#Must feed the brain rot

[aflockofravens]

My body responding to exposure to a brand new hyperfixation

[starconch-e]

Some art of my wife of ever that is Ereshkigal

[thedevilspearl]

asking them stupid questions — all brothers

a/n: having a hard time writing smut atm so here’s some silly headcanons with the brothers. i was really tired when i proofread this so there may be some mistakes.

tags: 2k words, no gender specified, reader x lucifer, mammon, leviathan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub + belphegor. (belphie’s is a little suggestive).

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐑

lucifer has had enough.

it’s been a long day and he wished for a quiet night in his office to relax with some tea while overlooking the bills his brothers have riled up.

but he’s quite distracted tonight.

peace and quiet is not an option. especially with you loitering, floating around his office and touching all the trinkets and décor. you’ve never shown interest in them before, but tonight, all of a sudden lucifer’s office is the most inviting place in the world.

“mc?”

“yes, honey?”

“is something the matter.”

there is a painstakingly long silence before you answer. “….no.”

letting out a little sigh, he asks, “are you quite sure?”

you hum with a subtle nod, barely looking him in the eye and he is now certain something is wrong.

“mc, please. if you aren’t feeling well, you can tell me about it. you don’t need to make this difficu—”

“would you still love me if i was a worm?”

“what?” lucifer’s voice croaks.

“it’s just that i felt sad thinking about how you might not love me anymore if one day i turned into a worm and couldn’t turn back into me.”

“mc, in what world would you ever turn into a worm?”

“most likely this one. remember that time mammon accidentally turned me into a sheep in spells class? i was cute as a sheep, so it was okay. but as a worm, i’d be small and slimy and gross. i’d be unloveable.”

“that is enough,” he rises from his chair, speaking with command but still gentle enough to not upset you further. “you shouldn’t think of such things. it is so silly of you to think i would ever stop loving you.”

“luci….”

“if i must spell it out for you, then yes. i would still love you if you were a worm and i would carry you everywhere with me to ensure you’re never lost or hurt. i would need something small and protective to carry you in, but yes. i will always love you.”

𝐌𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐍

“if there was a zombie apocalypse and i was bitten, what would you do?”

“hah?!” mammon’s face contorts at your random question. “what are ya talking about?”

“i’ve been thinking about that movie we watched….the zombie one. and just wondered what it would be like.”

“gave up on surviving already, did ya?” he chuckles, collapsing onto his bed beside you, his hand resting on your waist.

“no, but i wanna know! what would you do if i turned into a zombie?”

“well….what are the options?” his smirk earns him a playful smack on the chest. “hey! i’m serious. i’ll be so sad that i won’t be able to think straight, so ya need to give me some options.”

“fine,” you pout, scratching your brain for solutions. “i suppose the most humane thing to do would be to kill me. you know, to make sure i’m not forced to live as a mindless zombie eating other humans.”

“okay….”

“or you could tie me up, maybe chain me, and keep me alive by feeding me living people.”

“why would i keep ya around if you’re gonna stink like a rotting corpse?”

while mammon laughs, your brows furrow with annoyance, mostly feigned but there’s a small sense of hurt in there when you think about mammon not wanting to keep you after you turn into a zombie, despite it being completely logical and reasonable.

“hey,” his voice is soft as he leans over and kisses your cheek, “don’t worry. i’d handcuff us together and let you bite me. then we can be zombies together and never be separated.”

𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍

movie night always means one thing, and that’s you and levi curling up with tangled limbs and a hoard of cushions and blankets. a joint blanket burrito with little space between you but that’s a good thing.

the closeness makes it cosier.

tonight, you opted for a more emotional movie. a romance, but romances are always emotional for both of you. that’s why you try your best to stay away from the romantic movies and stick to action packed fantasies or sci-fi’s that are the furthest thing from romance.

but there was a new and popular movie making the headlines and levi couldn’t wait to watch it. you knew watching it was a lost hope, and now you’re sobbing in levi’s arms watching the struggles the love interests are going through to get to each other.

“i’m so glad it wasn’t that difficult for us to be together,” you sniffle, feeling a wave of gratitude take over. “i love you, levi.”

“i love you, too,” his voice trembles and he quietly wipes his own tears.

“hey, levi?”

“what is it?”

“can i wipe my nose on you?”

“what? no!”

too late. you buried your head into his chest, wiping your face clean and covering his favourite shirt in snot.

“gross!”

“i’m sorry. i wanted to get a tissue but they’re too far away. i didn’t want to leave the burrito.”

“it’s fine,” he grumbles, begrudgingly patting you on the head to tell you it’s okay despite ruining his shirt. “let’s finish the movie.”

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍

“would you still love me if i told you the truth?”

satan tries to hide his piqued interest, like he usually does. he likes to come off as the too–cool–to–show–i–care kind of guy but the truth is, he is more invested in this truth than anything else.

he nonchalantly turns the page of his book and with a swipe of his tongue over his lips, he asks, “what truth?”

“that i’m really a lizard.”

well, he wasn’t expecting that.

he watches you intently over the pages of his book. you stop pacing around the library and make your way to him, showing no expression on your face. usually, he would be quite good at reading your face but in all honesty, he can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”

“a lizard?”

you nod. “a lizard.”

“you don’t look like a lizard.”

“that’s because i’m a lizard pretending to be a human.”

“a what now?” he shuts his book, sitting upright from his laid position. he tried his hardest not to give in to your silly but mysterious notion but he is far more interested in your explanation.

“you know about the lizard people, right?”

“i do not.”

“so i just exposed myself for nothing?”

“what in the devildom are you talking about?”

“it doesn’t matter. forget i said anything. if anyone finds out i told you, i could get killed.”

“please tell me that isn’t true.”

silence.

you refuse to even look him in the eye. surely, you are joking. there’s no way you’re really a lizard, let alone it be possible for lizards to be secretly living inside of humans. what kind of conspiracy would that be?

it’s unimaginable, even for demons. but whether the lizard thing is true or he’s falling for a joke, you still need an answer to your question.

“yes,” he pulls you into his side. “i would still love you if you were really a lizard.”

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒

“asmo,” you sing the demon of lust’s name, catching the attention that he would devote to you at any given moment. “can i ask you something?”

“go ahead, my dearest. fire away.”

he winks, hoping it would be something on the more flirtatious side, but instead you fill his mind with a grotesque image.

“what would you do if you could never touch me again?”

he immediately smothers you with a hug. “what are you talking about?! of course, that would never happen!”

“but what if?” you snuggle into him further. “what if you could never touch me?”

he hums, thinking of any solution to be able to touch you again.

“i’d cry,” he says simply. “i’d cry a lot.”

“aww,” you pout. “i don’t want you to cry.”

“and i don’t want to imagine a world where i can’t hold you like this,” he kisses your lips, “where i can’t kiss you like this,” he lifts up your hand and intertwines your fingers with his, “where i can’t hold your hand like this.”

“asmo….”

“i don’t know what would ever cause me to never be able to touch you again, but it would be the end of my world if it came true. i don’t know if i’d be able to live.”

“you’d still be able to see me and speak to me.”

“but not being able to touch you when i see you and hear you is the most painful torture imaginable. but you know what that means, right?”

“what does it mean?” you squeal and his hands tickle your sides.

“it means i need to do all the touching i can now to make up for it!”

𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐙𝐄𝐁𝐔𝐁

“hey, beel?”

“yeah?”

your quiet voices fill the dark path home from rad. beel always walks you home; be it in comfortable silence or deep conversations, you don’t imagine walking home any other way.

and the quiet air of the evening provides the perfect chance to ask him a question you’ve been waiting to ask all day.

“can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“if i had five million cheeseburgers and you could only eat them if you slapped me in the face, what wou—”

“i’d slap you in the face.”

“i didn’t even finish my question.” you yelp, brows furrowing in frustration.

“you don’t need to finish it. i’d do anything to eat that many cheeseburgers.”

your feet plant in the ground and beel doesn’t stop walking until your hand which holds his pulls him back.

“are you serious?”

“uhmm….i think so?”

you’re grateful for the fact that he’s rethinking his answer but it was a shock to hear him say he’d slap you so firmly in the beginning. it was a stupid question to ask in the first place, but you never imagined beel ever wanting to hurt you.

he tugs on your hand and you continue walking with him, picking up the pace to get home.

“mc….” he asks. “did i say something wrong?”

his obliviousness to his own words is a harder slap in the face than the slap he promised those five million burgers.

“you said you’d slap me, beel, and it makes me sad.”

“hm….we can go halfsies on the burgers?”

“huh?”

“i’ll slap you and then we can share the burgers.” he promises. “you’d feel bad because i slapped you. and i’d feel bad because i slapped you. so to make it better for both of us, we can split the cheeseburgers.”

you look at him, astounded because you don’t know if his explanation makes his answer better or worse.

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑

a cuddling session in the attic with belphegor is exactly what you needed after a long, draining day. you naturally made your way up to him as soon as you had some free time, desperate for his warmth.

but belphie had a different warmth in mind with all the kisses he litters up and down your neck.

“belphie, i’m tired.” you whine, but still urge him on to kiss you harder.

“then close your eyes. i’ll kiss you until you fall asleep.”

your heart swarms with the thrill of his words, the promise of being here and showering you with affection even on your worst days.

“is something wrong?” he asks.

“no. why?”

“you’re not falling asleep.”

“that’s because you’re kisses are keeping me awake.”

“they’re meant to help you fall asleep.”

“i hate to break it to you belphie, but they’re having the opposite effect.” you tease.

“is that so?” he nibbles you ear. “what about this?”

you arch into his body, sensitive from his kisses and now the more urgent movements of his lips ignite a fire in your belly. his lips graze you, teeth nip you and tongue swipe over your skin. he sucks hard enough to leave bruises, and kisses softly on every mark he leaves.

“belphie….” the soft whisper of his name catches his attention. “how many ghosts do you think are watching us right now?”

he ceases for a moment, then lifts his head from the crook of your neck. “what?”

“what if there’s ghosts watching us right now? and what if they keep watching us while we….you know….?”

“i never thought of that before.”

“it’s weird, right?”

“definitely. let’s never have sex again.”

[madwomansapologist]

Please share your headcanon about gale's kinks!!!!

gale's kinks/turn ons

Navigation | More Wizard of Waterdeep | AO3

synopsis: A deep dive into what the smart wizard man think it's hot. Yes, the brain rot is that serious.

warnings: i'm sick so if this isn't good i will blame the pills. testing a new format. this is about sex, don't interact if you're a minor. remember: if you kink shame me i will get horny just to spite you.

PRAISE KINK

That's a man willing to write poetry about your body, mind and soul. His tongue has only two purposes on life, and both of them involve making you see stars. If his mouth isn't in use, he will be praising you.

And when Gale feels so good he can't even speak, isn't that a praise on itself?

But that we all know. His reaction to receiving praise is what makes me want to bite my fingers off.

Gale Dekarios knows his value as a wizard, but not as a man. His ambition isn't a consequence of his desire to pursue more, but to be more. To deserve love, he must prove his worth. As we all know, it often doesn't end in a good way.

I don't think Mystra ever wasted her precious time to assure Gale of the contrary. And when she did, it wasn't about Gale Dekarious: it was about Gale of Waterdeep, her chosen. How his control of the weave was impressive, how he could conjure any sort of images, how his illusions could fool everyone.

So when he receives praise for any other part of his life that isn't his academic pursues, a part of his brain burns. Be as intricate as his poetry or as lascive as one can be, Gale can feel his knees getting weak. Weaker.

FOOD PLAY

Not only Gale loves to cook and bake, but he loves the whole idea of being responsible for making someone stronger and healthier. Hunger is a hurtful thing, that he knows, and he don't want anyone else to deal with it.

It comes hand to hand with his praise kink. When you eat something good, you don't need to use words: your whole body shows it. He would apreciate the compliments, nonetheless.

To spoon feed you would be such a turn on. It's so intimate, such a show of trust and care, nothing but human. The way your mouth opened for the spoon, how your tongue licked it clean. Can you blame him?

After helping you eat, it would be his turn to end his hunger. You don't mind being his plate, do you? Gale promises to lick you clean. You always taste so sweet for him, what's a bit of honey to add to that?

OLFACTOPHILIA

Your scent can turn him into a fucking mess. There is something so human about it. So natural and real about it. Is just you.

After a fight, when you are covered in sweat and blood, he can't help himself. To be around you can make him drool. You fresh from your shower, smelling just as you and not as any perfume. When you spend the day laying around and is too lazy to get clean.

The amount of times his cheeks burned red because he breathed in when you walked past and a companion noticed can't be numbered.

Gale prefers to undress you rather you doing it yourself. That means he will be able to breath deep against your undies before getting them off of you.

Wanna get him as hard as a rock in mere seconds? Give him a underwear you used for a long time. Just threw it at his face and go on with your day. He will be quick to follow.

Gale loves how he can still smell you on his upper lip after going down on you. If you squirt, he will cum on his trousers. I don't make the rules.

FACE-SITTING/FACE FUCKING

Again: his mouth has only two uses. Is almost therapeutic for him. Just get on top of him, use his mouth however you want. The place in between your legs seen perfect for him to die on.

Gale Dekarios is a service top looking for a pillow princess/prince. I VOLUNTEER!

FINGERS IN MOUTH

You know that feeling of not knowing what to do next? Where to put your hands, what to do with your mouth? Since he prefers to be the one doing things, this can be a problem. A problem that can be easily solved by your pretty fingers.

It can hit even harder if he's in the process of casting something and you stop him by just putting your fingers into his mouth. Gale won't even know hot to react. Actually, he might suck them.

Ok, he might have a oral obsession. What are you, Freud?

BONDAGE

Hand to hand with that sort of anxiety about what he must do next. Make sure Gale stays put in place and use him. Remember guys, your service tops also deserve to be fucked around a bit.

Magic restrains or ropes, and make sure to do some beautiful knots. He could break free from them, but Gale won't desobey. Not after you spend so long getting him ready for you.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

BALDUR’S GATE 3 TAGLIST: @citrusbunnies

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[eilidh-eternal]

Between @peachesofteal, @ceilidho and @charliemwrites I have been plagued with mind rotting thoughts of manipulative!Johnny and I wrote this in a feverish haze

So uhhhh yeah, here’s 1.8k words of Johnny being an overbearing and possessive menace to reader

This will be part of a larger collection of works The Wild Hunt Masterlist

This is a dark fic, 18+ MDNI, descriptions of kidnapping, coercion and mentions of death below the cut

Snow falls beyond the frosted window panes, flickering like static in shafts of warm-hued lamplight and collecting in powdery, white drifts. The picturesque cityscape and the dissonant overlapping of conversation coming from the gathering of family and friends in a quaint town house decorated for the upcoming holidays feels like something plucked out of a cliché holiday romcom. Except this isn’t a yuletide gathering, and the congregation of familiar faces is one less tonight.

This is a wake. And an odd one at that.

You didn’t believe in the myth that deaths are more frequent around the holidays, and you certainly didn’t believe in a black cat that eats the souls of the recently deceased if you don’t throw a proper party with games and drinking, and enough food to feed a small army, at the wake. But this is Scotland, and the country is teeming with myths and superstitions. 

So, here you sit. Curled into the corner of a sofa with a glass of… something. You’ve been told it’s like eggnog, done the Scottish way. 

Great aunts, uncles, cousins several times removed and friends of the deceased distant relative all nurse their own glasses of the festive drink, and various recounts of fond memories are shared amongst the group gathered in the living room. There’s one voice that stands out among the others, and you watch with reserved interest as the mohawked man it belongs to tells his story. It’s a little louder, with more bravado than the rest, narrating his memory with a jubilance that belies great fondness. 

You’d never met the man everyone was reminiscing about, only came tonight because a cousin on your fathers side—the Scottish side—had cajoled you into going with her to the wake so she’d have someone to talk to besides her mother. You didn’t understand why she’d begged and pleaded as you sat in your corner alone while she flits about here and there, talking to just about everyone there about anything and everything. A trait you had not inherited from your Scottish patronage. You’re so deep in your own thoughts in fact that you don’t immediately register the added weight on the sofa beside you, the way it dips and bows beneath it, until that lilting bravado is crooning in your ear, close enough to feel the whisper of warm air from his breath on the outer shell.

“How’d ya know Captain MacMillan?” 

You blink, realize you’d been so entrenched in your own thoughts that you hadn’t even seen the man you’d been watching stand from his seat and take up the empty space next to you, and a flush of embarrassment blooms across your cheeks when you realize he must have seen you staring. When the rest of your body catches up with your brain you turn to face him, finding his face mere inches from yours. 

He smells like the earth after it rains, like petrichor, and it mingles with something tangier—something sharp—like the honed edge of a blade. His smile is just as striking, all teeth and curling lips. Feline.

And his eyes—bluer than Loch Lomond on a clear, sunny day, and glittering in the same way the sunlight catches on the cresting ripples at the water's surface. They feel just as deep and endless too, the way his pupils flare and swallow that brilliant blue as he studies your face with a startling intensity, devouring every detail. Something rattles and trills in your mind at the way his gaze seems to drag you down, down, down, where it’s hard to breathe beneath the waves, and you can’t tell if the sound is sweet music or a frantic warning. 

The realization that you haven’t yet given him an answer dawns on you and you suck in a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. 

“I uh… I didn’t know him. I knew of him though—a distant relative,” you explain and your fingers curl tighter around the glass in your hands.

He doesn’t lean away, remains firmly inside your little bubble and cocks his head in a manner that reminds you of a cat watching a bird outside a window. Hunting. He’s so close you can see the shadow of a beard, freshly shaved but with new growth already pushing its way to the surface to darken the sharp line of his jaw.

He hums. A low rumbling sound that emanates from deep within his chest. “Didnae ken the Captain comes from such a bonnie family,” he says in that swaggering bravado, and it almost sounds like a purr. “What’s yer name, hen?”

You give him your name, along with an outstretched hand which he takes in his large one, palm and pads of his fingers rough and callous against your own, and his pupils flare wider, causing his eyes to darken a sinful shade. “I’m Johnny MacTavish. Or Soap, if ye like,” he says, and holds onto your hand for just a few seconds longer than he should, the warmth of it branding your skin before he lets go.

“Soap?” you question and quickly pull your hand back into what remains of the personal space he seems intent on crowding, feeling like you’ve reached for a hot pan without a mitt.

“It’s muh callsign,” he says and drapes an arm over the back of the couch behind you, caging you into your little corner. 

More bells.

“I’m military. SAS, like the Captain.”

SAS.

Suddenly you’re seeing all of the things that had drawn your interest to him earlier in a new light.

He’s built. Broad shouldered and bulky in the arms and thighs that have been creeping closer ever since he sat down. The scar on his chin that pulls taught when he smiles with all his teeth. The metallic tang that lingers on his skin. How silently he had suddenly appeared on the couch beside you.

Danger.

He places his broad hand on your thigh and your eyes jerk to his. There’s a menacious glint flickering in the dark pools that reels you in and pulls you under, like the kelpies young children are warned about. 

Don’t get too close to the water or you’ll drown. Don’t get too close to him.

His hand feels more like a paw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your leg like a cat sinking its claws into fresh meat.

“They’re choosin’ teams fer quarters,” he says with a nod in the direction of the coffee table where guests have begun to gather around an arrangement of disposable cups, bottles of scotch and a collection of coins, splitting into two groups. “Think ye should be on my team,” he says a shade darker, fingers digging harder into your thigh and lips curling back to reveal his feline grin once more. 

You pull your leg away from him, tugging it closer to your chest, and your heart thumps insistently against your ribs, pulse quickening in the way prey that recognizes the hunt does. You feel like a mouse caught between the claws of a kellas cat, half-wild things that roam the highlands.

“I-I actually have to go,” you blurt and shoot to your feet before he can sink his claws in further, discarding your half-empty glass on the end table. “I don’t hold my liquor well, and I have an early morning tomorrow.” It’s a lie, but how would he know? You snatch your sweater from the arm of the sofa and shove trembling arms through the sleeves. “It was… nice meeting you though.”

Was it?

“A-and I’m sorry for your loss.” The words come tumbling out like you can’t say them fast enough, tripping over your own tongue as you hurry to extricate yourself from his grasp. You don’t wait for him to return the sentiment, turning on your heel and making a beeline for your cousin.

You tell her you’re tired and heading home, offering a brief hug for her and your aunt before you have to walk back through the living room, right past Johnny, to get to the door. You don’t know if it’s relief or dread that flutters in your stomach when you see Johnny no longer occupies his spot on the couch as you cross the room. Isn’t anywhere in sight. 

With your down coat bundled tightly around you, you step out into the cold night, immediately hit with icy wind and stinging particles of snow against your cheeks. Your car is parked just around the corner, less than a minute's walk. And you take hurried steps away from the town house towards the pavement.

You should have been more careful.

One moment you’re turning the corner towards your car and the next your feet are sliding out from under you on ice-slick pavement, sending you to the ground in a bone-shuddering fall.

Your skull cracks off the pavement and it echoes between your ears. You lay stunned on the ground, unable to do more than groan at the pain radiating from the base of your skull down your spine.

And then there’s hands on your shoulders. Large, warm hands that glide up your neck and prod at the tender flesh at the back of your head. You groan at the painful press of calloused fingers and a familiar voice coos to you.

“Took quite a tumble, wee rabbit. Ye really shouldnae have been walkin’ so quick through all this snow,” he says as he retracts his fingers from your head and they settle on your shoulders again.

You groan, trying to open your eyes and see through the flakes of snow that blur your vision as you try and fail to lift your head.

“Dinnae move too much, ye’ll hurt yerself more.” His hands move from your shoulders to snake beneath your knees and under your back to lift you from the ground.

You moan as the motion jostles your head and sends a blinding jolt of pain through your skull, exploding behind your eyes and sending stars dancing wildly across your remaining vision.

“Shhh wee thing, yer awright. I’ll make sure that pretty little heid of yours is tended to.” 

You’re being carried, cradled to a broad chest by burly arms. Smells like rain-

No…. No, no, nonono-

You try to force your eyes open, fighting desperately against the tunneling of your vision to see through the hazy edges and blurry focus.

You’re shifted against him and you cry out as pain flares bright behind your eyes again, and he coos, telling you he’s got you now. He’ll take care of you.

Broken whimpers bubble up in your throat as you’re laid down on something soft, and you wince against the rumble of an engine as it purrs to life. Everything sounds like it’s underwater, and somehow amplified to rattle your brain in your skull. You feel heavy, arms and legs turned to lead.

“Was here fer the captain, but when I saw ye, so pretty curled up on that sofa… knew then I was leavin’ with ye instead.”

It’s the last thing you hear before your fading consciousness suddenly gives way to complete and total darkness.

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[2kmps]

DARK POOL

aquatic monster x reader | 18+ | 2.8k

story summary; your granduncle explains that the noises at the bottom of the lighthouse and the missing chunk out of his leg are from swimming rats. you let him think you're a fool.

story warnings; some graphic depictions that some may consider gory, mentions of biting, mentions of rats, creature in captivity, explicit sexual content, double penetration (not safe), prose + detail heavy, implied breeding, not proofread.

if you enjoyed it, please reblog + interact!!

Granduncle told you that the rats in Cape Tellis liked to swim and when they were in search of food, they didn't care how long they'd have to paddle through the water to find it. Some would simply drift with the current for days; black-gray fur rotted off, skin peeled off bone, little faces disfigured by sea and salt, but they would keep going until their bodies nudged the rust-red walls of the lighthouse and found the energy to scale upward to a window and squeeze inside.

He mentioned this anytime you had something to say about the ruckus down in the basement—sometimes scratching, sometimes powerful, erratic thuds that you felt pulse through the floorboards, through the rubber soles covering your feet, and into your skin. That place was sealed behind a rusted metal frame and door, deadbolted and locked with a key he always carried on a chain through a belt loop.

It always jangled when he walked because he had a limp so bad that his entire leg always dragged a pace behind him and took a great amount of effort to haul forward. When you had asked of it, as memory dictated a handful of years prior he didn't have such trouble, he first claimed it had been a bad sinus infection that got into his brain and disrupted something neurologically. In another instance where he had stopped for a third time on an evening stroll together, he had said he scuffed with one of Cape Tellis’ formidable rats and the mangy bastard had won and taken a chunk of meat out of him before scuttling back into the walls.

“Just ignore it, it's normal that they're active this time of year,” he was saying while scraping fried eggs out of a pan onto your plate. Meanwhile, you winced to the usual commotion downstairs. “They get real flighty this time of year. The rats do. They get frisky and chase each other all around. I don't know nothin' about them besides being persistent, ugly things, but it may well be their special season.”

You ripped a sharp edge in your toast and prodded the egg yolk until the sunny orb burst, oozing out across your plate before you could scoop it all up in the bread.

“How long does it take for the rats to go away?” you asked with some interest in his answer, if for no other reason to know what sort of yarn he'd spin next. The bread was buttered, the eggs unseasoned, but you ate it all anyway while watching him. “Are they permanent residents or do they come and go? You must be feeding them if they stay here.”

Granduncle took a long time to situate his bad leg under the table, longer to arrange his silverware and the direction of his food. “Oh, they have no interest in leaving, I don't think. If they really wanted to, I imagine they would've jumped back into the water and swam somewhere else.”

Each time the noises rose up between the wood slats under your feet during breakfast, granduncle told you not to worry about it, but you quieted every sound in your head to better hear rattling metal, reverberations of some sort—like having a man’s deep, anguished moan pressed right against your ribs. You weren't sure what you were looking for when you listened, only that you knew they were rats.

Granduncle looked at you, his appetite pushed away towards the center of the table with his plate. “Let's go for a walk, yes? The rain won't come back for a few hours.”

When you did walk after a meal, granduncle would often have to lie down with his dead leg propped up on a short stack of pillows for a long while. It became something of a habit of yours to exert him too much after dinner, forcing him to keep up with your youthfulness—your merry prances and unburdened soul.

For what it was worth, he did the best he could to never be a hindrance. He didn't seem to fully understand his own limitations either, making it quite a simple thing to steal the key from his belt loop while he slept—deep and silent, so much so that you needed to drop a tissue over his face from make sure he was still breathing—and unfasten the lock to descend a set of slick, stone stairs.

There wasn’t much to at the bottom; a space half-flooded from seasonal rains raising the sea-level, old pieces of ship equipment hanging like ornamentation, an old folding chair that had yet to rust despite damp air, and a large hole in the ground that was dark like the throat of a nightmare envisioned in the most precious hours of night.

You held a plate of raw meat, freshly thawed from the freezer, outstretched with a flickering lantern in your other hand. Anywhere else, you'd have just brought a flashlight—but, he didn't like the bright lights, had ripped the last one out of your hands and smashed it against the wall. Oil lanterns were better tolerated, but he still seemed to cower from the gentle flickers.

So, you placed the meat on the seat of the folding chair and walked closer to the hole, wading a hand through seawater until touching braids of cold metal, chains pulled taut as though weighted down by an anchor. You gave the closest one a tug, always with the same caution as a child gripping his mother's clothes in uncertain times, and backed away.

He never made noise when he surfaced, always frightfully quiet, only indicated by a trail of bubbles that followed after where he roamed underwater. The first thing to emerge was a dorsal fin flared proudly from the middle of his head until midway in the deepest curve of his back. His eyes were on you, abysmal black things with a luster you likened to a landbound fish, and skin and scales that moved stiffly with his facial movements.

“You,” said the creature, toneless and in a voice far too raspy and deep to have an equal match amongst human men. “You have come. You are here.”

Months ago, he hadn't been capable of simple speech such as this. The noises he made were incompatible to anything you had ever heard—perhaps mere vocalizations he utilized underwater, possibly something long gone and archaic—but he had started mimicking you when you'd speak, and eventually you started slowing down, giving him the time to feel how the sounds vibrated in his own throat.

“I brought you food, again.” You gestured towards the seat with raw meat with your lantern, prompting his passing glance of interest before he was back on you. “Not hungry? He usually doesn’t feed you that well. I haven't been down here in a week or so, so I figured you'd be ready to scarf it down.”

“No.”

He came closer and the size of him grew, a towering figure with strong, broad-shoulders and a chest built to withstand the friction of the sea he used to own. His face, although hidden in darkness and flickering shadow cast from your lantern, gleamed as the light struck his iridescent scales. The shape of his lips were human-like yet taut, helping to comfortably fit his sharp teeth inside his mouth.

You'd wondered at times what exactly he was, what your granduncle believed him to be and feared so much to hide him away, chained to a wall. You fantasized that he could be the lost prince of some underwater civilization, or the offspring of several thousands of years of evolution between humans and something else.

He never seemed to understand you when you asked him what he was.

“Come,” his reach was limited by the chains that bound his limbs, keeping him shy of touching your body. “Come to me.”

With the lantern set aside, a distance you hoped wouldn't turn him petulant, you walked in his arms and the shackles and made home there as he surrounded you. His embrace was not the sort you could escape, nor was the kiss he pressed against your mouth.

There were parts of him you were too scared to touch, where his scales were like serrated teeth and he had much less control to retract at will like the dorsal find along his back. His lips were smooth and cold, however, a safe place for you to be on his body along with the hard flesh on his chest.

He pushed himself into your touch as your fingertips traced the shape of his torso, rose with the sprawl of his breasts and shoulders, molded into the ridges of his lower abdomen that you felt pulse and tense the further downward you roamed.

The sheath around his groin had swelled significantly and seemed to twitch when you smoothed your hand across it, kneading it gently to see what would come of doing so. You'd seen this only once before several months ago, a time where you'd been more frightened of him and fled from the basement for weeks when he'd acted more aggressive than usual.

It was one of the many things he had taken notice of that were perceived negatively—with fear and distance and shutting him away in this deep dark until you found the courage to feed him again, because your uncle was petrified along with being restricted in his ability to navigate the stairs with his lame leg.

So, he had learned to behave at the worst of times to keep food supplied, for you to stay wrapped up in him like this and so curious to challenge the extent of his self-restraint.

His kiss had grown full-bodied and restless and gone elsewhere on your body to a great expanse of skin. His face nuzzled into the fabric hiding your warmth from him, teeth tearing and fraying the threads that kept your clothes together until you stopped him.

“Stop—wait, wait, wait.” You walked back out of his arms once he was able to recognize the words. He reached for you despite the clattering bonds around his wrist, but you took your time to shuck the clothes from your body and fold them.

Once he had you back, he led you to the edge of the pool of endless depths and sank down inside of it. Your toes touched the very edge of darkness, stirring a rabble of butterflies in your gut that did not dissipate even once he resurfaced.

“Sit.” He gestured right at where you stood. “Sit down.”

The idea of having any part of your body submerged in the black water left you with little desire in continuing this, but you obeyed and slowly lowered your rear to the rim of the pool, legs speckled by goose pimples as the cold water gripped up to the inside of your thighs.

“Yes, good.” He was close enough to push your thighs wide apart and stick his tongue inside of you. You took in a great sucking breath, startled from the suddenness of it and the long, articulate appendage massaging a part of you in a way no one ever had before.

You leaned back on your arms when they weakened and shook from the sensations, eyes flicking towards the drab ceiling, wondering just how far under the living quarters of the lighthouse you actually were and whether granduncle would hear any lewd sounds that were beginning to hum in your throat.

“Keep going.” He said when you moaned, tongue retracted from your body to mimic the ministrations you made with your hand and fingers while you stroked yourself. “Keep doing it.”

He nudged your hand away to put his mouth over that stimulated spot instead, sucking and licking along you with such fervor that you dissolved into hard pants and whimpers, tempted to close your thighs around his head and push him away as the tight warmth inside of you flushed out with a kaleidoscopic burst of color and cool air following the trail of something slowly oozing out of you.

It took a second orgasm and chanting turned to cries to get him off of you. That brief respite ended when he took you by the waist and dragged you into the pool with him. By that point, you were too far spent to have anything but unshakeable indifference to the depths and the cold.

His kiss was as it had been before, rough and restless, forceful in a way that left you malleable and melting against him. Even when he had your front wedged between the rim of the pool and his chest, you couldn't bring yourself to react much.

You felt his thighs mold to the back of yours before the slim tip of his cock pushed into you, the girth of it thickening considerably at the base. The friction of the water wasn't an obstacle for him to fuck into you with greedy thrusts that threw your hips forward, knocking skin and bone against the wall of the pool.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh—” the ridges of his cock were an unusual feeling, catching your walls in spots, spreading you wider when he'd withdraw part way and plunge back inside. “Oh, shit—feels good. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

There was truly never any way to know how much he understood when you said it, something called into question when his thrusts slowed to a stop, but he stayed hard inside of you. For a moment, the water settled along with your heavy breaths and blood gushing through your ears.

Things slowly came back into focus—the dancing lantern light, the room temperature meat, the wicked water in which you were immersed to the waist while the rest of you was braced by him.

He shifted behind you, adjusting his thighs so yours went even wider. Before you could ask the things you wanted to, a new sensation stole your breath—the swollen head of a second cock, different in shape and size from the first, pushed into you and lay flush atop the other.

“Don't—don’t move.” You were struggling to do the same thing with such an enormous stretch you'd never had to accommodate before. Tension built in your throat, whether a sob or a scream or your own anxiety, and stayed there to cinch your voice into silence.

He soothed you with lips and teeth all over your flesh; the back of your neck, the cartilage of your ears and the underside of your jawbone. His large hands left the shelf of your hips and felt along your front side, nipples, chest, stomach, and groin where he tried to recreate the same pleasure on you now as you had done for yourself earlier.

“Good?” He nested his cocks deeper when he heard you moan. The pain of it was beginning to subside, but the strangeness of it remained. “Is it good?”

"Just—just don't hurt me.”

His hands were back on your hips to keep you seated on his thighs while he thrust into you. It wasn't as easy for him to move as it was before, perhaps realizing the limitations of a human companion, but continued in snappy pulses that made the water lap at the skin on your back and turned your thoughts into senseless, garbled things.

Soon enough, you were riding a sloppy, savage rhythm to which you had no control of whatsoever as he chased his end. In moments where he seemed to regress into a natural state, almost animalistic in the way he rutted into you and buried his cocks, one would slip out and go forgotten for a time. The length of it glided against your groin, a smooth motion underwater that prodded your sore spots before he was able to fit it back into place with the other.

Amid your luscious sounds were those of his own; labored, air-sucking rasps that rumbled from places more than just his throat. They were probably never meant to be heard above the surface of water, just as he didn't belong fucking a human while being chained to a wall.

You thought about that fact while the last thrusts he took seated his cocks so deep that you ached, hard surges of warmth flooding your insides in a way unexpectedly delightful. He clung to you with his arms and shackles even well after he had emptied himself in your body and retracted both cocks into their sheath.

After a while, he hoisted you out of the water and followed you to retrieve your clothes. He stopped short of the chains pulling in the wall, watching while you wiped away the remnants of him oozing down the backs of your thighs and redressed.

“Don't go.” He kissed you and let his cold lips linger over yours. “Stay here.”

You returned the affection as endlessly as he gave it, only thinking that sunrise would soon come to pull you apart.

a/n: not my best work, but hopefully passable. it's really helpful when y'all reblog, so please do so!!!

I don't really have any comments on this because I'm starting over from zero on the long-fic of the aquatic monster story bc I hated what I had lmao.

anyway, please keep in mind that is a concept piece. chances are that none of this will be present in the actual long-fic. this just helps me to explore ideas and familiarize myself with characters.

[rax-writes]

Rolan x Reader

↬ Warnings: afab!reader, she/her pronouns for reader, mentions of breastfeeding and some old coot being uppity about it, protective!Rolan

↬ This is the brain rot result of @drizztdohurtin and I discussing proective!Rolan. Hope y'all enjoy, Rolan Nation. Love y'all. ♡

Sorcerous Sundries was thronged with customers, and it seemed every one of them had a question they only wished to ask the Master of the Tower himself. Rolan did well with maintaining his pleasant demeanor, even after he finished speaking to the third person in a row who struggled with the somatic components of simple spells. Regardless of how trivial the questions, or how dense the customers, Rolan thoroughly enjoyed his job. After all, this was everything he'd dreamed of, and more.

The company he kept in the shop area of the Sundries on this particular day helped as well.

Naturally, the brief moment to himself was snatched away by a customer approaching Rolan – albeit looking considerably more agitated than the others, but not a sight he was unfamiliar with.

Ah, the joys of customer service.

“I'd like to speak with the manager of this establishment,” the middle-aged woman stated, the deep frown set upon her features making her wrinkles all the more noticeable.

“You're looking at him. How might I assist you?” Rolan asked calmly, giving her the same kind smile he gives everyone in the Sundries.

“I have been here many times over the past few decades, and never before have I had any concerns about the atmosphere or decorum. Until today. And I must say, I am downright appalled.”

Rolan's smile faded. Gods, had Cal or Lia gotten cross with a rude customer and swore at them? Or maybe something simpler – like one of the newer employees guided her in the wrong direction?

“I am grateful you have come to me about this, so that I have the opportunity to right whatever wrong has occurred. Could you tell me more about what happened?” Rolan asked sincerely.

“Yes. I simply cannot believe the indecency you would allow in a place of such esteemed business. For the sake of the gods, that – that harlot over there is lounging about, exposed.”

Rolan's brows furrowed in genuine confusion, as he swiveled his entire body around to examine the space. The only person seated, on the entire ground floor, was you. His wife. Who just so happened to be breastfeeding his son.

You smiled at him when you caught his eye, confused when he did not return it. Instead, your husband's expression soured, before he returned his attention to the woman in front of him.

“Are you referring to the woman on the settee, feeding her baby?”

“Why, yes I am. That is indecent. She should be covered up, or in a washroom. Or, better yet, she should have left and gone home to do that!”

“She is here because this is her home,” Rolan said, slowly and carefully, attempting to conceal the intense irritation he felt. The woman appeared confused, until Rolan spoke again. “Ignoring the fact that she is the Hero of Baldur's Gate, and you should show her due respect – she is my wife, and she is feeding my son. I hardly see how that is indecent.”

“Well, she – it – that isn't something she should be doing in public! You ought to tell her to go elsewhere,” the woman sputtered, crossing her arms.

“The only person I'll be telling to go elsewhere is you, madam.” The woman sputtered some more, alternating between halved arguments and requests for forgiveness, but Rolan merely held up a hand, effectively silencing her. “Please leave this establishment at once. Should you wish to return with a kinder demeanor, you are welcome here. If not, do not bother coming back. Have the day the gods see fit to bestow upon you.”

Rolan turned on his heel and walked away then, noticing the woman huffing but leaving from his peripheral vision, as he made his way over to you. He sat beside you on the settee, a beaming smile quickly replacing his scowl as you handed him the baby, having just finished feeding and burping him.

“What was all that about? That woman looked positively irate,” you inquired with a chuckle.

Rolan merely shook his head, placing a gentle kiss between the still-tiny nubs of his son's horns, then giving you a quick kiss.

“Nothing of importance, my love.”

[jamil-s-wifey]

Howdy~! Loved your writing! Can I request a fluff/angst scenario in which Jamil Viper suddenly had a nightmare of hurting his fem! s/o during his Overblot and when he wakes up, he quickly rushes over to Ramshackle to check on her, make sure she’s okay? Please and thank you!

Hi, hello hun! Thank you very much, I'm glad my writing brings a smile to people's faces! I love writing comfort fics, so this is right up my alley! Every comfort twst fic has been consumed by yours truly! I hope you enjoy!

WARNING: Dead bodies and mildly gruesome imagery. I kind of went overboard with the nightmare portion-

Drip drip drip

The only sound which could reach his ears was the incessant dripping of ink, covering the ground beneath his feet.

Slithering snakes obscured his peripheral vision, red hot rage filled his veins. The school was in shambles, in every corner there were bodies littering the ground - weakened and malnourished students, who lost their lives under his fanatic dictatorship.

He was the master, but the master of what? Of ruins, of a rotting building, of a dying student body, controlled against their will, of darkened cold nothingness hidden behind lavish feasts and glittering gold. And then there was you - his jewel in the rough, his biggest treasure, kneeling before him, eyes filled with hatred, fear... and exhaustion. You dared not look him in the eyes, but your downward gaze spoke volumes - the love of his life who refused to succumb to her master's wishes.

"Pitiful. You keep disobeying your master. Haven't I taught you manners?"

You refused to answer him, gaze never leaving the ground.

"My treasure, have I not given you everything?" His voice lowered threateningly. "Or perhaps you'd choose to follow in your classmate's footsteps. Perhaps it was foolish of me to believe you'd be anything different than those mindless slaves."

You didn't answer.

"Or perhaps they've contaminated your brain. That must be it, why else would you refuse so adamantly the life of a goddess. Oh, my love, we must cure you."

He grabbed you by the hair, pulling you up. On instinct, you closed your eyes, refusing to catch his gaze.

"Smart little girl." He whispered in your ear. His snakes left painful bitemarks on your skin - covering older ones who'd begun to fade.

That's how it had been for a while - you'd lost track of time. He'd call upon you, lavish you in expensive jewellery, feeding you feasts made by the bloodied hands of your classmates, whisper sweet nothing in your ears. Then he'd get angry at your lack of response and throw you away, leaving you alone in your chambers.

Only this time, it was different.

"Perhaps I should turn to a more radical form of treatment?" His strong hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing.

Your breath became ragged, strained.

"You chose this. I am merely delivering."

You grasped his hand, trying to wiggle away, but it was useless. You felt the ink on his hand seep into your skin and clothes, contaminating your very being.

Your gaze slowly faltered, eyes closing, before he threw you on the ground.

_____________________________________________

As the heavy thud reached his ears he opened his eyes, frantically looking around. He was in his room, it was the middle of the night. He was sweaty, breath ragged. He'd fallen off his bed and that's what woke him up. He searched around for any indication that indeed it was all just a nightmare. With trembling hands he pushed himself up to sit on his bed. His hair was a mess, his heart was beating so loud he felt it might burst through his chest. He felt sick to the stomach, a twisted feeling of guilt, despair and disgust eating at his very core.

His gaze turned to the framed picture on his bedside table. It was you two, on your visit to the Scalding Sands, your arms are wrapped around him and a cheerful smile graced your features.

Was that smile...even real? Or were you being controlled?

Without thinking, he grabbed his shoes and sprinted out of his room, dead set on seeing you, rules be damned.

_____________________________________________

You were woken up by a hurried, frantic knocking on Ramshackle's front door. You slowly got up, cautiously making your way to the entrance. Even though you knew it couldn't be anybody threatening, besides you had the ghosts and Grim as back up, a little caution never hurt anybody.

What you didn't expect to see is your frazzled boyfriend, engulfing you in a bone-crushing hug the moment you opened the door.

"Whoah, Jamil. Are....are you okay?" You gently hugged him back, fingers gliding through his hair, untangling any knots he might have.

He didn't respond, instead pulling back to look you in the eyes. You looked at him dead in the eyes, no fear or disgust in your gaze whatsoever. All he saw was worry and perhaps curiosity. His eyes were glassy with untold emotions, gaze heavy with guilt.

"M-may I come in?" He inwardly cursed himself for stuttering.

"Of course, you can. Come in, come in." You grabbed his hand, leading him to your couch. "What happened? Here. I'll get you some water, did you sprint here?"

Before you could get up, he pulled you to him, hands gently cradling your face.

"Jamil, my love." You breathed out, reaching out to cup his face, "Did you perhaps have a nightmare?"

His guilt-ridden gaze moved to the floor. Somehow, only from you, he couldn't hide a single thing.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He wasn't sure what to answer. Now that he was with you and his head had cleared up, he realised how bizarre the situation was. Of course it was a nightmare.

But that didn't get rid of the weight on his heart.

"I... dreamed of my overblot. I saw... destruction everywhere. And I was hurting you. Constantly. And the fear in your eyes, it looked so real. I -" he sighed deeply. "You died... By my hands." He felt a lump forming in his throat.

"Oh, Jamil."

"And I know it's just a dream, I know but-" he couldn't keep talking. It all overwhelmed him so much.

"Jamil."

"S/O, I-"

"Jamil!"

He snapped out, turning to you.

"Jamil, I have never, ever, for a single moment, felt afraid or disgusted around you. Your overblot happened, we can't change that, but you didn't hurt me. You didn't then. And you haven't since. And I know very well, that you'd never intentionally hurt me in any way. I trust you and I feel safe around you."

He let out a shaky breath. "How do you know you're not being controlled even right now?" It was stupid of him to ask, but his mind wasn't letting him rest.

"Jamil, both you and I know you can't keep using your unique magic indefinitely. So far, every single thing I've done, I've done on my own accord."

"And you don't fear me..?"

You looked at him dead in the eyes, with the most unwavering, serious gaze you could muster.

"How could I fear the man I love?"

He pulled you in for a gentle kiss, which he poured all of his emotions into.

"I promise you, I won't let any harm come your way, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and content, and free." He mumbled, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Love, you sound like you're about to propose." You teased, trying to lighten the mood.

A small smile graced his features. "Perhaps in the future.", He thought to himself.

"How about we go back to bed, you are most certainly staying the night here, mister. I'll be right next to you when you wake up."

"I'm sorry for barging in at such an ungodly hour."

"Oh, shut up~. You know you're always welcome here, and besides, I'd always prefer to have you next to me when I sleep."

He didn't really understand what he did to deserve you, but you were his beacon of light and he swore to treasure you and keep you safe for as long as you let him.

[paperlunamoth]

The other day I mentioned that little girls shouldn't be dressed in bikinis because bikinis are sexualized by men and exist solely to serve the male gaze, and maybe we should not put children in sexualized clothing that exists solely to serve the male gaze.

I was then told by a multitude of "feminist" women that I must think it's a woman's fault if she is raped and that I must want all women and girls to wear burkhas. Because I said that we should not actively feed into the sexualization of young girls through fashion.

One woman told me that the fashion industry was to blame, for making the bikinis and putting them in stores. When I said that, yes, they are to blame, but it is also the responsibility of adult women not to buy bikinis and dress their children in them when other swimwear options exist, and thus, you know, fulfill the end goal of those in the fashion industry for them, I was told I must only think that because I had internalized misogyny.

I genuinely cannot comprehend the kinds of mental gymastics necessary to so thoroughly divorce the choices of women, and the impact of those choices, from the actual goals of feminism. Women's choices are not made in a vacuum. We have the responsibility to be considerate of whether those choices hurt or harm the ultimate goal of eliminating sex based oppression.

Liberal "feminism" is brain rot and it actively aids and abets patriarchy and harms women.

[silliersage]

Horny blurb of the day

I have morbidly obese housewife brain rot so bad. I just need my partner to feed me until I’m a huge helpless blob that stays home all day constantly growing for them. I think my partner has instilled a breeding kink in me too cause holy shit. I love domming but when I bottom it goes crazy. Just genuinely no other thoughts in my piggy brain other than growing and getting bred sounds like a must right now Jesus.

[analexthatexists]

THIS. TOOK. FOREVER.

BUT IT'S FINALLY FRICKING DONE.

Introducing my take on the Nightmare of this Superhero AU. This story and Nightmare’s design(s) are highly inspired by Spiderman villains, Resident Evil, and The Last of Us! Thanks to @thenocturnenarrator for helping me with this! Superhero AU belongs to @thelunarsystemwrites!

This turned out so much more gruesome and complex than I expected, so VISUAL AND DESCRIPTIVE CW for the following;

Lab Experimentation (Might be considered child experimentation), Body Horror involving mushrooms growing out of the body, Gore, Blood, Insects, Vomiting, and potentially heavy subjects that not all viewers may like.

Backstory

Meet Nightmare “Nyx” Yggdrasil, a 12-13 year old who was kidnapped and experimented on alongside his brother Dream. At the time, he was only able to talk to plants and comprehend how they felt, but that was going to change very soon. The scientists wanted to enhance the powers of the soul’s magic, creating a serum that could do so but was incapable of working on Nightmare’s current state. His “soul” couldn’t be classified as one, seeing as it was more of a purple fireball of pure negative energy, so they needed a way to make it something tangible and experimental. They eventually gain the idea to have the brothers eat a Gold Apple from their home world so their “souls” can merge with the apples and therefore be alterable. While Dream’s process goes fine, Nightmare’s Apple obviously rots, but he’s still forced to eat it, and soon after so he’s injected with the enhancing serum. This not only enhances his ability to talk to plants to being able to control them and connect with them on a higher level, but it enhances the magic and power of the Black Apple, causing black goop to begin tearing out of Nightmare’s body. To prevent his body from literally ripping itself apart from the inside, Nightmare controls the plants around him to seal himself away into a large, cocoon-like growth. A few months pass after Dream escapes the lab with CORE FRISK, and the cocoon breaks open.

The fungi and other plant life had merged with his body. Nightmare was still mostly mentally there, but the cordyceps merging with most of his body was taking tolls on his brain and making him go a little crazy, not to mention the pent up vengeance and wrath he was feeling. Naturally, he slaughtered everyone in the laboratory and fled to the same place Dream and various other superheroes found themselves in. Craving any sort of comfort and affection, he forced together a team of supervillains including Dust, Horror, Killer, and maybe other willing characters. He’s convinced everyone including himself that he assembled the group for personal revenges on the world and to show everyone that they’ll be more than just tools, as well as general instinct telling him to feed off people’s suffering and all that.

But deep down, it’s just because he doesn’t want to be alone with nothing. Never again after all of the suffering he felt growing up in the laboratory…

Powers

Pre-Experimentation

Plant Communication

Hand-To-Hand Combat

Post-Experimentation

Phytokinesis / Plant Manipulation (Includes roots, mushrooms and fungi, flowers, ETC)

Poison Expulsion and Immunity (He pretty much vomits it up, or can poison people with poisonous plants/spores)

Regeneration

Spore Infiltration (He uncontrollably gives off spores every time he exhales as well as from his body’s fungi. Inhaling these spores can cause headaches and nausea, but severe cases can result in brainwashing, in which a host will become a mindless drone forced to take commands from Nightmare)

If a skeleton is spore-infested, they must wash out their skeletal system and clear all spores before the spores begin growing inside of the body and through the eye sockets and bones. The fungi that grow from these spores feed off a person’s negative energy and soul magic, slowly draining them and turning them into an emotionless husk, eventually killing them and leaving behind a visceral mess of flesh and flora. Humans and non-skeletal Monsters require more advanced surgical procedures to remove spores and fungi, and have far lower chances of surviving the infection.

Abilities

Insect Attraction (The foul stench that Nightmare gives off usually attracts flies, maggots, worms, caterpillars, ETC to feed on and live in parts of his body. This also means it’s not just chunks of moss and goop he’s throwing up…)

Nauseation and Headaches (Nightmare smells like rotting flesh and mushrooms, and the scent is very potent)

Intimidation (He’s scary!)

Weaknesses

Extreme Flammability/Fire

Explosives (He’s weak to those and generally dislikes the loud noises)

Light/Blaster Magic

Herbicides/Plant-Toxic Chemicals

Low Temperatures/Cold Climates

Abandonment (General Fear/Phobia)

Other Information

Alignment is Chaotic Neutral that eventually becomes Chaotic Evil

He's asexual and biromantic

One drastic difference involving this Nightmare from the original personality-wise is that Passive Nightmare is still in-tact. He's not dead in this AU, he's just been driven a little mad by vengeance and his own fungus. The apple he had consumed WASN'T the one that was possessed by the human that killed Nim; It was a Gold Apple he turned rotten, meaning he'd have more of his conscious than the main universe's Nightmare

Furthermore, he's also more of a liar and willing to bend the truth, such as when he lies to himself and others about the true reasons as to why he formed a team

Nightmare doesn’t leave his team to fight alone; he comes along with them every chance he gets to, even if it seems like a bad idea towards the others

When Nightmare realizes who Dream is, he’s hellbent on killing him and everyone that he has bonds and friendships with. He believes Dream had abandoned him and wishes to exact the same suffering he had to go through. It’s that Spiderverse-Miles-And-Spot “They turned you into a lovable hero, but I was turned into THIS.” dynamic we all know and love. Nightmare’s also very envious of his brother due to the fact he got to live a better, more fulfilling life than he did

Nightmare could definitely do that sick “Akira hand explosion attack” thing

[dragonofthedepths]

In (No) Danger of Going Too Far

Naruto. Senju Hashirama x Uchiha Madara. Vampire AU. Written for @hewoweens as part of the @hashimada-giftexchange!

Madara cannot remember a time when he has not been hungry.

A clan of vampires, the Uchiha have... different dietary requirements from the other clans around them.

A harsh winter that sweeps in early to kill all the crops will not effect them the same way. The same food that fuels humans is little more than padding to them, helping draw out the times between feedings if they have no blood. Only slightly more useful than eating sawdust is to a human.

Even as a child Madara was already used to padding out his diet with human food, leaving as much extra blood for his younger brothers as he could as rations grew tight.

One would think a clan of blooddrinkers could feast, surrounded by blood constantly on the battlefield. But that is blood spilled, the blood of corpses and the dead. As useless and revolting for them as an apple rotted green and slick with slime would be for a human. Utterly devoid of the life they need to feed.

Only live prey will do.

But the hunger of his youth has nothing on the starvation they've been facing recently.

And Madara knows that things have been getting worse and worse since he was a child, their situation deteriorating with every ally his father drove away. That they descended to their current level of struggle long before his recent ascension to clan head.

But he can't help but feel responsible.

Because it is his clan. He swore to protect them with everything he has, and he is doing all he can to dig them out of the hole his father got them into but it's not working fast enough.

He has been giving up even more of his rations recently, pushing them towards Izuna or the children in a desperate bid to keep them alive as they all struggle to survive while he attempts to get their feet back under them, and it is beginning to have consequences.

His blows have less strength behind them, his reaction times dulled, and it's sometimes a struggle to keep his arms from shaking. Not enough to be noticeable against a regular enemy, but it makes running into Senju Hashirama whenever he doesn't have to very inadvisable.

Hashirama is the only challenge to Madara on the battlefield, but an omnipresent one. Especially as the war between the Uchiha and the Senju picks up in the wake of Tajima's death, Senju Butsuma battering them relentlessly with attacks as he seeks to take advantage of any unsteadiness caused by the change in leadership.

Usually, Madara could take advantage of the fact that he's a sensory nin and Hashirama is not to avoid confrontations he can't afford to have. But either the Senju has his chakra completely concealed (coming back from a mission perhaps?) or Madara is even more tired than he thought, because neither of them realize the other is there until it's too late to pretend they haven't seen eachother.

Madara is painfully aware that if he ever could defeat his childhood friend, he cannot now. And that's what leads to him being backed up against a tree —a terrifying position to be in against a mokuton user— with Hashirama looming over him.

"Madara..." Madara almost growls at Hashirama as the Senju heir draws out his name, looking at him with big concerned eyes as though they are something other than enemies

"Madara, you're starving."

"What, are you offering to feed me?" He bites the words out, sarcasm lining his voice. No point in denying something so obvious Hashirama has likely known it for several fights now.

Unlike the harsh tone of Madara's voice, Hashirama's is calm and cool, seriousness replacing the worry of a moment ago. "Yes."

Madara chokes. He must look like a fool, gaping up at Hashirama in the dead silence that follows the Senju's proclamation as his brain tries to process what he just heard.

"Are you insane?!" He demands when he regains the ability to speak. Desperately trying to figure out what the Senju could possibly want out of this, especially as the damn fruit tree reaches up to undo the clasp on his pauldrons.

"Do you still remember, what we talked about as children? Our village?" Hashirama's voice is quite, no need to shout above the din of battle to be heard in this little space amongst the trees where it's only them. "I had never met anyone else who believes in the same things as me. I still haven't."

Hashirama pushes the pauldron off his shoulder and lets it fall to the ground, dropping the pieces of armor made to protect his neck —be it from swinging blades or a vampire's fangs— without a second thought.

"And I know it's more complicated now then when we were children, but you lead your clan now, and it's only a matter of time before I lead mine. I can't do this without you Madara," he finishes, staring Madara in the eyes as though he's never even considered that he might need to fear the sharingan.

It's not fair, to have Hashirama standing over him, talking about dreams and offering him a long buried childhood fantasy on a silver platter. From back when things weren't so bad yet, when he might've been always hungry but he hadn't been starving, and the sting of hunger had been softer, ignoreable. Even if playing with Hashirama —full to bursting with energy and strength, life spilling from his every action— brought it to the forefront.

How many times had he nearly confessed his clan name just to beg for a bite?

It's more than Madara can ignore. Not with Hashirama standing there willingly divesting himself of the armor that would keep him safe from Madara's fangs.

Hashirama lets Madara flip them around, so the Senju is the one pinned to a tree now, Madara's arms caging him in. (Not that a mokuton user with his back against a tree is that much safer if Hashirama does decide to attack.)

They are pressed into eachother's personal space, well within stabbing distance in a way any skilled shinobi should never let an enemy get.

Hashirama tilts his head to expose his neck,

And Madara bites.

He can hear Hashirama's soft gasp as Madara's teeth sink through skin and muscle, then the first taste of Hashirama's blood hits his tongue and he has to stop himself from moaning aloud. It is savory and rich and the first real food Madara has had in ages. Hashirama tilts his head a little more to allow Madara better access and the dizzying euphoria of Hashirama's blood rushing into his mouth almost overwhelms him as he takes swallow after swallow.

Vampires aren't like humans, there is no need to come off of starvation slowly, they are built to gorge.

He is dimly aware of when Hashirama goes from supporting himself to collapsing back against the tree and clutching the back of Madara's robes, but it still takes a moment for him to register what that means.

Fuck. Rationality pushes back against the mess of instincts and bloodlust. He has to stop. Humans can only loose so much blood, and if he takes anymore Hashirama will die and he can't— he can't loose him.

The cold wash of fear is enough to unseat the desperate need for more from it's throne and he pulls back.

One of Hashirama's hands comes up to tug him back down before he gets very far. Tangling in Madara's hair and urging him back towards his neck with more strength than a man who's just lost almost half his blood should possess.

"I can heal, remember?"

Right, Hashirama's damn healing factor.

The one that let him be stabbed through the lung as a teenager and just keep fighting the sword's extremely surprised owner, now using the very katana he'd just been stabbed by. (That was still Hashirama's favorite sword. It was a very good sword.)

Of course that would extend to blood loss as well. Of course—

Madara lets Hashirama pull him back down, and this time he looses himself in the dizzying rush, attempting to bury himself in Hashirama's warmth as he greedily sucks down all the blood, all the life Hashirama is willing to give him.

He's not sure how long it is before he releases Hashirama's neck for the second time. This time he lingers, letting his breath ghost across Hashirama's skin. No need to pull back before he gives in to the urge to bite again.

When he finally does pull away it's not far, only just far enough that he can look into Hashirma's eyes again, before he shifts his weight so that he's leaning against the tree as well. Bringing his arms around from Hashirama's shoulders to cradle the back of his head as he lets them slide down the tree, until they're both collapsed onto the roots at the bottom, all tangled up together.

One of Hashirama's hands comes up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing across his face to wipe away his tears as he leans forward until his forehead is resting against Madara's.

Madara's not sure when he started crying, but he can't bring himself to stop now. The sheer overwhelming relief of being fed, of being full, for the first time in his life is too much.

They're both breathing heavily, and for all that Madara isn't supposed to need to it feels incredible. There's a rush in his veins and a pounding in his chest, and he's never felt warm like this before; not the quick burning flash of katon, but suffused throughout him. Like part of the sunshine he can see in Hashirama every time he smiles has been tucked into Madara to keep the cold away.

There's that same blinding smile aimed at him now, and leaning in is easy, pressing lips against lips. First in a brief, feather-light kiss, then again in a stronger, surer one as they find their place against eachother.

Madara can still taste the blood coating his mouth, but that doesn't seem to deter Hashirama in the slightest.

And it's wonderful. A confirmation that everything that was between them as boys still is, as though Hashirama letting him drink from him wasn't all that and more.

Curled up together, sharing breath, sharing warmth, sharing life, Madara can see the future like he hasn't been able to since he was a child.

Senju Butsuma needs to die soon.

Bonus:

"Madara," hisses Izuna, "what did you do?! Eat a village???"

[lonelymagpies]

I love all the details in your drawings, I swear you are just getting better and better!! xx

Are you enjoying yourself in your art journey so far? Are you self taught?

Thank you so much! The fact I’m improving is already something to cherish 😭 I love adding details that actually just feed my brain rot like, of course Aegon must have a nip piercing. It’s barely visible but he need it🫡

I graduated in art school but it was mostly traditional art and I didn’t touch a pencil in the last few years. I’m Definitely enjoying myself right now, that’s a job full of up and downs and now it’s definitely an up 💖

[warmerstranger]

Hii I loved that recent enstars writing you did so much! If I may request something like Mayoi and/or Koga going to try desserts with y/n? I have so much brain rot of these dorks lol ♡

- 🍰 anon

Piece of Bites

ft. Koga Oogami, Mayoi Ayase

alriighht, here's ur order thank you for waiting !! aha, sorry it took like a week, the procrastinating hit me so bad ...

°°``Marked as and included with: fluff! Mayoi being kind of obsessive tho, he means well <3 um is the favoritism too obv here...

[Koga Oogami]

🐺 The moment word 'desserts' are mentioned to him, his face would slightly scrunch like they're something repulsive to him. You must've picked the wrong person...

🐺 Yes, he just come up with the sweetest and cutest desserts imaginable especially if you talk about it and give them to him. He would have his tongue out in a disgust, flat-out refusing without any whiny complains before having you to enjoy it yourself instead. He would still keep you company by getting his own snacks to eat with, though.

🐺 Really, Koga doesn't have a particular grudge or some shitty memories going on against it, he won't go through the sweet aftertaste of eating them or feeling the soft texture melting on his tongue it's yucky. Those type of desserts aren't just for him. Just consider it, do you even think those things suit him? He literally keeps up a wild and rough image as his whole part of identity!

🐺 ...okay, since he's the tougher man and if you have begged enough or use the most effective puppy eyes at him, he would brave through them, the texture and taste be goddamned. They're nothing for him, he's no coward (in actuality if you bought them for him too, it would leave a more bitter taste in his mouth when he just refuse and let you give them to another person). He could sit down and wolf them down try a few bites all the while growling out of spite he has towards the poor desserts. In return you must have some grilled meat or something alike in advance to wash the taste off, especially along with some genuine acknowledgement from your own mouth.

🐺 If they are desserts that aren't sweet or fruity taste and more within a savory level... now they might be a whole different thing going on for him.

🐺 He would eat them and leave no crumbs (literal), expressing his satisfaction and all be referring them 'this rocks' or as 'the good shit'.

🐺 Just be prepared to face the next time he would share some meat with you to eat together. All a steak or barbeque session you're in for...

[Mayoi Ayase]

🦝 Crying, shaking, sobbing, he can't believe you're willing to be in precious moments like this with him..! It's as if he has gone knocking the heaven's door from how much bliss he's feeling he might just die happily.

🦝 While he might have some preferences, it doesn't matter much about how they taste, all that matters is the fact he and you eat them together! Especially if you pick them specifically for him, not even the delicious taste of desserts can outmatch his pleasure of your kind thoughts for someone as revolting as him...

🦝 Mayoi might offer to spoon-feed you or alternately taking turns trying your part while you try his. He's going feral just imagining the indirect kiss when you offer using your own or his spoon..!!

🦝 He's enjoying the experience overall with a bashful smile plastered and humming delightfully the whole time you would think it's because of the desserts since he's eating them happily when he's mostly focused on watching you eat or appreciating your company.

🦝 His rambling would be amplified, driven as the fuel by the desserts if they particularly leave him a satisfying taste. He feels like he can open up more to you.

🦝 He would make sure to let you know he's thankful and he would cherish this moment dearly for the time to come.

🦝 Mayoi wouldn't mind having desserts together with you again sometime! Very soon, preferably, he might even pick and bring your favorites next time.

[jacksprostate]

wip preview part 2 (part 1 here)

As it turns out, I'd never quite told anybody what Tyler looked like.

As it turns out, former Detective David Mills is not Tyler Durden. Cannot be Tyler Durden, because he’s living, breathing, real in everyone else’s eyes, not just mine. That I think he looks like Tyler Durden is not coincidence, but my brain retroactively applying his face onto Tyler's because, God says, I must finally be ready to face him.

I wasn’t punching myself. Tyler Not Tyler, next time I see him, will have a real bruise.

Which would usually be never, God says.

But you’re a special case, God says. A lot of people out there want progress.

We think this could be good for you.

And for Mr. Mills. He's recovering. He could use something to focus on.

It'll help his case, to work with you.

This is divine mandate.

That's something Mills has yet to be informed of, apparently.

Monday morning, I hear the archangels sing, they say, Mills hasn't responded to anything other than a direct order since he found out his wife died. Since he killed a man. One angel says to me as he spoons scrambled eggs onto my plate, you choose good men, sir. He's got conviction.

Conviction makes me think of explosives and a house following orders like a soggy bag of organs.

I think of Tyler Not Tyler with his everything-blond face and eyes like a fish rotting in the sun.

We pass each other in the hallway, led by our respective guard. I wonder if he even registers how gaunt I've become. Desiccated. If he can see how they've made me start swallowing Xanax again so I don't take up residence in his body cavity. I wonder if this is the result of brain damage. Nothing is quite the sight to see like the purpling imprint of my knuckles across the right side of his face.

When Mills speaks, I'm told it's been two weeks, and he finally responded to God's suggested experience by trying to flip the bolted down desk. I hear, Mills said no. He doesn't care about good behavior. He doesn't care about focusing. His wife is dead. If they cared about him at all, they'd put a bullet between his eyes. If he was any smarter, he would've left one bullet for himself.

Not the smartest thing to say when you're already committed.

This gets him a steady drip and a visit from two men.

The man who mops the halls, he tells me it's Mills' lawyer and the partner he had for a week on the case that sent him here. His first case in the big leagues.

You'd think after a year, they'd realize Tyler is dead and stop feeding me information. I wonder if they think this is a step in his return. Another chrysalis.

These men request to meet with me. I have never been allowed visitors. Not even Marla.

Marla hasn't called.

I'm brought to the visitation room, and Mills' lawyer might be there in the background, but it's his partner who's running the show. A black guy, old and wrinkled like a raisin in the sun. No cauliflower nose or stitches through his eyebrows.

Hi.

"Why Mills?"

Don't I get any small talk? If I wasn't on benzos, benzos, benzos, Detective, I'd be hurt. You're the first person I've been allowed to see from outside since I did what your boy wants to do and put a bullet in my brain.

He stares at me.

I smile. The cyst of flesh I've chewed away from the inside of my lip ensures it's always a bit pink.

He looks bored.

Ah.

A kindred spirit.

He made you care again, I say. That's why you're here.

Well.

Imagine, Detective. The only person to see how fucked the world is and want to do something about it, and you're told, even by him, it's all in your head.

And you rot in a psych ward for a year.

And then he walks through the door.

How would you react?

I'm my boss, proposing a hypothetical.

"Mills isn't your hallucination," he says.

Bullshit. So, everyone else can see him too.

"Mills had a wife, dogs, worked five years in homicide upstate before moving to the city a week ago. He is a real person."

In the flesh.

He repeats. "Why Mills?"

And on, and on, and my first ever visitation ends in a very dull stalemate where I visit Tyler's walking corpse in my ice cave as Tyler Not Tyler's detective partner tries to squeeze something other than the truth out of me.

I'm politely informed Detective Somerset has advised I not be involved in Mills' case due to potential violence and psychosexual obsession, and I laugh, because well-meaning men always assume God cares what they have to say. Assume their reasons are universally considered negative.

He's not caught on.

It gets made part of Mills' treatment plan, I'm told. With his little fit in the office, Mills confirmed I'm the only thing that'll shake him out of his walking coma. This is indirect for God saying if you don't do what he wants, he'll let St. Peter know to send you on down to hell the next chance he gets. As in, he'll testify against you. Heaven is a bit authoritarian.

Mills still doesn't care. We end up in a room together anyway. It seems God's smoking gun is at least as effective on his partner.

Amazing to think they've only known each other a week. But my guilt had me blowing up buildings, so I can't quite judge Somerset for his.

In this holy meeting ground of ours, I've got plenty of nice restraints on, handcuffs and ankle cuffs and a persistent level of sedation and a leash that leads right to the hand of an angel that's got a syringe with my name on it.

My remembered violence has been received well by half the guard. The other half seems rededicated to liquifying my brain.

Mills, across our long table, has nothing but his own angel on his shoulder.

Nothing in his eyes. Nothing in his face.

A changeover, but no one hooked up the second reel.

God speaks up from his seat of observation and says, "Mr. Mills, why don't you introduce yourself?"

No one's home.

"Mr. Mills. Introduce yourself."

"Mr. Mills."

I'm watching him like I'm trying to see the pollen grain movement of his very atoms, so I get to see when something starts to wake up in Tyler's stolen body. Olympic torch kind of hellfire, in his eyes. Still foggy. I wonder what they've got him on to keep him from chewing his veins out.

Deliver me.

"I don't need another crazy obsessed with me," he says, looking at God. Immediately physical, he's putting his arms on the desk, leaning forward, an automaton sprung to life.

Yeah, well. I say. I don't need another blond angel blowing up my condo and installing me as a cult leader all across the continent.

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters quick, and turns back to God. "This is bullshit. You can't make me do this. Just testify against me and send me to jail. I don't give a shit."

"Detective Somerset does," God says. "He wants you where you won't go and make someone shank you in two days."

Mills presses his hands against his head, squeezing. His hand over my bruise. I hope he feels it. He says, "I don't care what Somerset wants. I knew him for a week."

"Yet you're here because he asked you to be, David — can I call you David?"

Mills rolls his eyes. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Tons of pretend niceties around here, isn't it something.

"Shut up," he says.

Hey, I say. Hey. Come on.

What more can I take from you? What's the harm?

It's not like I can kill your wife.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 55 - Love Shack

Y'all get caught in the rain. Oh look! A barn!

On AO3.

You sleep like the dead. Don’t even remember conking out. Just the part where you wake up to the scent of woodsmoke, tea, and sausages.

Whatever high you were on yesterday is faded. You feel wrecked. Physically, mentally, like you got hit by a bus, dragged along for a mile, and then run through a meat grinder and repackaged into a human shape again.

The sausages don’t look all that appealing.

You sip tea as the others finish eating and packing. Thick clouds fly overhead, edging silver in the sunlight. Must be some strong winds up there. Hopefully, it don’t start to rain.

There ain’t much critters around. Occasional squirrel. The caw of a crow. But the rest is weirdly silent. Or maybe not so weird as the wind shifts and the rot and piss stink of the town washes over y’all.

The goblin camp is about an hour north, Mr. Eloquent said. You’ll have to track back through that village to get to the road.

“I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Gale says.

And if he don’t turn out to be right. Y’all’ve crossed about halfway through the rest of the village when the wind gusts moisture onto your face. Then the first drops fall. You get to hope for about thirty seconds that’s all it’s gonna do.

Then the sky opens and it dumps.

“Ah shit” you say.

“We need to find shelter,” Wyll says. “Storms like this will pass swiftly, but it’ll soak us through in moments.”

Karlach, sizzling as the rain hits her and immediately bursts into steam, lifts her arms and spins in a circle. “Rain! I haven’t seen proper rain in ages! Look! It’s not even blood!”

…huh.

The houses here are all half-collapsed, with no clear way inside. The lot of you jog up the hill, and spot some low building. A shack or a barn. It looks structurally sound.

“That one?” you say.

“That should do,” Wyll says.

Y’all boot-scoot over. The torrent gets worse. Turns the air silver. Water already streams down your face and you sputter to clear your mouth and nose.

The rush of it is so loud, you don’t even notice the sounds until you’re reaching for the doors. A low moaning, like some kinda cow or buffalo lowing for food.

“Did somebody leave their animals—”

Then there’s rhythmic grunting. Too low and…and too snarly to be human, but there’s some kinda words in there and the other…animal? It moans again. Cause that is a moan and your brain finally puts two and two together and sticks the solution into the square hole.

You step back.

“What’s wrong?” Gale says. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the storm.

“Um,” you say.

Something thumps and bangs.

“Go on then,” Astarion’s voice right beside you. You do not jump. He stands a foot away, peering intently at that door. Fucker knows what’s going on in there. “We’re all getting soaked, dear. What are you waiting for?”

Bastard. He makes no move, offers no guidance; just stands there, arms crossed, looking bored.

The rain is cold.

“Fuck,” you say. Brace yourself. Push on them doors.

The scene will haunt you.

An ogre (ogress?) kneels on all floors, flopping tits bare, grass skirt hiked up over her hips. Behind her, some kinda man-wolf thrusts away. They both spot you and Man-Wolf pulls out, covering himself. But not before you get an accidental eyeful.

“Ah!” Gale all but yelps in horror.

“No,” Karlach says.

Shadowheart looks like she just accidentally swallowed a bug.

But Astarion, the fucking shithead, grins like the douchebag he is.

“What…what the hells are you doing here?!” Man-Wolf says, still overing himself. You don’t see no pants anywhere.

It’s not the floppy tits or the sex that gets you. Logically, ogres don’t just sprout out of the ground like cabbages, and sex always looks weird and super undignified to you. But the glimpse you saw of Man-Wolf showed what you assume is an average-sized, humanoid cock. Nothing like, abnormal about it. But that ogress is the height of the barn. And your brain, always the asshole, shoves its way to the front of the line to cut off common sense.

“How does that even work?” you say.

“What the fuck?” Man-Wolf says.

“The, you know, size discrepancy? How’re you even…does she even notice?” You really should stop talking. Ogress scowls and Man-Wolf has real big fangs. But the horror twines around with your scientific curiosity, and all you can think about is how a vet has to shove their whole arm up a cow to do like, bovine ultrasound. Man-Wolf wasn’t arm-sized.

“Ain’t you too small?” you say.

Astarion sputters and spins away.

“I think I’ll wait out in the rain,” Shadowheart says.

“I—you!” Man-Wolf sputters.

“Gragh!” the ogress bellows, and yeah, that’s why you shoulda kept your mouth shut. She glares down at you as she hauls herself up. “Moment over! Passion ruined!”

There’s something underneath her. A splash of color. That’s clothes. That’s a fresh corpse.

“Uh,” Karlach says as the ogress looms over y’all.

Only the big girl don’t lift a foot to squash your guts outta your mouth like a tube of toothpaste. She turns to Man-Wolf. “We go.”

“But, my sweet—” he says. Still don’t got his pants nowhere.

“We go.”

And ogress lumbers right off into the rain, tits swaying, just as the downpour eases up.

Man-Wolf’s ears pin back. He throws you a nasty glare and scurries out after his paramour.

Leaving all you in the barn, which smells weirdly musty.

“That…really happened,” Wyll say. “I’m not hallucinating?”

Astarion, curled into a ball, wheezes.

“I very much wish it were,” Gale says and rubs his eyes.

You stare out after the couple. Ruin a hand down your face. “How does that even work?” Notice the others staring at you. “What?”

“That’s what you’re focused on?” Shadowheart says.

“They’re two entirely different species! They shouldn’t even be compatible! It’d be like…like a dog trying to mount a heifer!”

Karlach actually grimaces. “There’s a visual I didn’t need. Thanks, soldier.”

“But it don’t make sense. You can breed a donkey and a horse because they’re similar enough, but…I mean…that? Is that a thing here?”

Lae’zel ignores the whole conversation to go search the corpse the two were literally fucking over (gross).

“Like,” you say. Your gaze lands on Astarion as he stands and wipes his eyes. “Elves exist, and so do humans, so do y’all have half-and-halves?”

“I’m a half-elf,” Shadowheart says. And oh. Her ears are shorter than Astarion’s. You never really made that connection, huh?

“But that means both species are genetically compatible. And, you know, physically. Is everything here like that? Because that’s fucking weird, y’all. That’d indicate a common ancestor way, way far back, which’d actually make them two closer to a pig mounting a bear—”

Gale claps your shoulder with one hand. And with a pain-filled grimace, says, “While I always appreciate the pursuit of knowledge, even I believe there are limits.”

And…they all look a bit green around the gills.

And you realize it ain’t about the evolutionary or sociological implications of inter-species fucking. You squint. “Are y’all seriously having a collective tizzy cause you saw them fucking?”

Wyll looks like he bit into a lemon.

“You’re not?” Karlach says.

You ain’t never had sex with someone else. You was raised to think that the literal worst thing somebody could do, the filthiest thing somebody could be. It made you disgusting, made you worthless. Then you got to the secular world and learned that not having sex made you a cringey weirdo.

So to spite the both of them, you learned about it. You learned all about it, because fuck the shame, fuck the farmstead, and fuck everybody (but not literally).

They got no idea how funny this conversation is for you. So it’s with a little bit of bravado, a lot a bit of truth, and a dash of gremlin in you that says, “No? It’s just sex?”

“I…think I’ll check the outer perimeter,” Wyll says. And leaves.

You survey the field—Shadowheart and Gale all uneasy, Lae’zel snooping through barrels, and Karlach wincing.

Ha.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Astarion clears his throat and tugs his poofy shirt vest down.

You made the man outright wheeze. Your mouth opens, so ready to fall back into the banter of days before. God, it would be so easy to riff off him. He ain’t bothered by the whole display y’all walked in on, and he’d absolutely join you in horrifying the others.

But y’all are keeping distance, ain’t you? You got the keep the walls up. You can’t go around encouraging him. You got to suffocate that ember before it flames, for his sake and yours.

So you only give him a nod, and turn to the others. “Let’s get outta the fuck barn, huh?”