#yes im attempting to write

[cuubism]

literally just smut, dreamling, prince/knight dynamic, uh. lowkey virginity kink. lowkey degradation kink. yeah.

--

The war camp is dark, the tent only barely lit by a few scant candles, but Hob is wide awake.

It had been a fantastically successful battle, that day. Much needed after a string of losses. They’d absolutely destroyed the enemy, Hob’s only just managed to clean most of the blood off himself—and he’s still riding that high hours later, blood pumping, restless energy racing as he occupies himself cleaning his armor and his sword.

Technically, he could get someone else to do these menial tasks. He’s a knight, he’s of high enough rank to request it. But Hob’s always believed a man should tend to his own weapons, should know every piece of them. It’s the same reason he takes care of his own horse, and his own tack.

Besides, the repetitive motion of the cleaning is taking the edge off.

There’s another thing that can cut the edge of the battle high.

Sex.

How fortunate, then, that Hob is on good terms with so many of the working ladies of the camp.

Not that it’s really so hard to be on good terms. The bar is so low that simply not behaving like a total dick seems to do the trick—but the fact remains that when Hob calls for one of the messenger boys who hang around outside to send for whoever’s working that night, he knows someone will come by. He pays them well, he gets along with most everyone, and it’s really not that hard to get one’s prick wet under those circumstances.

He’s just finished oiling the final leather straps on his armor, is hanging it up to await the next fight, when he hears the entrance flap of the tent, to his back, swish open and shut again. The rush of cool night air into the warm, close space.

“Be right with you, luv,” he calls, tying off the last strap, and a deep, sonorous voice responds—

“Please, take your time, Ser Gadling.”

Hob whirls around, nearly falls over like a buffoon he goes so fast. Standing there is not one of the working girls he’s come to know. It is, in fact, Prince fucking Morpheus, dark hair tousled by the wind, wrapped in a long velvet cloak that sparkles like stardust where the light catches it.

“My prince,” Hob stammers, trying to decide whether he’s meant to bow and managing only a dip of the head. It’s Prince Morpheus’s fault, this awkwardness, Hob would have managed with perfect politeness the sudden arrival of one of his siblings, or even the King himself. It’s only Morpheus that fells him so. “I—”

“—called for a whore?” Morpheus finishes, quirking a brow. Hob can only describe the look in his eyes as mischievous.

Anything Hob might have possibly managed to say is derailed by the rush of interest to his dick. That look, that phrase in Morpheus’s pretty, proper mouth— and what is he implying—?

“That’s… not the word I’d use,” Hob finally manages, throat tight. “Did. Did you need something, my prince?”

“As I’ve said,” repeats Morpheus, taking a fluid step closer to him. And he’s— he’s fucking barefoot in the grass. Lord have mercy. “You called for a whore.”

Hob should step back. Instead he’s rooted to the spot. Paralyzed by a swirling mix of fear and arousal. “That’s not— you’re not—”

Morpheus keeps advancing on him, liquid and predatory. The deep vee of his robe suggests he’s wearing nothing underneath. He’s got some kind of glitter under his eyes. And he’s— he’s so beautiful. Hob has always thought so, especially on that one blessed night when—

“Do you think me not a whore?” says Morpheus. He says it with allure, almost pride, not shame. “Do you think, my knight, that I have never slunk into some lord’s bed to steal secrets? That I have never used my body to seal an alliance, when my words were not sufficient?”

Hob should be horrified at the thought of his prince debased so. Instead, the image of Morpheus on his knees flashes through his mind, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from whining. “That’s not— the same,” he manages.

“Is it not?” Hob’s ankles hit his bedroll and he trips back, falling on his ass and bracing himself on his elbows, and Morpheus follows him, crawling up Hob’s body in a long, sinuous movement, the velvet of his robe soft wherever it touches his skin. “People can make sex their trade for coin, but it is different when I offer myself up in exchange for goods or laws or partnerships?”

If that’s all the case, Hob should find out what Morpheus wants with him now. Instead he asks, breathless, taken in by Morpheus’s eyes, “What did you trade for, then, my prince?” Maybe Hob doesn’t care what Morpheus wants with him. Maybe he only cares that Morpheus wants him. “When you let a foreign king bed you, did you use your mouth?” He touches Morpheus’s lips with his fingertips, and Morpheus smiles, sharp and pleased. “Or did you let him fuck you?”

The thought is as jealousy-inducing as it is arousing. Hob has no right to be jealous about his prince. But.

“What I needed to,” says Morpheus. “I have learned how to bait my lures. Many kings, I have learned, like to ruin pretty young men. Do you know—” he taps a fingertip along Hob’s lips “—how many times I have ‘sold’ my virginity? Played the hapless youth desperate for an older man to teach him, to use him?”

Fuck. Fucking hell.

“And did you learn?” Hob asks, hyperfocused on every point where their bodies are touching.

Morpheus tilts his head at him, suddenly all innocence. “Learn what?”

And, well. He does know how to bait his lures, it turns out. Even knowing he’s sinking his mouth onto a hook, Hob growls and flips them, pushing Morpheus down into the sheets. Morpheus lets out a startled breath that Hob’s pretty sure is affected but still succeeds in sending a thrill through him, and a powerful sense—careful, delicate, don’t hurt him. Even though the small part of Hob’s brain that’s still checked in to reason knows well that Morpheus is the one truly in control of whatever’s going on here.

“Should I teach you, then?” he asks, dragging a hand through Morpheus’s hair— so soft. “Show you how good I can make you feel?”

“Please,” Morpheus breathes, wrapping a delicate hand around the back of his neck. Hob really hopes he isn’t going to get drawn and quartered for this. Might be worth it, though. He doesn’t want to die, but if there were a way to go… “Hob, please.”

Fuck, his name in that wanting mouth.

“Got my mouth on you last time,” he muses, the sense memory of Morpheus’s prick on his tongue rushing through him, the hard press of the palace flagstones on his knees, “think I can show you something new, now.”

“I defer to your experience,” Morpheus breathes, as Hob pulls open his heavy velvet robe. As he’d thought, Morpheus isn’t wearing anything under it, and the thought of him walking through the camp like that to get here makes Hob want to bite something. Morpheus makes him so base and irrational.

Hob hadn’t gotten nearly this far last time. Had simply pulled open the ties on Morpheus’s breeches, let his prince tug on his hair as Hob took him in his mouth. Now, he has Morpheus fully unveiled to him, like a gift, like an offering, and, just like an offering, Morpheus stretches, arches his back, long limbs in relief and his cock laying hard against the crease of his thigh. He’s so pristine, always tucked away in his palace, where Hob has been out in the trenches—literally—getting sun-tanned and rough and dirty.

Although. Not so pristine as Hob might have thought. Apparently.

“You’re beautiful,” Hob tells him. “Your body is beautiful. I can’t wait to show you what I can do with it.”

Morpheus shudders, keeps playing along with their little facade of inexperience. “Will you ruin me for other men, Robert Gadling? Defile me, destroy my reputation so no respectable lord or lady will ever dare take me as their spouse?”

“You came crawling to my bed, pretty thing,” Hob says. Nips at Morpheus’s belly, which makes him cry out, such a pretty, keening sound, and then soothes where he’d bitten with lips and tongue. “You’ve been wanting it, I think. Someone to take you down, someone to fuck you.”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to reward my favorite knight,” Morpheus says, trailing off into a groan as Hob leaves another mark low on his pelvis.

“Should have told me you were the prize for valor,” Hob says. “I’d have killed twice as many men. Come to your bedroom still covered in the blood I spilled in your name.”

Morpheus actually moans at the image. “I’d have had you that way. My knight.”

“You can have me now.” It’s tempting, to do as he did last time, and take Morpheus into his mouth. But Hob wants to do something different to him. And he has the sense that Morpheus wants something different done. “Go on. On your belly.”

Morpheus’s breath leaves him in a shuddering rush, but he does as Hob says. Hob runs his hands down over his smooth back, his ass, his wiry thighs, kneeling between them and pushing them further apart. Morpheus whines, moving his hips in little circles to get the barest amount of friction on the sheets.

“You need it so badly.” Hob parts Morpheus’s cheeks with his thumbs, rubs over his hole, and Morpheus keens. “Don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, Hob, show me—”

Hob swipes the oil from the bag beside the bed—because yes, he is prepared for these sorts of things, if not specifically for his prince showing up—and dips his fingers in. Rubs them together to warm it, then slides one finger into Morpheus, without pause, straight to the first knuckle.

Morpheus lets out a choked gasp, fingers clenching in the sheets. The sound makes Hob’s cock twitch where it’s already straining in his breeches. “Hob—” he moans, strangled, “Hob, I—”

He starts to lift himself up, and Hob pushes him down with a hand on the back of his neck. Morpheus struggles for a moment and then goes boneless under him. Hob releases him and strokes his hair. “Good boy. You want it, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Morpheus says shakily, pushing back on Hob’s hand when he starts working that finger inside him. “Please. Please.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Hob promises. Having Morpheus, his prince, his beautiful prince, splayed out under him like this is heady. If he weren’t so focused on Morpheus’s reactions, he might have lost his grip on his own arousal already. “But you’re mine.”

He slides another finger in, and Morpheus moans raggedly. Hob doesn’t know if he’s truly getting overwhelmed or if he’s still trying to play the clueless virgin, but either way it’s burning through Hob’s veins. He gets Morpheus writhing on his fingers, achingly hard in his own pants, taking each of Morpheus’s pleasured, crying moans as its own prize.

Morpheus is shaking, panting, as Hob pulls his hips up, undoes the laces on his own breeches to pull out his cock, lines himself up. Morpheus presses his face into the bed, fingers tight in the sheets. Hob touches his lips to the base of his spine, tastes the sweat there. “My prince?”

Morpheus swallows hard and it still doesn’t seem to clear his throat. “I am ready.”

So Hob braces his hips and pushes in, one long slow slide. He groans at the same time as Morpheus moans, so ragged it’s almost pained. “Fuck you’re tight.”

“Well,” says Morpheus, “you are the first to have me so.”

Even aware that Morpheus is only playing at it, the words make Hob feel like he’s clinging to sanity by a thread. “You’ve been waiting so long, haven’t you?” he manages, as he starts to move, still holding Morpheus by the hips. Morpheus sighs at the slide, thighs trembling. It’s enough to make Hob obsessed. Morpheus is so tight and hot, Hob really doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, but he’s determined to give Morpheus just a bit of that ruination first. “Waiting for the right cock to fill you?”

Morpheus pushes back on him with a whine. “Yes.”

“Kept yourself as a prize for me?”

“Yes. Hob.”

Hob reaches around to take him in hand, and Morpheus cries out, bucking into his touch, pinned in place. Hob moves faster, each thrust pushing Morpheus into his grip, his breeches scraping roughly over Morpheus’s bare thighs, and it feels so base to have him like this, still clothed, taking him like a casual whore when he’s a prince. It feels wrong. But so good.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, voice gratifyingly steady. “For your first time?”

Morpheus lets out a wordless groan. Then, “Good. So much. I—” he trails off again, losing his breath. And this, too, is gratifying, reducing Morpheus, usually so eloquent, to broken sentences and simple words.

“Good, love.” Hob soothes a hand over his hip. “That’s good.”

But before Morpheus can settle, Hob increases his pace, pounding into him so hard and fast that Morpheus loses what remains of his balance and is held in place only by Hob’s hand on his hip, his arm wrapped around his belly. Each thrust pulls a sharp gasp from him, his face pushed into the sheets— and Hob’s nearly insensate with how good it is, but still he manages to pull Morpheus off in time with each thrust.

“Hob—” Morpheus chokes, “Hob, I’m—”

“You can come, love. I want to see you.”

Morpheus comes with a bitten-off cry, spilling over Hob’s hand. He’s so beautiful like that, Hob’s formal, perfect prince—crumpled in pleasure, eyes screwed shut, hair damp with sweat. It’s a collision of every illicit thought Hob’s swallowed down when he’s looked at him. In the palace, on campaign, at times when he was meant to be guarding Morpheus and when he wasn’t. He can’t last long thinking about that, seeing that, so he bends low over Morpheus’s back and kisses the back of his neck. One small, tender touch in this game of roughness and transaction, one touch before Morpheus inevitably swans back out of his tent, back to his writing and his diplomacy and his other diplomacy, and— fuck—

Hob holds Morpheus to him as he comes, wishing he could say, don’t go back to anyone else. You’re mine now, come to me. But those aren’t his words to say.

Morpheus slumps down to the bed, boneless and satisfied. Hob follows him, breathing hard against the back of his neck, finally releasing him from under his weight. Morpheus only winces a little when he pulls out, and Hob yanks off his own shirt and uses it to wipe off Morpheus’s stomach, between his thighs. Morpheus sighs, tipping his head back, a tiny smile on his face, then turns to face Hob, leaning on his arm.

Hob’s swiftly learning how weak he is for that smile on the face of the usually unreadable prince. He trails an exploratory finger along Morpheus’s jaw, up his temple, into his hair. Morpheus closes his eyes at the touch, slow and sleepy.

“Was that better than your many transactional trysts?” Hob asks. “Or do I have work to do?”

“I would not know,” says Morpheus, a self-satisfied little smile now curling on his lips. “Considering those did not occur.”

Hob blinks hard, mind going blank. “What.”

“I spun you a story, Robert,” Morpheus says. His voice is sex-rough, his hair a mess, his gaze drags over Hob’s body with a proprietary touch. “And it is a fun story, is it not? Plying secrets from between the sheets, returning home victorious when one was thought to be had. And,” he drags a fingertip down the center of Hob’s chest, “coming back to the bed of a lover. One whom one wants to be with. To be made his again.”

Hob is still stuck on this. “Wait, are you telling me you made all that up?”

Morpheus smirks. “Do you truly think that my words would ever be insufficient to obtain what this kingdom needs? Do you think I need to use my mouth other ways to get treaties signed?”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“It was a compelling story, though,” Morpheus muses as Hob continues gaping at him. “You seemed compelled.”

“Morpheus, why?”

“I wanted to see how my favorite knight would respond to knowing other men had had me,” he says, and keeps dragging his fingers through Hob’s chest hair in self-soothing patterns. Then his expression shifts from clever to almost shy. “And. I thought that if you knew the truth, you might defer too much to me. Treat me only like your prince.”

Hob’s stomach swoops. “And… what’s the truth, then?”

“That evening at the state dinner, when someone meant me harm and you saved me…” his voice holds a note of wonder now. “That. Was the first time that I had ever.”

“What?” He can’t lie to himself, the thought of being Morpheus’s first, for real, does spark something in him. But also. Morpheus is a prince. And Hob had been…

“I had never before had cause,” Morpheus explains. “I was uninterested in marriage. And I never found anyone worth threatening my reputation over. Until…” His lips purse, stressed now. “And I wanted you so. And. You wanted me.”

Hob is speechless, running through every second of that night in his mind. Sweeping Morpheus into his arms and out of the way of a blade. Morpheus’s wide eyes staring at the slice in Hob’s arm, the blood welling there. Blinking and finding himself crowded into a side hall, Morpheus panting into his mouth, the hunger of his pretty lips, heat and adrenaline running through Hob’s body, pushing Morpheus against the wall and sinking to his knees in front of his charge, his dear, his prince to worship. The tears that had pricked at Morpheus’s eyes as Hob had taken him all the way down.

Christ.

“Does that bother you?” Morpheus asks, uncertain now.

“I’d have shown you a better time then if I’d known,” Hob says, because doesn’t he deserve to be properly taken care of? “In an actual bed.”

Morpheus lets out a little huff of a laugh, expression easing. “I enjoyed it.”

“And then…” he lets his hand come to rest low on Morpheus’s waist. “You came back for more.” He kisses Morpheus and swallows his pleased sigh. “Hungry little thing.”

Morpheus’s breath shudders, and he clings to Hob’s hair, his shoulders. Hob’s about to roll on top of him again and kiss him properly, maybe more once they’ve recovered themselves, but pauses as a realization sinks in. “Wait. Does that mean—”

“Yes, Hob. You were the first man to fuck me.” He sighs. “Use that information against me if you wish. It is out of my hands, now.”

Hob is reeling with shock, and even more so with arousal, heat flashing through his body at the mere thought that all Morpheus had pretended at, newness and learning and raw, unpracticed want, had been, at least somewhat, real. And he had let Hob have that. Catch it. Had trusted him.

“Never,” Hob swears, kissing his cheek. “I would never. You’ll be my secret. Besides. I don’t think anyone would ever believe me even if I said. Me, with you? A prince? And a gorgeous one at that?”

Morpheus runs his hands over Hob’s shoulders. “You are handsome. And very gallant. I do not see what you mean.”

“Well, that’s flattering. And I won’t tell you to take it back.”

Morpheus runs his tongue over his lower lip, eyes dark where they trace over Hob’s jaw, shoulders, chest. “I have. Wanted you from afar. For a very long time.”

Obligingly, Hob kisses him, and sweeps his hands over Morpheus’s lower back, drawing him close. “You’re a prince,” he says, breathless again with want for this wonderful being. “You can have whatever you want.”

“So,” Morpheus nuzzles at his jaw, “I may steal my way into your bed? You would not mind that, Ser Gadling?”

“Sneak in, or stay, I won’t mind. I’ll give you all my secrets.”

Morpheus hums. “And your loyalty?”

Hob thinks he means it playfully, a continuation of his ruse from before—but it comes out much more serious. His gaze finds Hob’s with a deeper wanting than when he’d swanned into Hob’s tent, all draped fabric and fluid lines of desire.

“You have it already,” Hob murmurs, and Morpheus’s pleased sigh as Hob kisses him is a balm to his soul. “My prince.”

[stiffyck]

big titty means a soft comfy pillow

[miliamin1]

Bug's Ao3 fics Masterpost

miliamin on Ao3

all for Wednesday(TV 2022) fandom so far ship: Wednesday Addams/Enid Sinclair (wenclair) if the fic is discussed in a post it will be tagged with corresponding tag, also assume from the getgo that all my writing has jokes in it

Completed:

The Only Time Drinking Is Good For You - multichapter, post first season, mostly humor, first part of The Love and Arcane, #love potion volume one

The Wrong Reflections - multichapter, post first season, angst and humor, #doppelganger drama

Roses Have Thorns - one shot, post first season, humor, #spite

An Unwinnable Bet - one shot, alternative universe, humor, #band au

The matter of exclusive privileges - two shot, post first season, humor, #love potion the third

Oh what tangled webs we weave - one shot, alternative universe, humor, first part of Spiderman Au, #spiderman au

Christmas Eve(L) - multichapter, alternative universe, fluff and angst, #fake dating xmas au

Works In Progress:

The One Time Poison Is Good For You - multichapter, post first season, fluff and angst, second part of The Love and Arcane, #poison

The Way To A Girl's Heart - multichapter, post first season, angst and fluff, #steak tartare

Like A Record - multichapter, post first season, angst, #time loop

Stubborn, singleminded and obsessive - multichapter, alternative universe, fluff and angst, #mundane au

when first we practice to deceive - multichapter, alternative universe, angst and fluff, second part of Spiderman Au, #spiderman au

GF Any% Speedrun - multichapter, post first season, humor and fluff, #therapy strat Wild fics:

PR Liability Personified - multichapter, alternative universe, humor and angst, #celebrity au Status: shelved, on the back burner, might or might not be picked up later, not worked on currently

A Marriage That's Unlike Her Parents' - themed one shot compilation, post first season, humor, #marriage shenanigans,

Status: half shelved, worked on whenever the mood strikes me, shrodinger's continuity as it is technically sequel to The Way To Girl's Heart but for it to be series I need to finish that one and write another fic in between them so, maybe don't read it if you don't want mild spoilers -----

List is chronologically by last upload, and not by progress of next chapter being written (all WIPs are to a degree) or most probable to be updated next since that's unpredictable even to me unless I mention a possible deadline in a post, but if you really want one to be posted the soonest the anon asks are on, if you're nice about it maybe you'll manage to pressure me successfully I honestly idk if it will help or not so good luck

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

reopening the ask box is like... just finishing vacuuming shed cat hair, and then immediately going and petting said cat vigorously & watching with delight as So Much Fur sheds right back onto the floor

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Forbidden knowledge and the one time you're allowed to use it

Warnings: heavy angst and I mean that!! I cried so much writing this and have debated abandoning it several times!!

Listen to this for the full experience because that's what I listened to while writing this.

---

"I really don't think we should be doing this..." Sizhui tried, pulling onto one of Jingyi's sleeves. He swatted Sizhui's hand away, and he picked up some random book, a decidedly different one from what Hanguang-Jun had told them to get when he handed them the token for access in the forbidden section of the library.

"C'mon, aren't you even a little bit curious what's in here?" Jingyi replied, flipping through the pages of the book. "It's not like there's anyone to tell on us or anything, and who knows when we'll get the chance to snoop around here again?"

"Maybe there's a reason why we aren't allowed here so liberally, Jingyi... We should just go..."

"Sizhui, my man, live a little." And Jingyi tossed him a heavy book. "See what's in there, look for anything that's very powerful and very forbidden."

"And exactly why do you want to learn very powerful and very forbidden things?" Sizhui asked, suspicious, though he began sifting through the book as told.

"Because I'm curious and I also want to be the coolest guy around, obviously!"

"Jingyi, you can be cool without using whatever forbidden techniques are written in these books, you know?"

"Yeah, but what's cooler than the forbidden and the occult?"

"Not getting punished to do handstands for 12 hours..." Sizhui mumbled, sending a talisman to the ornate doors of the library to warn him if anybody walked in. He'd lie if he said he wasn't curious too, but it felt a bit too risky to just waltz around in the Lan sect's dark knowledge dungeon like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Still, he reasoned, he'd already broken the rules by disobeying a superior and he'd already looked into a book that he hadn't been allowed to - he'd get punished either way. And perhaps Jingyi had been right, it was incredibly rare for junior cultivators to be allowed into the forbidden section of the library, might as well make the best of it.

---

The night hunt had gone haywire so quickly and so unexpectedly that Sizhui and Jingyi hadn't even had time to think of the tipping point that led to their current situation. One moment they were slaying a small horde of fierce corpses, the next they found themselves trapped in the strangest array they had ever seen, with a literal army of ghouls attacking them from all directions.

They tried asking for help - they sent all of their flares flying, but that strange array blocked them, extinguishing the firework-like signal before it lit up the sky.

There was no time to think of how to break the array, not with corpses and demons jumping at them ceaselessly, fueled by such resentment that it backed the two cultivators into a corner, back to back, trying to protect themselves and each other, struggling for a solution, for survival.

---

"Hey, Sizhui, look at this!"

The book depicted a figure gathering their qi in the center of their chest, manifesting it as a large, powerful sphere.

"Apparently, this is some kind of ultimate technique that can destroy a large number of enemies and purify cursed land, break any curse or spell and is largely invincible. Isn't that cool?"

Sizhui read over the page around the drawing and frowned. "This technique... anyone who uses it dies. Painfully. It requires draining your life force out of your body, and in order to do that it..."

He tore his eyes from the book and shut it closed. "Let's just go, Jingyi."

---

"No!" Sizhui shouted, blocking another fierce corpse's strike. "No way, no!"

"What else is there left?!" Jingyi shouted back, throwing the last of his talismans against their assailants. "Nobody's coming, and we're running out of time and energy already! How much longer do you think we can go like this? A few minutes at most!"

"I fucking said no!" Sizhui all but growled, eyes fierce. "I'm not doing that! And I'm not letting you do it either!"

---

"What are you writing there?" Sizhui asked, peering over his friend's shoulder. He expected to find some silly romance story or a journal entry - but his eyes darkened in disapproval instead as his eyes recognized the writing. "Jingyi."

"I know you disapprove, but hey, it could be useful!"

"Why are you so hung up on that particular thing? Did you like reading about how you'd die if you used it that much?"

"That's not it." Jingyi shook his head, "There's a rule about using it. Apparently it doesn't work just when you want it to. Your body and your spirit would fight it unless this condition is met."

Sizhui hated that his interest was piqued. "What condition?"

"The condition is-"

---

Sizhui screamed, pain tearing through him as the corpse's claws dug into his chest, tearing the fine material of his robes and the delicate layer of skin underneath.

Jingyi cut it down before it could do any more damage, and rushed to help Sizhui balance as he burnt the very last talisman he had to keep the monsters at bay.

"Sizhui... come on, we can't go on like this forever."

Sizhui tried to steady himself but the pain and the damage of past injuries caught up to him, collapsing onto the ground even as Jingyi held him. "No- Jingyi, no, I can't-"

Jingyi wiped the blood off his face with a small smile. "I'll do it, it's okay."

Tears filled Sizhui's eyes, his hands coming to grip his friend's wrists. "No, no, please, don't... there has to be another way..."

Jingyi tried to keep the smile on his face and ignore the tears threatening to fall down his own face. "There is no other way. Not this time."

Sizhui pulled his friend into the tightest hug he could muster, shaking with the force of it and his sobs. Or perhaps they weren't only his own. They had imagined their lives so many times, the future twin jades of Lan, honoring their sect and their seniors for decades to come, growing up together, building families and worthy reputations, helping people.

All of those things, they would never come true. There would be no future and nothing to share. No together, nothing at all.

"Let go, A-Yuan. The talisman's going to burn out soon." Jingyi mumbled, trying to hide the shake in his voice as he spoke into his friend's shoulder.

"Just a little longer."

Jingyi swallowed the hard lump in his throat and gently pushed Sizhui away. "It's going to be okay. You don't have to look."

But there was no way Sizhui would be able to close his eyes, there was no way he would convince himself to be blind to his friend's - no, his brother's sacrifice. The least he could do was look, admire his bravery and his power and his love, and catch his body as it would fall, limp and lifeless, to the ground.

Jingyi took in a deep breath, his expression steely, determined. Sizhui could never imagine himself so courageously facing death, and he wants to scream his cowardice and his weakness and his sorry to the man that would give his life just to save Sizhui's.

Slowly, Jingyi began coaxing his qi outside of his body, thin, white streams of energy coiling around one another in front of his chest. His brows furrowed, in pain, but he said nothing, uttered nothing of his discomfort, only the thinnest ribbon of blood falling from his lips. He'd bitten his tongue.

The sphere started taking more shape now, tragically beautiful in its wielder's hands, and it was for a brief second that Jingyi turned his head and opened his eyes to take one last look towards Sizhui, a serene, resigned, painless smile on his face.

...and then, for a few seconds, blinding light swallowed everything, all the beasts, the forest, the array, the moon, the stars and the entire world. For a few seconds, there was nothing, nothing but the gut-wrenching scream Sizhui let out.

---

"The condition is that you can only use this technique if somebody you couldn't live without is in mortal danger."

---

The light died out, and the world returned to its muted, dark colors. There were no more corpses, no more monsters, no more wounds on Sizhui's body.

There was no more Jingyi.

Nothing was left.

Not even ashes, not even a shred of clothing, nothing at all.

---

"This technique... it destroys the spirit... there's nothing left after, no reincarnation, no chance to respond to Inquiry, nothing at all. It's like you never even existed, ever."

"But if you think about it... it's not something you use lightly. The condition says you can only use it for someone you can't live without. If they die, isn't that the same thing as having your soul destroyed?"

---

It started to rain.

Jingyi used to hate the rain.

[wexhappyxfew]

AYOOOO — the sun’s out and it’s beautiful, im going to be watching the phillies game as they play in london, and i think i’m finally going to be putting my writing up on AO3 for the Silver Bullets!!!!!!!

[avadmortain]

an au where ava du mortain meets a charmingly infuriating performer at the local tavern that her and her fellow knights frequent.

an au where they fall in love and ava feels feelings she never thought she could ever feel before, an au where she finally understands what those inane poets were waxing on about.

an au where religious guilt and trauma gets in the way, shortly followed by the death of her entire family and her turning.

an au where the performer, her first and only love, also gets turned. unbeknownst to her. unbeknownst to one another.

an au where they both roam the earth for 900 long years, experiencing horrors and trials that no one human, no one being, should ever have to face.

an au where they come face to face, where one is working for the supernatural government, the agency. and where the other is working under the leader of the rogue supernaturals.

[qsmprambling]

I too am a ghosty who kinda wants Bad to be kidnapped and experience the horrors, but because he loves this game and server and shouldn't be banned from it for several days against his will, it should line up with a planned break OR!!

He gets captured early in the stream and it is just one day of intense lore/escape attempts and the rescue mission is immediate and improvised by whoever else is on the server.

That's the ideal :3

[miumiins]

they have been living inside my brain rent free for several months now

[note-boom]

I was thinking about BSD's female characters again (as one does) and being mildly frustrated that a lot of their trauma comes from being controlled by an outside male source....and then it hit me.

Almost EVERY BSD character has a past and trauma rooted in being controlled or having a lack of control.

Atsushi under the orphanage headmaster. Akutagawa under Dazai. Kyouka under Akutagawa (and keep in mind Koyou helped get her out in the end). Yosano under Mori. Kenji losing control after his best friend dying. Chuuya under the government and then the Port Mafia. Koyou losing control over her freedom thanks to the old boss. Ranpo having no control over his own self and having been isolated from the world. The Hunting Dogs under the government. Sigma under the DoA and the Book. Even Dazai a little (more on that later).....just this persistent theme of people not getting control over their lives.

And you know what that sounds like? Characters in a story being manipulated by an author.

We have this persistent theme of literature and writing and books throughout BSD, after all. And this incessant use of a character having a tragic past rooted in lack of control or losing control and being manipulated by some superior force screams (to me at least) literary imagery. And what's most interesting is that Dazai both is a character and a manipulator.

Of course he's not the only one pulling the strings, as we know. But he does eat up a BIG part of the narrative, I think...a character who previously had no will to seek out anything to do (and thus adopted the values or reasons of the people around him) trying to craft a narrative of his own after the death of his friend. A character essentially trying to become the author (the light novel Beast just makes me wonder more about this, tbh). But also one whose story is told through the stories of other characters.

And what I find interesting about that AND Beast with regards to Dazai is this page from Vol 17...

People writing. The writer including their own self into the story. Being both a character AND an author and in that sense taking control of your own life and your circumstances....

I'm not sure where I'm going with all this, but I just wanted to really point out that part of a lot of the BSD characters' narratives have to do with this lack of control over their own lives....and we see the ADA full of people trying to take back control. Kunikida and his ideals, Yosano and her healing, Ranpo being the agency's core, Atsushi trying to save people, and Dazai trying to become the author in other people's lives if he can't be the author of his own (his inability to die, you know?).

So my question honestly is just what's the deal with that? Am I making mountains out of molehills or seeing themes and motifs that aren't there? And if not, what does the existence of the Book say about these characters struggling to write their own narratives? (Or the narratives of others, in Dazai's case). Just....literary imagery in BSD and the "toxic" relationship between the author and the character....

[painsandconfusion]

“What Are You Doing?”

The Merry Whump of May - Day 30

[Car | Last Resort | Alarm] (escape attempt, captivity)

Whumpee touched the handle of the car door, keys gripped tight. Whumper’s car would be easy for them to track or report stolen - but they were so far out in the middle of nowhere, they had to. This was their only chance.

The horn immediately blared as they pulled the door open, lights flashing and honking ringing in their ears against the tinny, concrete-clad garage. It practically shook the house.

Whumpee spat through grit teeth “shitshitshitshit-” as they fumbled for the alarm button to turn it off again.

Okay, time to move FAST- 

They threw themself into the driver’s seat and forced trembling hands to scrape the key back and forth over the ignition before it finally slipped into place with a grinding crunch. Where’s the fucking garage door opener button thingamajig-

They barely saw the garage door open before- “What are you doing?”

Ooooookay- fuck the garage door, then.

They slammed on the gas, plowing straight through it.

[Masterpost] Shoutout to @themerrywhumpofmay for putting together this event!

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @happy-little-sadist @villainsvictim @thecitythatdoesntsleep @heathenwhump @michaeltalks @rainbows-and-whumperflies @cursedscribbles @whumpy-catfish @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @whumpsday @wingedwhump @ha-ha-one @morning-star-whump @pickywhumpreader)

Lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[lordsardine]

harbinger voice lines..............

[beautifulwastelandpirate]

[cisthoughtcrime]

I know this is probably not anything profound and maybe people have already said the same thing... But in regards to you talking about your creative writing struggles, just write it. Yeah maybe it sounds stiff and shitty. Doesn't matter. Just write it. Speaking from experience, if you always let that get in the way you'll never actually write and get better.

So just write it, even if it sucks. That's what editing is for.

This is my weird attempt of encouragement but seriously I really hope you can reach a point where the creativity is flowing freely and you enjoy it :)

thanks for this 💖😄 genuinely encouraging

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

mmm... scribbling is not in the cards today it seems...

[the-heaminator]

Hello @deadandcheerful i was your Rusame secret santa for this year, i do apologise for me straying off plot for a bit, i hope you like it anyhow! 

2.3k, M

They had an arrangement, a deal concocted years ago, it was almost foolish at the time to believe that they could and would protect each other against people who wanted him, well the both of them dead, but they did, and more often than not a body was involved. Alfred had a nearly unquenchable thirst for the macabre, bordering on infatuation with the inner machinations of the being, animal or human, a slave to his desires, and Ivan loved it.

Alfred was smart, he didn't look it, but he was, he had to be, and he had the pure charisma that people turned a blind eye to his activities, the authorities never said anything, well he was never even suspected of anything serious, this good he was at hiding his tracks. He had a similar aura around him that his father used to, speaking of his Father, it was another reason he assumed Alfred was just so good at hiding his tracks, his father had taught him.

Ivan used to consort with Arthur often, there was something about him so potently supernatural that it was near impossible for him to look away, from the entire house (a large one, he was quite rich) there emanated potent sorcery, it seems he had dipped his soul far deeper into hell than he ever did, probably ever would. but he had seemingly paid the authorities to look the other way, and there is no more potent nor widespread human sin as greed, he paid the staff handsomely too, they looked the opposite way when his sorcery and witchcraft became apparent.

Ivan had heard he had a son just when he started to speak to him, Arthur guarded him viciously from Ivan until he supposedly came of age, but the few times he saw him as a child it seemed as something struck him different about him, Ivan had no way of knowing that he listening in on the conversations he had with Arthur, listening behind the door as they discussed of entrails and whatnot, he had once heard a little giggle, quickly stifled from behind that door, and thought it to be nothing important.

Ivan at this point didn't know the manner in which his Father nurtured his natural born talent for persuasion and violence, nurturing the newly germinated seed, allowing himand e vn encouraging him to kill small animals such as mice and rats, he taught him how to gut them and take out their organs without breaking them, he occasionally asked for said organs but more often than not Alfred was allowed to keep his trophies, the first creature he lured and killed intentionally was when he was two and ten.

His father led him out and told him to try and speak to the creatures, he demonstrated, he closed his eyes and suddenly creatures big and small came to him, he grabbed one of them, a small mole, and squished it with his bare hands. He motioned for Alfred to do the same, as he relinquished control over the animals, and Alfred did it, only with the smaller creatures but he would work his way up from there.

His father could see the gleam in his eyes, and he loved it, he knew his boy would grow up strong once he fully came into his power, that he would take a seat on his side, even an Archdaemon, though he shouldn't be getting ahead of himself, the child he had with a foolish mortal woman could very well be his own downfall, though if he wasn't meant to do great and horrible, horrible things, he would never have been born, they were barren unless the child was destined by Madam Fate to do great things, horrible things, but great things nonetheless, and more often than not their children became their heirs, and so he wanted to make his transition a little easier.

Once Alfred accounted to Ivan how his Father, often unavailable emotionally, praised him whenever he came home with a corpse of an animal, said animals kept getting larger and larger, creatures and beasts of larger sizes and higher intellect started to respond to his summons, birds like geese ducks and swans started to come to him, he preferred the geese snd ducks, his father told him not to kill swans, his father considered them to be too deeply tied to the folklore of the region to meddle with.

He was not allowed under any circumstances to interact with other townsfolk until he was of age, that age being 16 summers, so he knew not that most humans could not do what he could, he did not know that boys of 13 summers didn't take joy in killing animals, he didn't know that his father was suspected of being in ranks with Satan, well that was because he knew it for sure, it was no longer a suspicion for him it was a fact.

Geese were easy to kill, their aggression got the better of them as they usually didn't have anything to back up their claims of violence, and fear was not a thing that worked on Alfred very well, he wrung their necks and brought them to the servants to cook. Said servants had been paid handsomely to keep their mouths shut, and now Alfred turning up with two dead mallards and a goose, all expertly plucked and gutted wasn't much out of the ordinary, the organs were all in a small leather pouch that he took upstairs to father as proof of his endeavours.

By this point, Ivan and Alfred had both noticed that Arthur's physical body was growing weaker, but the menacing supernatural air around him only grew stronger, he was praised wonderfully and his father showed him something he never knew he wanted to see, he looked into a shard of a mirror and saw something, it looked like himself quite a lot, though older, and his eyes glowed an electric blue, similar to how his Fathers did on occasion.

He didn't know what it meant, but his Father said he would tell him once he came of age.

A lot of things seemed to ride on him coming of age it seems.

But until then he continued indulging his thirst for blood, large and larger creatures were lured and killed, as his Father's health failed, until the night before his 16th birthday, that was the first time he killed a man.

It was a travelling minstrel or bard of sorts, who had taken to their town for a short period of time, he lured the minstrel with no particular difficulty, who didn't k is who he was following, why he was following him, where he was following him to and why he felt so intoxicated being just near him; he could feel his mind working at halftime, as if he had drunk far too much that night, though he knew he didn't.

Did he?

He also wondered, quite mildly to be that, why he wasn't running away as the boy of no more than 16 summers wielded an axe with reckless abandon, he didn't wonder why he wasn't scared as he was about to be beheaded, and so no scream was heard nor made.

That evening he dragged the corpse home, now the only servant left being an old servant known as Grigory, the rest had been disposed of due to Father's ever-increasing paranoia, him and Grigory had an agreement to give each other no reason to tell on the other, and when Alfred brought a whole human corpse to the table it was nothing too far out of the ordinary, the had was carried separately in a satchel.

Alfred burst into his Fathers room, he was laying down, body exhausted, but his only son showing him the decapitated human head invigorated him, getting up and hugging Alfred, congratulating him greatly before a severe coughing fit caught him in his clutches, he covered his mouth with his hand, and a concoction of blood and black ooze was spattered all over his hand.

"Look I know I do not have much time left, it is to be your 16th summer very soon, i need to explain you many things, though I need Ivan, I trust you know where he lives."

Alfred rushed himself over to where Ivan lived, whilst Arthur wrote down, on a slip of paper in shaky spidery handwriting.

Your beloved will go up in flames, let them consume you too, let them lick your shattered psyche, and your calling will be known soon after, let it permeate your mind, let them do what they wish, do not try to stop them, you will join me not too long after, and your beloved will be there too, so don't you fret. Tomorrow I shall be gone and you will have to take over the business and cover your tracks my son, cover them well.

Ivan was brought over that night, to help with the preparation of the meat and for the introduction to happen, Grigory thought that the meat seemed most similar to pork and cooked it in the same was as he would do to a pig, while Ivan and Alfred were introduced in the sitting room by an utterly exhausted Arthur who kept coughing up more blood, though it started becoming progressively more that black ooze, the dinner was served and eaten, Arthur retired to his bedroom early as Ivan an Alfred talked late into the night, putting the slip of paper in an envelope on Alfred's bedside, before finally allowing hell to reclaim him.

This body lasted a while, far longer than most humans ever did, and just about fulfilled the 16 years he needed to remain on earth, and now the rest was in Alfred's hands.

The next morning he was dead, the illness or whatever it was having claimed him, theoretically Grigory could leave now, but now as he felt honour-bound to this house, he renewed his contract and continued serving the sole master of the house; he had a cushy enough life, a handsome wage and his job wasn't even the most difficult, Alfred wasn't unreasonable in any manner and he would never admit it but he had grown a taste for human flesh, like pork but better, almost richer in a way.

Ivan consistently kept coming to the house, and he could feel a similar air that Arthur used to have around him forming around Alfred, this seemed slightly less restrained, Arthur's was trained and bound, Alfred's fluctuated with his mood, he noticed that whenever he came over it always seemed more pleasured and seemed to surround him in a pleasant way that felt almost like a cat purring contentedly in his lap, it was odd. Alfred kept up his killings, but very few were investigated, who cares if a drunkard goes missing, who cares if a harlot gets misplaced.

Alfred still aged like normal, 4 years after his father had left the world he had grown to his full height, not as tall as Ivan no, but Ivan was also unnaturally tall, he was smart he kept the finances in good shape and avoided suspicion, they grew closer after this time, they slept in the same bed oftentimes, at one house or the other.

The note, the odd prophecy that Alfred had found on the side of his bed the day after his Father died had been read and tried to be comprehended many times in the first few days, and yet he still didn't understand it.

The tensions in the town had been getting high recently, witchcraft allegations had been running rife, and the fingers were pointing steadily towards Ivan.

Alfred was never suspected, he was smart and he was rich, he knew how to cover his tracks, Ivan had not the protection of money and he was a foreigner, already putting him under suspicion, he also aged slowly, putting more suspicion on him. It was on the eve some 10 years later from the night that they met properly that the prophecy seemed to come to light.

In an hour Ivan was due to be burned, the warrant was finally issued, he was to be burned as a witch, he told Alfred to leave, to run, to go far far away while he still could, but he didn't, he was to stay with his beloved while he could.

The prophecy made sense now, but they had an hour, so why not make the best of it no?

Alfred got onto Ivan's lap, and kissed him, pushing his tongue through his mouth and exploring all the ridges that he had explored so many times before as a kind of goodbye, he broke the kiss as Alfred held his waist tightly and ground his dick into Alfred's ass, it getting more and more erect before it stood at full height, Ivan unbuttoned Alfred's trousers, and told, no ordered him to make love.

And so they did, Alfred's mouth cupping his dick and caressing it until he orgasmed, this was the last time they would be able to do this, so they explored each other's bodies too, stroking each other tenderly before getting dressed and responding to his summons, but not before Ivan gave him his scarf, his most prized possession, something his sister had knit so so many years ago, they had died now but the scarf had remained.

He was dressed in a white robe with a symbol of Christ in the front and was shackled to his pyre with silver chains, the pyre was lit and his screams could be heard throughout the town, and Alfred never broke eye contact from it, clutching the scarf to his chest all the while.

He had to let the flames consume his mind, then he would see his beloved again, he needed to see him again.