#but they are alarmingly comfortable with humans

[kestreleve]

ummm hi can I help you

[princessbrunette]

⊹ ᜊ(ᜊ ´ ˘)੭ ♡ … BED CHEM ♡

track seven of the short n’sweet series. pairing: kook!pope x reader. based loosely of the song bed chem by sabrina carpenter. enjoy! ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა

you’d heard of love at first sight, but lust at first sight was an experience that hit you like a tonne of bricks in the university library.

the first time you’d had the chance to experience pope heyward in full was when he sat at a booth behind you whilst you were studying. you kind of already knew who he was, and kind of already had always thought he was cute despite knowing very little about him despite the fact he was wealthy and a chemistry major. you’d had the chance to talk to him at a party before, sure — but you didn’t think it was appropriate to bond with a boy with the likes of him whilst you were wearing such a sheer dress. you’d said no more than hi and bye.

“look, dude i’m not sayin’ i’m bad at sex. my girls always cum. all i’m sayin’ is, i feel like i can be better. i don’t know how you do the whole teasing thing. i’m a dude. with dude parts. i get impatient and just wanna go straight to pound town — boom!” his blonde friend rambles, and your ears prick up immediately, tearing your eyes away from your textbook to listen distractedly. it wasn’t your fault— you were ovulating, and plus, popes friend was talking at an alarmingly casual volume. “c’mon bro you take chemistry. don’t you know about the human body n’shit?”

“okay, first of all — what you’re talking about is biology. second of all, i’m trying to study. third of all would you keep your voice down?” you hear him ball something up and toss it in the direction of the blonde and nearly let your giggle slip. you were bored out of your mind and horny, there was no harm in eavesdropping.

“alright alright — but answer me this one thing.” popes pal lowers his voice so naturally you lean back in your booth to listen in. “say i want a girl goin’ crazy. beggin’ for it. what do i gotta do? c’mon pope i know you know.”

“if i give you some pointers will you shut the hell up and let me study?” pope sounds bored, and his nonchalance to the situation makes you flush.

“…yes.”

the darker skinned boy sighs, and you picture him leaning on his elbows, making you work even harder to listen. “okay. put a pillow under her hips. it’s gonna help you hit her gspot a lot easier and she’s gonna be more comfortable which you want. massage her hips when you go down on her and don’t skip out on taking your time down there jj.”

“massage her hips?”

“it opens her up. makes her relax her pelvic floor.”

“alrighty, noted. what else, chief?”

“talk her through it. you know how to do that?”

“damn right i do.” the blonde answers confidently.

“i dread to think what that poor girl has to hear.”

by the end of the conversation, you’re dripping. it’s not your fault — like you said, ovulation can be a real bitch. it gets to the point where you need to get up and walk around before you start humping the study bench, so you decide on strolling over to the water dispenser to refill your bottle that you’d been ravenously sipping down to attempt to quell your growing arousal. you also were feeling curious and wanted to get another look at your crush.

when you walked back with your freshly filled bottle, there he was in all his glory— berating his blonde friend in the hat to simply let him study. god he looked good, expensive. sitting comfortably in the booth in a white jacket, voice smooth and buttery and you couldn’t help but stare, your top set of teeth tugging at your glossy bottom lip. the pair of you lock eyes, but you can’t look away— neither can he. did you look flustered? could he tell you’d been listening? were you clammed up? could he sense the arousal seeping through your panties? you wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow could. he seemed like some sort of sex god.

he was none the wiser, and the rest was history — the boy having secured your phone number before you’d left the library.

after that, the two of you became inseparable. if you weren’t studying together or grabbing food (that he’d refuse to let you pay for) you were on the phone, ranting and raving about the people in your classes or the weird thing your professor said that day. there was chemistry, sure — a bond that you could only see heading towards a relationship. but with all the soft touches, the lingering looks from beneath your lashes, the tension — you were itching to take the next step. you’d desired him carnally from the day you met.

it’s a thursday evening, and pope has an exam the next day. a big one. you’d settled on hanging out via phone call whilst he studied, quickly getting on with your own business instead of getting to be at his side distracting him. it was for the best, and whilst you’d pouted at the promised temporary distance, you knew it was a good idea.

until night falls, and you’re laying on your bed — listening to the scribbling away of his pencil through the line. you sigh, a small smile dusting your face.

“you know, the day we met properly i’d kind of overheard one of your conversations.” he can tell you’re biting back a giggle, and with your joy infectious — he smiles too.

“yeah? did no one ever teach you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?” he teases and you let the giggle free, rolling back over to stare at the ceiling.

“s’not my fault! jj has a loud mouth.” you accuse lightheartedly and he hums in agreement, still scribbling away.

“that he does…” he finishes up what he’s writing before directing his attention back to the conversation. “so what exactly did you overhear?”

you bite your lip, recalling it. “well, it’s not exactly PG…”

his brows perk up in curiosity as his eyes flicker towards your contact image on his screen. “oh? i hope i didnt embarrass myself.”

“no, no not at all… i was intrigued.”

“well don’t leave me hanging.” he truly had no idea.

“you were giving jj…pointers. for the… bedroom.” you relay shyly, suddenly losing all your confidence. simply the memory of that day left your cunt fluttering, already lubricating itself.

“ah. i remember now.” he sounds tense, like he can’t tell how you feel about it. “not exactly an ideal topic for… the library, you know?”

“mhm… anyway, i was pretty impressed.”

you hear him smile, placing his pencil down all together. bingo.

“okay… and what exactly was it that impressed you might i ask?”

you suck in a shaky breath, hoping you don’t come across like some insane gooner all of a sudden. you’d say you’d done a good job at hiding your arousal for him in all the occasions you’d hung out.

“well… all of it. you seem to really know how to make a… make a girl feel good. probably better than i know how to— whatever.” you say the last part quietly, in disbelief that you were being so open. you were thinking with your pussy, you couldn’t help it.

he pauses, and for a split second you feel a wave of embarrassment. but then he speaks.

“at the risk of not sounding very humble, i’d say i have a good success rate.” he sounds so warm, so fond of you — it makes you feel comfortable enough to continue. “in the past—” he adds quickly. “i don’t… talk to any other girls but you now. don’t… don’t wanna…. touch any girl but you now. just to make that clear. you know.”

the tension is so thick and hot that it’s stifling all of a sudden and you’re not even infront of eachother. your mouth moves without your permission.

“how?” you breathe.

“…how?” he repeats, leaning back in his desk chair in his student apartment. it was times like these he was thankful he didn’t have a roommate. it was times like these you were grateful that yours had gone on vacation.

“how would you… touch me?” you’re so quiet that you’re surprised it picks up on the mic.

“uh, well… any way you’d like it. i think it’s important that sexual partners… communicate, and stuff you know? the guy should never be too proud to ask the girl what she likes. so… what do you like?” he licks his lips, staring straight at the wall.

“i… dont really know. i don’t have much experience. not good experience anyway.”

“thats okay—” he coo’s kindly as your voice overlaps once more with—

“i think i like—”

“— oh, no go ahead. what do you like sweetheart?” sweetheart. you squeeze your legs shut at the casual way it rolls off his tongue.

“…i think i’d like you to take the control… be the dominant one i guess. i like feeling…”

“taken care of?” he answers for you and you nod, before realising he can’t see you.

“mhm. yes.”

“well i am pretty confident that i can be that for you. like, one hundred percent confident. can do it just like you want it, pick you up, pull you down, turn you around… all that good stuff. it makes sense.”

you exhale, practically trembling as your legs fall open slightly, unable to stop yourself from trailing a hand down your stomach into your pyjama shorts.

“mhm?”

“yeah. but that stuff comes later, i literally just wanna focus on learning your body first, you know? how to touch you. every pussy is different, not to be crass or anything. i think to answer your question i’d just lay you down and finger you nice n’ slow, figure out the basics. make you feel nice.” he lists it off so… normally. like it’s obvious to him.

you sigh, spreading your juices through your folds and forget to respond for a moment. that is until he says your name and you open your eyes.

“hm?”

“are you touching yourself? to my voice?”

you feel your face get hot, shame creeping up your neck. all you can squeak out is an “i’m sorry.” and he chuckles.

“you have nothing to apologise for. i’m riling you up and it’s not fair but by all means, continue. god i—” he sighs, and you hear him shuffling. what he��s really doing, is reaching down to palm at his erection through his sweatpants— exam long forgotten about. this has all his attention. “—i wanted to be all… respectful i guess. wait until the time was right, but… but i just wanna make you cum. so hard. so many times.” he lets loose a little, reaching down to pull his cock out. it’s then he hears it, that pretty pained whimper whilst you rub yourself— no holding back now.

“i’ve wanted you so bad from the day we first met. but — but wanted to be a good girl. show you i’m more than—”

“i know, and you are. you are. oh my god, screw this exam. i should be there. i’ll tell you what, okay — i’m gonna talk you through this orgasm, but i want you to remember how it feels to cum on your own fingers — ‘cause, well — that’s not gonna be happening anymore. it’s all me now, honey. all me.”

[thecampjuicebox]

Glorious Suffering

Pairing: Abdirak x Tav(f) x Astarion

Rating: 18+ NSFW, Minors DNI

POV: 2nd person

Warnings: SMUT, sadomasochism, use of objects for hitting, blood, bruising, biting, voyeurism/exhibitionism, orgasm denial, oral, fingering, p in v penetration, minor game spoilers

Trying out a new writing format to put better emphasis on dialogue. Let me know what you guys think!

The stench of blood and unwashed bodies lingers in the air like a thick blanket. It stings in your nostrils - singes the hairs with gut churning ferocity. Putrid. It makes your eyes water. Your stomach turns and bubbles as your breakfast threatens to make a second appearance. The once grand Selunite Outpost has since crumbled to near ruins, the occupation of goblins tainting its beauty and grace in a matter of days. Filthy pests, they are. You turn your head up, eyes watering from the scent as you climb the stone stairs toward a hallway of small rooms. Your group follows close behind reluctantly.

"This place is disgusting." Astarion whines, tip-toeing around small piles of bones and viscera.

Cautious eyes peek around corners. The first room is brightly lit with candles and lanterns, a young man strapped by the wrists and ankles to some sort of torture device. Two goblins swing maces and whips in his direction, shouting obscenities and asking for information. Information the man clearly doesn't seem to have.

"Pathetic. All of them." Shadowheart huffs, turning her nose up at the display with obvious disdain for what she's seen.

"They can't even properly swing a mace to cause actual damage. Lady Shar would be displeased."

Astarion grins at the sight. Excited fingers crawl against the stone brick wall to take hold of it as he leans into the doorway, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip and trace the sharp points of his fangs.

"Let's stay and watch." The spawn's flirtatious nature can be so insufferable sometimes.

"Astarion, come. We have other business to attend to." Your voice is sharp and stern, seemingly the only way the elf will listen to you.

"You're such a bore." He groans, pulling away from the wall and hooking his index finger into the back of your leathers, giving them a playful tug toward him as he presses close to your behind and mumbles into your pointed ear.

"Doesn't that device look like such fun? We should give it a try once the little green ones have no more use for it."

Your cheeks burn crimson and a disengaging elbow flies out from behind you, connecting with Astarion's abdomen hard enough to force him to let go of your leathers.

"Not now, you tease." With a cough, he puts some distance between the two of you - an insidious grin lingers on his lips.

The second room draws closer and the quiet mumble of a man inside makes your ears perk up. His voice is strained, the occasional sounds of mace to skin ringing through the hall. He cries out, and every hair on your body stands on end. Astarion rounds the corner first, stumbling upon a man with medium build, knelt down in front of one of the rear walls of the room. He stands and turns to your group slowly, eyes falling on you first. His gaze is almost.. Comforting. Silver eyes pierce through you like the sharpest dagger. It nearly knocks the breath straight from your lungs. His chest and abdomen are alarmingly bloodied and bruised, little cuts and scratch marks speckling his skin. Astarion clears his throat once he notices your eyes locked on one another and the human offers a kind smile.

"Greetings, child. I've met few aside from Goblins here. Are you also here to assist with the prisoner?" He questions, motioning toward the room just next door.

You shake your head slowly, averting your gaze to the floor for a moment. Warmth swirls in your belly. He's incredibly handsome, the salt tones in his blonde hair showing his age. His voice is low and raspy and it sends shivers up and down your spine when he speaks - like sweet red wine to your ears. Delicious and intoxicating. His face contorts into a grimace as he crosses his arms over his chest and rests his weight on one foot.

"Hm. While I was thrilled to be invited here, I must confess I find the goblins and their methods.. Crude and primitive." He leans forward at his last word, eyes narrowing toward you. "Pain without purpose is a terrible thing. Wouldn't you agree?"

Your cheeks involuntarily flush that deep shade of crimson that clearly gives you away. He awakens something within you. You'd recognize his garb from miles away. A follower of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain. The things this man has probably seen. The things he's done. It excites you in a way that's almost embarrassing. A familiar ache pings in your core and you can't help but cross your legs, squeezing your thighs together tightly to dull the desperation. The inherent need. The human before you certainly notices and takes a step closer, inhaling slowly before he speaks. He's toying with you now. He must be. Astarion can smell the growing eagerness in your blood, hear the way your pulse quickens, life force pumping into different parts of you now. He smirks and keeps quiet, but gods, is he painfully aware.

"Forgive me -" The man interjects, pointing directly at you now. You gulp. "but that look in your eyes. Something terrible has happened to you."

You cross your arms over your breasts, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Clever man. How did you know?"

"Because I see those same eyes when I look in the mirror.. Dear one." His hand reaches out to caress your soft cheek and goosebumps raise by the millions on your skin. "We've all suffered in these.. Dark times. It is little wonder you bear scars of pain and anguish. Please. Let me.. Alleviate this pain."

"What exactly would this entail?" Astarion's voice cuts through your thoughts and your eyes shift to him in disbelief.

"Well, the Maiden of Pain, Loviatar, teaches us that pain is a most powerful and sacred sensation. And, should our pain delight her, she will grant her most sacred of blessings." His hands clench into excited fists in front of him. "If you would permit it, I could show you first hand."

A knot forms in your stomach, twisting and tangling, his words sending jolts of arousal and excitement throughout your entire body like bolts of lightning. This experience would be new, however. The idea of such an act being performed in front of your newly acquired companions, and the man you'd started to have feelings for, makes your brain fuzzy. Gods, they'd for sure say no. Maybe even leave you to find a cure for the wriggling parasite behind your eyes by yourself.

"Sounds like a wonderful show. She accepts." Astarion beams, his eyes fixed on you, scanning up and down as your heartbeat quickens further. "As long as we can stay and watch."

"Surely Shadowheart has some reservations about watching, right?" You ask with an air of desperation that's almost laughable.

She grins and places her hands on her hips, quirking an eyebrow at you. "Lady Shar would frown upon me if I were to miss something as deliciously torturous as this. Go on."

"Oh, I have something exquisite in mind." He rubs his hands together, a devilish grin smeared across his lips. It makes your core ache even more. "Disrobe, face the wall, and we can begin. And by the way.. You may call me Abdirak."

Disrobe? Gods, this was not on your list of things to do today. Kill some goblins? Sure. Save a wildshaped druid from death? Easy. This? This may be the most difficult thing you've ever done. Astarion waves a hand toward you, motioning for you to obey the Servant of Loviatar. Your confidence wavers for a moment. Not only are you about to willingly endure what is essentially torture, now you must do it.. Naked. You gulp and set your backpack down at your feet. First goes your boots, next your leather harness, your head turning to look at Astarion who is enamored by the sight of you slowly undressing, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. Another gulp. How embarrassing.. Shadowheart snickers quietly at your obvious discomfort. Trembling fingers struggle with the laces of your tunic and in a bout of frustration, you quickly tug it over your head. The white linen falls to the floor at your feet, your perky breasts bouncing ever so slightly from the rushed movements. A quiet sigh emits from Abdirak and he quickly looks to his table of various weapons, hand hovering over the selection.

You finally tug your leathers down past your knees, kicking them to the side with reckless abandon just to get it over with. Your lack of underwear earns a barely audible groan from both Astarion and Abdirak alike. Naked and exposed, you shiver, hands resting at your sides.

"Well, go on, darling. Don't be shy."

Astarion's words give you the final push to step forward. You face the wall as instructed and chew at your bottom lip as the human lifts a mace into his hands, turning it over to inspect its condition. A quiet "Yes.. This will do nicely." stoking your fire as you wait. Abdirak approaches you from behind, reaching down to guide your hands toward the wall, foot kicking between your ankles to spread your legs apart. The cold metal of his mace traces along your spine and you shudder, teeth chattering at its frosty bite. You wait with baited breath. Brace for the imminent kiss of pain. Abdirak rears back and lands a blow to your back hard enough to knock an involuntary yelp from your throat. Astarion chews the tip of his thumb, his right hand lowering to the front of his leathers to palm at his growing erection. The half elf stood close beside him eyes him carefully, and then you, arms crossing over her chest now, completely unamused.

"The pain you suffer will cleanse you. Do not fight it."

A loud sob follows Abdirak's words as you process the pain, blood trickling from a new gash on your skin. You beg for mercy, plead for the pain to stop, your knees nearly buckling beneath you. But this is only the first blow, there is so much more to come. Somewhere deep down inside, you're enjoying this. Your companions watching as you stand there, completely vulnerable, bloodied and bruised. Open to the elements and whomever wanted a taste. The human licks his lips.

"Your voice sounds so sweet, dear one. Keep going."

"Don't wear her out entirely, priest. We may have use for her yet." Shadowheart grins, eyes narrowing on your trembling frame.

Her mocking tone and underlying breathiness strikes an interesting chord with you. Exciting. Stimulating. Blood pumps in your ears - a deafening drum beat that only you can hear. You sway your hips to the rhythm and Astarion chews at his bottom lip, ready to pounce. Hunger burns in his stomach. Emptiness. Even though he'd fed on you just hours before, his mouth salivates like he's positively starved. He intends to devour you in one way or another.

Your tormentor rears back to land another blow, this time to your ass, and it nearly knocks you forward into the wall. You grit your teeth and stifle a scream and Astarion groans at your strained noises. He's enjoying this almost as much as you are, you're just much better at hiding it. Arousal soaks your folds. Your walls flutter around nothing and you chew your bottom lip to stifle a moan as Abdirak lands a third blow against your thigh. Nails dig into the stone bricks, almost bloodying your fingers. Gods, you want more. Need more. Abdirak takes a step back to admire his work, rubbing the tip of the mace up your inner thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. You whimper and he quirks an eyebrow. In a sudden change of mind, he swaps the mace for a paddle, little circles cut from the wood to increase the sensations. A quick smack earns a loud cry from your lips.

"That's it, dear one! Let Loviatar hear you!"

"Not the worst technique, priest. Good wrist movement. Lots of.. Enthusiasm." Shadowheart interjects again plainly.

Astarion continues to palm at his cock as he watches, eyes fixed solely on you. The way your blood bubbles up and trickles over your flesh. The scent of your arousal. It's the sweetest perfume and he can hardly control himself.

"You're being so good for him, darling. Keep going."

The vampire spawn's voice is breathy and low. You moan just from his words and Abdirak lands another smack to your opposite ass cheek, a large red print immediately surfacing and swelling on your skin. "Fuck!" You cry loudly. Tears sting in the corners of your eyes. The human grins and sets the paddle down, moving behind you to trace his fingers over each bruise, cut, and mark he'd left. Little trophies of devotion. His goddess will be pleased. You shiver at the contact of his fingers.

"Sweet child.. You bore the pain like a true believer. I am proud to have served you this penance."

"Th-Thank you.." You muster quietly, bottom lip still trembling at the threat of tears. "I enjoyed myself."

Abdirak tilts his head back and sighs heavily, one hand reaching down to trace over your bruises once more. His cock throbs beneath his garb and he presses a free hand into it, groaning at the friction.

"As did I, dear one. Loviatar herself found your performance.. inspiring."

He grins and steps to your side, leaning close to your ear. His breath is warm and smells of a metal. More goosebumps speckle your skin as he presses his lips to your pointed ear and whispers quietly.

"And on a personal note.. Thank you. That was positively divine. This doesn't have to be the end, however. You've proven yourself perfectly capable of accepting such exquisite pleasure. I'd love to show you so much more."

"She'd love that. May I assist?" Astarion murmurs, approaching the two of you with confidence.

Normally you'd be incredibly irritated by the vampire spawn speaking for you, but now, Gods you couldn't be more grateful. A cold hand cups your cunt suddenly and you jolt at the sensation, back arching forward as Astarion's middle finger presses just barely into your folds and against your clit.

"Mm. She's so wet for us."

Sharp teeth just barely pierce your shoulder, a sensation you've become all too used to ever since you discovered the pale elf's affliction. You'd let him feed on you when it was needed, and sometimes purely because you enjoyed how he'd hold you close to him. How he'd savor your taste and lick your skin clean. His sweet words of encouragement as he'd bite into another place. And the way he'd talk you through the dizziness once he was finished. Your brain whirs with arousal as Astarion coos quietly against your skin and presses little kisses to the now bleeding spot. He drags his fangs over your flesh with torturous slowness, exhaling heavily at the salty taste of your sweat and blood combined. The finger pressed to your clit begins moving in circles and you nearly fall apart right there. Your legs tremble. Toes curl against the stone beneath your feet. Abdirak picks up the paddle once more and eyes Astarion. They exchange a glance of approval and the paddle makes fiery contact with your skin once more, over the same swollen spot it had assaulted before.

A mix of pain and pleasure courses through every vein in your body and your vision goes white. You could cum at any moment. Another smack. And another. And another. Astarion lowers his hand from your cunt, landing a smack of his own against your folds and your knees nearly give out at the force.

"Gods, please.." you whimper loudly, head falling between your shoulders.

"Yes, beg for it, dear one. You're doing so well for us."

"What a good girl you are, darling."

Their combined praises is enough to push you over the edge, but you hold on tightly. You can't cum. Not yet. Astarion's fingers circle around your slick soaked slit, playing with the clear sticky fluid for a moment. One digit slides inside first and you whine loudly, hips pushing back against him.

"M-more.." you beg.

A second finger slides inside and stretches your entrance ever so slightly, the cold digits pressing firmly into that spongey spot that could stop your heart.

"More!" You cry, and both men behind you grin at your desperation.

Abdirak slides his index finger into his mouth to soak it with his spit before lowering it between your thighs, forcing it inside of you atop Astarion's hooked fingers. The stretch burns in the most delicious of ways.

"Please.. Please more.."

A second finger of Abdirak's slides inside and finally you're sated, hips bucking back against their hands rhythmically. Astarion kneels down and sinks his teeth into your left ass cheek, blood trickling from the flesh and down his chin as he sups of your nectar, his eyes rolling back in his skull. He can taste your orgasm building. Your arousal and desperation. Your every need and want. His fingers pump in and out of you with bruising speed and Abdirak follows suit, his free hand reaching around the front of your waist to pinch your clit between his thumb and index. He rolls the sensitive, swollen bud between his fingers and presses sloppy, open mouthed kisses down your bloodied ass and thigh, savoring the metallic tang of your blood and the sweetness of your sweat. A delectable treat for all of his senses. Your moans grow louder and louder, jaw hung open and drool falling from your mouth in a steady stream. An eager hand reaches up to shove itself into your mouth and cover itself in your spit before moving back to your clit, spreading the wetness around.

The knot in your belly grows tighter and tighter, wound like a bow string, and you squeeze your eyes shut at the near painful overstimulation of your slit. Still the fingers work furiously against your walls.

"I'm gonna - I need to - Gods please!"

"Ah ah ah, use your words, darling. What do you need?"

The spawn drags his tongue over the globe of your ass to clean the remainder of blood from your skin. A quiet groan escapes his lips and he stands again, free hand taking hold of your hair to stand you fully upright.

"I need to cum.. I'm gonna -"

Just as you're about to topple over the edge, both sets of fingers are pulled from your cunt, a thick rope of slick still connecting you with the two men standing behind you. You keen at the emptiness. Your walls squeeze and contract around nothing. Abdirak lands a hot smack against your clit, and then another, and another, grinning as you sob loudly at the strikes. His pulls his hand away reluctantly, slipping his slick covered digits into his mouth to suck them clean. Astarion flashes him a toothy grin.

"N-no please.. Please!"

All you can muster are pathetic pleas and raspy whines, your feet stomping in frustration against the dirty stone beneath you. Astarion's fingers wrap themselves around your throat from behind and yank your back against his front, the threat of his angry erection rubbing back and forth against your bruised ass. You're fully exposed. Vulnerable. Writhing and crying for release. Such a beautiful sight to the vampire spawn and the servant of Loviatar. This is torture.

"Shadowheart, my dear. Are you sure you're not interested in some fun?"

"I'd much prefer to watch, thank you."

The half elf smirks and leans against the wall, eyes scanning over the scene just a few feet away. Her eyes narrow on you and you can feel her gaze burning holes into the back of your head. Does she approve? Do you even care? Skilled fingers work the front of Astarion's leathers open and his cock springs up and out, a soft slap against your ass startling you from the heavy daze filling your head. Your brain feels like cold snow slush. Your legs are weak, growing weaker by the second as Astarion rubs the tip of his weeping cock against your hungry slit. You nearly pull him right in and he hisses at the tightness. The invitation. Abdirak lowers himself to his knees in front of you, both hands finding purchase on your hips to keep himself steady. Gentle kisses pepper your abdomen, hip bones, and your stubbly mound, a shiver running up your your spine at the warmth of his breath against your sex. You wiggle your hips, both to tease the vampire spawn behind you, and to beckon the human's lips toward the spot you need him most.

Without warning, Astarion slips inside. His size surprises you. The delicious burn of the stretch, how he's nearly in your guts before bottoming out. Gods, he's huge. A careful push of the hips nestles him fully inside and he waits there for a moment.

"By the nine hells, you're tight.." He murmurs, lips pressed tightly to your ear now.

Abdirak's tongue flattens against your clit and he lifts his head to slide it up and over your mound, repeating this same movement to go back down. His strokes are slow and calculated. The combination of sensations makes your legs tremble like leaves in the winter air, and your hands fly down to tangle in the human's hair and guide his head. With a tut, Astarion reaches around to quickly grasp your wrists and yank them behind your back - you're pinned in place, forced to submit to his quickening thrusts and the skilled swirling of Abdirak's tongue. Your frame bends forward just slightly at the force of the spawn's thrusts, your legs spreading further apart instinctively. Again, that familiar knot twists and tightens in your belly and surely you'll cum at any moment. Astarion's free hand moves your hair away from the side of your neck to expose the still-healing bite marks from just the night before. He lines his fangs up perfectly re-open the wounds and you hiss at the sting. Like shards of ice in your veins. Overcome by pleasure and blood loss, your vision goes fuzzy. Drool drips from your lips and down your chin. Positively cock drunk.

Not even a soft moan is able to escape now. Only heavy exhales and gasps making your lungs burn and your throat raw. Abdirak's tongue works with surprising artistry against your clit still, lips sucking and tugging at the bundle of nerves to earn any sounds he possibly can from you. The loud slap of skin against skin rings throughout the stone room. Surely the rest of the outpost could hear you. You're surprised you don't have an audience gathered in the door way, watching the way you're being devoured and fucked into oblivion. The vampire spawns teeth leave your neck with a soft slurp sucking the last little drops of your blood through the puncture wounds, his tongue swirling around his lips and teeth to collect the remnants. Astarion's thrusts begin to lose their rhythm and you can't help but grin as his cock twitches erratically inside of you. Abdirak quickly releases your clit from his swollen lips, ducking his head further to use his tongue on Astarion now. The tip of the human's tongue traces the furry outline of the vampire spawns sack before sucking one ball into his warm mouth, massaging it in his jaw. The he switches, and the primal growl that escapes Astarion makes your heart flutter.

"Fuck, I'm cumming! Oh gods, I'm cumming!" He groans loudly, nails digging harshly into the plush meat of your hips as he quickly pulls himself from your constricting walls and spills his seed onto the small of your back.

Your end draws near, Abdirak's fingers finding their way into your cunt with impressive speed. They hook forward into that perfect spot and you cry out loud, finally able to make some sort of noise. The spawn behind you rubs his softening cock against your ass, keeping a tight grip on your arms behind your back still. Quiet squelches and slurps from the human between your thighs make you grin. Disgusting. Cold hands keep a careful grip on your trembling body. One restraining your hands, the other wrapped tightly around your throat now, playing with the pressure against your arteries. First a soft squeeze. Then it builds, and your hearing muffles. Black spots invade your vision. The spawn releases, and all of it comes rushing back. You gasp loudly for air, lungs on fire. Playfully, he repeats this again and again - bringing you to the brink of unconsciousness then quickly yanking you back. Soft coos and words of praise work you up to your climax.

"Such a good girl. So obedient. You like that, don't you? You like when I tell you how good you are?"

You nod in agreeance, unable to speak. Words feel foreign on your tongue. Your mouth is dry now, like you've filled it with linen. Still your end builds. Loud cries, sobs, and screams alert all of Faerun of your pleasure. You should be embarrassed. Ashamed, even. But you couldn't care less. Not now. You nearly topple over the precipice of pure ecstasy when suddenly.. The feeling disappears. Abdirak moves back from his original spot. Your cunt aches. Empty. A soft whimper escapes you and your head falls back against Astarion's broad shoulder.

"You thought we were going to let you cum? Little love.. How naïve."

His words sting like bees. Little Love. The degradation should upset you. Should ruin whatever arousal you have left. But it doesn't. If anything, it adds oil to the fire. You're more wet than ever. Heat rises in your ears and the tips turn a bright red, your fists balling up behind you in frustration as you try and wiggle out of his grasp. Through gritted teeth, you growl. A pathetic performance, on your part. Abdirak stands before you and circles his index finger over both of your nipples, smirking at you with half lidded eyes as each one perks up.

The half elf across the room giggles in amusement.

"Positively cruel."

"Patience, dear one.. You'll meet your end soon enough."

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

Alright. I've been talking about writing a meta about Charles and jealousy for a while, so here it is. It's a mess. I tried to make it more concise than it was, if you can believe that.

Be forewarned, below the cut we'll be diving into some canon compliant content like Charles' home life. Please, please, please note that now is the time to leave if you are not in a good space to read about those.

Okay. First I want to establish a few things before I get to analyzing the scenes, because I think it is important that we have empathy for Charles here. This might be a bit of a long preamble, but if you could stay with me I'd appreciate it. I promise I am going somewhere with all of this.

I think a lot of us have been told, perhaps by a parent or a friend, that jealousy is unbecoming or bad. Think about it. I know growing up that is a message I heard frequently even though I saw adults exhibit it. This was actually pretty confusing to try and work out. Anyway, now with this almost puritanical obsession with good pure and healthy relationships in media, it's gotten worse. We're told any human flaw we have is something we have to fix or we are not deserving of love. Yes, including jealousy.

Only if that's the case, Charles is fighting uphill here. Here's why:

For reference 41:30 -42:00 in episode 4 is the flashback that The Night Nurse shows Charles of his home. If we unpack this we can learn a lot of things, but there are two that I would like two draw your attention to today:

Charles' dad clearly isn't someone Charles could form a secure attachment to. He seems to only be acknowledging Charles when he's angry, and only acknowledging him in a very violent manner. He's also not really communicating with him, and expecting Charles to know what he's upset about I guess? Truly, this man is terrifying. He knows his family is afraid of him, and he knows they'll scramble to try and fix whatever his issue is.

Charles' mom doesn't intervene. Now, I do not want to hear any vile junk in my notes. She's a battered woman and has probably been in the same position that Charles has, considering Charles himself is worried about her once he is dead. He's worried enough that he checks in on her every week. It makes it all the more heartbreaking that Charles is the one who has taken it upon himself to try and "make it better" (although this is not uncommon among kids who grow up in abusive households, alarmingly).

It definitely drives home that there is a clear hierarchy in the home (everyone tries to please the most volatile person), and you're at the bottom of the pyramid. Even if it's just because you and everyone else in the household is too terrified to do anything about the most abusive person's behavior, you still feel the weight of never being put first. You will never be put first, because how could you be? "You never made it better than you died" (via The Night Nurse) holds a crushing amount of meaning here.

Alright. Now we have established that Charles had some messed up stuff happen at home. Let's take that a step further. Adverse childhood experiences can lead to a variety of attachment styles that are not secure and... you guessed it, jealousy can get thrown in the mix. (This link leads to an abstract of a very interesting research article. If you request the full test directly from the researcher they will provide it for free, but it takes time. The basic idea here is that if kids aren’t able to form secure attachments to their parents, then they will struggle to feel secure in their relationships as they grow up. Sometimes that can manifest as jealousy).

Still with me after all of that? You are god's strongest soldier, lmao. Now let's get into the good stuff.

Charles dies, but there in the attic he meets Edwin. Charles chooses Edwin over the blue light without a second thought. He comforted him when he was dying, and that tenderness is foreign for Charles. The choice is an easy one.

He enjoyed it, and he enjoys Edwin. Edwin, in turn, turns out to be is someone who unequivocally, continuously, puts Charles first. He also does something really important- Charles seeks reassurance, and Edwin gives it ("You ever think, what if Death did catch us? She'd force us to go to the afterlife and split up" Charles asks. "I will make sure that never happens" Edwin answers, all while they're hanging on the side of their office). This is one of the first things we learn about them in the pilot. Charles knows he can count on Edwin. This wasn't something he had from anyone in life.

So things go fine for Charles for a long while. Edwin hasn't given him any reason to feel insecure in all that time it seems. He’s done a great job making Charles feel safe. Charles even feels secure enough that it is his idea to try and integrate Crystal into the agency, although Edwin clearly hates it. Crystal isn’t a threat to his friendship with Edwin, so it would appear Charles still feels reasonably secure in their relationship at this point.

Charles even explains or excuses a lot of Edwin's reactions to try and smooth things over. He tries to mediate between them during their first plan to rescue Becky from Esther's house the best he can. He allows Edwin to have a leg of the case with just the two of them, but he tries to frame it as protecting Crystal.

But then it's Edwin's turn to shake up the foundation that their relationship is built on.

Edwin had a lot of issues to attend to this season, and he tried to deal with most of them alone. Most of the problems Edwin had to handle put definite distance between him and Charles- how couldn't they? He was being hit on, which was a very new experience for him. He probably didn't even know how to talk about that at first, as evidenced by his description of the CK speaking closely to his ear (oh sweet summer child). He also learned about his feelings for the first time, which Monty had to finish spelling out for him.

This all, however, is where we see a shift in the dynamic. It's significant.

Edwin uses magic on a cat and has to go and meet with the Cat King. Whoops. 🙃 Charles slides easily into his role as a protector, but… Edwin stops him.

Honestly, Edwin had a good reason to do this. He pointed out that cat scratches can cause serious harm to ghosts, and they were surrounded. As endearing as this was, this wouldn’t have been an easy fight. They can just talk this out, right? He gets whisked away for a few minutes to do that (and then winds up opening a bigger can of worms).

From Charles’ perspective though, Edwin doesn’t allow him to help him, and then vanishes for a long period of time. Then he absolutely won’t tell him anything about it when he does come back. Charles knew Edwin was a little mad at him in the pilot, but they were still communicating for the most part. The secrecy is a shift, and it’s not one he’s coping well with. He tries a few different ways to reconnect.

First he tries gentle. He just asks what happened from a place of concern. This might have worked actually, only I’m not even sure Edwin knows how to fully describe what happened during their encounter. He rushes through a description, and Charles still feels like something is missing. He doesn’t like that someone else has a secret with Edwin— for thirty years they’ve been connected. This feels frightening to him, and Edwin doesn’t seem particularly worried that they’re not on the same page.

He tries to pick the conversation back up later when they’re searching for the dandelion shrine, but Edwin doesn’t give any additional information. So he slides back into his role of being a protector again and defends him against the ambient skeletons, because at least he can protect him from that easily. For a moment, things almost seem normal again, but this resurfaces in a later case.

Edwin meets with CK again in episode 4. Charles is still raw after the events of the Devlin House, and now he’s just pissed. He’s hurting, and Edwin is still keeping this weird secret. They end up bickering back and forth. The bickering tells us something interesting about Charles’ concerns.

Charles: What did he want? He didn't whisk you away again? Got that bracelet off?

Edwin: I'd be back at the office right now if the bracelet was off. He wanted to know if I counted the cats, and my guess was unsatisfactory.

Charles: Thinks he can come and go... He can't show up in the middle of cases. Did you tell him that?

Edwin: Matter of fact, I did.

Charles: Can't believe you didn't tell us. I've had enough of secrets about that wankеr.

Edwin: Why are you getting so angry?

What stands out to me here is Charles is upset about a few things: he hates that Edwin is getting taken away from him by a being they can’t control (a logical fear, considering they’re running from death together). He hates that this is happening in the middle of case time that is supposed to be for him and Edwin (and their friends, who Charles trusts). He is still really upset that Edwin has a secret with someone else (I really don’t think he’d be bothered if the secret was with him).

That’s why he’s upset. Charles isn’t feeling secure. He doesn’t feel like their relationship is on good footing right now. Whether or not he knows how to phrase that or ask for support is a different question.

Onto Monty (sorry these are a bit out of order— I put them by character for this part).

Charles wasn’t aware of Monty. This probably already bothered him a little, considering the mystery surrounding the cat king, but he tried to be a good sport. Monty wasn’t outwardly threatening. He came with gifts. He seemed friendly. Charles tried to match that… only to get snubbed. Ouch.

Charles likes to claim he’s aces with other people, but he ultimately died because his friends turned on him and killed him the second he stood up for what was important to him. I think peer relationships are a particularly sticky situation for him. I think he knew how to fit in the same way he knew how not to rock the boat in a volatile home. With Edwin it was different though— Edwin just liked him. Edwin was special.

But of course yet another boy their age doesn’t like him (probably a little upsetting, considering how he died). The only thing that’s confusing to him here is he didn’t really do anything wrong— he was polite. He followed along with all the little niceties people do, even when they don’t want to. Maybe this wouldn’t have bothered him so much in another situation, but now Edwin is wrapped up with him instead of Charles. He's picked him instead (in Charles' mind).

He can’t even shake this when Monty isn’t there.

Charles tries to get Edwin's attention... and fails. so he begins to have a conversation with himself. Perhaps he was trying to make Edwin laugh. Perhaps he was trying something over the top. Still, he fails. Ultimately, he goes the broken record route and asks him the same question a couple of times.

This moment probably really hurt- there's actually no reason for Edwin to be ignoring him, in Charles' mind anyway. They're alone together. Usually they'd be talking or bantering or at least Charles would be able to get Edwin's attention. It's just that he can't, because now Edwin is stuck on that fucking book from that fucking bloke who blew him off earlier.

This was probably a little activating for Charles. Even if he didn't completely put together why it upset him, Edwin putting someone who just treated him poorly right in front of his face first is a dim reflection of what he went through in his home. Now, I am not saying Monty is anywhere near that level of bad- he's a literal cream puff. He could not kill them when his life depended on it.

What I am saying, though, that Charles perceives a subtle threat here. He's also not sure what to do with it, because he never overcame that hurtle in life. No one else ever put him first, and he never figured out how to fix that. Edwin kind of just centered Charles automatically when they met. Now he's not doing that anymore and it’s jarring and uncomfortable for him. He’s feeling this loss of stability, on top of the fact that Edwin still won’t tell him what’s going on with the CK.

"...try not to forget that we're trying to leave" is what Charles comes up with after that exchange. Edwin makes an attempt to console him finally and offers to talk, but Charles shuts it down and tells him it's that he wants to leave town. They start on a case after that.

(Note that I did this a little out of order for organization’s sake— some of their CK arguing happened during the case they went on next).

Charles does finally catch a break here. In spite of all of this, he’s missing something very important: Edwin has feelings for him. That’s probably the most pressing issue that’s gone unspoken between them.

So Edwin dresses nicely, catches Charles attention, and finally tries to initiate a conversation. Charles seems relieved.

He does assume Edwin is just trying to come out by telling him about his time with Monty, before the teethface incident. Charles isn’t bothered, since Monty isn’t really in the picture anymore as far as he’s concerned. Things are fine, it’s just the two of them again and Edwin likes boys. Wait…

... Fuck. Forgot about the Cat King.

He resorts to threatening the CK. I know lots of people have lots of different theories on this, but consider this perspective also: Monty is no longer a threat. He’s abstract. He’s a memory. The Cat King is still very real and is a thing that can come between them, has done so, and has successfully taken Edwin from him. And as accepting as Charles was trying to be in that moment, he just can't handle that (from the perspective of this meta).

Anyway, this is all interrupted by their foray into hell. Charles does rescue Edwin, Edwin confesses, and honestly I feel like that just needs to be a different thing entirely but I did type a little bit about how I think Charles interpreted all of that here.

They return. Charles is processing Edwin's confession on the roof. This whole scene mystifies me a little because yes, he didn't seem to know exactly what to say to Edwin's confession in hell (I think he did not want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing). The more rewatches I go through the more... satisfied he looks to me? He might be processing, but also he might be a little giddy that Edwin has feelings for him specifically. I'm still trying to figure out how to read this one because the lines seemed rushed but the microexpressions say so much.

Then he starts blatantly flirting with Edwin. Honestly Charles, what the fuck?(afffectionate) Truly I’m still trying to work out if he’s just testing out how Edwin reacts or if he is working through his own feelings here, but I really want more of this in S2.

That’s about all the thoughts I think I can organize on this for now without it getting obscenely long (it already is pretty long for a half baked idea that turned into a meta). Thank you for reading 🖤

[morsmortish]

evan is so scared of losing control that he takes extreme measures to ensure he doesn’t. he regularly doses himself with various poisons or other drugs dangerous potions in order to develop an immunity. he has an almost alarmingly identical daily routine. he gets off on the idea of having complete power or authority over someone else. he is so fearful of not being able to control his own life, he does everything in his power to micromanage as much as he can.

and then you have barty. who has never tasted a single ounce of control in his life. his body has never even been his- it has always been under the authority of the imperius curse. he’s the opposite of evan; he has actually experienced what it is to have no autonomy, no power, and now he is no longer scared of it. in fact, it has become who he is- he is so unused to making his own decisions that he prefers someone else to do it for him. if evan is fearful of losing control, barty is afraid of having it, simply because he does not know what to do with it. he does not know who to be if he is not being controlled by someone else.

it is for this reason they work so well together. barty is more than willing to submit to evan, to let evan essentially have all the power over him. he lets evan decide what barty should do, and who barty should be, and he finds comfort in the fact that as long as he is moulded into the exact shape evan wants, evan will always want him. and evan, well, he adores having this puppet of a lover, who is eager to be entirely controlled. knowing he has such power over another human being is just as comforting to evan as being controlled is to barty. they’re both sick fucks, and this is certainly not a healthy dynamic, but they simultaneously are in one of the happiest relationships of any of their friends.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Angst idea

Hojo finally has enough of Sephiroth acting too normal and “emotionally human” because of Genesis and Angeal, so he decides to drive a wedge between them. To do this, he films a lab session where he questions Sephiroth heavily about his friendship with Hollander’s brats. Sephiroth lies to Hojo and tells him that they mean nothing to him and that he is just using them to please PR because the public likes them together. He doesn’t know he is being filmed.

Hojo leaks the video and Genesis and Angeal see it when the Turks investigate. PR is outraged. Even the president is pissed that Sephiroth has caused such a ruckus for the public.

Sephiroth doesn’t know what to do.

To confess to them that he was lying would mean revealing the truth. That he was afraid of Hojo and his anger towards the man all along had been a way to mask his deeper anxiety. They would all know his greatest weakness. Perhaps it’s better to say nothing.

But maybe “Hollander’s brats” can see the hints from the video. The way Sephiroth tries to sit up perfectly straight to hide any shaking. The way his eyes dart down when Hojo raises his voice. The way he flinches slightly when Hojo moves closer to him. The way he’s paler than normal under the lab lights. How he sounds cold and empty, almost as if he’s disassociating. They’ve never seen him like this before.

And maybe they realize at last that their best friend has a very dark side to his life that he never speaks of.

WELP. There's the hurt! 😭 *slaps the comfort down on the counter through my tears*

- - - - - - - -

Sephiroth braced himself for the backlash that would inevitably follow the leaked video. He knew Angeal and Genesis would be furious, considering everything he had said about them, invalidating their friendship.

The day the video was leaked nearly killed him.

The weight of their potential anger consumed him, overshadowing even the relentless scrutiny from the media and the rest of the company. It all meant nothing to him.

All he could think about was their reaction. Genesis and Angeal. The only two people he cared about in the entire world. And he was about to lose them.

After enduring a day of meetings and interrogations, Sephiroth's anxiety peaked when his attempts to reach his friends went unanswered. Genesis had turned his phone off, and Angeal's went straight to voicemail. He didn't get the chance to see them that day due to the chaos that consumed his schedule after the video was leaked.

With a racing heart and trembling legs, he made his way to Angeal's apartment, desperate to hear anything from them. He'd even endure their shouting at him if it meant he could see them.

He knocked twice, meaning to knock a third, but the door opened alarmingly quickly.

Angeal and Genesis stood in the doorway , their faces stunned. Sephiroth was overcome with relief. They didn't seem angry or hurt, only concerned as they asked him if he was okay.

Collapsing into their arms, a wave of emotion washed over him, pulling his body down to the ground as tears streamed down his face.

They rushed to his side.

"Sephiroth, it's okay, we're not mad at you," Angeal's voice was gentle.

"We know," Genesis added, his expression softening as he met Sephiroth's tear-filled gaze. "Actually, we're not entirely sure what we know, but we're certain you didn't mean any of that BS."

Angeal rested his hand on Sephiroth's shoulder. "We noticed how uncomfortable you were on camera. You're not to blame for any of this, okay?"

Sephiroth's apologies came in broken whispers, barely audible through his sobs, and repeated over and over as he struggled to convey his regret and remorse.

"There's no need to apologize," Genesis reassured him as he rubbed circles on his back. "You haven't done anything wrong. It's okay."

Angeal and Genesis shared a glance before Angeal tried: "We won't pressure you to tell us what happened, but can you confirm that Hojo was behind this?"

A trembling nod from Sephiroth confirmed their suspicions.

"Hmm, I had a feeling," Genesis murmured, his gaze meeting Angeal's in silent flicker of rage.

Angeal took Sephiroth's hand, his grip firm and reassuring as he pulled him back up. "Come on. We can talk about this. We'll figure out our next steps together, got it?"

Sephiroth nodded, feeling relieved.

[your-local-hollow-lover]

OwO how do the espada feel about their s/o wanting to give them belly rubs? What about if s/o asks for them back?

Hmm cute!

This has been in my inbox for about a year. I'm so sorry!

°IIII°

Starrk

Starrk has been by your side long enough to understand that when you express a desire to give him something, it will undoubtedly bring him comfort, so when you ask if you can rub his belly, he gives in pretty easily. You, in turn, take pleasure in the sweet expression of relaxation on his face, as well as the gentle sound of his purring, which grows lighter as he drifts into slumber.

Harribel

She's somewhat tense about the matter. Engaging in these human-like activities feels peculiar in many ways, yet Harribel has discovered that your gestures can be rather enjoyable if she loosens up enough. What makes her more nervous in this situation is having to reciprocate the caress. It feels unnatural for her, and yet, something within the prospect of making you feel good fills her in a way that is not unpleasant at all.

Ulquiorra

Ulquiorra has no idea how you managed to convince him to do something like this… again. But that's far from mattering right now. Despite his tensed posture – to the point of being almost rigid – it's evident that he's not entirely displeased, which is something. Although it's more than strange to allow a caress in such a vulnerable place, after a couple of minutes, Ulquiorra can't help but feel that his defenses are gradually loosening. This is peculiar, but he doesn't despise it as much as he strives to pretend.

Nnoitra

You can hardly inflict any harm, and Nnoitra is aware of it. However, despite his consciousness registering it, his instincts never seem to fully catch the message.

This 'belly rub' thing has him feeling like something wants to crawl out from under his skin, so he mostly waits until you're done, wondering why you invest these affections in someone like him. Your tenderness, in his opinion, is misspent. Nonetheless, once your warmth penetrates his skin, it's too late to pull away

Grimmjow

He knows better than to refuse. You would get progressively more annoying asking for it; he knows that. So, Grimmjow just scoffs and indulges. At first, a part of him is unable to simply surrender to the tender touch, too used to the idea that there's always a trap behind anything that doesn't harm. However, after a while, a strange sensation tingles in his lower belly, and it's surprisingly far from unpleasant.

When you ask him to do it back, he looks at you stunned. Are you stupid? It's fine if you want to lay your hands on him. But, in return? Grimmjow doesn't know if the peculiar warmth at the base of his neck is because he's furious that you're so careless or because something about reciprocating the action feels strangely good.

Szayel

It could be an interesting experiment. Szayel agrees only for the sake of data recovery. However, lying in the softness of a warm place, where your scent and his intertwine in such a way that becomes alarmingly soothing, is reason enough for him to find it difficult to pull away, despite the multiple warnings deep within his head. You can repeat the experiment as many times as you want; he truly has no issue with it.

[obeythebutler]

Hey! Could I ask for some Lucifer x Reader comfort. The MC and him are at a ball, and the demons all around are so freaking beautiful. And the brothers too!! It doesn't help that MC feels that they pale in comparison.

just want some comfort for myself.

Again, thank you.

In hindsight, you should have known better.

Devildom parties and events are alarmingly similar to human ones, with the same old arrogant nobles and passive-aggressive interactions. With champagne and wealth flowing freely, and beautiful faces.

You sip on some super spicy mango juice, having mixed it with some normal one, safe for human consumption. It gives a nice kick, enough to not make you sputter and spit out the drink, or it having burned your tongue.

Today is one hell of an event.

Call it a get-together, per se, for aristocratic demons from the seven layers.

And it is imperative that the exchange students attend, if harmony is to be attained.

You only wish you had it in you to say no earlier.

Gather yourself together, you admonish, gripping the fabric of your outfit with such tenacity that your knuckles turn white. There are so many important demons here to interact with the Student Council and the exchange students, and you certainly can't afford to be seen sulking in a corner.

Not when everything is perfect.

You observe the chandelier dangling from the ceiling, brilliant white coating the room in a warm glow, supplemented by magic. There is a group of demons in a corner, whom you assume to be close friends, given the distance, or lack of, and with the way their lips curve upwards in a smile to reveal canines and when one buries their face into someone's shoulder when they laugh; a joke has just been made.

It's a picture of perfect harmony, with Barbatos flitting around the giant hall every now-and-then, always moving, ever so graceful. You will never be able to comprehend as to how he moves so elegantly.

And then there is Diavolo, dragging around a crimson-eyed demon who is sighing at his brothers antics. Lucifer, who downs a whole glass of Demonus in one go and storms off to grab Mammon by the ear. You giggle, the sight making you feel lighter.

You bite your cheek.

Then there's your snek, who is utterly focused on his mobile screen, and judging by the rapid taps to his screen, he's clearly gaming.

Oh well, at least he's attending the event, according to Lucifer.

In another corner, Satan stands, conversing with some demons whom you recognise from the Royal Library. The blonde demon has many connections. Admirable social skills, and a brain to match. Knowledge is power, after all. A fact that Solomon knows too, given how easily he is able to stand his ground and maintain conversation with some fancy-looking nobles. Seventy-two pacts is no joke.

Look at you.

Someone jabs their elbow into your side, and you stumble, but manage to retain balance. With furrowed brows, you turn around, a curse already on the tip of your tongue for the offender.

Your eyes widen.

It's a whole damn crowd.

Although their attention is focused on someone else, judging by the direction in which the audience faces. When you catch a glimpse of strawberry blonde hair, you realise that it is Asmodeus.

Oh well, his followers crowding around him to admire the beauty of the Jewel of the Heavens is sacrosanct, after all.

Something in your heart sinks, witnessing this spectacle.

You swallow thickly, turning around to get to a less crowded...more quiet place. Not before placing your glass back on the table, which a little D quickly swipes.

Your gaze is downcast, and you head straight for the guest rooms, thankful for the crowd and the way you seemingly leave unnoticed.

It jabs at your conscience further, though.

In another corner, a certain demon watches, expression revealing nothing.

"Are you alright?"

A voice calls, and you nearly throw the vase on the floor in surprise.

"Please be more careful, you almost gave me a heart attack!" You admonish, hand placed over your wildly beating heart.

Lucifer stands at the door, the notes of the piano a distant noise.

"You left the ball suddenly." He says, a hand behind his back. '"May I ask why?"

"Oh," You mumble, forcing a smile on your face. "It's nothing Lucifer, I was just tired." The man does not seem convinced, and so you add, "I ate a lot of snacks with Beel, plus Asmo made me dance with him earlier, heh, that was quite the dramatic waltz...so—"

He silences you, placing a gloved hand on your shoulder.

"I know you're lying." Lucifer speaks, and you feel embarrassed, being caught in the middle of it all. You refuse to meet his eyes, fearing that the moment you do your conscience will end up getting the better of you, and then you will voice all those thoughts that have giving you sleepless nights and then the demon in front of you will feel repulsed because look at you, so pathetic, so weak.

Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink.

In front of you, Lucifer's brows crease with worry.

He take a step towards you, a thumb wiping away the tear that fell from your eye, his gaze not seeming domineering or contemptuous, as you had imagined it to be.

"MC, hey, look at me," He whispers, and you can't help but hold back more tears. You force yourself to meet his gaze, biting your cheek. "Did any of my brothers say or do anything to hurt you? Was it the demons out there?"

"No." You mutter, finding solace in the soothing motion of his hand on your back, comforting you. "Wasn't them, wasn't anyone..."

"Then who?"

"It's just," You swallow, voice cracking. "It's that—look at you, Lucifer."

"What about me?" He asks gently, not wanting to come off as harsh.

"You and your brothers, everyone out there, they're so talented and beautiful, they can do so many things effortlessly, so many damned talents and—and l-look at me!" You sob, breath hitching, the lump in your throat making it harder and harder to not outright bawl. "I'm barely able to do shit, and on top of that I can't—I'm not what you all think me to be! I can't even do one task properly, a-always messing things up, and I can't even bring damned harmony to the three fucking realms, Lucifer."

Harmony.

So ironic.

Ha.

You wipe at the tears that fall down your cheeks, gasping wildly after nearly having screamed at the demon in front of you.

"I disagree." He merely says, tone clear and confident, as you've just told him that Belphegor did not plant a stink bomb in his room a fortnight ago, that pigs fly and that Cerberus is not a good boy.

"I don't believe you," He states, ruffling your hair affectionately. "Do not undermine yourself, MC. I will not tolerate it."

You stare at him through vision blurred by tears, still not having it in you to speak. But your brain is stunned to silence at his words, all the negative thoughts that had been haunting your mind halting, albeit briefly.

He grabs your left hand, which is curled in a fist (and the way your nails dig into the skin leaves crescent indentations) and gently coaxes your fingers to unfurl, and you stare at his shoes all the while. You imagine his reaction, imagining pity and cold contempt in his gaze, which only results in plummeting you further into the hole you've created for yourself.

And when he places his own hand in yours, the last thing you'd expect would be his skin. You glance at his hand now where it rests in your palm, and you find that the demon has removed his glove which almost clings to him like second skin.

"Please do not think so lowly of yourself." You think the man almost pleads, with the way his fingers curl into your own, a thumb drawing soft circles. "MC, you are the most captivating being I have ever met."'

Your breath hitches. "But there are so many others out there," You mutter, gaze almost resigned if Lucifer stares too deep. "More better. More beautiful. More smarter. And better magic."

"My affection for you is not a fleeting one," He affirms, squeezing your hand gently. "I will never leave you. You are no less smarter or lesser than other beings. You are MC, and they are them. That's all to it."

The demon says as if its a simple thing.

Lucifer gets on one knee in front of you, till your hand is on his cheek, and he looks at you with a gaze so found it makes you smile.

"So please don't compare yourself to others. I love you for who you are. Know that your efforts are not ignored, and that I am proud of you, for what you have done and what you have achieved."

I love you, he says through his actions.

And you can't help but kneel too, and hug the demon who holds you so closely in his heart.

[a-certain-romance]

You’re my favorite kind of night

A/N: Ah we meet again anon! I hope this one is to your liking as well, I had a lot of fun with it

Warnings: Smut written by a minor, heats, toys, oral (r!giving), reader is gn! but reader has a cock, mention of womb tattoo

Regular heats are unbearable alone. But heats with the genetics of a god? Pure torture. In proper Ei fashion, her solution to dealing with this is isolation. When the time comes, she ventures into a secluded cave-converted-into-a-hideout and battles her demons there alone. Her advisors have warned her of the potential dangers, arguing that her Euthimiya is more secure and manageable. But something about being so close to nature sits perfectly right with Ei, and she hasn’t run into trouble yet.

It’s the perfect routine, leave and come back with a fresh mind. Except nowadays, the clean-up crew finds every hideout to be more and more damaged than the last. Ei feels something stirring within her. Her toys and fantasies and seclusion are no longer working like they used to. There’s this new, primal urge that Ei is discovering and she can’t seem to put a lid on it. Her face gets flushed more easily, her pupils becoming blown out to an alarmingly degree, and there’s this new urge to be bred…Eventually, all her usual spots are destroyed and are no longer “safe” to care for herself in.

Hunching breathlessly over a map, Ei finds one last place that she has yet to explore. High in the mountains, undisturbed almost entirely because of the superstitions surrounding it. Townsfolk will say it’s the place where a dragon resides, but according to reports, it hasn’t been seen in many years. Ei will take anything at this point. Assuming it’s safe, she hikes her needy body up the landscape and once inside, makes herself comfortable. Her heat makes her movements more ragged, the entire trek up she can feel herself dripping onto her panties.

She sets up camp at the mouth of the cave. By dusk, she looks through a bag that contains an assortment of vibrators and dildos. In preparation for what’s to come, she tease her entrance with the tip of a 7 inch dildo. The girth is thicker than many would buy, but Ei always needs something more to satisfy her. Before she can push the head in, a low growl emits from deep within the cave.

You emerge from the shadows. Your half dragon nature sensed Ei’s arousal from a while away. It’s been so long since you’ve indulged in pleasure with another, and her scent alone is sending you into a tailspin. Her gaze lands on you, surprised that, for the most part, you show resemblance to a human. Minus the horns, tail, and a few scales that line your skin. Her heat is fully setting in, and all she can ask of you is “please?”

You nod, understanding her situation. You carry her deeper into the cave where your makeshift home resides; it’s much more comfortable than outside you argue. You lay her down against some blankets and kneel between her legs. Ei spreads them apart and you dip your head to enter her with your tongue. You feel corrupted by her: her moans ring echo around the cave, her scent fills your nostrils, and the taste of her intensifies. You wait to double your efforts, eventually pushing in as far as you can with deliberate strokes.

She grips your horns, using your face to grind at a steady pace. The stimulation has never felt so good. You don’t really mind her grip, but it does fuel your arousal more. Her touch is firm and it makes you a bit more sensitive. The horns always are, but right now they’re practically being man-handled. With a gasp, you greedily lick up all that she has to release.

Ei is trembling. You’re on the path to satisfying her completely, but she still needs more. Pinning her hands above her head, you line up your cock between her folds. Perhaps a womb tattoo would be sufficient after you fill her? There’s plenty of time to explore all options.

[whump-queen]

In Relief and Reverie

continuation from this

Tags: vampire whump, creepy/intimate whumper, prettyboy vampire whumpee, starvation, worship and withdrawl ~ my usual nonsense

The vampire’s knees were starting to go numb.

He had no idea how long he’d been made to kneel there, at his owner's feet.

Aris didn’t move from where he’d been placed--the heavy rings of steel locked around his neck and his wrists weighed him down and tethered him to them.

Rowe leaned back in their seat, slowly wrapping one hand around the chain on the vampire’s collar. There was a tug on the chain, forcing a sharp exhale from Aris' throat as he was forced to lean in.

Rowe smiled.

The vampire’s eyes stayed locked to the floor, perhaps not willing to give Rowe the satisfaction. But Rowe was fine with that. They knew how to get the mutt’s attention. 

Rowe reached for their pocket, grinning wider. Fingers found what they were looking for; they slid a small shining object from the dark folds of fabric and flicked it open with practiced ease.

Sure enough, those red eyes darted up the moment he heard it—that all too familiar metallic shing that seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room. 

It was the scalpel. 

Again. 

Aris flinched back, expecting the pain, before he saw his owner bring it to their own skin and his eyes went wide.

Rowe snickered and aligned the blade, smug eyes never leaving the vampire for long; they began to carefully drag the blade through the skin on their own shoulder. It slid painfully slowly through the uppermost layers of skin, and Aris’ held his breath–it was so silent he swore he could hear his master’s skin ripping.

He knew nothing cloud prepare him for what was about to happen.

The moment the first bead of blood hit the air, his eyes shot alarmingly wide—irises glowing a bright, hungry red. 

He was panting; his fangs extended to full length without him even realizing. He bit back a whine and exhaled sharply through gritted teeth—his breath was coming in hot and fast—his chest was heaving with desperation—he instantly lunged forward when—

Rowe’s foot moved just slightly, the toe of their boot pressing forward to firmly meet the vampire’s sternum.

The vampire froze instantly. His eyes snapped up to his owner—wide and terrified, yet still alight with that deep hungry red, shining like glowing tail lights.

Rowe just sat there, looking casual as ever. The sole of their boot pressed more firmly into Aris’ chest, pushing him back a bit, and allowing absolutely no room to move forward. It wasn’t a rough gesture, but the message was clear enough.

“Move one more inch without permission and this boot will be buried in your mouth.”

Rowe could feel Aris shudder at the threat– poorly hidden.

“I should whip your back to shreds for what you just did.”

The vampire cringed at the whine that escaped his own lips. He wanted to sink into the floor. He sounded utterly pathetic.

Rowe couldn't help but crack a smile, a low, pleased hum buzzing just behind their teeth.

“You’re lucky you make for such a nice view.”

Rowe sat back, getting comfortable, vowing themselves to enjoy this.

“Today I’m feeling… generous. I might give you a chance to prove you can control yourself before I decide just how badly you’ve fucked up.” 

They leaned casually against the armrest of the chair with their chin resting on their hand. An amused hum slipped past their lips; their features twisted into a narrow-eyed smile as the vampire desperately tried—and failed—to compose himself over and over. 

Rowe let the blood drip freely.

...

It was a losing game, really.

Aris knew it was.

He knew it had been weeks now.

Weeks since he had last been allowed to feed.

But the blood was right there—fresh, delicious, hot, red, human blood—god, his owner had the best blood he had ever tasted—and it was trickling down their collarbone right in front of him and—

He didn’t deserve it.

He had lunged.

Was this all just a trick?

Was he not going to be hurt for this?

He’d rather just get it over with, so he could stop waiting around and suffocating in whatever terrifying limbo this was. 

So he could just suffer and make it better.

Aris knew.

He knew.

He had lunged. He was so sorry.

God, he’d take the beating gratefully if it meant an end to this—to the twisting poisonous feeling that squeezed around his insides.

It was torture, to not know where he stood.

Maybe if Aris took it well, he’d be allowed to beg, to plead and apologize over and over, as many times as Rowe allowed.

But it was a losing game, wasn’t it? 

A game against his own hunger, his instincts, his desperation—against that smell.

And then he understood.

This was his punishment.

To be made to wait.

To be made to fail.

To be locked in an unwinnable battle against the part of his mind that was screaming at him to lunge, to bite, to gnash his teeth like a wild animal, to clamp his jaws around anything he could reach.

It was right there. It was right there— in front of his face.

Rowe held him there for what seemed like ages, watching him with a pleased smirk—pressing the sole of their boot into his chest and swirling around the trickling blood on their own shoulder until the vampire was fucking drooling and whining, ensnared by the smell wafting through the room and the screaming voices in his own head.

At last, Rowe was sure that the vampire had reached his breaking point, that he would say or do anything if it got him out of this. They relished in his pitiful expression when Aris raised his gaze—the defeat in his teary eyes—and God he was pleading—

“Please— it’s been so long since… since you fed me.”

Rowe snickered, uncrossing their legs for a better view.

Perfect.

“Beg properly, pretty thing, and maybe I won’t make your punishment worse.”

The vampire bit straight through his lip trying to stop the low pained whine that slipped out through gritted teeth when he heard them say it. 

’Beg.’

“Please — you— you can’t make me do this—”

“What do you think, another three weeks? Or should we do four? You know I can starve you as long as I want to. It's not like you’ll die.”

Aris choked on his words, his throat closed up at every attempt, and nothing came out but a pitiful, terrified whimper.

Oh, he loathed it. A prouder version of himself might have held out, just to spare himself the shame. But it had been weeks. It had been weeks and god—it was the smell of them.

It was the sound of Rowe’s heart beating.

The way he could feel the blood pulsing through his owner’s veins—it was driving him beyond insane—he could barely think at all—

Fuck it.

His voice cracked and he felt the tears spill over.

That was no time for pride.

A icy pang of dread accompanied the realization that he had never been allowed to beg for forgiveness like this. Not for something this bad.

He only had one chance.

What if he got it wrong?

What if Rowe changed their mind—and—

please, I don’t know what you—

I—I don’t—

I don’t know how to please you.

He gazed desperately at the cut on Rowe’s shoulder through teary, glistening eyes.

Please—this has to work.

Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, all the way down to Rowe’s shoes.

When that boot didn’t immediately rise up to crack across his face, he allowed himself to exhale, brushing his lips just barely against the cool leather.

The steel toe.

Kissing the thing that could slam into his face at any moment, that could shatter his entire jaw in a second, if Rowe so chose it. He was desperate.

He could only pray that this would please them.

His voice was a shaky whisper against the freshly shined leather—

”Please—please, please, please-”

Slowly but firmly, Rowe's boot hooked under his chin, forcing his head up to face them.

“Almost there, sweetheart.” A sickly sweet smile spread across their face. They could feel him shaking through the leather.

‘God, you're so gorgeous like this.’

“Please what... Come on, pet, tell me what you want.”

Rowe looped the chain that connected to his collar around in their palm once more, and Aris nearly choked when the metal tightened around his throat.

But he stayed down.

He knew better.

“Don’t be shy now, pretty. Tell me what you need.”

Every time Rowe opened their mouth, Aris felt another pang of humiliation hit his chest. He wanted to curl in on himself and cry.

But he knew better, and he pressed his lips once more against the leather of Rowe’s shoes, trailing slow kisses from the steel tip to the laces.

Though the thought of blood never faded from his mind, he started to drift into the task without realizing it.

His head felt fuzzy and so... heavy.

He heard Rowe give a pleased hum from somewhere above him, and felt his mind slowly melting into a foggy, desperate sludge—disorienting waves wrapped around his chest and his head until he was open-mouthed and tonguing at the laces and whining again.

Each breath was laced with an edge of something from deep within his chest. Something that had long since wound itself around his mind--a slow, slithering python that had now found its moment strike.

And when he felt the weight of Rowe’s other boot rest heavily on the back of his neck, he groaned.

It was bliss.

It was forgiveness.

It was a relief to be good.

To obey.

To have pleased them.

It was a relief dwarfed only by an imagined end to his hunger, but a relief he would take nonetheless.

Aris remained there, lips and tongue pressed to his owner’s shoe, worshiping in relief and in reverie, for as long as Rowe decided to keep him there.

—

Update 11/23: I did a rewrite of this I think its much better now <33

general taglist: @whumpshaped  @whumpsday @emmettnet   @a-whump-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot  @wolfeyedwitch  @whumper-soot  @unorganisedalienrubbish  @hidden-dreamland @whumpedydump @lonesome--hunter @ashh-ed @whump-in-the-closet @oriantthegiant @banditosong @anonymustyou @feralwhump @jieunie-23 @whumpasaurus101 @morning-star-whump @whmp @captain-bo-bob-bobby @the-beasts-have-arrived @spooky-scary-vampires @burningkittypoet @veyroswin @painsandconfusion @skittles-the-whumpee @demondamage

[fuck-hamas-go-israel]

Ok so I have watched multiple videos on the history of Israel - Palestine and honestly? Go Israel.

The only thing I am not able to understand is, why is the whole world in the support of Palestine? Even Tumblr? (Yes the death of innocent people is bad but it's happening on both sides, why are they pretending that everyone in Israel lives in idk, rocket-proof luxury rooms?)

And people are purchasing books on history of Israel - Palestine, and still violently supporting Palestine. And not even seeing a shread of "blame" on them? :(

This is just an observation, but wherever muslims are in majority, they won't let the minority in peace, no matter what — they're not the “peaceful” community the world tries to show them as.

There is whole history on how they are ruthless, tyrants, who can not accept let alone tolerate another religion in their proximity.

I JUST don't know what will it take for the world to see the actual history and stop viewing Israel like The Evil Nation.

That’s a good question, but a very difficult one to answer.

As you’ve said, the information is out there in the open, available to anyone willing to put in the time to read and understand.

However, it takes a lot of mental effort to wrap one’s mind around the historical and geopolitical nuances of this conflict. As a result, it’s definitely less of a mental burden to get information from reading headlines, reading tweets, and watching TikToks.

Of course the information isn’t always accurate, and if someone absorbs news from these sites that all have the same bias, they’ll be inclined to think a certain way. But even still, it’s digestible, and why put in the work to make informed opinions of the subject when these smaller, bite-sized pieces of info are being spoon-fed to you easily?

You can tell people to “educate themselves”until the cows come home, but the chances of them actually going to read up more are pretty slim. After all, it’s more comfortable and safe to maintain your opinion than actively seek out information that challenges your point of view.

That aside, I think the Israel-Palestine conflict in particular has elicited, or rather, uncovered a very worrying hypocrisy and double-standard, and caused a rise in antisemitism that’s alarmingly reminiscent of 1940s Europe.

Those who support Hamas claim to be on the side of “human rights” and “protecting the innocent”, yet turn a blind eye to or rejoice at the slaughter of innocent children.

They present this issue as intersectional with other liberalist movements such as feminism and LGBTQ+ rights, yet Hamas rapes and parades the naked bodies of women around to publicly humiliate them, and calls the LGBT community “sinners” that will be “punished by Allah”, and refuses to allow any LGBT person on Palestinian soil.

Yes, it is baffling to see people defend a terrorist group that has such fundamentally incompatible ideologies with them, and would kill them on sight. Normally I wouldn’t just tell them to go to Palestine if they like it so much, but if they can’t see the irrationality of their own beliefs themselves, if they can’t see that their parroted platitudes are of no use and don’t make them immune or exempt from the hate-filled violence of Hamas, then maybe going there to see for themselves is perhaps the only solution.

So maybe there isn’t anything that can be done, unfortunately. It’s very telling that many pro-Israel accounts are sent hate mail daily, and instead of being presented with the opportunity for discourse on the complicated subject, it’s just crusty anons calling for the end of Israel and telling them to kill themselves for supporting Israel.

If someone calls for your death, then there’s little to nothing that can be done anymore to have a rational discussion. All you can do is stay safe and stay informed, and don’t stoop to their level because they’ll use that as ammunition against you to justify calling for your death.

Am Yisrael Chai 🇮🇱

[ya-zz]

okay hear me out, playing video games with ramattra. completely sfw and fluffy (unless you wanna make it nsfw somehow, idm lol), just introducing him to video games - maybe like Mario or WiSports or Minecraft or something

btw i love you (platonically ofc) and my pugs say hi!

Aaaa this is hella cute!! Imagine him sitting down next to you and he's playing minecraft because it keeps him calm, omg omg, maybe a drabble will come off of that, but anyway! You're request as requested!

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 1544

What Ramattra did in his spare time you never knew. Sure, he would read or work on something in the workshop, but what does the omnic do to wind down? Surely meditating was all he did? How does one meditate for so long without getting bored?

He’s an omnic. A war machine built to kill. An R-7000 who had never experienced joy. He has never experienced comfort… Warmth… Love. Ramattra has never felt… content. 

His stress level were alarmingly high, and the humming of his worn out chassis rattled every time he moved. He was in need of repair and you were the only one capable of helping him. The only one capable of repairing him. His joints were getting stiff and while he hadn’t been in the world for that long, he had never taken care of himself. He never found a need. There was no other purpose for Ramattra to take care of himself and by the time he had met you, he was already too far gone. 

He approached you one day, albeit against his own thought systems, and he asked for you to help him. He asked for you to repair him and that was exactly what you did.

Keeping him online, you listened to him talk about his past, what he remembered from back then, his pain and directives. You made sure to clean the crevices, fix the broken parts of him, repair what was damaged, rewire what wires had been frayed and became useless.

You had never felt closer with the omnic, and while you considered him a good friend, you were sure he saw you as just a other human. So when Ramattra admitted that he enjoyed spending his time with you, that he enjoyed your presence, a warm feeling flooded throughout your body. 

It took nearly a day to get Ramattra fixed, but the moment he could stand, he sighs. 

“Thank you.” He says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Though… My joints are still stiff.”

“They will be. They’re new parts so they need to loosen up a little.” You smile gently at him as you begin to clean up.

“New?” He seems shocked by the fact that they are ‘new’. 

You let out an airy laugh. “Well, technically yes, they’re new, but they’ve been sat in the box for years. It’s hard to come across your models replacement parts.” 

“I was not made to be replaced.” Ramattra looks off to the distance. 

“I know, so I did what I could to get some parts in just in case.” You place a hand onto his jawline, feeling the metal against your palm. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t hot either. It was warm. 

Ramattra stares at you but as he goes to move his hand to replicate yours, wanting to touch your face, his fingers don’t open as easily as they did previously. You look down at his hand before an idea pops into your head. 

“Come with me.” You don’t give him a choice as you practically drag him upstairs and into your personal home. “Take a seat, I’ll be back in just a moment.”

Ramattra stands in the living room for a moment before taking a seat, his knees uncomfortably high on the low sofa. He hears you moving and complaining from a different room. Something drops, a quiet expletive follows after. All the while, he’s looking around the living room. A tidy place, one that is kept clean. There isn’t much here, but he figures it’s because you are always busy. 

A few minutes later you return holding a box in your arms.

“That looks heavy.” Ramattra looks between you and the box. 

“I can assure you that I have carried heavier.” You smile, placing the box down on the floor before sitting next to it. “Let’s see…” 

“What are you doing?” Ramattra stands and kneels beside you, watching you open the cardboard box. Inside of it was a bunch of wires, consoles and controllers. “What is all of this?” 

“This…” You start, pulling out a series of cables and a console. “This is a Nintendo system, a Wii specifically.”

“A what?” 

You laugh at his reaction. “A Wii. It’s a motion console. God, I haven’t set this up in years.”

Ramattra picks up the console and examines it. “How old is this?”

“I don’t know precisely, but they were released back in 2006.” You push the box aside after retrieving two controllers and the sensor. 

“That was-” 

“Yeah… This was my fathers.” You smile as you work on connecting it to the TV. 

“How is this going to help me?” Ramattra cocks his head to the side. 

“You have to move to play.” Looking back at him, you notice that he had picked up one of the remotes. “There are more advanced systems out there now, but this is a great starting point.”

Ramattra hums as he watches the TV light up. 

“By moving, it will loosen those joints.” You smile at the omnic. “Come on, stand up.” Offering a hand to him, your smile grows a little more when he accepts it. 

“What exactly are we playing?” His optics watch the screen as he watches the little cursor move across it. He looks back at your arm, watching it move in the direction of the cursor. 

“Wii Sports. An all time fan favourite.” You laugh, looking at him hold his controller. You explain to him how to turn it on before your fingers are touching his wrist, putting on the safety strap. “This is so you don’t break anything.” 

“Have you broken a TV before?” Ramattra asks, a warmth passing through his circuitry at your motions. 

“Never, surprisingly. I’m not as much as a clutz as you think I am.” 

Ramattra chuckles before turning his attention back to the screen. 

“Just follow the instructions- oh my, I didn’t think the save data would still be here.” You smile as you look at your character. 

“Is that supposed to be you?” The omnic asks. 

“Yes.” 

“It does not look like you.” 

“It used to look like me. It has been many years since I pulled this out.” The character was childhood you. A small, derpy looking character you thought was cute. 

Ramattra doesn’t seem convinced but he leaves it at that. 

“What game mode do you want to play first?” You ask while looking up at him. 

The omnic notices the mischieves glint in your eyes and scoffs. “Do not think you will beat me just because I have never played this.” 

You laugh at his response. “Omnics learn quickly, I’m sure I can win a few games before you truly do beat my ass.” 

Ramattra laughs alongside you before he grabs your arm, making you move the cursor over the games. He stops on baseball and hums in confirmation. 

You nod before clicking the game, watching as Ramattra selects his temporary profile and his hand. 

—

One game turned into two, then to three. 

Then it turned into the whole evening. With each game, you won the first two, at a push three, but then after that, Ramattra started getting good. Too good. Of course, he let you win a few games in between, blaming it on his joints when in fact they were loosening up quickly from all the movement. 

Ramattra, for once, was having fun. Hearing you laugh and joke as he spent time with you made him feel warm. His systems were calm, but there were times when you had accidentally brushed his arm and his systems flared up like he was blushing. 

Hours of fun had gone by, neither of you getting bored of playing the same games on repeat, but it was getting late and now it was your turn to feel achy. 

“Are you okay?” Ramattra asks, watching you slump back on the sofa behind. 

“Yeah, just worn out.” You smile, leaning forward and taking the remote off of your wrist. 

“It is late.” Ramattra states, fiddling around with his remote strap. 

“Here.” You stand up and help him take it off. “How are your joints?” 

It takes a moment for Ramattra to speak. The feeling of your hand on his nearly made him short circuit. “Loose. Thank you.” 

“I’m glad.” 

“Though my fingers still need some loosening.” He admits. 

You stare at him for a moment, cheeks instantly burning up. 

“What is it?” Ramattra notices your sudden flustered state. 

“N-Nothing!” 

“Oh?” The omnic takes a step forward towards you and towers over you. “I do still owe you for fixing me…” His hand touches your cheek, finger joins still stiff. 

“I-”

“Perhaps there is a way we can both settle this.” His tone changes, low and sultry. 

He backs you up against the wall, trapping you in with arms either side of you. 

“Ram-” Your voice was barely a whisper, light and breathy. Ramattra chuckles at the reaction. 

“What do you say?” He tilts his head, leaning down slightly as his optics are fixed with your eyes. 

With burning cheeks, all you could do was stare back, mouth slightly open as if you couldn’t believe this was happening. 

Ramattra tilts your head up, thumb resting on your bottom lip.

“Let me play with you.”

[whereserpentswalk]

You were accidently infected with a device meant to turn someone into a cyborg. It's not anyone's fault, it was an artifact from a civilization several star systems away, (though like yourse, the civilization is human) left in a drawer at your university, you didn't know what it was when you touched it. None of the countries on your planet make technology at all similar to this so your doctors don't know what to do. They say they can try to remove it while it's still early on in the process, but that might hurt you more badly, mabye even cost you your life, alternatively you can just let it take its course. You say you'd rather live as a cyborg than die, it's a decision not everyone in your society would make, sometimes you consider yourself a coward for giving up on removal.

It's not a big problem at first. Your freinds, your girlfriend, family all say they're accepting of cyborgs. And people kind of downplay it at first, they can't see the changes. Your skin becomes deathly pale, and you lose almost all your body fat at an alarmingly rapid pace, but it doesn't worry people as much as it worries you.

Your skeleton changes before anything else. Nobody else can see it but you can feel it, your bones turning to metal, twisting their shape. How every movement you make feels diffrent, how even getting out of bed changes. People don't understand why your upset, someone even said you have internalized cyberphobia, they don't understand how everything feels so diffrent. Your girlfriend complimented you on how strong you were, she didn't realize just how strong you are now, that you have to be careful when you embrace her not to hurt her.

Things start getting worse. You can feel unnecessary parts of your body leaving you. The first thing to really cause you grief is realizing that the transformation took your reproductive organs, that you'll never have a child of your own. People don't understand how painful it is. You feel like your own body is alien to you. One of your freinds hugs you to try to comfort you but it doesn't feel right, not in a body like this.

Your teeth fall out one night. It all happens at once. You worry you'll never have teeth again, but over the next few hours new ones grow in their place, metal ones, sharp ones like a shark's teeth meant to rip things apart. Your eyes are taken next, the new ones are shaped the same but they're pitch black, when you look closely you can see the camera inside, you can see so much better and you don't like it, colors that are alien to your mind, there aren't imperfections and that makes the entire world seem so weird. You can't ignore what you are, you can't even see yourself in the mirror without wanting to cry, but your eyes don't cry now.

Your appearance changes more and more. The skin in strpped from your limbs and replaced with metal. Bits of machinery can be seen sticking out of you. Your body hair falls out, until all that's left is long silky hair on your head, even your eyebrows are gone. And the skin you do have is a diffrent texture now, it doesn't feel alive. You don't feel like yourself, people treat you differently, you can't feel like you're you when you remember what you look like.

People go from ignoring the issue to treating you like an issue. Your family mourns you as if you were dead, it's like it would have been more convenient for everyone if you weren't around. People are way more likely to assume you're dangerous or suspicious, you don't feel safe around cops anymore, people find things you do inappropriate that weren't inappropriate when you were human. It's weirder with well meaning people, for the first time you've been complimented on "how good you are at feeling emotions", people will be polite to you but weirdly uncomfortable around you, or try so hard to be inclusive and show that they care about you that it makes you feel like a prize animal. You start hanging out more and more with freinds you have who are also cyborgs or robots, even aliens feel more like you than humans, and you make more and more cyborg freinds because they treat you like a person. But still most cyborgs chose to become what they are, so it's hard to relate to that aspect of it. You'll here other cyborgs talk about how great their bodies are, how much they prefer their new selves to being human, and it just makes you want to cry.

Not to mention how much you start to change as a person. Your eyes have a hud now, it's not even like you can see it but like it's another sense, you can get it to go away. You used to leave the city every few months to see the forest, but now nature seems weird and separate from you, and machines feel familiar and comforting. There are weapons inside you, they were the last thing to come in, you're not even allowed in a few places because of it, you can always feels these blades inside your body that want to come out and strike. You don't sleep, you miss dreaming, you don't eat either, and sexual pleasure is impossible in your new body. Food itself is weirdly gross to you. And when you see your girlfriend laying in bed you don't feel lust anymore, you don't want to play with her breasts or rub her penis, your instinct is to attack her, you see that soft vulnerable body as an easy target, like a predator seeing prey. You don't know what she sees in your to still stay. And even among them you're considered a low functioning or low humanity cyborg, whatever that means.

It's weird, it feels like your story should have ended. Like you should have become a monster for someone else to fight by now. But you didn't, you live in the same apartment, go to the same college, you're still you even after all that's changed what being you means. There's people who make you feel better, it's always awkward when people try to comfort you, but when people talk to you just about normal things, and when they're nice to you the way they'd be nice to anyone else, you're experiencing that more now that you only really interact with people who accept you, and now that people you know have adjusted to your new movements and mannerisms. You don't like most physical affection anymore, but being pet gently with two fingers, like a snake, that's weirdly nice. Daytime is overwhelming, but you enjoy the night more with how your eyes work, and feeling the cool night air, on your metal skinless limbs, and your hairless flesh, it makes thing seem strangely peaceful.

[vorezone-act8]

Inside your mouth I cannot see

safe vore fic. sorry if you realize what these characters are from lmao (owen is an oc stand in for the player but) warnings: emeto, body dysphoria/dysmorphia, mentions of actual cannib.alism/"h.ard vore" but it doesnt actually happen, suicidal ideation somewhat, suggestive implications unrelated to the vore

Owen couldn't keep this up for much longer. 

He'd been running from "Uthman" for twenty minutes at this rate. He couldn't claim to be in good shape, either, even before this happened; he'd barely slept since he got here, and he'd already been walking for ages. This place was awful labyrinthine for a place of work.

He was wont to give out eventually.

And so he did, a momentary falter of his footing resulting in him being tackled to the ground, vision spotting from the impact his head made with the floor.

"Owen," the thing mumbles. No—even like this, Uthman wasn't a thing. He was a person; a person who would feel terrible about this when he woke up. "Need them. Your organs." His breathing is ragged.

Fighting to keep consciousness, Owen writhes in his grasp, but it's no use. Instead, he tries to reason, "You don't want this; you’re going to feel horrible, later. Uthman, wake up, please—"

Uthman's hands, pinning the other man to the ground by his wrists, tremble. His eyes focus again for a moment, practically drawing his own blood by how hard he's biting his lip. "Trying." Tears prick at his eyes, despite the grin his face has contorted into. It's pained. “I’m sorry.”

He's not sure why he wants to tell him that it's okay, to comfort him, as he finally slips into darkness.

Uthman is fighting himself. He's just lucid enough to resist the hunger for a few more moments, but it's impossible. It hurts—and the only thing that will make it stop is if he sates it, or he’s knocked out. But Owen wasn’t able to do the latter. He has to hold off, just for a few more moments. He won’t forgive himself if—

He half-doubles over in pain on the other’s unconscious form, yelping like the animal he is. His stomach feels as though it’s trying to digest itself.

The opposing instincts of the desire to protect him from further harm and to consume him, thus stopping the pain, converge into overwhelming mixed signals that freeze him in place. In inaction. A momentary blessing.

But unfortunately, it results in a bizarre compromise.

The Devil's mouth experimentally opens, and he shoves Owen's head inside. It fits alarmingly well. The clay making up the flesh makes it disgustingly flexible, too. Impossible. It shouldn't be able to fit a man inside. But it can.

Even screaming inside, the hunger is now beginning to cloud his horror. He can taste Owen’s blood, which he can’t stop himself from licking off his chin. The animal in him wants to finish the job. Wants to be full. It's been starving for so long. 

The human is terrified.

But this is the only conclusion The Devil can come to that will satisfy both instincts. Swallowed whole, instead of torn to shreds. No longer hungry, but Owen might survive if Uthman snaps out of this state fast enough.

All it takes is a swallow to bring his shoulders into his throat, then another for his torso, then his legs—

A purr rises in his middle as his poor friend's form settles into it, arms wrapping around him in a lovesick fondness. He curls up on the floor around his stomach, like an animal at rest.

Lucid again for a moment, Uthman is wracked by a sob as his bleary eyes grow heavy against his will. It's too late.

————————————————

Uthman wakes up nauseous, and aching all over—from falling asleep on the floor, apparently. He groans as he sits up, aching back popping. Eyes squinting from residual exhaustion, he scans the room. He doesn't know how he got here, or why.

Confusion quickly turns into alarm.

The last thing he remembers is being with Owen. Where is he? Did they split up? What would cause a lapse in memory like—

He notices a splatter of human blood right beside him.

Panic rises in his core.

"Mr. Webb?" He calls out urgently, fearing the worst. "Owen??" He attempts to stand up—but his stomach lurches unnaturally at the sudden movement, as if bloated.

His blood runs cold. The lingering taste of metal in his mouth—

He retches, but nothing comes up. He buries his face in his hands—both of which he doesn’t want to be his own, especially right now. But they are. This monster is you. You killed and ate that poor man. Didn’t you?

Hot wet tears deface his disgusting visage even further, as they should. He curls in on himself, no, around what was left of the friend he didn’t deserve. “I’m so sorry,” his monotone cracks. “I-I knew I should have stayed away—I’m so selfish. I’m sorry, Owen.” 

He really is selfish. Owen will never get to see his children again, nor will he get to go home. All for what? Because he was just so desperate for human connection that he couldn’t just help from the sidelines, when this man’s family was on the line—when he knows how dangerous he is? Boo fucking hoo.

He shudders violently as he gags. It’s painful.

That man is dead, and

“...Uthman?”

His ringing ears almost don’t catch the sound. Not until it’s repeated, louder: “Uthman! Hello?” It’s Owen’s voice, oddly muffled. Eyes blurry but wide, he once overs the room in disbelief. “Owen?” His voice trembles. He doesn’t see anything. “Where are you?”

“I don’... know,” the man tiredly answers, then poses a question of his own: “It’s too dark to tell. Were you… crying?” 

A shuddering breath is taken in. He scans the room again. “I was worried I… killed you. I’m glad I didn’t. Are you hurt? Do you recall anything? You sound tired, so I’m assuming you were unconscious.” 

There’s a beat of silence.

“...I remember you… knocking me over. Hit my head, must have conked out. I don’t hurt anywhere else, though. Guess you… left me alone?” He seems to be just as confused. 

It’s starting to concern him how clearly he can hear Owen’s voice, despite neither of them knowing where he is.

“I should check you for a concussion,” Uthman thinks aloud. “Can you move?”

Immediately afterwards, a wave of nausea hits him as he feels—something move, inside of what, unmistakably, must be his stomach. Realization hits him like a truck, but as a literal doctor, he finds it hard to accept that this is possible for him to do. They should both be dead. 

Well… if he were human, that is. Right.

“...I’m cramped. Can’t really tell.” Owen’s voice is alarmingly lacking any fear about the situation he’s in. Even without knowing what Uthman has realized, being trapped in a cramped space you can’t see is terrifying. Maybe he does have a concussion. “Wet, also.”

“Owen,” Uthman starts, trying to keep his voice level. He nearly tries to make eye contact with his stomach, but averts his eyes out of shame. “I think I know where you are.” He sucks in a breath. “...For some reason, in that state, I just…” The words are hard to get out of his mouth, because he can hardly believe them. 

“Swallowed you whole. Instead of something more immediately lethal.”

There isn’t a response for a moment. 

Then, wordless, panicked thrashing against his internals. There it is. The fight or flight response kicking in. He grits his teeth in pain, instinctively clutching at his middle, as if to make it stop. He releases his grip near immediately, not wanting to hurt Owen any further. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before—and it’s terribly nauseating. 

Maybe that’s a good thing, vomiting would be welcome to this situation. But—

“...Y-you shouldn’t care, but just in case you do, that does hurt,” he clarifies.

It stops quickly. “Sorry,” Owen apologizes. His voice grows quieter. “...I was scared.”

“No, it’s—it’s completely understandable.” Uthman sighs heavily as his muscles relax. “I mean, anyone would be afraid if they were… literally eaten by a monster.” His eyes unfocus, staring into nothing. He really is one, isn’t he?

“...Don’t… call yourself that,” Owen manages, shifting himself around in an attempt to get more comfortable. Uthman cringes at this horrendously invasive feeling. This is, quite possibly, the worst way to have to confront his non-human biology. He almost tuned out what Owen said.

“It’s true, though. A human, and most other animals, physically could not do this.” He grips his wrist as it trembles. “But that’s not important—I need to get you out of there. Our digestive systems aren’t designed to handle this much, so you should be fine for a while, but I’m not going to wait around for you to get hurt, and I’m sure you don’t want to, either.”

There’s a beat, as if Owen were thinking on what to say, for whatever reason. Uthman finds the answer pretty cut and dry, so this strikes him as odd. His passenger settles with a, “...Fair.”

Uthman pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking in another breath through his teeth. “Yes.” He moves to stand up—but hesitates. “...Uh. I’m going to get up. Alright?” There’s a noise of acknowledgement from inside, so he takes that as his go-ahead. Legs trembling slightly, he uses a nearby wall to stand to his feet…. hooves, rather. Right. He hates this.

It shouldn’t be as easy to walk as it is. He hates that Owen is like nothing more than a little added weight to his body. That’s an entire person. You can hardly even notice that he’s there.

…It’s hard for him to calm his spiraling thoughts with this situation. 

Thankfully, Owen breaks the silence: “What are you, uh… going to do? Try to throw up, right?” …Maybe not so thankfully. This is another thought rabbithole to go down. At least it’s a more helpful one to go on.

“Well…” Uthman has to think about the logistics of this. He was able to get Owen down, so he should be able to come back up. But the space is so tight he doesn’t trust he won’t suffocate within, or that he won’t choke on him, this time. Actually, is there even enough oxygen in his stomach for Owen to begin with? Is it not a concussion, but a lack of air?

His head is spinning with concerning questions and possibilities.

“...I think I’m just going to cut you out.”

“HUH?” Owen barks in alarm. “Just throw up! You’re a doctor, you know sometimes you just gotta throw up—”

“I’m not scared to throw up!” He blurts, feeling the skin beneath the fur on his face flush. “I’m worried you’re going to suffocate. It’ll make me feel better if I just… surgically remove you.”

“Have you ever even performed surgery on yourself? What if you mess up? You could cut me.” Owen strategically doesn’t mention that he’s actually more concerned about Uthman hurting himself, because he knows that he doesn’t care about his own wellbeing right now.

It works. Uthman groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “...Okay, good point. Maybe I should just… try. But I’m not sure… where would be an appropriate location. The floors here are all hard.” God, this is embarrassing. “I guess I’ll head back to my office. There’s pillows and stuff…” He sighs. 

Just as he was about to start moving again, he feels some sort of pressure from within. He can’t help but look down, as much as he really doesn’t want to, and thus confront this reality in its entirety. It’s repetitive, it recedes and presses in again a few times.

“It’s really not that bad. Take your time to get there.”

…He realizes it must be Owen’s hand, patting him.

His face grows hot. He doesn’t like that it felt nice, and especially not that his stomach responds with a growl. No, no, no, you don’t like this. “D-don’t tell me that,” he chides, trying to keep himself composed. “It’s not okay, and I don’t want to think that it’s okay. My instincts might kick in again, and then they might not let you go. I won’t forgive myself if I…”

Pat, pat. “You’re more freaked out about this than I am, Uth. Breathe.”

“You SHOULD be freaked out!” He explodes, all of his emotions finally breaking the surface and spilling. “What if I killed you? What if I DO kill you by waiting too long? Your kids need you, and—and I…” I need you. I’m so selfish. God. 

His breath shudders as he continues, “...When I get you out of there, I think you shouldn’t even talk to me from a distance—I’m more of a danger to you than any help, at this rate. I’m not to be trusted. I have selfish intentions. I want this.”

“No!” Owen moves suddenly with his exclamation, causing Uthman to wince. “God damn it, Uthman, you’ve helped me more than anyone else down here! I don’t care that you lose control now and then—honestly, I don’t even mind if you do end up killing me. I’d prefer that over anything else doing it!”

That takes him out of it. His eyes open wide in horror. “...What? Owen, you—you wouldn’t just let me kill you, would you?”

“Of course not! I just—well…” Owen sighs, and Uthman can tell that he’s curling into himself, receding away the farthest he can in the little space he has. He tries not to notice how much he can feel this, implying that the walls of his stomach are squeezing around him. “...You heard Stinger. I’ve… probably already failed my kids. I don’t care what happens to me, I just… want you to be there.”

Now he’s really concerned. He pushes the welling warmth in his chest, much too literal, aside. “...You haven’t given up, have you? Stinger’s full of it. Even if he isn’t, you should still try, you know.”

“I was supposed to be comforting you, stupid.” 

Uthman laughs a little at that. “...It worked, I think.” 

He becomes aware again of the present situation and urgently starts walking, thankfully recognizing a nearby hallway as a reference point for the distance to his office. “I’m such a hypocrite, I said we shouldn’t wait but I drew this out longer by stopping to argue with you,” he hums, allowing himself to find a little amusement in this. 

As he walks, he notices how much the movement jostles Owen’s weight around, as though he were lugging him around in a bag. That can’t be pleasant. Cursing himself internally, he places a hand on his belly to keep it as still as he can. 

Pat, pat. Owen’s hand meets his, seeming to have caught on.

His face screws up in embarrassment, heat returning to his cheeks. ————————————————

Owen is expelled harmlessly out onto Uthman’s makeshift bed. It’s a lot less warm out here, but he prefers having his full range of motion, which he immediately uses to sit up and stretch his back out with a pop.

He looks up to poor Uthman above him, coughing still. “Uuugh,” he groans, wiping at his mouth. “You okay?” Owen asks gently.

The mascot blinks, then narrows his eyes at him. He clears his throat, composing himself. “I should be asking you that. I wasn’t the one that was nearly eaten alive.” He takes off his labcoat, using it to methodically dry off the other man in place of a towel. 

…Oh, yeah, he’d gotten so used to it in the past… 30 minutes? That he forgot he was absolutely drenched in spit and whatever else.

He crosses his arms, just letting it happen.

“If you had a concussion, it seems to have cleared up. I should check you for burns, though,” Uthman comments idly as he works.

“You gonna undress me?” Owen immediately regrets saying that, shutting his mouth from saying anything further at practically mach 5.

Uthman stops. Even with the fur covering his face, Owen can spot that hint of teal to his cheeks underneath. Actually, it was probably long present. “No, but I was going to ask you to remove them. Even besides possible injuries, your clothes are… probably ruined.” He looks away ashamedly. “I have a change of clothes in here.”

Owen chuckles awkwardly. “...Sorry, didn’t mean it like that.” He sort of did. “I appreciate it, but are you sure you don’t need them?”

“...They… don’t fit anymore, anyways,” Uthman bemoans as he continues to dab at any remaining saliva. Owen frowns sympathetically.

————————————————

Uthman finds nothing out of the ordinary after checking his skin, which is a relief, but also puzzling. Is the acid in a Gi.vanium-based digestive system that weak? Thank god for that design flaw.

The both of them find themselves hit with exhaustion after Owen gets changed and everything settles down, and Uthman… frustratingly hungry, with his stomach no longer full.

A distressing element about his body’s cravings is that they’re not supposed to happen at all. He has no biological need for food. But like a phantom limb, he still experiences the ghost of getting hungry from his memories as a human. 

He wishes it was just that, and that it didn’t manifest in animalistic, predatory instincts.

Having nothing else, he settles on a few granola bars, offering some to Owen, as well. He has to look away from him as he eats.

Uthman tries to convince Owen to go sleep somewhere else tonight, but isn’t able to—he’d have to risk running into another dangerous Case, or collapsing from exhaustion. There’s nowhere else to go. Begrudgingly, he allows it.

They settle into their separate makeshift beds. But… neither of them can sleep, despite how tired they are from the scare of the earlier situation.

“...Hey,” Owen pipes up after a while.

“Mmm?” Uthman barely manages to vocalize.

“...Could I sleep with you?” 

His eyes shoot right open, and he sits up. “What?? I’m sorry, I know you probably got used to it, but I could have killed you earlier, and I’m nervous even about this proximity.”

“I’m just cold,” Owen clarifies, embarrassedly. He feels like a little kid asking to get into their parent’s bed, and he’s a 40 year old man. “...And you’re warm. But I’ll deal.”

…Right. The temperature is low in here to kill germs, like a doctor’s office. He has no way of changing it. Naturally, being drenched probably made him chilly, too—

He sighs. “...Fine. I kind of owe this to you after that, I don’t want you to freeze.” He pulls up his blankets and gestures him over. Owen crawls in and settles next to him, unable to help nuzzling into his fur, sighing as he feels the other’s warmth wash over him. “...Thank you,” he mumbles.

Uthman tenses up. There’s those butterflies in his stomach again… oh, no, that’s physical, actually. It’s growling. His face flushes, turning his head away with a distressed grimace. He’s certain that he heard that. “Do you see what I mean? You really shouldn’t trust me.”

“It’s not a big deal—I mean, maybe you’ll just do that instead of trying to, uh, eat my pancreas, next time,” Owen jokes. Uthman really doesn’t find it funny. He wraps his arms around him, though, selfishly pulling him closer. He paradoxically relaxes, despite his heart beating out of his chest. “...Well, if it happens again, don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

Owen sticks his tongue out mockingly at him. “Well, it was actually kind of nice, just so you know.” 

Uthman makes a strangled noise at that, hiding his face with his arm. “Please don’t say that.” Owen laughs.

They stop bickering and fall asleep soon after.

[aria-ashryver]

I Cannot Bear To Hold You With These Unworthy Hands

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow

Pairing: Aerin x m!human!MC (Dorian Silvertongue)

Words: 2.4K

Summary: After the night they spent together, Aerin weighs his troubled thoughts, trying to muster the strength to leave the bed, leave the tent, leave Dorian behind.

(or; Aerin writes his stupid little letter)

Ratings/Warnings: Teen - brief allusions to the fact that Aerin and MC have just slept together; brief mention that Baldur was abusive; brief mention of self-inflicted injury

A/N: A little ✨Aerin angst✨, as a treat! I haven't written for him (or Blades) before, so I'd love to know what folks think of the style and characterisation! Also, if you enjoy atmosphere (and being in pain), this piece was written to Adam Skorupa and Krzysztof Wierzynkiewicz's A Nearly Peaceful Place

@choicesficwriterscreations

Aerin was a smart man. He knew that. Prided himself on it, in fact. He’d always been quick-witted, clever, his rigorous education obvious to anyone he spoke to. There wasn’t a puzzle he’d ever come up against that he couldn’t unravel with ease.

Until Dorian.

The celebrations in Riverbend had continued well into the night; beyond the confines their tent, Aerin could still hear the light refrain of a flute, the slow, poignant swell of a fiddle, as a pair of minstrels played their longing to skies littered with stars. It wasn’t so loud that he couldn’t sleep through it; beside him, curved protectively around him, Dorian’s breath had evened out into the slow rhythm of true sleep.

Aerin felt him sigh against his skin. His body was warm with rest and the lingering heat of their lovemaking. Not for the first time, Aerin marvelled at how utterly, hopelessly stuck he was.

Not in the least because, even asleep as he was, Dorian didn’t seem as though he would deign to let him go any time soon. The man had a build borne of long years of physical labour and swordsmanship; those iron-banded arms hugged Aerin firmly against his chest, one arm looping around his waist, the other curving around his shoulders. He held him so sweetly, so securely, that it seemed that Aerin’s half-baked escape plan would fall apart at the first hurdle — namely, ever getting out of this blasted bed.

An alarmingly vocal part of him hoped that that would be the end of it.

Because that was the other thing that gave him pause. Try as he might, Aerin simply couldn’t make up his mind.

He should go.

Right?

Right. He should go.

Leaving the party, leaving Dorian —a gasp hooked in Aerin’s lungs— it was the right thing to do.

A breeze shook the walls of the tent, the burnt gold silks cracking and shuddering in the wind. How much nicer it would be, to just stay in the bed.

It was warm, inside. Next to Dorian. Everything was soft linen sheets and warm wood, the tent’s furnishings humble and plain, but comfortable. The candles burned low at the small table where they’d sat together and shared a cup of wine earlier that evening.

They’d talked for an hour or two after slipping away from Riverbend’s quaint little festival —Dorian had laughed at his own jokes, as he was wont to do, and he’d grinned at Aerin’s acerbic wit in a way that had his stomach tripping over itself— and then Dorian had kissed him like there was nothing and no one else in the world at all.

Like the answer to every question he’d ever had was as simple as that.

How easy it would be to pretend. To stay here, his head nestled on his lover’s chest, listening to the slow rise and fall of his breathing. How easy, to forget the outside world existed.

Aerin’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. It was exactly the sort of irony he ought to have expected, he thought. All his life, he’d been trapped. Trapped by Baldur’s abuses; trapped by the minutiae of courtly decorum; trapped in a role wherein no one would ever see him as a person, merely an idea, a ghost of a farce of a mockery of what they all thought a “Prince” ought to be.

Then, when the abuses had worn him down to nothing, and he’d thought to seize some measure of independence for himself… It had been mistake after catastrophe after vainglorious disaster that had won him nothing but regret and a year-long stay in a cold cell.

Now that he finally, finally had the freedom to make decisions for himself, now that he had a chance to atone and do some good with his wretched excuse for a life, well.

How ironic that that very freedom was little but another cage.

Self-loathing was a demon that pressed him bodily into the sheets, turned the warmth around him hotter by degrees until it was suffocating.

Doing right by Dorian meant being worthy of him. And being worthy of him meant he’d have to shatter the nascent trust growing between them. He’d have to betray Dorian, again, after all the kindness he’d shown him.

They had been three days out from Riverbend when the party had set camp one night, and a whip-thin fox had darted across the edge of the clearing. It was clearly wild, its hackles raised in gnawing hunger and fear, but Dorian had simply grinned and hunkered down with a strip of dried meat in his hand.

It had taken him most of the evening, but eventually Aerin had returned from gathering kindling with Mal to find the creature eating the meat right out of his outstretched fingers. Another half-hour of gentle coaxing and it had chirruped and curled up right in Dorian’s lap.

Mal had rolled his eyes, shaking his head as if he found the whole thing laughable. Expected, even. As though he knew how little chance anything —anyone— had of resisting Dorian’s charm.

As Aerin had stroked disbelieving fingers through the creature’s flame-red pelt, he’d finally understood that the gut-deep pull he’d been feeling since their first kiss by the lake was some combination of a deep, pervasive sadness… and a potent yearning.

An unabating ache.

Teeth, and claws, and snarling wildness; none of it seemed to bother Dorian. A deep-rooted instinct to lash out in self-defence, stemming from a life of fear and pain, it was simply no match for his easy smiles and slow coaxing. Once Dorian Silvertongue set his sights on something —on someone— they were all but his. Aerin yearned for Dorian to tame him, as patiently and painlessly as he had the fox.

When they’d packed up camp the following morning, the fox was gone, but the feeling lingered.

And when they’d happened upon a particularly tricky patch of forest trail not long after they’d left the clearing, Aerin hadn’t been able to resist taking Dorian’s outstretched hand.

For a fleeting moment, Aerin let himself imagine he could stay.

That the pair of them weren’t tangled up in a mess of his own making; that the hand Dorian had held so gently wasn’t covered in blood he couldn’t wash clean.

That maybe they’d lace their fingers through one another’s to stroll along the piers of Port Parnassus, taking in the markets and the brisk night air. That they could be just a pair of travellers, unremarkable, unburdened save for the kiss of salt upon their skin as ocean mist sprayed up from the docks.

Laughter on their lips as an unexpected swell left them drenched.

Perhaps he’d get the chance to get back at Dorian for those godsawful sausages he’d had them all eat at the festival tonight — they could taste the fare from various street vendors, feed each other unfamiliar fruits and spiced wine of dubious vintage.

…He’d buy Dorian a handcrafted ring to replace the one he still wore on a chain around his neck. One that wasn’t a mark of Whitetower, of the Valleros family, but just him.

Just Aerin.

An honest gift from one beating heart to another, both of whom had known far too much pain and burden. A mark of a new beginning.

Dorian’s skin was hot beneath Aerin’s cheek; stifling a gasp, Aerin pulled back, blotting away the few errant tears that had begun to pool on his chest.

He stared long and hard at Dorian’s sleeping face. The way his hair fell in his eyes. The bruised shadows beneath them. The rasp of stubble at Dorian’s jaw that even now he could feel burning against the delicate skin of his thighs, his neck.

Dorian’s shifted slightly in his sleep, his fingers spasming on Aerin’s skin, clutching at him in a way that had a flurry of butterflies alighting in his stomach.

Frozen, Aerin caught his lip between his teeth, scared to move.

Hoping Dorian wouldn’t wake.

Praying he would.

It would be selfish of him to stay, he should go. He was a smart man; he knew he should do what needed to be done. It was the right thing to do.

Never mind that even thinking of walking away from the one good thing he’d ever had in his accursed life felt akin to shoving a knife into his own chest.

He’d done that, once.

The Nerada stone hadn’t wanted to budge, the rituals he’d undertaken to free himself of Shadow corruption were long, and laboured, and exhaustingly brutal, but he’d taken that pain as penance.

Somehow, it hurt less than the thought of Dorian waking to find that Aerin had betrayed him yet again.

Sand hurtled through the hourglass as Aerin let his looming choices fall by the wayside.

He knew he was running out of time.

But right now, all he wanted to do was memorise exactly how it felt to be held.

It was with a slow reluctance that Aerin drew his unworthy hands away from the only person he’d ever loved. Easing out of Dorian’s grasp, he slipped from the bed. Located his smallclothes in the jumbled pile of leather and linens and weaponry on the floor. Pulled those on. His trousers and boots, those too.

The heat of Dorian’s skin still warmed his palms; an echo that he knew would fade all too soon. He tugged his tunic on over his head, hopeful the clinking music of buckles and straps might rouse him from his slumber, dreading whatever excuse he’d make if it did.

Aerin knew Dorian hadn’t been sleeping well since his escape from the Ash Empire. Most nights he’d wake with a scream catching in his throat, a skittering panic in his eyes that Aerin knew well himself. More cruel then, that the fates would have him sleeping so peacefully tonight, the marks Aerin had left on his throat a brand, a traitor’s kiss, a ghost edge of a knife wound.

Aerin finished dressing.

Dorian slept.

He crossed to the nightstand, poured himself a glass of water from the decanter. Tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

Still, Dorian slept.

Would he think of him, Aerin wondered? Would Dorian ache for him the next time he bedded down alone?

…would he even be alone?

Aerin clamped his jaw shut against a swell of sudden nausea. He knew Dorian was open with his affections, and he’d thought he didn’t begrudge him that —what he shared with Mal was strictly physical, at least on Dorian’s part, though his blossoming relationship with Nia hadn’t survived their confrontation with the Dreadlord— but for a moment, bitter, ugly jealousy made him feel ill.

Would this second betrayal be enough to carve Aerin’s name out of his heart for good? Push him back into Nia’s arms?

Aerin swallowed.

Perhaps it was better that Dorian hate him. He didn’t deserve his kindness, much less his love. Not after everything he’d done.

Dorian was a blazing comet streaking through the night sky; Aerin the empty void he lit with his passing. He didn’t regret the night they’d shared together; far from it, he couldn’t remember ever being happier. Just this once, Aerin had longed to blaze up alongside him, lost in his fire, in his light.

Just this once, he’d wanted to cling to him as he burned.

It had been better than anything he’d ever dreamed.

Aerin set the glass down, his hands shaking around the decanter as he poured himself a second glass of water.

Of course he had to leave. How could he kid himself that he could have a place amongst the great heroes of Morella? Him — a hero? Who was he trying to fool?

Jaw clenching, Aerin took a seat at the table, drawing some papers and ink from his satchel. He laid them out with slow precision, hating himself, hating the world, hating everything he had to do.

Behind him, Dorian gasped in his sleep; it was an agonised shock of sound that cut Aerin to the quick. He leapt to his feet, crossing the tent to perch on the bedside as Dorian jolted himself awake.

‘P-please!’ Dorian gasped. ‘Don’t. Don’t!’

‘It’s alright,’ Aerin said.

One of Aerin’s hands came up to cradle Dorian’s face; the other rubbed soothing circles against his chest. Dorian’s hand flew up to clutch at his wrist.

‘Aerin?’

‘I’m here, it’s okay,’ Aerin murmured. His heart clenched painfully as Dorian’s sleep-addled gaze locked onto his and immediately grew less panicked. ‘You’re safe, Dorian. I’m right beside you.’

Almost before he’d finished speaking, Dorian’s eyes drifted closed — but not before he’d slid his hand higher to lace their fingers together where Aerin’s hand still cradled his face.

It was almost too much.

It would be so easy to sink back into that bed, sink back into a sense of belonging he didn’t deserve.

Aerin sucked a strained breath against the tightness in his lungs, gently extricating himself from Dorian’s grasp. He didn’t know if it was some ill-begotten vestige of Shadow, lingering in his chest even now, or if breathing was simply beyond him where Dorian was concerned.

Every time they met each other’s eyes, the air in Aerin’s lungs turned to pitch.

Perhaps… he could stay? Dorian’s love would alight him, and the pitch in his lungs would blaze and burn, every breath between their kisses turned golden and glowing with light and fire.

Perhaps he should leave.

Let it cool and harden. Let his lungs solidify. Let him never draw a joyous breath again.

He should leave.

He should leave.

He sat at the table, his pen poised above the crisp parchment. He stayed frozen in place for so long the ink dripped from the nib, pooling into a dense, black blot on the page. It soaked into the paper, the sight eerily reminiscent of tendrils of shadow bleeding into smooth, pale skin.

Aerin choked down the tears, the bile threatening to rise, and scribbled down the only useless words he could muster.

Dear Dorian,

I apologize for leaving so abruptly, especially without saying goodbye...

...what a Gods-forsaken joke.

Drying his eyes, Aerin stole one last look, not knowing if he would ever see Dorian again. He wanted to kiss him goodbye. Wanted it so desperately it burned. He wanted Dorian’s eyes to flutter open at the first touch of his lips; for his hand to snap out one more time to clutch at Aerin’s own; for him to whisper please.

Please, Aerin. Don’t go. Stay with me.

Dropping the folded parchment on the table, his fingers trembling, Aerin turned to leave, knowing he was a jester, he was a fool, he was the realm’s most miserable joke.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Shadowstruck: Chapter One

The room had too many shadows. They filled the corners of Mama’s sick room, where heavy velvet curtains blocked the noise of passing carriages. They stretched from her bedposts, from the doctor’s medicines and instruments sitting next to the kerosene lamp on her bedside table. Sometimes one looked alarmingly human-shaped, and Clara feared the worst, until she saw the faint flickering heartlight around Mama’s form.

Mama’s heartlight, usually a bright, cheerful yellow, had faded to the color of old paper, barely visible in that dim room. Clara’s heartlight, as always, matched it to a shade, which made her feel like she was dying, too.

In Clara’s twelve years of life, she could barely remember spending more than an hour away from her mother. Mama had been her playmate, her caretaker, her teacher, her greatest friend.

Clara held Mama’s hand between both of hers, trying to rub some warmth into the cold fingers. Suddenly, Mama’s heartlight flared like a camera bulb. Her eyes flew open and she clutched at Clara’s arms. “Jeff!” she cried, as if watching him drown. “Jeff!”

Dr. Chambers' nurse rushed from her shadowed corner to Mama’s bedside; her comforting lavender heartlight glowed faintly around Mama’s head as she tried to calm her. “Your husband is well, Mrs. Lynwood. You should rest.”

Mama pushed away the nurse’s hands. “Where’s Jeff? I must speak to him!”

Neither Clara nor the nurse could quiet her, so at last the nurse called for the shade.

The boy--who seemed to be a year or two younger than Clara--looked pale and harmless, but he gave Clara the shivers. Papa didn't keep any shades--had never let any in the house until the nurse insisted she needed the extra hands--so this one, casting a shadow instead of a heartlight, looked like an unnatural intruder in this civilized room.

The nurse ordered the shade to fetch Papa from the Senate. The moment he left the room, Mama fell back against the pillows, exhausted.

Clara shuddered as the boy's long, black shadow slithered down the hallway before him. “Papa won’t come with a shade,” she said.

“He’ll come for your mother,” the nurse replied.

And the nurse was right. Papa burst into the room minutes later, the black sash of his senatorial robe still waving behind him, his orange heartlight as strong and vibrant as he was.

Jefferson Lynwood looked nothing like a famed, formidable senator as he rushed to kneel beside his wife's bed.

“I’m here, Minna!” he said, taking her hand.

Mama’s heartlight was dimmer than Clara had ever seen it, but her eyes were wide open and her whisper was strong. “Promise me, Jeff. No matter what happens, promise me you will care for Clara.”

Papa cast a quizzical glance at Clara. Clara didn’t understand it any more than he did. She was much younger than her brothers, and Papa stayed busy with senatorial work, but he was still as fond a father as she could ask for.

“Of course I will, darling,” Papa soothed. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Mama gripped his shoulders and looked into his face. “No matter what happens,” she insisted. “Promise me you will care for her as your daughter.”

“I would never do anything less.”

“Swear it!”

“I swear it, Minna, on my own right hand.”

Mama fell back against her pillows, satisfied. She was asleep within moments.

Papa shared a look with Clara. “Do you understand it, Clara?” His mustache twitched. “Has she given you reason to think you’re not--”

“No. Never.”

Papa shook his head. “Probably raving. Chambers warned me that might happen, near the end.” Papa scowled back at the doorway. “Probably comes of being around shades. I told Chambers I didn’t want those creatures near her!”

Clara had heard all his lectures about the dangers of shades—how they were soulless, shadow-casting creatures who fed off the heartlights of humans. Shades looked human-shaped to Clara, and Mama urged her to treat them with respect, but she never argued with Papa. Right now, Clara wasn’t sure she wanted to. The doctor kept a few shades as house slaves like most people did; Clara hadn’t thought anything of it when he left one to assist the nurse, but what if they were what kept Mama from getting well? The doctor had said that he couldn’t understand why she was fading—she should easily have been able to easily overcome this cold.

For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, neither Clara nor Papa left Mama’s side. Mama never opened her eyes. Her breathing became harsher, but none of the nurse’s medicines helped. Sometimes she stopped breathing for almost a minute, but the continued glow of her heartlight assured Clara she yet lived.

Clara cried—she couldn’t help it. Sometimes Papa did, too. They both loved Mama. Without her, what would their little family become?

At last, Mama gasped, gave one last deep breath—then stopped. Her face went still and icy white. Her heartlight went out like a snuffed candle.

At the exact same moment, so did Clara’s. Her yellow heartlight—the comforting ever-present glow that was her—disappeared.

On the wall, black and menacing in the light of the kerosene lamp, stretched her shadow.

It looked exactly like a shade’s.