#they all have grinds but echo grinds always feel the worst

[asleepinawell]

wait they nerfed knifegate???

[silverskye13]

Enemy caretaker, but Wels helping Tanguish this time!

Maybe something along the lines of, Wels getting Tanguish to tell him what he sees in Helsknight in exchange for the help, if you’d like a slightly more specific prompt ^^

When it comes to the whole Hermits vs helsmets thing, Welsknight can, nine times out of ten, say with confidence, he's the good guy. The Hermits are all, barring a few hiccups from time to time, objectively good people. Helmets are the opposites of Hermits. Ergo, helsmets are evil. And if he didn't have logic to prove this, he had Helsknight. Helsknight who, as soon as he had the wits to start making his own identity, immediately started orbiting Welsknight like the most destructive, malicious moon might tear up the atmosphere of a nearby planet. He was mean, vindictive, cruel, heartless, brutal, and worst of all, perfect. Perfect form with the sword, with his knightly duties and tenets, hels, even when their fights were more philosophical, he always seemed to have the perfect argument. There was something uniquely insufferable about fighting a perfect enemy. Grinding.

{This wasn't about Helsknight.}

Anyway. Helsmets. Everything their Hermits aren't. And if the Hermits are objectively good, well, it follows they're all pretty evil. And a good person fighting an evil person -- the good person is in the right. That's what good is all about, generally speaking.

So, chasing Tanguish through a strip mine: Objectively Good. He is Fighting Evil. Sure, that evil is terrified of him, and keeps scrambling away like he thinks Welsknight is the devil incarnate, but... Objectively, Welsknight is doing the right thing, the good thing. Fighting evil. Fighting Evil Is Good.

{Subjectively, Welsknight admits to himself, begrudgingly, it doesn't feel good.}

They ran into each other by accident. Welsknight was mining. He wasn't wearing his good armor -- just some old chain beneath his tunic, so nothing would maul him. He'd been digging away mindlessly and broke through a wall into the bottom of someone else's strip mine -- probably Tango's. He came out of the wall right beside a pile of chests, and right beside the little helsmet sneak thief pilfering from those chests.

Welsknight and Tanguish made eye contact. Welsknight drew his sword in the time it took either of them to blink, and swung it. Tanguish dodged. The vertical slash that would have pretty neatly bisected the little helsmet missed by less than a fraction of a hair's breadth. It was so close, in fact, that it cut through the chain chord that fastened his cloak to his shoulders, so when Welsknight lunged forward and grabbed that cloak in his fist, the pins tore free, and Welsknight was left standing with a bundle of cloth while the helsmet escaped down the hall. Welsknight sheathed his sword and sprinted after him.

It was a long, dark, relentless run. They didn't shout at each other. There was no epic chase music playing. There was only the pounding of feet, the wind in their lungs, and the echo of their movements bouncing off the tunnel walls. Tanguish turned a corner, and so did Welsknight. Tanguish leaped down a drop, Welsknight followed. The little creature was nimble and quick, but he had no idea where he was going, and all Wels had to do was follow. They burst out of strip mines into a mine shaft, splintering the depths of some cave somewhere. The sound of feet on stone turned abruptly to the hollow thrum of old, rotting wood. The place was only half-lit, and the glittering red eyes of spiders high in the ceiling glinted with watchful malice. Far below them, amidst the old beams at a bruising drop, the clattering bones of skeletons started pulling themselves together, warned awake by breath and sound.

Tanguish did a snap turn on the wood, a quick dart off a side path -- or what would have been, if his claws hadn't slipped. The caves were humid, and the ground stayed just the barest amount of slick. Momentum caught him in its fist and he tumbled, only saving himself from rolling off the edge by digging in with long claws. Welsknight slowed his sprint, pulling to a stop before he could make the same mistake. He and Tanguish made eye contact again.

{Subjectively, it felt very, very bad when someone stared up at you with blind panic, and, in a snap decision, figured out they would rather drop to their potential doom than be caught by you. Which was exactly what Tanguish did.}

The little helsmet gasped, bright yellow eyes flashing fearfully. He let go of the wood, plummeting off the mine shaft's boardwalk to the hard stone below. It wasn't a killing fall. Welsknight knew that because, when the helsmet hit the ground, he let out a cry of pain. Welsknight stepped up to the edge, paused long enough to make sure he wasn't leaping into a hazard, and then stepped over the side himself. He landed safely, his momentum dampened by the splay of his elytra, and the feather falling enchantment that sparked off his boots when they touched the ground.

Tanguish was curled up on the ground not far from him, hands grasping at his ankle, a painful grimace on his face. When Welsknight landed, Tanguish snapped his gaze to him, breath coming sharp in his chest.

Welsknight swallowed hard, steeled himself, and drew his sword.

For every one of his steps forward, Tanguish scrabbled back away from him. He didn't stand -- maybe his ankle was broken. He kicked away with his good leg, and pulled himself with his claws and elbows until he backed himself against a stalagmite. Welsknight continued forward. He reminded himself to be relentless. He reminded himself to be steadfast. He reminded himself that this would not be the first time he killed a disarmed enemy, someone completely at his mercy. He had done it to Helsknight a few times before, and Hels had done it... several times to him.

{But Helsknight didn't show fear. Helsknight didn't cry out. He growled. He snarled. He spat. He did grandstanding. He spoke quiet, seething oaths. He vowed to do awful things, threatened, and made good on those threats sometimes. Helsknight didn't show fear. He did the thing that monsters did: when he felt pain, he made himself dangerous.}

Tanguish did not make himself dangerous. He didn't make himself monstrous.

Tanguish pressed himself against the stalagmite like he thought, if he leaned hard enough against it, he might fall through it into safety. He didn't watch Welsknight. He watched Welsknight's sword like it was a snake, waiting for that fatal strike, as though, if he could only see it coming, he might be able to better prepare for it. He shook, shivers that gripped him so violently they made even his breaths shudder. He would probably cry, if he weren't too scared at the moment to remember what tears were.

And then, as though all of that weren't bad enough, he begged.

Welsknight closed the final distance between them, heart hardened as much as he was able. He drew up his sword, laying his free hand across the blade to better steady it. He was going to do this right. One swift, well-placed stab, somewhere the little thing wouldn't suffer.

"Please. P-please. Please--" Tanguish hiccuped a terrified breath and stammered with every exhale, over and over, like a prayer. "P-p-p-please."

Welsknight felt something cold wash down his spine. His determined scowl twitched.

{Just be done with it.}

Welsknight drew his sword back an inch more, tilted his shoulders--

"P-please don't," Tanguish gasped louder. Quicker. Words tumbling out of him like a flood. "Please d-don't--! Don't--! Please don't--!"

By the time Welsknight had moved into his lunge, Tanguish was screaming, his voice echoing loud and terrified off every wall in the cave.

"--d-don't kill me! Please don't--! Please--!"

His shriek cut off abruptly against the ringing crash of steel on stone. Tanguish choked, peering at Welsknight wide-eyed through his crossed, shaking arms he'd thrown up to shield himself. He was crying openly, hiccuping gasps that shook his whole body. Very slowly, he glanced to his side, to the gouge in the stone where Welsknight's sword lanced against the stalagmite at the level of his neck. Welsknight could see in the helsmet's eyes the fatal arithmetic of where that sword would have gone if it hadn't twitched to the side.

Tanguish lurched for Welsknight's sword. It was a motion that seemed almost as surprising to Wels as it was for Tanguish. Welsknight managed to draw the blade back before he could grab it. He cursed himself for his moment of weakness, pulled the sword high over his shoulder to bring it down on the treacherous little creature--

"Wait wait wait!!" Tanguish shouted, curling up small, arms over his head protectively. "I'll-ll-l l-leave! M-my ref-flection I'll--" he looked up at Welsknight beseechingly, begging with every inch of his terrified posture. "Y-you d-don't have t-to kill m-me I'll g-go. Please. I d-don't-- I don't-- I d-don't--"

Tanguish hiccuped, and swallowed, and bowed his head. It was by far the most miserable, defeated thing Welsknight had ever seen a person do. Tanguish curled up on the ground, face buried in his arms to save himself the view of the sword, and shaking and crying, he whispered. "I don't want to die."

{There is nothing, objectively, subjectively, abstractly good about killing someone begging desperately for mercy. Even if that someone is Evil. There is nothing good about bringing someone so much terror, they sob at your feet, would rather fall to some terrible end then meet whatever justice you have in store.}

{And, on that note, there is nothing just about relentlessly pursuing and killing someone for... what? Rifling through some chests?}

{Well, it was more than the chests. It was the fact that he was a helsmet. But the chests had kicked this whole thing off and... Well... It just seemed a bit stupid.}

With Tanguish cringing at his feet, Welsknight felt uniquely ridiculous. It was all very dramatic and harrowing, and surreal. Wasn't this thing, effectively, a demon? Wasn't this thing evil? Why then, did he feel like such a monster doing what was supposed to be right? Why wasn't right easier to do?

Somewhere further in the cavern, some mobs groaned. Welsknight was almost relieved to hear it. Zombies and skeletons and creepers were simple, straightforward evils. So simple and straightforward, they were almost benign. They hurt, so he killed them before they could hurt him. They were merciless, because they had no reason not to be. There wasn't enough sentience or thought in them to be any way else. They did not cry or run or beg. They didn't look at him like he was...

... A monster.

Welsknight had lowered his sword at some point. He didn't know when. Probably around the same time Tanguish had buried his face in his arms and stopped begging, resigning to his fate. Welsknight sighed. He suddenly felt very, very tired.

An arrow fired from a skeleton in the dark sailed wide and rattled off some rocks somewhere.

"Can you stand?"

Tanguish flinched at the sound of Welsknight's voice, but didn't answer.

"I said, can you stand?"

Tanguish cracked an eye open and looked up at him hopelessly. He sniffed, and swallowed, and rasped, "N-no." His gaze flicked to his ankle. "It's-- it's broken."

Welsknight sighed and sheathed his sword. The barest flicker of something like hope sparked in Tanguish's eyes. It was a look that nearly guttered out when Welsknight shoved his hand forward. Tanguish flinched away from him again, and then watched his outstretched hand like he feared it would suddenly lunge forward and strangle him.

"Well, come on," Welsknight snapped impatiently. That look, distrustful and scared, angered him. He didn't know why, other than it galled him to know someone thought he was more likely to harm than to help.

Hesitantly, Tanguish reached out and took Welsknight's hand.

Welsknight forced himself to be gentle, to not rip the infuriating helsmet to his feet. He pretended he was a squire again, and there was a knight over his shoulder telling him gentle when you take a lady's hand for a bow, you don't want to hurt her. Tanguish was not a fair lady at court {quite the opposite, in fact}, but he had the fragility of someone whose wrist might break if Welsknight squeezed too hard by accident. He tried not to be too bitter knowing he'd inspired that, made the helsmet breakable with terror.

Tanguish had to lean on him heavily to stand. He refused to look at Welsknight, an expression of misery etched into every line of his face, a wounded animal forced to take shelter by a starving wolf.

Welsknight decided abruptly that he'd never felt so guilty in his life.

{This is ridiculous. He's an enemy. He's evil. He should be scared of you.}

Welsknight stamped down the little voice in his head. He reached down and scooped up the helsmet's legs. Tanguish screwed his eyes shut and hugged himself, an action that made Welsknight scared he'd drop him. His elytra flared out behind him, splaying into a shape like eagle's wings. Welsknight leaped into the air, hovered briefly, long enough to figure out where he needed to go, and swooped off down into a nearby tunnel.

It was cramped. The wind whistled by his ears, and his wing-tips brushed the walls and floor when he flexed them. It was an act of immense concentration not to lose his balance and send them both hurtling into a wall. Yet somehow, he still managed to be disconcerted by the fact that Tanguish barely clung to him. He had one hand pressed against Welsknight's chest, almost restraining more than it held, like he anticipated needing to pitch himself from Welsknight's arms at any given moment. The other hand had found Welsknight's chainmail where it peaked out from beneath his sleeve, and the clawed fingers tangled in the links, like only the metal was safe to touch. His expression was grim death, someone offering trust not because they wanted to, but because they had no other choice. Someone who was convinced they weren't being saved, but were instead only prolonging the inevitable.

Guilt like nausea bubbled up in Welsknight's stomach, and he stubbornly told himself it was the motion of flight that made him feel so wretched.

At last, Welsknight burst from the winding tunnels and into the bright day. He soared skyward, reveling for a moment in the feeling of stretching his wings without fear of crashing. There was a brief moment where, high in the sky and warmed by the sun, Welsknight felt some relief from his guilt. He even dared to wonder if he might impress the helsmet he carried -- surely he'd never flown before, or if he had, never on Hermitcraft, where there was only sun and wind and endless horizon, and not the twisted, smothering red of hels. But when he looked down, Tanguish's eyes were closed, that same look of mournful patience on his face, waiting, perhaps, for Welsknight to make the fickle decision of dropping him to his death.

"The sky is beautiful today," Welsknight said before he could stop himself. A peace offering. Look. See. I'm not a monster. A monster could never admire the sun. The sun, something of Light and Good. The sun, which burns away the darkness. The sun, which seemed to glare down at him like a great, judgemental eye, and make stark the deep, creasing lines of fear and strain on Tanguish's face. The helsmet didn't respond, besides a very quiet and appeasing whimper of agreement.

Whatever you say, if it means I'll live.

There was a very nasty, vindictive anger in Welsknight that wanted to drop the little beast. Expect the worst of me? Fine! Have it then!

The much louder voice of his guilt replayed for Welsknight the image of Tanguish curled up on the floor begging for his life, with a sword aimed at his throat.

Welsknight swallowed another sigh. He angled towards the earth in slow, gentle circles, spiraling to a landing outside of his tiny castle home on its distant shore away from all the other hermits. He carried Tanguish to the door, then stood in front of it awkwardly, trying to remember if he'd locked it. Tanguish cracked an eye open, glanced between Welsknight and the closed door, and then slowly, like he was scared Welsknight were under a spell that sudden movements might break, he reached forward and turned the door handle for him.

Welsknight awkwardly bundled them both inside. He dropped Tanguish as gently as he could manage onto his couch, and meandered to his brewing stand. He set to work on a healing potion, moving with practiced ease throughout the different barrels and boxes. Behind him, he could feel Tanguish's eyes boring into his back. He did not move from the couch. He didn't even move from the position Welsknight had dropped him in, except to curl his tail protectively around his injured ankle.

Finally, Welsknight's guilt and irritation got the better of him and he snapped. "Calm down, jeeze! If I was going to kill you, I would've done it in the cave."

Tanguish didn't move. He whispered a very obvious lie, in a voice that, rather valiantly, only just barely shook. "I'm calm."

"Then stop staring at me like that."

"When you change your mind," Tanguish whispered again, "I think I would... Rather see it coming."

"Change my mind?" Welsknight turned to face him, scowling. "What in hels is that supposed to mean?"

Tanguish didn't answer. He only watched Welsknight with that lamplight stare. It was deeply distrustful, and deeply unsettling. For a long moment, neither of them moved, or made any sound. Only the birdsong outside and the rolling bubble of the brewing stand reminded them that, while they both froze and watched, the world kept moving. Welsknight had to force himself not to fidget.

Eventually, Welsknight had to give up... Whatever weird little battle of wills they were doing. The imp was clearly better at his terror-stricken statue impression than Welsknight was at abiding it. He turned to his brewing stand, now finished, and quietly corked a bottle. He tossed it -- it was a bad throw -- and far nimbler than Welsknight expected, Tanguish caught it out of the air. He clutched the little vial to his chest, but didn't drink it.

Welsknight gave a scornful snort. "You know what a health potion is, I assume?"

Slowly, Tanguish nodded.

Agitation bolted through Welsknight like the liquid heat of a redstone charge. "Then take it."

Tanguish looked down at the potion in his hands. His eyes narrowed at it just slightly, the very first hint since this whole escapade started that the helsmet was calculating something.

"It's not poison," Welsknight said. "You watched me brew it. You'd know."

Tanguish glanced up at him again, cunning glinting in his gaze somewhere. It was striking. Glimpsing it sent a titter of unease through Welsknight. All the pathetic groveling had made him underestimate what he was dealing with, apparently. Tanguish was still a helsmet, after all. Though Welsknight couldn't imagine just what anyone would plot with a health potion of all things. He straightened slowly from where he leaned against the counter.

"What?" Welsknight demanded, when the silence grew long and uncomfortable, and the little beast still didn't move.

Tanguish watched him for another long second, braced himself, and said, "I am trying to figure out what happens when I drink this."

Welsknight frowned, pure, untarnished confusion pulling a snort from him. "Your ankle heals. It's a health potion."

"Then what?"

{... Then what?}

"Then you go home." Welsknight sniffed. "Wasn't that what all your dramatics were about?"

Tanguish, for the briefest of moments, managed to look insulted. But he was evidently still too scared of Welsknight to argue about whether those were just 'dramatics' or real fear for his life. Welsknight was quietly thankful for that. He didn't need to be convinced the panic was genuine. That look on the little beast's face would... Probably stick with him for awhile.

"Give me your word," Tanguish said very quietly, apologetically breaking the silence, "that when I drink this, you won't find a reason to kill me."

"I don't need to find a reason."

Tanguish's expression got just a little bit tenser around the eyes. He leaned over the side of the couch and gently deposited the health potion on the floor. Welsknight felt another flicker of irritation.

"Are you serious right now?"

Tanguish blinked at him.

"Just take the stupid potion, and scamper back to hels," Welsknight snapped in explanation, when all Tanguish did was stare.

"Not until I have your word," Tanguish insisted, not looking at him.

"Why do you need my word? If I was going to kill you I would've done it by now!"

"You stayed your hand out of guilt and pity," Tanguish murmured. Welsknight had to marvel at how well his voice made space for itself when it stayed so small and contained. "If I'm healed, there's nothing stopping you from deciding I'm a threat that needs dealing with again."

"Coward."

"Obviously."

That took Welsknight off guard, set his mind a little off-balance. He wanted to argue about that, needle at the comment and make the little pest angry. You admit it so easily. And then he had to remind himself that Tanguish was a helsmet, but, again, he wasn't Helsknight.

"I am not a knight," Tanguish murmured, apparently doing his best impression of a mind reader. "I'm allowed to fear for my life."

Welsknight tried a different tactic.

"You would seriously rather sit there with a broken ankle?"

"I can survive a broken ankle," Tanguish informed him. "I c-can't survive a knight."

"You survived Helsknight just fine." It wasn't supposed to be an accusation. It definitely, definitely sounded like one.

Tanguish squinted at him and said with equal, accusatory venom, "You're not Helsknight."

"You're right," Welsknight snapped indignantly. "Helsknight would've killed you. And probably told you all the reasons you deserved it while he did."

"He would have spared me," Tanguish said with a galling amount of conviction.

"No he wouldn't," Welsknight snapped. "If the tables were turned, and it were one of us Hermits caught wandering around hels--"

"He would have spared me then, too," Tanguish stated, with all the faith of someone dedicating themselves to a god. "He wouldn't have liked it. I'm sure he would get big and loud, and pace like an angry tiger, but he would find a line and would not cross it. He would make sure I knew he wouldn't hurt me. If I was truly lost and scared in hels, he would even try to help me. If I was being attacked, he would intervene. And he-- he d-definitely wouldn't come s-so close to killing me, that only his l-last m-minute guilt made him flinch. And I wouldn't have t-to cry and b-beg for that mercy. He-- h-he would g-give it f-freely."

As Tanguish spoke, his eyes narrowed and his frown tightened. His hunched shoulders squared themselves into something a little stronger. It was the look of someone committing to some great bravery. Someone who knew what they said or stood for might get them killed, but who believed it so whole-heartedly, they accepted whatever grim consequence came from it. It was a startling difference from the cringing helsmet on the floor of the cave, shaking and begging. So different, Wels was half convinced it had all been an act, that he'd been made a fool of, his emotions manipulated for some unforseen end.

{The other half of him looked on that conviction, that ride-or-die belief, and felt no small amount of envy. Welsknight wouldn't fool himself into thinking he was friendless. Even on his darkest days, he knew he was loved. But he didn't think any of his friends, when faced with what they believed to be imminent, unpleasant death or torture, would speak about him with such obvious adoration and conviction. He had no doubt, if he drew his sword right now and aimed it at Tanguish's throat like he had in the cave, and demanded the little devil take what he said back, Tanguish, cowering and crying the whole while, would stubbornly refuse.}

{That kind of faith and belief in anyone was awe-inspiring. That kind of faith and belief in Helsknight specifically was unthinkable. Helsknight, the most perfectly black-hearted knight Welsknight had ever met. He almost couldn't believe they were talking about the same person, if he hadn't seen the two helmets together before.}

When Welsknight finally managed to puzzle through the mire of his own thoughts, he said, "You have so much faith in him."

The helmet moved minutely, folding his hands in his lap. One of those dagger-sharp claws dug into his knuckle, drawing blood.

"I do."

"Why?"

It had not been the question Welsknight intended to ask. In fact, he hadn't intended to ask anything. But the question slipped past his teeth unbidden, driven by envy and curiosity, and the surrealness of the situation.

Tanguish blinked at him, that mask of grin determination slipping off into something markedly more nervous. The claw he had sank into his knuckle removed itself, found a spot slightly above the knuckle, and started scratching at an old scab. He did it without flinching -- nearly unconsciously. Welsknight had to wonder how Tanguish didn't spend his days finding inventive ways to get bloody fingerprints out of everything he touched.

"If it's because of some misguided sense of duty, don't bother," Welsknight prompted coldly, fishing for more of that conviction. Tanguish watched him warily, stiffening just slightly. "He was made to be a perfect knight. If he's protected you, it's because he has to. If it's because he's risked his life for you, he has no choice. He can't even swear he'll die for you -- he'll die for anyone his tenets demand he make a sacrifice for. It's how we-- it's how knights are."

Tanguish frowned at him as he spoke, the kind of grimace that implied he'd eaten something bitter. His claw made quick work of the scab, and he glanced down at his hands long enough to find a new scab on another finger to pick. Tanguish sat like that for a long time, studying Welsknight, bloodying his knuckles, lost in meditative self-harm, thinking. Watching him turned Welsknight's stomach. He wanted nothing more than to cross to the other side of the room and grab his wrists, force him to stop hurting himself. Maybe he could find some oven mitts to tie on the helsmet's hands to discourage the habit.

{Gloves. He would benefit from a very thick pair of gloves. The kind Keralis wore when he gardened maybe, with the rubber pads on the fingertips.}

"Do you love the sun?" Tanguish asked.

Welsknight blinked, perplexed. "What?"

"If the sun disappeared today," Tanguish said, "blinked out for no reason. No other consequences. The grass still grew. The seasons still changed. You could still see. But the day and night cycle, the sun on your skin. That bit stopped. Would you be sad?"

"That's a stupid question."

"You're probably right," Tanguish hummed thoughtfully. "Something less important to you then." Tanguish looked around the room. His gaze settled on a picture frame hanging on the wall, a sketch BDubs had made of all the hermits together near the end of the last season. "Have any of your friends ever died for you?"

Welsknight scowled. He didn't like the implication that he had more emotional attachment to the sun than his friends. He answered regardless. "No."

"Do you want them to?"

"No."

"When you first made friends with them, did they imply they would only like you if you were willing to die for them?"

"I would be."

"But would they ask you to?" Tanguish pressed, fixing him with a severe sort of glare.

Welsknight hesitated. "I don't know."

"Would you ask them to."

"No."

"You're certain?"

"I get it."

Tanguish had the audacity to raise an eyebrow at him.

"I get your point."

"You don't."

"You're making a stupid point about how obligation and duty don't matter--"

"Have you ever wanted to die?"

Welsknight stiffened. His stomach did a complicated cartwheel, something that knocked uncomfortably at the bottom of his ribs and asked his heart if it was home. Asked if it was listening.

"That might be hard for you to answer," Tanguish admitted for him, his gaze sliding back to the picture on the wall. "Or maybe, you don't want to answer it in front of me. I'm. Uhm. A helsmet, after all. I might use it against you. Right? But. Humor me." Tanguish started picking at his knuckle again, bloodying a new spot away from any other scabs. "Hels is... a hard place to live. I don't expect you to understand why. Uhm. S-suffice it to say that, a lot of people living under the shadow of greatness, all striking out at each other to prove their existence is worth the space it takes up in the universe... it is very, very hard. Between hels, and, between people like you, who think we are only obstacles to overcome... finding a single bright spot is... so, so important. You know, there are helsmets who can't leave hels? There are people alive out there who, outside of a very lucky, almost unattainable set of circumstances, can never see the sun?"

Tanguish swallowed. His voice was getting hoarse, a symptom of someone, normally quiet, forced to speak too long.

"You make your own light in hels. You try to do it without m-making anyone else's life worse. Or, most people do. Some people don't care, as long as they can capture some light but. But. You have to have something. The universe hates us too much. Without it, living is..."

Tanguish's brow creased, the kind of inward scowl that involved picking apart complex emotions, attempting to lay them to order in the most succinct and useful way.

"When I found Helsknight, I was in a very dark place. I was lonely. My world was becoming dark, and isolated, and cruel. I was cut off from light and heat and warmth. I thought I had lost everything. I thought, if I could die to set things right, I would. And I knew the universe wouldn't let me."

"Death is a temporary inconvenience," Welsknight said quietly.

Tanguish's expression twitched, something like irony.

"When Helsknight found me, I think he was defeated. He had given up on a lot of things that made him... him. He was holding onto the only thing he had left, spitefully, and angrily, and violently. And yes. He was terrifying. And yes. He was hard to like."

Tanguish swallowed.

"When we found each other, I was a bright living thing that wanted to die, and he was a defeated, dying thing that wanted to live. We were not good or kind. Not in any way either of us could recognize. I thought he was dragging me around hels, forcing me to solve my problems. He thought I was a coward wasting precious time. Time I should be grateful to have. We were incompatible. We hurt each other. But we needed each other. The spaces we carved for ourselves into each other's skin, we fit into like puzzle pieces."

Tanguish's claw felt along his knuckle, found a sore spot he'd already worried, and only then did he wince. He looked down at his hands. When he refolded them in his lap again, his hands were balled into fists, an attempt to keep the bitter habit at bay.

"You're right. Helsknight probably doesn't have a choice about who he dies for. He's a knight. You get weird and stupid and noble about things like that. I hate it. I've grown... fond of the space he takes up. I would be incomplete if he left -- all open wounds. And I do not want to know if, or how, they would heal." Tanguish took a breath. Then another. "But when I was at my darkest and most desperate, I hurt him as hard as I could, and still, he helped me. And when he was at his darkest, and he hurt me back, he remade himself to be more harmless. Let him have his duty. Let him be a perfect, insufferable knight. But I think, if his every tenet demanded sacrifice, and I stood in front of him and demanded he live instead... I think he would."

Tanguish offered Welsknight a thin smile. "And what is faith, if it isn't first trust, and trial and error?"

They sat in silence for a moment.

Eventually, Tanguish shrugged. "I don't know. The sun is a lot of things. It burns. It brings life. But I think, most importantly, it has yet to suffer a sunset, and refused to rise again."

Welsknight's chest was a complicated tangle. It occurred to him he should say something. Argue. Maybe point out Helsknight's many flaws. He found he didn't have the heart to. There was something withering about that much faith. He found himself wanting to believe, for the briefest moment, that Tanguish was right. That Welsknight's terrible other half was worth something -- worth living for, for someone at least. He thought, on a fundamental level that had nothing to do with Good or Evil, or his own grudges, that everyone deserved that.

Everyone deserved the sun.

Not knowing what to say or do, Welsknight found himself moving. Tanguish tensed on the couch, convinced, for a moment, he might be moving to violence. Welsknight made sure to keep his hand far away from his sword as he passed.

"Heal yourself," Welsknight said, "and be gone by the time I get back."

He left.

[moneymartin]

PLEASE PLEASE do a kate martin fic where the reader is her ex and they cannot stay away from each other. like “uh oh” by tate mcrae PLEASE

・❥・- favorite bad decision

summary: you see kate at a practice after the two of you split

warnings: nfsw mdni. 18+ as fawk! but the smut is kinda short sozzzz

rpf. don’t read it if you don’t feel comfortable

a/n: i’m negl all my kate fics are fluffy cause i cannot see myself writing smut. (but i try to deliver so this sucks cuz i got a lil uncomfy) 😭 also i’m sorry for lacking on my writing im so stressed w all these exams im taking and some family problems. this also might go off track cause i wrote this half asleep 😕 didn’t know how to end this one too

stars are the skips :)

it’s been 5 months. 5 stupid months since that relationship you refused to let go ended. you couldn’t believe it either when your girlfriend suddenly said “we need to breakup.”. she never told you why, despite the multiple calls and texts you sent when she left the morning after that were begging for her to come back or at least explain why she felt that way.

you felt like absolute shit.

it was a long relationship, your longest one too. it was the fact you believed it would last forever. you wished for it to last when you saw those repeated numbers and whenever a star dotted across the sky. you believed in those silly little things, but you only believed in them for this stupid 1.5 year period.

everything felt like it had been going your way during those times. you felt alive again after meeting kate. she was the definition of a literal ball of sunshine when it came to you. constantly bringing you to her basketball games, showing you off to her friends and teammates, introducing you to her family. things were great. the feeling was refreshing, especially after being in probably the worst relationship of your life.

a guy played you behind your back so many times and you were unable to figure out yourself. the second you did, you didn’t even know why or what to do. you struggled with school from the thought of never finding out what he thought was weird about you or why he even considered doing that in the first place. you treated him like he was the best boyfriend in the world!

then kate had dug you out of a hole you thought you’d never have the guts or the fucking courage to get out of.

“there’s nothing wrong with you trying to get your mind off of it y’know.” jada says. shes been helping you cope with this thing even though her and kate are the closest people ever. she’d never tell a single soul anything you always talk to her about. “coming to our last game in carver won’t be that bad!”

“yeah, not so bad until i see kate! you know how i feel about her, jades. it hurts.” you murmur and swipe the back of your hand against your face. there’s a painful feeling at the bottom of your stomach and it makes your skin crawl uncomfortably. “i’m not going and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”

jada’s face contorts into a half smile when she hears the way you talk about the whole shebang. she knows you that still can’t let it go, and she wishes so badly that you could let kate go. “right.” she breathes out and grinds her teeth together. “you don’t need to come.”

but you do anyways.

you sat there at court side awkwardly, watching the hawkeyes train before their final home game. you only saw caitlin, hannah, gabbie, syd, and kylie. jada was sitting next to you and cheering on her teammates. thankfully, you didn’t spot kate anywhere close or on the court at all.

until you fucking did.

kate walked in through the tunnel and dropped her gym bag on the floor, a loud thud echoing through the arena. she had her hair up in that same stupid braid, that same stupid smirk on her face, and that same stupid look in her eyes. you hated her so fucking much and you hated the fact that you couldn’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard you tried to.

that churn in the stomach made you feel like you had level 1000 cramps, but it was just that feeling you got when you felt absolutely sick to the core. sick because you didn’t know what, or how to feel after seeing kate again. it was the shitty feeling of not knowing why she even chose to leave you in the first place. it was the feeling of frustration when you saw her smile again. the feeling of confusion rushing back to you. you felt like a small child getting yelled at when she broke up with you, it was when nothing made sense at all to you. when you didn’t get the answer you wanted after multiple tries of begging for it.

you didn’t understand it, and you still don’t.

“you alright?” jada snaps you out of whatever the hell you were thinking about and you jump slightly, eyes diverting away from kate. “yeah, why wouldn’t i be?” you huff and smile with your teeth out. your body starts to grow numb and you feel as if you can’t breathe as well as you normally would, which jada notices. she grabs your shoulders tightly and places her palm on the side of your face to move your head towards hers. she knows you’re staring at kate. “you’re not fine.”

thanks captain obvious.

“yeah, obviously not!!!” you blurt out way too loud. it makes everything and everyone around you stop. the sound of the balls dribbling against the floor and the continuous chatter around you just stops. everything is silent and you know that its because of you. your face flushes at the embarrassment you feel and you step off onto the court, walking towards the exit. the sound of footsteps follow you and you don’t even have the guts to turn around. it seriously feels like you’re about to get completely flamed for acting out at a clear statement about what you felt.

but it’s not jada. or caitlin. it’s fucking kate.

a wave of anger and bitterness rushes through you like no other, and you can’t tell whether to be upset or nervous about this little interaction. you still love kate and you know that. “you like to yell, huh?” she chuckles and pushes your shoulder lightly. when her hand touches you, you don’t move away and just let her do it.

“lighten up, will ya?” kate’s lips curl up into the damn smirk again and she looks at you with those eyes. the eyes that she knows you can’t say no to, the eyes that got you hooked in the first place. “i missed when you acted up like that, to be honest.”

you’ve missed her touch so badly, but you just can’t admit it.

there’s a lot of things you acknowledge in life. things that you know. you know whats right and wrong when it comes to decisions and when it comes to certain things like seeing people you know you aren’t supposed to.

but you know that this is right. it always has been.

promises are always broken too, and this was one you swore you’d never break. it was hard, especially because kate was the hottest fucking person on the planet. saying ‘no’ to her was practically impossible. she asked you to come over after the game and you happily complied. which was a horrible idea.

“you’re such a fuckin’… asshole.” you whine out and let out a bated breath. your body shivers when kate’s fingers run up and down underneath your shirt and when her breath hits your sopping core. she’s in between your legs and eating you out like a madwoman. your head falls back into her pillows, fingers gripping tight at the roots of her hair and the bedsheets on the side of your body. “am i?” she mumbles, sending vibrations through your body that you haven’t felt in months.

that feeling is so good. and you know it. you missed it when kate acted up too. seeing her all tough on the court made something reignite in your stomach again, and it exploded when you saw her in the locker rooms. you literally dragged her out of there while she was in the middle of a conversation with addi and into your car. you couldn’t even wait before your lips were eagerly on hers and her hands were roaming in all the right places.

“yeah, you are. you fucking bitch…..” your voice goes up an octave the moment kate licks a stripe up your pussy and starts leaving hickeys around your thighs and stomach. “i tried ignoring you when i saw you at the club last week. all i wanted to do was jump into your arms and kiss your face off.” you admit awkwardly and let out a quiet cry the moment your stomach turns into knots. you’re close and she can feel it, her head diving down again while you absentmindedly hump at her face.

“shit!” you whimper and prop your head up, watching kate lap up every last drop of your cum. “i got you, baby,” she breathes out heavily onto your stomach. her breath is warm and she presses her cheek up against it when she feels your legs shake. her thumb rubs your sides and she looks up at you, rising up slightly and keeping herself steady with her hands. yours grabbing at her shoulders. when she keeps herself up you can feel her arms bulging underneath her shirt and she leans in. “mmf.. that’s my girl.”

her tongue swirls around yours, making you taste yourself all the way before the moment turns over quickly. “mhm..” you hum and slide your hands down her arms to get a feel again. the second you pull away, kate’s eyes go from feral to soft. she leans back and searches around on her floor, picking up your undergarments and sliding them on for you. “it’s okay.” she smiles and moves her head towards you. kate rests her head on your chest, chin in between and her arms around your stomach while your fingers cup her face.

you’re never gonna be able to stop forgiving her if she keeps doing this to you. and you know it.

[sensei-venus]

Serpent-Cide (3/?)

(Part One|Part Two|Part Three|TBA|)

(Unedited) (Switches POV’s a lot in this chapter, Sweet Pea is a little shit, Sweet Pea is big boy 6’3 and I won't let y'all forget that😈, Reader is having a moment y'all.)

Sweet Pea was a mess.

I mean that in a bad way, not the cute fun way that most people say it when talking about someone.

I mean he was a mess, a walking nightmare and possibly a live train wreck. Being forced to show him around was one of the worst things that could have happened to me. I had way better things to do then stay with him. At this point it was almost like babysitting. If babysitting included walking around school with a MAN, not a boy, a man who was bigger then half the student body.

Not only was he huge but he also had a mouth on him. While most of the time he was quiet, the other half he was not. He chose to quietly pick and mess with anyone and anything he chose. If something caught his eye at just the right time, he was going of his way to mess with it. If it was a person, he was digging at them. Harassing them for a moment before pulling away and walking off.

Laughing and snickering at something. It was very apparent that he knew when to shut his mouth, and sometimes he didn't which dug into my nerves.

Just like his voice, his verbal altercations were deep and quick. His comebacks were sharp and were always on the tip of his tongue. He knew how to get on someone's bad side at the drop of a hat. I felt like I was extremely lucky because he didn't get himself into too much shit.

He loomed over me as we walked the halls. At first I didn't really understand what he was doing. I thought he would walk next to me to try and show some kind of dominance, like he didn't need me to help him around the school. His outburst earlier that day made me feel like he would want to one-up me, in his own way. Maybe he would even jump ahead of me and try to get to his class quicker. That wasn't the case as we walked to our first period.

He decided he was going to try and walk behind me the whole way there.

Almost trying to ride my ass the whole time. I swear he almost stepped on the back of my shoes a few times. I tried my best not to look back at him, feeling like that might piss him off or earn me some other kind of outlash like before. The whole time I could feel his presence behind me. It felt like pin pricks along my back which made me twitch a little in my step. Was he doing it on purpose I had no idea. But it was slowly rubbing me the wrong way. I

didn't know how long I could take it.

“So when's lunch? I'm already starting to get bored of this place.” Sweet Pea's voice echoed from behind me as he kicked at my seat.

I could feel my teeth grind in the back of my mouth.

We were about three periods at this point. I could tell he was already starting to lose what little focus he had. Most people probably couldn't tell if not for his loud complaining. Most people would see it as him complaining, to me he was just whining. That's all he had done all three classes, it didn't help that he kept trying to sit as close to me as possible.

I had no idea why seeing as all he did was whine.

I notice very quickly his little quirks, the ones that showed as he started to fall down the hole of boredom.

The way his foot would tap ever so slightly, the jiggle of his leg. He would pick at his knuckles to the point he had small scratches, barely drawing blood. They were pinkish and red by the end of second period. I honestly wondered if he even noticed it, if he felt his nails dig into his own skin. I was a little surprised when I watched his dig his nails into the set of dog tags he wears around his neck.

At some point I was scared he was going to try and put them in his mouth like a child. Luckily he didn't and only rubbed his nails and fingertips along the old metal plates.

Suddenly I heard a loud sound of popping from behind me. I felt my eyes twitch.

He was popping his knuckles.

I felt my face grow a little flushed. Although I had noticed the marks on his knuckles, I hadn't really taken a moment to look at his hands very well. I wonder what they looked like. I could only imagine they matched his body. Large and stronger to match his towering frame. He wasn't overly bulky but more so tall and thick muscles.

Now I felt even worse, why was I trying to think about his possible muscles under that stupid black t-shirt and serpent jacket.

I almost snapped the poor pencil in my hand.

“Helllloooo??” his voice boomed.

“When the bell rings, God can you shut up for five minutes.” I hissed, not even trying to turn around to look at him. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my skull at this point. I could almost feel the way his foot slowly came to a stop. The movement dying down in seconds. I felt him before I could hear him. The breathing on my neck, right by my ear.

“So is the food here good or it just as shitty as Southside High-”

The sound of the shrill bell rang through the class. He ever so slightly pulled back. Leaving only warm breath fanning over my ear for a few seconds. Students hurried to grab their things and rush out of the cramped classroom. The teacher tried her best to slow them down but failed. Most of them piled out of the room, talking loudly and pushing each other to leave.

Quickly I packed my stuff away in my bag before turning around to find Sweet Pea already ready to go. His dark eyes lazily watch me as I shove my bag up onto my shoulder. We stare at each other for a good minute, until I realize he's waiting for me to walk in front of him.

Walking out of the room and make our way down to the lunch room. Sweet Pea is hot on my trail the whole time.

The hallway was usually one of the worst parts of my day as I would have to wade through the multiple crowds. Today seems a little better, most likely due to Sweet Pea’s presence. People slowly make way for him as he walks closer to me. For once I don't mind the way he sticks close to my back. It's almost like the whole hallway parts just for him.

“They like this every day or is it just because it's me?” he asks as we move passed the sea of judgmental eyes. The sudden urge to crack a joke came up but soon stopped.

“I wish. Maybe if they always acted like this I wouldn't hate coming down this hallway.” I wanted to tell him the truth. Going down this hallway every day was excruciating most of the time. If you were lucky no one would notice you, meaning you could get around everyone. Most days you were stuck or caught by some of the jocks or maybe one of the cheerleaders.

Sometimes it was just shoves and pushes. Other times it was getting your books or bag thrown in a garbage can on a whim.

Worst even, getting beat on by someone bigger than you for a laugh.

I stopped at that you thought as we made our way into to lunch room. It was packed with both the old and new students trying to get in line to get food. Almost all the tables were completely filled. My eyes were trained on the crowd of students as we both stood in line. Trying to spot the tale tale top of a special beanie. Not seeing it I could only guess that Jughead had made his way outside to grab a table.

The line for food slowly started to go down as the minutes ticked by. Sweet Pea was next to me as we grabbed our lunches. He stuffed his plate full of just about everything the lunch line was offering. I didn't question it with how big the guy was. His height factor reflects how much he needs to keep up with his growth.

We made our way out of the lone with no issue and walked outside towards some of the outdoor tables.

Breathing a sigh of relief I spotted Jughead and his little group. No surprise that none of the original vroho was sitting at the table with him, just Tori and Fang. Sweet Pea passed me, slamming his tray down next to Fang with a loud crash. Fang flinched a little which made Sweet Pea laugh and slap him on the shoulder hard, making him rock a little. Both of them chuckled as Sweet Pea finally sat down. Jughead looked at the two before turning his gaze to me.

I gave a small wave before turning around and heading inside.

The quiet uncrowded library was calling my name.

—————————

Sweet Pea didn't really know what to think about Reader at first.

For a split second, he felt just a little bad about yelling at her when they first met. But walking into that school was hard, being surrounded by northsiders who wanted all of them dead. It didn't even matter if they were serpents or not they were still southsiders. They where all still on the northsiders shit list in his mind.

Maybe that's why when she approached Jughead he got defensive.

He had forgotten that Jughead went to school here, not everyone had a issue with him. Maybe the pack of serpents, but not once loved Jughead.

In that moment it didn't matter that she was smaller, chubbier and maybe just a little cute. She was still a northsider deciding to wall up to them. Her stance was lazy as she stood in front of Jughead, moments passed and he just snapped. Getting into her face and calling her out.

When she snapped right back at him he felt his heart jump.

_____________________________________

“Shes not coming over here is she?” Sweet Pea remarked as he looked to Jughead.

The girl never made her way over to them, he turned a little to watch her walk away and back into the school. His eyes briefly watched her figure disappear behind the large lunchroom doors. He turned back to the table to find Jugheas still gazing back at the doors, his eyes squinted.

“Reader would rather…..Reader is in her own little world of strange.” he words were bland and almost emotionless. That caused one of the boys eyebrows to raise. He stuffed a fry in his mouth as Fang replied “ Im getting the feeling she doesn't like us that much? It's not like I'm shocked or anything, I'm just stating the obvious here.” he laughs. Toni rolls her eyes at him and sits back a little.

Sweet Pea looked up at him as he chewed his food, with a full mouth he said “So she's a weirdo? Didn't know northsiders had them too, kinda figured you guys would weed them out or something.” he scooped up a fat glob of ketchup with his fries. Toni shrugged “ Dont want to sound like a downer but I agree with Sweets on this.” Fang nodded along side her. Jughead let out a small sigh. His eyes fully coming back into focus with them.

“Listen Reader just has her own thing going on. She's one of the only people I know in this school that genuinely doesn't like being around people, in others business for that matter. She doesn't like messing with people so long as they don't mess with her. She's crafty too, I'll tell you that.

Toni raised a brow and smirked, she poked the boy in his side.

“Does Jug have a little crush??” she almost giggled a little to go along with her sarcastic statement.

Jughead rolled his eyes “On Reader? No way, that would involve her letting me get in her space- shit even taking her time of day. I don't think she's ever let anyone even think about having a crush on her. You would actually have to know her to do all that.” he grimaced a little. Thinking about all the times the chubby girl had ditched him, snuck away from him, or straight up blew him off to go do something else.

Multiple times he asked for her help with paper while in the library together. If he asked to do them with her she refused, the next day she would just bring him a fully edited paper before wandering back off to who knows where. She was hardly ever up front and would rather stay in the shadows. Never to be looked upon, never asked to be anyone life lifeline.

“That's funny seeing as I've been up her ass all day during classes.” Sweet Pea smirked. He knew he was getting on the girl's nerves. He was actually enjoying it a little. Scratching at his neck a little he found Jughead just staring at him. Eyes were slightly wide as if he was in some kind of disbelief. Something inside him felt good to see the uptight guy so silently stunned.

“I thought I told you not to mess with her.”

“I did! Kinda? I couldn't help but mess with her just a little bit okay? Honestly I feel like you overdoing it when talking about her. I have only been around her for like half the day and she hasn't acted like anything you saying. Is she Moody? Oh yeah definitely. But is she so fidgety that she runs away at the slight poke? Nah. She is a pushover.” he rolled his eyes at the newest serpent. The or eyes meet for a short period of time.

Jughead was ever so slightly surprised at the sudden turn of events.

Reader was not a pushover by any means.

“All she did was hiss at me, like a pissed-off cat when I started bugging her. She didn't make any attempt to leave or ditch me. Yeah, she didn't talk to me unless I got her to but still. She wasn't a complete shut-in around me. And fuck man she's sarcastic. She's like you but on steroids.” he chuckled a little after swallowing a big bit of his food.

Jughead scoffed a little as he looked back at the school.

“Well if that's the case, we may have a new advantage at this school.”

The others all looked back at him.

Sweet Pea stopped eating for a moment, his eyes moving from Jug to slowly drifting to the school. His eyes followed the other boy's gaze.

Only time would tell what Jughead meant by that.

[triplesilverstar]

Enough

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Pre-Canon, Canon typical violence, slight gore, established relationship, shared showers, sharing a bed.

Word count: 1.2K

A/N: You end up having a rough few days, and you end up in your own head. At least Vash is there to drag you out of your pity party once more.

Another day another shoot out, some days or as of late most days it seemed to always be the same. Which meant you and Vash were on the move. Even yesterday out in the dunes, another group of outlaws had decided to try and take shots at the two of you.

The worst of it was it wasn’t even because they were after Vash’s bounty or your infamy. It had just been ‘Let's shoot some random wanders in the desert’. It of course had blown up in their faces, but it meant at least for you, you were exhausted.

In every aspect of the word. 

Your fingers felt as though they had been through a juice press, bending the joints sent a dull shock up your hand. Rolling your wrists felt as if the muscles were filled with sand, grinding along inside the bone, not to say anything about your feet. Those felt like ground hamburger because of how beaten they were, you weren’t fully sure how you were even standing on them at this point. Fire laced up your spine with every step you took the briefest twist of shoulders releasing a popping that you were certain was making Vash flinch. And that was just your physical exhaustion. 

Mentally? You honestly weren’t even sure how you were functioning at this point if Vash tried to open up a line of dialogue between the two of you all you did was answer him with grunts and groans. Anything else takes too much effort to form syllables properly to offer a vague sense of words that are coherent. 

The last few days, you’d been making mistakes too. Mistakes that were weighing on your heart and soul. How the hell were you supposed to be good enough when Vash had been shot not once but twice in his abdomen. The hiss from him digging the first bullet out still echoed in your ears, the second was haunting your waking hours. And he’d been shot both times because you hadn’t been fast enough. 

So as you both made your way into another town and slipped into the hotel you plopped on the bed face first, not even removing your coat or boots. The weight of your backpack making you sink into the mattress. 

Vash of course notices, how could he not? You’ve been mopey the last few days, and Vash has been feeling the same. It’s been a while since either of you have had a chance to just sit back and relax. He knows the signs of burnout and while he’d ignore his own, he can’t, and won’t ignore yours. 

“Come on Mayfly. Let’s get out of our traveling gear.” A gentle nudge and you just respond with a long drawn-out sigh. Vash himself starts to strip, humming knowing the sound of him removing his clothes should at least get you turning your head. It’s your favorite show. 

Sure enough, you turn your face just enough so one eye is watching him and you smirk in appreciation at the sight. Vash might not be a fan of his body but you sure are, watching as the scarred skin and toned muscles are revealed. “I’m going to have a shower, you’re welcome to join me.” A hint in his tone that he isn’t going to let you argue your way out of it. 

That. Gets you moving, pushing yourself up, and letting your clothes drop where they may as Vash didn’t wait for you to respond. The sound of the running water tells you he’s already started, and when you step into the bathroom the steam has already cast a haze.

It takes far more effort than it should to get your legs over the lip of the tub and your body through the shower curtain. The vision that greets you is almost enough to make it worthwhile though, the hard lines of Vash’s back as the water runs in rivets down his skin. The metal along his body gleams as the water condenses there, and a few more steps until you can reach out and touch him. 

Wrapping your arms around his middle and you bury your face in his damp muscles, feeling him pause before he keeps cleaning his front. “Hm, not going to fall asleep on me, are you? I’d rather we not have to try and patch you up if you fall.” He’s teasing you, and while you’d like to respond in kind, the exhaustion has taken too much of a toll. 

“Vash. Am I enough?” 

“Eh?” You have no idea why you’re feeling so small, just asking that question makes you regret voicing it. The past few days have been hard, and you can’t keep that little voice in your head that you aren’t good enough, aren’t worth enough at bay. 

Vash turns in your hold, careful as he does so and he lets your face stay pressed against his chest your forehead resting near the hollow of his throat. “What’s with that question Mayfly?” Feeling his fingers starting to drag against your skull and through your knotted hair, gently as he slowly tries to remove any dirt and debris from the weeks sent out in the dunes. 

“You got hurt because of me.” It’s a simple answer, and it doesn’t convey everything you’re feeling right now, mired in your thoughts of self-doubt. 

“Mayfly, I would have gotten hurt worse if you weren’t there to have my back. We’re just tired, it’s been a while since we got a chance to rest and recover.” His hands are still moving, and one of them, his prosthetic if the seeping coolness is anything to go by, is rubbing the small of your back. “We booked the room for the next week, let’s just take tonight and tomorrow to rest alright?”

His words are soothing as he speaks, and you nod in agreement gripping him just a bit tighter when you feel the point of his chin land atop your head. Standing there and just breathing in the steam for a few breaths before Vash disentangles you from him and pushes you under the spray. It doesn’t take long to get cleaned up, and you’re both wrapped in threadbare towels belonging to the hotel. 

In the room, Vash doesn’t let you head for the second bed you had first flopped on. Instead this time he’s the one pulling you into his embrace and guiding you onto the other bed with him, positioning you so you’re both laying there together with your head over his chest and listening to the steady beating of his heart. 

Warm hand trailing your side over the towel and against bare skin, moist lips, still damp from the shower press against your forehead. “You’re enough my Mayfly. You’ll always be more than enough for me.” His gentle words bring a tear to your eye, as he starts to pepper your face in kisses, in his gentle affection for you.

“Always.” A final lingering kiss while you both lay there in just towels and the stillness of the room. “Now let's get some rest, You’ll feel better after a decent night's sleep.” 

As always, Vash is right, and while you might regret sleeping on top of the blankets with wet hair his body provides enough heat to keep you warm, and you do feel far better the next morning. Waking up to Vash blazing a trail with his lips along the sensitive skin of your neck, making love to you before the rest of the world has a chance to wake up. 

It helps remove some of the doubt in your head and your heart but that lingering shadow will always be there.

Back to masterlist for the series

[sems-diarie]

thinking vvv hard abt Izuku who loses his mind when he fucks you. Esp without a condom!! Ik it’s probably been rehashed a million different times but I can’t get it out of my mind😭

The fat mushroom head of his dick pops past that first ring of muscle and he’s already struggling not to cum in you. Slides all the way home and the way your cunt is violently pulsing around him has his face buried in your neck, leaving desperate kisses and hickeys in his wake. God he feels like he’s a virgin again, feeling a pussy for the first time. Well he thinks that fucking you raw will always be like feeling you for the first time, walls hot and tight around his dick, and always so wet it feels like he could drown in you.

And you’re impatient, rocking your hips and trying to get him to move which just makes him groan, hands coming up to squeeze your cheeks hard.

“Stop or I’ll cum right now, I’ll fucking do it. Breed you like a little bitch before I fuck you on my cock properly.”

Well that just makes you want it more.

“Please izu, please move just a lil’ I’ll take anything you give me,” your words are slurring and you can feel your mind slipping as he humps his hips into yours, bullying your cunt open. Finally he’s dragging out of you just to slam back in, hard.

The air in your lungs wheezes out of you as he pushes your legs over his shoulders, adjusting your hips so he has you in a mating press. He sets a fast pace, the patpatpat of him fucking you echoing lewdly in the quiet room, balls slapping your ass. You can’t stop moaning, grabbing him anywhere you can reach; his hair, his face, his ass, nails scratching down his back hard enough to draw blood.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Why are you so tight?” he near sobs, grinding his cock as deep as it can go. “Pussy’s so hot around me, it’s mine isn’t it baby? Who’s pussy is this, huh? Who’s girl are you?”

“ ‘m yours!!” You gasp, tears leaking down your cheeks. “s’all yours zuku, daddy, fuck your pussy, fuck me harder please”

That damn word, you and your damn daddy kink. He loved when you called him that, thinks that if you played it right he could cum just from you calling him that alone. What else can he do but comply with your request?

“Shit, you’re gonna make me cum talking like that. You’re my dirty girl, aren’t you? Fucking breeding slut is what you are. Gonna cum in this hole until I put a baby in you. You’d look so good with my kid in your stomach. Want me to breed you, my love? Make you a mommy?”

“Uh huh,” you hiccup, legs tightening around his neck. “yesyesyes, put a baby in me daddy! Breed your dirty little slut, wanna make you a real daddy.”

“Sweetheart,” he groans, fingers coming up to wrap around your throat like a pretty collar. “Oh sweetheart, you’re so fucking good for daddy. Cum on my cock honey, let me feel that cunt make a mess around me. Wanna fill you up while your pussy squeezes me. Make me cum, slut.”

You’re helpless to his words, squealing as your orgasm hits you, clear liquid squirting out around his dick. And Izuku is loud when he comes, moaning like it hurts.

“Oh god,” he moans, nose smushed into your cheek. He cums long and hard, and you can feel it starting to leak out of your sore hole. “Oh my fucking god, feels so good honey, you feel too good.”

In moments like this Izuku feels like you are a god, his little goddess for him to keep and worship all for himself. If only he knew you revered him in the same way.

(Ily sem! Have a good day/night, giving you a big kiss!💕)

cries cums wails i’m trembling. ‘his little goddess’ :(( he’s the worst, talks you into having his babies ‘cause he wants to see your tummy get rounder :((

‘i’ll fucking do it.’ you won’t you won’t!! 😩

[kopfkino-o]

The Seer's Stone - Chapter 6 (Az POV)

Summary: Azriel is being pushed to his limits, driven half-mad by his increased workload, Koschei’s recent movements, and the unaddressed feelings still hanging between him and Elain. His mind is at war with himself, thoughts and regrets constantly battling with him, but when an old acquaintance comes calling he feels compelled to answer, bound by loyalty and duty he sets off to find what very well might be his own damnation.

Pairing: Elain x Azriel 

Timeline: Post-ACOSF

Wordcount: 1970

Read:

Chapter One | The Crone’s Trade

Chapter Two | The Oracle of Seraphyros 

Chapter Three | Last of Our Kind (Azriel)

Chapter Four | An Empty Seat

Chapter Five | Death and the Lovely Fawn - UPDATED

Author’s Note: Hope you all enjoy! More below 💋

PHEW! After several months of insanity (see: moving to a new city, taking on several new projects at my day job as a graphic designer, getting engaged, traveling to Europe to be in a friend's wedding, hurting my knee again (rip lmao), and the general chaos of being alive) I am so excited to be back writing again. And even more excited to share this latest chapter of the Seer's Stone with the world.

Writing took a back seat within my life last year, due impart to the aforementioned chaos, but also due to some personal anxieties I had about sharing my work. It's irrational, I know, writing is writing, art is art! But still, I found myself lacking confidence and facing a ton of writer's block, but I found some new inspiration through my professional creative work, had a few friends that really helped to cheer me on, and had a lot of downtime after my knee surgery to think about and play around with my craft. All that being said, I'm really really glad to be back at it and revisiting this story, and learning through writing fanfiction.

My plans for the fic haven't changed (too much), but I do think I ought to note that I made some edits to the last update, Chapter Five | Death and the Lovely Fawn, that I feel like I just needed to make to provide clarity/build up for the direction of the story.

Lastly, I just wanted to say thank you to the folks who reached to me about this fic even when I wasn't actively updating it and offered me support/encouragement. This meant so so much to me, more than you all probably know, and I just wanted to say thanks for that.

This one's for you guys.

xoxo, Court

There was a building headache in Azriel's temples.

Every beat of his heart reverberated through his skull like a war drum. Azriel worked his jaw, grinding his teeth. There had always been something about the dank darkness of the Hewn City that pressed down on him like a fist, but the hateful place was particularly grating tonight.

Wrong, his shadows murmured, this place is wrong

"Hush," he snapped back at them, in no mood for their whisperings.

The floor shifted underfoot, and the long, stone passageway changed before his eyes, writhing as if it were a living thing. To anyone else, the illusion might have been nauseating, but these tunnels and their strange enchantments had become second nature to him during the time he served beneath Rhysand's father.

The old High Lord had personally keyed the spells into the oily stone walls to prevent his captives from ever learning the true layout of the tunnel system. And, perhaps, to also remind them they were so far beneath the earth they could only dream of feeling the warmth of the sun on their faces again.

He had been cruel like that.

Azriel rounded a bend in the stone and found himself in another long hallway carved directly into the mountain. Only this hallway was lined with ancient, half-rusted cell doors—cells that housed the worst of the Night Court's filth. Or at least, what was left of them.

Halfway down the corridor, Feyre and Amren were waiting for him outside one of those cells, the High Lady and her second-in-command half-concealed in shadow, their whispered voices echoing queerly off the rock walls.

Both females fell silent when they caught sight of him. Something twisted in Azriel’s gut. For them both to be here, in the dead of the night, with Nyx still so young and Varian here in Velaris on a short respite from Adriata, meant something was wrong. The look on Feyre’s beautiful face only confirmed that. Something was very, very wrong.

“You’re late,” Amren snapped. It was as much a greeting as he’d get from her.

Azriel matched the second’s same cool indifference. “I was in the middle of something when you sent for me. I came as soon as I could.”

“Off again, doing only the Mother knows what? You don’t fool me, boy. I can smell the Continent on you.”

“I come, I go. So is the nature of my work.”

“Is it, now?”

“If you intend to suggest I’m up to something you disapprove of, then by all means, Amren, do so now and let us be done with it. I’m not here to indulge in idle banter.”

The second-in-command bared her teeth, smoke-gray eyes glowing like two torches amidst the gloom, and for half a heartbeat, Azriel thought she might press the matter.

Then Feyre stepped forward and cleared her throat. There were dark smudges of exhaustion beneath the High Lady’s eyes, but she still looked as regal as ever in her Illyrian leathers, her carved ashwood bow and a matching quiver of arrows peeking up over her armored shoulders.

“Enough, you two,” Feyre said, voice laced with nothing but command. She shot both Azriel and Amren a warning look before folding her tattooed hands behind her back, taking up the position of authority fitting of both a war commander and a queen. “We have bigger matters at hand, and I didn’t leave my infant son asleep at home with a nanny just to come here and listen to you bicker.” She nudged Amren with an armored elbow. “So, won't you be a dear and update our lovely Spymaster on the situation at hand?”

Amren shot him one last distrustful look before answering their High Lady's command. "We picked up two...stragglers...trying to make their way to the Prison Isle. From what we've been able to gather, it appears they were attempting to make their way inside the Prison itself."

Azriel's brows rose. Sneak onto the Prison Isle? That was not only impossible, but it was complete and utter madness. A sick, sudden realization shuddered through him, so fierce it cut through the pounding in his head.

Elain.

Elain was trying to get access to the Prison for reasons still unknown to him. Her and the spellspinner she'd tried so diligently to keep hidden in the Library.

Azriel's shadows had brought him word of their machinations weeks ago, initially tipped off by the arrival of the young spellspinner, and catching Elain in his bedroom yesterday had only confirmed his suspicions, but surely she hadn't gone against his warnings. Surely she hadn't...

"Something wrong, boy?" Amren crooned.

He ignored her. "Tell me everything," he said to Feyre.

"One male, one female. Both don't seem to hold any particular court alliance, but they were...dressed strangely. Almost as if they were trying to blend in with the Library's priestesses. Only their robes were gray, not white, and they carried no invoking stones." Feyre scrubbed a hand down her face. "Rhys caught the male on the beaches; I found the female still on the boat they'd used to reach the Isle."

Azriel might have sighed his relief if only Feyre's words weren't too much to stomach. Elain and her friends, and whatever wild plan they'd concocted, might be safe for now, but an unwelcome stranger trying to land on the Prison Isle was nothing to take lightly. And the fact Azriel, nor his shadows, had seen it coming rankled him.

"I tried to talk to her, wanted to know who she was, why she was there," the High Lady continued. "But she pulled a knife before I could get to her. I watched her open her own throat. Tried to heal her, but to no avail, little thanks to the poison on her blade." Feyre shook her head then tossed a thumb towards the cell door. "Rhys is inside with the male. He won't speak, though. He just keeps... singing."

"Singing?" Azriel echoed.

"He means to mock us," Amren murmured.

It was Feyre who ignored the second-in-command now. The High Lady tipped her head towards the cell door. "You'll see." She said. "We'll be waiting at the Riverhouse for your report."

And with that, Feyre reached a hand for Amren and winnowed them both away, leaving Azriel alone with his pounding head, the ancient black stone, and the iron door looming before him.

Azriel drew in a breath. Down, down, down he sank into himself before he strode for the cell door and shoved it open.

The sharp smell of blood and piss and fear arrested his senses as soon as he stepped into the dimly lit cell.

Old memories reared their ugly heads, taking him back to a different time where he came to these very cells to serve a far different lord. Truth-Teller warmed at his side, steadying him. Azriel wrapped a hand around the dagger's familiar hilt and shoved the memories back inside their iron cages to rot.

He made a quick sweep of the room when his eyes finally adjusted. Shadows clung to the corners of the narrow cell, dark enough to conceal his brother's powerful form hidden within them. Rhys was the darkness here. Anyone else might have missed him, but Azriel knew his brother's scent, the sound of his breathing, and marked where he stood in one of the shadowy corners.

In the center of the cell, bound and blindfolded, sat the captive. His gray robes were bloody, his lip split and broken, but he was singing just as Feyre had promised. Singing some horrible old song.

"...blue blood, red blood, blood black as a moonless night," the captive's voice echoed off the cell walls, garbled and made watery by his mouthful of broken teeth. "A pound of flesh, a pound of bone, a gift for a maiden made of light..."

Azriel's shadows swarmed. They flowed across the old stone floors to circle the captive like a pack of hungry dogs, writhing and twisting as they tried to make sense of him and his strange song. Almost as if the song had offended them. As if it scared them.

The darkness melted, and Rhys appeared from within it, arms crossed and brow furrowed, the mask of the High Lord in perfect place. Stars were dancing in his violet eyes, cold and unyielding, burning with a hunger Azriel himself knew all too well.

"He's been at it all night," Rhys said softly. "The same two verses of the same song, over and over again. It's driving me fucking mad."

"You scramble his brains or something?" Azriel asked.

"Would that I could. His mind is impenetrable. Practically walled off with solid obsidian. I've never seen anything like it."

"He's been prepped on how to face a Daemati, then."

"Or spelled to keep one out of his mind."

The words rose a chill within him, and Azriel found himself watching his brother more closely. Rhys worked a tick in his jaw, violet eyes churning as he assessed the battered man babbling his strange song.

"...away, away, at the crown of midnight..."

Azriel had never heard the tune before. Yet, it rankled him somehow. Dragged cold talons through his guts as if it were trying to make a home there.

Pain pricked behind his eyes, blooming like a thousand burning stars.

Azriel rolled his shoulders, fighting the headache, and drew in a deep breath of the rank air, descending deeper into that inside, readying himself for what was to come.

"He'll break," he said softly.

Rhys did not look at him as he replied. "I know."

Eventually, they exchanged the briefest, most fleeting of looks, but the silent words that passed between them meant everything. Rhys's eyes reminded him that Azriel did not have to do this. That he was, in fact, not his father's son. That this Night Court was a court of dreamers, of sons who were forgiven of the sins of their fathers, of daughters free to live as they pleased.

But the weight of duty had been taught to Azriel decades ago. And it was not a lesson so easily forgotten.

Skin slips easier off the smaller bones, blood congeals at the joints, and the mind always, always fractures first.

The old High Lord had taught him those things. Had made sure Azriel knew them, committed them to his memory so he might never forget his purpose. His worth. The thing he'd been made for.

Azriel slid Truth-Teller from its sheath. "Leave us," he said to his brother, voice soft as night. "I'll bring my report to the Riverhouse."

Rhysand put a gentle hand on his shoulder, the gesture made as if it might spare him, as if it might change what he was and the things he was born to do.

It wouldn't.

Azriel had stopped telling himself such follies a long, long time ago.

So he waited until his brother closed the cell door behind him. Waited until his shadows drank the last bit of light from the dank cell. Waited and listened as the prisoner whimpered the last verses of his swan song.

"...a sword for the son, a horn for the Queen, and dagger for their fool..."

Once, when he was just a boy, the shadows had taught him there was a place he could go, somewhere he could hide from his father's wrath, from his brothers' hate. Somewhere deep within himself. A place where he felt nothing, saw nothing.

Was nothing.

Azriel went to that place now, hiding somewhere deep within himself. He thought of roses as he raised Truth-Teller to the pale flesh of the prisoner's chest and began to cut.

Blood bloomed and the ache in Azriel's head erupted like a thunderclap.

And a dagger for the fool.

[obsessedtomone]

Unravel Yourself Before Me ⛓️ Chapter 2 - Comp-Sci▸Shigaraki x femReader

Chapter Summary:

◤The red of his eyes were boring a hole through your back and it almost makes you feel bad.

Almost but not quite, because you’ve already decided he doesn’t deserve your attention after being an ass on both of the occasions you’ve come across him.

That however, still won’t stop him from living rent-free in your little head for a while.◢ Setting: University AU - No quirks (unless degenerate personalities count) Tags: Slow burn, Eventual Smut, Unhealthy/Toxic Relationships, Humiliation, Mentally Ill Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to ??? Warning: Dead Dove – Do Not Eat | Mind the tags TW: Implied Su/Self H, Dubcon, Reader has a super shitty past like actually, Shigaraki Tomura is his own warning.

AO3 Crosspost | Chain Divider by firefly-graphics

Chapters: One • Two • Three

Chapter 2 - Comp-Sci

Alarm’s fucking blaring.

It’s that stupid old default tune that you’ve never bothered to change since you received your phone ages ago. You know there is no need to change it, because the moment it wakes you up enough fucking times, you’ll end up hating it all the same.

Right now, it’s pulling you out of your deep slumber and you find it’s as annoying as you imagine hell would be—unless you’re already in hell, but too delusional to realize it. 

Still, it’s doing its job and you wake up, never needing it to ring more than once before you get outta bed, your chronic insomnia being good for one fucking thing at least.

Fuck, it’s already Monday, you think to yourself, yawning and rubbing the sleep sand out of your eyes while you somehow manage to make it to the bathroom.

Before long, the dampened sound of your shower echoes throughout the apartment, marking the beginning of another late morning.

─────────

As per usual, you find your class to be completely packed by the time you arrive, people filling the usual quiet with generic loud chatter.

You’re late as ever and there’s no way in hell you’re walking through a sea of students, making them all scoot forward so you can pass through and get to the vacant chairs in the middle of the lecture hall. It means that, since you value your short amounts of sleep way too much, you’d always have to settle for the worst seats, the ones all the way in the back.

They aren’t great in terms of being able to properly hear the lectures and actively participate, but that’s more than fine with you. You aren’t planning on doing either of those. You’re way ahead of the material that was currently taught and this professor tends to upload all of his lectures online either way, should you need to brush on the basics.

So you do what you usually do after you sit down in one of your easier classes, pulling out your laptop and booting up a game to farm some more legendary items for your MMO character.

You’re happy to be out of the sight of judgy ambitious young adults, because solitude is where you thrive… or have learned to do so, anyways.

The sky looks pretty dull and gray with the rainy season not wanting to grace you with any Vitamin D around this time of the year, but it’s not like that’s the only chemical imbalance you suffer from anyways. 

You’re about to doze off after staring outside the window next to yourself, once again failing miserably to get the item that you’ve been grinding for days. 

You scoff, about to restart the run, but apparently you’re not the only idiot who’s late finding a seat, because barely ten minutes after you sit your ass down, you hear some douchebag sliding into the spot next to yours. Followed by a sound of what you presume is a bag hitting the ground, and a really loud screeching chair.

What an incredible streak of luck you must be having today, because there are like six other open seats on this row, aside from the one next to you. So what kind of motherfucker would willingly hug the wall with you, a complete stranger? There’s not a single fucking person in this class—or any of your other classes for that matter—that would want to sit next to you. Zero. Nada.

But then you look to your right, and to your horror, the creature speaks—

“Yo, sponger.” He hits you with an unsettling grin from behind really dry lips.

Yep, there’s no doubt about it. You’re definitely in hell.

Of course, Mr. 4:50 AM convenience store zombie is sitting next to you in your computer science class. Of fucking course he goes to the same university as you do.

Because why the fuck wouldn’t he?!

Mentally reaching to pull your hairs out, one of your eyes twitches comically before you begin to ask an incredulous “Why—” but it proves completely impossible to string a coherent sentence right away, so you just close your eyes in an attempt to gather your thoughts. And prayers.

“How did you even recognize me?” 

You try—really, really hard—and fail to tone down the bubbling exasperation in your voice, as the professor finally strolls into the lecture hall. 

The chatter in the room ceases almost immediately.

This professor was one of your stricter ones. It’s not a surprise when he demands everyone’s full attention right away, jumping straight into business before you can continue your conversation.

The mystery asshole—now a classmate too—simply smirks at you, completely ignoring the professor’s entrance.

He leans into you and you feel his warm breath against your ear as he whispers, tone low and challenging:

“I’d recognize an ugly fucking skank like you literally anywhere, idiot,” he says, making sure to verbally underline the insult way longer than it was necessary.

You quite literally cringe at his jab, because him dogging on your appearance is getting old really fast. 

So you lean into him yourself, if not a little more aggressively compared to his own gesture, and proceed to trap him in his own seat, arm reaching around the backrest, deliberately not touching him.

You chuckle to yourself because, who the fuck would, unless he held a gun to their head?

“Look dude,” you begin, your smile turning vicious. You’re so close to his face that you’re practically spitting on it. “I’d hold up a mirror, so you can take a good fucking look at yourself, but you’d probably have to buy that for me too.”

Turns out, you coincidentally don’t give a fuck about the professor either. 

You snort as you pull back, watching his face twist in total confusion, red eyes widening and his hand reaching to draw quick angry lines across his already scarred skin.

There’s not much you can see when he tilts his head back, the messy curtain of white hair covering a lot of his face, but you could swear you just saw a pink tint spreading across his pale face.

Huh.

You’ve actually shut him up for once—

.

.

.

—you’d think, but the setback was seemingly only temporary, because he stops scratching himself, when a cheerful grin splits across his face, and he starts talking to you as if you didn’t almost gouge each other’s eyes out, literal seconds ago.

“If you don’t kill the stupid goblin at the beginning of the stage, the final boss won’t carry your S-Grade,” he casually states, one finger entering your POV and pointing at your screen.

“Huh?” 

You blink. What?

“Tch. Your run, dumbass. You’ve prolly been grinding for hours, only getting it once or twice because you never think to kill the stupid goblin and only ever do it by accident.” He shrugs. “No one ever fuckin’ does, so they don’t find the pattern without looking up a guide.”

You’re extremely confused, getting the feeling he’s fucking messing with you, but you do as he says and restart the stupid dungeon.

Then you kill the fucking goblin this time, feeling really silly for listening to his advice.

It takes you a good twenty minutes to clear it, with him being eerily quiet and you too immersed in the game to care, but the guy is true to his word and the boss actually drops your fucking item this time, god-awful substats aside.

So you repeat the process, noticing some students looking over at the two of you. You glare at them, mentally telling them off. It’s not like you haven’t seen those idiots play fucking candy crush in class before, so they should give you a break.

What bothers you more right now, is the fact that you’ve been trying so fucking hard to get this stupid item, only for this asshole to pop up out of nowhere and make you feel like an idiot for not figuring it out earlier.

“Told you so,” he says oh-so-matter-of-factly, without even a hint of smugness in his tone.

What a fucking weirdo, you think, rolling your eyes, scoffing and crossing your arms the way a five-year-old would.

When you look at him, you notice his smile is still smug, but somehow softer as he stares back at you. 

And it fucking pisses you off. 

He pisses you off.

“No need to get salty. Took me like a week to figure it out by myself and it drove me fucking insane too,” he says, thinking back fondly to all the controllers he managed to break. “And I’m pretty good at these types of tells in games y’know? But the design of this one made no fucking sense. What’s your IGN? I can add you and we can raid together.”

You’re taken aback, the sudden one-eighty of his attitude giving you massive whiplash. 

“Sorry?”

But luckily the bell rings before either of you have to continue the conversation—thank fucking god for that—and you quickly pack your shit before you can give him an opportunity to open his mouth and ask you something stupid again.

He doesn’t move though, remaining seated and stares at you dejectedly as you kick your chair in place, turning around on your heel and leaving him in the dust. The red of his eyes were boring a hole through your back and it almost makes you feel bad.

Almost but not quite, because you’ve already decided he doesn’t deserve your attention after being an ass on both of the occasions you’ve come across him. That however, still won’t stop him from living rent-free in your little head for a while.

─────────

It’s afternoon now, and you decided to grab lunch with your friend Taylor, who finishes their courses around the same time as you do today.

The both of you settle to get something cheap and satisfying, something that won’t break the bank and still gives you your energy for the day.

It’s still drizzling a little bit outside, but the spot you picked was at a picnic table under an umbrella, off-campus where you finally manage to let your shoulders slump and relax for a bit.

It’s the weight of being outside of your apartment that takes a lot out of you, but being with your friend almost creates a barrier from the world itself. You don’t feel as drained around them as you would if you would be on your own.

“—and then he does what? He acts like we’ve been friends for ten years and this is just a cute buddy gaming session, where we exchange walkthrough info sneakily behind the teacher’s back! Did the past two interactions with me get completely wiped from his dumb ass brain?”

You’ve been ranting to Taylor for a little while now, but that’s fine because you’ve always felt like you could be yourself around your friend. They probably love you all the same.

Honestly, with your horrible personality, you aren’t sure you really deserve them as your friend, but despite that and despite your insecurities, they somehow managed to stick to you like gum to a shoe ever since you entered college, never fucking letting you go.

Taylor… is the polar opposite of your entire being. 

Not only are they really good-looking and properly fashionable, but they’re also extremely charismatic, with an incredible amount of IRL connections. There truly aren’t many people who don’t know who they are on campus, and when they’re not hanging out with you, they’re constantly being swarmed by different groups. The ultimate main character that could make anyone feel like a total extra whenever they enter a room.

You cherish them a lot, but you’re probably too emotionally stunted to really tell them how amazing they are as often as you should. That kind of thing only happens when you’re black-out drunk, and you don’t drink very often anymore.

It’s tucked away under the label of ‘feelings you don’t understand’, together with your tendency to push away anything good in the not-so-off-chance it can hurt you down the line.

It’s always been just you, because being on your own is good enough. Being alone is better than hurting.

But being their friend, as much as you’d like to hide it, is the best.

So they fucking had you in an iron grip, claiming you’re the only friend that really matters to them—that everyone is mostly just surface-level friendly and that you never pull punches, something they value a lot, apparently. Popular people must have it really fucking rough, you think, if you’re the alternative solution.

You don’t understand why either, but that’s the common theme with you two. And despite knowing they’d be better off without you, you let yourself be greedy for once, odds be damned.

If it hurts in the end, they’ll be fucking worth it.

“Reeeelax, babe. If he’s anything like you, he’s probably also really trash at speaking to people,” they say, making a point by taking a dig at your character. You have a feeling you won’t like where this is going, as you’re watching them talk between bites and chewing their food, “Words come out all wrong. Sound familiar?”

You sneer at that. 

“Pfft, I’m fucking nothing like him. How dare you compare me to that glorified floor mop.” You roll your eyes and whip your head the other way, feeling just slightly offended. 

Your friend grins, pokes your sides and you’re unable to stay mad for long, frown slipping into a slight smile while they full-on giggle in your face.

“Uh-huh. That’s huuuge coming from the biggest gremlin on the planet. Honey, when’s the last fucking time you willingly got out of your pig-sty? You think you’re better than the other basement-dwelling—wait, what’s it called? Don’t tell me!” they say hurriedly, tapping the table with the tips of their acrylics. “Was it a ‘Reddit’ user? Anyways—Pot meets kettle much?” Taylor scrunches their nose at you endearingly and your jaw drops. “If anything, it’s a match made in heaven, babe. You should take him for a joyride and be thankful for the dick.”

“God, you’re so—!” You rub at your eyes before crossing your arms. “You keep saying that, but can you blame me?! Just look around, dude. Gotta be insane to wanna be around these NPCs all the time, no offense.” Your finger points at no one in particular. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Taylor tilts their head thoughtfully before snorting and sipping on their coke zero. “No, because facts.”

It’s one of the few things you guys agree on. That, and how fucked everything in the world was. Trauma buddies.

“Besides—” You take another bite before you speak, the mouthful making you mumble your words, “I’m not a cum-dumpster who sleeps with every asshole that slides in my DM’s, okay?” You poke your tongue out at them and then snicker, hoping you don’t actually offend them.

Then they kick you in the fucking shin. Hard. 

“Ow, that hurts! What the fuck?” you yell, winning you a few looks from other bystanders.

“Okay, bitch. First of all, puh-lease. Like the ‘ugly skank’ you are,” Taylor underlines obnoxiously, “could ever dream to sell a singular feet pic. If you could, your only customer would probably be Crusty the Stalker in your class. I’d bet even he’s got standards, though.”

Your friend eyes you up and down, winks and you snort before both of you break into laughter.

The rest of your lunch is spent catching up on all the other meaningless things that happened to you guys in the past week.

If you could freeze time, this would be the perfect moment to do it. This moment where you secretly hope they never leave your side.

And they won’t, you think. Not if you can help it.

─────────

The door to your run-down apartment opens with a creak.

You arrive home and your social battery is less than negative digits. It happens every time you’re outside and interact with way too many people.

After you make sure both of the locks are in place, you go ahead and drop the bag by the entrance, kicking your shoes off in the process.

You feel sweaty and grimy, so you decide to go take a shower, leaving a trail of clothing on the way. Clothing which you’ll definitely pick up and wash in the morning. Just like how you’ll totally take out the trash when you leave for college tomorrow.

As you enter the bathroom, you stop in front of the full length mirror that you got from free when your former neighbor moved, and proceed to fucking glare at your naked form.

Your thoughts wander to the two separate individuals who commented on your appearance today, one of them being a total stranger who was trying to get a rise out of you, the other being your best friend who most likely was just poking harmless fun.

The low self-esteem you’re donning like an heirloom however, couldn’t let those petty thoughts go.

You give yourself a little twirl, looking over your breasts and your ass, thighs and back.

The marks, the blemishes, the scars. They’re all there, always and forever, sitting all too fucking pretty on your skin and reminding you of who you really are. It’s one of the reasons you rarely ever look into the mirror anymore, lest you risk breaking it with your fist and have to make a trip to the ER.

“An ugly skank, huh?” You smile sadly, intrusive thoughts of self-harm, suicide and body dysmorphia all creeping up in your mind like a vice.

Usually you’d tell yourself—cope—that you’d look fine if you tried, but that’s the problem. You don’t usually try. 

You don’t try, unless there’s a good reason to parade yourself around, to be their poster child in return for their favor. Never for yourself, though.

It’s funny as it’s sad, letting other people dictate your own fucking feelings. But despite their harsh words getting to you when there’s no one looking, at least neither of them mind talking to you.

That’s more than you can ask of most people.

Would he be interested in you if you tried? 

He seems like the type to fall for the cute, shy girl, the popular beauty or the sexy bombshell—none of which you’d ever like to be.

A mental picture of him watching you as you leave the class briefly flashes in your mind.

“Nope.” Nope. Nope. Nope. You’re absolutely not going to think about that asshole again.

So you turn your shower handle all the way on cold and you step inside anxiously. The freezing temperature will ground and distract you from further ridiculous thoughts that will have you spiraling in a matter of seconds. Besides… he probably fucking hates your guts now.

[sudriantraveler]

For the WIP ask game... what are the "Lightships"? 👀

That's something I've been slowly working on. The main premise is inspired by the real life collision between RMS Olympic and the Nantucket Lightship.

Here's the prologue in it's current state.

May 15, 1934

LV-117 sat at anchor, rocking back and forth in the waves. As was common for lightships, her hull was painted a bright red, and along her side in big white lettering was written the name of her station, NANTUCKET.

A thick fog had descended around her. This was hardly unheard of around the Nantucket shoals, but even so, Nancy, as everyone called her, pushed her light to flash a bit brighter, and her foghorn to blair a little louder than it normally would have, to try and make sure other ships were aware of her location.

She swore she could see shadows of other vessels in the fog, heading her way, but each time they turned out to be nothing, and she cursed herself for being so tense. She had survived some of the worst of Atlantic storms, had even rescued the crews of less fortunate vessels, and now she was afraid of a little fog?

Nancy sighed, she had been jumpy in the fog ever since an incident four months prior. She shuddered at the memory of the towering back mass of the SS Washington emerging from the murky gray, pointed straight towards her. The shouting between crews, the frantic bellowing of whistles and foghorns, and the horrible sound of hull plates bending and grinding against each other, threatening to give way to let the cold ocean begin pouring in, were all things Nancy didn’t think she’d ever forget.

It fortunately turned out to only be a glancing blow, but both the lightship and her crew were badly shaken by the encounter. The thought that it could have been worse brought no comfort, and the words of her radio operator still echoes throughout Nancy’s Bridge: “Someday we are just going to get it head on, and that will be the finish. One of those big liners will just ride through us”.

No matter how hard she tried Nancy just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right, and that, someday, the worst would occur.

Nancy’s anxiety had also borne a new sense of anger against the big liners. She knew, listening to radio calls, that passenger numbers had been falling, the ongoing depression having greatly hurt the shipping trade as a whole. Competition between liners had always been fierce, but with fewer passengers and more modern liners being built it was now a truly cut-throat environment. To Nancy's mind, this had made the liners reckless.

Speed had always been a major competition between liners, the coveted Blue Riband, the award for the fastest Atlantic crossing being at the center of it all. But speed brought many dangers with it, and Nancy could swear the liners were passing through her waters faster and closer than they had ever been before, trying to shave off every possible minute from their crossing time.

Nancy sighed. It was unbecoming to wish ill upon other vessels, especially for a ship whose purpose was to protect maritime travelers, but she couldn’t get the thought out of her mind that the oceans would be safer without the gigantic speed demons.

Nancy was broken out of her thoughts by a sudden commotion on deck. Looking to port, she saw the image of her nightmares. The towering black mass of an ocean liner emerged from the fog, barreling straight towards her. She sounded her foghorn again and again, but it was far too late for any evasive maneuvers to be taken.

Onboard the liner, the order was rung down to the engine room for full reverse, and the massive ship's hull groaned and shuddered at the sudden change in the engines settings! Straining against her own momentum, the liner managed to slow to only about 3 knots, but with so much mass and kinetic energy behind her, the inevitable collision was no less catastrophic.

Crewmen aboard the lightship frantically donned their life preservers and ran out on deck to jump into the sea, and the collision alarm rang out as the towering hull made contact with the side of their much smaller vessel. The impact violently shook the smaller vessel, as with a sickening crunching and grinding sound Nancy was pushed under by the knifelike bow of the still moving liner.

As water began rapidly flooding in, Nancy looked up to see the name of the ship that had killed her towering high above her, OLYMPIC. It was the last thing she saw before slipping beneath the waves.

Olympic meanwhile, was horrified as her crew frantically ran to lower lifeboats into the water to search for survivors. She had barely sustained any damage at all, only some chipped paint and a few dented hull plates. But the lightship… one minute she was there, the next she was being crushed under the waves as Olympic’s bow cut into her side.

Olympic had shut her eyes, and now refused to open them. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see what she had done. But she couldn’t block out the sound of Nancy being crushed under her bow, the sounds of rivets popping and hull plates bending and shearing apart.

Olympic's passengers had barely felt the collision, the reversal of the engines was much more noticeable, and as they tricked out onto the deck to see what had happened all they were greeted with was the smell of oil and a few scattered pieces of debris floating on the ocean surface. Olympic, hesitantly opened her eyes, and immediately felt even more sick, as floating nearby a red buoy bearing the name Nantucket made it clear to all what she had just struck.

The murky fog still hung over the scene as the lifeboats returned, and Olympic forced herself to try and count the survivors… Seven… Seven survivors of what had been an eleven man crew, and three of them didn’t look like they would last long enough to reach port.

Once the lifeboats were brought back aboard, and it became clear that no more survivors would be found, A still shaking Olympic resumed sailing for New York Harbor, with her flags at half mast and a mournful note on her whistle. Unseen by Olympic, a shadow hung on the water over the wrecksite, watching her as she departed into the fog.

[release-the-mccracken]

As Fresh As A Bright Blue Sky

Ship: Pete x Patrick

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Pete wasn’t exactly sure how he found himself in this situation. Straddling Patrick in the back of the van, Patrick’s back against the seat to keep himself sat up and his hands all over Pete. He’d always found Patrick attractive, sure. With those big eyes and soft hair, how could he not? He just never expected anything to actually come from those feelings, especially not something so receptive. Normally, he’d question and second-guess himself whenever anything too good started to happen for him, but it was hard to think with Patrick touching him.

Warnings: Trans Pete, ftm Pete, dry humping, sexual inexperience, coming in pants, nipple play.

Words: 1,423

Read As Fresh As A Bright Blue Sky below the cut or on ao3 now

Pete wasn’t exactly sure how he found himself in this situation. Straddling Patrick in the back of the van, Patrick’s back against the seat to keep himself sat up and his hands all over Pete. He’d always found Patrick attractive, sure. With those big eyes and soft hair, how could he not? He just never expected anything to actually come from those feelings, especially not something so receptive. Normally, he’d question and second-guess himself whenever anything too good started to happen for him, but it was hard to think with Patrick touching him. 

It was surprisingly easy to let go and fall into Patrick. As cheesy as it was, Patrick was his best friend and he felt safe to be vulnerable with him. They’d just always shared a different kind of connection, almost always being on the same wavelength. Patrick had seen the worst and ugliest parts of Pete and had still stayed. He’d drudged up every bad thing Pete wanted to keep buried and hidden away, and Patrick had just whispered that he still loved him. Maybe it wasn’t right to have a favorite in the band, but Pete obviously did. 

Patrick just got him on a spiritual level that Joe and Andy didn’t, allowing him to be open in a way that he normally couldn’t. That was part of the reason why Patrick got to have him like this, kissing him deeply and grinding onto his lap. He moaned into Pete’s mouth and grasped tighter onto his hips when he rocked down firmly, rubbing himself against Patrick’s dick just right. It felt like they spent forever in that position, simply touching each other and making out, only breaking apart long enough to breathe before kissing again. 

They’d spent an eternity rocking against each other, every noise they made seeming to echo in the van. Everything seemed to be led by instinct and desire, both of them chasing their own pleasure. They had been seeing one another for a while now and sleeping together just felt like the natural next step. And honestly, it was a surprise that it had taken them this long. If Patrick had been anyone else, Pete would’ve made the move to sleep with him a bit ago. But Patrick wasn’t anyone else, he was different to Pete. 

He knew that Patrick had never done anything like this before and he didn’t want him to feel pressured or uncomfortable. It had been hard to figure out if Patrick was ready or not and eventually, Pete just decided to bite the bullet and ask. He’d been as gentle as he could, making sure Patrick knew he could say no and absolutely nothing would change about them. A week or so prior, Pete had sat down with him and asked if that was something he was interested in. Unsurprisingly, Patrick had blushed and stammered through the entire conversation. 

But surprisingly, he had been fully on board and seemed a bit irritated that it had taken Pete that long to even ask. By the end of it, they’d finally made a plan. Making a plan for sex was so Patrick that Pete had to smile and shake his head fondly. Pete decided he would be the one to get what they needed, choosing to take mercy on Patrick and not force him to go through that situation. He couldn’t imagine the younger boy standing there and letting some cashier watch him put a package of condoms up on the conveyor belt. 

When the next Friday came around, they finally started to move onto the next step. It had been easy to just make out and cuddle close to one another, they’d done that countless times. But both of their hearts were racing as they began to take things further than before. They started like they always did, Patrick pressing close to Pete and kissing him gently. He didn’t voice his nerves, but Pete could tell he was freaking out on the inside. He’d known Patrick long enough to know what situations made him anxious-which was most of them. 

It had gotten so easy to read him, feeling anxiousness radiate off of him, but it had also gotten easy to bring him back down from that. Slowly, Pete’s fingers found their way beneath the hem of Patrick’s shirt. The younger man’s breath hitched in his throat, squirming as Pete rubbed along his stomach and sides. He’d ended up in Patrick’s lap a few moments later, hands pressing further up his shirt to rub over his chest. He could feel Patrick shivering beneath his hands as he massaged and squeezed at the fat he found there.

He knew Patrick felt a little self-conscious about his body, especially how big his chest was, nearly having tits of his own. Pete would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy how they looked, though. He loved every inch of Patrick and he knew he was expressing it pretty well, groping his tits and rocking down against Patrick’s quickly hardening cock. Patrick’s hips jerked when Pete squeezed rougher, it felt good and overwhelming all at the same time. He could feel his cheeks heating up as Pete kept touching him, but Pete never pulled away. 

The kiss was finally broken when Patrick became confident enough to reach for Pete’s shirt, tugging at the hem until Pete pulled back and finished taking his shirt off. He was naked beneath it, tanned skin suddenly being exposed to Patrick. Patrick was respectful and tried not to stare, but it was difficult with his cock hard and Pete’s tits right in his face. He could hear Pete laughing above him and could feel the sound reverberating in his chest. His laugh was brash, obnoxious, beautiful, and like sunshine made into a single sound. 

Pete’s hand reached to grab one of Patrick’s hands, bringing it to his chest until Patrick got the hint and nervously groped at the flesh there. He let out a shaky noise at the feeling of Pete’s skin under his hand. He’d thought about this moment so much, getting to touch Pete like this. He’d only ever thought about this in his most private moments, only daring to think about it when he was alone with a hand around his cock. Pete’s skin was warm and once Patrick got a bit more confident, he couldn’t stop touching Pete. 

“Come here,” Pete murmured, his other hand moving to Patrick’s hair to pull him closer to his chest. Patrick didn’t even think as he let Pete maneuver him however he wanted, mouth moving over Pete’s other nipple as he was directed to it. “There we go. Good boy,” Pete let out a quiet moan at the feeling of Patrick’s mouth on him, moving his hips a bit faster. He was moving in tight little circles now, rubbing his clit rhythmically. 

Pete’s cotton boxers were sticking to his skin, the fabric stimulating him even more as he grew more and more sensitive. His fingers pulled at Patrick’s hair a bit roughly, but it only gained a moan from Patrick that was unfortunately muffled against his skin. Patrick’s hips were rocking up against Pete a bit frantically, both of them moving a bit haphazardly against each other. Patrick’s fingers were rough enough to leave bruises on Pete’s skin as he lost himself in pleasure. All of a sudden, he was going rigid. 

A broken moan escaped him as he came abruptly, catching himself off guard with it. He tried to pull back to apologize frantically, but Pete kept him pressed against him and he didn’t fight him too hard. Pete’s hips continued moving, trying to get himself off too and Patrick was quickly becoming overstimulated. He whined and shifted around desperately, but he didn’t try to push Pete away. It wasn’t fair to get off and then stop Pete before he could. Minutes ticked by and Pete was finally coming against him as well. 

Patrick bit down on his nipple and that seemed to push Pete over the edge, a soft cry escaping him as he shivered and continued rubbing against Patrick through each wave of his orgasm. Patrick decided hearing Pete come was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard and he was ready to hear it again soon. His head was spinning too much to think about it at that moment, though. He didn’t have enough blood left in his brain to think too much about anything and he couldn’t get hard again even if he willed himself to.

[hazbincalifornia]

Word

Summary: Circus au Blitzo muses on how he uses Daddy. Companion piece to this.

Wordcount: 1025

Rating: M, mentions of sex but nothing too explicit.

Ao3 link

____

His father was never really ‘Dad’.

He was Papa when Blitzo was little. Then he was Sir for a year once Blitzo turned thirteen, Sir all the time instead of just during practice. Then he was gone, so he wasn’t anything. Yeah, well, good fucking riddance. Don’t let the door bruise your ass on the way out. He didn’t deserve Barbie and Mom and Fizz. Didn’t even deserve Blitzo, really. If he’d been there, he would have absolutely shit himself at the revelation that his kid had gotten himself knocked up with a prince’s baby in what could have been the milking-for-cash opportunity of the fucking millennium, but he wasn’t, so he didn’t.

Sure, things had gotten rough for a bit without the ringmaster, but they’d managed to pull through and elect another one. (They’d asked both Barbie and Fizz if they wanted to train for it to take over the mantle in a few years, but Barbie said she didn’t want all that extra work for no extra pay and Fizz echoed her sentiment. He didn’t care. Really, he didn’t.) Things went back to a version of normal, and there were plenty of other guys that Blitzo liked more anyway, including some that were the same age he’d been.

At one point, one of them cooed about how Blitzo looked like his dad but ‘cuter’, and he wasn’t really sure how to feel about that as they shoved his face into the pillow. He was pretty big, at least, and washed them both up afterward.

So, yeah. No ‘dad’. Which was fine. Mom had done the parenting Blitzo had liked between the two of them. He’d been more of a boss than a dad most of the time, so the changing of the guard wasn’t the worst, even though he’d been fourteen, even though the note-

Anyway. Barbie had burnt it and then ground it to ashes underneath her boot, and that had been that.

The word popped up now and then- plenty of kids called for Mommy and Daddy as they tugged their way through the games and pointed out the acts onstage as if they couldn’t be seen otherwise. Plenty of guests (and staff) also liked tossing it around with him, playing hot potato with the term as they tried to make the most of stolen moments. Cooed into his lips, then handed back to the next partner. Sometimes he was the one looking up to the green sky, sometimes he was watching white or black hair and tugging on it as the word slid out smooth as butter, reclaiming something that had never graced his tongue properly except as this, It was toyed-with power, pure and simple. It showed which of them was the one leading the way, or it was giggled out because one of them made an awkward squeak and they had to diffuse the tension somehow.

Then Stolas showed up.

Blitzo had purred it out, the word rolling between his teeth and into the air easily, and the way it flustered Stolas was an absolute treat. The height difference coupled with the years between them rattled the bird in a way that rode shudders up his spine when Blitzo pushed at his buttons, and it was so fun to work him up to orgasm, taking him apart with just a word and a hand or a grind down.

Using it against an actual dad made it twice as effective, and the way it could unravel him was absolutely intoxicating.

“Daddy” kept Blitzo in control- even when Stolas was the one using the word, it was always on Blitzo’s terms. Things teetered this way and that sometimes, a routine not quite worked out yet, (when Stolas was too much and not enough, and Blitzo didn’t know how to be everything the way he wanted to, too scooped out to offer anything more than himself, even though that self had never been enough for anyone else) but Daddy offered them both a role, a security, a promise. His stomach swelled as his feelings did, warm as molten gold and fit to burst, flooding everything so there would never have to be any more hard questions between them.

As the months wore on, Blitzo heard little Via warble out the word, tugging at Stolas’s leg with wide eyes and a slightly-open beak each time. That wasn’t the same, obviously, but Stolas, to his credit, could switch roles easily, scooping her up into his lap and gently preening through her feathers or simply cuddling her closer.

Blitzo watched as she relaxed, the gold in his chest curdling sour, until she drifted off and Stolas offered his lap once she was returned to her room.

Somehow, when Stolas murmured “Daddy can take care of all three of you” with a hand over the bump, even though Blitzo ground against the thigh with a little grin, it bubbled up something bloody and raw as he rested against the warm, fluffy chest that was just at the right height for his cheek.

Stolas was beautiful and liked his jokes and loved the kid he already had and also already loved the one on the way, and loved Blitzo somehow in a way that nobody else ever had (he knew Mom and Barbie and Fizz did, but it wasn’t like this, wasn’t like an ocean that he could barely understand as directed at him sometimes), and when he called himself Daddy of his own volition, wrapped Blitzo in his arms with no expectation of opened legs, Blitzo’s veins crackled with the burn of a hearth fire.

The word was his, but Stolas plucked it away sometimes and polished it and returned it shiny and new, cocooned in a layer of gentle affection that made Blitzo want to squirm because it was everything, everything, everything. Paternal and romantic and sexual, swirled into the tone of voice that vibrated his heart out of his chest and set it directly in Stolas’s hands.

“Do you want Daddy to take care of you, darling?”

He braced himself against a thin body that had power simmering below the surface and nodded.

Yeah.

He did.

[eltriador]

------@medicbled: [ PULL ]: sender pulls receivers hair. + " fuck me like you hate me."

------THROUGH THE EMERGENCY staircase of his favorite haunt he could hear the music thrumming . feeling it was an entirely different thing , every sense tuned into the beat and the way the bass buzzed , raising the finer hairs at the nape of his neck to their very ends . it set his teeth on edge , lit his entire body on fire better than alcohol or any stimulant could . it was the closest he could get to feeling the before - shifting tension of a full moon without all of the exhaustion and irritation that followed .

what a mess they'd fallen into .

how easily she could have faded into the expanse of his memory , a cresting wave that would only prick at recognition some time a hundred years from now when the night looked just right and the air smelled like a warzone . he could have inhaled it and recalled how poisonously gentle her touch was rolling up his sleeve , tapping the syringe , setting the needle flush against wrecked skin . the way her attitude contradicted the smooth pads of her fingers , the sudden ease in the honey of her gaze - and he could forget that she was only at the edge of her teeth all the time because of that thing she injected into him . a suppressant . something to quell his nature and keep him complicit . it wasn't her fault , but by the time a century passed he'd forget the details .

but karma had her coming back into his life through happenstance . old feuds , bad blood between once - family and the life he chose to live now kept her around . he loved what he was , but lee wouldn't wish the bite on his worst enemy . he'd spent a week expecting it to kill her , then another explaining that yeah , that was bad but it'll only get worse from there .

he bore a lot of damage . a lot of trauma . but none was as bad of the emotional baggage he carried . fifty years never keeping the same company for fear he'd open his heart again , have it ripped out of his chest and crushed between harsh fingers . he could still feel the sting of the silver when the full moon crested , the days before the change beckoned the most feral part of him . it made his skin itch , the memory of the pain had his teeth gritting , jaw clenching . he wouldn't do that again .

except ...

she pulled at him like she wanted to peel his flesh from his bones . lithe hands , dexterous and deadly , slipped beneath the open sides of his shirt and scraped nails against taut muscle , uneven ridges from old wounds that prickled and bristled when touched . when she kissed him it was always with a bite , pulling at his lower lip with angry teeth , threatening to draw blood in welts each time but never quite getting there . they'd barely made it to the door with how she tugged at him ---and really , how he let his own hands explore her frame on the way . as if he wasn't complicit in it , as if he hadn't stood too close , let his breath fall on her neck like a prayer .

the song shifted , echoed in the stairwell , and lee let his body be a cage barring gloria between himself and the wall . his knee propped between her thighs , muscle nudging at her crest with only a measure of the grind it was capable of . he devoured her mouth with a hunger he'd kept close in his chest , one that coiled at his spine and stuck deep claws into each individual vertebrae . hello , old friend .

nose nudged beneath the line of her jaw , teeth pricked at the skin there and between the scratch of his beard and their journey he mused at the angry red trail that appeared in no time . her fingers dug into his shoulder , her hips rolled to push herself more into his leg and he understood that need . gods , he fucking understood it . it pulled an inhuman growl from his chest , one that stuck behind his jaws and tasted like a promise .

" léon , " black eyes fluttered up , long lashes catching against the crook of her neck from where he'd been making a trail down . her shirt was twisted impossibly , half around his wrist and tugged upward . the thin , tantalizing fabric of a bra that wasn't meant to support askew from where he'd been worrying at the hardened bud of her breast with his tongue , with teeth . but now his attention was on her face , her lips , swollen from harsh kisses and wet from the slick of her mouth where she'd run her own tongue across them moments before . fingers wound into his hair , grasped at the root and pulled hard - enough to have him groaning for the pain of it . he even panted on the exhale , something that made the corners of gloria's lips twitch upward in a way that made her look like a cruel god . and fuck , he was hard . " fuck me like you hate me . "

his exhale was a harsh shudder , large hands shifting from their assigned posts across her body to seek the tantalizing curve of her hips . he pulled himself back , shifted to push her into the railing of the landing ( to give her something to brace herself against ) , and filled the space at her back with his form . he brushed the hair from her neck , let it spill over her shoulder like honey , and worked at the exposed skin with rough bites . more red splayed against the sweet smooth flesh of her . down his focus went , next on tugging at the waistline of her shorts . he paused to unbutton them , let his fingers dip between her thighs once he'd given himself more space , and moved immediately past the waistband of her panties .

surely she could feel how hard he was , the way it insisted itself more when he felt at her . lee chuckled , a breathless husk , against the shell of her ear . " look how wet you are , cariño . "

[greenjokwe-blog]

Bloodborne - Finished 19/01/2023

Third FromSoft Souls-like game I’ve finished now! Kinda scary to talk about this one considering the game’s INSANE reputation as one of the greatest things ever, and I definitely did really enjoy it and think all of these games I’ve played so far are definitely masters of their craft, buuuuut I did have my fair share of gripes with it.

Okay first off I should make the biggest and most obvious complaint about the game clear - this shit NEEDS a modern day update. Constant pop-in and framerate drops really kinda bog down a lot of the games best moments, and if they just ported the game onto next-gen consoles with a slight patch update the game would be an undoubtable recommendation from me.

Next up, the most obvious COMPLIMENT for the game! The world is absolutely stunning. It’s all so beautifully dreary and intimidating, and keeps that feeling throughout. While it does make me miss that variety and scope of constantly traversing Dark Souls, the consistency of the theming here and believability of a real breathing location definitely makes up for it. The designs of all of the characters and enemies here are also excellent, REALLY perfecting that Lovecraftian horror design, legit you won’t see shit that looks like this in any other game.

Then there’s the combat, which... hasn’t really swayed me one way or the other on Souls combat in general, which is good, but not in a vacuum. Every single weapon is viable now! Which seems neat, but ultimately means you’re less likely to experiment when you use one build the whole time, which is probably good for some, and the game at least makes up for it by making upgrading multiple weapons at a time fairly painless, but there’s a lot LESS decision-making than in Dark Souls, and even less than it’s “more aggressive” system here would have you believe, because a lot of bosses in this game can be defeated by just spam-dodging into them and wailing R1 mindlessly. Until you get to the The Old Hunters that is in which case HOLY FUCK I THINK THEY BUFFED UP THE BOSSES A BIT TOO MUCH.

Oh yeah, the bosses, right. The big Souls selling point. They’re pretty good I guess. The thing with me is that I always kinda craved the insane diversity of the bosses that Demon’s/Dark Souls always gave, and these bosses are definitely a lot more consistent and there’s nothing as bad as say, Capra Demon or Maneater, I also feel like there’s also nothing as good as shit like Artorias or even Sif (This is why we love Micolash in this house). I did also really like the final boss though, and shit like beating Matyr Logarius first try, or FINALLY beating Orphan of Kos after so many hours gave me a feeling of satisfaction I won’t feel in any other game, so I think it still works pretty well.

The worst part about going through this game though, for me, was the Blood Vial system. I’ve alluded to it but a lot of shit was done in Bloodborne in order to streamline the combat experience, one of the big things is give you a default max of 20 healing items on you at a time so you can more easily spam them while struggling in a boss (it even lets you move while using them now, how sweet). However, what this DOES mean is that Blood Vials only come back to you when you have enough unlike Estus Flasks, and are overall closer to working like the healing items in Demon’s Souls, so guess what, THE GRIND IS BACK BAYBEEEEEEEE! JESUS is it a step-down in almost every aspect, the ease of use in bosses is not worth me grinding at this one spot over and over again to either 1. get blood vials from enemy drops or 2. get enough blood echos to hopefully buy enough vials to fight the upcoming boss for the next 10 minutes. This, along with the Nexus-like hub world labelled Hunter’s Dream, just feels like Bloodborne taking unnecessary step-backs from what Dark Souls established in order to make the game “more convenient” when it does anything but.

So uh... Bloodborne. Still VERY VERY VERY GOOD don’t get me wrong!!!  Absolutely worth playing and isn’t much like anything else, but... I still prefer DS1!!! Sorry!!!

[literalminded]

ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｉｓ ｆｏｒ

@wclrider

Never would he have thought that this is where his choices would lead. All those days, months, years ago. One decision snowballed into an avalanche and somehow he had gained the most unlikely of allies while making some of the worst enemies. If he didn't have his family to live for, he isn't sure he would have bothered fighting through it all as he had.

He glances up at what had once comprised his nightmares, Walrider, and feels a familiar phantom itch within his skull.

A flinch of acknowledgment in the shared understanding of pain as more blood seeps between pale fingers. They spasm slightly, tightening to try and staunch the flow as best he can with what strength he has left. A sound draws his attention, wide eyes darting towards it and away from what used to haunt his memories. Just as quickly his focus jumps back to the Walrider, lingers on It as pupils waver. He isn't sure how to ask for help when he is still making amends. When he's still trying to fix the bugs in his own coding so to speak. Before he has to say anything the Other does first, and is gone in a rush of sounds that makes his eyes ache. So he closes them and tips his head back, grinding his teeth against one another to try and take his mind off of what's happening. Easy enough, he has plenty of practice distracting himself with code and math and –

Oh, It's back.

Waylon shudders then snags his hand away from his bleeding side as though it were on fire the moment he feels the wound close of its own accord. How Miles could stand the sensation is beyond him. His stomach churns unpleasantly while his mind races with the implications of the healing technically speaking. Sometimes he wishes he could shut off that part of his brain.

“Thank you.” He grits out through the uncanny sensation. It was not meant for him. Despite the screaming in his head of 'wrong wrong wrong', he's grateful to not die today. But it isn't lost on him – the irony in who his savior is. Again.

The voice of his former boss rings clear, Racking up quite the debt there Mr. Park.

It gets overpowered by the Walrider's order, and Waylon shivers. He'd always been a little too keen to understand the software behind the Walrider, but even he knew there was more to It than that. No amount of pouring over the lines had given him any epiphany or explanation, and even seeing the Engine hadn't offered him clarity. Waylon gets his good leg underneath and leverages himself up, wobbling only slightly as he regains his balance.

“I would have gotten up eventually.” He mumbles, mostly to himself, as if to make a point, but then his fingers brush across the torn fabric and he looks down to the exposed but whole flesh beneath. “To survive.” A quiet echo of words.

“What the fuck.” The reality of what the Walrider did settles on him and his chin jerks up so he can stare in Its direction, but never for too long. “You can do that?” A hint of panic creeps in, overlapping the amazement.

[theosmommy1966]

Hateful MattheoxReader

*Hateful sex-ish, choking, Degradation so on and so forth*

"Oh my god Riddle.. Do you ever stop fucking complaining??!!?" You whined as you sat at the table with the rest of the Death eaters your age. "We get it, Adrian annoys you.. I annoy you.. Blaise annoys you. Anyone who doesn't think that you are a god walking this damn earth or a baby annoys you! Get the hell over it! News flash buddy.. You fucking annoy me too." 

The table falls silent as the two of you glare at each other, if looks could kill you would both be dead. Draco shakes his head and looks down, both of you having grown up in this lifestyle he thought you would be friends. Turns out you couldn't hate each other more. 

Mattheo was supposed to be figuring out how to lead his own team. Show his father that he was capable of taking over one day. But he couldn't even control you, one beautiful angry girl, who refused to follow orders. 

Theodore chuckles and walks over to the drink cart, pouring himself and you a drink before bringing it back to you. He runs his fingers through your hair and speaks softly before turning away "Easy Princess." 

Mattheo watches as your cheeks flush from Theos words, everyone knows the guy is basically your sugar daddy. But the soft touch along with his softly spoken words makes Mattheo wonder if you're just a starfish. He always thought you would be the dominant one in a relationship, but maybe he was wrong. 

They all watch as you slam your drink back, Pansy jumping slightly as you set your glass down harshly. You stand and start making your way out of the room but pause to turn back to him. "Ya know Riddle, You should really blow off some steam. And I don't mean in the gym, find someone who can tolerate listening to your voice and bend them over. Maybe you won't be such an ass afterwards."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night you're down in the gym, fists pounding repeatedly into a bag trying to beat away the nightmares.  After every nightmare you feel like this, normally you would go to Theo but you're just not in the mood for his "Tender Lovin" as he likes to put it. 

That's how you started ending up in the never used gym of Hogwarts. Thankfully it wasn't far from the dungeons, and it was always empty. 

You had never quite figured out how to shut out the beatings once your eyes closed. It was like your brain just started replaying the worst moments of your life. And it happened far too often. 

Everyone was asleep, and the gym was silent so when the door creaked open and steps started echoing through the room over your grunts it was easy to tell who it was. "What do you want, I'm not in the mood." 

You didn't even have time to turn to look at him when he didn't answer, all you felt was his large hand harshly grip the back of your neck. Then suddenly your chest came into contact with the padded wall, the air from your lungs escaping your lips when his other hand comes into contact with the flesh of your hip. 

"You know you really can be such a bitch. You said earlier that I should fuck someone to feel better.. Maybe you need to get fucked by someone too feel better." Mattheo said as his hand slowly made its way towards your inner thigh, even over your leggings you could feel the coldness of his fingers. 

When you didn't answer he used the grip he had on your neck to turn your face and harshly press his lips against yours. Grinding himself into you as your teeth clashed together, you matching his ferocity. 

He smirked when you didn't pull away but instead leaned back into him, his hand snaking from your neck into your hair. A harsh tug left your scalp already stinging and causing your to gasp. 

Somewhere in your mind warning bells were going off, but you ignored it. Did you hate Mattheo Riddle, yes.. Was he hot.. Also yes. 

So if he wanted to hate fuck you, who were you too say no? Wasn't it just you taking one for the team? That's what you would say at least. 

Because to be honest you had wanted to fuck him since he got here, sure you had Theo.. And Adrian.. And Blaise.. but that wasn't important at this moment. 

His hand easily found the apex of your thighs and you could hear the fabric tears as he started harshly ripping away at your leggings. Leaving torn scraps behind as his fingers found your clit. Before you could complain about your ruined clothes he spoke "Don't worry Sugar Daddy Nott will buy you more." 

You laughed outright at the venom in his voice, was it because he and Theo didn't get along? Or was it because Theo was fucking you whenever he wanted? In a sugary sweet voice you answered "Aw, Mattie dont be mad that Theo has me.. Hes had all of us at one point or the other, even Malfoy." 

At the mention of his best friend being bent over by Theodore fucking Nott, his vision got darker. He leaned down to your neck where he was planning on pressing kisses and instead bit down hard. Rolling his hips into your now bare ass, the only thing between the two of you being his sweats. 

"Fuck, that hurt... Do it again." You whined moving one hand to the wall in front of you and one back to grip his hair. He continued to press against you as he sucked and bit bruises across your shoulder and up your neck. 

You would definitely have some explaining to do tomorrow. 

Just as you went to ask for more, Mattheos hand gripped your neck again spinning you around and slams you back against the wall. He didn't know what came over him, he had always been a little rougher than some. But this was a whole new level of mean, he wasn't going to lie and say he wasn't living for it though. 

He didn't think he had ever been so hard in his entire life. 

"You think Im worried about Theodore fucking Nott Princess, I dont need to pay you to have you begging on your knees for me. I see the way you look at me." He spit out, shoving his hand back down and harshly running a finger through your folds. "Look at that.. Soaking wet, just like the whore you are." 

Your teeth latch on to your bottom lip, in efforts to not moan outright. Not only at the harshness of his movements but he was engaging your degradation kink. You couldn't stop your hips from grinding into his hand though when his fingers pressed against your clit. 

"Watch your fucking mouth Riddle." You said even though it sounded more like a whine. You found yourself wanting to fight back against his control. This was supposed to be a hate fuck, so why only let him do the fucking?

Your hand shot out and gripped the outline of his hard cock in his sweats. "Aw, look at that someone is hard.. Must be a whore just like me." You seethed as he pushed against your hand, his fingers not faltering in their movements. When a breathy moan fell from his lips you took that as a sign and started pushing his sweats down. 

To your surprise he didn't have boxers on, but that made it easier for you. His cock was hard, thick and long.

Wrapping your much smaller hand around him you started slow and teasingly soft strokes. His eyes closed as his head fell to your shoulder, breath quickening for you both. He turned his head and started kissing your neck as he thrust into your hand. 

Mattheo could feel himself losing control over the situation, his plan had been to come in here and fuck you. Not for you to fuck him, he wasn't about to let that happen. So he plunged two fingers into your heat and started a hard and quick pace, immediately feeling your body tense.  

"If you hate me so much Princess.. Why are you soaking wet? Why is your little pussy gripping my fingers like you've never been fucked before?" He leaned back trying to ignore your hand stroking over him as he wrapped his free hand around your throat. He watched the way your eyes lit up and your lips fell open just a little. 

"Oh.. Does the little girl like to be choked? Is that the only was Im going to get you to shut the fuck up??" He followed his words up by squeezing just enough to cut your air off a little, the last thing he needed was for you to pass out. 

You tried to not show how much he was affecting you, but lets face it you could feel your excitement running down your thighs. You were beyond the point of shyness, so you ran your thumb over the tip of his cock. Smiling to yourself when he gasped and almost pulled away from you. 

Part of you knew this wasn't how Mattheo should be doing this. He had spent so much time being abused and beat that he should have someone who would be with him in a loving manner. It was one of the reasons you ended up with your Trio. 

One of them was always with you, at Hogwarts or on missions. They were like your security net. Sure everyone thought you were only sleeping with Theo because of the money but that wasn't true. He had been the first to find you when you started having panic attacks. He only started with the gift giving when he realized how little you valued yourself. 

Theodore wasn't good with his words, his love language was gift giving. Blaise found you next, he had been mapping out the new prefect system at school, trying to figure out the easiest way to sneak out to smoke. 

 He had heard you were having a nightmare. When you started screaming in your sleep he dropped the joint in his hand, and slowly entered your room. 

You had woken up in a panic, he practically had to fight you until you really woke up and then laid with you stroking your hair and telling you stories of his mothers escapades. After that his room was where you went after nightmares. 

Adrain had been on a mission, the two of you were sent to a Gala the ministry was throwing. Nothing had to happen for him to be his normal sweet and protective self. Falling into bed together naked just kinda happened, and it was something that NEVER disappointed. 

Mattheo deserved someone who could show him his worth, and that wasn't you. But as you brought your thumb, now covered in his precum to your lips, you knew you couldn't stop. If you stopped now it would only reinforce in his mind that something was wrong with him. 

You heard him mumbled something that sounded like "Oh Fuck" as your lips wrapped around your thumb but you blocked it out. His hand quickly found your hair aiming to bring your lips to his but you turned at the last second. Stopping when your lips were close enough to brush against his ear "I want to get a better taste."

When you fell to your knees you didn't miss the way his mouth fell open. He was shocked, he wasn't prepared for you to so willingly get on your knees before him. He felt like he should say something,  but he sure as hell wasn't about to say some dumb shit like 'Kneel before your Lord".

(A/n... Why not.. We all would.. Sorry nott sorry)

 When his older brother Tom had told him, he would say that to his girlfriend he almost choked on his water. He was pulled from his thoughts when your tongue ran up the bottom of his dick. Leaving a trail of saliva behind before wrapping your lips around the tip and hollowing your cheeks. 

When he was fully sheathed in your lips, you reached for the hand that was holding him against the wall. Pulling it down to wrap it around your throat, pressing your fingers letting him know it was okay to squeeze. Throwing his shock he felt his body reacting, pulling back and then thrusting harshly forwards. 

The gagging sounds making him harder, spit running down your chin and dripping onto his hand. Every time your tongue swirled over the tip, or your throat contracted around him he moaned. Each time a little louder than the last, sweat already forming across his forehead and bare chest. 

You wouldn't admit it but you were loving it. Every time he moaned or squeezed your throat, or pulled your hair you could feel yourself getting wetter.  You hadn't even gotten to the best part and it was already one of the best fucks you'd had. 

"I've changed my mind.." He panted out, causing your eyes to flick up to meet his. His mouth fell open again a long low moan escaping at the beautiful sight beneath him. His hand feeling himself in your throat, tears and spit running down your face from him fucking your face. Now your big beautiful eyes looking up at him from your knees. It was enough to make him cum but he held back. 

"This is the best way to shut you up." He said giving a particularly hard thrust, when you gagged he chuckled "The only sounds coming from those pretty lips should be the sounds I make you make." 

As retaliation you swallowed making his hips falter, a gasp fell from him. His head fell back, baby hairs now sticking to his forehead as he spoke "Im gonna cum.. In your mouth.. and you're going to take it.. Like the cock hungry slut you are."  

You moaned, the vibrations from your chest running threw his cock sending him over the edge. You wanted to reach up and touch him, but knew he didn't like being touched. So you just allowed him to keep his brutal pace through his orgasm. When he slowed and pulled out you swallowed without being told and stood. 

You knew he wasn't done, but wanted to give him the choice, so you made your way towards the door.  Pausing only to look back at him, he was standing in the same place. Cock still standing at full attention as he watched you walk away. 

Smirking, you pushed your snarled hair out of your face "I'm going to shower now in my dorm.. If you still don't feel better.. Feel free to join." 

How was this? Was it cringey? Was it good? I swear I rewrote it like 3 times... 

I'm still pretty new to this.. I have a few more for some other characters written that just need edited. IF you like this please let me know, or give me pointers. Im also down for trying out requests Thanks loves!

[plush-rabbit]

Aphrodisiac Induced Reader + The Brothers

A/N: The brothers!! I hope yall enjoy!! Aphrodisiac induced is always a fun thing to play with. The brothers,, my beloved

-

You really should have known better than to take food that was offered by Beel. You know that he has the right intentions in mind- that him sharing food is a miracle of itself and rejecting him would have his brows furrowed and lips pursed into a pout- but he’s also gluttony. He can eat whatever he wants and as much as he wants without so much of a stomach ache. You, on the other hand, cannot. You should have seen this coming when the cupcake you bite into filled your mouth with such an indescribable sweetness that it made your teeth ache, the flavor otherworldly and leaving you hungry for me, taking greedy bites out of the cutely decorated pastry. There was a sharp pang in your stomach, your body on fire and sex dripping with every nudge that your body made.

You couldn’t be alone right now- or maybe you should have been left alone, maybe that would have saved you from humiliation of your dripping arousal that was leaking past your slit. You’re quick to rise, standing on shaky legs, curled over as your cheeks burn, sweat beading against your skin, only worsening the sensitive state that you are in. It’s fast-acting, making your breaths come out in heated gasps, and everything just feels a bit too much, just too good for it to be normal. An aphrodisiac- a strong one that is making you impossibly aroused. You suck in a sharp breath and go to the person who you know will treat you right.

Lucifer:

Lucifer is a gentleman- most of the time at least. But during your time of need he is perfect to go to. He’ll allow you- or more like insist- that you stay in his office until the aphrodisiac’s effects have passed. You’ll lay on the couch, face buried into a throw pillow while the other one is between your legs. Shame has long been gone since you’ve entered his domain, his eyes never really leaving your shaky frame. When you moan his name, he stiffens, the pen in his hand is held tighter but he still rises, walking towards you in concern. He’ll sit beside you, let his hand curve over your forehead, feeling the heat go through his glove.

He clears his throat, pulling his hand away, and there’s this heavy look on your face, the pillow squeezed tight between your legs, the pillow under your head has faint imprints of your teeth. He’ll avoid touching you, pulling his hand away from you and walking briskly to his desk chair. He can hear your steps across the floor, the way you gasp his name and seem to rub your thighs together for any sort of friction. He won’t spare you a glance, eyes focused on the paperwork in front of him. Underneath the desk, his leg jolts as you snake your arms around his shoulders, your lips wet as they touch his neck.

There isn’t enough time in the day and night for him to focus on his work and on your growing needs that are starting to mark everything in his office. Black ink scratches along the pape, the letters growing shaky as you snake your way onto him. He’s actually startled when you situate yourself on his lap, your sex pressed against his erection. He’s surprised by your sudden confidence but writes it off due to the effects of the aphrodisiac. You’re above him, arms snaked once more on his shoulders and you play with the hair that rests on the nape of his neck.

The feeling of shame is not foreign to the Avatar of Pride but even then, letting you know that he is indeed aroused given the situation does bring a bit of heat to his body. His hands find their way to hold onto your hips, trying to ignore the way that you have begun to grind against his. But there is work to do and despite the growing need to pleasure both you and himself, he displaces you, ignoring the way that you call his name and can’t seem to stop touching him.

The only way to gain his attention that you desperately long for is to push him away, the wheels locking against an edge of the floor and you bend yourself over the desk. Lucifer wants to throw you out so you can be another’s problem but you pull your bottom layer off, your fingers searching inside your leaking hole and pride starts to fuel him. You touch yourself in front of him, beg for him to touch you- of course you would. Slender hands come to touch your body, and you’re already leaking onto the floor, thick, sweet arousal staining the very room that he allowed you to enter. His cock is against you, rimming around your entrance, hearing your cries and please for him to simply fuck you but you did cause him to become distracted from very important work and he is going to punish you for that.

Mammon:

Of course you’d go to him. He is your first after all, why wouldn’t you go to The Great Mammon? But wow, he was over his head when you came knocking at his door. Always eager to see and spend time with you, he allows you to enter without seeing the state you’re in. You stagger into his room, holding his hand and stumbling into him and it’s only then that he can smell the sweet, lingering aroma in the air. He wants to believe you’re just trying a new perfume and now it's made you sick, but it’s worse than that when the hand you’re holding moves to your chest. He can feel your rapid heartbeat, the way your body is in flames that can rival hellfire itself, the pained cry of his name as you try to pinch your legs together in the awkward embrace.

Frozen for a moment, Mammon completely blanks on what to do. He can feel your pain, the aching need in your entire body that makes you feel as if you’re going to combust into flames. He doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. But then you cry his name- sobbing it out in broken syllabus and you cry that it hurts and you think you might die and you're in his arms. Your hold on him tightens and he thinks he can leave you to be- let you wait out the excruciating pain in his room until the feeling fades and just thank him with attention or material objects later. He fails to consider that he is weak to you and when you look at him with teary eyes, he falters.

He stutters in his explanation, talking about how he can maybe go out and get you a toy or something- and he promises to be quick, he is the fastest after all. But then the thought lingers and he imagines your sex stretched with some toy that he chose, and his body jerks. Your vision is growing blurrier by the second and the hold on his hand tightens until your knuckles pale. You pull on him, thanking whatever God is watching down on you, that the door to the prized car he keeps in is open. Even he’s unable to know what is going on until you push him inside, crawling onto the back seat, calling his name and begging for him to join you.

In such a closed space, the Avatar of Greed is trying desperately to avoid touching you. He stays seated in the front seat, fingers drumming along the steering wheel. He cares for the car deeply- one of the few things that gives him freedom that is indescribable and yet, here you are. Your sex is leaking, your cries echoing across the closed space and what is music to his ears in his dreams is now a horrible reminder that you are seated behind him, victim to an aphrodisiac. He needs an excuse to touch you, needs to just feel you for a moment and when you threaten to stain the flawless leather seats with your slick, it’s enough for him to crawl to the back seat.

He never realized how crowded it was, how his elbows and knees tend to knock into things. He doesn’t notice how you’ve kicked your shorts off, how your underwear has become dark in color to your dripping sex. You kiss him, and Mammon is weak to you. His hands are on you, the scent overpowering and he promises to keep the touching to a minimum to only touch what you’ll let him touch and kiss where you want him to. But you’re huffing, grabbing onto him and trying to meet his crotch. The windows grow foggy, the car begins to creak but neither of you pay it any mind. It’s cramped and you’re too close but not close enough, you ache to be closer to him, to have him pressed against you until all you can remember is the way that his chest feels against your skin, the warmth of him, and the way his kisses are so tender and feverish all at once.

Leviathan:

Leviathan refuses to make eye contact with you. He won’t even address you. He sits on his desk chair, playing a game that doesn’t need half of the attention he usually gives. You rest inside his bathtub, curled over he presumes, whining and mumbling something that sounds like his name but he can't be so sure nor does he expect you to mumble his name in your current state. But as much as he wants to drown you out, he can’t. You’re too whiny, crying and begging for a solution, peeling your shirt off because it’s too hot. He reasons that’s because of the aphrodisiac because his room is always kept to a cool temperature. So now, he has you topless in his bathtub and the only proof is your shirt that was tossed where he sits and the reflection above, portraying a teasing, blurry image of your torso.

It’s possibly the worst situation for the poor, introverted demon. He finally has you all to himself and you’re in such a needy state and the plot is so close to a top tier hentai of his- Help! My Friend Took a Drug and Now They Won’t Stop Grinding on Me But I Also Don’t Want Them To Stop. But You came to him, you trusted that he would watch over you and whether it was because he kept his room so guarded or because you trust him, he really doesn’t know which. It’s just too muddled for him to believe that you would actively choose him. So, he does what he does best- he immerses himself in a game. The cutest game that he could think of- one that even if he grew and remained hard would make him feel more like a degenerate than he already does. He puts his headphones on and as if everything is trying to punish him, the loading screen takes forever.

The soundtrack plays loud, booming in his headset and effectively drowning you out. But he knows you’re still crying for him- that you're still in the same room with him. The perverted otuka glances up where he can see your reflection and he catches a glimpse of your hands cupping the swell of your chest and his face burns. Had you caught him peeking before? Was this a way for you to play with yourself without actively touching yourself? He can feel his growing arousal, translucent pre-ejaculate spilling past his slit and staining his boxers. It’s humiliating and he hates that the idea of you touching yourself in his room is more than enough for him to get in the mood.

He’s ignoring you- the only way that he can hopefully soften without actually creaming his pants. He avoids your reflection, ignores how your hands grip the curve of the tub until your knuckles pale, how you swing a leg over and it meets the hard layer of the bath, and for a moment, you still. He’s ignoring your decision to remove yourself from the place he rests and staggering to him. When he feels your hands on his thighs, he startles and the game minimizes into a small box. Unaware of what to do in this situation, he freezes, letting his body tense as you crawl onto his lap, your eyes heavy with lust and body feeling so warm above him that he’s unable to breathe.

His breathing is ragged, his hands stopping on the curve of your bum, as he’s unable to look anywhere else but your face. You’re flushed, gripping onto him, your tongue out as you pant and you’re so desperate for his attention that you lean close. His hands raise in an attempt to push you off but as if it were a cliché moment, his hands curve over your chest and you whimper his name at the simple touch. The third born should have been careful, he shouldn’t have let you grind against him and he surely shouldn’t have let himself becomes distracted by a kiss and yet, here he is, undressing himself as you greedily slide yourself onto his cock, your face scrunching up as every scale is pushed further into your aching hole. Leviathan is holding you close, the computer screen dimming as your can fill him spill inside of you.

Satan:

Eager to learn, he knows the effects of what an aphrodisiac can do to a being. So when you come knocking at Satan’s door, begging for refuge, leaning against him and gripping at his shirt, he pats your hand, and welcomes you inside. He allows you to rest on his bed, letting you bury yourself under his blankets. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea for either of you- you’re inhaling his scent during a time of desperate need, and soon when the effects wear off, he’ll be left in a bed that is drenched in your scent. That, however, is a problem for another day.

In order to keep his mind and hands busy, he’ll finally organize his room. He’s able to ignore your whining, the way that you shiver under the covers and bury yourself into his pillow, how you spread your legs so they are uncovered by the blanket; he ignores the sweet scent of your arousal that fills the room and his lungs. He holds his breath, taking few, deep breaths every now and then to avoid inhaling too much of you. You’re whining, talking through the pillow about how it hurts and you just need something- and doesn’t he have a spell he can use to just rid you of at least a tiny bit of it.

It’s the growing arousal of himself and your constant whining that edges him closer to annoyance. He holds books tight in his hand, orders them by author and published years, height and volumes, but it isn’t enough to drown you out. He regrets letting you enter his room but in the same second, he regrets having the thought. He’s happy that you came to him, trusted him enough to see you in a disheveled state. He doesn’t want to scare you off or make you feel unwanted, so he edges closer to you, tugging on the bottom of his shirt as if he were a nervous boy instead of a grown demon. The bed creaks under his weight and your hand latches onto his thigh. He jerks his leg, your hand only squeezing tighter and when he makes eye contact, your eyes are filled with tears, glistening and catching on your lashes like fresh dew.

You’re aroused, deeply and sweetly. It's a nervous thing to be attracted to someone like you, a demon that has been round and born with blood and wrath etched deep into soul and yet here he is, nervous to even touch your trembling hand. He knows the effects of something as strong as an aphrodisiac and for a demon made one, there is no real spell for it. He lets you lay on his lap, your mouth close to his sex, eyes lidded and holding tight to his hand. His control is fading, his growing need pushing past logical thought. He offers himself, and you rise quickly, already straddling his lap, your chest pressed against his, asking if it is okay. A cold shiver runs through his spine and he nods, offering that he’ll take care of you.

The trembling, nervous demon fades just as quick as it came when your lips are on his. You kiss him, need so transparent that he’s teasing, pulling away, letting your back meet the bed. His smile is sharp, leaning to kiss your pursed lips, grabbing your leg and pulling it upwards, mumbling praise under his breath when you hook your leg around his waist. Satan is heavy when above you, and maybe it’s the aphrodisiac that still lingers on your tongue, but he is unwilling to move away from you, kissing you and hooking his fingers in your mouth when you moan. You’re needy and he wants to hear you beg for him, calling his name. He cups your face with spit coated fingers, asking you to be good for him and mew for him.

Asmodeus:

As the Avatar of Lust, Asmodeus immediately knew something was off in the house when he felt lust in the air. It’s sweet. Intoxicating and bitter all at once. It’s like the sweetest honey known to mankind and he knows the feeling well enough to open his door before you have the thought to knock. He welcomes you into his room, letting you rest on the bed, a small part of him on the inside crinkling when you ruffle the sheets. But, of course, he knows this isn’t you- you would never be so careless. It’s all because of the aphrodisiac making your movements more frantic.

He knows the cure to end it- sex, plain and simple. Masturbation might help but he fears your hand will become sore. Always eager to have somebody in bed with him- out of his own sin and own need for company- he offers you two choices. You can borrow a toy- new, still in the box and all- or he could take care of you. Perhaps he shouldn’t have offered the second option, he knew how excited you were to simply enter a room with another living being but he couldn’t help himself. You look absolutely adorable with your flustered face.

A kiss from the living Avatar of Lust is better than any pleasure that you’ve ever received. And he knows it. You moan under him, your body shaking and eyes rolling to the back of your head, clawing at the shirt on his back. He smiles into the kiss. So eager to be taken care of that a simple kiss was enough to make you climax, your arousal dripping onto your underwear, so heavy in the air, that he pulls away as he feels your breaths start to shorten due to lack of air. But even as he pulls away, you still reach to pepper him with kisses, your breathing reggae against his face, gasping for breath with every parting kiss.

Your hands are on him, eager to pull him into another kiss. You want him and it’s evident from the way that you don’t push away when he removes his clothing. But, he stops for a moment, watching your gaze on him, wide and dazed and you stare at him as if he was something more than just a demon, you give him your worship and you pull him into another kiss. He stiffens, pulling away and asking if this is what you want, touching your bare skin only to flinch away as if it burned him. And when your lips are on him, your smile returns for a moment, telling him that you came to him because you knew he would tend to you in any way, and he melts.

His lips return to yours, kissing you eagerly, wanting nothing more than to just keep his lips on you. And as last time, you shudder beneath him, another orgasm washing through your body, your release spilling pass your slit. Limps entangle with each other and you cry the name Asmodeus, moaning it as if it were the only thing on your mind, sobbing under him and telling him how good it feels. You pet his head and let him bury his face into our chest, peppering kisses until he reaches your neck. His eyes close, an unexpected climax teases at him, as you pull him closer to your aching body. Every sigh from you in a gentle gust of wind, every cry a song that not even choir from the Celestial Realm can rival. He pushes deep inside of you, letting you feel every curve and texture from his cock as it molds your leaking hole into his shape.

Beelzebub:

Beelzebub feels incredibly guilty when you come to him, his shirt knotted in your hands as you explain what you ate. He blames himself, going to hold you only to flinch when you hiss and pull yourself closer to him. It’s an aphrodisiac, he should have known that you’ll be more sensitive to touch during this time. He apologizes as he leads you to his bed, shaking his head and holding your hand. He’s gluttony- he should have been able to smell the scent of an aphrodisiac.

Of course, he’ll let you hide in his room until the effects wear off. He won’t make a single peep but it’s difficult for him. His clothes are sticking to him, his body is in an odd sticky situation where sex clings to him clothes and skin. He knows the effects of the aphrodisiac but he feels guilty for giving it to you so when you cling to him, begging for him to not let go of you, he sighs and stays beside you. He’s stiff, unwilling to move and can only let out a shaky breath, when you press yourself closer to him, hooking a leg over his and curling it over. He can feel your sex- hot and pulsing and he leaves ripped bedsheets as his hand curls into the comforter.

He’s rubbing your back, letting his fingers drum against your spine as he hears your panted breaths. He knows he should stop, that he should at least go and take a shower so he can at least smell good but you hold a tight grip on him. You’re feverish, burning against him and he can tell you want more, your lips open up and kiss along the side of his ribcage but he can’t move.

It’s getting too much- even for him. He doesn’t want to take advantage of this needy state that you’re in but as he rises with a feeble explanation that he’s going to take a shower, you pull him down. He’s above you, your eyes watery and cheating rising and falling with heavy breaths. He can’t kiss you but you’re leaning closer, your lips brushing against his and he can smell the aphrodisiac that still rests like heaven on your tongue. You don’t blame him for the accident slip, you’re just begging for him to take care of you, letting your hand rest over the swell of his breast and he’s growing weaker by the second.

When your lips are on his, your tongue slipping past your lips, Beelzebub can taste the aphrodisiac and he’s melting. His tongue has made its home on your mouth, curving over your pink muscle and feeling the way you shudder beneath him. His name is muted by the kiss, your hands clawing at his clothing and he’s sweaty and aroused, watching you as you strip yourself of your clothes. The lovely pastry that still lingers isn’t enough for him to go into a full rut, but it’s enough for him to bend your legs to your chest, your hole pulsing as his cock aligns to it. The way that you call his name is enough for him to push himself fully into you.

Belphegor:

Belphegor is asleep under the covers, pillow tucked under his head and he does not awaken to your scent growing closer and closer, heavier and sweeter than usual. He doesn’t awaken when the doorknob wiggles, a frantic turning but he does awaken when you slam the door. He is startled awake, his eyes wide for a second before narrowing, teeth flashing as he lets out a low growl. He stops when he notices it's you, yawning and telling you to get into bed with him. It’s only until you’re beside him, greedily taking the invitation, that he realizes the state you’re in.

He has to prod you until you tell him what’s happened, watching as you bury your face into a pillow, whining out pathetically as you tell him what happened. He laughs, it’s sharp and teasing. Of course, you took an aphrodisiac by accident. It could only happen to you. He tries to be sympathetic with you. He knows you must be in a great deal of pain, but then again you came to him and that makes him stay awake for a bit longer, turning over on his side and watching you struggle to not touch yourself despite the aroma of your arousal that is thick in the room.

Sloth offers to put you under a deep sleep- he can’t promise that you’ll be still- but he can promise that you’ll wake up without the effects of the aphrodisiac. When you refuse, he merely shrugs, turning over with a pout. He’s disappointed but he can’t do much. He does tell you that he is tired, so he’ll be sleeping but you’re allowed to spend the rest of your heightened arousal in the attic with him. The power of an aphrodisiac- one made a devil no less- is strong, and giving it you in even worse. He can sense the neediness in you, the way you watch him with lustful eyes, your mouth parted the eagerness to get into bed with him.

As promised, he slips off into a sleep, leaving you alone. But your body is on his, legs parted with his single leg. He isn’t asleep long enough for him to be in an actual slumber before he feels the bed move ever so slightly. It’s constant and your whining, mumbling apologies and he opens his eyes to find you humping his leg. It’s pathetic and hot all at once, watching you get off on his leg alone, so desperate for release that you’ve succumbed to humping him. His smile is tight, turning over and letting his tail curl around you, the static in the air only causing you to arch your back when his demon form pops out. It pricks against your wrists, the fur unkempt as he rises above you.

You wanted his attention and now you’ve gotten it. You’ve woken him up from nap, it’s normal and expected for him to be grouchy but thank goodness that the smell from your leaking sex is more arousing that anything else he’s encountered. You’re on your knees on the mattress, his hips meeting yours and letting out a loud grunt when he finishes. He’s tired and over it but his cock still stands upright and you’re still needy and awake, your sex leaking with his arousal. Belphegor will lay on his back, offer himself in his sleep to you until you’re content. The last coherent thought he has is sighing at how warm and squishy you feel against him.