#he smells faintly of rotten eggs

[shewhoeatssand]

which tokyo ghoul characters do y’all think would smell interesting

[envysnest]

Pity the Mayfly (ch. 6/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

AO3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

TW's for this chapter: Gore (mentions of corpses), Raphael ™, mentions of infertility, brief body horror.

————

Crumpled at the bottom of your pack is a small letter:

To one Tavvendish Carver of Horst’s Apothecary,   We, the Baldur’s Gate Alchemical Society, are delighted to inform you that you have been selected for the Baldur’s Gate Alchemical Prize for this year 1484 DR. This decision has been made based on your submission, “Greater Vipers of the Sword Coast and Their Bites.” We would especially like to compliment you on your use of patient interviews and live tests on necrotic subjects.   As you have already been made aware, the prize encompasses ten years of funding for further research on selected topics—

“Look at that!” Gale says. “Congratulations are in order.”

You press the letter to your chest. “Oh, it’s a few years old, now. Forgot it was in this bag, really.”

“Still a reason to celebrate, eh?” Gale looks up from the dirt path with a smile. The two of you are climbing a steep hill, where a copse of trees huddles close and blocks the sunlight. Even in the shade, both of you sweat. Your spit tastes faintly of blood. “Nearly got the Waterdeep Mage-a-thon a few years back.” Gale lifts his robes out of the way of a puddle. “That year happened to be when the returning champion came back from Candlekeep for a victory round—”

Not for the first time, you wish the other party members hadn’t left you two to scout. You rub your neck as Gale talks, but your fingers bump into Shadowheart’s careful bandaging. You smooth it down absentmindedly, focusing on the greenery around you. Certainly plenty of balsam and Rogue’s Morsel, but your ragtag little party had no need of those just yet. Heavens knew you had plenty of Dragon Egg. You count the species as you go: mugwort…

“—towards a quick shift into Hold Person, which, as you know, requires a ninety-degree twist of the right hand—”

…more Dragon Egg…

“—and I’m not, perhaps, as skilled as you are at all things necromantic, I try to keep it more traditional—”

…Acorn Truffle…

“Ha!” shouts Lae’zel ahead of you.

Gale startles. You shout back: “What is it, Lae’zel?”

She’s stopped at the top of the hill. She beckons to you and Gale. “See for yourselves.”

You press ahead of Gale. The smell of woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air. As you crest the hill, the trees part, and you finally see it: a ruined village, razed nearly to the ground. A trail of blood leads from the path to several downed goblins and gnolls, leading past a crumbled stone archway into a deserted town square. Something inside of it is on fire: gray smoke curls daintily against the sky.

Gale reaches the top of the hill behind you, and he mutters an, “Oh!”

“Such carnage!” Lae’zel shakes a fist with excitement. “Never before have I seen the like.” She descends the hill, armor clanking away. 

You take your hat off and fan yourself with it. “Someone’s taken their revenge,” you say to Gale.

“Indeed.” Gale strokes his beard. “It looks as if this was a makeshift goblin outpost." He points at something. "Though I can’t for the life of me tell what symbol that is supposed to be.”

Draped over the village wall are ugly brown banners; if you had to guess, they were likely made of rotting potato sacks that had been hastily stitched together. A skull— or what you think is a skull— stares out in blood-red ink. Actually, now that you considered it, it could be blood, and you didn’t know what was worse.

Your boots catch a little on the dusty path as you follow Lae’zel; the wooden heel slides, and you hold your hands out to either side of you for balance. The smoke just covers the metallic, rotten smell of corpses, but just barely. Gale steps right into a pool of gnoll’s blood. “Gods,” he spits with disgust, shaking entrails off of his boot. “Messy.”

You put your hat back on as you study the moldering brown banners. “Can’t place this symbol either,” you murmur. While you think, you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek and tap your boot.

“Well,” says Gale as he passes you, “if I can’t, I’m not sure you’d be able to.” It’s matter-of-fact. You stiffen.

“Come off it, Gale,” you snap.

Gale freezes. “I beg your pardon?” he asks, all sweet and wide-eyed, and you despise how meek it is.

“You’re not the only wizard in this group.” You step over a gnoll to join him. “Some of us couldn’t afford university, so come off it.”

Gale stutters behind you. “I’m terribly sorry, Tav—”

“You should be,” you say over your shoulder, but in the town square, you stop short.

The square is surrounded by ruins. Thatched roofs have been blown in, wooden doors ripped off their hinges. Even some low stone walls have been bashed in; by what, you absolutely didn’t want to know. The smell of gore and wood smoke is overpowering, and you press your nose to your sleeve. “By Silvanus,” you swear into the cloth.

Lae’zel kneels next to a human warrior, lifting his hand to the sun to examine his rings. A few doors away, Shadowheart weaves between houses. Bodies pile haphazardly over each other, races and species of all kinds, but most impressive of all, just behind Lae’zel, is a circle of—

Goblins. Bugbears, too. All of them are very, very much dead. In the center of the circle stands Astarion, soaked in blood from head-to-shoe, idly picking something out of his teeth. 

You stop in the path. Astarion is humming an off-key tune to himself, so quietly you have to strain to hear. He stands like a man waiting in line for bread: vaguely bored, arms crossed, a sideways slope to his shoulders, weight leaned against one leg. In the sunlight, Astarion’s white hair glints vaguely silver. 

“A veritable bloodbath,” says Gale behind you. “Fitting for a vampire.”

You touch the bandaging at your neck.

“Any gith’yanki would be proud.” Lae’zel stands with a grunt. She rests her hands on her hips and scans the village. “Revenge for the civilians slain here, certainly.”

“A-hem.” Astarion examines his nails.

Lae’zel glares up at him. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh no, my deadly beauty.” Astarion leans down, dangerously in Lae’zel’s face. “I was just wondering where my ‘thank you’ was.”

“Chk.” Lae’zel tosses her hair, but there’s a sly quirk to her mouth. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. “You can thank me after I’ve taken your precious fangs from your mouth.”

You can’t help it: you make a pained noise. Both of them look to you. Lae’zel raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps Tavvendish would like the privilege.”

Astarion draws up to his full height, hands planted firmly on his hips. “A privilege now, is it?” He sniffs indignantly and turns away from you two.

You hold up both hands in defeat, laughing nervously. “No one is defanging anyone here.”

“What a relief,” Astarion sneers at a gnoll corpse. 

“A shame,” Lae’zel says to his back. “I didn’t think Astarion would cower so easily.”

That gets Astarion to turn on his heel. “Who’s cowering? How about you get your sharp little gith teeth pulled, hmm? Who’d be a coward then?”

“You would submit to a defanging without any protest?” Lae’zel’s eyes travel up and down Astarion’s form. “Are all istik so fragile?”

“Lae’zel,” you say.

Lae’zel tosses her hair over her shoulder again. “I speak plain. I know no other way.”

Astarion snorts. “Some people are into that sort of defanging thing, I’ll have you know.” He ajusts his cuffs and stares down his nose at Lae’zel. “Tavvendish, for example.”

You choke. “I’m not—”

Lae’zel huffs and turns from you, but not before you see her smile. Astarion, meanwhile, waves a hand. “Go on, woodling. This is a safe space.”

You look, defeated, to Gale. The other wizard holds up his hands and turns away. “I don’t want to know,” he mutters.

You give Lae’zel your best pleading look. “Can we get off of this topic, please?”

“Peace, Tavvendish.” She holds up a hand. “We’ll shelve the offer,” and here she glances sidelong at Astarion, “if only for the pale one’s pride.”

“You’ll have to fight me off with a bloody broom.” Astarion bares his fangs and hisses at Lae’zel, only for Lae’zel to bare her teeth and snarl back. That begets more complaining from Astarion, and in the ensuing argument, you back slowly away. 

You feel roaring heat at your back. “Hey-ho.” It’s Karlach, with her sword slung over her shoulder. “What’re you kids up to?”

“Children’s games,” you sigh, watching Astarion and Lae’zel bicker. “Have you found anything interesting?”

“You’ll never believe this, Tav.” Karlach swipes at you, as if she’s slapping your arm midair. “We found a gnome tied to a windmill. You’d never fucking believe! Shadowheart and Wyll start running over to stop it, and the poor guy’s screaming his head off, like—” Karlach cups a hand around her mouth: “‘AaaaAAAAAGH, lemme out of here!’ And I’m like, trying to catch the windmill, you know, but it’s hitting me hard, and I don’t want to burn the poor little guy, but Wyll finds the Slow lever by pure accident. Nearly trips over it, the madman! And so we get him down,” Karlach mimes pulling down a rope from the sky, “and it turns out the poor fucker’s a deep gnome. Long way, innit? And Wyll’s being nice and all, helping him up, and get. This.” Karlach leans in, her eyes wide. “Baldurian.”

Another lost soul from your city. Was there even a Baldur’s Gate left to return home to? “Hells.” You shake your head at the ground. “Another one.”

Lae’zel lets out a chk and leaves, shoving Astarion aside with one shoulder. Astarion yells out something after her. Lae’zel shouts something back. You’re not sure if they’re flirting or fighting.

You watch Lae'zel go; she glances at you as she passes, and you pretend to be very fascinated by a nearby human corpse.

Karlach counts on one hand. “So between us, it’s you, Fangs, Shadowheart, Zevlor, a bunch of others at the camp…”

“What did you call me?” Astarion asks from behind you, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Karlach smiles at Astarion over your shoulder.

“Fangs! Everyone gets a nickname.” Karlach points at you. “Tav’s Tavvy, you’re Fangs, I’m Mama K…” After a small pause, the tiefling shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got so far.”

You look over your shoulder at Astarion with raised brows. “Fangs, eh? Not bad.”

Astarion’s lip curls with disdain as he looks down his nose at you. “Don’t you get in the habit, darling.”

Karlach laughs. “Ah, lighten up, Fangs.” She sheathes her sword. “Could be worse.”

Shadowheart approaches your group with her pack open. “Tavvendish, is any of this of use to you? Have a look.”

You support the pack on your thigh and peer inside. Shadowheart points out various pouches and jars: “This one’s all copper shavings, but there’s some mugwort in there. A couple of cloud giant fingers as well…”

“A suspension of…” You open a bottle and smell. “An orchid of some kind, but I can’t place which.” You pass the bottle to Shadowheart. “Weavemoss bloody everywhere as well. Looks like some Pixie’s Hair mixed in…” Pale fingers reach from over your shoulder and begin rustling through the bottles alongside you. You bat Astarion’s hand away. “Stop that,” you snap at him. “If there’s anything interesting, I’ll tell you.”

Astarion whines. “And then you’d hog it all to yourself.” You feel his chin rest on your shoulder as you begin separating Weavemoss from Pixie’s Hair. “Oh go on, Tavvendish,” and he’s all dead weight on your back. “Share.”

Shadowheart tilts her head as she examines one of the bottles. “Did you hear something, Tavvendish?”

“Not a sound,” you reply, without looking up from the Weavemoss.

Karlach gasps and cups a hand to her ear. “Ah, wait— nope.” She shakes her head, frowning. “Nothing. Must’ve been the wind.”

Astarion wails from beside you. He straightens up. “Oh, however will I live without all of your approval? It’s like I’m Gale or something.”

“Ha-ha,” says Gale flatly. He glares at Astarion from over his spellbook. “That’s the second ‘pick-on-Gale’ joke I’ve heard today.”

“Hey, Astarion,” says Karlach, jerking her thumb towards Gale. “What nickname do you reckon for Gale?”

“Mm.” Astarion leans sideways, towards Karlach, and touches a finger to his lips. “Let’s see…”

The two stare at Gale in silence; this seems to unnerve Gale further. He shakes his finger at him. “Some have called me ‘The Wizard of Waterdeep,' I’ll have you know!”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you stuff the Pixie’s Hair into one of the many pouches at your belt. “That’s all of it,” you say to Shadowheart.

“Good, then.” Shadowheart pulls her pack back to her and sets to fastening its leather buckles. “We’ll sell the rest.”

“Bookworm,” says Karlach.

Astarion rubs his chin. “I don’t think so. Too obvious.”

Gale hides his face behind his spellbook. “I’ll allow it!”

Wyll enters the square, Lae’zel close beside him. There’s a stern look on his face. He stops beside Shadowheart and addresses the group in a low voice: “There’s a Gur ahead looking for a vampire spawn. We’d best be cautious.”

You look up at Astarion. He’s now very, very still, and very much not smiling. Shadowheart coughs; Gale lowers his spellbook.

Karlach takes a step towards Wyll. Her voice is soft. “You didn’t—”

“Gods, no,” Wyll says, holding up both hands in supplication. “We bade him luck and sent him off.”

“Fool,” snaps Astarion. Everyone in the group turns to him. “You should’ve killed the Gur where he stood and saved me the trouble.”

“Astarion.” Wyll’s voice is a warning. He touches his chest. “On my honor, I will not see you hurt.”

“A fat load of good your honor will do, darling." Astarion crosses his arms tightly across his chest. "Any other tired little lines you’d like to feed me?”

Lae’zel steps forward, staring hard at Astarion. “I’ll not have a Gur best me,” she says.

“Me either,” Karlach says. “We’re with you.”

Gale shuts his spellbook with a snap. “We’re a team.” He looks hard at Astarion, gesturing with the spine of his book. “We stay together, no one has to get hurt.”

Astarion eyes the group. Briefly, his gaze shifts to yours. For a moment, he looks unsure of himself, unsure of the people around him. You’re unsure why he’s looking to you, until you realize everyone is. You touch your neck again. Astarion’s fingers twitch. His foot shifts in the dirt, prepared to run—

“Teammates,” you say to Astarion. “No Gur or monster hunter will have you.”

Astarion’s expression sours. He glares at Wyll again. “Such rousing sentiment,” he drawls, but he sounds less afraid, less unsure, than he did a moment before.

Wyll, however, is unfazed. He lifts his chin and stares Astarion down. “On my life, then.”

The two men eye each other. Karlach frowns deeply; something about this unsettles her. She looks to Shadowheart, then you.

Lae’zel, however, seems unfazed. She speaks up beside Wyll. “There is good news yet. The Gur spoke of a hag in the bog below.”

Wyll glances at you. “A hag by the name of Ethel.”

Everything slides into place at once: the gifts, the promise to rid you of your impossible pain, your bag closing by itself, that damned smile. You groan in aggravation and press the heels of your hands to your eyes. Hells, but you were stupid. You should know better than to fall for a hag.

“You’re joking?” Karlach squeaks. "Tavvy?"

“I wish I was.” Wyll sounds a little ill himself, wincing at your defeated expression. “How rare, exactly, is this Yellow Gnoll’s Ear?”

You fiddle with your earrings as you think. “Hardly,” you say, after a long pause. “But it’s amenable to bogs and other wetlands. At the very least, we can sweep the area to check.”

“Could be helpful,” Shadowheart says.

Karlach turns to Wyll. “Isn’t slaying fiends your whole thing, Wyll?” She draws a circle around your group. “We can handle it.”

“Making deals with a hag, are we?” says a voice. “That desperate already?”

The world around you goes intensely, preternaturally still. No birds sing, no insects chirr; even the peepers by the brook have gone completely silent. It was as if Faerun held its breath. You can hear your own heartbeat, and you stay as still as possible, feeling the magic-heavy air sink onto your shoulders. Shadowheart shoulders past you, looking at the path as if something large and repulsive had died there.

Lae’zel, briefly, catches your eye. She looks at you with a question in her face. Seeing such brief gentleness on her is unbearable. Lae’zel must seem to think the same, because her eyes suddenly flick towards the voice. Her expression hardens. When you turn to follow her focus, you notice that the rest of your party is already bristling, on high alert for whatever is on the path.

Who they are on high alert for, however, briefly throws you. Yes, you had expected something horrible: a spare bugbear or two, the Gurs come to take Astarion. Hells, at least you knew what to do with a wildcat or a boar or a Gur. Less obvious was what you did with a man: human, shorter than you, and dressed for an Upper City gala. The group must think the same, because you hear a few swords unsheath.

“Hail,” says Wyll beside you, but he’s toying with that leather braid he keeps on his belt. He hasn’t drawn his weapon, not yet— but his fingers twitch around the keepsake, just inches from his rapier.

The man raises an eyebrow. He’s amused. “Hail, good saer. Always nice to see a friendly face.”

Odd response. Wyll’s head turns the slightest fraction in the corner of your eye. The entire group has become a tight little clump. Karlach’s body heat makes sweat bead under your hat, though Wyll stands between you two. From this angle, you can’t quite see Lae’zel anymore, dwarfed as she is by Karlach. Shadowheart, directly in front of you, stands ramrod-straight. Astarion shivers, once, and then he gulps. The stranger’s eyes snap to his and— as you watch— he leers slightly at Astarion, almost knowingly. 

Wyll steps just forward, placing himself at Astarion’s left. “To whom might we be speaking?”

“Oh?” The man presses his hand to his chest. “Me?”

With every step the stranger takes towards your party, the grass wilts and singes. Flowers droop in his path, almost bowing to this man, who— for all intents and purposes— looks like another misplaced Baldurian. In the corner of your eye, Astarion takes a step back, closer to you. The flies seethe around the bodies, buzzing so loudly it’s hard to focus on much else. Gods, but that heat is unbearable.

“I’m no one in particular,” says the stranger. He stops a short distance away from your group, and he bows slightly, though his eyes don’t leave Wyll’s. “You might call me an admirer.”

Someone’s sleeve brushes yours: Gale, smelling like clean cotton and grass, his spellbook held against his chest. His middle finger hooks between pages. Your right hand goes to an Alchemist’s Fire tucked into your belt. Beyond the smoking village, beyond the blood under your shoes, there’s another unfamiliar smell: Burnt. Rotten.

Shadowheart tucks one hand behind her back: it’s already in the beginning position for an incantation. “We’re flattered,” she says primly. “But we don’t mean any harm. We’d like to continue on our way without any bloodshed.”

You look to Wyll’s hands, then Astarion’s. Maybe, if you can just slip this Alchemist’s Fire to someone…

The man laughs. The sound makes the hair on your arms prickle up. His voice is a purr. “I wouldn’t dream of harming you. In fact…” The magic in the air tilts drunkenly, and then it’s pressing down on your shoulders even harder than before. “One might say I’ve sought you out.” 

He looks at you over Shadowheart’s shoulder. Directly at you. 

A deep breath, an offered hand, and then the man recites:

“Snakes and beetles and low crawling things, Wonder and terror and death they may bring, But the viper, with her powerful bite, Must always keep the falcon in sight—“

The stranger snaps his fingers. “A moment's lapse; the bird strikes true!” His expression becomes morose. “Alas,” he drawls, “the viper is off to her doom.”

An admirer? You narrow your eyes. Had this man ever entered the shop? Is this just another lost Baldurian? “Okay,” you reply.

The stranger tilts his head back and laughs again: charming, musical. “My, but Miss Carver! You truly wound me. I wrote that one just for you.”

You try to back away, but your heels sink directly into an open skull. Bone and viscerae squelch under your boot. You can’t breathe. The rotting smell grows worse.

“What is this,” you ask the stranger, your voice like glass. “How do you know my name?” 

“Oh, fuck no,” Karlach says suddenly. “I don’t like this.” She thunks her sword on her shield: a metallic clang of metal-on-wood that feels deafening in that unnatural stillness, and you wince. She’s deceptively quiet when she speaks again: “Just tell us why you’re here.”

The stranger’s mouth twists. He looks at Karlach, almost bored, though the flames have leapt up from her face to surround her head. “Afraid, are we?” He scans your party. His eyes, you think: there’s nothing there. He may as well be looking at objects on a shelf. “I don’t blame you: these are hardly idyllic conditions for a friendly chat."

Karlach growls. “Tell. Us.”

“Speak now,” Lae’zel snaps from her side. “We have no time for idle games and children’s rhymes.”

“Now, now.” The stranger holds up both hands. “There’s no need for hostility, remember? I’m here,” he says, teeth all white and gleaming, “to offer a solution to your…collective problem.”

It’s when Gale says Mystra protect us under his breath that you know he’s come to the same conclusion you have. No wonder Wyll is nervous; no wonder Karlach is upset.

You remove your hand from the Alchemist’s Fire. It wouldn't do you good-- not here.

The stranger leans back on his heels. “Ah— lest I forget our bucolic environment. Let’s discuss somewhere more comfortable.”

He snaps his fingers. Suddenly, the ground underneath you disappears. 

You gasp, struggling to pull in the icy air that now surrounds you. It feels as if your lungs are collapsing. Everything goes blurry and blinding-white. You can’t make out your companions— you can't make out anything— that strange magic is all around you, pushing you, squeezing your body, pulling, yanking, and you begin to scream—

Your boots touch marble. Something sets you down gently on your feet, as if you were a doll. Soft taps resound all around you, and you turn to look: your companions have landed near you. A heavy banquet table separates you from the rest of the group. You hear a whump, followed by Astarion’s muttered, “Ugh!” Unlike everyone else, he has landed chest-first, splayed ass-end-over on the elaborate floor. That heat is everywhere now, stifling and unbearable, as heavy as the magic that now drones and pops in the air around you. You remove your hat and swipe your sleeve over your forehead.

“What the fuck?” Karlach mutters. Her breathing becomes shallow. She wrings her hands. “No,” she murmurs in horror, “no—”

“Welcome,” booms the stranger, with outstretched arms, “to the House of Hope!”

The Hells? You were in the Hells? And was this man— taller? Was that just you?

Gale braces himself on a wooden chair behind you and says, “Mystra protect us,” again, much louder. Karlach has her hands over her face, muttering no no no no in a small voice as she rocks on her feet; Wyll hovers helplessly nearby, hands outstretched over her shoulders. Lae’zel steps between Karlach and the interloper with her sword brandished. Shadowheart makes up the difference, now reaching for her staff with her free hand. You realize you should do the same, but you are at the front of the group: nothing between you and the stranger, who looks perfectly content standing before a roaring fireplace. Despite the heat, there isn’t a bead of sweat to be found on his perfect face. You look, desperately, to Astarion, who— oh, no, he isn’t beside you anymore. He’s slunk away around the table, closer to Gale now. Your stomach sinks.

The stranger looks directly at you, smiling wide, looking like a sated cat. “We haven’t been properly acquainted, have we?” He bows, this time enthusiastically, and far deeper than he bowed to Wyll. “I am Raphael. A pleasure to make acquaintance with you and your party, Miss Carver.”

“Me?” you bleat, pointing to your chest with your hat. “Why me?”

Raphael straightens and claps his hands together. “Why, indeed!” He gestures to the space around you. “We shan’t rush into things. Please, make yourselves comfortable. My home is a refuge, you see—”

Now, for the first time, you can properly see your surroundings. The dining hall you’re in is huge and expensive-looking, far finer than anything you would’ve encountered in Fox’s Keep or the Lower City. The lighting is dim: only a few candelabras decorate the crimson walls. Several portraits, each one larger than two men standing end-to-end, decorate the empty space. As you examine them, you realize that one portrait shows the same person as the other— and that portrait shows the same person again— and you spin on your heel, looking up at them one-by-one. All of the paintings are of the same cambion: here he is driving a sword through a screaming knight. Here he is toasting a victory. The tadpole coos; you feel a driving pain behind your left eye, exactly where the parasite squirms, and the room spins. You look down instead.

On the banquet table behind you is food. So much food: jellies and caviar and stews and pig’s heads and filleted rabbit and fruit and cheese, enough to send your stomach growling after camp meals for days on end. There’s a wild urge within you— perhaps an illithid one— to shovel all of it into your pack and smuggle it home. Some of it is still steaming. Astarion is very still across the table from you; one hand rests against the wood. His middle finger taps that same uneven, rapid staccato from last night; his eyes are locked on Raphael. You’re scheming, you muse, watching his jaw tick ever-so-slightly. But what about?

Raphael is still talking and gesticulating in front of the fireplace. “…would give you the grand tour, but this shouldn’t take long. Perhaps there will be time afterwards, should you heed my offer.”

And underneath the smell of the food is that damned smell.

“Tav,” warns Gale somewhere behind you. The two of you meet eyes across a suckling pig on a silver platter. Gale still has one finger notched in his spellbook, ready to open it at a moment’s notice. “Proceed with caution,” he whispers to you. “I implore you.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” you mutter back. 

“Something the matter?” Raphael asks.

“Nothing, saer,” you say, turning back to him. You held your hat to your chest, worrying your fingers along the brim. You use the politest tone of voice you can muster: “I’m only wondering which of my problems you think needs solving.”

Raphael’s eyes flash, but his smile remains calm and composed. “Right to business, is it? Very well.”

His body does a funny shake, then, as if he’s trying to get something off of his back. The magic in the air squeaks; you think of learning violin as a little girl, the screechy little rasp your bow made when it hit the string all wrong. Between one of your breaths and the next, Raphael changes form.

Your breath catches.

“Gods,” mutters Astarion somewhere behind you.  “Fuck,” mutters Karlach. “Tsk’va,” mutters Lae’zel, followed by more Tir phrases. Shadowheart mutters a prayer. So does Gale. Wyll simply turns away and exhales.

“Such a dour crowd,” sighs Raphael, folding his wings behind him. “I addressed Miss Carver for convenience, but this deal is for all seven of you. It’s not as if you’re missing out.”

You’re loathe to admit it, but there’s something terrifyingly beautiful about seeing a devil in-person for the first time. The swooping sensation is something like when you first held a Spitting Moccasin at your workbench. You had seen your own reflection in the snake’s eyes. You knew it could stop your heart instantly, and yet, you felt hypnotized by it. Reality must do strange things in the Hells, because Raphael is definitely taller than you now, the fire definitely roars higher, and the portraits loom above you. Perhaps you had shrunk.

Raphael’s eyes— now that dark, deep color you’ve seen in Wyll’s good eye— slide to you. “I appreciate an efficient woman,” he says, “so I won’t keep you waiting. I understand you have an unexpected visitor,” and here he taps his forehead, “in that lovely skull of yours.”

You shake your head. “I’m not interested,” you say automatically.

Raphael raises a brow. “Oh? You’d rather have an illithid worm feasting on your brain matter for the rest of your short life?” He addresses the room now: “It’s to be mind-flayers for all, then?”

Lae’zel snarls. “Hold your tongue, devil, lest I cut it out for you.”

Raphael tucks his hands behind his back, expression plaintive. “For the good of Vlaakith and Creche K’liir, my sweetling? I’m sure your people would have much to say about a gith’yanki turned illithid traitor.”

Lae’zel’s face falls— for the slightest of moments, she looks truly afraid—

Wyll puts a hand on Lae’zel’s shoulder and steps forward. He lifts his chin, gazes down his nose at Raphael. “We are under existing contracts, devil. I would have to consult with my sponsor.” He’s smiling; you can’t imagine how or why. “Or you may consult with my blade.”

Raphael snorts. “Oh, please. I’m not interested in fighting any of Mizora’s or Zariel’s brats.” 

Wyll audibly chokes on his next words.

Raphael occupies himself with a loose button on his cuff. “Not for fear of them, you see— it’s just that answering to your master is…” He sneers at Karlach and Wyll, who now looks as lost as Lae’zel. “More trouble than you’re worth.”

“Fucking bastard,” Karlach roars from between her fingers, and Wyll draws his rapier—

“Ah-ah.” Raphael shakes a finger. “No weapons in the house.”

He snaps his fingers; the rapier vanishes. Wyll rocks forward, flailing for something that isn’t there. His boots make a loud scuffing noise against the marble as he catches himself. The Blade presses his lips together and wrings his sword hand in pain, as if he’s pricked it on something particularly sharp. Lae’zel bares her teeth again and lifts her sword, but Raphael waves his hand, and that is gone, too. You look down at your hat: your hands are shaking.

“Anyone else?” Raphael asks.

Karlach, evidently, knows better, because she doesn’t bother reaching for her weapon. Her shield arm hangs limply at her side. She won’t look up from the floor. Shadowheart’s hands are locked around her staff, as if clinging to it will keep Raphael from spiriting it away. She’s mumbling to herself: more prayers, maybe?

Gale clears his throat behind you. “What exactly are your terms?”

“Gale,” snaps Lae’zel, but whatever’s in his face makes her pause. She scowls and exchanges glances with Wyll.

“I’m glad you asked, Mister Dekarios!” Raphael rustles his wings as he presses his fingertips together. “I can rid you of the parasite upon signing. That’s more than anyone else can say thus far.”

“No deal,” you grit out.

Raphael chuckles. Cold sweat pools on the back of your neck.

“Not yet, at least.” He waves a hand dismissively and turns to the fire. “I’m sure you’ll come begging soon enough. Have yourselves a little adventure looking for alternatives. Why—” He turns on his heel, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps you’ll turn mindflayer the moment you leave! Who’s to say?” He shrugs. “If you’re comfortable with that risk, who am I to stop you?”

You…aren't comfortable with that risk. But you had been told stories about devils and fae, back in Fox’s Keep; you had told the same stories to your siblings as they grew. Never accept a bargain, went the old wives’s tale, lest you grow horns for all to see.

But the worm…

You swallow. You are horribly thirsty. No one says anything.

Raphael makes a small noise. “I suppose not, then?”

Karlach says something small: something like we can’t.

Shadowheart steps forward. “No deal.”

Gale speaks behind you: “No deal.”

Wyll is next: “No deal.”

“Never,” says Lae’zel.

Astarion says nothing.

Raphael sighs and looks to the ceiling, tapping a finger on his chin. “Oh dear. Life is full of disappointments, is it not? Very well.” He stretches his wings. You can see the firelight dancing away through the diaphonous skin between the bones. “I’ll be here when you’ve had your fill of them. Off you go.”

“Wait—” says Wyll, but Raphael snaps his fingers anyway. There’s a pull in the fabric of reality, like you’re being yanked somewhere cold and airless, and you hold your breath in anticipation, squeeze your eyes shut—

And when you open them, you are…

Right back in Raphael’s home. You haven’t moved. Everyone else is gone; you frantically scan the room, but there aren’t any familiar faces to turn to.

“Not you, Miss Carver,” drawls Raphael behind you. “Stay with me a moment, won’t you?”

The portraits seem to leer down at you. Suddenly, the food in front of you, the sheer excess of it, makes your stomach turn. The fruit is too sweet; the meat glistens in the candelight. A fly meanders over the feast on the table, lingers over a loaf of bread, and, as you watch, lands on its crust. The fly rubs its legs together, preens itself. Raphael’s wings beat with a leathery whisper, and the insect rolls off helplessly into the caviar.

“Not terribly hungry, are we?" he asks. "Please, eat! You look like you’ve had a row with something that bites.”

You wince, hand flying up to shield your neck from his view. “What do you want from me?” you say to the table.

“I have a little bargain I’ve saved just for you.” When you don’t respond, he scoffs. “Don’t you want to hear what it is?”

The fly writhes, legs kicking helplessly in the air as it drowns. You turn to Raphael and brace yourself against the table. The cambion is thoughtful, almost contemplative, as he considers you. He taps his claws against his chin. You’ve sensed something dark and powerful more than once— it’s impossible not to when studying necromancy— but not like this. Never like this.

“I don’t need help from a devil.” Your voice shakes.

“Most do not. But you,” Raphael said, and his eyes travel down your torso, “may want help,” he points at your lower belly, “with that.”

He might as well have reached out and struck you across the face. You try to inhale, find you can’t.  Your vision blurs; you push off the table and walk across the room, trying to put distance between you and him. (You are not sure why: there’s nowhere you can go.) Raphael doesn’t follow; when you turn back, he’s merely watching you closely, as one watches an interesting, exotic animal. The fire turns his wings a translucent, glowing orange.

“Am I right?” Raphael asks, infuriatingly sympathetic. “The pain radiates from you.”

“I don’t—” You try swallowing again, but your throat is too dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Raphel tsks. “No need to play tough, little witch. It’s just us here.”

You can’t move. You want to run away. Humiliation burns brightly in your face. Raphael watches you, smile wide and indulgent.

When he speaks again, his voice is gentle, soothing: “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

You say nothing. 

“I imagine it’s agonizing,” he coos. “Feeling your flesh sew itself together. And it gets worse all the time.” He walks a slow circle around you as he talks, gesturing at you. “Sometimes you can’t walk, or speak, or eat, or make love. And you know how wood elves like to do that.”

“I don’t want—” Hot tears brim at the edges of your eyes. You try to step away from him, away from the table and its too-perfect food. “I don’t want a deal.”

In your periphery, you see Raphael give you a once-over. “Is that all your life is destined to be?” he sighs. A few more steps, and he moves out of your view. “A short life of pain before bleeding from the inside-out? No children?”

You jump as you feel warm hands on your shoulder. “No lover?”

You wrench yourself out of his grip, stumbling forward. “The answer’s no.”

“You don’t even want to hear my bargain.” When you turn to face him, he crosses his arms, looking unbearably smug. You move to draw your staff, but your fist only meets empty air behind you.

“I don’t care what the bargain is,” you say, and you hate how your voice shakes. You drop your hand. “You’re going to do something awful to me.”

He twirls a wrist in the air and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Why, Tavvendish,” and here he presses a hand to his chest and looks at you with wide eyes, “I’m once more hurt by your words. Aren’t you at least a little curious?”

You had to admit: you were. Your heart races in your chest.

“Not even a little,” you say. 

Raphael rests his index finger on his cheek and stares at you thoughtfully. “What if I told you it’s a price you’d be willing to pay?” He leans towards you, all the way forward, on his toes. “That fulfilling this contract would be a joy for you?”

You look away, and Raphael adds, “That it would use your skillset in the most satisfying way possible?”

When you look up again, Raphael puts his hands behind his back, waiting patiently.

Damn.

“Let me hear it,” you sigh.

“I want you…” Raphael trails off, staring at you intently. 

You raise your eyebrows.

“…to make me…” Raphael trails off again.

You gesture for him to hurry up. “To make you…?”

He claps his hands together in front of him. “A custom perfume!"

You stare.

And stare.

And stare.

Raphael’s smile widens, as if he’s told you the secret to making gold from lead.

“Raphael,” you say. “What.”

“Not just any perfume, mind.” He holds up a finger. “This perfume— and you may choose your medium, so long as it’s to be applied topically— must contain no less than five milligrams of Golden Asp venom.”

The golden asp; the very first snake you had milked successfully. They were native to the woods east of Fox’s Keep. One snake would yield more than enough.

“There’s a catch,” you say softly.

He chuckles. “Smart girl. Here it is.” His smile disappears; his voice pitches low. “Your challenge is to make this scent both harmless,” he counts on his fingers, “and long-lasting. It must be enough to cover the smell of both sulfur and Infernal magic.” 

Ah, you think, that’s what that rotting smell is. 

Raphael continues: “If it doesn’t satisfy my requirements, I’m afraid the deal is off.” He clasps his hands in front of him, smirking. “But aside from hard feelings, there will be no punishment for failure. I'm a fair one.”

You stare at the fire, feeling like a trapped rabbit. You were no perfumier; you balk at the idea that Raphael thought otherwise, that Raphael thought your work could be reduced to a frivolous hobby. Golden Asp venom smelled strongly of alcohol; it would be challenging to neutralize its toxicity, let alone make it smell appetizing on the skin.

But if you used it as a solvent…

You shake your head. “No.”

When you look up at Raphael, he’s grinning, like you already took the deal. His teeth look extremely sharp.

“No need to make any rash decisions,” he purrs. “Take your time. Mull it over.”

“It’s impossible,” you lie. “I don’t even know how to mask sulfur.”

Raphael’s eyes go wide. He puts a hand to his heart with mock innocence. “Oh, neither do I. But,” he adds, “wouldn’t it be delightfully fun to find out?”

And the promise of your pain taken away…

You sink into a nearby chair. It’s soft and smells of dust. “My soul is part of the deal, I assume?”

“Not necessarily.” Raphael crosses his arms. “We can save that for another arrangement.”

You snarl up at him. “There will be no other arrangement.”

“Just the one, then?”

You open your mouth. Shut it.

With a wave of his hand, Raphael conjures a magic scroll in the air beside you. Its text, all Infernal, burns red-hot; you shield your eyes against the glare. A phoenix-feather quill burns next to it.

You squint at the Infernal contract. “That wasn’t a yes.”

“Oh, Miss Carver, but it could be.” Raphael takes the quill. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he unfurls your fist, sets the quill in your palm. His skin is blazing hot. This close, you can smell his current cologne: enticing, even seductive, but still not enough to cover the stink of magic.

“A lifetime free of pain,” he murmurs, and he closes your fist around the quill. “Pleasure, fertility, children, a family; all that you want, given as just compensation for your time.”

Your hands tremble in his. Raphael leans forward, just so, and you can feel his hot breath against your ear: “Sign whichever name you prefer.”

You can’t stop staring at the contract; something about it pulls you in, and you lurch towards it, as if something beckons you from within it—

You blink away tears. You shake your head. “No,” you say. You look up at Raphael, whose face is now so terrifyingly near to yours. “I can’t.”

“Not ready yet?” he asks.

You could go home. You could be normal again. You could settle into a boring life inside your keep: raising children, cooking, hanging the laundry in the front yard.

The thought makes you sick with want. 

“I…I just. I can’t.” You proffer the quill. “I won’t.”

To your surprise, Raphael smiles as he takes the quill from you. “It’s no trouble, woodling.” With a boom, the contract bursts into flames in front of you; you jump. “Take your time,” he says. “Think on it. Mull it over.”

Within minutes, the contract is cinders, spread all over the feast like a fine, grey powder. 

“But,” Raphael says, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up as he leans ever-closer, breath reeking of sulfur and decay, “you’ll come begging soon enough.” 

He snaps his fingers— there, again, that sickly lurch, the icy vacuum—

You stand in the middle of the ruined village, your hat still in one hand. Gravel crunches under your boots. The familiar smell of rot and burning wood fills your nose, but all you can smell is how dead everything was on that horrible, yawning table.

“She’s back!” someone says, and then, all at once, there are people around you, grabbing, touching—

“No,” you mumble. Someone tugs on your sleeve; you jerk your arm away. “No,” you say again: clearer this time. 

“Tav!” someone shouts, then, “Tav,” then, “Tavvendish!” and everyone’s voices become a loud, droning sameness: Tav Tavvendish Tav are you alright Tavvendish Tavvendish say something Tav. You close your eyes against the blinding sun. You swallow and speak around your slightly-raised hands. “Not— please—”

“What did you see?” Wyll asks over Gale’s shoulder, “What did he do to you?” Shadowheart asks, “Are you well?” and she’s barely gotten the words out before Lae’zel says, “Tsk’va, look how she shakes,” and Gale says, “Tav, breathe—” and Karlach shouts, “Give her some air!” and—

“LET ME GO!”

Your exclamation was met with wide, confused, open stares. One by one, at least, people back away from you. Somewhere around Shadowheart and Karlach, you realize Astarion is not there at all. Your eyes flick over Lae’zel’s head, and, some ways away, there he stands. Astarion meets your eyes; his face is blank. It makes you so angry.

“How long was I gone?” you snap at him. Astarion doesn’t move. His eyes drift away from yours.

“Several minutes,” says Wyll, “Around ten,” says Gale, “Give her room,” snaps Lae’zel, and most of the group, save Shadowheart, backs away even further. The half-elf merely stares at you thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, as if she’s trying to place something.

Someone takes your hand: Wyll. You stare at him. He says, very slowly (as if you’re very stupid, does everyone think you’re stupid), “Tav, you’ve got to tell us what happened.”

“Do not touch me.” Your voice is icy; you don’t recognize it. Wyll winces and lets go immediately. Hurt wells in you like fresh blood, and you shove it down in favor of glaring at him. “None of you touch me.” When no one has anything to say, you stomp your heel into the dirt. Your hat flutters with the motion of your arm. “Why does everyone keep touching me? I don’t like being touched!"

Wyll holds up both hands in defeat. “Alright, Tav.” You hate his slow, measured tone, the wariness in his gaze. “No one will touch you.”

“Tavvy.” It’s Karlach. “We didn’t—” She exchanges glances with Wyll, looking defeated. “You didn’t— agree to the deal, did you?”

“Of course not!” you snap. “I know wood elves are— are a novelty to some of you, but I do know better!” 

The tadpole whispers: unlike Wyll unlike Karlach unlike them you are special you are—

“Then what was it, love?” Karlach clenches her fists to her chest emphatically. “What did he do to you?”

“It was—” You’re tearing up, much to your mortification. You turn away from the group and blink the tears away. “He offered me a bargain. I refused.” You turn back to them. “That’s all.”

Everyone exchanges glances with one another. 

“Stop acting like I’m not here,” you say. “Just—” You dig one trembling hand into your scalp.“Please. Let’s forget it ever happened and continue on.”

There’s a long, awful silence. You can’t bring yourself to look up at them; you know they’re judging you, looking between each other with silent pity. This always happens, wherever you go, no matter how hard you try. You hunch in on yourself and whine. They won't stop looking at you.

Something pushes curiously against your brain. The tadpole chirrs, pleased, as if greeting the new visitor to your consciousness, and you wrap your arms around your head and shout, “NO.”

The intrusion withdraws. 

“I think you’re done for today, Tav,” Wyll says quietly. “You’d better rest.”

Your boots swim and blur, and you watch numbly as a tear plops onto the dirt.

“I’ll help you break camp, my friend.” Wyll’s boots stop in front of yours. “Tomorrow, we renew our search for Ethel.”

“I concur,” Gale says. “I’ll cover for you, Tav.”

“No.” You shy away from Wyll’s comforting hand; pain creases his face. “Please, Wyll. Let’s just move along.”

“Tavvendish,” Shadowheart says, and you hold both your hands up in front of your face, as if to shield yourself from her. 

“Let’s just move along,” you say to your hands, a little too loudly, and you feel everyone’s eyes on you. Don’t look at me, you think desperately, and you’re not sure if it’s the tadpole or you thinking, don’t look at me don’t look at me don’t you DARE, and it takes another moment to realize you’re whispering it aloud: “Don’t you dare, stop looking at me, please, stop looking, don’t,” words tumbling from your lips like a clown’s handkerchief, and you can taste silver on your tongue, everyone is watching you—

“How about we all take a break?” someone chirps, uncharacteristically cheery. “Infernal magic always makes me a bit queasy. Let’s give Tavvendish her space and regroup in a half-hour.”

“Please don’t fuck around, Astarion,” Karlach pleads. “Not now.”

“I agree with the spawn,” says Lae’zel. “A break will allow Tavvendish to compose herself. A distracted mage is a weakened mage.”

Don’t talk about me like I’m not there, you try to say, but all that comes out is a gentle whine.

“Tavvendish.” It’s Shadowheart again, and her hands clasp both your shoulders. “Come with me.” She forces you to walk to a ruined building, and you stumble helplessly along. The group’s chatter grows distant, and then quiet, before sputtering out entirely with the sound of a slammed door. This house still has its roof, but Shadowheart steers you into a room that's been blown open to the elements on one side. There’s cold, stale tea sitting in a porcelain cup next to the fireplace.

Shadowheart releases you. “I need you to answer me a few questions, Tavvendish, and then I will leave you well alone." She moves to stand in front of you. "But if you’re injured, I must know.”

You stare at the abandoned tea. Shadowheart continues anyway:

“Are you in any pain?”

“No,” you say.

“Have you been injured? Was there a fight of any kind?”

“No,” you say.

“Was there…?” Shadowheart trails off. “Were you violated?”

Not this time. You shake your head. “No.”

“My lady preserve us,” sighs Shadowheart under her breath. She sounds relieved. “Would you consent to a physical examination, Tavvendish?”

You grab at your forearms and squeeze tightly. “No.”

“Alright. May I at least look at your face for bruises or lacerations?” 

Shadowheart is hardly phased by your refusal. She stands there, arms crossed, staring at you calmly. You wince at her even expression.

Eventually, you look back to the tea and sigh. “If you must.”

“Very good.” You feel Shadowheart’s cold fingers on your chin, and then she’s tilting your face towards hers. You stare, blankly, at the scar across her nose: so like your Witch Bolt. Where could she have gotten it from?

Shadowheart makes a low noise as she scans your face. “Pretty eyes,” she muses. “Makeup only a little smudged.” She pinches her fingers together to indicate little. 

“Glad I still look presentable.” It’s a reedy little joke, barely audible even to yourself, but the corner of Shadowheart’s mouth quirks upwards anyways. She fishes around in her belt pouch and produces a small white handkerchief, which she offers to you. It smells of orchids: reminiscent of your Nana’s perfume, if you’re honest with yourself. You turn away from her and dab at your cheeks.

“Do you have a sedative?” she asks behind you. “I would avoid the pipeweed. I need you calm.”

You think back on all the items Ethel shoved into your bag. Damn it all, but she was a hag; could you trust her? Your thoughts swim; you visualize her smile, how her eyes were that dead and blank like Raphael’s were— and then you think of the Golden Asp venom and the perfume and something sweet like cherries, and you feel your lungs collapsing again—

Small hands steady your shoulders. “Tavvendish, think,” Shadowheart says. “A sedative. You have one, don't you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. In your mind’s eye, you visualize your beaten leather pack. Your fingers twitch at your sides, as if you’re carding through the bag yourself: antivenom, healing potions, Malice…

With every item, your mind grows calmer. Dragon’s Egg, basalm, Pixie's Hair, Alchemist’s Fire— Raphael’s smile washes up again, and you yank your thoughts forcefully away from it— pipeweed, Faesblood—

That was right: Ethel had handed you a Faesblood Poppy tea before you asked her for the Yellow Knoll’s Ear. It was looking at the tea that prompted you to ask for the mushroom in the first place.

You look to Shadowheart. “Faesblood. I have Faesblood.”

She nods. “Only a little. And strict rest in your tent until your nerves are well again."

“Wait,” you blurt, holding a hand to your forehead, “It was from the hag.” You sigh. “I’ll have to check if it’s—”

“I’ll do that for you, Tavvendish.” Shadowheart’s curt, businesslike tone is not soothing, but that fact soothes you all the same. “Have someone help you with your tent.”

“I don’t—” You bite it down. Plenty of customers had said the same to you in the shop: I’m not sick. I don’t need help. Their symptoms seemed obvious to you at first sight. They’d be insane not to take what you were recommending.

You swallow the response and clear your throat. “I’ll do so. Thank you, sister.”

Shadowheart lifts her chin and harrumphs. “Once again,” she says, “do not use your wood elf customs on me. I was not raised with them.” 

————

You stare blankly at the inside of your tent for the rest of the day. The Faesblood makes your head feel as if it’s stuffed with cotton. All of your thoughts come one-at-a-time and from far away: Shadowheart’s tone going warm for the briefest of moments; the fear in Lae’zel’s eyes at Raphael’s insinuation; the hurt in Wyll’s face when you yelled at him. You want to wince; you want to feel guilt. The tea holds your body very still instead. You lie in your bedroll, staring at your copy of Ten Easy Charms. 

You reach under the furs and find your left hip. Slowly, you press your fingers into the softness of your belly. Pain lances through your side in answer.

You groan and pull the furs tighter to your chin.

Taking Raphael’s deal would be insanity; you know that. The stakes for his cure are deceptively easy. You wrack your brain for possible loopholes, but either the Faesblood tea is confounding you, or you truly can’t see how Raphael would use the deal to his advantage. Surely a devil had greater ambitions than smelling pleasant. 

There are voices outside of the tent: your party must have returned. Karlach and Wyll are laughing about something. You envy how easily they release their pain, when yours seems to live, permanently, inside of you.

But not for long, if you could only figure out how—

The tent flap lifts, and the campfire illuminates a silhouette through your blanket. “Bugger off!” you shout at it.

“Oh, my.” Astarion. “Such big feelings.”

You press your forehead to your knees. “I’m not in the mood. Go away.”

“For all you knew, darling, I could have a large sum of gold for you! Or jewels.” He ties off the flap, leaving your tent open. “Or rare spiders.”

“I said go away, Astarion,” you mumble. It’s half-hearted.

He settles at the foot of your bedroll. “Maybe not the spiders, then.” He hums thoughtfully. “Mm…I really thought the spiders would work. Let’s see, now. Are we a fan of priceless and ancient artifacts, by chance?”

You yank the blankets off of your head. Astarion jumps when you glare at him.

“Oh, aren’t you a fright? Hold on.” He reaches towards you, and you recoil with instinctive disgust, snarling like an animal. 

Astarion merely sighs. “You’ve got—” He brushes at his own forehead in demonstration. “—fluff in your hair. It’s bothering me.”

You reach up and comb at your own bangs, mirroring his movements. Your hand comes away with a white down feather. Embarrassment crawls over your skin as you look down at it.

“Much better!” Astarion chirps.

Hot tears fill your eyes again, but you are still. You just let them roll down your face, helpless as emotion finally shoves its way into your too-tight throat and lodges there. Your stomach roils, threatening a night of pain. You pull your blankets over yourself and flop back against your bedroll; the action turns you away from him.

“Leave me alone, Astarion,” you rasp into the pillow.

“If that’s what you want,” he says. You stare at the tent walls for a long, long time, but Astarion doesn’t move. He merely sits there quietly, near the entrance to your tent, like he’s halfway to leaving. 

You watch the sun slide down over the canvas wall. He shifts and coughs, once. You ignore him. The sun moves further still. The birdsong outside wanes, giving way to a lone mourning dove, cooing in the early twilight. You smell Gale and Wyll cooking dinner: rabbit again.

When the light in your tent turns from gold to a soft purple, you clear your throat. “You want blood, don’t you?” you ask the tent wall. “That’s why you’re still here.”

“Not at the moment, darling, though bless you for remembering.”

“It was this morning. How exactly could I forget?”

Astarion scoffs. “I don’t know what your memory’s like.”

“Better than that, certainly.”

“Is that so?” He shifts again. “Name every poisonous spider from here to the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

You close your eyes tightly. “Zero, because no one eats spiders. I told you that yesterday.” You sit up again. “Or don’t you remember?”

But Astarion isn’t looking at you. He’s looking out of your tent, out into the rest of the camp as it comes alive for the evening. Karlach laughs at something, as does Wyll. Magic lilts and chimes in the air; Gale speaks, and Lae’zel replies in turn.

“Whatever he has to offer you,” Astarion says, “It isn’t worth it.”

Oh, but it was. All you owed in return was one measly bottle of perfume, made from the species you knew best: your favorite one, in fact. For that small bottle, Raphael would trade you your life back. You look down at your lap. You can almost see that Infernal script glowing on the backs of your hands. Surely you could—

“Tavvendish,” says Astarion, and you jolt from your stupor. With the sun now set, you can’t read his expression. There is something low and wary in his tone. “People like that never truly give you what you want. You’re only there for a bit of fun before they take everything you have.” He inclines his head. His voice drops impossibly lower. “Don’t ask how I know.”

You lie back down. “I never said he offered me anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Astarion pushes himself up with a grunt and finally takes the tent flap back in hand. “Enjoy your sulk.”

With a whisper of canvas, he’s gone and out of your tent. The flap whispers behind him. Your nails dig little crescent moons into your thigh under the blanket.

You run your tongue over your teeth, and it’s then that you realize: something salty is in your mouth. Something foul.

Rotten.

You snatch up your handkerchief and spit into it. The small, fuzzy object in the center of your palm is hard to make out, suspended as it is in saliva and some dark, maroon fluid. You narrow your eyes and lean closer. It’s the fly from the caviar: dead now, and tangled in clotted blood.

[downforthegas]

Little drabble I've thought of writing for a while... Wa//lly is hanging out with Ba//rn//aby, and farts in front of him for the first time... teasing ensues

CW: farts (obviously), teasing/humiliation

Barn and Wally are hanging out at Barn's house. Barn has a nice, big bed (bc of course he does) so him and Wally are able to comfortably rest on it together. Barn's sitting upright against the headboard, while Wally is lying on his stomach, just listening to his best friend. He's cuddling up against a bone-shaped pillow, a favorite of Barn's many pillows that cover the bed. He's resting his head against the top and the bottom is getting squeezed gently between his thighs.

"So I says," Barnaby started. "and then he disappeared without a tres! eheheheheheh!"

"Ha. ha. ha. That's funny, Barnaby."

"Aw, thanks pal. You're always lookin out for me."

"Well... it's what friends do... I think."

Barnaby laughs again. He continued talking and Wally continued to listen. He wasn't much for talking, so he was a great listener. This time, however, he could hardly focus. No, he wasn't disassociating like usual. At least, he wasn't trying to, but something was making him. His tummy was starting to ache. He could feel little bubbles shifting around inside of him. Clearly the chili dogs him and Barnaby had earlier were not sitting well. Barn seemed completely fine, being used to foods like that, but Wally didn't eat chili regularly so his tummy wasn't working well with it.

Wally knew what it was. He knew he was full of gas, and that he had to get it out now. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to be rude, but with the way he was positioned, with his stomach against the pillow and his legs spread slightly, it was kinda hard. It was no use fighting it. He relaxed a little and pushed out a silent, airy fart. It had to have gone on for 30 seconds straight. He felt his belly deflate and shrink as the warm air rushed out of him, into the open air and against Barn's pillow. The seat of his pants slowly warmed up as well, which admittedly felt really good, almost as good as the cramps disappearing from his midsection. He let out a slight sigh when it was over.

Then the smell hit Barn.

Wally didn't think the fart would have a smell, but then he smelled it himself. He was hoping Barn wouldn't say anything about it but-

"Whoooo!" Barnaby fanned his nose with his huge mitt. He was in the middle of talking about what Howdy was rambling about when a smell of rotten apples mixed with chili hit his nose and stopped him. "Jeez, what's that smell?"

"Oh." Wally's face was faintly orange. Hopefully he wouldn't know that was him. "Uh... I'm... not... sure..."

Barn could tell Wally was being a little suspicious. He knew a little teasing wouldn't be so bad.

"Heh. Maybe a skunk just walked past the house."

Wally's face got more orange. "Uh... maybe..."

"Actually, the egg salad in my fridge prolly went off now that I think about it." He was grinning ear to ear.

The flush on Wally's face grew to his ears. "That has to be it..."

"Oh, I know. I think something died under the house."

Wally's stomach turned as he shoved his face into the pillow. "It doesn't smell that bad!" He said into the pillow, hoping Barn wouldn't hear.

"Oh I don't know, pal," Barn continued. "I think I saw a few flowers die outside... and the paint's pealing over there... oh, I know! Maybe it's coming from you!"

Wally lifted his head, his eyes pointing downward as if he were angry and his face still orange. "Not... at... all..." Just as he said this, he accidentally push a little audible fart into the pillow. it was still muffled but both Wally and Barn could hear. Wally shoved his face back into the pillow as Barn chuckled.

"Fine... it... was... me..."

"Heh. Sorry, buddy. I kinda knew it was you."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I thought I'd tease you a little, but I didn't think you'd take it so hard. Sorry bout that."

"Oh, it's ok," Wally said as he sat up, still sitting on the pillow. "I didn't mean to... do that... my stomach was hurting so bad... I felt like I was gonna explode... I tried to hold it but-"

"Aw, don't worry about it. I actually thought it was kinda cute."

"Cute?"

"Yeah. hehe. I didn't think you could make a smell like that..." He looked over and finally realized what Wally was sitting on. He didn't seem too pleased. "...and against my favorite pillow too."

Just then Barnaby's stomach growled. He held his mitt against it in discomfort.

"Ughh!" Barn said. "I think I had too much chili." He gently lifted himself slightly off the bed and blasted a loud, long bubbling fart against the blanket. It vibrated the bed violently for a solid 10 seconds. Barn sighed and waved his mitt.

"Phew!" He exclaimed. "That's better!"

"Wow Barn..." He waved the stink away from his face. It was a little unbearable. He had never heard Barn fart before and now he never wanted to again. "That was..."

"Huge? I know." Barn said. "But we're best friends. If you wanna fart around me, go ahead. It's natural."

"You're right..." Wally said, releasing another silent toot against the pillow, this time however, the hissing of the fart was loud enough to hear, which made Wally blush a little.

"Hey! That's my pillow!" Barn exclaimed.

"Ha. Ha. Ha... ok then... have it back..." He took the pillow out from underneath him and flung the back of it into Barn's face.

"Eww, Buddy!" He laughed. Then he took the blanket that was underneath his butt and threw it on top of Wally, who retched right before pulling the blanket off, his hair coming undone.

"That was gross..." Wally said, smiling even though he got a face full of butt fumes.

"Heheheheh! Serves you right!" The two laughed. Deep down, despite how embarrassed Wally was, he was really happy. Because now he knew he could be fully comfortable around his best friend.

~

Phew, uh... I've been wanting to write this for a while. I know I've been posting a lot of WH eprocto stuff, but this is what happens when two interests combine. I can't just keep it to myself... that would be selfish lol

[egg-emperor]

What do you think Eggman smells like? Most people I've seen think of him as a stinky stinky man (which is fair, I think one of his moves in one of the riders games was to fart on his opponents) but personally I believe he takes good care of his hygiene and wears egg-scented cologne. Not rotten eggs, just... Egg. Scrambled, perhaps. Maybe even fried. It's not a BAD smell but it's definitely not what you expect a person to smell like.

I imagine he naturally is kind of stinky lol but hear me out- it's not a problem with hygiene. With the way those pristine pearly whites shine and he maintains such a big mustache that looks wonderfully soft, fluffy, bouncy, and well groomed, I have no doubt he takes great care of himself! After all, he adores himself and would definitely give himself all the best with luxury self care and pampering. Similar to how I like to imagine that part of why he's fat is because he loves himself so much that he keeps himself well fed with all of his favorite foods like he deserves 💜

But I imagine that it's not so easy for him to stay smelling as fresh as he does when he gets right out of the shower for long. It's the way he's a big guy that's always working hard or regularly overheating and working up a sweat, he's known to have a tendency to overheat in a bunch of official stuff. Plus the amount of layers he's typically wearing, with his main outfit being a full one piece form fitting bodysuit and leather jacket on top is a lot on top of that so it's no surprise. Though because of that it may trap some of his scent and make it a bit fainter but not by a lot.

I think Eggman would most often smell like the heavy scent of cologne of something spicy or earthy and very masculine. Strong so it seems like he's trying to use it to mask his natural scent but it's still faintly there, and I imagine it'd be a combination of the musk of his sweat and oil and metals or other chemicals if he's been working on stuff hands on. I haven't considered that he tries to smell like eggs deliberately, though that would be interesting. But I think his musk could perhaps be like eggs but not rotten, regular beautiful delicious eggs just like him hehe 😋

People that dislike the smell of eggs rotten or not could find it unpleasant and complain but people who don't wouldn't mind. And it's probably only faint with the cologne he tries to mask it with and his form fitting clothes he's wearing trapping it a bit. He smells his worst when he's gassy like Sonic said he can be in Colors and we have indeed seen that to be the truth with his level 3 farting attack in Riders. Then that Egg can be rotten and bad enough to kill a man and he sure knows how to use it to his advantage, the menace. Though I wouldn't complain, it's impressive! XD

It's nice to imagine him with a unique scent that makes you to "yeah that's Eggman". I like the idea that even his scent can be representative of parts of who he is. Like him smelling of high quality hygiene products when he's fresh out the shower which doesn't last long but he also applies a expensive heavy spicy or earthy cologne that lasts longer and both represent his wealth and self care. But then also like sweat and oil/metals/chemicals to indicate that he's a very hard working guy. And also his natural musk being kind of eggy to represent that he is The Eggman! 🥰

[stardust-static]

:((((

So I thought I'd do a nice thing for Bailey.

He's building my chicken coop // run for my little chicks and on his last day off he was frustrated because the ground is really hard and he has to do a lot of digging to level it. He's going to continue tomorrow on his day off. So today while he was at work I set up a sprinkler down there to soak the ground so hopefully it will be softer and easier for him to dig tomorrow. It's the kind of sprinkler that attaches to the hose and does like an overhead wave back and forth... If that makes any sense at all. Anyway.. I stood there getting all wet making sure the sprinkler was getting every inch of the ground. Then I came back in. Did some cleaning up. Still wet. No big deal. I kept smelling this rotten egg smell and at first I thought it was my dogs. They're always farting. So I thought it was them who stunk, but then figured out it was following me. Then I sniffed my shirt and hair. It was for sure me. I smelled like sewage. Idk but that hose water smelled terrible. I stripped and showered and can still faintly smell it on my hair.. so gross. 😣

[eyra]

I wish you would write a fic where literally anything happens. I would read absolutely anything that comes out of your brain. Even if it’s just Remus and Sirius sitting in a car in traffic.

Well, that just sounds like a challenge...

🐑❄️️🐑❄️️🐑❄️️🐑

"I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with R."

"Roadworks," Remus says flatly, looking straight ahead through the blizzard. It's the third time this week they've been stuck here: the pinch-point around a hilly outcrop on the way home from town, where the ford floods in the summer and where a midwinter storm had brought a great slump of wet earth sliding down right into the lane, cutting off half the road entirely and bringing out a small army of workmen with bollards and barriers and temporary traffic lights so that they might cordon the whole thing off, and set about repairing the tarmac and the fencing and the sign with the funny place names on it that still make Sirius laugh, even now.

"Nope," Sirius says, hunkering down further in his coat against the chill, the old four-by-four's rickety heater not up to much at a standstill in the stationary traffic. "Try again."

"Road."

"Nope."

Sirius grins at the way Remus huffs out a long, slow exhale, as if he's finding Sirius particularly tiresome right now, and the way the corner of his mouth is pulling upwards despite himself: that wonderfully familiar quirk of freckles and tanned skin, golden even in the wintertime.

He watches as Remus squints through the snow at the car in front.

"Range Rover," Remus says triumphantly, and Sirius shakes his head.

"Nope."

"Bugger," mutters Remus, cranking the heating up to full and frowning. "Thought I had it then."

"Not even close."

There's a deep sigh from Cecil where he's slumped across Sirius's knees, his wet, wiry coat soaking through the denim of Sirius's jeans.

"Ram."

Sirius laughs. "Where?" he says, gesturing around the car, and through the half-fogged up windows to the white hills beyond; just snow, and traffic, and more snow.

"Down there," Remus murmurs, jerking his head eastwards into the valley and in the general direction of a neighbouring farm where - to be completely fair - Sirius knows a strapping pair of rams currently reside, bundled away for the winter.

"Wow, you can see all that way?" he teases. "That's so impressive, Remus."

Remus tuts.

"Roof rack," he says, nodding again at the car in front.

"Nope."

"Rotten eggs."

"You can see that, can you?"

"No," Remus says darkly, knocking the handbrake off as the traffic begins to move at a glacial pace around the hillside, and knocking it back on again a car's length later when they once again grind to an icy halt. "But I can still bloody smell it."

"It was Cecil," Sirius says, and grins at how Remus's mouth pulls up again at the corner. Cecil grumbles in his lap.

"If you say so," Remus mutters, then smiles in earnest when Sirius shoves gently at his shoulder.

"You're out of guesses," Sirius says tartly. "Do you give up?"

Remus looks over at him. The tip of his freckled nose has gone pink from the cold.

"Go on then," he shrugs, and Sirius silently reaches out to tap the mirror affixed to the middle of the windscreen.

"Rear-view mirror?" Remus says dumbly.

Sirius tuts. "No, you prat," he says, and taps it again, and watches as Remus blinks at himself in the glass. And then Remus's eyes go flat, and he fixes Sirius with a look usually reserved for James.

"Very clever," he drawls.

"I just picked the prettiest thing I could see," Sirius grins, and delights as he sees the pink blush on Remus's nose bloom across his cheeks, too, colouring his freckles in a warm and rosy glow.

And it's a good job, he thinks, that the car ahead still hasn't moved, because Remus looks like he's forgotten entirely that he's currently in charge of an ageing motor on an icy road in a blizzard. There hangs a lovely silence between them, as Remus looks at him softly, and Sirius smiles back, and Cecil huffs faintly from Sirius's lap, and the heater hums out a pleasant static beneath it all.

"Go on," Sirius says quietly.

"What?"

"It's your turn."

Remus grins. He shakes his head, and straightens himself back up in his seat, and narrows his eyes as he looks pensively out into the white winter storm.

"I spy, with my little eye..."

[filipinoizukuu]

class 1-a hcs based on science and shit: part 1

u cant tell me any of these characters smell completely normal. or good in a way u can make candles out of them. this is my hc list and i am RUNNING with it. @emogaeness this 1's for u, my dude

Aoyama: one of the only 'normal' smelling ones. he defs uses french parfum but also he probably smells like heated metal and cheese all the time. Energy doesnt really have a smell til it interacts with gas so i think he probably just smells like however he wants to.

Mina: IM SORRY TO SAY BUT MISS MAAM IS STINKY AS HECK. mina is an acid producer and therefore smells acidic--and going by what we know of acid, she smells PUNGENT. dairy-like but also sour. BUT her body is probably evolved to be antacidic and she's a gymnast. after reading like, 2 research papers, gymansts chalk (magnesium carbonate) neutralizes acids (caus its 10.5 ph) and so i think while she does kinda smell, it wouldnt be AS bad even if she's training. its possible for her to wear perfume if she wanted, since usually they're around the 7 pH range.

Tsuyu: Oh. wet grass. and just. damp. she probably smells like marshlands or just nature in general, because thats part of camouflage. she probably also has an underlying sweet scent from venom? idk. on the normal she'd probably just smell neutral if a little musty.

Iida: ok i had to wiki this but i dont think he smells like much? he faintly smells like exhaust--but when he overuses his quirk and inevitably combusts whatever engines he uses, the chemical reaction creates sulfur which would make him smell like rotten eggs. otherwise he smells like orange juice (his choice of 'fuel'), sweat, and cologne.

Uraraka: I think she just smells like mochi lol. gravity doesnt really alter her body so i think ochako's normal--if a bit sweet bc she generally seems to like sweet stuff in canon

Ojiro: OK HES JUST GOT A WEIRD LUMP OF FLESH ON HIS BACK FOR A TAIL THO LIKE?? IDK HE SMELLS NORMAL?? maybe a bit like spray-on shampoo and deodorant, but that's it. does a third limb of pure muscle smell like anything? no? godspeed, mashirao, godspeed.

Kaminari: he smells like ozone. He's probably crazy static since he generates the electricity inside of him constantly and is canonically a terrific electricity conduit, so unlike aoyama he'd definitely smell like frying electricity. also. (minor manga spoilers) he bathes enough to be able to call midoriya stinky, so he definitely has basic hygiene. other than that i think he smells like sweaty leather bc of his hero costume and candy.

Kirishima: not quirk related but he probably just smells like sweat. and like, meat. maybe dirt. i love this boy but i'm also a sheeple bc i believe in the hc that he smells like axe body spray. and really good conditioner bc of how fucked up his hair would be by now if he wasn't taking very good care of it.

Kouda: smells like animals. like. bunnies and hamsters and birds and stuff. its not bad per se, but he definitely smells like he's constantly hanging out with the city's local rodent and avian population. other than that he probably just smells neutral/like nothing, since that's more approachable to the prey animals that he seems to favor.

Satou: baked goods and candy.

Shouji: I think Shouji is probably the most hygiene-conscious of all the kids in 1-A. Because of the amount of open/accessible body parts like eyes, nose, ears on his limbs--he probably takes very good care in showering and all that stuff to prevent random infections or just generally damaging any of his senses. Dude's chill--smells like mild soap and laundry detergent.

Jirou: Ah, not gonna lie she probably smells a bit like burnt electrical wires. She's a bit like Kaminari in terms of smell, except her's have that more 'metallic' and burning sharpness whenever she uses the stunning part of her quirk. Other than that... probably also leather because of her hero costume, or just like the inside of an instrument shop (wood, ivory, brass, etc.)

Sero: Packaging type. you know when you pull like, a large strip of tape and--? yeah? that. smells like tack. other than that, excellent hygiene! bergamot and pine or whatever.

Tokoyami: he smells like bird, but only faintly. dude mostly smells a little musty caus he probably never airs out his room. Dark shadow is described like "dark energy" which, similar to aoyama, kaminari, and jirou, probably makes the air around him smell different bc thats gas interacting with energy. Aside from that, he most likely smells neutral. (... maybe with a bit of leather and metal because thats just how his fashion probably works)

Todoroki: Sweat, but not like, a lot. He definitely doesn't smell bad after battles because steam kills bacteria like, fairly effectively, and would eliminate most foul odors. I think he'd smell like Expensive herbal soap or whatever most of the time. He doesn't seem like the type to be unhygienic.

Hagakure: ????? fuck dude she probably tries her best to smell like nothing, caus if her whole schtick is being invisible then its probably best if she just smelt like nothing. imagine being a villain and then promptly getting kicked in the nuts by a gust of wind that smells like strawberry peach.

Mineta: i cant explain it but just... warm grape juice. his... orbs. have oily/sticky like substances to act as adhesive and ill be damned before u tell me he doesn't smell like anything even remotely artificial-grape-flavoring adjacent. he also smells of like,, axe body spray but stronger.

Yaoyorozu: herbal tea on a normal day. most likely the digestive kind just because i think thats the most practical tea to have with a quirk like hers thats reliant on eating large quantities of food. other than that, i think she smells like basic weaponry-grade materials like iron, polished wood, copper, and gunpowder.

Bakugou: stinky boy. canonically, his hygiene's great but that's likely for a reason. he sweats a lot and excessively, and while his sweat is described as 'nitroglycerine-like' it doesn't mean it smells like caramel. the common description for nitroglycerine according to the brittanica encyclopedia is that it's toxic and has a 'sweet, burning taste'. the sweet scent is described as sharp at best--so while its totally okay if you wanna think of his sweat as caramel-like, i just wanted to clear up the misconception that thats what it factually is. ASSUMING his sweat still has a similar molecular makeup to nitroglycerine and has nitric dioxide, it would smell sickly sweet, if slightly neutral due to the nature of sweat itself being odorless when clean. other than that? bkg is definitely just a smelly, smelly boy. smells like sun and smoke and teenage body odor and burnt plastic.

Midoriya: SMELLY STINKY. deku sweats like, a lot. not only does ofa expend a ridiculous amount of energy and probably strains his muscles like crazy (forcing him to expel all that lactic acid in the form of sweat), but he also spends a lot of time just outside in general. science slightly aside, deku smells a lot like grass and dirt and just,,, the outdoors in general. he, like kaminari, smells very strongly of ozone (clean, chlorine-like) because of the sheer amount of energy output OfA has. Not expounding past the manga, Black Whip is described as a quirk that produces tendrils of pure black energy. This probably creates the same effect/smell as an area struck by lightning.

[plutonianrising]

while the cat’s away a.k/k.k

pairing: akaashi x kenma x f!reader

wc: 4.5k

description: akaashi shouldn’t have left his two brats home alone for so long

a/n: this was v much inspired by that “i think you deserve two boyfriends” tiktok so thank that guy for this

cw: fem!reader, dom!akaashi, switch!reader, switch!kenma, established poly relationship, safe word check-ins, rules, overstimulation, degradation, humiliation, threesome, cum-eating, aftercare implied

MINORS DNI PLS

Sometimes it can get boring when it’s just you and Kenma at home for the day. You know he’s usually busy streaming and it's usually fine since Keiji keeps you entertained. However, this morning Keiji insisted on handling the grocery shopping alone, saying it’d just be a quick in-and-out trip and he didn’t want Kenma to wake up left by himself. It was hours later now and Kenma had kissed you good morning and swiftly turned to his games. Even on his “day off” he’s playing with some of his friends. You’re kicking yourself now for having recently bought his current fixation. 

“Kyaaannmaaaa” you whine loudly and flop onto his lap. He doesn’t even acknowledge you as he moves his controller closer to his face. It’s almost like you’re not even there. You wouldn’t even be sure that he noticed you if it weren’t for the faint furrow in his brows and grimace on his lips. 

“Kenma you’ve been playing since you woke up. Can’t you take a little break? I don’t even think I’ve seen you eat yet,” you try to command even just a bit of his attention.

“I’m not hungry.” He grumbles. “And can’t you see I’m in the middle of a match? I can’t just leave whenever.” 

Your pouting turns to a full-blown scowl as his eyes leave his game for a moment to peek down at you; he realizes how quickly you’re reaching the threshold of your patience.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry. I know you hate when I play on my days off. Just sit in my lap and we’ll go do something else once this round finishes.” He backtracks. You roll your eyes but maneuver yourself so that you're straddling him with his arms around your waist and yours around his shoulders. You lean your head in the crook of his neck, gaining comfort from the smell of his shampoo even while your boyfriend is annoying the shit out of you. 

“You said one more match like 3 matches ago. I thought we had a rule about lying.” You say even though you know he really isn’t listening to you. You can faintly hear one of his friends talking in his headset. You thread your fingers through his grown-out hair absent-mindedly and open your phone with your other hand to text Keiji.

Kenma broke a rule. I’m gonna punish him. See you when you get home x

You’ve barely sent the message before you’re pressing down on his lap a little harder. You wiggle your ass as if feigning trying to get comfortable. You shift Kenma’s headset so that he can hear you whisper in his ear.

“Kenmaaa…” You trail off. “What happened to no lying hmm?” He stiffens and a cruel smile creeps its way onto your face. You place a hand on his chest and continue playing with his hair with the other, trying to coax him. You both know he can’t say anything with his friends on the other side and you relish in the fiery glare he shoots you.

You love how easy Kenma is to fluster. A breathy whisper against his neck. A sharp nip at his neck. It takes little to nothing to set him off. Even when you’re being punished and are forced to simply watch Keiji take him relentlessly. Kenma is breathtaking to you. When he’s annoying you. When he’s shyly grabbing your hand or Keiji’s to fall asleep. When he’s fucked out beyond recognition. At this point you’re probably obsessed over even the red that tints his ears when he begins getting overwhelmed. 

Sometimes you have to pay for your teasing but you know today at least, you’re fully in command. You know Kenma is too stubborn to shut off his game in the middle of a match with everyone on. After 3 years with him and Keiji, you know he’s a high-risk-high-reward kind of person. He was going to try his hardest to get through whatever you put him through without making a sound. Double or nothing.

“You remember how to tell me to stop, right?” You whisper again and press a kiss to his ear. Kenma nods.

“Hmm I wonder if I should make you say it out loud with everyone on call? Yea they’d think it’s random but better safe than sorry right?” You tease him. He shivers and goosebumps appear on his skin as you lightly drag your nails up his neck. He grunts softly and rolls his hips up to press against you. His eyes are begging you to drop that idea. Your wicked smile grows and you peck his lips. 

“You’re right baby. There’s already plenty of time to embarrass you. Don’t forget to talk to your friends on call Kenma. Wouldn’t want them thinking something happened to you.” You chuckle darkly.

You place your hands under his shirt and slowly slide up until you reach his nipples. They’re already hard from the chill of your room paired with his thin t-shirt. You press against one, softly toying with it with the pad of your finger. You watch as he tries to remain stone faced. His ears are a dead giveaway, though. You kiss all over his neck as he responds to someone. They’re feather-soft teases. You want him to have to beg to be marked by you.

“Kenma you’re so greedy..” You growl and pinch his nipple. He startles a bit at the surprise but quickly regains his composure. “You wanted this didn’t you? Too shy to say outright you wanted me to fuck you while you played?”

 “Or is it that you just like riling me up?” You tease him by grinding down onto his hardening dick. You roll both his nipples between your fingertips now, occasionally pinching them.

“Wanted the best of both worlds and even while I’m giving it to you, you can’t even be bothered to make those cute sounds you know I like so much.” You sigh, feigning sadness. You grind against him harder as you play with his nipples. You tease him further by kissing up his neck. It’s hard not to relish in his slight trembles when you blow cool air against his ear. While your focus is mostly on pleasuring Kenma, you cannot help the soft sighs that escape you. Seeing him struggle to control the stuttering of his hips only eggs you on. 

“How loud do you think I can be before they can all hear me?” You smirk and let out a quiet moan. Kenma’s eyes widen in panic and he slaps a hand over your mouth quickly. You slowly lick his palm while you maintain eye contact. His golden eyes are transfixed on yours, searching for any measure of mercy. He was kidding himself thinking he would find any. Many sessions with Keiji had trained you to follow through when you committed to something. 

Kenma slowly pulls his hand away from your face and you lean in closer. Your lips are just barely brushing against his as you mutter “Either you beg for me with everyone on the call. Or I just keep cumming by myself.”

He knows it’s a promise and not a threat. In terms of stamina, you have always had him beat, making over stimulating him a pretty frequent occurrence. At the beginning he and Keiji would switch out when it got to be too much for him but you two quickly learned that even with tears streaming down his face, his one thought is to satisfy you. You grab his face with one hand, squishing his cheeks a little. With the other you cover his mic. “What’s our word so I know you know it?” 

“It’s peaches. I’m ok. I want this,” he rushes out quietly, growing even redder. It’s this neediness that you so deeply craved. Kenma was quiet but he wasn’t exactly shy. When he really wanted something, he would push past his reservations to get it. And finally, right now, he wants you more than anything else. 

You finally kiss him deeply and Kenma reciprocates eagerly. To your content, his hips roll harder against you when your tongue enters his mouth. 

“Kenma? Why aren’t you moving, let’s go!” You hear someone say. You pull away from Kenma so that he can answer and he furrows his brow, obviously not ready for it to be over.

“Lev maybe if you quit worrying about what I’m doing you’d get more kills.” He quietly snips. You wince and giggle at his harsh tone, almost feeling bad about being the reason behind his expression. You lean close so you can speak into Kenma’s mic and as you talk you’re also taking a beat to fully appreciate how flushed and pretty Kenma looks. His mouth is wet and slightly pink and though his eyes are half-lidded he’s looking at you with full expectancy. It’s enough to pierce your heart. You aren’t sure if you’re actually punishing him or spoiling him rotten.

“Sorry about that boys” You giggle into the mic. Kenma’s mouth twitches downward a little when he hears how his friends’ react to your voice on mic. “Please forgive Kenma, I distracted him a little.” 

You don’t really pay attention to how they respond, turning your focus to slipping off Kenma’s boxers and your panties. You toss them somewhere across the room. As you slick Kenma’s dick with your wetness, it crosses your mind that Keiji could come home at any moment. You haven’t even looked to see how Keiji responded to your text. You’re probably screwed if he told you to wait until he gets back but you can’t focus on that with Kenma looking at you so eagerly, using every inch of his self-control to not fuck up into you.

Placing him at your entrance, you hold his gaze as you slide onto him. You take him all the way, forcing yourself to be just as quiet as he is. You let him try and focus on his game as you slowly roll your hips, silently screaming at how full he makes you feel. You fixate on the way his brows furrow and his breath quietly hitches. Kenma’s face is fully flushed as you ride him, not willing to give in or lose his game. You smirk and turn around slightly to look at his game. It brings you a weird sense of satisfaction that, even though he’s playing like normal, his dick is already twitching like he’s close. 

“Kyanma when’d you get so sensitive?” you tease quietly. “You been secretly touching yourself recently? Huh?”

“I-I” he begins to stutter out indignantly, trying not to pant too loudly. You cover the mic one more time. “I w-wouldn’t dare. J-just feels too good.”

You continue rolling your hips, reaching up with your other hand to palm your own breast. You don’t even try to resist the tightness building inside you. You let out a low moan as you shudder around him, your walls clenching around Kenma’s dick so deliciously that you can see the air choked in his throat as he stifles his own moans. As promised, you fuck him through your orgasm. His trembling makes it so much harder for you to relent. You want him to cum so badly, forcing you to turn off his game and fuck him until he’s a sobbing mess. 

He does so almost as soon as the almost obsessive thought crosses your mind. He holds you tight against him and buries his face in your collar, biting down hard in a final act of defiance. You yank Kenma’s head back by his hair and he’s glaring at you like his face and chest aren’t completely flushed and his pupils aren’t blown out. You let go of his hair and simply smirk and your anger makes it so much more fun to force shut down his computer. 

You wrap a hand around his neck and squeeze. “Kenma’s been such a naughty fucking kitty today haven’t you?” 

You slam down on his dick again and Kenma moans loudly this time. You aren’t sure if it’s from the pain of being overstimulated or simply the fact that he no longer faces the threat of embarrassment. Regardless, you know he’s going to be begging for that feeling again by the time you’re through with him.

You hear the front door of your apartment open and the familiar jangle of Keiji’s keys and soft footsteps. Keiji’s home but he puts the groceries away first. You know this is him giving you both time to collect yourselves and be on your knees somewhere for punishments. You know this but Kenma doesn’t look keen on moving and your heart is already beating in anticipation at how much further you could take this.

You hear Keiji’s footsteps grow louder and in seconds he’s right in front of you, analyzing what he’s seeing: an unplugged computer, Kenma slowly regaining his composure, and you right in his lap, lazily looking over at him with a smug little smile on your face. 

“Hey baby.” You can tell from one look what Keiji told you in response to your text. You can't help the way your body shudders in expectancy as he stares at you sternly. You kiss Kenma’s neck gently as you meet Keiji’s gaze, knowing full well you won’t be ready for the punishments he will be handing out.

“You had no intention of listening to me, did you?” Keiji says fondly as he walks over and stands behind you. He slides his hands around you: one pulling your against him, the other guiding your head up. His touch is gentle, his fingers moving you more so as a suggestion than a command. You struggle to keep your eyes open and on his beautiful features. Dark hair that curls in the strangest spots fell slightly forward. The sharpness in his deep blue eyes contrasts the loving way he strokes your cheek.

“Mmm… not really. Mmsorry ‘Kaashi but it’s so… much easier to just ask you for forgiveness. You’re so sweet to us.” Your words slur a bit and you smile up at your other boyfriend. You secretly wonder if you’re making the right call by pushing his buttons further. But oh well.

“Oh it's so much easier is it?” Keiji asks, his voice takes on an icy tone. He finally glances towards Kenma, slightly dazed as he watches you both. “Kenma do you agree?” 

You all know that no matter what Kenma says, he’s already in deep shit for going along with you. However, there is still a right and wrong answer. He could either a) agree and punish you with Keiji and receive a lighter punishment or b) side with you. The two of you make eye contact as he weighs his options. Memories of you sandwiched between them, mind hazy as they treated you like little more than a toy flood you. You vividly remember the time Keiji sent you over the edge repeatedly while you choked on Kenma’s dick, tears forming from how desperate for air you were. And the way they gazed down at you with your panties shoved in your mouth, so fully focused on making you scream that you feel like you’d been caught by two beasts.

You would never openly admit how much option A makes your mouth water but you don’t have to. Kenma doesn’t miss the way your thighs try to squeeze together, only to be met by his in between. Or the way your breathing has slightly picked up again. Or how you tightened around his still-sensitive dick the moment the thought crossed your mind.

“Yea ‘Kaashi… you’ve been really nice lately.” Kenma looks between you both and smiles before pressing close and embracing you. He holds onto part of your shirt and nuzzles into your neck. You don’t care if he was saying we’re in this together or I'm not letting you get all the attention after you ruined my game. Regardless, you still get to see Kenma trembling right next to you with puffy lips slightly parted, ready to beg, ready to need, ready to please.

Keiji stifles a laugh behind you, covering it quickly before petting both you and Kenma’s hairs. “I didn’t realize I’d been so gracious to my little brats. I guess that means you think it’s finally my turn for a reward?”

“What do you want us to do Master?” You ask coyly. 

“Well for one I want you two properly seated somewhere on the floor.” Keiji says coldly. He moves away and you and Kenma quickly take your places. On your knees. Eyes expectant.

“Kitty you look like she put you through hell” Keiji coos at Kenma, looking down at him while he strokes his cheek. You huff.

“I didn’t even-”

“Did I say you could speak sweetheart?” Keiji cuts off your attempt to explain and you know better to try any further. He doesn’t even need to look towards you to keep you in check “Kenma. Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

“S-she got mad at me for being on my game so long that she rode me while my mic was on and wouldn’t let me c-cum unless I… begged with everyone on the line.” Kenma looks up at Keiji pleadingly. 

“And did you?” Keiji prods. 

“D-did I?” Kenma splutters in surprise. The red flush on his body seems permanent at this point.

“Well you obviously came. I can still see it leaking out of her all over our floor. So. Did you beg?” Keiji doesn’t let Kenma avoid his gaze, leaning forward with a firm grip on his cheeks.

“N-no.” 

“No. Instead you bit her.” 

Of course he noticed that.

“So let me see if I got this right. Instead of accepting your punishment like a good boy or conceding… you decided to take advantage of her kindness and my absence. God it’s like you want that pretty ass of yours lashed until you can’t even sit in your gaming chair.”

Kenma takes in a sharp inhale, trembling slightly. You gulp in turn, knowing that even though Kenma was worse, you aren’t safe from reprimand either.

Keiji fixes his sharp gaze on you and finally acknowledges you. “Did I agree to letting you punish Kenma?”

“No Sir.” You answer quietly, trying to keep the shivers threatening to expose your excitement at bay. 

“Take off your shirt and lie on the bed.” He sighs and begins unbuttoning his shirt. You do as you’re told, removing your oversized sweater as you climb onto the king-sized mattress.

“It seems that I’ve been too lenient with the both of you so really the fault lies with me. Allow me to take responsibility for that now.” Keiji says. He stands before you and takes in your form, surely noting how much you’re quivering before lifting and spreading your knees, leaving you on full display. He turns back to Kenma. 

“Kitty you should take this chance to properly apologize. Come clean up the mess you made.”

Kenma is just as compliant, quick to kneel where Keiji orders him right in front of your dripping pussy. He can’t even attempt a front, immediately capturing your clit in his mouth. You moan and buck a little at the sudden sensation.

“Easy there Kitty. Take your time.” Keiji chides softly. Kenma hums in response and opts to lick a long stripe against you instead. He tries his hardest to pace himself as he mouths you, gently pushing his tongue in between your folds. 

Keiji opens your bedside table and grabs a bottle of lube, squirting some on his own hand and onto Kenma’s ass. You feel the shiver that rips through Kenma as the cold gel runs down him. He takes a quick second to let out a shuddering breath but doesn’t dare look back. You, however, fully stare as Keiji gingerly begins fucking Kenma with his middle finger. Kenma quakes at the feeling and Keiji revels at the sight of you two and how your moans and his combine in the air and fill the room. 

“Baby you’re so shameless” Keiji mewls “taking so much pleasure from all the chaos you caused.”

You can’t even argue his point. Every thought of disagreeing had left your head the moment Kenma’s lips had touched your throbbing pussy. All you can do is whine in response.

Keiji doesn’t take his eyes off of you when puts his hand on the back of Kenma’s head and presses him down further. “Make sure you get all the way inside. Only bad boys leave someone else to clean up after them.”

Kenma simply whimpers in response and thrusts his tongue inside you, trying his hardest to move his hips to meet Keiji’s pace at the same time. You can tell Keiji’s purposely changing it to make it harder for him. You continue to tense up helplessly and barely contain your writhing with the very last bits of control over yourself. You know better than to cum right now but the waves of pleasure rushing over you and the sight Keiji fingering Kenma open are quickly clouding your brain.

“Please...” you beg, aching for release. Keiji looks up at you and smiles softly, an utter betrayal when his next words leave his lips.

“Kenma, stop now.” 

You both whine and turn your attention to Keiji, facial expressions mirroring each other. He pets Kenma’s hair and plants two quick kisses on his wet mouth. You sit up and pout.

“Keiji, Sir, please, I wanna cum so badly.” You beg, head spinning a bit from the sudden loss.

“Oh so now you acknowledge that I’m in charge.” He says and moves to kiss your cheek next, He places feather light kisses against your jaw as you whine and whimper in protest. Drawing close to your ear, he whispers icily “I have half the mind to fuck your pretty little throat so raw you wouldn’t be able to speak for weeks without regretting testing me. But I’m sweet, remember? So listen before I forget that.”

All your dissent dies in your throat and you stiffen. 

“Ready to be a good little girl for me now?” He inquires in his normal tone. It’s almost scary how easily he can flip between the two. All you can do is nod and accept the deep kiss he offers as a reward, moaning into his mouth. “Good, now get on the floor next to Kenma. Wanna see you two suck me off.”

You quickly do as you’re told and sit on your knees next to Kenma while Keiji slides off his pants and underwear. With Keiji sitting on the bed in between you, you let a thick glob of spit fall on his dick and work it down with your hand, slowly stroking him. Kenma positions himself and takes Keiji’s head in between his lips, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks him down.

“You two have been so naughty today and now look at you..” Keiji says breathily and pushes your hair back away from your faces. “Sharing my dick so nicely with each other.” 

You and Kenma kiss sloppily around the head of his dick, letting your tongues coat Keiji further in spit. Even though you and Kenma bicker more often, the one thing you two agree on without fail is that Keiji looks the hottest when you service him together. It’s how his eyes focus fully on the looks you give him, full of trust and devotion. How he’s always sure to praise equally as he grips whatever or whoever is nearest to gain some kind of grounding. 

“Neither of you is getting my dick today... but you can make each other cum. Should be enough, right? Since you two were so impatient you couldn’t even wait for me.” Keiji teases in between his groans. You try to shove down your disappointment as you use your free hand to reach for Kenma’s dick. You pump him in time with the rhythm you manage to form with Keiji’s large dick in your throat. Your eyes burn but you try to keep down your gags and moans as Kenma starts rubbing your clit fervently, wanting instead to clearly hear how he and Keiji sound. His touch is vengeful, a punishment for putting him in this mess and you nearly see stars from the feeling of his sticky fingers circling your most sensitive spots.

“P-please Sir, t-this time I really can’t hold it,” Kenma whimpers, looking utterly destroyed with tears clinging to his lashes and a trail of spit still connecting him to Keiji’s dick. 

“If you think you can keep servicing us while you cum then go ahead baby, but you better keep moving.” Keiji permits and it’s all Kenma needs to cry out and shoot out ropes of his cum all over your hand. He continues his ministrations against you and Keiji and soon it’s your own hips that are stuttering. You do not have Kenma’s level of control so you try to shove down your incoming orgasm. 

“I need you to cum Sir please, please please. I-I won’t last. Please I want you to cover us with your sticky cum” you beg. You look up at him from under your lashes as you go back to mouthing him and feel him throb in between your lips.

“Yes Sir pleaseee. Want your cum all over.” Kenma adds, his words slurring together. If he couldn’t focus on both speaking and pleasuring his partners he would simply put his all into the latter.

“Want my cum? Want Sir to make a mess all over those pretty little faces?” Keiji groans, bucking his hips into your mouth.

“God yes please.. Please!” Kenma continues and Keiji takes his dick out of his mouth to stroke himself over your faces. Kenma is steadily bringing you to your own edge and you both can’t help but open your mouths in hopes to catch Keiji’s cum on your tongue while you orgasm. With a shout, Keiji begins cumming, spurting all over you and Kenma. 

“Go ahead sweetheart, fucking cum right now” Keiji hisses and you convulse as you finally let go, holding onto his leg as your orgasm rips through you. It’s hard to focus on anything besides how easily Keiji and Kenma make you feel like you’re in heaven. 

“Now.. have we all learned our lessons?” Keiji utters once he’s down from his high. The sight of Kenma and you leaning against his legs for support makes his heart swell. 

“Yes.. Sir.” You two manage to get the words out. 

“See I knew my little ones were smart.” He coos gingerly moves to first pick you up and place you onto the bed and then Kenma before grabbing wet wipes. “Now let’s get you all cleaned up.”

[concubuck]

Doctor's Appointment

"I think I'm with child."

Alastor doesn't recognize his own voice. Who is he? This isn't his story. This isn't his life.

He can't go on like this.

Dr. Neid stares at him. "But—you're on six forms of birth control. How?"

A despairing laugh bubbles out of Alastor. "Doctor, what do you think I'm here to ask you?" 

The doctor nods a little too animatedly. "Right! Right. Okay. That's all right. We'll take this one step at a time. Do you know how far along you are?

Alastor shrugs. "Not far. I think. I don't... really know." He feels so heavy. Sluggish. Like he's being weighed down with an enormous stone in his stomach. 

He can't go on like this.

"All right. Have you taken a pregnancy test?"

"This Sunday. It was positive."

"What made you realize? Have you had any symptoms so far?"

"No, nothing—none until the past few days. I felt a... I think it must have been a kick. I was topside, and in excruciating pain, and suddenly it—stopped. And that's when I felt it."

Dr. Neid makes a hasty note in Alastor's file, muttering, "That should put you around twenty weeks." He glances up to give Alastor a concerned look. "Have you still been taking topside jobs all this time? Why didn't the pain tip you off?"

The first sentence sends Alastor reeling—twenty weeks? Twenty weeks, God, aren't pregnancies supposed to be forty weeks, doesn't that puts him halfway through the pregnancy—how could he have made it halfway through and noticed nothing— It takes him a moment to register the doctor's question. "The... the pain? Why would the pain have... That's not a symptom, is it? Shouldn't I be craving pickles, or...?"

The doctor gives him an aghast look. "You shouldn't be getting anywhere near pickles in your state! Do you know how much sodium they have?"

Alastor's mind flashes to his recent inexplicable aversion to salt. "What does sodium have to do with my state?"

For a moment, the two of them can only stare at each other in mutual confusion. And then, slowly, the doctor says what's just dawning on Alastor: "You only know what human pregnancies are like, don't you?"

Alastor swallows dryly. "If they're different, I suppose I must."

He can't go on like this.

The doctor has to pull out a list of symptoms to run down with Alastor. Very few of them have anything to do with Alastor's understanding of pregnancy.

Light vaginal bleeding, from the egg implanting in his womb? Alastor faintly remembers one night thinking he'd torn something down there—but that doesn't make sense, how could he have torn himself? He can stretch as much as he wants.

Nipples darkening or getting larger? Alastor has to peek under his medical gown to inspect the current color, opens his phone to find an old topless selfie, and says, "Huh."

Morning sickness? He was sick back in June (God, was he pregnant back then? How long is twenty weeks?) but he thought he was just sick. And it was all day, not just in the morning. Dr. Neid says the term "morning" sickness is misleading. ("If you were sick, why didn't you come in then?" "I'm not going to go to the doctor over a mere stomach bug." "Right. I almost forgot you're the guy that had a boner for six months before getting medical help.")

An increased sensitivity to smells? Especially foods and body odors? Yes—at the time Alastor thought something had gone rotten in his apartment, not that he was getting better at smelling it; and maybe that is the case, except he can still very clearly remember the moment he realized he can smell boners.

An extreme craving for meat, the rawer the better, possibly to the exclusion of other food? Yes—but sometimes Alastor just gets like that for a few weeks, it's not out of the ordinary. ("Yeah, I saw the note in your medical file about your scurvy in the eighties.")

An acute, extreme aversion to foods with salt? Yes—but he looked that up, high sodium sensitivities are common in hellborn demons. Dr. Neid clarifies that yes, having a sodium sensitivity is common; developing a sodium sensitivity out of nowhere is pregnancy. It protects a vulnerable demon baby from the purifying substance. It should go away when Alastor's no longer pregnant. Small mercies.

Steadily increasing pain whenever he's on Earth, and then a sudden stop? Yes—and Alastor doesn't bother to say that he'd looked that up and thought it was an allergy. He just asks if the pain will be back. Dr. Neid says no—and points out most pregnant succubi take a break from work on Earth until the pain stops.

Several sustained months of unexplained weight loss? Yes—but he thought it was because he'd been sick. And aren't pregnant women supposed to gain weight? ("Not until around halfway through your pregnancy, usually around the end of your Earth pains. Before then, you should be losing weight.")

Back pain? Well, yes, but he thought that was because he was trying to sleep on an old couch instead of his bed. ("Why are you sleeping on a couch?" "Not relevant.")

Any fetal movement—and the early ones might feel like flutters or gas bubbles? Yes.

"What about the tinnitus?" Alastor asks; and Dr. Neid says, "I think that's just you."

Some symptoms Dr. Neid asks about are unfamiliar. He hasn't noticed any breast growth; but then Alastor can consciously control their size and typically doesn't have breasts He hasn't noticed an increase in his bathroom trips; but then he lives on coffee and booze, how would he notice the difference? No constipation, no leg cramps, no heartburn, no bloody teeth. No dizziness or mind fog that can't be better explained by his diet, sleep, or ADHD. No decrease in his libido; and now that he knows that's an option, he feels cheated. No increased appetite, but then his appetite is always high. But, apparently, not everyone has every symptom.

When Dr. Neid informs Alastor that he seems to be having a very typical pregnancy, it feels like a damning indictment.

He can't go on like this.

"I can get you an ultrasound scheduled this afternoon," Dr. Neid says. "And I can recommend a few obstetricians. All of them are hellborn. We're not going to have another Dr. Dalton—"

"I don't want one," Alastor says. "An ultrasound. I don't want to see... I'm not interested."

Dr. Neid pauses in the process of scrolling through his phone. "Are you planning to terminate?"

"I don't know. I'm not going to keep it." That, he's sure of. He's in no fit state to be a parent and he's never wanted to try. "I don't want to carry it, but I don't particularly want to kill it, either. I just—would have liked for it to have never been in me in the first place." If only. He nods at Dr. Neid's phone. "Do you have a time traveler in there?"

"Not yet." Dr. Neid keeps scrolling. "I can't make you get an ultrasound—but if you're undecided about whether to carry it, I recommend the ultrasound for health reasons. It helps identify birth defects and potential pregnancy complications." It's not until Dr. Neid adds, "It's for the obstetrician. You don't have to look at it if you don't want," that Alastor finally nods in agreement.

Dr. Neid has an entire list of recommended next steps. Get an ultrasound. Check out this list of obstetricians. If Alastor is still shapeshifting his genitalia, put a halt to that until he's spoken with the obstetrician and confirmed the technique he uses isn't dangerous for the fetus. Take prenatal supplements, either in pre-mixed dried herbs from the drug store or by mixing an herbal recipe himself. Take an extra supplement of tannis root—it's an edible fungus—he can smoke it, burn it as incense, wear it in jewelry so he can passively inhale the spores, but the smell is very distinctive and a dead giveaway for pregnancy so as long as he's keeping his pregnancy secret he ought to eat it. Cut down on caffeine—one or two cups of coffee a day, tops. Stop drinking alcohol.

"My drinking habits are not up for discussion."

"I know, I know—but now that it's affecting a baby, too—"

"My drinking habits," Alastor says, "are not up for discussion."

Dr. Neid gives him a hard look—far harder than he typically dares to aim at Alastor. Finally, he says, "Make sure your obstetrician knows about your drinking habits."

Alastor nods dully.

Dr. Neid looks back at his phone. "All right. That should keep you until you get an appointment with an obstetrician. Any questions?" He waits. "... Alastor? Are you still with me?"

Alastor stares at Dr. Neid for several seconds before he can slowly shake his head. "Sorry," he says, and has to pause again to figure out what he's thinking. "This is all... Two days ago, I wasn't pregnant, and today I have half a baby and need to take up smoking for its health."

"You don't have to smoke it."

"That's not my point, doctor."

Dr. Neid hesitates. "I'll... write all this down for you."

Alastor nods dully.

Ten minutes later, he's standing outside the doctor's office in the Hellish midday heat, clutching directions to his ultrasound appointment, and a list of obstetricians' names, and a neatly printed recipe for an herbal drink he can make in a blender that's more complicated than any meal he's prepared in over half a year. 

He feels a nervous flutter low in his stomach. It almost makes him flinch.

He can't go on like this. He can't. He can't do it anymore. The empty excuse for a life he's trying to live, the alien things he has to do to stay sane, the stranger he has to pretend to be—the intruder in what used to be his body. He's tired of acting out a story he doesn't feel like he belongs in.

He gives up. He can't go on.

But, of course, he must.

So he does.

He eats a rare burger for lunch while waiting for his sonogram appointment.

[ayamturd]

red│awesamdude

summary: y/n only wants to fight for peace and looses themself in the process. sam finally brings them a moment of clarity, but at what cost?

warnings: angst, blood/death, eggpire(?)

pairing: in-game awesamdude

a/n: my free-writing default is always angst pls send requests and help lol

wc: (0.8k) - m.list

“Don’t do this, y/n.”

Sword raised, Sam struggled to carry its weight. His hair was matted to his forehead, blood and sweat staining his usual green locks while he clutched his aching side, hands coated in dark red. Standing before him was y/n, their stance, unlike his, steady and calm despite the chaos that engulfed them entirely, fire burning the night sky as the smell of smoldering vines penetrated the space. It was a pungent odor; like burnt flesh underlined with the putrid, acrid taste of rotten egg, the air was heavy and clouded the landscape in a vermilion hue.

Y/n held no emotions on their face. With eyes glazed burgundy, corrupted in carmine veins, they looked like a ghost of their past self, someone once bright and optimistic taken advantage of to further malicious intent. Below them laid Tommy, the young boy unconscious and defenseless to the axe aimed above him. 

“I’m not doing anything, Sam. I’m only following the path that’s been made for peace.”  Y/n’s words angered Sam, and he stepped forward. “This isn’t a path, its bloodshed! Your endgame will only cause suffering! This isn’t you, Y/n. Drop the axe, come back to me.” Hand extended forward, Sam shifted to lower his weapon. There was a still beat of silence until he moved his hand closer, pleading with desperation, “please, I know you’re still in there.”

Y/n stared at the gesture, and with their feet firmly planted, they glanced back up to him: a sign of refusal to surrender. “You’re wrong. You act like I’ve turned into something unrecognizable, but really, I’ve changed for the better. Can’t you see? If you joined us, we could be in a world with no war, no conflicts together. The egg—”

“The egg is using you!” Sam yanked off his signature mask, expression livid and emotional. “You’re nothing but a pawn, a soldier to manipulate until their dying breath! Y/n,” Sam tried to come closer but y/n stopped him, lifting the blade towards him instead. He spoke softly, “Y/n. Stop this before it’s too late, before you can’t undo the damage it will cause.”

For a brief moment, Sam could have sworn y/n looked hesitant with eyes casting downward in thought, but his hope was shattered as y/n spoke lowly, “What we destroy, we will rebuild. We will rise from the dust and the Eggpire will guarantee all those safe passage into a new era. A new era,” they paused, glowering up at Sam in a final declaration, “without Tommyinnit.”

“No!” Before anyone could process it, Sam lunged at y/n as they raised to strike the killing blow. 

He stared in horror as his sword stabbed through their chest, their armor cracked and doing little to prevent the fatal wound. “I— no, no I didn’t mean t—” His words were sporadic as his panic began to set in. Y/n dropped their weapon in shock, eyes wide and tears settling in as the pain and realization took its toll. 

In cruel fate of the situation, Sam finally saw them become themself again. The tint in their eyes faded yet the blood-red vines remained; a reminder of an innocent soul corrupted in vain. Y/n’s knees gave out and they collapsed into Sam’s arms. He let out stuttered breaths and lowered his head into their shoulder, crying, as he slowly pulled out his blade. Sam gripped them tightly, moving to set them down, eyes clenched closed. 

Distant yelling and the crackling fires were drowned out by the quiet, erratic pleas of a broken man holding his dying love. A shaking hand met his hair, and he rose his head to meet the sight of them, their lips tainted in a mahogany shade.

“I’m so sorry, love.”

Sam could barely speak as he shook his head violently, refusing to fault them in their final moments together while avoiding their gaze. However, Y/n hoarsely shushed his faint croaks, bringing their hand from his hair to his cheek to brush the tears away with their thumb. Blood was smeared on his skin from the small strokes, their fingers coated in the thick garnet yet he couldn’t bring himself to care or notice.

“I’m so sorry this is how you’ll remember me.” Y/n’s eyes began to droop, death luring them closer into an enteral sleep. Sam felt their hold grow weak and clasped their wrist before their hand could fall, leaning into their palm and giving a small kiss to the skin. 

Opening his eyes, he saw Y/n’s closed and observed their chest faintly rise, their heartbeat slowing significantly. He interlocked their hands and moved to rest their foreheads together one last time. 

“I only see you for who you are. You’ll always be my y/n.”

Their breathing stopped, and he let out a crimson scream for all to hear.

[starsfic]

Ik, let me post my request for Iron Princess AU. How about something like Iron Fan confronted the Monkey Prince & she discover he's not so innocent as she thought he was.

The Flaming Mountains smelled like rotten eggs.

Of course, Iron wasn't sure why she was surprised considering she, Lady, and Tang were hiking through an active volcanic mountain range. Behind her, Tang was muttering something about earthquakes. Lady dodged a geyser and finally spoke.

"I wonder what's the need for this amount of security?" She wondered out loud.

Iron was tempted to ask if she thought Sun Wukong made this range.

...on second thought, he possibly did.

"Well, Flower Fruit Mountain has been attacked several times." Tang said in response to Lady's question. "Sun Wukong himself is immensely fireproof. The only time he has ever been hurt by fire is when Demon King Red attacked him with Samadhi fire-" He froze. Iron was ready to ask what was wrong-

"Why, thank you!"

That was their only warning before the end of a massive red and gold staff slammed in front of them.

Qi Xiaotian, the Monkey Prince, smirked down at them. He stood upon a cloud. He had changed into armor, the orange gem in his new crown gleaming. "I'll be sure to pass the compliment onto Red." he said, the staff shrinking as he held out his hand. "Now, be a dear and hand that fan over."

Iron gripped the fan. "No." she said simply.

Then she lunged.

Her only warning was Tang's "WAIT!" as she prepared to bring the fan down on Qi Xiaotian's head.

A hand rose up.

And he caught it.

Qi Xiaotian's smirk had faded, replaced by a frighteningly blank look. Iron barely had a moment to react as he yanked down, the handle of the shadow magic container slipped from her fingers, and the staff slammed into her ribs.

Iron went flying.

Faintly, she heard Lady scream. But the last thing she saw was the prince's content smile.

Then everything went dark.

[gojology]

Jealousy. (Extra)

You can find Jealousy here: Part One Part Two Part Three 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆 | sorry for the inactivity, i’ve been taking a break. regardless, i’m super happy because i finished most of my hw! someone wanted an extra of my fic Jealousy, so that’s what im doing. you may have noticed this isn’t very good, but i haven’t written in a while so bear with me :(  𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 | Teen! Gojo Satoru x Gender Neutral Reader 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 1167 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 |  I didn’t exactly proof read this, and it’s rushed, so expect a lot of reusing of words and just overall not amazing writing. Cursing, ALL CHARACTERS HERE ARE AGED DOWN FROM PRESENT ANIME/MANGA INTO WHEN THEY WERE TEENAGERS. 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | After confessing with Gojo Satoru himself, you and him walk on the path that would lead you back to Shoko and Geto, you two take your sweet time though, savoring the sweet, new love.

   Everything in your body was finally settling in. Your frazzled nerves had just begun to go away.    You’re walking back to the picnic, fingers intertwined with Gojo’s. Your pounding heart had subdued. Yet, you still felt fuzzy and warm, you had pinched yourself repeatedly to make sure it wasn’t a dream earlier.     The air smelled like fresh dew on grass, the scent of flowers weakly wafted in the air as well, you were drinking in the beautiful weather, enjoying the calm, quiet between the two of you.     Normally, every confession of love followed suit with cheers of joy, or perhaps a kiss, but strangely, a quiet walk through the park was something you didn’t mind.     Turning your attention towards Gojo, there was a slight curve to his lips. He didn’t smile like that often, it was either a full blown toothy grin, or nothing at all. Wind ruffling his hair, taking longer and longer strides that you couldn’t quite catch up with.     “Hey Daddy Long Legs, I’m not 6′3 you know.” you say, sarcasm and a hint of annoyance relevant in your tone.     “Oops. Sorry.” he looked down at you, stopping in his tracks.     “What? Satoru, we don’t have all the time in the world, come on, Shoko and Geto are probably waiting for us.”     ‘Why’s that matter?” crouching down so he could stare at you eye-to-eye, well, more like eye-to-glasses, you hadn’t seen his eyes too often. But when you did they were a brilliant shade of blue, flecks of different variants of the color sprinkled carelessly around, they were breathtaking. You hoped to see them more, why wouldn’t he show you them? After all, he was your... Boyfriend.     The term felt so weird to say, but so good.    “Didn’t we just start dating?” he said, cocking his head to the side, his eyebrows knitted together.     Snapping out of your daze, you study your shoes. “Well- Yes... But, that’s not the point.” your eyes flickered to the field of flowers dancing in the breeze.     “Honey, that’s entirely the point. We just got together and you’re gonna care about Shoko and Geto? You’re too considerate~” he cooed, pinching and pulling at your cheeks.     “...Is it okay if I call you honey..? Or uh, you know, pet names in general.” he added, you swear you can sense a quivering in his voice, some doubtfulness.     Biting your lip, you turn your full attention towards him, flower field be damned, you were dating the guy now, it was okay to be confident.     “...I actually prefer it.”     It took a moment to register in his probably small brain, but when it did, he beamed at you, giving a full blown smile.     “So I can call you Honey? Sugar? Cuddle Bug? Snuggle Wuffle? Snufflekins? Well I kind of already knew you were gonna say yes, by the way.” he cleared his throat, “because, I’m the strongest of all time, and I can also read minds, I swear.”     You giggle, not even realizing you were smiling at him as well, his face lit up.     “Satoru, It’s okay, just admit you were scared I was gonna say no.” He straightened himself, finally standing up. He put his hand at the back of his neck, still looking down at you.     “I wasn’t sweets, I knew you were gonna say yes, but uh, you know consent and stuff...” trailing off, he kicked at a pebble.     “I don’t think you need consent to call your significant other cute pet names, well, most of the time.” stifling a laugh, you turn to face to the very start of the pathway you and Gojo were walking on.     “Pretty, isn’t it?” he breathed. “Pretty place for a pretty person. I’m happy you told me here. Otherwise, It’d probably be when you’re fighting a curse and on the verge of death.”     “Satoru!-” Did this guy have no shame?     “What? I woulda saved you regardless, sweetheart. How am I gonna date someone that’s dead?” he chuckled, ruffling your hair.     “That’s insensitive!” you snorted, focusing your attention towards the growingly dark sky.    “It’s growing really dark, Satoru. We should head back soon.” you thought aloud, once again weaving your fingers into his hand.      “I didn’t even realize. Spending time with you makes everything fly by.” he flirted, lifting your limp hand up and kissing your skin.      You weren’t quite ready for another kiss in a span of 30 minutes.      Struggling to come up with something cheeky, you gape at him, opening and closing your mouth.     “My significant other’s a fish now? Aw whatever, you’re still cute. Want more kissies, darling?”      He doesn’t give you time to respond, instead diving face first into yours, lips interlocking. Soft, chaste kisses, there’s nothing sexual about it strangely, yet every each one still carried intimacy and love. You melt into his touch, sinking deeper and deeper into his embrace, your knees were just about to give out.      Exhaling sharply out of your nose, you could feel the cool air fanning onto your face, your skin was growing hot and sticky.    Just as you were about to try to take it a step further, he steps out of the kiss, panting heavily, drooling like an idiot.     Your brain isn’t quite working yet, and you peer at him, dumbfounded by the events that had occurred.     The still atmosphere was penetrated by the two of you panting, breathing in deeply. Your heart beating furiously, did that really just happen? Did Gojo Fucking Satoru just kiss you?      “Woah there.” panting, he crouches, looking up at you and catching his breath. “Didn’t know you were that straightforward, not now, not now baby. Didn’t you say we needed to go back to Geto and Shoko anyways?”      Trying not to whine, you clear your throat. “Oh yeah, I forgot about them.”      “Glad to know I have that effect on you.”     “Satoru!- God why did I ever have a crush on you?” slightly annoyed by his remark, you scoff.      “Because I’m handsome and strong and super cool.”      You couldn’t quite deny those claims, but your mouth was zipped shut.      “That’s what I thought.” grinning at you, yet you can only faintly make out his facial features.      “Fuck, Gojo, or uh... Baby, we gotta go! What if Shoko or Geto think we’re kidnapped or something?” Hands once again clasping with his unoccupied one, you sprinted, dragging him along the beaten trail.     “Fuck Shoko and Geto! They know I’ll protect the both of us, nothing scares me sweetheart! Let’s watch the stars together, (Y/N)!” he hollered back at you, taking longer and longer strides to catch up to you.      “Oh FUCK no baby, you are NOT beating me.” giggling, you let go of his hand, you found yourself 100 times lighter. Now sprinting at the speed of light, or at least the fastest you could run, at the entrance of the pathway. Estimating that it would take around 3 minutes of full sprinting to get to the area.      “Last one there is a rotten egg! And you don’t get any of the remaining snacks!” you screamed back at him, but he wasn’t there.     Looking forward, you realize Gojo is now ahead of you by a landslide. Yelling unintelligibly about the tasty remaining snacks in the basket. Atleast, that’s what you assume he’s yelling about, but you were sure he would save some for you.    Today, was a good day.

[cunaeparker]

between the bars | peter parker x reader

Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: In which Peter follows a different path after Tony’s death and she stages an intervention.

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and drug use 

Mini Playlist: Between the Bars by Elliott Smith // Autumn Tree by Milo Greene // Where’s my Love by SYML 

Author Note: this is based on the song “between the bars” by elliott smith and i really really recommend listening to it while reading. it’s one of my all time favourites and super soothing. try listening to the whole mini playlist, i think it adds to the piece :) also i aged him up to college age for the sake of shit not being illegal 

masterlist 

drink up, baby stay up all night

His hands are weathered and unkempt; there's a layer of dirt underneath his fingernails that are bitten and rugged and his breath smells faintly of the whisky he nicked from his roommate's liquor cabinet.

with the things you can do you won't but you might

What he's doing is wrong and knows that for a fact. There's an ever-present sense of guilt that follows him everywhere he goes like a parasite, worming its way into his head and twisting his mind to warp to its will. It's not right and he knows that but he still finds himself taking long sip after grudging sip, alone in his room at an hour that's ungodly to the other people wandering the nighttime streets, numb and feeling nothing other than the bitter tang of whisky that clouds his eyes and makes the room spin on a top.

the potential you see that you'll never be

He doesn't care anymore. His brain is tired and overworking, steaming and on lockdown... the very thought of escaping his gaping black hole of a life isn't satisfactory. The mere thought of being anywhere but his room, laying on his bed and listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers on repeat as his hand slowly guides the top of the drink to his chapped lips is close to nonexistent. He doesn't find anything interesting. His ambition to pursue a career in the science field along his deceased mentor isn't even an inkling of thought anymore. Lying alone on the floor in his room and ignoring every 'ping' of his phone - signaling a text message from his friend that he does not want to respond to - is where he sees himself for the remaining future, given he doesn't do anything reckless to ruin it.

the promises you'll only make

He's distanced himself from everyone he holds dear and not even his closest friends can get a rise out of him - he's stoic and numb and the only emotion he feels is pain, guilt, and a sense of loneliness... his broken promises are weaved tightly with purpose, with the intention of fulfilling them, though he can't. Holding up his end of the bargain has never been so difficult... he turns away.

drink up with me now and forget all about

He's in a loophole of blacked out. He's been on a month long bender and his head is always spinning. He's always irritable and unkempt, hair untidy and clothing smelling faintly of alcohol.

the pressure of days do as i say

There's a pressure on his chest. It eats away at him and digs into his vulnerable being with malicious intent, like a sinister speaking parasite implanting its eggs in his heads and leaving seeds for new negative thoughts... they grow like weeds. He can't live with it; he turns towards a numbing substance.

and i'll make you okay

He's convinced it's right.

and drive them away

It's left him alone and seething in his own guilt.

the images stuck in your head

Memories of an ash-stricken sky plague his dreams. Eerie, ghostly hues of purple indicate that the moments replaying in his head are a dream, but it doesn't stop his steps from being agonizingly slow, trying to run away from the hoards of aliens running after him with sinister intent... legs jelly as if underwater... tensile thread in his web-shooters absent; the scent of something rotten and decayed invade his nostrils as he runs, dream-like, legs aching and burning... but the stench isn't dirt, it smells organic... like a human... he reaches a burnt, shrivelled being, and everything stops - silence envelopes the wasteland like a thick fog and the beings chasing him vanish, turn into dust and blow away, eerily calm.... it's a human. A burn victim. There's a bloodied, gnarled hand, pointed to the sky as if reaching for something, and the stink makes Peter's stomach lurch.

There's a faint blue glow where the heart should be, but it confuses him - shouldn't the thing be dead? Isn't that a signal of activity? Peter slowly reaches forward, heart in his throat, but only before the thing sits up at an inhuman speed. It shrieks, a shrill, haunting, echoing sound, and Peter cries out and falls onto his tailbone, scampering away with a terrified grunt as he clamps his dirtied hands over his ears. It sounds like a siren, haunting and petrifying, though holding notes of despair -

Peter jolts up in bed in a cold sweat. He throws off his thick comforter with an angered grunt, feeling overwhelmingly hot and sweltering. It was a dream, he knows that, but it felt so real and now he can't help the involuntary heaving of his chest and the fear that bubbles inside of him, crawling up his throat and prohibiting him from breathing because now tears are falling down his freckled cheeks and he's scared because he can't breathe and desperate gasping noises are echoing deep in his throat but he can't get them out and May's working the nightshift so he's alone and he's going to suffocate on his own breaths - is that even possible? - and die, and she's going to find him dead in his bed, foaming at the mouth and blue and bloated -

He blindly reaches for his phone on his bedside table and fumbles through his contacts, searching for the only person he knows to call - he hopes he chooses the right person because his eyes are swimming in tears and his vision is going black at the edges  - bringing the phone up to his ear and hearing the obnoxious ring of the connection, signaling that the call's going through though she's probably not going to answer at this time of night -

"Peter?"  There's a muffled rustling and her voice is raspy and hoarse with sleep. "A-Are you alright? Why are you calling me?"

Peter's vision is still wavering and he doesn't know if he's in another dream because everything's dark and he doesn't have a grip on reality but he responds in the only way he knows how to.

"I-I can't breathe," he says, weeping softly with fear, trying to keep his composure for the sake of her mental wellbeing because he knows she has gone through as much as him but he can't keep himself together - his body is wracked with a sudden onslaught shakes and he nearly drops his phone. "I need you, I-I'm not okay, please come over."

There's another sound of rustling on the receiving end and it sounds like she just jumped out of her bed. Her voice loses its dreamy quality as she speaks into her phone, and Peter can tell she's picking apart her room in search for her old MIT sweater she wears religiously, and he doesn't really make out any words in his panicked state other than the three words that leave her mouth and mean more than what the world could ever offer: a simple, "I'm coming."

the people you've been before

A firm knock rings out through the apartment an approximate twenty minutes later.

Of course, she's wearing that MIT sweater, and it swallows her whole. Her eyes are lined with purple and are slightly bloodshot, looking pained, following Peter's line of sight. Her hair is thrown up into a messy bun and the flyaway strands that frame her face are most likely a result of her fevered running through the downtown streets and through the Metro.

Peter's sure he doesn't look too much of a looker either: he's donning a stupid oversized tie-dye t-shirt he got on Spring Break with his college friends and he's positive it smells reminiscent of weed and beer, but the exhausted girl standing in his doorway doesn't look like she cares.

She looks like she's in pain.

Her eyebrows are knotted together in worry and behind her eyes are signs of suffering, but, she doesn't leave any time for Peter to speak before surging forward and wrapping her arms around his waist. She squeezes her eyes shut and nudges her head in the crook of his neck, trapping him in her warm embrace, not allowing him to back away. It's ironic, because Peter used to be the one to hold her and wipe away her tears, but now, it's the opposite... things have changed so much and it makes Peter's heart sting.

He's not the same person he used to be. He pushed her away.

The last time he's willingly made contact with her was months ago, but now she's looking out for him like she's always had, and it makes the sticky guilt inside of him pile up layer upon layer.

"Hey, Pete," she says quietly, resting her head on her shoulder and pulling him from his reverie with her voice. "Let's go to your room to talk, you sounded pretty shaken up on the phone."

"Okay," he finds himself saying, nodding against her skin and sinking into her touch, though he doesn't know if it's a dream or not because he still feels faint and drowsy... he digs his face into the crook of her neck and lets her hand guide him towards his door.

that you don't want around anymore

Not many words are exchanged. There's a peaceful silence and the occasional whirr of cars speeding by on watered roads. It's raining heavily and Peter can't help but to find his chapped lips twisting up into a sardonic smile at the situation he finds himself in, because of course the universe is mocking him with its weather. It's offering them a storm; a symbol of his damaged psyche.

She's sitting on the edge of his bed and he's sitting on the opposite end, staring at the floor with an intense gaze that doesn't do a very good job of hiding his wild inner monologue. If she wants to glance at him, she would know immediately what he was thinking based on his body language: furrowed eyebrows, fingers picking at his cuticles, a leg bouncing restlessly.

His facade is crumbling and he feels foolish for calling her because now he's in his purest form... pitiful and sensitive and vulnerable... but he doesn't care to bring up the elephant in the room.

He called her for a reason, and a reason that was very clearly shown through his scared words and tone, but now there's a thick silence wary with tension and he hasn't said a word. She's been silent too, but he thinks she's waiting for the perfect time to interject. Strategy and planning - it's so overwhelmingly her that he feels a pang of something unknown in his stomach.

He pretends to gaze at the floor, and he knows that her insistent gaze is on his back. He can just see what she looks like through his mind's eye: disappointed and saddened.

The empty whisky bottle rolling aimlessly on the ground is a reminder of that.

that push and shove and won't bend to your will

"Peter," she finally says, puncturing the silence with a stern edge.

He slowly looks up, dreading what expression he would see on her pretty features... sadness? Anguish? Rage? He expects the worst, but as his eyes meet her with bated breath, he is instead met with something much more stony.

She looks conflicted and behind her eyes are battlefields.

"Peter," she repeats, and her gaze doesn't waver. It's insistent and soul-crushing and he feels like she can look into his eyes and figure him out right then and there. She reaches out a hand and leaves her palm open, inviting him to take it though leaving a reminder that she's trying not to intrude. "We need to talk," she finishes.

"About what?" he asks dumbly.

"Things," she answers. "There's some things we need to address, Pete."

She shrugs deeper into her sweater and waits patiently for his reply.

A small silence passes and a muscle jumps in Peter's jaw, peering deeply into her eyes and trying to identify the war she's waging, but she's stoic. He can't get a read on her.

He sighs and kicks an old beer can at his feet.

"There's nothing to talk about," he says baldly. "I called you because I needed help."

"You had a panic attack." Her words are said evenly though she furrows her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side. "That's not normal."

"It's normal for me."

"That's my point."

Silence.

"You need to take better care of yourself, Pete." She slides over towards him so that her leg is touching his. She peers at him with conflicted eyes and cups his cheekbone gently, tilting his head down to meet her line of sight that is considerably shorter than his. "You..." she bites her lip and tears well in her eyes and her words are laced with grief. "You aren't the person you were before. We... we need to talk. Please."

There's a pang of despair in Peter's stomach and he feels it crawl up his insides and taunt him.

"I'm still the same Peter," he tries, offering her a small smile, though he can't ignore how his eyes are starting to water... his hand comes up on top of hers though he can't properly hold her because it's shaking so severely. "I haven't changed."

Her eyes soften. Her lips twist up into a pained smile, though they start to tremble... Peter frowns and reaches out a hand... but now, tears are pouring silently down her rosy cheeks.

"You've changed, Peter," she confirms quietly, slowly shaking her head. "You're not the same person anymore. I can't watch you drive yourself deeper into the ground."

"I'm the same, Y/N," he pleads, moving closer and resting a hand on her thigh. It's clad in grey sweatpants, the pair that he reminds buying her for her birthday all those years ago... he's surprised they still fit. Tears stream down his freckled cheeks and he has to suppress a hiccough. "I haven't changed, I swear."

She shakes her head and smiles sadly. "You have."

Peter's struck with silence and his mouth goes dry. Words can't meet his lips and a surge of hurt washes over him like the pounding rain outside.

"You're not the same LEGO loving boy anymore," she whispers, looking down at the grey comforter. "You... you drink, you do drugs, you surround yourself with the wrong people, and you dropped out of school... you're the brightest guy I've ever met, yet you still managed to completely jeopardize your future. What happened to Spider-Man? What happened to talking to your real friends? They don't care for you, Pete. We do. We miss you so much. And actually, MJ can't stand to bring up your name anymore. She'll either start yelling or burst into tears." Y/N laughs bitterly and looks up at him, and the wars that she's waging behind her eyes are obvious... she's been waiting to defeat them and she's been waiting for the perfect time to bring them up. She's addressing them. Peter realizes what that means.

He lets go of her hand and backs away, wiping at his red-rimmed eyes with a trembling hand.

"No... d-don't do this. Y/N, please don't."

She regards him for a moment, but only before her lips begin to quiver, slowly, slowly... like a teapot being brought to a boil, and before Peter can even comprehend it, she breaks out into a sob.

"I can't have you calling me when you need something, Peter," she says with a cry, words slurred. "I know you only care about me when you need reassurance, and I want to help you, but why else would I be here? For no other reason, surely. You only need me when you want something. You've never talked to me or invited me over in months!"

She gazes at him with pain, agony, and Peter can't even respond. His walls haven't had time to respond and be put up yet. He just never would've thought it would be her to cut ties.

"I care for you, Pete, that's why I came." She cups his face and now her tears are streaming quicker than ever. "But, I can't put your needs over mine. I hate doing this, and I feel so fucking selfish, but I love you so much, I really do, please know that. I'll never stop loving you. You're my best friend, and I've never felt this way towards anyone before, but you're not the same Peter I met in seventh grade history class." She hiccoughs and her eyes are lined with red. "You've changed. And now, I..." she sucks in a breath and sits up straighter, retracting her hand from his. "I have to go now, Peter."

Choking out a sob, she stands up and stumbles to the door, tripping over her feet.

"W-Where are you going?" Peter asks, moving to stop her, though he decides against it because he doesn't want to end up with another broken wrist on his watch. "You're leaving?"

She doesn't answer.

She wraps her hand around the knob with a cough. She stares at the door for a moment. Suddenly, her hands begin to blindly reach for the bottom of her threadbare sweater, and he pulls it slowly over her head, sniffling as her eyes stare blankly at the door.

She throws her MIT sweater onto his bed and opens the door, staring into the hall.

Peter's heart stops.

No, no, no...

"You can have it, Peter."

She leaves.

i'll keep them still

Peter's stuck on his bed again, tears leaking down his cheeks.

Again, his life is a loop - of course, the universe likes to mock him.

He's on his bed, staring up at  the ceiling, and finding a bottle of vodka being drawn to his lips.

Red Hot Chilli Peppers is playing in the background.

His eyes are blank and unwavering.

His hands are weathered and dirty, and his breath smells faintly of alcohol.

A cycle.

***

as per usual, taggin’ some mutuals :) @quackeroos​ @chaoticpete​ @eridanuswave​ @parkersbliss​ @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines​ @thirzaholland​ @andromedaaaaaaaaa​ @lost-space-ranger​ @peachyparkerr​

[exmateriadead]

THE BILLBOARDS.

I want you to imagine a sign, and on that sign is a name in black text sitting on a white background. The sign is in Georgia, in the United States of course. Not the country because who looks at Georgia the country when it isn't on fire. There are no signs there.

In Georgia, somewhere off the beat road of the highway is a sign with a name on it. Victor Young.

A name as plain as ever, susceptible to be one of those fluky ads. They're effective but cliché in taste because then the onlooker fights with themselves whether to Google the name or not and when they do they'll usually get into a wormhole that leads to an ad for a personal injury lawyer or something to do with the church of Jehovah Witnesses and then they had spent all that time wondering who is Victor Young and why is he so important that his name stands 120-feet on a white sign with black text so simple and so fixed on a bush trotted highway.

Victor Young.

Victor Young, past the 145 plus profiles on Facebook and the 87 profiles on LinkedIn. Victor Young, the name on the sign in black text and a white background doesn't lead to a personal injury law firm website or a cheap ploy by the consistent Jehovah Witnesses.

It belongs to me. I put his name up there or rather bought 25 billboard signs down the Georgia-Florida Parkway. All appraised from the alimony money, it wasn't hard to get these signs but it wasn't cheap either. The upkeep and payments ate up through my allowance and I just started driving trucks so, the money that I did have wasn't much. Buying a billboard is not cheap--makes you think about the ones out here living alone in forlorn roads and tired driveways, who pays for those? Who pays for any of it?

I didn't want to use the money at all, but after Victor... I had to. I had no other choice. So, the signs were made and put up, just Victors name at first to tell who ever would be reading it that he exists. To tell Victor if he saw it that he exists.

There are a lot of things found in the Georgia-Florida Parkway, the carcasses of animals, dead or alive, people--mostly dead. If Victor couldn't be found any where in the United States--anywhere in the world, perhaps here was the only place that made any sense to me. In this long scar of road between nowhere and somewhere, someone's wandering eyes would look upon an upcoming sign to their left fifty miles in and then again when they turn out another fifty, Victor Young, over and over and over so they don't forget. Repetition is key love, repetition is key.

Victor.... my son, the one that no one looked for.

In May of 2008 two days after Victors high school graduation, it was his birthday. He wanted something quaint and at home, I asked if maybe he wanted to invite a few friends of his to come over but he said no. Just the family just a cake, maybe a pizza or two. So I did what I could and then some, not because he asked me to no, God... he hated when I did more than what was asked for. He'd always say, 'you do so much Ma, so much.' And I took offense of course because what else do mothers do when their hard work goes unappreciated constantly and they're misunderstood and they're overworked because it’s innate, because even if the child doesn't know it, what we do as mothers is never enough, you could always do more, so much more. Least for some mothers not all. Not every mother wants to give and that is what it is can't change that. I sometimes envy that.

What parts of myself have I not given away when I became a mother?

                                                               +++

Driving down the Georgia-Florida Parkway at night I think, we as a collective are particularly good at doing nothing as we are at doing something. There should be in school history books at least a section or a chapter dedicated to humans throughout the years doing nothing. Years of nothing have passed by while we humans have been on this earth where no significant matter happened but also years of significant matter happening and us humans doing nothing about it. Maybe that's not history, that's an arguable point, maybe that's just the truth. And help us all, if any history book is filled with truth. Real truth, not some white mans version of it.

The truth is....

On Victors eighteenth birthday I lied, I told him I wouldn't do too much but I did. I invited some of his friends and some of our extended family. I wanted him to feel seen and loved and maybe I wanted him to talk a little more. It didn't have to be with me but, I knew why he was so quiet sometimes, not the usual observing quiet he had as the awkward middle child but the quiet where children think their parents can't possibly hear. But, we do, even if we don't want to admit it to our selves. And the truth is, the real truth is that we do. We just do nothing about it.

                                                                 +++

I'm fifty miles in now, I drive my truck off the road and into the dirt and grass of the Georgia-Florida Parkway, I get out my truck red fuel container in hand and walk several feet until I reach the foot of a pole. All around I douse it with all with gone pole after the next. Then there's a ladder I climb, how I climbed it is another story but I get up there. Billboards are always bigger than you'd think even the smaller ones. I throw the fuel on the white sign with black text, my eyes are crying to be saved. The smell is so strong I could almost get used to it. I get down and don't hesitate to light a match, I look up and see the black text on the sign is already deteriorating, like sledge it slowly melts from the liquid and the poor uptake from the long years it's been up standing alone holding up the name of a boy who is no longer being looked for. I throw the match into the ground as I did the last twenty times tonight. I watch for a moment as I turn from the cabin of my truck and see the white sign turn from a hungry egg yolk yellow to a fiery red and I watch it from my rear view mirror as I drive away. And who ever is on this highway tonight will watch sign after sign after sign engulfed in flames

Who looks at Georgia when it isn't on fire.

And yes, I could of just requested for the signs to be taken down and I did that, believe you me I did and yet seven years later these signs have been dotted throughout the highway again, they are never ending with my dead sons name. The thing is I stopped looking for Victor awhile ago, but someone else hasn't. Or, someone for a very long time wanted me to look upwards read his name so I never forget or so I do something or nothing about it. I did nothing for a while, I won’t lie.

I did too much on his eighteenth birthday, flared his anxiety even though he was trying to hide it for my sake, I see it now. I get anxiety now, I get why his generation is so littered with it like an infection. We as older parents thought we were passing over as caution. Perhaps not, and perhaps it was better to listen to him that night but I'm not one to live with regrets but, I am one to live with memories. I remember him fidgeting a lot, even when it was over. Him going quiet, that type of quiet I didn't know what to do with but try to knock it down with words but that didn't work. I remember faintly, when I woke up in the middle of the night to check up on the kids, the smell of earth, not bad but like a basket of apples with one of them rotten to the core.

I remember Victor not in his bed. I remember the open front door of our house and blood on our floors. His back to me as he stood in the archway of our front porch.  I don't remember much of anything else-- I mean I remember holding my child and then not holding him, how the screams from my throat stopped being voluntary that they felt like a swarm of bee stings pouring out of my throat. I felt, inhuman. I felt like a long stretch of fire that you could only watch. On and on I went, on and on I burned.

                                                                           +++

I'm in Florida now, somewhere that isn't Tallahassee and isn't Pensacola, somewhere between and off kilter. I'm turning down from the main highway to get on normal roads that'll lead me to this warehouse I'm picking inventory from and guess what I see near the obnoxious Carl's Junior sign with some skinny white girl holding a burger in her hands and a purple sign advertising a trade school? Nestled between burgers, a  two year nursing school and a hospital near by I see; Victor Young. A white sign with black text is the half blur I see when I drive past it.  

Okay, I'll play your game.

When I'm driving south in Florida not going to Clearwater or Miami. I'm going down to the tip of Florida's boot, down by the sea is a factory. When I get there I am in a hurry, I need to get back down on the roads, this time I won't burn the signs I tell myself. I wasn't sure what I would do, but I would do something. Then, a young boy approached me. He was so young eighteen or a little younger, such faces you don't see on the roads often. I turn and see Victor wearing a grey uniform. "Hey Ma." He says, "you made it." My skin feels so tight, something embers inside of me, it isn't a scream. It doesn't have a sound.

The billboards weren't telling me something, they were leading me here. And here for what happens next shouldn't have happened but it does. And I won't forget it all my life, I can't.

[cum-a-calla]

this one's a doozy :))) commission for a cannibal lover. thank you so much for letting me take my time with this one

inside: cannibalism, dismemberment, implied death threats, knotting, fearplay, bloodplay, licking, pain, biting, too many teeth, and a some body horror

..

Work must be done.

Silas drives through the quiet, dark night. No stars – full dark. It brings a familiar thought loop to the forefront of his mind, occupying him through the same tired route he drives all too often now, cruising through the quaint neighborhoods of Derry. It’s so white-picket-fence, so stuck in a period long gone. Frozen in time. It feels slower inside the city limits, like the place is oozing along out of some strange spite. Refusing to die, refusing to acclimate to… what? To time, to reality?

[[MORE]]

And this is Silas’ reality. He glances furtively in the corn fields, knowing he won’t see anything worse than where he’s headed – namely, who he’s off to meet. Something kind of like him, something rotten, a thing that makes its way furtively into the night to hunt, to eat. It’s a lonely business, the feeding; Silas tightens his grip on the steering wheel and swallows past the throbbing lump in his throat, exhilarated and scared absolutely shitless.

The turn on to Neibolt Street is like looking down the barrel of a gun. He pulls up to the old house, the eyesore of the town, and kills the engine. He lingers suspended between two worlds, like he won’t be able to budge from the front seat; it feels impossible, tethered between his hunger and his fear. Garbage bags wait quietly in the backseat, promising him everything he wants the most. Hunger always wins.

It takes three trips, but each run gets a little easier, a little more natural to traverse the decaying structure, to be a little less startled by things hiding in the corners. Sometimes he does that. Does it to test him, he assumes – strange faces behind doorways, running shadows. Garbled languages that make his ears burn. He avoids two Things this time, a slimy, creeping thing in the hallway that he has to steel himself for, staring straight ahead. It won’t hurt me. Just an extension of it. Just him, just a trick. The thing cackles at him in clicks, slithering around his ankles before bounding off in the opposite direction, limbs crackling.

“Pennywise?”

Silas’ voice echoes down by the mouth of the well. Peering down there offers nothing in the way of the clown’s location, and after a few moments of shifty waiting, he decides to begin opening the bags. The smell is strong. It hits him and he weathers the initial recoil, patient as his noses adjusts and his stomach aches for it. His heart beats a little faster, blood rushing through his veins hot as the twitch between his legs. It’s the headiest scent of all, the smell of somebody once they’ve been opened up. That deep, dark scent, the wildest game. Not so wild in several pieces. Not so wild at all.

Silas pulls limbs, innards, a torso. A badly damaged head and a head he’s been storing in a freezer, the body already used up and done away with. It still feels cold. Silas strokes the ratty, blood-crusted hair, the frozen lips. It almost feels sad to set it down, to complete the cycle of that relationship, knowing exactly what Pennywise is going to do to it. Fingers trembling, he removes his hands from the head, forces himself to pay special attention to the damaged one. The jawbone hangs by threads of mangled meat, fine chunks of bone stark in their whiteness. It was an accident. He doesn’t like to damage the heads too much; it feels… disrespectful. Not a true form. He runs the pad of his finger along the teeth, poking into several of the gaps.

He spreads things out in piles – things to be worked on, things that are easiest to prep for consumption. Things he keeps special for himself. There are parts he saves specifically for Pennywise, now, things he largely considers inconsumable – bones, gristle, parts with lots of fat or cartilage. Nothing he feels like wrapping up for home.

He rises up from the floor, already feeling those strong stirrings in his gut. The sensation of all that dull, chilled flesh under his hands makes him throb, and he steadies himself against the edge of the well on the way to grab his tools. They rest in their new home, in the relative safety of this cursed house, knives, cleavers, a hacksaw, clips. Scissors. Butcher paper, twine. A bevy of instruments dedicated to his desire, just as important as the people they part open for him. One big, warm, blissfully wet cycle. Ouroboros. He drags tools back to the parts arranged lovingly around the well, the thrill of his busy night flushing his cheeks.

It boils down to pure, naked effort and routine. There’s an art to it, a beauty in order, in realizing the big picture as well as the tiny parts that make it all up. There are sinews and curves and angles, tricks in which to properly trim the meat. Slowly, he builds stacks of cuts. There’s a pile of offal for the creature. He arranges it closest to the well, next to various other undesirable parts. It takes the better part of hours, takes diligence and every last nerve to survive the dimness, the anxiety of waiting, wondering.  

When Pennywise shows up, he peeks from over the edge. It startles Silas, rips a gasp from his lips as he locks eyes with it.

“Scared the fucking shit out of me,” he mutters. He stays silent, stays behind the lip of the well where he watches intently. Every single move Silas makes, he feels the weight of Pennywise’s gaze, the sheer focus laced with hunger. At least he’s not alone in this hellhole. At least the wait is over, the growing panic like fire licking up through his guts. The clown sits (floats. It floats) in the well and hums occasionally, as if in approval, in excitement. It awakens that spark again in Silas, heat prickling just under his skin. The combination of the heads, the loving way he handles each parcel of cold flesh, the blinkless gaze of a monster who allows him sanctuary, who wants to watch… it’s intoxicating. He draws a shaky breath and continues his task.  

Out from the well, one long, long arm reaches out. Fingers sprawl like a spider, huge, five pale legs skittering around until they close over a jawbone, the jawbone, barely attached to the rest of the head. The newest head. A pang of anger makes his throat close up – but not before a single, stern syllable leaves his lips.

“No.”

Silas licks his own fingers off and rolls that flavor around his tongue as Pennywise rises up like some demented god from the well. The glow of his eyes lights up the room, orange as a sunset in hell. Isn’t that where he is, anyway? Those eyes ground him as the creature towers, hulks over Silas’ seated form on the filthy ground. He snatches the head up, fingers hooked through the jaw, and unhinges his face until the flesh pulls back, tight and shiny and white as clay, and sinks his sharkteeth into the parietal and occipital lobes. Skull fragments shoot from his mouth like shrapnel and soft, pink, gelatinous meat dribbles down his face.

Pennywise grunts as he sends the remainder of the skull sailing to the ground, where it explodes. Flecks of gray-pink meat spray over Silas’ shirt, over the other cuts of meat, limbs ready to be stripped and treated with care. He bows low, nostrils flaring, nose crinkling into a snarl, and those teeth multiply by the second. They jut out of his face as he licks his lips, swallows.

The clown smiles, eyebrows lifting. He gives Silas a jaunty little shake, tiny bells jingling in the ruffles.

“Sorry, Silas, I don’t think I heard ya! Go on… say it again.”

Silas falters, mustering all his focus on keeping still as the creature looming over him comes close enough to rub noses, and he does. He nuzzles slowly into it like they’re lovers, and he clucks his tongue as Silas chokes on his own voice. No words come, and again the clown laughs.

“Oooohhh, sweet Silas, are you jealous?” It chuckles and Silas tastes the thing’s breath, rancid, spoilt over centuries. It’s intoxicating, it feels like tasting death itself, and Silas almost leans into it, curious about a flavor of death and decay he hasn’t tasted yet. “Don’t like me playing with your toys?”

“They’re not toys, they’re people.”

“Food.” He comes away from Silas with a grin. “Not people. Just meat. Do you like to fuck the meat, Silas? Do you love the meat?”

Silas reels, anger black as the night racing up the column of his spine, indignant, mingling with his fear like acid in the back of his throat. Cheeks burning, he takes a breath, tries to contain it before it gets him killed. Pennywise snatches the other head and Silas reaches out, tries to snatch it back.

Pennywise howls, keeping the body part easily out of his reach, like a child’s game. He runs his tongue over the face and sips Silas’ shaking rage like a cocktail.

“It’s not just meat, it’s – I don’t fucking know, just please… can you just –”

“– be nice?”

Silas huffs, up on his feet. Nothing can save him if Pennywise decides he’s being disobedient or meddlesome. He stands in the face of that knowledge, limbs seized by his immediate sense of danger, and he wonders faintly if this is it, if this is really fucking it, and buried underneath absolute existential dread is the disappointment that he didn’t get to truly taste his last victim.

Pennywise opens his mouth and his face comes apart. Bones crackle as they rearrange and grow new paths, marrow knitting itself over and over, teeth chittering into being, and he sends the entire head down into his glowing gullet. It’s like snakes eating eggs. The morbid lump travels down the throat, distending his flesh and bulging it through with veins, until it’s absorbed and crushed inside his ribcage, and finally those awful jaws come back together. It crunches, grinds against itself until he’s wearing that familiar, dripping sneer, face unbearably whole again. He comes so close, but this time he doesn’t bow. He’s solid, radiating heat and frothing pink-red at the mouth.

“Do you want me to be nice, Silas?” His voice comes, like the whisper of dry leaves on asphalt, like creaking hinges. His lips remain still. “Do you want me to be so nice?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah? Want me to be as nice as you are with these… things?”

“They’re not things –”

“Do you like the feeling of them inside you?”

Silas can’t remember how to breathe. His lungs simply quit, too stunned, stomach lurching like he’s been punched. The clown giggles, dropping to its haunches and rocking on his feet. He clutches a fillet knife like it could ever harm the creature in front of him. His mouth works up and down several times before his brain sends the correct signals, misfire after misfire, and, finally, Silas utters a pained yes.

Pennywise pushes a long, gloved finger between Silas’ lips. The whine that surrounds that finger is enough to set his guts on fire, and there’s a shift in the light deep in those endless pits. The light back there dances. It’s calming, it makes his eyeballs tingle the longer he tries to find it in there, to see it a little more, see if it changes.

“You like them?”

“Yes…”

The fabric of the glove presses down on Silas’ tongue. Pennywise grasps him there, fingertip digging into the fleshy center, thumb up under the shelf of his jaw, and he tips Silas’ head back until his throat is vulnerable, a landscape waiting to be explored by teeth. No teeth come; instead, Pennywise leans in, nose tickling over his pulse, and inhales. He sniffs at Silas like an animal, like Silas is a meal, and the prospect is not only horrifying but irresistible. He all but leans into it.

“I like you, pretty boy. Like your scent. Like the stink of you here.”

The clown’s other hand cups Silas between the thighs, engorged cock trapped under his palm. The pressure is sharp, it makes Silas jump and whine.

“Oh, you like it? You want me inside of you, sweet boy? Are you hungry for me, too?”

Oh my god. That’s what he says, but it comes out garbled, clipped off, caught around Pennywise’s fingers. The clown titters and there’s a sound that makes Silas’ stomach clench and roil, a sound not unlike ripping meat. It’s wet and violent, and then there are teeth on his throat. They sink slowly, so slowly that he can hear the little pops as they break skin and razor under his flesh. They settle for barely a moment before there’s a sickening squelch and Pennywise rears back, licking the blood off his lips, and his brow knits together. He cocks his head and pouts, smiles, pouts again.

“Poor creature. I know it hurts, hurts so much. Heeere…”

Impossibly long, slithering over his throat until it wraps all the way around, Pennywise’s tongue drags over the wounds. It’s like a worm, like a writhing pink leech. It pulses and squeezes and soaks in his blood, the creature behind it moaning, eyes rolling wetly up into its skull. There are veins there, too, tiny spiderlike trails that thread his eyeballs as well as his thick tongue. It contracts around his neck until Silas is wheezing for air. The constriction sends a wave of electricity down between his legs, and he rocks into Pennywise’s outstretched palm like he’s offering himself, offering everything up, anything, just to keep feeling this.

His tongue slides back behind his teeth and Silas keeps rocking, burying his hands into the ruffles at the neck of the alien’s costume.

“I know what you need, Silas. I know you’re hungry.” He smooths his gloved hands away from where Silas is burning hot, digs his fingers into the fabric of his pants and RIPS. The force of it pushes him back, makes him prone below the towering clown. “So wet already. Messy, messy boy. Does it feel so good, taking apart your little friends, your meals? You want me to take you apart, S i l a s? Nice and slow, turn you inside out.”

“Fuck.” Silas allows the clown to spread his legs, push his thighs apart til they burn with effort, til he’s shaking, whimpering, arching up to try to catch Pennywise’s lips against his. He wants to taste his own blood, taste the fatal chasm of the monster’s mouth. “Please. I… I want that, all of that, anything…”

“Mmh, eager, aren’t you? Wanna be touched so bad. Wanna be fucked. Tell me. Tell me, brave little thing, tell me what you need.”

Silas begins to speak, but the words falter and tremble into more of those little, pitiful whines, watching Pennywise shift and change and buck his hips forward with an unmistakable bulge inside the pleats of his outfit. It throbs like a heartbeat, like Silas can somehow feel it inside his body, intimate as his own blood pressure. His body works overtime to get the blood anywhere but that engorged place between his legs, screaming for attention, slick and parted and exposing how swollen he is. Pennywise nudges with his fingers, teases. Nothing is enough.

“I didn’t hear that. Try again.”

Pennywise is less clown and more creature. He shreds his own costume, sheds it like a skin that’s grown too tight, too restrictive, and the scarred flesh around his ribcage ripples. It grows lumps, disgusting masses of flesh that squirm between muscle and bone until the structure is different. They split his skin and blood like tar pours from the open wounds, black and viscous, bones shredding through stark-white until there’s meat wrapping around them, lengthening, whipping mindlessly around until their form becomes clear. Rubbery flesh chases up the newly formed limbs, extra arms, fingers sprouting from the stumps of raw sinew until there are more hands to use, more fingers to dig into Silas’ yielding flesh. They go to work immediately, sliding up his shirt to touch his belly, his chest, between his thighs where he’s so painfully ready.

“Please be inside me, l-like the others, please… let me… taste you.”

No sooner does he admit his need does Pennywise comply. Freshly formed fingers shove past his lips and teeth and near the back of his tongue, ready to make him gag. Silas holds out til his eyes water, til his throat itches to swallow and sputter, but if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s handling things in his mouth that shouldn’t be.

“Oh, I will be. I’ll be inside you, big boy. You’ll thank me, oh, you’ll SING for it. You’ll SCREAM and BEG for me to leave you empty again, yes you will!”

Incoherent curses drip around Pennywise’s new fingers, stuffed so neatly in that obedient mouth, and his prehensile dick comes free. It wriggles against Silas, nudges at his own wet cock and the secret, tight place underneath. Pennywise watches Silas drool around his fingers and he matches him, jaw hanging open a little too wide, a little too toothy, like his entire face might split in a mess of bleeding gum and teeth, and Silas wriggles down. He pushes against a cock too big, too molten hot to ever be able to actually fit inside of him, and yet, with each soft rut of Pennywise’s hips, it seems a little more tangible. The alien cock writhes just like Silas does. It’s textured, lined and grooved and covered in tiny bumps that don’t seem to stay fixed to any one area. Everything changes as it pleases. It curves up over where Silas wants him without actually pushing inside – until he does.

Searing. His eyes fly wide open and they’re almost as wide as the clown’s, glowing like dying embers back in his massive skull, and Silas wonders if he can’t just burst into flames like those dancing lights. Might just fly with them, might float into Pennywise and become weightless, become eternal. There’s a continuation there, a loop of thought as the monster traces the places behind Silas’ teeth and thrusts between his thighs, that he wants to be the one inside of somebody else, wants to sink into Pennywise much the same way as Pennywise sinks into him, but more. The call of the void screeches through his head like tinnitus.

“Look at you. Look at you spread open, like a treat, a treat just for me.” Claws slash at him, into his belly, across his thighs, and Pennywise makes a sound deep in his frame that awakens a fear previously dormant in Silas’ blood. It courses through him like a warning through time as Pennywise makes those sounds, like clicking, like broken radio transmission and scuttling leaves, like snapping mandibles. It sounds like it’ll burst out of the beast’s body and then it’s everywhere, in the walls, vibrating up through the ground, leaking out of each pore. The clown moans, he drags that nasty tongue up Silas’ belly and seeks out all those shiny new gashes. “Let me take care of that – oh, you hurtin’ for me? Good boys hurt. Good boys let me fill them aalll the way UP!”

Pennywise bottoms out into Silas. His squirming, shifting cock practically spills out of him, there’s just nowhere else to go. Silas’ body aches, it clenches down on the monstrous thing inside of him until he can feel the butterfly pulse of his own climax creeping toward the surface. Above him, jaws come apart, snap together inches from his face, and he shudders with boiling heat. Everything is wet. Each little jerk and throb strikes an exquisitely primal fear in Silas that maybe he’s serious this time; maybe he’ll finally take what’s his and then consume him. Maybe he’ll slide into the tight, hot squeeze of the thing’s gullet, feel all that trembling flesh and meat closing in around him, like he’s done so many times himself with others’ bodies. The mental image is made all the more vivid by Pennywise’s gaping maw, studded far too full of teeth. They jut out from his bleeding ridges of gum and the back of his throat seems to stretch forever, to some unseen point where there’s a glow not unlike his eyes. This one’s a little prettier, though. This one makes his guts squeeze down, and for a moment, it feels like the cock inside of him is a little thicker.

“Feeling a little afraid? Been so good at taking it that you’ve forgotten what I can REALLY do to you.” Fingers crawl all over Silas, crawl over his ribs and at his waist and at the apex of his thighs, right above where he’s slowly, agonizingly fucked apart. Fingers stroke. He’s so slippery already that it’s barely begun and he can feel the wringing of pressure in every single nerve, the last, final tensing before he feels like he might lift weightlessly off the floor. “Doing so well, sweet boy. Show me just how much you need it, come on. Show me you can take it all.”

“I am,” Silas grunts. He’s panting, delirious with it, bouncing down mindlessly against the clown til he’s flush. The pain seems like an idea, existing and not existing at all. “I am, I can, I am… can – fuck! – can feel all of you.”

“Oh! Can you?”

Under Pennywise’s cruel laughter, under the dripping, toxic drool, the teeth crowding his sneer, Silas bucks against him and against his talented hands, stroking even after the waves are coursing outward from his belly all the way to his toes, the backs of his eyelids gone a horrible shade of bright orange before they’re white. It’s like being washed in stars. His muscles ebb and flow, constrict and contract, and through it all, Pennywise feels painful.

Each second lends to the explosion of his climax, dick pulsing with each aftershock. Underneath that, the clown grows. He barely moves, content to grab at Silas and tease him well past the peak of his orgasm, as deep as he can safely go, but… he inflates.

The base of his cock grows, stretching Silas out until it aches. It swells up against a particularly sensitive patch of flesh and forces a new, miserable kind of pleasure into him. It’s too much too soon. It hurts, it feels like fucking fire, it feels like he’s in a (sunset)

“Guess you can take it all, big boy.”

He rocks his body only slightly and then his eyes roll up to the threaded whites, blood welling in his lids and leaking down over his cheeks like the very vessels in his face can’t stand to hold it in, either. He erupts inside of Silas, fills him, pumps his cum into him with his cock knotted nice and tight inside. Trapped. Every single nail digs into Silas as Pennywise cums, growling, gasping, grunting like an animal. He leans down to nuzzle his bleeding face into his captive’s throat, tucked in the nape of his neck, and he breathes a giggle and smells him, licks him.

“Gunna keep coming back? Come a’callin?”

He nips at him, licks the soft little wounds like candy. He jerks his hips back and mocks the pitiful sounds coming from Silas.

“Poor thing. Pooooooor thing. Here. Let me make it better.”

Pennywise tugs against the lock of their bodies, pulling until Silas is nearly sobbing and incomprehensible before he opens his jaws and that tongue pours out of him like some monstrous new organ, slimy and dripping and hot as it slides around his captive’s dick. It feels far too soon. It feels like an impossibility, even with the delicious feeling of all that seed seeping out of him, coating him, body covered in a sticky film of saliva and blood and cum. That tongue brings him off again so quickly it leaves his head spinning, ears plugging up and voiding out until it feels like there are thick wads of cotton in them. It comes back slowly, returning on the edge of a high-pitched whine.

Finally, there’s a sense of relief, of deflation, and the eventual removal. The satisfaction of being so empty again is almost as good as the act itself. He lay spent on the floor, sprawled out and enjoying the near-doze of recuperation. Distantly, he knows there’s a job to finish. Things to take apart, to package. Things to feed the monster above him, whose limbs crack and snap and twitch as they’re absorbed back into his body. He looks like a spider, some psychotic arachnoid going through a reverse molt.

“Was it nice, Silas?” Pennywise smirks, lapping blood from his mouth, from his fingers. “Nice and full?”

“Yes.”

He laughs low, under unsteady breath like winds through the gallows, and the room gets a little colder, a little darker. The clown nods at the piles of meat, the spare parts. He winks, taking a bow, and perches on the edge of the well. Waiting. Watching. Expectant and free of distraction, free of the growing tension. Silas squirms where he sits, perversely happy to feel it there, feel the parts of him painted thick with its seed. Those parts tingle, they warm him and make his skin crawl in the most pleasant way.

Back to work.

[pansexualholli]

Big egg 🥚

This will now be my masterpiece.

Jonas was a lonely man. He spent most of his teen years trying to fill the hole in his heart, and his remaining adult years drinking it away.

Too deep in his mind, Jonas drunkenly stumbled around the alleyway behind his usual bar. Almost unconscious, he fell against a wall.

The scent of booze covering him like flies on something rotten, even bugs and mice knew to stay away from him. His only animal friends were the moths that ate his clothes.

Only 28 and no love life?

He took another swig from the bottle.

Faintly Jonas noticed a large white egg in the corner of his vision, twice the size of his torso and bulging with veins, it stirred him awake with aggressive whispers.

"Dumb bitch,"

"Are you ignoring me?"

"Get over hear before I make you,"

It sounded like his father, like Jonas.

Jonas wondered if someone laced his bottle? But decided he didn't care enough wonder.

"I said get over here!"

He didn't want to listen to the egg anymore, he forced himself to stand and tried to shut it up.

"I'll kill you for leaving me! I'll kill you good and dead,"

As he got closer Jonas could hear what sounded like a heartbeat. Up close the egg was more like skin than an actual egg, and it smelled like tacky perfume.

The egg was in his face now, the whispers turned into screams.

"KILLYOUKILLYOUKILLYOU,"

It really sounded like Jonas now.

Sobered up by the giant screaming egg, Jonas raised his hand in anger but noticed a half shattered bottle in his grasp.

He started to smash the egg, blood spilling out instead of yolks.

Jonas was a lonely man, he spent most of his teen years trying to fill the hole in his heart, his remaining adult years drinking it away.

Maybe he was lonely for a reason. Maybe he should've taken no for an answer.