had to be well hidden for Dazai not to notice, but he would have known the second it slid down his throat. He imagines Dazai’s panicked face — the one no one else ever notices except Chuuya, who is very well attuned to the tiniest twitches of Dazai’s eyebrows — imagines him calculating exactly how many minutes him and Nakajima had, making an estimated guess based on Nakajima’s size and ability and how much he’d unknowingly chugged, and then deciding the kid had enough time to get the hell out of dodge.

Nakajima would have had to leave as discreetly as possible, as though he didn’t know anything was wrong. But if someone had drugged them both, then they were watching them, too. Nakajima had been intercepted, gotten hurt, and — hm. The man-eating thing had only ever been rumors. But if he had claws like that, Chuuya could only imagine the teeth, and what one does when there’s an unknown drug and panic and blood loss all settling in at once. With his efforts to get all the blood off his teeth and out of the crannies of his braces, Nakajima is making a lot of funny faces.

So someone was probably dead. And Dazai was God knows where. And — okay.

Chuuya tilts his head up to the ceiling, ignoring Nakajima, who has once again become preoccupied with Pingus. Question time:

1. Where’s Dazai? Did he get himself out too? Or is he drugged up in someone’s basement?

2. Why Nakajima and not him? If it were one or the other, Dazai would have had a much easier time getting himself out than Nakajima. His tolerance is higher, he probably had less, and, frankly, he’d probably be much more useful in terms of knowledge.

3. For that matter: why not both? Why couldn’t both of them leave? Scratch question 2, then — the only reason Dazai would let himself get caught is if he had a reason to.

4. Fine then, last question, besides why come to Chuuya: how long should Chuuya wait for the stupid mackerel to show his face before he sucks it up and calls the Agency?

Hopefully, he won’t have to deal with the last question. Either Nakajima sobers up soon or Dazai escapes. It’s been a few years and Dazai’s gone weird and soft, but at the very least he should still be totally capable of escaping some stupid fucking kidnappers.

Chuuya should probably add who drugged them to his list of questions, but that’s not really his problem. With the story straight-enough in his head, he just needs to focus on getting Nakajima sober. By the state of the kid’s giant pupils and still-heaving breaths and incessant giggles every time he whispers Pingus to himself, it’ll be a while.

Babysitting duty. Ah, well — Chuuya’s used to babysitting duty, ever since Dazai fucked off and left the Akutugawa kids reeling and helpless. (Not that either of the kids would admit that’s what happened.) Dazai was always leaving him on babysitting duty.

Chuuya sighs, stands, retrieves a blanket. By this point Nakajima’s sunk back down onto the couch, holding a loaf of Pingus against his chest. “Rest up, weretiger,” Chuuya says, throwing the blanket over the both of them. He’ll wash all the viscera and shit off the blanket later.

Nakajima, covered up to his nose, blinks with those big, dual-colored eyes. With a little mrow, Pingus’s head pops out of the blanket and she starts nuzzling Nakajima’s cheek with his nose.

“Are you gonna tell Akutugawa I’m here?” Nakajima asks softly. It should be a question asked with fear, but it’s awfully bland — unafraid. Chuuya’s lips twitch.

“No,” Chuuya says, and heads into the kitchen.

Dazai used to do a lot of cocaine.

He probably doesn’t anymore. Or he’s really good at hiding it. Chuuya doesn’t imagine a cocaine habit would go over well with the detectives, and he doesn’t imagine Dazai could even hide something like that from the smart one. (From the others, he could definitely hide it. But not the super smart one.)

Chuuya’s done it a few times himself, but it’s never been his preference. The dignity of alcohol, the richness of it, and most of all the beauty of it — all those fine, expensive, aged bottles sitting on his shelves — has always appealed to him. But Dazai liked the way things like cocaine got him excited, amplified his mania. He liked uppers, from cigarettes to ritalin to coke, because they made him feel human.

Not that it’s cocaine, Nakajima’s got in him. It’s definitely not cocaine. It was probably ketamine or benzos, an attempt to make Nakajima all loopy and relaxed and weak. That’s not what happened, clearly. At least it’s not what happened immediately, because Nakajima had enough strength in him to escape an attacker. Must’ve been his ability slowing the drug.

It doesn’t matter. This is all to say that Chuuya has more than enough experience sobering himself and others up. He sets to work frying some eggs.

Nakajima’s not asleep; from the other room, Nakajima’s quiet voice wafts in, indistinguishable murmurs interspersed with giggles and Pingus’s mrows. At some point he starts humming a song which Chuuya has to strain his ears to hear. It’s a sweet, lilting melody — his brain fills in the lyrics instantly and his heart twists at the realization that it’s Dazai’s stupid song, can’t do a double suicide alone.

Chuuya slides the eggs off the pan with his spatula and sets them gently on the plate. Then he stops there, stares at the eggs, the shaking yolks. Thinks about being fifteen in Mori’s office, glaring at Dazai, the feeling in his gut that something horrible had changed in his life. Thinks about the stark red marks of Dazai’s hand on Akutugawa’s cheek. Thinks about childrens’ feet pattering softly down the halls of the Port Mafia’s safe houses and headquarters’ halls. Thinks about Nakajima, smiling at Dazai’s name, singing silly tunes Dazai taught him.

Toast pops out of the toaster. It’s a little burnt. Chuuya blinks and takes a breath that does not shake. He flicks on the radio — some public station playing soft jazz — and he can’t hear Nakajima anymore.

When Chuuya returns to the living room with two ham egg and cheese sandwiches, Nakajima pops fully up, although this time he holds Pingus to his chest so she doesn’t fall. The blanket falls, though, and it’s the same as it was before: the remains of a nice shirt falling over thin shoulders, drying brown blood splattering his stomach and chest and arms, his own fucking skin and flesh and fat stuck to him. Chuuya’s seen gore before — seen it a thousand times worse than this — but something about the sight has him keeping his eyes dutifully on Nakajima’s forehead.

Nakajima devours the sandwich in practically one bite, his jaw wider than it ought to be. Chuuya pretends not to be unnerved by this.

Once Nakajima has fully chewed his sandwich and patted his stomach and hummed his thanks, Chuuya asks, “Feel any better?”

The penthouse is cold. Chuuya likes it that way. But Nakajima shivers, pulling the blanket back up, tucking himself back down onto the couch. “A little,” he says, suddenly very childlike. As though he’s only just realized he’s cold (likely, considering what some drugs can do to one’s awareness of things like temperature), Nakajima curls more and more into himself on his side, pulling the blanket up his face. Ridiculous, that he’s on Chuuya’s couch right now. Ridiculous, that Chuuya doesn’t call Akutagawa. Fucking Dazai.

Chuuya stands abruptly. Nakajima blinks in response.

“Rest,” Chuuya says again, then promptly retreats to his bedroom.

Dazai is sprawled out on Chuuya’s bed, twisting the soft black covers beneath him, hair fanned out over the pillow. He’s got a few bruises on his cheek but there’s no blood, Chuuya recognizes first, then recognizes second that Dazai is on his fucking bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chuuya says. Throws his hands up in the air, lets out a noise like a yell without any air — makes a scandalized face that Dazai only blinks at, throws his arms back down, then towards Dazai, into the air, then out, gesturing widely at the room around him. Every loose object in the room raises about a centimeter, drops, raises. “When the fuck did you get here!” He crosses the room in two long strides, pulls the lounging Dazai off the bed by his shoulders, and shakes him. “Your stupid kid is high out of his mind in the living room!”

Dazai groans, fake, squeezing his eyes shut. “Chuuya, Chuuya,” he whines, putting on a strange voice like a telenovela housewife, “Chuuya, my head is killing me!”

“You’ve done worse drugs,” Chuuya says, but he brings up a hand to start prying Dazai’s eyelids open and check his pupils. Yelping, Dazai bats him away, wiggles out of his grip, then rolls floppily onto the other side of the bed. He pats the space next to him in invitation.

“Fuck you,” Chuuya says.

Dazai just frowns.

The window is open, Chuuya realizes, a breeze fluttering the blackout curtains. This is somehow an even worse realization than finding Dazai on his bed, and Chuuya has to fully turn on his heel so he’s facing away from Dazai. He grabs his face in his hands, bounces on his heels once, twice, thrice. The idiot had either broken into the apartment below and climbed up to the penthouse or started from the roof and climbed down — either way, it’s so ridiculous and unnecessary that the thought of it gives Chuuya heart palpitations.

“You have a key to this apartment!” Chuuya hisses, although something about it feels like he shouldn’t say it out loud, like it’s an admittance. “Why would you-!”

Dazai hums in a way that tells Chuuya he won’t get an explanation. Either he’d done it for fun or done it because it was all part of some stupid plan or mind game or manipulation. Chuuya decided he didn’t care, because the more pressing question was—

“Why would you give that kid my address?” He steps forward so his knees are bumping the mattress.

Doe-eyed and innocent, Dazai stares up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, “Chuuya is a good babysitter…”

“I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya says, but he doesn’t add his usual violence to it because he’s squinting at Dazai’s pupils. Blown pupils, but his cheeks are a normal warmth, he seems perfectly able to move himself around. No need for the damn narcan, which is a blessing, because Chuuya’s had to give Dazai narcan more times than he’d like in this lifetime.

Dazai pats the spot next to him again. Rolling his eyes, Chuuya acquiesces. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee; fifteen, twenty-two. They sit in quiet a moment, Dazai taking deep breaths Chuuya recognizes as an attempt to sober up. The summer breeze through the window adds a bit of warmth to the cold room. Nakajima is humming that tune again, loud enough to hear through a closed door. Chuuya closes his eyes.

“I escaped a little faster than I meant, but I got good information,” Dazai muses. When Chuuya glances over, an eyebrow raised, he waves his hand in dismissal. “Agency business.”

“Agency business,” Chuuya repeats flatly, “but you can send Nakajima here in the middle of it.” He’s indignant, even though an hour ago he said whoever drugged the two of them wasn’t his problem. It’s the principle of the matter — he can decide he doesn’t care. Dazai can’t decide that for him.

Yawning, Dazai scratches at his jaw. “I didn’t specifically send him here. I gave him your information a long time ago. You were closer than the Agency.” The drugs are making him a bit less playful, more direct than usual. His gaze is sort of lizard-like, unfocused on the wall opposite him. “Chuuya’s a good babysitter,” he repeats. Chuuya could vomit. He leans a bit away from Dazai, but Dazai just lifts one leg and settles it over Chuuya’s, holding him in contact.

They’re silent for a long moment, in which Nakajima begins to giggle, repeating Pingus to himself several times.

“What’re you doing with this kid?” Chuuya finally asks, glancing sidelong at Dazai.

There’s that Dazai smile. The actor one, the robot one, that reaches his eyes as though it’s clawing for them. “Does Chuuya have a soft spot?” he asks, leaning back into Chuuya’s space, chin hitting Chuuya’s shoulder. He whines when Chuuya plants a hand on his face and pushes him off. With the momentum he falls over himself so that he’s become a ball on Chuuya’s bed, moaning about how mean and awful and cruel Chuuya is.

“No,” Chuuya bites, “I just wanna know what you’re planning in your stupid mackerel brain.”

Said mackerel doesn’t respond for a while. Chuuya is reaching out to jostle him when he realizes the rise and fall of his back is real, actual sleep, and his hand stops in the air.

“Damn it,” he says, but it’s a quiet mutter. Out in the living room, Nakajima’s quieted, too.

He stands. Goes into the living room. Stares at the now-sleeping kid for a long moment. In sleep he’s serene, cheeks thin but still childlike, face still all smooth like an artist had just gone over the clay of him with her thumbs. Pingus curls under his chin. All sweet, except for the brown-red on Nakajima’s jaw, resting against Pingus’s dark fur.

Chuuya crosses into the kitchen, sits heavy in a chair, and considers. Considers — all of the safe houses Dazai could have sent Nakajima off to. Considers that stupid tune Nakajima and Dazai seem to love, and the edge to both their smiles, and the vigor with which Akutugawa and Nakajima hate each other. Considers how a man was dead, and how he probably deserved to die, but it had been a desperate, drugged eighteen year-old on a job who’d done it. Considers Chuuya’s a good babysitter, and tea with the Akutugawas, and Nakajima’s braces. He comes to no satisfactory conclusions.

[bluginkgo]

I had another crack theory

This one I deemed crazy enough to be posted to see how wrong it'll be. But I wanna attempt to guess as to what the hole in the cathedral is.

Spoilers duh

The hole I'm talking about is this.

Lately, I've been seeing a pattern in things I enjoy and how they also tend to follow a pattern.

The overall pattern being: the deeper you go, the more dangerous it is.

Of course, this is nothing new. The deeper in the ocean you go, the more dangerous creatures lurk there. The deeper in caves you go, the more dangerous your surroundings become (specifically pressure and heat).

Now, as for the crack theory: I think the absolute solver is now the center/core of copper-9.

Yup, that's it, Ginkgo has lost it. Bring out a stretcher, they need to be sent to a hospital. XD Hey, that's what my crack theories are! They are by no means anywhere near correct, but funny little thoughts that pop into my head.

Some shaky and loose evidence plus observations.

The entire cathedral seems to be overrun by absolute solver flesh.

From the gif to the actual teasers, the walls of flesh and absolute solver are ever present. Meaning this form has to be HUGE. J's eldritch form took up a rather large amount of space.

So, for this absolute solver that is in the cathedral, it must need MORE space than what eldritch J needed... it needs the whole planet. Just like how it took the entire Earth.

Now here's where another question pops up. What type of solver would need this much space? We've never seen a DD core need more space than what eldritch J took up. That's it. J was a single DD of who we saw the corrupted core take form of. But what if you take 10, or 50, or 100 corrupted cores and fuse them together? Sure, a single solver drone may not make that big of an impact, but we don't know how long the list of drones that were experimented on down in the labs was. Was it 10 drones? 40? More? We'll have to see in ep7! But after the core collapse and whatever massacre Nori caused, I really don't think ALL of the solver drones made it out. Where does this leave them and their corrupted cores, then? In the cathedral, down in the pits of (almost) hell.

That is where the hole leads to. It is one of many exits for the main body (an amalgamation of many solver drone cores) of the absolute solver to send out its limbs. (These limbs perhaps include the hand that was in the cabin N was in for ep4)

Now, here is where my very little expertise runs out. I do not know and never will claim to be this smart, but I don't know what happens to a planet when its core collapses. Based on the events of Copper-9, a core collapse sends the entire planet into an ice age. The core's warmth is gone, and that is a perfect place for the absolute solver to hunker down and nest in (seeing as it hates sun).

So if the gang wants to save Copper-9 well... let's just say it won't be pretty. And maybe that is what this is all about.

By destroying the last pieces of what is left of the core or whatever the absolute solver was holding together... there is no more of the natural physics of the planet. Gravity is gone, and everything may start floating away.

As per usual, this is a very loose theory here to sit and gather dust until I watch ep7 and confidently say, "Ginkgo... you need more sleep. These theories are way too out there. That or perhaps ask the absolute solver for a new head because this is insanity." ^_^

[moodymisty]

Hi absolutely love your primarch fics

Could i request a corvus corax x reader. The poor bird boy needs more love. Maybe something fluffy i do adore the fics where the primarchs are more human and they get a break.

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙| 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: Ok so I decided to kind of combine these two also, since they both seemed to work together. This isn't fully NSFW, but there is some lewd elements. I hope that is acceptable to you both.

This is also my first time writing Corvus, and I haven't delved into his lore like I have with some of the other legions. So I apologize in any deviations from his canon and any inconsistencies in this fic apart from the obvious 'primarchs in love' ooc-ness.

Summary: Diplomacy has always been dreadfully boring.

Relationships: Corvus Corax/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW but it's pretty vague, I dunno what to call this I guess fingering? But it's not? hand grinding/rubbing I guess It'll make sense I promise, Voyeurism kink, General 40k mentions so war death all the usual

Word Count: 1714

"You shouldn't have brought that thing here."

The rattly, nearly wheezing voice comes from somewhere out of your sight, and you don't pay any mind to it from how mumbled and furious it seems. You assume it's directed at another, and not yourself. No one has any possible reason to speak with such anger at you, after all; At least as far as you're aware. The fabric of your clothing is wrinkled at the front, and you brush it to flatten it. Perhaps you shouldn't have walked ahead.

"Are you deaf, girl?"

Suddenly you look up, and see someone standing to your side. The source of the voice earlier, you presume, judging by it's similar rasping tone.

Head to toe they are adorned in various cybernetic enhancements, even more so than what is visible to you, judging by the odd, inhuman bulging beneath his ornately decorated copper robes. The metal, hooked fingers of his left hand gesture to the raven perched comfortably atop your left shoulder.

"That, shouldn't be here."

The small metal tubings coming from his neck seem to muffle his speech in some way, and there is a distinct tremor to both his motions and his speech. You don't know if it's the sheer volume of his anger like an engine overheating about to explode, or simply something his extensive cybernetic work has yet to or is unable to fix.

The raven, still unnamed by you, snaps it's beak in the direction of the man's metal finger getting too close to itself and it's keeper, letting out a squawk when the man instantly retracts his hand back close to his peculiarly shaped torso. The raven only then returns to preening your hair, or at least attempting to.

"I think I can bring it where ever I want, thank you."

With no surprise he seems completely shocked by your adamant refusal to listen, no doubt not expecting it in the slightest. You don't know if he hasn't noticed the Aquilla and the symbol of the XIXth on your clothing, or if he just simply doesn't care.

"Unbelievable; You embarrass yourself acting such a way- And where did that, thing, even come f-"

"It was a gift."

The sharp corners of this fortress's halls effectively hid Corvus for a good while until he was quite close, the pitch black of his armor seemingly almost eating the light that shined onto it instead of reflecting it. His hair does the same, flowing down past his jaw and laying against the collar of his armor. He is followed by a retinue of seven, Nykona included among them. Despite all the other Astartes leaving their jetpacks behind because of such tight quarters, Nykona elected to still wear his. The advantage of his skill with it is too great for him not to have for any possible scenario.

Even if this world seems intent on coming peacefully, someone like Corvus is going to take no chance on the matter. You would be of no surprise to find out that there with Raven Guard scattered across this fortress, and along the rocky faces surrounding it.

The man looses color like a draining sink, what little blood left in his body leaving his face and worsening his pallid complexion. He instantly moves to bow, before rising, pointing towards you and instantly breaking any previous respect he might have gained.

"Lord Primarch?! What is your r-"

"That raven was my first courting gift to her."

As if his face couldn't get any paler, it somehow seems to upon the realization that he'd just insulted the new lover of the Primarch who holds this world's neck in a noose trap. The Shadow of the Emperor sits moored just in the planet's outer atmosphere, ready at any moment. Corvus need only give the word.

Had Corvus the desire, he could simply level this rock until it was nothing but ash beneath the treads of his boots. But he was perhaps a bit more human than some of his brothers, and given the planet had relatively vast infrastructure and plentiful resources, he had elected diplomacy. To make use of said infrastructure, rather than simply leveling it and starting over.

You hear a soft sound; The crackling of a vox channel being used between the Astartes helmets. It's a subtle sound you've gotten keen to. They're talking to each other on their private channel, but about what you have no idea.

The one left of Corvus, not Nykona, is who speaks up.

"What are our orders, My Lord?"

Corvus gestures down the hall at the end of which lies the grand meeting room you had been moving towards, before getting interrupted. The counciler that once had the intent to scold you now stands frozen, fearful of the Primarch's lack of interest in his existence.

"Two post at the door. The rest with me."

The Primarch begins walking forwards and nearly through the man, had he not stumbled out of the way.

Corvus need only take one look at him, to send the man scuttering back towards his peers. You follow beside Corvus, and one of the Astartes slows his gait ever so slightly to allow you to do so.

The four Astartes spread across the meeting room once you enter, all placing themselves near points of entry like windows. It's nowhere near as large as something you would see on Terra, but it's more than sizable to need a few Astartes to cover it's corners.

However, you had entered the room with five- you notice a group of candles almost blow out from an invisible wind, but you elect to look away from it.

A myriad of profuse apologies on behalf of and from their compatriot fill the air, mixed between bowing and spouting of enough titles to fill a stew pot; Only once it concludes do you finally sit. They must've heard the altercation from moments ago, and you struggle not to show amusement at the theatrics. But after that moment, only a feeling of boredom remains.

In the deep recesses of your mind, perhaps one sicker than you might wish it, you lament Corvus's choice of diplomacy.

It's longer, far more tedious, and has you spending all of your energy speaking with stuffy priests and diplomats that has your mind aching in either boredom or annoyance. Or at worst, anger. Like moments ago in the hall. With something such as war, the goal is at least on first impression, simple and obtainable. Diplomacy requires a firm hand, yet gentle, and results in having a legion of Astartes figuratively chomping at the bit.

Thankfully, Corvus has Imperium agents and his own diplomats to do most of the gentle talking. Corvus is far too blunt and tight lipped for these sorts of things, and you aren't on your best behavior after the incident in the hall. You swear that man might actually just collapse dead if Corvus spares him one more glance.

But the Primarch seems disinterested, though not much to your surprise. What is a surprise however, is when he seems to decide to find a way to occupy his mind elsewhere. On matters perhaps a bit more interesting to him.

His hand lays on your thigh. It's heavy; The ceramite of his armor adds a considerable heft. You look up at him curious and receive nothing back in return. He has always been impeccable at hiding his emotions behind an mask of complete indifference, and only sometimes does it fall off. You only catch his dark eyes for a moment before he looks elsewhere, the sunlight colored through the stained glass and shining on his pale skin.

His hand trails further up your thigh, though it doesn't much have to given the sheer size of his hand in comparison to your body. He might perhaps not be the largest of all the Primarchs, but that doesn't mean his body is any less gargantuan compared to your own.

The raven, which has been largely silent since sitting, shifts from your shoulder to his, content with it's higher perch. Your clothing bunches and wrinkles underneath his armored fingers, before the outside of his armored palm presses against your cunt. You feel a jolt of lighting go up your spine, and it's a struggle not shift your shoulders forward as he applies a non-stop pressure to your most sensitive areas.

You put a hand on his fingers and attempt to peel them away, but they stay firm. It's like trying to pry away the fingers of a marble statue. There is absolutely no chance in doing so and now you sit at the mercy of whatever he wishes to do to you. A question that will get no answer, as you glance upward again his watch his stoic face glance from person to person. As if completely unaware or uncaring of what he is doing.

He is intent to try your patience, it seems. You lean slightly forward as your nerves make you fear of anyone being able to see what's happening beneath the table; As you know there is at least one cloaked Raven Guard somewhere in the room. If he was behind you, he would be easily able to see. Especially as The Primarch's hand begins to move, unsatisfied with simply forcing his way into the front of your mind with just his still pressure. Each movement he makes makes your body feel hotter, like you're going to boil alive despite the cool air

"And mandatory requisitions..."

Negotiations seem to be doing well, from what murmurs you pick up. But you're too busy tensing your thighs as Corvus rubs the side of his hand against your clothed cunt to notice. His armor is unyielding, pressing against you firm and forcing your thighs apart slightly no matter how hard you fight it. You'd be hard pressed to have anything come to mind at this point. Slowly and with every muscle in your body tensed, you attempt to let out a deep, heavy sigh without casting any interest your way.

You cross your ankles, and put your chin in the nook of your index finger and thumb, placing fingers over your lips in an attempt to simply look bored. Your other hand grasps onto the first two fingers of his hand for dear life, desperately trying not to even make a single movement out of place let alone make a noticeable sound. You can feel the way your undergarments slide against your cunt, soaked and crying for it to stop, and for it to continue until you finally come.

"We can construct a new harbor..."

You've completely lost the path of what's happening around you, thighs quivering from how tight you have them pressed together around Corvus' hand. But his hand still moves between them up and down against your clothed cunt, unimpeded.

A harsh breath is all you let out of your nose as you feel your stomach tense as you come against him through the layers of fabric, feeling like you're being watched by a million eyes. But none are, except for him.

Through that flawless, neutral expression, he glances downward at you before he pulls his gauntlet from between your thighs and rests it back against the massive wooden tabletop. You could tell the look in his eyes. He lets you settle down from the high in silence, in a room that feels like a stage. You have no possible idea of how long you'll be stuck here, as your clit throbs in aftershocks.

You look away from his dark eyes before they trap you for good, and lament the wet, sticky feeling against your undergarments as you shift in your seat.