#*collapses in a heap*

[iwasntstable]

+[MSG : NOWHERE TO GO - CHAPTER ONE, who wants it?]

[ihatebrainstorm]

Late night Brainstorm grief thoughts...

[zzoupz]

GAAAAAAHHHH I DID IT

Art Fight MASS ATTACK on my facebook friends based on the painting "Chain Of Gossip" by Norman Rockwell!

Recipients list (left -> right):

Row 1: me, ⁓InkPLUSsoda, @milramemo, ⁓Ka_i

Row 2: ⁓AroAround, ⁓karismemali, ⁓Spaceraccoon404

Row 3: @psycholocheesed, ⁓Prab_IDK, ⁓Punchii

Row 4: ⁓watusingpaputok, @staritoz, ⁓dafuqduckinbed

Row 5: @ml-goggles, @fossil-creek, me!

[neonhellscape]

collective action

[greatvaluegirlfriend]

something fruity and toxic going on between those two white ER docs………. mentor/mentee blown to hell

[phoenixwithapencil]

practiced some with how I want to draw the gavin brothers and the key differences I want to emphasize, working from their sprites and official art

Kris has slightly smaller eyes and smaller irises as well as pointier facial features, meanwhile Klav is more rounded, has larger eyes, and warmer colors. His hair also splits at the ends of sections, unlike Kris who's hair is more perfectly styled (thank you to @mediocre-breadcrumbs btw for tips on how to break down their hair, twas greatly appreciated (: )

Also decided to fiddle with how I think their signatures look- as a treat. Klav gets two, one that he uses for the gavineers (easier to speedily sign merch) and the other that he uses on like- actual paperwork, especially post-aa4

[kaurwreck]

bsd is never going to have any explicit romance until its final climax, which will be resolved by natsume soseki and fyodor dostoevsky sloppily tongue fucking each other's mouths in an allegory for the evolution of modern japanese literature.

[ministry-of-information]

on my hands and KNEES. please, could I request for any Vonel art... 🥺🙏

one vonel, for you!! i tried something different with the lighting and idk how i feel but. experimenting is fun!!!

this is all lasso tool and gradient tool btw. just so we all know my struggle.

[lemonsrosesandlavender]

If you're still taking suggestions for your "Archmage, Slut" fic I'd love to see Rolan dealing with all those eggs from the first prompt- surely he can't hide them forever?

Anon, I hope you are still out there somewhere to enjoy all ~5800 words of this. This is my eggpreg magnum opus, and has driven me completely insane. It's also available to read on AO3 as Best Laid Plans, if you'd rather read it there. Thank you for waiting, and I hope you enjoy!

Tags: eggpreg (obviously), D/s, sub Rolan, dom f!Tav!Reader, pegging, rough sex, angst with a happy ending, egg laying (the eggs are blanks). Brief food kink, in the context of pregnancy cravings.

As Rolan’s situation progresses, the pair of you often sit up after dark, making notes by candlelight on the changes to his body. At first, they are in perfect accord with Rolan’s translation of the original Drow-language book, On the Uses of Tentacle Spells.

Eggs will not grow significantly in size past that of insertion; slight stomach swelling possible but depends on the subject.

Rolan’s slim, angular form had shown them immediately, of course, but you had expected that. Hoped for it, even. He whimpers beautifully whenever you trail your hand over the bump. In public, he hides it carefully beneath his robes, his belt worn higher than usual to let the fabric hang loosely over his stomach— but he puts up only a token complaint about you snatching a teasing feel, and frequently demands to be ravished in an alley afterwards.

Correct, too, was the note that his appetite would disappear at first.

Eggs appear to interfere with normal digestive processes. Subject’s inclination to eat will typically disappear for several days after insertion, before returning to a normal level. After appetite returns, subject is likely to crave fruit, especially—

‘Peaches,’ you purr with satisfaction, handing the basket over to Rolan as he sits scribing at his desk.

‘Thank the Gods,’ he mutters, sinking his teeth into one and scarfing it down with unseemly haste. It’s gone in an instant.

Clearing his throat, he discards the stone and does his best to recover some dignity.

��Ah… thank you.’ He pauses, eyeing the peaches. ‘I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but could you leave me to my studies?‘

‘Why, because you don’t want me to see you ripping them apart like a wild animal?’

‘I have been beset by cravings all morning,’ he argues. ‘Forgive me if desperation won out.’

‘So I see,’ you murmur, and lean in to lick the trail of juice off his chin. ‘But I don’t think I will leave you to it. I want to see my pregnant little whore of an Archmage eat the peaches that he begged me for.‘

‘Oh Gods,’ he groans. His tail coils around his calf, so tightly the point snags on his trousers. ‘Zurgan!‘

Subject’s cravings were only satisfied after six peaches, you write; to spare Rolan’s rather warped sense of propriety, you do not record that you made him lick you to orgasm for every single one.

But the longer this “pregnancy” carries on, the more it deviates from the translated notes, and the more you grow concerned. Rolan pretends not to notice, and that frustrates you even more.

‘Maybe we should measure the circumference of the swelling,’ you suggest, as neutrally as possible, whilst the pair of you undress for a bath.

You can’t see the expression on Rolan’s face, as he turns to pick up a towel, but his tone is even more studied than your own.

‘It would be pointless. We have no baseline measurement to work from.’

‘Figaro has your usual measurements.’

His tone shortens. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Rolan—’

‘I was under the impression that you liked the effect on my appearance,’ he says, and there is just enough teasing in his words that you can look past the curtness that preceded them. The sight of him naked, slicked in bath oils, helps a lot too. As his egg-filled stomach slip beneath the water’s surface, you are compelled to admit that you do like the way he looks.

‘I thought so,’ Rolan says smugly, and at that you roll your eyes, force all your worries aside, and press your tongue down his throat.

You are determined to be relaxed about it, if Rolan wants you to be. If he doesn’t mind, and doesn’t want to address it further, then you’ll leave it; tease him about it, in fact, and enjoy the considerable neediness that being full of your eggs seems to induce in him. He drinks from your cunt as if it’s ambrosia, and provokes you into spanking him near-daily, his growing bump pressed against your thigh.

All the same… after two months have passed, with no sign of egg-laying, you feel compelled to revisit the notes.

No further noticeable side-effects occurred; in all tested instances of the spell, eggs were lain within a month, after a brief period of contractions.

You shut the book in frustration— and then open it again, because you saw a long auburn hair trapped against that page. Rolan has been reading it too.

It shouldn’t be surprising; he must obviously also see that his swelling stomach is beginning to show beneath his clothes, and be aware that this does not match the spell description that he himself translated.

And yet he was the one trying to get you to touch his stomach in public just yesterday, leaning against your hand on the Sundries counter and throwing you a suggestive glance. The more concerning this gets, the more he seems intent on pretending nothing is wrong.

Damn it. You put the book away, resolving to address this in a day or two if he doesn’t bring it up himself— but you don’t have to wait that long.

When he comes in from the bathroom the next morning, he announces his intention to visit Bonecloak’s.

‘I didn’t notice we needed any alchemical supplies when I checked the cupboard this week,’ you say, harbouring a kernel of suspicion. It grows as you see Rolan try to subtly roll out his back, the movement stilted and capped with a slight wince.

‘True,’ he says. ‘But after some reading, I have come to the conclusion that some more unusual ingredients might be of use for… the situation.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

Rolan stifles a scowl.

‘There is no need to concern yourself— but fine,’ he concedes, since you’re already yanking your trousers on. ‘If you insist.’

The trip across the street to Bonecloak’s is short, but it’s enough time for the tension to simmer down between you. Rolan even smiles a little as you take his hand.

‘So what are you hoping to buy?’

‘Not much. A few strands of Ki-Rin hair and an ounce or two of fungi typically used for pregnancy. It will not take long.’

Derryth’s door is enchanted with a sharp glass-crashing noise, as sharp as she is. To ward off would-be thieves. It makes you smile every time you enter, reminding you of your affection for the rather sour woman; since you saved the Noblestalk (though not her husband) in the Underdark, she seems fond of you too.

‘Good to see you,’ she observes, finding a streak of almost-warmth to greet you with. ‘What’s your business today? There better not be a problem with the last shipment I sent you. Checked it myself.’

‘No, no,’ Rolan says, waving away her concern. ‘I am in search of a few more unusual spell ingredients.’

‘Such as?’

It’s probably not obvious to Derryth, but you recognise the pinch in his brow as embarrassment rather than recall.

‘Ki-Rin hair. And… Saddlewort.’

‘An anti-emetic.’ Derryth raises her eyebrows. ‘Interesting spells you’re cooking up in that tower.’

Rolan coughs slightly, determinedly avoiding her eye— but there’s no refuge in yours, either. Why, exactly, does he need an anti-emetic, if he isn’t having any side effects? Sickness was not listed in any of the notes. You try to contain your frustration, because this is no place to have an argument— but you are not going to let this drop when you get home.

‘And Midwife’s Favour,’ he finishes hurriedly, his voice dropped low.

Derryth starts, irritably, ‘Speak up. Did you say—’ Her eyes drop to his stomach. ‘Ah.’

‘Ah, what?’ Rolan snaps.

‘Rolan,’ you mutter, holding his hand a little tighter. He yanks it out of your grasp.

It’s lucky there’s no-one else in this shop, because if this escalates further, it’s going to turn into a deeply embarrassing scene. What in the Hells? You thought you were past the days of blazing public arguments, having had a few too many before the Absolute.

‘What?’ he demands, digging his own grave.

Derryth’s eyes narrow. ‘Oh, sure. Take me for a fool, why don’t you. I wasn’t trying to judge you, if that’s what you’re so angry about.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he hisses, tail lashing with anger.

‘Stop!’ you snap. ‘You know Derryth isn’t going to tell anyone— ‘

‘There’s nothing to tell!’

‘If you’re done arguing, are you going to pay for this?’ Derryth barks. ‘Then you can go and have this lovers’ quarrel somewhere else. And she’s right. I’m not going to tell anyone. But you’re stupid if you don’t think people are going to start noticing that, especially if you’re going round buying pregnancy remedies.’

‘Enough!’ Rolan hisses. He slams down a pile of gold at the counter, and you notice him faintly shaking, his lips wrought into a grimace. ‘Have them sent to the Tower when they’re made up. I don’t have time to wait.’

You stare after him in bitter disbelief as he exits the shop, the glass ward once more crashing behind him.

Derryth scowls. ‘Wouldn’t waste my breath spreading gossip.’

You have to chase Rolan up the stairs and up through the portal into your bedroom, as milling customers throw you curious glances. If he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself, he’s doing a terrible job. He even slams the door behind him.

‘What the Hells?’ you hiss, as you wrench it open again.

‘Don’t lecture me,’ he shouts. ‘I suppose you would have handled that differently, if you were the one in this state.’

‘I’m not trying to lecture you!’ you retort, more sharply than you mean to. The anger in his voice takes your breath away. ‘We agreed you were going to talk to me if we did this! And you’ve been lying to me!’

‘How do you think you’re going to solve it if I can’t?’ I’ve studied all the books I can find on the subject—’

‘Rolan!’ you bark, frowning through angry tears.

He grimaces suddenly, turning aside, and you realise he’s trying to hold himself back from crying too. His eyes are shining, vermilion-red around the rims.

‘I am sorry,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I should not have said that. You know I hold your spellcasting in high esteem. Better than my own, even.’

You nod. The insult stung, but you know the apology is genuine.

‘I know,’ you say tightly. ‘It’s alright. But— you can’t just refuse to talk about this. Not if you ever want me to hurt you in bed again.’

‘You didn’t hurt me,’ he interrupts, raking his claws over his neck in frustration. ‘I am fine.’

‘Fine. I can’t tie you up, or fuck you with tentacles, or fill you with eggs again if you won’t be honest with me. I thought we were clear about that. I thought— ’

‘You thought we’ve been doing it long enough, and I should know that,’ Rolan says quietly. ‘You are right. I— was ashamed. And afraid I spent the morning after I first threw up berating myself for my stupidity. How could I finally possess everything I ever wanted and throw it away for some cheap pleasure?’

Stiffening, you remind yourself that in this moment, your primary concern is him, no matter how hurt you are. You are not the one whose body is changing in ways you don’t understand, full of eggs that you know far too little about. And it was your hubris too, that got you here.

You take his hand, and pull him close. Rolan’s shoulders do not drop all at once, and neither does his breath steady— not quickly, anyway. He draws in a ragged breath, tail curling around you, and then he claws, clinging so hard to your body that you can feel the fear beneath his skin.

‘I love you,’ you tell him quietly.

Rolan swallows.

‘I love you too,’ he says. ‘Take me. Please.’

You can’t help but flinch. ‘I thought—’

‘Just take me,’ he begs. ‘I want to be close to you. I need you.’

His voice is still rich, even as it scratches with tears. If anything, desperation honeys it, and suddenly, pain and anger transmute to lust. Thrusting your mouth against his, you pull at his robes, unbuckling his belt, seizing him, owning him— and he nods into your kiss. Please. A tear slips between your lips, salty on your tongue.

‘I want you,’ you growl. ‘You’re mine— you’re mine— Gods, get on the bed—’

Rolan kicks his boots off, unbuttoning his robe and dragging off his trousers. He lies face-down, tail not yet raised. Waiting for you to take him.

You buckle your harness tight, slicking the cock you chose with oil. It’s big, and though you want to vent your frustrations by thrusting straight inside him, you steady yourself, lifting his tail and pressing a firm finger to his hole.

‘Just fuck me!’ he rasps.

Fine. You slap his ass, hard— not hard enough for your liking, so you immediately do it again, and then you drag his hips up and push past his resistance in one rough, insistent thrust.

‘Fuck!’ Rolan sounds like he’s crying through the word. ‘More! Please, more.’

The underside of his tail presses hot against your chest. You lean into it, bracing yourself as your hips ram against his ass, slamming to the hilt over and over. Rolan whimpers, clawing at the mattress; you lean down to shove him into the pillow, his tail bending back as far as it will go.

‘Is this enough?’ you gasp. ‘Do you feel like you’re mine?’

‘Yes— please, may I—’

‘Tell me you belong to me. Tell me you want this.’

Your words crack a little. All you truly want, even in the heat of the bedroom, the roles you play to each other— is to be happy with him. To feel like he loves doing this as much as you do. It was easy to believe when he made all those exacting plans for the eggs, and brought it up often enough that you could finally believe it wasn’t all recklessness. That he’d really thought it through.

‘I want this,’ Rolan gasps, urgency clawing through his voice. He chokes up. ‘I have always wanted this— and I want you. I am sorry.’

The word ruins you, shot through with so much regret that it scalds.

You slip your hand beneath him and grasp his cock, working it as roughly as you’re fucking his hole. Sweat pours down your back and his, the ache inside you mounting as your hips tire and every thrust grows more determined— but Rolan is close, and all that matters is to hear him come.

‘You’re mine,’ you tell him hoarsely. ‘You’re mine, and I want this too. I want you crying and begging and fighting with me. I want—‘

‘Ahhh!’

He comes, and the ache bursts, relief crashing in a wave of exhaustion over your body. You hurry to withdraw, peeling your harness off and casting it aside so you can scrape him into your arms, gathering him up and clinging to his exhausted body.

Moments pass in silence, each of you panting against each other’s skin. Your shoulder is wet with his breath, and his is wet with your tears— ones you haven’t allowed yourself to cry yet, because you’ve been working so hard to be calm.

‘Did you come?’ Rolan asks hoarsely. ‘Please, let me—’

‘No,’ you whisper. ‘It’s fine. Soon. Let me just… hold you.’

‘Wretched Gods. I have spent so little time— I was so worried about myself I did not even think about you. Not enough, anyway.’

Your breath slows, steadied by the warmth of his skin against yours, and the familiar patterns of his wingbones. There’s room again to think.

‘Of course you’ve been preoccupied. Gods,’ you murmur gently. ‘I’m not trying to blame you for it. I want you to take care of yourself, more than anything. All I want is to be able to help you with it.’

‘I saw you flinch before,’ he says. ‘And I am sorry. I promise I do not see any of this as cheap.’

His voice rasps over the word. You nod, tangling your fingers into his hair, waiting with churning feelings for him to continue.

‘It is hard for me sometimes. To accept that I want this. And— I know I do. That is why I asked you for it.’

‘I know,’ you murmur.

‘But it’s not fair to you,’ he says. ‘Changing my mind, and lashing out at you every time.’

‘Have you changed your mind?’

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘I did not even mind the delays, the changes— not until I was sick yesterday. I realised then how serious this could be.’

‘The eggs were a mistake. I’m sorry. We knew it was an experimental spell, and clearly something went wrong.’

‘No!’ He shakes his head. ‘Wretched Hells. None of the blame is yours. And even now— if I can just believe the eggs will pass without incident— I…’

‘Go on.’ Your grip tightens around him.

‘Even with the morning sickness… I admit, I still enjoy it.’

Thank the Gods. Relief floods you. So long as he is not in pain— or pain he is not enjoying, at any rate— you can work through anything. You kiss him gently, brushing your tongue past his soft lips to the radiant heat within.

‘If you are afraid of others finding out, you can stay in the Tower until we’ve fixed it.’

‘No,’ Rolan says quietly. ‘I do not want to hide away. And if others find out… it is humiliating, but I will survive. I have everything I could ever want. The judgements of ordinary people are nothing when I have you.’ He frowns. ‘Gods. I would rather Cal and Lia did not know.’

‘They don’t need to know the full details. We can tell them it was a spell mistake. That you are temporarily unwell, but it’ll pass.’

He nods, slipping his fingers between yours. Your grips close tight on each other, two years of love and hard-won trust in your hold. You will get through this, together.

Rolan arches gently, and you feel his stomach press against your body. Slowly, you draw your other arm from around his shoulders and guide your hand down, over his ridges, his nipples, all the way down to the curve of the eggs inside him. A soft groan falls from Rolan’s lips.

‘Does your back hurt?’ you ask.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw you trying to stretch it out.’

‘Hmmph.’

‘Turn over,’ you tell him. ‘I’m going to take better care of you from now on.’

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he grumbles. ‘I can take care of myself— unff— ’

He puts no effort into resisting, rolling over at the slightest shove. Straddling his thighs, you slick your hands with the same oil you fucked him with, and begin to rub in long, slow strokes from the top of his hip ridges up to his wingtips.

Rolan sighs comfortably— and then his tail arcs up, brushing against your clit.

‘Oh, I see,’ you murmur. ‘You enjoy being taken care of.‘

He groans a faint objection.

‘Don’t worry. You can thank me for it afterwards, Archmage. With your tongue.’

The rest of his “pregnancy” progresses far more smoothly. He does at last allow you to measure the bump— looks forward to it, even, as you purr in his ear about how pleased you are that your eggs have grown this big. One time, you even catch him touching himself over your notes, a spot of drool falling from his guilty lips to the page.

‘You’re interfering with my research,’ you murmur, low and threatening in his ear. ‘If I catch you touching yourself without me again— ’

He groans as you lean in and whisper in his ear that you’ll publish everything, tell everyone what a slut he is, and sure enough, he is begging and pleading in your grasp, whimpering for mercy and receiving none.

‘Then punish me,’ he gasps, and that you’re more than happy to do.

Derryth’s supplies seem to be working; the morning sickness eases, and so do Rolan’s sore muscles, though you “force” him into accepting massages and hot baths anyway. Three months into his pregnancy, almost to the day, he stiffens suddenly whilst soaking in one of those baths, and gasps—

‘Oh Gods. It’s happening—’

‘Fuck— do you want to get out?’

He nods, his brow pinched tight. ‘Quickly!’

You’ve both referred to the last of the notes many times— in fact, you’ve read it to Rolan when he was supposed to be working, and watched his thighs clench of their own accord.

Sexual intercourse occurring at the first sign of labour (a “slick” being produced by the subject’s entrance) was reported to be even more arousing then usual, and to make the ensuing egg-laying more comfortable.

Jumping from the bath, you fetch him a towel, and hurry to your drawers to find your harness. You sweep up three different sizes of cock, to be on the safe side, and your usual bottle of oil, only to remember with a rush of lust that you won’t need it at all this time. And Gods— the sight of him on all fours on the towel, tail raised to show his hole already a little loosened and pouring with slick almost brings you to your knees, the coursing blood in your veins too hot in this room still full of steam.

His claws skitter against the stone floor as you press in. When his body is already inviting you in like this, it is hard to resist the temptation to bury yourself right up to the harness ring on the first thrust — but Gods know how safe this is— you should be careful—

‘Harder!’ Rolan sobs.

Never mind. You seize his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and slam your hips into him, your vision glazed with lust.

‘Harder!’ Rolan begs again. ‘Harder— ngggh!’

Panting with effort, you yank his hair and set about shutting him up with the harshest, most punishing thrusts your practised muscles can pound him with. Every slap of your wet skin against his is met with a whimper— moans broken as his body shakes, driven by your cock and yanked back by your grip. His tail trembles over your shoulder.

He can’t even beg you to come, but you can tell from the sounds he’s making that he’s trying to, claws curling and scratching against the floor and choked sobs running from his mouth.

You shove your hand up between his legs and grease it with the slick running down his taint.

‘Come for me,’ you groan, wrapping your hand around his cock and fucking him into your grip. It twitches— he moans—

And then he comes, shouting, collapsing down on his forearms to ride out the convulsions.

The sight is unbearably hot. You slam your hand over your mouth, holding yourself together, tortured by how close his own orgasm brings you to the edge when he needs you to keep your senses.

‘Turn over,’ you tell him urgently, pulling out. ‘Lie back. Does it feel like there’s time for me to stretch you more?’

Rolan’s shoulder hits the floor as he hurries to get in position, but he barely seems to notice.

‘I think so,’ he whispers. ‘Gods. Wretched Gods— that felt—’

‘Good?’

He swallows, nodding. You finish changing your cock for a larger one— line it up at his gaping entrance—

‘Breathe,’ you murmur, putting a gentle hand on his stomach. The beauty of the bump beneath your fingers makes you catch your breath. You wish you could have another few moments, just to appreciate Rolan like this– but there’s no time to be sentimental about it now. Easing Rolan’s hips up, you roll your own, feeling his hole gently give beneath your pressure.

‘Oh,’ he whispers. He looks dazed already, his back arching against the towel. ‘Oh Gods— ‘

‘Too much?’

He shakes his head weakly. ‘No.’

You slip in and out slowly, getting him used to the feeling.

‘I’m going to put the biggest one on now,’ you tell him, kissing him on the lips. He nods again, and shudders deeply as you push it in. It is truly huge, one you’ve never been able to fully train him to take before— but now, with his body malleable and dripping with this magic, it is in, and you slide it impossibly deep too.

‘Fuck me,’ Rolan whimpers, even though the trail of his come from last time still sits thick and wet on his stretched stomach. ‘Fuck me, please— ah!’

The moment you draw back, his thigh jerks and his eyes widen. He jolts upright, still impaled on your cock.

‘They’re coming!’ he gasps urgently. ‘…Zurgan!’

You withdraw as quickly as you can, trying not to discomfort him, and shed your harness, rushing to help him into the bath.

‘Oh Gods,’ he moans. ‘Gods!’

‘Sit down,’ you urge him. The bath’s still warm, thankfully, though you cast a round of Prestidigitation to make it even more so.

‘Are you alright?’

Rolan is looking at you wide-eyed, gripping the rim of the bathtub so hard his knuckles pale pink.

‘Get in,’ he chokes. ‘Please.’

No time to ask if he is sure, or to think about the logistics of this. You climb over the side, splashing into the heat, and kneel astride his tail.

‘Is the angle comfortable?’ You wrap your arms around him, tilting his hips up as if you were going to fuck him.

‘Kiss me,’ Rolan begs.

When you do, his fingers slip to your clit, trying desperately to stroke you even though his chest is heaving and his attempt at rhythm quickly stutters to a halt.

‘Rolan, no—’

‘Please,’ he whispers. ‘I want you to come. I want you to— nnnh— want this as much as I do. Tell me you find this… attractive. Tell me it is worth it.’

‘Yes,’ you gasp. ‘Fuck, Rolan— I’ve never wanted you more. Fuck— stop doing it yourself and just hold onto me.'

His hand splashes back beneath the water. Sweat pours down his temples, his stomach muscles spasming as if his whole body is trying to break apart.

‘Hold on for me,’ you groan, leaning in to kiss him deep, trying to make room for the egg to come out between you. ‘Hold on— fuck!’

Tears sting in your eyes as you touch your clit, your own urgent need left uncared for, and angry now that you’ve returned for release. Rolan’s claws dig into your ribs, his rhythmic panting half the speed of your own rough fingering. Your own breath swells in volume with his as he jerks and sobs and shouts in pain, a crescendo that brings you shouting to the edge yourself, and over it.

‘Fuck!’ you sob, convulsing, your body livid with pleasure. ‘Fuck, oh Gods!’

Rolan shouts too, and suddenly you feel something nudging against the back of your hand. Fuck, the egg— you crash back into your senses, catching your breath with sudden, cold fear.

‘Are you alright?’ you ask sharply, tilting his face up until his closed eyes open.

Rolan nods. Tears are trickling down his cheeks.

‘Yes,’ he gasps, and lunges for your lips to kiss you. ‘Yes.’

‘Alright. Let me get this egg out of the way,’ you tell him gently, tugging against his clinging arms.

Your fingers almost sink into it, as you reach below the water. Translucent black, clear of any substance except the strange jelly it’s made of— thank the Gods, the spell did not go wrong on that front— and huge. Rolan groans softly, looking at it.

‘Fuck,’ you whisper hoarsely, spellbound. There’s no time for this. You reach to put it aside—

‘Wait!’ Rolan gasps. ‘Gently. I want to— ’

Study it, you know, and you give him a brief kiss to tell him so, before leaning out of the bath and resting it on a towel.

Rolan’s legs twitch again.

‘The second one?’

‘Yes.’ His eyelids are screwed shut, expression caught with an agonised grimace. ‘Wretched— Gods.’

‘You’re doing well,’ you tell him. ‘Breathe with me.’

You know he must be desperate, because he doesn’t protest the compliment in the slightest. Hand on his chest, you feel his heart pound, effort rising within him.

One heavy breath; two; three—

Another egg appears, just the base, seeming to stick even within his impossibly stretched, slicked hole for a second. Rolan cries out, grimaces, spasms— and it is out, drifting to bump against your thighs.

‘Fuck,’ he whimpers. ‘Wretched Gods— please— ’

‘One more,’ you tell him. His cheek is feverishly hot to the touch. ‘Then you’re done.’

He gasps as you withdraw your hand, catching your wrist in a painfully tight grip.

‘I love you,’ he chokes.

‘I love you too.’ You breathe deeply. ‘I love you too. Push—’

His fingers tighten.

‘Yes,’ you tell him. ‘Yes— ’

‘Oh Gods— ahhhhh— ’

Rolan throws his head back until his horns clatter against the tub, and with one last, violent exertion his stomach ripples and his legs jolt. The final egg is laid.

You wish you had a strength potion on hand, to pluck him from where he lies trembling in the bath and carry him safely in your arms to bed. As it is, you can only offer a shoulder. Rolan clutches at you for support as you stumble across your bedroom, a trail of water and slick marking your path.

‘Wait here,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll get a towel.’

When you finally get in bed, dried-off and exhausted, Rolan is silent for some time. His chest rises and falls against you, and though you want to know more than anything if he’s alright, the soft tenor of his breath tells you he might be asleep, so you leave him be.

That wasn’t supposed to mean falling asleep yourself— and yet, you awake a little while later, unsticking your exhausted eyelids.

Rolan is looking at you, his eyes glimmering with feeling. Not just any feeling; warmth.

‘You’re alright?’ you ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Thank the Gods. I’ll get you some water— ’

‘It can wait,’ he says softly. ‘Stay. Please.’

‘I went to Bonecloak’s today,’ Rolan tells you, some days after he has recovered enough to get out of bed.

‘Oh?’ you ask, raising an eyebrow and putting down your book.

‘I realised I owed Derryth an apology,’ he murmurs, warm with self-aware mirth. ‘Perhaps one day I will manage not to alienate your friends and allies over my own internal strain.’

You meet his eyes with some amusement. ‘Maybe. The circumstances were fairly understandable, though. Did she find it in herself to forgive you?’

‘She said hmm,’ Rolan notes drily. ‘But as I was headed out, she asked me if I’d do her a favour and re-enchant that wretched door ward of hers to sound a little nicer. Apparently it’s upsetting her cat.’

If he’s back on favour terms with her, then all is well. Derryth certainly kept her word; no suspect articles about the Archmage’s bump appeared in the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette. In fact, in a possibly ruinous blow to Rolan’s ego, it seems that two years after the fall of the Elder Brain no-one pays as much attention to the city’s Hero and Archmage as they used to. Rolan’s eggs went largely unnoticed— as far as you’re aware, anyway.

‘Well,’ you murmur. ‘Now everything is back to normal, I’ll have to remind you that even without a stomach full of eggs, you still belong to me. Let me see.’

You were thinking of shoving your hand down his trousers and working him into a groaning mess— but you’re caught off guard before you can so much as lunge for a button.

‘Ah,’ Rolan says. ‘Speaking of. I have been revisiting the notes, trying to locate the cause of the unexpected… deviations. On closer inspection, the original spell modification was rife with ambiguity. Mediocre spellwork at best. Fortunately, I have been able to reword the spell in such a way that should preserve its essence whilst— ’

‘Rolan.’

You fix him with a sharp glare. The hand that was gesturing animatedly slips quietly down to his side, but his eyes still glow with focus.

‘I know,’ he says seriously, leaning forward to take your hand. ‘I hurt you last time, and things could have gone far worse than they did. Though… I think that would be unlikely, given the quality of your spellcasting. You summon with such authority that even the most rottenly-conceived spell would be forced into order.’

For a moment, you sit considering his words in silence. Rolan laces his fingers into yours.

‘Believe me,’ he says quietly. ‘I would not ask you this without being certain. The experience was… hard to describe. I have always felt myself tied to you, but during the last months I felt those bonds more deeply than I thought possible.’

‘If we’re doing this again, everything I said about being honest with me— I’m not going to do it unless you let me help you. Take care of you.’

‘Of course,’ Rolan says. ‘I love you. I felt every one of my mistakes, painfully. I tried to make up for it in the last few weeks, but… I understand if it was not enough.’

‘Fuck,’ you curse.

‘What?’

Grasping his shirt, you kiss him firmly, your tongue pressing onto his. Fucking Hells. You can’t resist him, damned to do stupid, reckless things together for the rest of your lives, because neither of you can keep your heads where the other is concerned.

There are worse ways to be.

You growl into the kiss, cunt soaking at the thought of ruining him again. Rolan quivers, looking up at you with bated breath for your verdict as you pull away.

‘Fine. But we’re not going to do it until I’m happy with the spell changes. And you are going to beg me for it.’

Rolan smiles. He escapes your grip and comes up kneeling between your legs, rubbing his face into your clothed cunt.

‘Should I start now?’

After six months, egg insertion attempted again on the same subject, with spell modified to limit egg incubation to two months, and to reduce pregnancy-like side effects (See appendix for spell modifications). Subject complained the eggs did not grow large enough this time; the recorder notes that the spell seems to turn a perfectly respectable Archmage into a wanton whore, who at the time of writing is already begging to be filled again.

[griancraft]

Hi guys, this is sort of my official "please, for the love of god, listen to Skyjacks with me” post because I’m losing my mind and all the content I can find is from the latest stuff right now, and I don’t want to spoil myself. I want to be able to talk about this with people!!!! I will make a watch (listen) party discord if there is enough interest. Just give it a chance; you won’t regret it. Also, some information may be wrong or outdated. I’m on episode 11 out of over 200.

Skyjacks is a ttrpg podcast about sky pirates in a world where there was a catastrophe about 200 years ago that left the sea unsafe to sail and maybe even damaged the entire world to the point where civilization is scattered and in small groups. There is very casual queer rep, and it’s casual to the point where it really just fits into the world perfectly.

A brief summary of the premise of the first episode will hopefully get you hooked. I’m really bad at summaries, but I promise it’s a billion times better than how I talked about it here:

Captain Orimar Vale is dead, and a mutiny will be on Gable, Jonnit, Travis, and Dref’s hands if they are unable to keep up the ruse of him being alive. To do this, necromancy (deeply forbidden magic) is performed by the Dref, the ship's doctor, to turn him into a semi-functional zombie. Captain Orimar is famous for his abilities as a captain; to replicate this will take great skill.

As they run out of supplies, they make a desperate decision: port on the land of one of Orimar’s scorned lovers or deal with the growing uneasiness of the rest of the crew. They haven’t seen their captain healthy in months, and whispers about his health are starting. However, greater danger will await them when they take to the skies again, lurking just beyond the clouds…

And more propaganda as to why I think you guys will like it:

There are unique and interesting gameplay mechanics they use to tell a really cool story, and if you like Hermitcraft or any other sorta storytelling-based SMP, I promise you’ll like it. Like. If you liked Boatem from Hermitcraft 8, you’ll love the characters in Skyjacks. The players are exceptionally good at playing their characters, their humour is unmatched by anything similar I’ve had the pleasure of seeing, and the story is prioritized, which I think is an amazing choice.

Best part? It’s still ongoing after, like, 5 years. Some people have left, but a good chunk of the OG cast has stayed. Not that leaving is bad, because holy crap, 5 years is a long time, and stories have to end at some point! It’s a good way of getting into something and knowing there is still a shit ton of content to be explored.

The music is good. The story is good. The characters and humour are amazing. The lore of the world is sprinkled throughout, and as you learn more about the world, the more excited you get. It’s incredible so far, and if you decide to listen to it, I will actually love you forever and ever. My boyfriend is on episode 190, and he finds it so funny every time I go. Oh my god, this is so cool.

Link to the podcast, but in a playlist (up to 180). So it’s in order and easy to find, since it’s a part of something else from the oneshot network:

[oh-no-its-bird]

Muichiro passed his hand through the fog that had been seemingly summoned by his bladework. It felt real enough, cool mist lingering on his skin as he carved out lines of air through the cloud, before they sowly dissipated back into the gentle, slow fading fog. He passed his hand through it again, observing it curiously. Finally, he looked up at Shisui, who was watching him with a bewildered expression. "Can you see this too?" "Are you well? Mentally?" ...He couldn't tell if that meant Shisui could or couldn't see the mist. Muichiro tilted his head. "Are you asking that in general, or in this moment?" "Uhh. Both...?" Muichiro considered the first half of the question. "No." He tilted his head consideringly in the other direction as he considered the other half of the question, before settling on a tentative answer. "...Yes." Neither answer seemed to improve Shisui's mood.

Chapter 2 of Manic Monday is !! Now !! In !! Progress !!!

[hurricanek8art]

Nightmares and Memories: a Legacy of the Sith one-shot

In which I am apparently posting fic now? I DON'T KNOW. I've had this drabble written since the rumors about a certain someone's return started a few months ago as a "just in case" and now it's really relevant and I'm hopped up on Celebration excitement and frustration over not being able to solve that art problem. SO FIC. I GUESS. *INTERNAL SCREAMING*

Agent Chrysali Vidoi is used to nightmares, what with all the ghosts from her past and skeletons in her closet—but some are worse than others, and this one might be the worst of them all, because he's the only one left that she's genuinely afraid of. Set somewhere around the beginning of 7.5's story. Spoilers for that and some of 7.6 obviously abound. Sticking most of it under a read more because of that, and also because I'm slightly terrified and it's less of a jumpscare when I open the SWTOR tag. 🙃

...I need some kind of divider graphic for summaries for if when i post more writing instead of just a line of these (~~~) thingies i forgot what they're called...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This wasn't right.

She was on the deck of his flagship. The Eradicators were outside the viewport. This wasn't right. This was all space flotsam.

This wasn't right.

This.

Wasn't.

Right.

"Hello, Agent."

Chills went down her spine. The air flew out of her lungs. She turned, trying to draw her blades, her blasters, something, but it was too late. In a heartbeat, she was in the air though nothing was touching her, pinned to the bulkhead like an insect. She couldn't struggle. She couldn't even move.

"It's been a long time," he said, unreadable behind the featureless mask. His hands were folded behind his back, she could feel his eyes upon her. Sweat rolled down her face. Tears poured from her eyes. Don't, please don't, don't look at me, don't—

"You have changed in our years apart. Grown stronger, I think. You have something to lose now, something to fight for. It's emboldened you. Made you even more dangerous."

No, please, no, no—

"Oh, do not concern yourself with that. I do not come seeking revenge," he said coolly, taking a few steps forward. The pressure in her lungs, the fear in her mind, increased with every micrometer. "At least, not yet. Not now. I wanted to see how you've changed before I make my move."

Her heart pounded in her chest, in her throat, in her ears, but still she was trapped, and he grew ever closer, faces centimeters apart now.

"I have waited all this time. Planned. Strategized. Looking for the perfect moment to finally strike. I believe that time grows close now. So close I can almost taste it. I am coming, Agent. I shall return."

Her voice struggled to leave her throat. "Why... tell... me?"

"I chose you all that time ago, did I not? You and I are alike. Made unique from our peers. Alone in the galaxy because of it." His mask was almost touching her face, it was so close. She couldn't breathe. "You defied my offer before. But I am generous. I will extend the offer to stand by my side once more, and once more only. I trust you to make the correct decision, when the time comes. Goodbye, Agent. Until we meet again..."

Chrysali's entire body shuddered and jerked as she awoke, gasping for air. Strands of hair stuck to her face with sweat, loose pajamas clinging to her skin, and her heart hammered and thudded against her ribs. Chills went up and down her bare arms, the soft red light of the cybernetic nodes studded along her arms and shoulders steadily blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dark in the bedroom, and awareness of where she actually was began to sink in. She was safe, she was home, he wasn't here—

"Chrys?" Theron mumbled sleepily. He must've been woken up when she sat up so suddenly and shifted his arm around her. "Everything okay?"

She fought to steady her breathing, still searching the room. "I—the flagship, the Eradicators—Jadus, he was there, he spoke to me—"

He groggily sat up with her, awake but not quite alert. "What do you mean?"

"He was—was talking about returning. He wants me to serve him again. I can't—I won't—I—"

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," Theron said quietly. He put an arm around her, rubbing her arm soothingly. "Sounds like another bad nightmare. You've had these before."

"This one was so real," Chrysali breathed, panting slightly.

"But it's gone now," Theron soothed. "C'mon, let's go back to sleep, we've got a busy day tomorrow." He glanced at the chrono on the opposite wall and groaned softly as he laid back down. "Today. We have a busy day today. In about five hours."

Right. They were still tracking Shae, however poorly that was going. And Chrysali was still putting feelers out with her old network to dig up more dirt on Heta Kol, see if they could tackle that part of the problem from a different direction. Lots to do.

"The human cost is acceptable. The only alternative is to let Jadus escape—and do worse down the line."

"The human cost isn't acceptable to me!"

She shuddered at the old memories, trying to push them away. It was so long ago now. And Lana had tracked Jadus briefly during the Zildrog incident, he was somewhere in the Unknown Regions, minding his business on his own little planetoid. He wasn't an active threat. They were okay. They were safe. She was safe. Theron was safe.

Chrysali settled back in, head in its usual spot on Theron's chest so she could listen to his heart, hand rested against his ribs and over the scar tissue from Nathema. Theron was already back asleep, arm instinctively back around her and settled just right so he could feel her breathing.

They were safe.

It was just a nightmare.

It had to be.

Slowly, uneasily, Chrysali drifted off back to sleep

[whimsicalcotton]

some misc timelooper Max thoughts;

has forgotten that normal people Sleep at night and will routinely send the world's most concerningly unhinged/incomprehensible texts to Chloe at 3am

rip Lisa she's neglecting you as much as she's neglecting herself

how long do you think it's been since she even Thought about picking up her guitar

she had some soup last week (last week was 10 weeks ago)

every loop she gets more impatient about the flashdrive conversation with Warren to the point that she's rushing through it like "uh-huh yeah fast killer pussy yep yep" and Warren's just standing there like 😱

[miodiodavinci]

THANK FUCKING GOD I CAN FINALLY TAKE A BREAK AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[altruistic-meme]

as it turns out: this shit sucks

[origami-trust]

Concetta's collapse of triumph after the live task