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antimonyandthyme · 2 days ago

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body swap, for carcar or even landoscarcar?

He wakes up, disoriented. It’s not even light out yet, why the fuck is he awake? His throat’s a little sore, his hips are a little sore. Jeez. Didn’t even bother to put some pants on last night, and did he chafe his ass on like, the sheets or something? Wow. He’s sore all over. A settled, pleasant kind though, a muscle ache too deep for him to reach. Maybe he can skip the gym today, hop on a stream, relax. Grab Carlos for a round of golf before he leaves, if he’s not too busy mapping Monaco on his bike.

He turns to his left. Claps a hand over his mouth, shrieks into it.

Like, he’s groggy. He doesn’t have the remnants of a disaster headache, so he’s not hungover. But it’s early, and he never wakes up early. Must be why he’s hallucinating.

When he can bring himself to look again, Carlos is still there. Close enough that Lando can hear the air whistling softly through his teeth.

Lando shifts uselessly, stares. That’s Carlos, alright. He’s always been a loud sleeper. Back in their McLaren days, when they’d shared hotel rooms, Lando had taken voice recordings to prove to an adamant Carlos that he snored. The memory makes his lips twitch. It’s nice Carlos looks well-rested. Better than he has in awhile. A pretty trophy will do that for you. If he wants, Lando can choose to waste precious time counting Carlos’s lashes while he figures out what to do. He’ll lose count at probably a hundred.

That’s Carlos, alright.

What were they doing last night? Surely Lando would remember. The party was loud, raucous, the Prince of Monaco victorious here at last. All podium finishers present, fourth place included. Drinking, laughing, cozying up to one another. Carlos and Oscar smiling tentatively at each other after sharing just one couch, animosity seemingly forgotten. The prickly itch crawling under Lando’s skin, until Charles finally manages to bag him a set. The music, beats pounding a tattoo into his brain. He remembers all of that.

Surely he would remember taking Carlos’s clothes off. He’s wanted to for—

Lando slaps both hands onto his cheeks, hard enough to sting. He needs to take a leak.

He squeaks out of the bed, as quietly as he can. Trips over a pair of jeans that look vaguely familiar, rams his toe into the wheel of a suitcase that definitely wasn’t there last night. Finds the bathroom, closes the door with a silent snick.

Fumbles around like a dunce for the light switch, right there where all light switches usually are.

Flicks it on. Shrieks for real this time, without his hands to cover the noise.

It’s a good thing Carlos has always slept like the dead. To be absolutely fucking certain, Lando peeks his head out.

Yep, still asleep. That’s Carlos, alright.

Deep, deep breaths. As deep as he can go without passing out. He returns to the mirror. Feels for his face like it’s a foreign object.

Which it is. Because that’s Oscar Piastri, looking right back at him.

He means to start off with something useful. Something like, Hey, do you remember what drugs we were on last night? E? Salvia? Because mate, these are the strangest withdrawal symptoms I’ve ever experienced. Or even something funny, like Haha, now I know what you look like naked. The fans are going to have a field day.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Why are you sleeping with Carlos?”

“Good morning to you too,” Oscar says, after the longest pause on planet fucking earth.

He didn’t mean for that to sound as sulky as he did. But he’s sore all over, and his lips, which are not his, but Oscar’s, feel extremely kissed, and he definitely does not expect that to make something in his chest twist tighter than a coiled spring.

“Aren’t you going to answer?”

“What did we drink last night?” Oscar says, unsurprisingly choosing to be the level-headed one in this conversation.

“Something bright green, something ocean blue. Dunno. Lost track during the set.”

“Lando,” Oscar says patiently, in Lando’s voice. Which is just all kinds of weird. “Something green, something blue, doesn’t sound all that normal.”

“I knew that DJ couldn’t be trusted.”

The world-weary sigh Lando receives makes his skin prickle with heat. Things have been happening. The car’s gotten faster. From his grandmother to the mechanics, everyone’s been talking about a chance he could pull like magic out of thin air. It’s not his fault he wasn’t paying attention. At the club, or to every encounter Carlos and Oscar had prior to this that has led them here.

“Look, I’m gonna—where are you?”

“In Carlos’s room,” Lando says, rudely, unhelpfully.

“Right. I’ll. I’ll be there in. We’re staying just, two blocks away, right? I’ll be there in ten. Could you. Could you please, just—”

Lando expects him to say something totally condescending. Please just don’t freak out. Please just don’t do anything until I get there, because I’m being responsible and you’re being a baby.

“Just, go back?”

“What?”

“Be next to him, when he wakes up?”

Lando swallows. The acid from yesterday must be making his stomach churn. Oscar—in Lando’s fucking voice, sounds smaller and more hopeful than Lando ever wants to hear himself sound.

“I don’t want him to think.” Oscar stops. Lando can practically see him scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t want him to think I left, or anything like that. Could you—”

Lando hangs up.

The earnestness. The, the audacity.

The phone rings again, and Lando hangs up again, out of pure spite. He paces wildly, in front of the mirror. Each time he turns on his heel he imagines his body morphing back into what’s right. Each turn smacks him with the image that Oscar’s pale, freckled skin turns splotchy red when he’s angry.

What. A useful thing. To know.

It’s been half an hour since he’s woken up. Which means, oh fuck. Fuck. Carlos’s body clock has always been impeccable. Eight, on the dot, he springs out of bed like it’s a wonderful thing being alive at that hour, and then goes and makes coffee without fail. Which means in three, two minutes, Carlos will open his eyes. And, and he’ll be alone in bed.

He’ll be alone. That’ll make Lando feel better, right? Carlos will be alone, and then Oscar will no longer be a problem, and then the itch under his skin will disappear, for good.

Carlos will be alone.

He flicks off the light, slips out of the bathroom. Bangs his toe again on that damned suitcase. Slides under the covers, adjusts himself into a position he hopes might be believable. Head on one hand, face tilted toward Carlos. Body leaning, reaching. Always reaching. Eyes half-closed.

But open enough so that he can see the exact moment Carlos wakes. See that small, relieved smile. See the way Carlos clicks his jaw askew, the way he always does before making a decision. Then feel Carlos run the backs of his knuckles against a face he wishes were familiar.

#athy texts #fanfic #rpf #carcar #carlandoscar #anon why not both #why not both!!!#bodyswap prompt fic

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another-lost-mc · 2 years ago

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Feel the Heat (Royals Edition) DIAVOLO & BARBATOS 2k words | NSFW | afab!Reader | Shameless Smut Content warnings: Poly!Reader, demon heats (vaguely mentioned), demon forms mentioned (Diavolo, Barbatos), threesome, oral sex (afab! and m! receiving), cockwarming, rough sex, voyeurism. A/N: Read the other Feel the Heat fics: The Demon Brothers | Newspaper Club Edition.

When Diavolo and Barbatos go into their heats - synced together almost perfectly - they invite you to the Demon Lord’s Castle for a tea party. No matter how many times you insist that isn’t necessary, they insist that it is. It’s charming that they try to maintain a semblance of decorum, even though you can see their heat symptoms slowly overwhelm them.

Diavolo visibly sweats through his RAD uniform, and his eyes are black pools of desire that stare at you hungrily across the small table on his private balcony. He has difficulty speaking and he’s breathing heavily. Eventually he stops trying to form words at all and replies only with sharp nods of his head or low grunts.

Barbatos doesn’t pour him tea, and Diavolo wouldn’t drink it if he did. He’s unspeakably hungry for you, but he reminds himself that he needs to prove he’s not a mindless beast that only wants you for your body. He crosses his legs and grips his chair when the urge to lunge across the table and claim you grows unbearable.

During his heat, Barbatos can't maintain his composure for long and you can tell he's not faring much better than Diavolo is. Like his master, his skin is covered with a thin sheen of sweat. There’s a tremor in his hands when he pours your tea. He murmurs apologies when some spills over the rim of the cup, an unusual occurrence when he’s normally so controlled and meticulous.

On a typical day, he stands by Diavolo’s side, or behind him. During his heat, he hovers behind you instead; you can hear his sharp intake of breath whenever he dares to lean forward and scent you. He is usually more discreet, but today his nose is nearly against your skin; his warm puffs of breath tickle your neck.

You tell yourself you’ll eat something - a small, delicate pastry prepared by Barbatos himself - and then drag them both to bed before they completely lose control of their senses. You don’t want to risk having to fuck them on the balcony (again). There might be enough privacy so you won’t be seen, but there’s nothing to silence their feral noises or your own pleasured cries.

There was one previous visit when the onset of their heats blindsided all of you with its intensity. They took you right there on the balcony instead of the cozy bed inside. Barbatos swiped the table clear of his expensive, beautiful china and ripped down your pants and bent you over. He fisted your hair while he fucked you with fast, punishing thrusts; Diavolo jerked himself off as he watched, muttering filthy praise for you under his breath.

After Barbatos was temporarily satiated, Diavolo pulled you down onto his lap and urged you to ride him too. He laid on the uncomfortable ground himself and shielded your delicate body from the rough stone, the way any proper mate would. After he came, Diavolo held you while Barbatos licked the sloppy mess from between your thighs, then his master carried you inside before the next wave of their heats took hold.

(They were both entirely smug about that little tryst afterwards. The scratches on their backs and knees lingered for days which constantly reminded them of you.)

Your demon hosts are already restless when they wait for you to choose a dessert, so you pick the closest pastry to avoid testing their patience. You bite into the flaky turnover and panic when sweet whipped filling spills across your mouth. Your lips are covered with powdered sugar and cream, and you wonder if Barbatos hoped this would happen all along. There's a quiet rumbling emanating from his chest behind you, and across the table, Diavolo clenches the arm of his chair so tightly that you can hear the wood splinter and crack.

This is ridiculous.

You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand and stand up knowing that they’ll follow. Diavolo slowly rises from his seat across from you, and his body shakes with anticipation and poorly-disguised lust.

Barbatos holds out his gloved hand to you and you place your palm in his. You think he means to lead you inside, but he brings your hand to his mouth and licks away the traces of sticky sweetness left behind. His tongue flicks across your skin far longer than needed - he’s chasing your taste now too.

Two pairs of dark eyes snap to yours when you whimper. You can only withstand so much attention and overwhelming desire from them before you feel yourself unraveling too. Diavolo takes your other hand and drags you off the balcony with Barbatos close behind.

They lead you into the bedroom where they can finally have you all to themselves. Your hands are shaking with anticipation, but thankfully Barbatos helps strip off your clothes so you don't have to fumble with the buttons of your shirt. He’s gentle with you, but he can’t resist the urge to brush his lips against your skin - and nip at the unmarked flesh with his teeth - as his nimble fingers undress you.

Diavolo stands behind you and tilts your chin back so he can kiss you, and he groans at the lingering sweetness he tastes on your lips. His impatient hands explore the bare skin Barbatos reveals to him: your bare shoulders, your breasts, the dips and curves of your belly and hips.

During most of their previous heats, Barbatos fucked you first. I need to prepare you for the future demon king’s cock, he whispered in your ear when you wondered why he was allowed to stretch you with is fingers - and his cock - while Diavolo watched you both with dark, hungry eyes.

But today, it seems they have something different in mind. “I want to prepare you myself,” Diavolo’s rough voice growls into your ear. He clasps his arms around your body and grinds his cock against your ass. He’s in his demonic form behind you; you can hear the restless stirring of his wings. His horned silhouette on the wall is monstrous, but you know there’s nowhere safer than the greedy embrace of the demon prince that loves you.

Barbatos is in his demonic form too, but he’s positioned himself flat on the bed and only the topmost buttons of his shirt are undone. He palms the staining bulge in his pants. He meets your half-lidded gaze with his own and licks his lips expectantly.

Diavolo rests his hands on the small of your back and nudges you towards the bed. You kneel on the edge of the mattress, and Barbatos crooks his finger at you. You crawl on your knees and he shivers when you slide your hands up his thighs and spread them apart to give you more space. Diavolo settles on the bed behind you, and he peppers kisses along your back while his hands squeeze at the soft, jiggly skin of your ass.

Barbatos unzips his pants for you, and he tilts his head back against the pillow when you pull out his cock. He’s been leaking inside his pants and the tip is already wet and glistening with traces of his arousal. You swallow his cock down with one smooth glide of your lips wrapped around him, while Diavolo buries his face between your thighs and licks greedily at your slit. You moan around Barbatos’s cock, and he echoes you with a soft groan of his own.

After a few minutes of clenching the bedsheets while you drag your lips along his shaft, Barbatos snarls and rips off his gloves with his teeth. It surprises you to see him do something so uncouth. You drool pathetically from the corner of your slack-jawed mouth onto his cock, but that seems to rile him up even more. He smooths his bare hands over the sides of your face and he cradles your jaw. He helps guide your movements, up and down, over and over again in a sensual glide of your spit-slicked lips around his cock. He doesn’t push your head down faster or deeper than he knows you like. Your mouth is warm and wet around him, and you flick his cock tip with little kitten licks before you swallow him back down.

Barbatos knows he’s going to come first. His tail’s been thumping restlessly against the mattress, and the forked ends wrap around your wrist in an effort to ground himself. A grunt and a few shallow thrusts of his hips are your only warnings before he pumps his cum into your mouth. It flows hot and sticky across your tongue and down your throat when you swallow.

He needs longer to recuperate than his master does and he’s already softening in your mouth. You hold him like that gently, enjoying the sensation of him, hot and heavy, on your tongue. You squirm when he murmurs that you’re being such a good cockwarmer for him. He lets you enjoy it a little longer and he only pulls away when he becomes too sensitive.

Diavolo growls possessively deep within his chest when the air continues to thicken with his butler’s scent. He’s nearing the edge of his own self-control and needs to fuck you, but he needs you to come for him first. He’s three thick fingers deep inside you, massaging your walls and teasing the spongy spot hidden within. He laps at your slick with his tongue and sucks on your clit. Your body trembles and you undulate your hips to meet the greedy movements of his tongue and fingers.

When you approach your own release, you’re whimpering and moaning both their names, an endless siren’s song that threatens to overwhelm them both. You rest your head on Barbatos’s belly and close your eyes while the sensations between your legs start to overwhelm you. Barbatos whispers sweet praise as he strokes your neck and shoulders - he tells you how good you are, how beautiful you look, how delicious you smell and taste.

The combination of Barbatos’s honeyed filth pouring from his mouth, and Diavolo’s lips and fingers plundering your body for pleasure, finally drives you over the edge. You try to muffle your cries, but Diavolo slaps your ass; he wants all of your noises for himself, and he’s going to have them. Your head shoots up in surprise, even though his hand startles you more than it hurts you. He’s finally satisfied that he can hear your gorgeous whimpers and moans unobstructed. His fingers are drenched with your slick, and he sucks them into his mouth while he waits for you to catch your breath.

Barbatos helps you maneuver more comfortably onto your side, then he tucks his cock into his pants before he rolls off the bed. His young master is already crawling up the bed to lay beside you, and Barbatos smiles when Diavolo curls his wings and arms around you protectively. This is a rare moment of peace and clarity that the young prince has to spoil you with sweet words and loving affirmations. Soon enough, his heat will rob him of his words, and he’ll become a touch-starved, primitive beast once more.

Barbatos watches from the shadows when the prince's gentle kisses and touches become rougher and more purposeful. When Diavolo finally mounts you and starts fucking you in earnest, Barbatos sneaks from the room.

He hurries to retrieve some basic necessities that the three of you will need by the end of the night: water, snacks, and some healing and rejuvenation potions for you. You helped him break through the haze of his own heat - temporarily, at least - and it’s enough for him to be quick and efficient gathering supplies from the castle kitchen. He has to be quiet when he returns, although he doubts either of you will notice. As he approaches Diavolo's room, he can hear the muffled bang of the headboard hitting the wall punctuated by his young master’s grunts and your breathy moans.

When Barbatos slips back inside the bedroom, the cloyingly thick scent of your sweat and cum starts to cloud his mind and his heat starts to build again. He grows hard in his pants when your cries to be filled and bred become more desperate. Barbatos watches his young master fuck you senseless, and he licks his lips as he eagerly awaits his turn.

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mellifexfarm · 1 year ago

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News

My flock has contracted Marek's Disease.

Since 2019, after I brought home Lyra and Wren, my flock has been a closed flock. Meaning I take biosecurity very seriously, and opted to not bring any new chickens in or allow other poultry-keepers access to the yard where they are kept. The only birds that were added from 2019 until now have been from hatching eggs. There are a select few diseases that can pass from mother to egg, but not Marek's.

But within the past few weeks one chicken displayed symptoms of leg weakness and became unable to walk. I brought them indoors and started treating for vitamin deficiency, since that is by far the most common cause of sudden lameness in poultry. But she didn't get better, and then Lyra started walking unsteadily, and I knew something else was wrong. I suspected something was wrong with my feed and sent off a sample to get tested for mycotoxins, and switched feeds, because I know a lot of people have had issues with that lately. But then one morning I found Moss deceased in the coop, and it all kind of went downhill from there.

Sebrights are known for having extremely low resistance to disease. They are very inbred. It is the reason I lost Kip to fowl pox when everyone else recovered fine. And why all but one (her unnamed cockerel "emo" son) of the members of my flock who are descended from Lyra are affected. But none of the other tiny breeds I have, Seramas or Kikirkis, are known for being particularly disease resistant either. So. I am extremely cautious at jumping the gun and saying they wont be effected.

I sent off Moss's body for a necropsy on monday and got the results today, September 29th.

I do not know how this got into my flock. Our nextdoor neighbor got chickens a few months ago, but our birds don't have any direct contact. That is the only way I can think of.

There is a vaccine but it can only be administered to day old chicks. Vaccinating to prevent this was not an option.

It generally takes 4-10 weeks for the disease to develop after the chicken has been exposed, so it had to have been fairly recent. My flock has not been carrying this sub-clinically.

I genuinely don't know how this is going to go from here. There is no treatment for marek's disease. It is a virus. I have ordered a few herbal remedies with vague studies to back up some kind of efficacy helping reduce the damage the virus does and boost their immunity, but its mostly a crapshoot. The only good news I have with all this is that older birds are somewhat less likely to succumb to this disease. And the fact turkies and pigeons can't contract it.

The only birds displaying symptoms right now are Lyra, and Moss's unnamed pullet daughter.

Lyra is tentatively okay. I have crafted a sling for her, and she has been increasing in mobility over the last few days. She did not ever have full paralysis, so I am hopeful. Her daughter and Mouse, one of the younger keep-back pullets from this summers chicks, are the only casualties so far.

I'll be doing all that I can in terms of supportive care, but if any symptomatic birds get to the point I don't think they will recover from I will be euthanizing them. I will not be selling chickens anymore.

This disease has been a nightmare of mine for such a long time and now it is really happening. I am pretty crushed.

#animal death

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