#Fiend writes

[shuashuagirl]

Sooner Than Later (M)

Based on a fic by @kaespas lost to the void and my obsession for "just the tip" and "forced" with Joshua ever since and part of the Two Birds universe

Warnings: Noncon as there is no verbal consent, manipulation, just the tip, no protection, creampie, mutual masturbation, shua unable to hold back, brother's best friend!shua, "we can't do this", age difference but nothing crazy y/n is just the younger sister, no aftercare, mean!shua but in an indifferent sort of way, so many run-on sentences- but valkie if you know that you have a bunch of run-on sentences just fix them-, spitting!

Summary:

What you and Joshua do when your brother isn't around, isn't meant for anyone other than you.

-

There was a soft knock at your door, and you glanced over your shoulder back at the door, feeling a bit annoyed.

“Soonyoung, you’re already-”

The quiet click of your door being closed was what told you that it wasn’t your brother Soonyoung. You spun your chair around, your whole body warming as your eyes fell on Joshua. He was in the process of shrugging off his jacket, dropping his keys to your floor as if he had done it a million times.

He had done it a million times.

“Joshua, you’re in the wrong room,” you mumbled softly, but even as you did your thighs were rubbing against themselves.

“Am I?” He asked, and his lips flickered into a smile. Amused, it seemed that after the last few weeks you were playing this out the same way as it had happened the first time. “Well, is Soonyoung home?”

You shook your head as Joshua cocked his hip, staring at you in amusement.

“No, he’s not, but you can wait for him in his room,” you replied softly. Your fingers drifted to the edge of your chair, and you tightened your grip around it.

“And what am I supposed to do there?” He crooned. He closed the distance between the two of you, his hand coming to the back of your neck. He gripped you so tightly that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to. “Don’t you think that you have some obligations? To entertain me, since no one is around.”

His other hand found the base of your neck and his thumb brushed over your collarbone.

“N-No.” you mumbled, but he didn’t let the game continue for long. He pressed forward, his lips consuming yours and his hand sliding down the collar of your shirt, into your bra, his hand engulfing your breasts. Your back arched, and you pressed into Joshua because despite your game, despite the fact that you knew you shouldn’t, you wanted Joshua so badly.

Your fingers fumbled forward to find Joshua’s pants and you fumbled with the belt buckle until you were finally able to get it undone.

You had only recently been allowed to touch Joshua’s dick, and you were obsessed with how it felt pulsing in your hands. You tugged at his dick desperate for him to hurry up.

“Sh-Shua, want to touch myself,” you whimpered out. Joshua hummed.

“Yeah?” He asked you. “Don’t even want to play around today?”

You didn’t want to play around today, and Joshua didn’t tease you about it. He shifted, placing his hands under the pits of your arms and lifting you out of your desk chair.

He laid you down on the edge of your bed and in seconds your clothes were off and he was standing above you, his cock in hand.

He never took his clothes off for this. You never asked, and he never did.

You lowered a hand shakily to your clit, hissing as your cold fingers brushed against it. Joshua’s eyes bore into yours as he settled himself between your legs. As you began to slowly rub your clit in circles Joshua began to rub his cock, just above where your hand was. His pumps were slow, and each pump brought him closer. His dick so close to your pussy that you could feel the warmth radiating off of it.

It was this, that Joshua raided your room for every day he came over since you got back from your first semester of college. It was this that you had dreamed of every day since you had met your brother’s best friend. And it was this that you were always so excited to do.

To lay beneath Joshua, while he rubbed himself off, watching in delight as you rubbed your clit, both of you wishing that you were doing something else but never daring to because… What would Soonyoung think if he were to ever know?

The tip of Joshua’s dick pressed at your fingers, and you obediently let your hands fall back, your whole body jolting as the tip of his dick pressed at your clit. You whined and arched your back, your fingers digging into your comforter.

“You like how my dick feels on your clit?” Joshua asked you, his voice a bit breathy. He continued to rub his dick against your clit, enjoying the way that it made you whine. Your core was burning, you wanted to be able to finger yourself… Or even better you wanted Joshua’s fingers inside of you.

You felt Joshua’s dick begin to rub a little slower, caught up in your wetness, slipping right against your burning core. You gasped suddenly, pulling yourself back a little.

“Joshua,” you hissed. “You know you can’t-”

“I know, I know,” Joshua mumbled softly. His cock slipped back up to your clit, and his now wet dick rubbed circles around it. “It’s okay y/n, don’t you trust me?”

You let out a frustrated whine because now that his dick was back at your clit you were feeling much less satisfied.

“But I mean… It felt good, didn’t it? When my cock slipped in just a bit?” He asked. You let your head hit your blankets, but then you couldn’t see Joshua’s dick on your pussy and… You wanted to see Joshua’s dick on your pussy.

“I-I- just want something inside of me,” you murmured. Joshua nodded.

“Of course, you do,” he agreed softly. “Anything would feel good right now, wouldn’t it? Your fingers… My fingers… My cock…”

As he spoke his cock slipped down again, slipping inside you a bit, and again you were able to force yourself back.

“We can’t,” you said weakly. “I’m not on anything and you don’t have a condom.”

And what would Soonyoung say?

“Your little college education do nothing for you?” Joshua teased, making a blush flush your face again. “A little precum won’t do anything to you. Besides… How long have you known me? Have I ever lied? Have I ever fooled you?”

You relaxed a bit and Joshua’s dick tapped at your clit again, before sliding back down. Not allowing you to answer even in the slightest.

“Just a little bit won’t hurt you, y/n,” he promised you softly. “Let me just give you a little bit. Just the tip, hm? How long are you going to wait?”

You jerked yourself back again, another frustrated whine vibrating in your throat. Joshua let you relax again, and his cock rubbed through your folds.

“Stop resisting,” he said, and it sounded like music to your ears. “Just the tip y/n… Let me slip just the tip into you.”

You were shaking your head, surely you were, but you weren’t pulling away. Your hands were shaking and your eyes were trained on his dick sliding into you, and you were saying: “Please Shua.”

True to his word, once he got the tip of his cock inside of you, he stopped moving. One hand was on his dick, slowly pumping it, low moans leaving his throat, while his other hand pressed down on your pelvis, keeping you still.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He asked you softly. “God… You feel so fucking good… Your pussy is so tight and warm.”

You gasped out, trying to come up with a response but being completely unable to. Your voice was so shaky, moans that you didn’t even know you could make were leaving your throat.

Joshua’s tip felt fucking huge inside of you. Bigger than anything that you had ever pushed into your pussy, craving the rush that would come with being able to fuck someone. If Joshua wasn’t pushing you down by your pelvis, you would probably be grinding yourself down on his dick.

But then… You didn’t even have to do that. Suddenly, both of Joshua’s hands were on your hips, and you were being held still as Joshua’s cock began to split you open. You gasped out again, shoving your head back into your pillow all over again.

“Joshua y-you c-can-” Before you could finish speaking Joshua was leaning forward, his mouth preventing you from speaking. It was probably better this way anyways. Your protests turned into a desperate moan against Joshua’s lips.

Your hands surged up to Joshua’s hair, and you tugged at the strands.

Joshua’s thrusts had started out slow but the more that he fucked you, the faster and more desperate his thrusts were getting.

“Y/n, you feel too fucking good I’m going to come inside of you, okay?” He blurted against your lips. You had clarity for just a few seconds. You gasped against him.

“You-” Can’t. Don’t cum inside of me.

Instead, Joshua pressed his thumb into your clit again.

“You’re being so good you know that? So, fucking good for me,” he praised you, and it was going straight to your head. You couldn’t even really think straight anymore, you could just feel Joshua wrap his arms fully around you, his thrusts erratic. Your body bounced.

“Don’t come y/n,” Joshua managed to get out. A choked sob left your throat.

“What?”

“You don’t want me to come in you, do you?” Joshua replied back. Your eyes fluttered open and you saw the red look on his face, the pure desperation in his eyes. He really was holding back.

“F-Fuck Sh-shua, I can’t just not-”

His cock pressed impossibly deep inside of you, and you squeezed your eyes shut again.

“Don’t come, pl-please don’t come, y/n you feel too good, I won’t be able to help it if you come- Don’t-”

You realized somewhere in his blabbering that this was a type of tactic for him to get what he wanted, but in the end it didn’t really matter did it? You shoved your face into the crook of Joshua’s neck, biting down into his skin.

“Oh y/n,” Joshua said breathily, his hips stuttering as his cum began to spurt deep inside of you. Your body shook as his cum filled you up, and you wanted to remind Joshua that this was wrong, that he couldn’t come inside of you, but part way through he had pulled out. His body was quaking as more of his cock spurted cum out on your folds and all over your stomach.

You gasped in and out, desperate for air, but as you did, Joshua’s lips sloppily peeled from yours. You felt spit drip into your open mouth. You swallowed, whimpering as Joshua peeled off of you. Your body burned and you heard the tone of Joshua’s phone beginning to ring.

He pulled away with the same amount of energy that he had when he first walked in. But you? You were still shaking, burning, and now sticky.

“Hello? Oh, hey Soon. Yeah, I was just about to head over,” Joshua said. You could hear the hum of your brother’s voice on Joshua’s phone as he began to resituate his pants.

“What could I have been doing?” Joshua asked. “You know I just play games at home before I come over. You’re never home this early.”

There was some noise of agreement coming from Joshua’s phone.

“I’d be caught dead before I walked into your house with your younger sister in it,” Joshua said suddenly with a laugh. “I know she’s been off at college, but doesn’t she do anything?”

You wearily looked up at Joshua as he picked his keys up off of the floor.

“Well, I’ll see you in a bit. Better head out now if I’m going to get there by the time you get home.”

And he didn’t say a word to you as he slipped out of your room, where you laid until you heard the tell-tale sound of the keys rattling at the front door meaning that Soonyoung had finally gotten home.

#back at it again with the noncon #been a writing fiend these last few days #joshua noncon #joshua smut #seventeen noncon #seventeen smut #joshua hong #kpop smut #guess where i got the fic title from

[rax-writes]

Rolan x Reader

↬ Warnings: afab!reader, oral and fingering (f!receiving), cumming untouched (Rolan), sub!Rolan. MDNI!

The noises filling the room are positively obscene. A cacophony of curses and moans fill the air, both from you and from the Master of Ramazith’s Tower – whose face is currently buried between your thighs, lying comfortably atop the lush comforter of his bed, one hand holding one of your thighs to keep it spread open, the other fucking you with two skillful fingers as his tongue lavishes attention on your clit.

Although your relationship with Rolan wasn’t new, the sexual escapades of the relationship were, so the two of you were still discovering turn-ons and kinks of one another’s. But gods, was he a quick learner. This was the first time he’d ravished you with his mouth, and it only took one or two pointers for him to have your entire body glistening with sweat, practically screaming as he brought you to climax for a second time.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you had the sense to be pleasantly surprised at how much Rolan seemed to be enjoying himself. Every groan and moan that fell from his lips caused your body to twitch and jerk from the vibrations of it against your clit, and the few times you glanced down at him, he seemed to be grinding his hips into the mattress. The fact that he was getting off on eating you out was enough to send you hurtling toward the edge of your second climax, one hand grabbing a fistful of his hair in a firm grip, the other grabbing one of his beautiful horns and pulling him even closer to your quivering cunt.

“Gods, Rolan! So good, my love, you’re doing so good. You’re so good – fuck!”

You came with another strangled cry of his name, barely registering the sound of whimpering preceding a few murmurs of your name. Still feeling as though you're floating, you feel Rolan retreat from between your legs, and move upwards on the bed to rest his head on your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck. Once your breathing steadied, you tapped the top of his head, and he mirrored the lopsided smile you wore when he looked up at you.

“May I return the favor?” you asked, voice breathless but sultry.

“Oh, that’s not – that’s not necessary,” Rolan quickly answered, and you could swear he turned a few shades of red darker.

“I know it’s not necessary, but I want to,” you noted, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Your fingertips brushing over the shell and point of his ear sent a shiver through him. “But if you aren’t comfortable with that –”

“No, no, darling, it’s not that,” he hurriedly explained, then let out an awkward, dry laugh. “I am, um…. I have enjoyed myself a sufficient amount already.”

With furrowed brows, you opened your mouth to ask him to clarify, when you realized the groin area of his robes felt slightly damp where it pressed against your leg. Rolan expected you to tease him, or comfort him in a way that would only make him feel belittled. Instead, a wicked grin spread across your face, and he became the one with furrowed brows.

You ran your fingertip over the point and sides of his ear again, following it down his jawline, before hooking a finger under his chin to tilt his head upwards.

“Do I taste that good, my pretty wizard?” you purred, and Rolan’s eyes fluttered shut, a shaky exhale leaving his lips. “Or was it me telling you how good you were to me? Or, perhaps, me pulling on your pretty horns and pretty hair?"

“Yes,” he breathed, too lost in the feeling of your other hand carding through his hair before tracing circles on his back.

“Yes to which, sweetheart? Use your words.”

“All of it.”

“Good boy,” you praised, and Rolan let out the faintest groan.

You hummed amusedly, leaning down to kiss him – much too quickly for his liking, as he chased after you for more. You stopped him with a finger to his lips, and stated, “Don’t be greedy.”

#[ringing the dinner bell] come and get it my beloved rolan enjoyers #god bless drizztdohurtin bc fiending for rolan on her blog is what gave me enough crumbs of will to write #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #rolan x tav #tav x rolan #rolan x reader #reader x rolan #bg3 fan fiction #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fan fic #bg3 fanfiction #rolan fanfiction #rolan fan fiction #rolan fanfic #holy rolan empire #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #my writing

[silverskye13]

Mind control tanguish?? (i was gunna offer time loop for the hell-raisers as another one, but ut canon is Basically a time loop aint it SO!! Make tanguish do something wild)

Helsknight hummed tunelessly under his breath as he cooked dinner, piling some chicken and mushrooms into a pan to fry. He didn't know when Tanguish would be home [every trip to Hermitcraft was a gamble, when it came to time] but he figured whenever the little pest came home, he would be hungry. Besides that, Helsknight was hungry, so he might as well do something about it. Worst case scenario, he would just reheat a plate for Tanguish on the furnace when he got here. Or threw away wasted food. The point was he was hungry, so it wasn't wasted time at least. He pulled some flour out from a cabinet, frowning down at it and wondering what his chances of making a decent gravy were.

[Gravy was the bane of cooking. It either turned out like wallpaper paste, or it turned out like soup. Rarely, when every god and saint turned their greatest blessings on Helsknight for a moment, and every star in every heaven aligned, and every angel and allay and fairy-dust creature held its breath and crossed it's fingers, he would make a passable gravy.]

Helsknight sighed, tossed a few spoonfuls of flour into a pan, and resigned to try his luck. He didn't feel very lucky today, but then again, any day he made gravy, he didn't feel lucky, even if it did taste good in the end.

"I should learn how to bake," he grumbled to himself, eyeing the little bag of flour dispassionately. Tanguish would certainly appreciate it, and it would be cheaper to make a batch of muffins from scratch, instead of buying them from a cart four times a week. Helsknight stirred his fledgling gravy absentmindedly, waiting for the flour to brown, and considering his chances of finding a half-decent cookbook the next time he went to the market. Behind him he heard a clatter of claws, the unmistakable noise of Tanguish stepping into hels. A soft breath of chill dampened the room like a breeze. Helsknight threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Hey, what's your opinion on homemade--?"

Instinct made Helsknight slam to the side as Tanguish propelled himself over the kitchen island, Helsknight's rondel dagger in his hand. The point dug itself into the wall over the stove at about chest-height, a very intentional, very lethal lunge. It missed him by a decent margin; Helsknight was quick, even when he was caught off-guard. That one look over his shoulder, and years of Colosseum training and instincts, had saved his life.

Anger, hot and baffled and electric, raced through Helsknight's chest. He backpedaled towards their little dining table as Tanguish yanked the dagger out of the wall. He needed distance, he needed room to move. [He needed a house that wasn't so saints-damned small.]

"Tanguish, what in hels--?!" Helsknight managed before Tanguish was lurching for him again, a sharp, quick, dagger-pointed shadow dappled in flickering stars. Helsknight snapped a hand out, trying to bat him aside, only for Tanguish to duck nimbly beneath his outstretched arm. The dagger stabbed in towards him again, and Helsknight barely twisted away in time.

"Tanguish! Stop!" Helsknight shouted, confusion and adrenaline crashing together in his chest, muddling up his instincts. His training, his impulse, his experience in the Colosseum, demanded he fight back. He was unarmed [why would he stay armed and armored in the safety of his own home, when he planned to stay in the rest of the day?] but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He knew a few ways of disarming someone with his bare hands, and he knew how to punch, and kick, and break bones. But his louder, conscious mind screamed at him this is Tanguish! He can't break Tanguish.

Tanguish didn't give him long to be horrified by the thought. He was lunging again, arrow-quick, and this time when Helsknight jolted backwards the blade nicked his out-flung arm. He didn't know if he was proud, or if he regretted how sharp the blade was -- his training had come in handy.

[It was marvelous really, how deadly his little pest could be when he put his mind to it. Helsknight had always thought Tanguish learned more than he let on. He was simply too scared of causing harm to use it. But he wasn't scared of causing harm now. No, he seemed hels-bent on shredding Helsknight where he stood, and he didn't know why.]

"Could you at least tell me what the hels I did to bring this on?" Helsknight demanded, a grin writhing across his teeth. It was something he knew intimidated people, intimidated Tanguish. There was something about baring teeth while fighting that seemed dangerous. If Tanguish cared, it didn't show, and he didn't respond. He just crouched low and gazed back at him, eyes half-shut in something like concentration. It gave him the look of a sleepwalker, and Helsknight didn't like it. He was used to the wide, curious, cat-like gaze, glittering in dandelion yellow.

"Tanguish?" Helsknight breathed, taking advantage of the pause. "Look, I don't want to hurt you--"

Tanguish lunged again when he was mid-sentence, something that might have killed him, if he hadn't seen Martyn do it a thousand times. Even with that knowledge, he almost reacted too late, side-stepping and slamming a heavy palm into Tanguish's shoulder, tossing him off-balance. Helsknight let out a short breath through his nose when Tanguish regained his feet, undaunted.

"I'm not running away," Helsknight said witheringly, dashing for the door. He could feel Tanguish following like a wasp over his shoulder, more the impression of danger than a true knowledge of what he was doing. Helsknight ducked out the door and managed to yank it shut behind him before Tanguish could follow, and was treated to a heavy slam as Tanguish tried to follow. Helsknight held it shut for a second, trying to figure out -- trying to figure out anything.

[Would Tanguish try to break down the door? Surely he couldn't. Even as... weirdly determined as he was to harm Helsknight, that wasn't something he was strong enough to do, especially with Helsknight bracing the other side. But the house had windows. Would Tanguish care about glass? It would cut him to ribbons. He could seriously hurt himself if he -- why was he worried about Tanguish jumping through a window? If the little idiot wanted to deal with a face full of glass--]

Helsknight released the doorknob and stepped aside. He needed to get that knife away, pin him still, preferably without hurting him too badly. His guts gave an uncomfortable squirm.

[How bad is too bad? And why? Why was this happening? It wasn't just strange, it just wasn't Tanguish. He didn't have a dangerous bone in his body.]

The doorknob clicked. Helsknight pressed himself against the wall, hiding behind the door as it swung open. He just needed a few seconds. He was stronger -- that's all he needed. Tanguish stepped onto the street, and before he had the chance to look around, Helsknight lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifted Tanguish off his feet, trying to keep the thrashing feet from kicking anything.

"Tanguish, I need you to--"

Tanguish's head snapped back suddenly, slamming into Helsknight's mouth and nose. He swore, and his grip loosened, and Tanguish's sharp elbow dug itself into his side hard enough wince away some of his breath. A clawed foot came down on his ankle, and then Tanguish was twisting, and Helsknight, whose only objective narrowed into [don't get stabbed you fucking idiot] drove a punch into Tanguish's sternum. Tanguish's breath left him in a whoosh, and he curled in on himself a little, some sense of self-preservation kicking in. But he didn't cry out in pain, and he didn't drop the knife.

A lancing, twisting feeling darted through Helsknight's guts. It was a feeling so unfamiliar it was nearly foreign, hard to place, and hesitant to name. Dread. Dread as Tanguish turned that sleepwalker's gaze on him again, re-positioned his dagger to continue fighting. His tail gave a contemplative lash, a cat figuring its best approach on a bird, and it had been a long, long time since Helsknight felt like prey. Dread made his mouth dry, closed his throat, blanked his already reeling thoughts.

[What should he do? What could he do?]

Helsknight took a hesitant step back. Tanguish's eyes narrowed, and glittered blue.

[Blue? Blue. A little ring of blue, like a clear, winter's morning, ringed his yellow iris. That hadn't always been there. He knew the color of Tanguish's eyes.]

"Tanguish, talk to me," Helsknight said, taking another hesitant step back. "What happened? Whatever it is, we can fix this. I promise."

Tanguish let out a slow breath, and the blue ring around his iris seemed to flicker, then flashed brighter. Helsknight swore again as Tanguish pounced. He caught Tanguish's wrist, and might have even considered breaking it, had Tanguish not twisted out of his grip in the second of hesitation he gave in to. Helsknight's perception narrowed to the point of the knife as he dodged it, sidestepped it, and then spun on his heel and ran.

Helsknight needed time to think, needed time to figure out what was, whatever was happening. And he was faster than Tanguish. Even if he couldn't fathom harming him, he would always be faster. And armor-less as he was, he felt unnaturally fleet, near to flying. He was down three blocks, into an alley, over a wall and two more blocks over before he stopped, panting, to check for pursuit.

"I'm not running away," he breathed again, to himself, to his Saint, to Tanguish. He wasn't. He just needed time. He just needed to pull himself together, to figure shit out, to stop shaking. To stop shaking? Helsknight looked down at his hands, at the tremor starting. He swallowed hard.

[Okay, he was a little freaked out. He was allowed to be a little freaked out. His best friend was trying to kill him, and he didn't know why, and apparently the veil between "Nice Normal Tanguish" and "Silent Death-Machine Tanguish" was unnervingly thin. And Helsknight wasn't used to someone trying to kill him assassination-style, through dogged pursuit and bloodless silence. He was used to arena fights, and occasional back-alley brawls, where things were loud and obvious and made fucking sense.]

"I'm going to kill him," Helsknight hissed, stealing down the alley as fast as he dared. He didn't know who he was going to kill. Whoever had done this, maybe. Certainly not Tanguish. He hadn't really tried, physically he thought he could, if he'd just commit. But he had no weapon, and his options for killing his best friend [one of a slim handful of people he would gladly die for] were all slow and grim and painful, and not something he would inflict on anyone willingly.

[He would just have to evade, and try to knock some sense into him? But head wounds were difficult. The margin between unconsciousness and death was illusive, and he was a knight for helssakes he didn't bludgeon people. He was so ill-equipped for something like this, it was staggering. But why would he be equipped for his best friend randomly trying to kill him?]

There was a sound. There must have been. The whisper of breathing. The slide of claws. The crackle of gathering frost. Something set Helsknight's hair prickling, the gooseflesh on his arms raised.

[The rooftops.]

Helsknight didn't have time to look up. Suddenly a weight fell on his shoulders, and he was slamming to the ground. Tanguish's hand dug claws into the back of his neck, his knees dug into his shoulders. Helsknight twisted his whole body as hard as he could, wrenching his elbow back to slam into Tanguish's side. He flipped over, throwing Tanguish off him for just a moment. He got an arm underneath himself, tried to scrabble backwards, boots digging into tiles. Tanguish lunged on top of him again, and Helsknight threw a hand between them. A noise escaped his throat as the knife slashed through the webbing between his thumb and his forefinger, but he managed to wrap his fist around the hilt.

Tanguish was on top of him, bearing his full weight down on the dagger, trying to drive it into his throat. Helsknight clenched his bleeding hand around it, while is other arm scrabbled at the cobblestones, and through the haze of half-panic finally found its way around one of Tanguish's wrists. They were too close. He couldn't make full use of his longer arms, his strength, his leverage, and while his feet scrabbled, Tanguish's long tail twisted out for balance, and he held firm.

There was a buzzing starting in the back of Helsknight's mind, a panic he wasn't used to. His hands shook. His hand was bleeding, and it had to be his hand, didn't it?

[Note to self, Tanguish had laughed once, Helsknight is weak to hand wounds.]

He couldn't pass out. Little sparks and stars crowded his peripheral vision, his awareness narrowed itself to the space between his hands, and the slickness of the dagger, and the tear in the webbing between his fingers, and how stupid that was. A Colosseum gladiator, a knight of Blood and Steel, laid low by a flesh wound.

"Tanguish, you don't want to do this," Helsknight grunted, his voice buried beneath the buzzing of panic and his heartbeat in his ears. "You don't want to hurt me."

Tanguish threw his shoulder forward, and the twist sent tearing pain through his hand, and his grip slipped dangerously. Every muscle in his body tightened in dread and desperation, and he screwed his eyes shut as he clenched his bloody fist tighter. An undignified wince of a noise squeezed its way out of his throat, but it was better than screaming.

"Okay! Maybe you want to hurt me. Fine." Helsknight grimaced. He could feel the blood from his hand dripping onto his neck. A dangerous foreshadowing of just where the blade was aimed. "Tell me why. Tell me anything."

He managed to crack an eye open, to blink away the blooming stars. He gripped the knife and a spinning world in his bloody hands, and clung to consciousness and life with equal fervor. And Tanguish watched him, impassive and cold, that little blue ring a persistent chain around his iris. It reminded Helsknight of something, something that made his stomach twist. It took a moment to place a coherent thought to the feelings, a long moment where he breathed and shook and bled, and Tanguish watched.

[Wels. The open sky blue of Wels's eyes. Ice dagger blue. He clawed at his memory for any way that made sense, and in his flailing finally remembered what Tanguish had said about those golden, inescapable commands. How far could they compel? Surely not this far. Surely--]

Helsknight swallowed hard.

[Right. He just needed to break the command. That was all. That was all.]

Helsknight reached into himself for any lie of calm, any ghost of reassurance. He tried to steady his voice. Tried to force command, and calm, and certainty into his words. Stilted and shaky, and hoarsely whispered, he half commanded, half pleaded.

"Tanguish, let go of the knife."

Above him, Tanguish blinked. The pressure on the knife didn't relent, nor did the blue ring around his iris.

"Please let go of the knife."

Tanguish's fist balled tighter, and as it did the knife twisted just barely. He felt the burning in his hand, and Helsknight lost his words behind pain that should have been insignificant, and stars and noise in his head.

"You're scaring me," Helsknight whimpered, and then managed more firmly. "You don't scare people. This isn't you. You don't want to do this to me."

He searched Tanguish's eyes again. Was that a flicker in the blue? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell.

"Helssakes," he swore. His hand grasping Tanguish's wrist reached up to grab the back of Tanguish's head, fingers tangling in his hair. He wished he could force Tanguish to focus, to center that sleepwalker's stare on something other than his general direction. "If you're going to kill me, look at me."

Tanguish blinked again. There was a shimmer in his eyes, and Helsknight winced as a tear dropped onto his face. A grim smile worked its way onto his teeth. No, that blue ring hadn't flickered. Tanguish had simply started crying.

"You're not going to kill me." Helsknight whispered. He closed his eyes, and his voice was a prayer, and it was a command. "You're not going to kill me."

He couldn't tell how much of the shaking in his arm was from him, or from Tanguish. He couldn't tell if the pain in his hand was from pressure, or from the wound. But he knew this was hurting them both, and he needed it over with, one way or another.

"You're not going to kill me."

Helsknight had been killed by wounds to his neck before. The Colosseum was a terrible place to die sometimes. He told himself he could bear it. Told himself if the pain came, he would try to hide the terribleness of it. He wouldn't gasp, or scream, or any of the other horrible, dramatic thrashings a person could do when they bled. He would make himself small and silent. He would respawn, if he could, and he would find his way back here, and he would find a way to fix this. Helsknight released Tanguish, and, eyes closed, braced himself for whatever happened next.

He couldn't stop himself from flinching when a few more teardrops fell on his face. But the blade didn't come. Helsknight dared to crack an eye open.

"Tanguish?"

Tanguish moved, and Helsknight stiffened, only to relax again when the blade clattered to the ground beside them. Helsknight let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and before Tanguish could scramble away from him, or devolve into a blubbering mess, or shake apart or fall under some new spell, or any of a thousand other things Tanguish could probably do, Helsknight wrapped his arms around Tanguish's neck and dragged him into a hug.

"Helsknight--"

"You idiot," Helsknight snapped, crushing Tanguish against his chest. He had the grace to drag them over to the side, so he couldn't bleed quite so much on both of them, but when Tanguish squirmed he held him tighter and refused to let him go. "Don't scare me like that again."

"H-helsknight I'm s-"

"You're sorry," Helsknight interrupted him, screwing his eyes shut, suddenly scared he was going to start crying too. From relief. From the ridiculousness of whatever had happened. From the closeness to disaster. From how angry he was that Tanguish felt the need to apologize. "Gods. I thought I'd lost you."

Tanguish had the audacity to laugh, a miserable hiccup of a noise that tangled itself in growing sobs, and muffled itself against Helsknight's chest. "You thought you lost me?"

"You were so quiet," Helsknight said, feeling dread lance through his stomach like a knife wound. "It's like you weren't even there."

"I was there," Tanguish whispered, his fists balled into Helsknight's shirt, like he could somehow cling closer. "I was there."

"Of course you were," Helsknight murmured back. "Of course you were."

#Situation Asks #RnS asks #helsknight #tanguish #countthelions #you. you knew EXACTLY what you asked for you fiend #tw blood #tw fighting #tw wounds #gosh but it was amazing angsty fun to write #probably won't get to any more of the asks tonight this one took awhile #but feel free to send more #all terrible things happen in the kitchen jsyk #rns ficlet

[sky-kiss]

A/N: Apparently, there's been a lot of soft!Raphael lately. Allow me to rectify that. Ascended Fiend!Raphael and Haarlep hunt you in the dark. Hiding sin under the gif.

Fiend!R x GN!Reader, H x GN!Reader: Full Dark, No Stars 18 +

The world is absolute blackness. 

Not grayscale, not outlines, just shadow, magically dense. You hold your hand in front of your face; the heat is there, your other senses struggling to compensate for the sudden lack of vision, but everything else is gone. You're left to swallow, arms held before you, fumbling in the dark. 

Something shifts on your right. Only one footstep, as if they want you to hear. Infernal heat registers at your back, hands carding over your hips. Then it's gone. You're left rounding on nothing, breathing hard. 

Time lost so much of its meaning in the dark. You could have been minutes or hours. You know that your feet are sore. There's a dull ache in your feet from padding across the flagstones, an ache in your right arm after Haarlep wrenched you too harshly to the side. And the burn everywhere else from Raphael's insistent touch. 

They're hunting you. 

You shiver, scanning the blackness as if it will help. Both devils are unnaturally quiet. The ascended fiend's prodigious size does not slow it down. It moves with liquid grace, sinuous, on all fours rather than its typical upright posture. The sight makes something clench in your belly, fear finding its mate in arousal. It's Raphael stripped down to his basest essence, feral, infernal, and hungering. 

"Tsk-tsk, little mouse," Haarlep calls. They're somewhere on your left, closer than you'd expect. Something passes in front of you, and you stumble. A hand fists in your hair, yanking to keep you upright. Pain blossoms across your scalp, muted when they tip your head back. You open your mouth to respond, and the fiend takes full advantage, tongue pushing into your mouth. They nip your chin, chuckling, and then push you away. "You're slow, far too slow for a mouse. I'm disappointed." 

You keep very silent, very still, trying to orient yourself. 

Haarleep behind you, tail curling around your thigh. The tip strokes between your legs, pressing, prodding. Their voice dips to little more than a growl. "But, ah, I suppose you have other problems? And sweet Haarlep is the least of them." They jerk you back against their chest, arms a vice across your torso. Haarlep's nose tweaks against your cheek, the caress gentle. It contrasts the rasp of their voice, the erection digging insistently against your ass. "I am not in the habit of being ignored, pet. Just this once…I shall permit it." He groans, rutting against you. "Alas, our time is short. The Master comes. And he is so…" licking your cheek, licking into your mouth again. The sweetness of their saliva overcomes your better senses. "...hungry."

You feel Raphael's heat, a portent of things to come. He could be anywhere in the dark, but he's near, crouched low. You imagine him slinking through the darkness, tail cutting slow arches through the air, claws digging at the stone. 

Haarlep hums, giving you a playful pat on the stomach. "Be good for him, yes? He's waited so patiently. And we both know…the fiend has so little patience."

Their weight is gone again. You take three steps forward; the heat steadily mounts. Raphael howls in the dark. Close, how the hells can he be so close? You haven't heard a damn thing. 

And then there's teeth at your shoulder. Hot breath on your neck. A long tongue teasing the column of your throat. You inhale a stuttering breath, careful to stay very still. The fiend growls, pleased with itself as it scents the air. His senses are much sharper. Raphael hears the thundering of blood in your veins, your heartbeat. Smells your arousal. 

You muster up whatever courage you have left to run. 

You don't make it far. Not even a step. Raphael shrieks, the sound higher than you would have expected, clearly delighted. A hand curls around your midsection, stopping you cold. The claws bite against your skin but don't cut. Even in this form, he knows not to break you. He'll only bend. You squirm as it drags you nearer, bracketing you as it lays you on the cold stone. Its tongue is back on your skin, dragging down your stomach to your sex. 

It borders on too hot, but the wet heat and the pressure are too good to ignore. Raphael laps at you, tip prodding at your hole, pressing, pressure, until it can finally push inside. You're left to pant, thrashing under the weight of its hand as it settles over your chest, caging you.

The hunt is over. Raphael intends to feast.

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #haarlep #haarlep x reader #bg3 smut #my writing #LET THE SCALES BE BALANCED #ascended fiend raphael #bg3 fanfiction

[determunition]

heyyy, it's still technically the holiday season! hope that all who celebrate had a merry christmas yesterday ^^

have a collection of illustrations and sketches, some new and some old, based off of @naturallydark's iconic retyrement au fic have a holly jolly cardmas! i will shill for this thing nonstop, it's not canon to OLD_FOLKS HOME (in fact it's kind of an AU of an AU) but it's wonderfully written; the characterization is on point for everyone and it's good holiday fluff! if you're finding yourself craving more retyrement au while you're waiting for me to upload the next OFH chapter this fic is the most delicious of meals

the first illustration here is a scene from chapter 10, one of my favorites in the fic, and the second is from chapter 7, another one of my faves (i might have quite a few of those lmao); and the lil sketchdumps at the bottom are my little musings upon reading the first couple chapters! i think wiz's introduction is probably one of the funniest in the fic haha, and the fic descriptions are on point in this fic so i had a lot of fun visualizing what characters were wearing

#inscryption #retyrement au #p03 inscryption #magnificus inscryption #p03ficus #kaycee inscryption #lonely wizard inscryption #trader inscryption #this also used to be the longest inscryption fic on ao3 haha #i only beat its word count recently #nat is the best kind of writing fiend let me tell you

[ineadhyn]

This prompt was brought up by @nikjima who makes the best screenshots and the best mods (Raphael's finest ass) for our devils:

Imagine Raphael had no idea you'd given Haarlep your form, and you snuck out of the HoH without stealing the contract/hammer, and next time he's having a little 'me time' Haarlep just jumpscares him mid-climax

CN: sex, non descriptive violence mentioned at the very end

He should have noticed the scent changing. When the sulphur intensified and the fiery cinnamon turned into something sweeter - but Raphael did not notice. He was buried hips deep in Haarleps ass and their combined body heat crescendoed into an inferno. A bit too hot - in hindsight. Just like Haarleps smile was a bit too wide. Only that Raphael’s eyes were momentarily closed, his claws dug into the incubus hips, dragging deep trenches into their scaly skin and his body was trembling and twitching under their weight, whilst Haarlep rolled their hips with relentless precision. Raphael tipped his head back, his horns hit the headboard, probably carving into it. Close. He was so damn close. Not for the first time tonight, just to mention. Haarlep had brought him to the edge three times already, just to pull back, before he could tumble over it. Not again. Raphael was determined to make sure of that. His tail curled around their waist and with a breathy moan he pulled his incubus closer with both hands, made their hips smash down on his cock, thrusting upwards at the same time, his back arched, hellfire sparks dancing on the edges of his vision. Again his head tipped back, he clenched his teeth and -  Haarlep shuddered in a shower of sparks. Raphael’s eyes widened. The damned - It was too late! Whoever Haarlep’s form changed into, Raphael shot his load into them, releasing all the build up of three denied orgasms and filled them with it, his mind dazed, grasping the now soft flesh under his fingers, the smaller body, the -  “Mouse.” Hells, how good it felt, how their skin glistened in the hellish light, their hair sweaty and their eyes rolled back. Still impaled by him, twitching around his cock. For one moment Raphael was unable to do anything else than to listen to their voice. Moaning, gasping, making all the sounds he barely dared to dream of, then - “Haarlep!” Raphael shot up and threw the incubus off him, so they hit the floor. Their small figure looked fragile and still sweaty and glowing from their tryst. Of course, none of that was true. Raphael violently tried to get the vision out of his head until he saw nothing more than his, his incubus, who dared to grin at him still. “Did you like my gift?” they cooed, looking up through their lashes. “Your mouse left it for you when it visited. I thought I’d wrap it for you.” Raphael stared down at his incubus and only now the full realization of their betrayal rolled over him. “You! You fucked the mouse? You dared to fuck my mouse?” Raphael’s hand shot down, his fingers wrapping around the delicate throat and pulling Haarlep up by it. He would punish them. He rarely did, but today he would stain the floors with the insolent demon’s blood. Still, the thought that dominated his mind as he dragged them out of the boudoir was another: The mouse has been here. They had been here and the contract still stood. As Haarlep’s first scream echoed from the walls of the House of Hope a silent smile spread across Raphael’s lips.

The screenshot that caused it ^^

#unedited #raphael bg3 #haarlep bg3 #raphael x tav #i changed raph into fiend because it fit better to me #and his model wont do the scene #writing prompt

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Raphael/Haarlep | there is wise valour (and there is recklessness)

A/N: 18+ | a pre-canon exploration of the possible origin of Raphael's Ascended Fiend form, and the begrudging rapport between him and Haarlep.

Words: 3.4k

Read it on AO3

Raphael stalks through the halls of his House – nothing so grandiose as to deserve the epithet, yet, but he is prepared to impress his will upon the universe until it is – cringing imps scattering into the shadows as they avoid his fearsome tread. A telltale haze shimmers at the edge of his vision, overwriting the dull stonework with rippling red. The door to his personal suite looms out before him, and he scrabbles at the handle, forcing it open just enough to allow him entry, then spinning to force it closed again with a barely-tempered thud. The resolute click of the arcane locking mechanism grants him some small measure of relief.

His servants, few as they are, know not to disturb him here, so he will have his peace.

This simple and inanely optimistic certainty is broken almost immediately, with the voice of potentially the last being he desires to encounter in this moment: Haarlep, his lord father’s wretched consolation gift.

Oh, he certainly did not deign to express it as such, but the timing made the implication exactly as clear as the Archduke of Cania required. Too slow to profit as he had desired – as he had planned, painstakingly – from the fall of Netheril, and the fatuity of the fool Karsus, the Crown and its fearsome power already swept up and shelved away in the vaults of Mephistar, to be ignored or studied – then ignored again – at his father’s leisure.

“Oh dear, our little lord’s in quite a state today, is he not?” The silken tones of the incubus’s voice might be enticing to another, but they grate against Raphael’s ears like the music of a fingerless bard.

Raphael grits his teeth, refraining from digging his horns into the wood of the door before him by willpower alone. Haarlep, his father had named the wretch, an insipid mirror to reflect his every action back to Mephistar. He could not afford to be known to his father in this state.

A fit of temper was one thing. Hypocritical though he be, Mephistopheles could not deny his blood ran true in such matters. An uncontrollable beast-form, however, one twisted and warped by the broken magics of Netheril? Such knowledge would bring either disdain or interest — and a scrutiny he would not be liable to profit from in either event.

“What are you doing here?” He grinds out, refusing to turn around. Poor form, to leave his back to an enemy, but better the suspicion of weakness than the truth of it, until he can master himself as he ought.

A light, chiming laugh floats through the air like gossamer webs, undulating as the incubus steps closer to him. They run fashionably tapered claws in maddeningly delicate tapping motions down his back, between the base of his wings. He’s certain it is meant to entice, but all it does is make his skin itch and crawl, hungering for slaughter – for satiation – in a ravenous manner he has not felt before.

The desire itself is certainly not new to him, but the drive to follow through, and damn the consequences? That is more of a struggle. He’d thought the beast-form would take a mighty shape, one that would augment his own power and prestige, that he could gloat about to rivals and hold over the heads of his siblings.

Instead, he is left to feel grateful for his position of no note, that he has no true household staff to warn away from loose tongues. Only a few wretched imps, too foolish to put one brick atop another were the plans directly before them, and the incubus, its true thoughts held scrupulously behind dancing eyes. Said incubus’s vexatious tapping continues, clawtips light enough to refrain from marring even a thread of his richly embroidered tunic, but refusing to respond to the intimation of his shifting motions and leave well enough alone.

“Why, I aim only to remind my lord that I am here at his disposal, of course.” The incubus’s tone is conversational, as though they are speaking over a formal luncheon, rather than after they had barged into his own private chambers without so much as a by-your-leave. Raphael’s fingers curl against the door, leaving slight gouges this time.

The incubus is not finished, however, continuing on languidly, “We have had so little opportunity to connect, you and I, since I was first remanded into your… care.” The subtle emphasis put on the last word indicates the incubus’s cognizance that the reality was anything but, and invites him to commiserate with their shared circumstance. Raphael declines. Their situations are nothing alike, and he’ll not be condescended to by this… this… wretch.

At his limit with the damned touching now, Raphael spins away, knocking the incubus’s overreaching arm to the side. “Enough, damn you!” His voice begins as a snarl but he manages to quell it to a hiss. “Your presence is neither desired nor requested, and thus you should be anywhere at all in the estate but my private chambers.” He gestures to the door in a clear dismissal. “You may count yourself fortunate that I have more pressing matters to deal with at the moment than your insolence.”

He knows as soon as the last word leaves his lips that he’s made an error. The incubus’s eyes light up behind the graceful drape of their hair, filled with a dancing glow as its plump lips curl with keen delight. “More pressing than making use of an esteemed gift? The little lord is keeping secrets.” Its tongue flicks out, long and forked, wetting its lower lip with a glistening sheen as it draws, achingly slowly, back in.

Raphael tears his eyes away from the gallingly-enticing gleam, displeased to find that, yet again, his threats are as puffs of air to this detestable creature. He attempts to draw himself up, mantling his wings with oblique menace, and flattens his voice to a firm register. “I have no obligation to keep counsel with you, cur.”

The incubus taps one long, slender finger mockingly against its chin. “Mmmm,” it lets out a long, unnecessarily drawn out hum. “‘Obligation’? Certainly not. I would not dream of prevailing upon the goodwill of your august personage to demand as such.”

It pauses, a glimmer of sweet-edged malice drifting across its face. “However… It might behoove the little lord to indulge an ally, rather than order an adversary.”

The hellfire haze, nearly dissipated while he was not paying attention, blazes back into being around him. The beast howls within, clawing at his bones, desperate to cleave flesh and willing to settle for his own if more suitable sacrifice was not provided. Raphael grinds his teeth against the cry of pain, keeping his voice unaffected even as it feels like speaking through blades of infernal iron.

“You presume much, gift-of-my-father. Perhaps too much. Why should I seek to find an ally in one so markedly bound to higher loyalties?”

The incubus laughs, light and mocking. “Loyalties? What a precious concept. A lord must have strength enough to protect his vassals, in exchange for their loyalty.” Their friendly mien drops entirely, pinning him with a flat, piercing gaze as that damned finger taps, slow and languid, against their chin. “Thus far, I have seen no indication of any such strength from you, little lord.”

At this final expression of disrespect, the delicate webs of Raphael’s remaining self-control fracture and wisp away. A hideous sound of ripping flesh and crackling bone echoes around the room, dissipating against the sound-muffling enchantments etched into the stone. Between one interminable blink and the next, his vision doubles, then trebles, the shifting haze edging out to line the fringes of his new sightlines. He looks to the incubus standing before him in triplicate – a reflection now in truth – with fury the forenote of the increasingly bestial bent to his mind. He loosens his disjointed jaw in anticipation, and awaits the wretch’s usual twist of mockery.

Haarlep stares – up, and up – at the mangled, marvelous creature before them. So this is what their little master has been hiding since his return from the broken remnants of Netheril, bare days after their own arrival. He’d slammed back into the House like a meteor strike, a furious tempest raging throughout its halls ever since. Haarlep’s sole attempt to ingratiate themself had been met with glowering fury followed by curt dismissal, and a silent, fraught détente ever since.

That, of course, simply would not do. Perceived failure at such a level would, sooner or later, make its way back to the lord of Mephistar. And, generous though the terms of his commandment had been, none were that generous.

Haarlep had bedecked themself in their finest things, gauzy drider-silks embellished with blood-pearls and ornate, embroidered sigils, and hied away to the little lord’s personal chambers for one final attempt. Either they’d finally come to some conclusive understanding, or… Well. The consequences for a failed contract with the lord of the Eighth Layer would not be pleasant. Haarlep took pain to bed as a lover as willingly as pleasure, but even their malleable form and aberrant senses had their limits.

And, at first, it had seemed like their cause was just as lost as it had initially appeared. The stubborn little brat, refusing to treat with them as their positions demanded, to engage with the realities they were – the both of them – constrained within. They’d pushed, pressed up close to his body the way they knew he loathed, needling at him with claws and words alike, pricking about for any crack in his obdurate mask.

And then — not a crack, but a shattering entire. Emerging from the stagnant shell of the lordling was birthed a monstrosity, pure and twisted.

An agglomerate skull, eyes glowing baleful and amber from cavernous sockets. Jagged limbs unsuited for movement and coated imperfectly with dappled scale, internal fire licking out from the crevices against undefended flesh, searing and cauterizing in continuous agony. Wings, groomed and genteel mere moments before — now marred with rot and ruin, mantled in tattered shreds held in place by blackened scar tissue.

What a mess. Haarlep could understand why the little master had been so reclusive if this was the shape now lurking within him. His new form’s structure might be passingly compared to that of a cornugon, but only to a witless imbecile. The bone-plate, tarnished and burnt, bore some similarity to the lustrous ossified mail of an osyluth, but lacked entirely their ordered and brutal beauty. In truth… beneath the surface, there was truly nothing of the Hells about this form at all, but rather — something far more Abyssal in origin.

Haarlep smiles, slow and sweet, their long tongue flicking out from their mouth and dragging back the scent of the beast as it returns, a delectable sweet hint of Chaos just discernible below the rest. Their smile grows wider still as they savor it, subtle fangs bared by the action.

“Little master has been quite the naughty boy, hasn’t he? Dabbling with magics too powerful for him, perhaps? Snooping around in pilfered Netherese parlors, grasping at scraps?” They tut chidingly, shaking their head at him.

The beast huffs out a gusting breath, fetid air coursing from its maw, its blackened claws all too obvious as they raise to strike.

Haarlep coos. “How cruel of the little lord to keep this lovely surprise all to himself. Why, we could have been playing together long since.”

Silence, for a moment. Then a reverberating growl shudders from its chest, emerging as a guttural hiss from its frayed vocal cords. With a crack of over-stressed bone, the beast crouches, then springs forward, toppling them both and slamming its forelimbs down on either side of Haarlep’s head. Its bone-jaws open and chitter against one another in accompaniment to its hissing. Hot, silvery liquid drips from the base of its throat, settling in searing pearls on Haarlep’s face before streaking wincingly away.

Haarlep clucks their tongue, reaching out a hand to caress along the roughened bone of the closest skull. “You can certainly take me like this, if you’ve a mind,” they say leadingly, rolling their body languidly upward to brush against the delightful texturing of the beast-form above them. Oh, it has been too long since they’ve dealt with any of Chaos’s get. An admittedly amateur transformation, perhaps, but nothing they cannot endear themself to their little lord by offering some much-needed assistance.

The beast responds with a huff, moving toward their touch for one brief moment, then away again, the creaking of misaligned joint and bone filling the chamber with a grisly cacophony. It seems the little lord isn’t particularly accustomed to his new form’s mind yet, either. That will make some things harder — and others easier.

Haarlep rolls their body up against the beast’s once more, to regain its attention and realign its purpose. Its triune head with trebled skulls, raised to scan the room around them, swings back down to pin him with those flat, glowing eyes, set so far back in their sockets. The vision on this beast-form must be disorienting indeed.

A snarling rumble rises up from the cavernous chamber of the beast’s chest — perhaps a disdain of the presumption, or an unfamiliarity with the sensation in this form. In either case, the little lord is welcome to communicate his desires to Haarlep should he choose. Otherwise, they shall do as a good attendant ought, and attend him.

They undulate again, aiming with particular focus for the most likely location of a hidden pleasure structure, sparing a moment to hope that their rash little lordling had not botched whatever ritual he’d stumbled upon with such talent as to lose that. Haarlep could certainly make an exemplary showing without any such element present – and had upon multiple occasions in the past – but it would certainly help the situation along. After a long moment, they feel an answering pressure coming from the boiling hot area between malformed limbs, and devote particular attention to encouraging it to emerge further.

The beast, plainly feeling the results of their efforts, snarls again, its claws scraping against the stone floor and leaving deep, gouging furrows. Its central skull flashes down and fastens around Haarlep’s throat, just barely stopping before it would cause true harm. They freeze for a moment, elegant neck extended, and luxuriate in the dull prick of those rending fangs — then moan, low and throaty, relaxing into them until the prick becomes true penetration.

The beast huffs, in what resembles nothing so much as sheer bewilderment. Haarlep throws their head back in laughter, relishing the bite of the bone-tooth collar, and the gentle rivulets of blood that begin to seep steadily from the punctures. “No stomach for the devouring, have we? A pity. By all means, then, allow me.”

They slither sinuously free of the beast’s hold, loosened in its surprise, earning more tender tears from the delightful drag of fang on flesh. The beast seems fully lost in its puzzlement now, crouching back on its haunches, its budding member just beginning to poke forth from the sheath at the twisted apex of its hips. Haarlep feels their mouth water, venom pooling slick and sweet, as it emerges in jerking, ungraceful spasms. Their eyes curl up in a true smile.

“Look at you,” they croon. The cockhead is blunt and brutal, with raised ridges at irregular intervals across its surface. The shape of it tapers just under the first bullying bulk of the head, then flares outward again, with diagonal, tiered ridges forming concentric circles underneath it. It looks delectable.

They slide closer on their knees, bowing their head and letting the smooth flood of their hair fall to the side to keep the nape of their neck – and its sluggishly bleeding marks – exposed. The beast observes the motion, skulls twisting to keep them centered in its vision and mantling its tattered wings, but makes no move to dissuade them by force — a clear invitation if Haarlep has ever seen one.

They lean closer, tongue flickering out to wrap around the flat tip and taste. The beast lets out a screeching cry, contorted hips juddering forward and one hand slamming down to tear at the floor. Misshapen then, but no less sensitive for it, it seems. Haarlep retracts their tongue slowly, savoring the taste of ash and burnt sugar. All things taste saccharine to them from contact with their venom, but the overwhelming edge of conflagration on the beast adds an alluring dimension they hunger for more of. And they’ve certainly never been one to deny themself an indulgence.

Prepared this time for the response of the beast – so clearly never touched before in this form – Haarlep wraps their long fingers around it, inanely delighted by the way they nestle into the hollows created by the banding ridges. The size would be difficult to fully encircle for the average mortal, but fits the grasp of Haarlep’s long fingers near-perfectly. The beast gives another rattling cry, starting forward as the stimulation encourages forth one final pulse of the cock from its sheath, a raised nodule at the base of the cock itself tugging free from the lip of the sheath.

Haarlep hums, eyeing the little structure with consideration, then moving their thumb down to caress it with the barest edge of claw. The beast growls, and the blaze of heat about it increases as it curls forward, its skulled head coming to rest in the air just above Haarlep’s upper back. They begin to feel enshrouded in the waves of heat rolling off of the beast, caged between it and caught in the dizzying miasma of Chaos.

They send their tongue out once more, this time holding the beast still by their hand around its cock. Their tongue flickers dexterously in between their fingers and the roughened flesh of the cock itself. The beast pants above them, gusts of air teasing down along their spine. With more of that ash and cinder scent filling their senses, Haarlep widens their mouth and takes the beast’s cock within them, the blunt head rubbing pleasantly up against the back of their throat. Their venom catches and pools in the crevices on the cock’s surface, easing its glide as it enters them. They shift away their fingers bit by bit as they usher the cock into their mouth, adjusting their mouth to its size before removing the last implicit constraint on the movement of the beast.

The head catches against the opening to their throat just as the beast recognizes its freedom, chasing the sensation they’ve granted it with jerking thrusts of its hips. Haarlep angles the flexible muscle of their throat to better receive it, feeling the ridges pressing back against their flesh as the beast bullies its way further into them, utterly uncaring of their own welfare. It is for the best that they’ve been the one to give the little lord’s beast its sorely needed outlet. Any other and the lordling would have more likely awoken to a shattered corpse, with the whole House aware of just how fastidious he is.

Overcome by the sensitivity of its fledgling flesh – and, if Haarlep might be so modest, the experience of their own peerless form – the beast only lasts a few more minutes before its thrusts grow even more frenzied. A sizzling heat permeates Haarlep’s throat as the cock flexes and shudders within it, seeming to grow larger for a few moments as the taste of ash and honey intensifies.

The next moment, the beast is tearing back from them, just barely avoiding slicing itself on their fangs as it stumbles backward, flesh cracking and splitting in a grating inversion of its earlier transformation. Its own form sizzles and steams, a haze in the air around it for a moment before, transmutation complete, their little lord stands before them once more. He looks lost, for a moment, before his scan of the room – now in quite some disarray – comes to a halt with his eyes on Haarlep, still kneeling gracefully with their hair cascading about them. His face twists, too many emotions to quantify spasming across it all at once, before settling on a faint, haughty sneer.

Haarlep licks their lips – and the visible remnants of their activities – slowly, sensuously. “Why, little lord, I do believe you and I have much to discuss.”

#voidling speaks #my writing #my fic #bg3 #bg3 fic #haarlep #bg3 haarlep #raphael #bg3 raphael #raphael x haarlep #ascended fiend raphael #fic

[thepatronsaintoffilth]

If you’re still accepting requests/prompts

Crawls away, overstimulated meets crawls after them/drags them back with Heisenberg or something else

🛑✋🏾🛑✋🏾 ADULTS ONLY ✋🏾🛑✋🏾🛑

🛑✋🏾🛑✋🏾 MINORS DNI!!! ✋🏾🛑✋🏾🛑

pairing: gender neutral reader x Karl Heisenberg*

*he may or may not still be a lycan in this one (like he is in YSLT), I didn't really give any indication to either him or reader being anything other than human apart from the, uh ... rut-like desperation, let's say (... you'll see what I mean in a minute ;)

cw: dubcon, overstimulation, resistance play, biting, toe-sucking, ass-eating, face-slapping, mouth-covering, real sex-pest Heisendaddy behavior, the whole nine, I'm so serious, a lot of "no"s being ignored in this one

❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️

It was official.

You and Lord Heisenberg had just entered the second hour of what started off as - and was supposed to be - a quick, frenzied tryst in the workshop before descending into what you could already tell was going to be a full afternoon of balls-deep fucking.

You'd thought it was almost sweet at first - the sheer gusto alone was breathtaking.

But then he just wouldn't stop.

He just ... kept ... going.

And going.

And fucking going.

You only knew an hour had passed because when you were lying on the ground - the only thing separating your naked body from the workshop floor being Karl's coat - you'd caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall and realized how much time had gone by.

This is ridiculous, you hiss silently, shuddering and panting as your second - third? Fourth? - climax rips through you.

You feel his mouth between your legs for the 3rd time in the last twenty minutes alone and wince as your senses, pushed into overdrive, start to overload.

This is INSANE, you amend. We'll be here all goddamn day!

You try to tell him as much, but it gets you absolutely nowhere.

At first, Karl is merely content to shush you - whispering sweet-nothings and reassuring you that it would be over soon, that he was so close, you're so fucking sexy, you're going to make him cum so fast.

When that revealed itself to be a fucking lie, you begin to actively resist him - shoving at his shoulders, closing your legs against his gloved hands, turning your head or even biting him when he tries to stick his tongue in your mouth.

He was amused at first ("Feeling feisty, huh?"), but then quickly grows frustrated.

Which in turn earns you a slap in the face and that beautiful dick of his crammed down your throat, effectively silencing your protests.

You feel his balls slapping against your chin with each grunting thrust. His hands grip your head, shoving you up and down his shaft until you're too dizzy to resist.

"Don't wanna bite me now, do ya?" he growls, knowing full well you wouldn't dare.

You can't answer - outside of the embarrassing glkglkglkglk sound he was forcing out of you.

"Huh? Was that a yes? Try it ... See what happens."

He releases you abruptly, shoving you back onto the ground. You blink the spots from your eyes and wait for the room to stop spinning as you cough and sputter, making an even bigger mess of your face.

About a second or two later you feel his hands on your shoulders and his knees beside your hips, caging you in.

You slap his hands away, swearing and grumbling under your breath about what a goddamn menace he is. You manage to rotate onto your stomach and hoist yourself upright on your hands and knees.

In hindsight, this action was probably a little naïve.

You thought shoving his hands away and crawling out from under him was the universal signal for "I would like to stop now."

And for a moment? Karl actually seems to take the hint and back off.

... Only for you to feel his hands on your hips and realize that he had interpreted your movement much differently than you intended.

He buries his face between your cheeks and starts tonguing your ass, panting and huffing like he can't get enough.

Which in all likelihood, he can't.

You gasp at the feeling of his facial hair tickling you. Then you crumple, chest-down, to the ground as you feel his tongue probing you, heedless of the fact that you're covered head to toe with sweat and debris.

Your right thigh starts to wobble. The wobble becomes an spastic shake as the sensation becomes so intensely good, its almost unbearable.

The shake creeps outward to the rest of your body as Karl adds his fingers to the mix, muttering under his breath about how amazingly responsive you are as he fucks his middle, index and ring finger into your ass.

Between the effort to stay somewhat upright and not faint outright (even now you can't deny that the man has gifted fingers ...), it's a miracle you have the coordination to try evading him again.

When he takes his fingers out of you, you shake his hands off your hip and crawl quickly in the direction of the door, intending to use your momentum to carry to you feet, out the door, to freedom and maybe a shower because you're an absolute mess.

His grip on your ankle begs to differ.

Your Lord's touch is hard and unforgiving as, with one harsh tug, he pulls you right back where you started.

"Karl - !"

"We're not. Done yet."

He flips you onto your back as you get tangled up in his coat sprawled out on the ground. You drag it with you to cover yourself. He pushes the garment up with an impatient grunt, re-exposing your lower body. He thrusts himself inside you in one brutal, sloppy stroke.

"For fuck's SAKE, Karl - !" you cry out before his gloved palm slaps down over your mouth, stifling the swearing diatribe you were about to spit in his face.

"Shut up. And quit running from me," he rasps, his tone caught somewhere between smoldering irritation and what can only be growing desperation.

You manage to jerk your face out from under his hand long enough to snap, "Then get ON with it!"

"We're almost done, I told you."

"You said that an hour ago!"

Karl freezes. Then he glares down at you and coldly asks, "Are you clock-watching?"

An icy tendril of fear creeps down your back. You shake your head. You might be willing to put your paws on him when he goes too far, but you know better than to wound the man's pride - the one sore point that might legitimately get you killed, even with all you've come to mean to him.

"N-No, I -!" you begin, only for his hand to come down over your mouth again.

"Good. Now quit you whining!" he growls as he starts fucking mercilessly into you again with renewed vigor. "We're almost there."

He lets go your mouth and gathers you closer to him, the increased pressure and friction driving you that much closer to insanity. You feel another orgasm building, and you can tell this one's going to be messy.

"K-Karl, baby ... Please ... Give me a -"

"Shh, shhhhhhh," he whispers. "Almost there."

"Karl ..."

"Almost there. Almost ... Almost there"

Roughly half an hour later, the two of you finally get "there".

After several detours, of course.

Your Lord felt compelled to fuck your mouth again.

Then he spanked and berated you for protesting and trying to ward him off.

Then he sucked your toes greedily (a concerning first, since he'd never shown any interest in your feet up to this point) before finally, at long, long last, cumming inside you before collapsing on top of you.

"See? That didn't take so long, did it?"

You manage to slap him twice over his head before he even processes through the haze of post-orgasm bliss that you're striking him.

He look at you blankly for a moment, the depths of his eyes cold and almost transparently remote as he floats back down to Earth. You're reeling back for a third time when he catches you hand without even looking.

"Oh, I see ... You haven't had enough yet."

"Get OFF me, you oaf!"

"You should have told me so, buttercup. I would have held off a little longer."

"I swear I'll claw your eyes out if you don't leave me ALONE!"

He rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, that's right, talk dirty to me. That's the way to get me off your ass."

"FUCK YOU."

He snorts.

"You will, if you'd just hold still. So impatient ... It's like you're trying to get me hard again."

"Karl - !"

Whatever you were trying to say is lost in his mouth as he kisses you till you quiet down.

And he keeps going.

- Saint

P.S. - My ask box is still open for requests! This was so much fun, and I can't wait to get more. Also, shoutout to the anon who sent me this. I love a good yanked-back-after-crawling-away kinda vibe 😘😘😘

#smut #dubcon #lord heisenberg #karl heisenberg #daddy heisenberg #sex pest heisenberg #sex fiend heisenberg #absolute MENACE heisenberg #ask #anon #answered #prompt #writing #writing prompt #I wrote this with a bit more emphasis on the comedy than the sex #but i couldn't resist! #sex pest heisenberg is my favorite heisenberg 🥰 #heisenberg x reader #lord heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x reader #heisenberg x you #karl heisenberg x you #lord heisenberg x you

[franollie]

beating off the migratory slash fandom as they attempt to get their grubby little hands on timkon

#back!! back you fiends!! #leave my boys alone #go back to writing steddie or whatever you guys are interested in rn #timkon #tim drake #kon el

[baconpncakes]

Okay in Son of a Coma Guy (3.07), Wilson asks House "Why my pad? Foreman, Cameron and Chase's pads are just as convenient. But their association with you is involuntary. They're employees. I associate with you through choice and any relationship that involves choice, you have to see how far you can push before it breaks." House initially deflects but later ends up confessing that Wilson is right when he says "Maybe I don't wanna push this until it breaks."

This is a pattern with House, he's terrified of being abandoned. He did it with Stacy. He did it with his first team. And he's terrified that Wilson specifically is going to leave him. In Baggage (6.21) House tells Nolan "I can say whatever I want to him, and he'll never leave." And when Nolan replies that he's kind of leaving now, he's putting Sam first, prioritizing his girlfriend over you, House just says "For now." After they get married and divorced again, House can move back in.

It takes until season six for House to be this secure in his relationship with Wilson, over fifteen years, and even then he's lashing out and heartbroken because Wilson is choosing Sam over him. And in Son of a Coma guy, when Wilson says that House is trying to fast forward through what he sees as the inevitable– Wilson leaving– Wilson knows he's right because he's seen this before, he watched House do it with Stacy twice.

And my POINT is- I bet Wilson has also been on the other side of this before. After the infarction, when House is (up to this point in his life) at his lowest, he is angry and he is in pain and the person he loved the most is the person who did this to him, she went against his wishes and violated his trust and crippled him and then left. He's mad at Cuddy for letting it happen and he doesn't have a relationship with his parents and Stacy is gone, so now it's just Wilson. And House, in all of his misery and pain and self-destruction, would be cruel and try to push Wilson away too.

And I think it'd all come to a moment where House is telling Wilson that he doesn't need pity, or that Wilson has a wife to go home to and real patients to treat, and doesn't he have a nurse to flirt with, don't you have anything better to do than feed off my neediness- and Wilson finally interrupts and says "House. Just stop. We both know I'm not going anywhere. Can you please give it a rest? Just for now." And House just nods. And they don't bring it up again.

And later when Wilson has cancer, he is dying in House's living room and tells House leave him alone. He's pathetic and he spent his whole life being good and trying to offer empty platitudes to dying people going through exactly what he is now and "I should have spent my life being more like you. Should have been a manipulative, self-centered, narcissistic ass, who brought misery to everything and everyone in his life." Because then he'd feel like he deserved it.

And House just gives him the last of his Vicodin and accepts that. Because Wilson is angry and scared and in pain and House has been there. And the next morning after the treatment, Wilson doesn't remember exactly what he said but he tries to apologize and House won't take it because Wilson was dying he can't be blamed for it. And then Wilson lets House help him down the hall.

House and Wilson knock each other's hands away when they try to offer support (literally and figuratively), but in the end they always accept that help. And no matter what they throw at each other, they know that it's the pain talking. They understand. And they keep helping and keep loving each other anyway.

#'misery made me a fiend' #'terror made me cruel' #etc etc #this got long lol #if anyone wants to write that post-infarction fic you have to send it to me lol #hate crimes md #hilson #my post #house md #gregory house #james wilson

[merakiui]

out of curiosity i listened to steampianists ‘the botanist’ that you talked about in the tags of my last ask…it really is perfect for rollo. my god. i can imagine him going to great lengths to ensure his love blooms with his darling. if you ever write that fic ill print it out and tape it to my walls. rollo and the two? fics youve written live rent free in my brain and im composing a playlist for him now. i am. in deep.

-pot roast brain anon from a couple days ago

Pot roast anon, hello!!!!!! >w< omg I'm so happy you listened to the song and agree that it suits Rollo!!! The story is so eerily visceral. I love it so much. "The Detective" is the sequel to "The Botanist" and it involves the singer (the detective) trying to solve the murders committed by the botanist, but in the process he's interrupted by the scientist from "Black Hole" after she brings on the end of the world with her experiment! I adore Steam's work. Every song is so good. orz

I love these lyrics from "The Botanist":

A lady who is allergic to flowers and a botanist who is allergic to humans,,, waaaa it's such a yummy concept!!! Rollo who is allergic to humans (magic) falling for a darling who is so in tune with their magic...... and the way the gloves go from green to red over the course of the song, indicating that something dire happened to the lady (it's revealed in "The Detective" that the botanist would remove the hearts of the women he kidnapped). The symbolism in making someone or something bloom. Rollo whose talent is literally gardening. Rollo who cared for and grew the Crimson Lotus........ I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. OTL he really does feel like the botanist character in the song.

ALSO!!!! The way the lyrics transition from "passionate for flowers" to "passionate for a flower." Going from plural to singular as this flower (the lady) fills the botanist's heart with some sort of crooked adoration. A darling couldn't fix Rollo. In fact, you would just make him worse (more obsessed) unintentionally. >_< I really want to write a fic inspired by this song for Rollo!!! It suits him so well. I'm happy you would want to read a fic like that!! <3

I've only written three fics for Rollo so far (The Diary of Rollo Flamme, Eden, and Crow & Goat in Courtship), but it's not nearly enough. He was so crazy during his confrontation with Malleus, Idia, and Azul in Glomas. The way he actively tried to strike Malleus down????? AAAAAAA. Unfortunately, Rollo will indeed strike him down in the dead dove fic I have planned. ;;;; he's scary,,,,

I think "The Botanist" could also suit Jade if I'm writing him as the clinically detached type (like in Monops's Reflection), but I need to get the eels out of my brain. T^T

#twisted chit chat #forgive me for rambling excessively orz #i really love steampianist's music :D the song 'tiny fiends' also reminds me of rollo to an extent #if i wrote 'the botanist' fic for rollo i would like to write it in the belle époque era #mainly because the fashion of that era is beautiful and feels very flower-like to me (perfect for a certain botanist (rollo) to notice you)

[oldmanenjoyer]

Gimmi something angsty like I’ve been digging for that pt wise and I can’t find SQUAT

It started off somewhat normal, if you could call it that.

Stress over debt and bills and such had led to a bit of an episode for Peppino. You did your best to sit through it with him, giving him water and rubbing his back as you tried to get him to breathe with you. But then it wasn't so normal.

Suddenly, he was gripping his chest, dizzy and hardly able to sit up straight, much less stand. It scared you, so bad. You practically dragged the man onto his feet, rushing out to your car to drive him to the hospital (an ambulance bill would only send him into a worse fit, you were sure).

As you drive, Peppino did his best to reassure you through the pain in his chest and the breathlessness in his lungs. Sure, he was scared too, shitless even! But he saw you struggling not to cry while you were driving and suddenly he wanted to push all his worries aside to tend to you.

It wasn't possible, but he did squeeze your hand and smile at you, if strained. And it kinda helped. A little.

You weren't straight up sobbing when you both arrived at the hospital, at least.

The nurses didn't let you follow him into the examination rooms. You had to wait in the lobby with everyone else, other anxious people awaiting news of their loved ones. They watched you pace a hole into the tiles, a few even joined you, if only to help ease their own stress.

Did it help? Not for you, but the others, maybe.

When a nurse finally called your name, you raced after her. Your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest and also not beating at all. Worst case scenarios flew through your head, horror stories of heart attacks and the suffering left in their wake.

You fretted, hardly able to feel the hand of the nurse on your shoulder, and wondered how Peppino was going to continue if this was well and truly something dangerous. It made you feel dizzy to think about. He didn’t deserve that! Not after everything! And-

“Hey,” the nurse called, and you snapped back into reality, “it’s okay. It wasn’t a heart attack.”

It took a moment for the words to process. But once they did, a tidal wave of relief flooded your body. Tears streaked down your cheeks, and you sobbed to her, so grateful to her as though she was the one who saved Peppino from a nonexistent heart attack.

She chuckled, patting your shoulder as she led you along. “It’s alright. It was just a pretty severe panic attack. He was hyperventilating, and that’s what cause all the symptoms. You did right bringing him here, though. He could’ve fainted and hurt himself pretty bad if he was alone.”

You nodded along. “How is he?”

“He’s recovered. We’ve given him some meds to help him relax, but I’d look into professional help for the future.” She passed you a card with various names scribbled on it. “It could help prevent panic attacks like these, or at least make them less severe.”

You nodded again and pocketed the note. That would be dealt with later. For now, all you wanted to do was see Peppino and smother him in kisses.

The room he was in was dimly lit. Peppino himself was laid out on a bed, eyes closed and breathing slow. A heart monitor next to him beeped quietly not to disturb the tranquil atmosphere.

“He’s been asking for you a bunch.” The nurse whispered to you, as you stood and just took in the sight of him alive and well. “The whole time, really. He wanted you to be there very badly, but sadly he can’t really hold your hand while we’re doing tests.”

You walked forward, another vague nod of your head all you replied with. Your heart ached to think he wanted you there as much as you wanted to be there for him, but such wasn’t the thing to dwell on. Instead, you sat in the chair already pulled up to his bedside and picked up the hand connected to an IV.

“Peppino.” You called, voice hushed and low. He sighed, but turned towards you, brows furrowing. “You asleep, hon?”

It took a moment, but Peppino blinked his eyes open. He focused on you, and you smiled. He smiled too, big and goofy and no doubt pleased to see you.

“Hey,” you said, squeezing his hand, “welcome back.”

He murmured some stuff in Italian from deep in his chest. It was hard to hear, so you just leaned in and peppered the side of his face in kisses. He practically purred.

“Ti amo.” He sighed, and that you understood.

“I love you.” You whispered back.

And you continued to kiss on him until the nurse finally told you it was time to go.

#don't tempt me pal i am an angst fiend you should see my other writing blog #i'll write practically anything angsty sans cheating #peppino spaghetti x reader #peppino x reader #pizza tower x reader #be aware this probably isn’t proper hospital procedure I just wrote what felt right

[sky-kiss]

You want a sinning prompt, ill give you a sinning prompt *cough*Ascendedform!usingyoutomakBloodofRaphaeltieflings*cough*

A/n: /checks the time Ok. It’s sin o’clock. I'm hiding everything under the cut. Because it's...well. You know.

___________

Ascended!Raphael x Reader 18+: Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of your actions.

___________

"Look at you," Haarlep breathes the words against your ear, nose tweaked against your cheek. There's a scrape of teeth, and you shiver, screwing your eyes shut against the sensation. Sensitive, so sensitive. Every nerve in your body feels alive. They lick across to the corner of your mouth, turning your head to kiss you deeply. The incubus' tail curls around your thigh, urging your legs to fall apart for him. Fingers circle your clit, a lazy series of strokes meant to build you higher but never break. He chuckles, a mimicry of affection, as he kisses you again. "Such a pretty mess you make. Even Raphael couldn't fault my work."  

You gasp, head lolling back against their shoulder. His right arm is a vice holding you back against his chest. The warmth of them helps. Haarlep smells like summer fires and vetiver, fresh and burning; it suits them. You're burning. 

Their fingers dip lower, pressing into you and scissoring. You whimper, and Haarlep swallows the sound, pushes their tongue into your mouth, and makes you taste, drink, and welcome him. The fever is almost unbearable. The incubus has stretched and stretched you. All you feel is empty.

"Good girl," they coo. Haarlep wipes your slick on your thigh. They smile against your skin. "So good for us. So ready. Say it, sweetling. Say you're ready." 

"Please."

"Ah, ah, that," they nip the tip of your nose, "was not what I asked: are you ready, pet?" 

"I'm ready. Gods, please!" 

"Oh, darling," he shifts, dragging fingers down your sternum, your belly, down to the apex of your thighs. "After tonight, not one of your gods will have you. All ours. Always." Haarlep hums, leaning their head against yours. "Isn't that right, Raphael?" 

Raphael waits, kneeling. The ascended fiend tilts its head to the side, tongue lolling from the center mouth. Its eyes burn with animal intelligence; part of it is weighing Haarlep's words, tasting them. Its wings fan out to the side, brushing the tile, braced for stability. The clawed hands rest on either side of the pair of you. 

The beast noses your chest. Scents you. And purrs. You groan, shifting back against Haarlep, lifting your hips. 

How lovely you'll look, he'd said, as conversational as he might have been over brunch, full of my seed. That's what you want, yes? To be good for me? Serve me? 

You wanted it more than your next breath. The fiend tastes you first, its growl vibrating through your body. The heat makes you shift, panting, glancing over your shoulder for help. The flat of its tongue covers the whole of your cunt with flat pressure, warm and wet; Haarlep leads you in a lazy rock, cock still pressed against your ass. You clench at his thighs, searching for purchase, anything, as the fiend works itself up. The more it laps at you, the wetter you get. The better you taste. The more it wants. Up, and up, and up, and there has to be a breaking point, there has to be a ceiling, there has to, has to, has to…

Your back bows, thrusting into the creature's touch. There is enough of Raphael in there to delight in this naked affectation, and it howls its pleasure, tongue pressing inside your clenching hole. It's being filled with heat, stretched, and you can't help but fuck yourself onto it, welcoming more. You want him. You wish you could put into words how badly you want him. 

You're lucky, you know, he'd breathed the words against your lips, skirt rucked up around your hips. His hand over your mouth to keep you quiet as he thrusts into you. I've chosen you, little mouse. My treasure…what pretty spawn you'll give me.

And, oh, it's too much. Too much, the head of its cock pressed to your soppy cunt. Haarlep spreads your legs wider, angles you, purring filth in your ear until you're grinding down, desperate. They want to see you speared on him, want to listen to you babble, want to watch you come and come. Raphael pushes, and you jolt, feeling your body finally relent. 

You could never take all of him, but you take enough. It lowers its head, licks your cheek, and howls. It fucks without grace or concern, pulling you where it wants, its head thrown back, taking. In the back of your mind, you're vaguely aware of Haarlep laughing, lifting your hips just enough to let the fiend slide deeper. Air is an afterthought. You're screaming, and it's sharp, everything: the heat, the pain, the pleasure. Sweat tracks down your body in lazy rivulets. You're coming apart, but your body won't stop. It's rocking with him, hungry. One of the fiend's hands snakes around your waist, jerking you away from the incubus and into it. 

You belong to Raphael, his, his, and you shake, one hand tangling in your hair, one reaching out for Haarlep. He leans over you and kisses you just long enough to leave a fresh swell of intoxicating pleasure rocketing through your system. And then leaves you to the fiend. 

You lose track. You're exhausted. It flips you onto your front, up on your knees, filling you again. You ache, but it's good. Its folded over you, panting, screaming, and you break again, clutching at its cock. And when Raphael finally comes, you want to sob; forehead pillowed on your arms—filled with him, full of him. Its spend drips down your thighs. 

Fingers, oddly gently, card over your lower back and thighs. Raphael, your Raphael, leans over you, pressing a kiss to the small of your back. He gathers his seed with a chuckle, pushing it back into your cunt. You moan. 

"Look at you," he mumbles. "So beautiful. Eternally mine." 

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #ascended fiend raphael #asks #my writing #/walks into the sea #bg3 smut

[timothylawrence]

Oh ppl are just openly racist like this for fun?

#ewbie.txt #keeping the url cus this person is bold enough to just say these kinda things idk 🤷‍♀️ #funny how the post was abt gale mancers and the Raphael petition yet you had to mention Wyll and nonwhite + black fans lmao #‘inclusive game’ you are stupid I fear #‘did they write Wyll horificaly’ he gets called racial fantasy slurs and turned into a non human fiend with no reversal so yes ? #bg3 spoilers #don’t send hate obviously but unchecked racism like this deserves to be noted when nonwhite fans are in fandom

[dailyadventureprompts]

Mystery: The Inheritance of Old Havoc

 After earning the favour and trust of the up and coming orcish trade magnate Kardin Havelock, it seems your party’s next adventure will be crashing a potentially violent family gathering. Kardin’s aging father earned great renown and a noble title some decades ago for his work as a privateer, but has been cagey about who will inherit the title since the death of his eldest child. Fearing the rash action and jealousy of his siblings, Kardin has hired you all on as bodyguards and passed you all off as servants as he joins his family at a distant coastal fortress. 

Hooks:

This adventure can either be run as a oneshot, with the party made up of sellswords and trusted employees in Kardin’s enterprise, or as part of a larger campaign. With the latter option, I’d suggest having the party run a mission or two for Kardin first to establish their relationship, perhaps defending his cargo from pirates or sorting out the difficulties when a monster decides to make a home in one of his warehouses.

I primarily built this adventure as a living example of my “how to run mysteries in d&d” system, so if you’re interested, pop over there to see how this is run under the hood. 

Secrets, betrayal, pirates, witchcraft, and murder. All these and more await you under the cut as I go into detail about this mystery’s many moving pieces. I had a lot of fun writing this one, and I hope you enjoy it too.

Briefing: Who the party knows, and what they can easily find out.

Kardin is the youngest child of the Havelock family, largely overshadowed by his brothers and sisters growing up, he struck out on his own as a merchant sailor and has done quite well for himself trading in ports both foreign and domestic. Thoughtful, though ambitious, Kardin believes his father sees him as the logical choice in inheriting the family title, and has only withheld from naming him as heir for fear of his sibling’s reactions. 

Kazdak is the family patriarch, a widower of some fifteen years, about whom the title of Count hangs uncomfortably as a fine silk shirt on a grey brindled boar. A born fighter who’s been forced to resign himself to old age, Havelock earned himself the nickname “Havoc” in his younger years, by carving a bloody swath through the pirates who prowled the kingdom’s coasts and tradeways looking for plunder. Kazdak was so effective the crown awarded him with with a title and a generous pension, on which he retired after surviving a pirate raid that killed most of his crew. Since then Kazdak has been cold towards most of his family, distant in person and communicating mainly through letters. In recent months he’s taken to staying up late writing or staring into the fire, having only his new dog for company. 

Akado, Oldest of Kazdak’s surviving children and a captain in the royal navy, described as a swaggering brute by her rivals ( and siblings). Growing up Idolizing her father and wanting nothing more than to continue her family’s reputation as terrors of the sea, Akado became a soldier of the crown and has been collecting scars and trophies from various battles for the past twenty years. Captian Akado believes she should inherit the title by virtue of being oldest, but deep down fears that her father has deigned not to do so because she has failed to live up to his expectations, or the name of Havoc

Zaddak (or Zak to her friends) is the imprudent socialite middle sibling, who used her father’s title to catapult herself into good society and all the bad habits that comes with it. Living for scandal, over indulgence, and illicit substances, Zaddak might be a total writeoff if she was not also a prodigiously talented mage capable of wielding lighting and famously once rending a deadly hurricane in half before it made landfall. Zak doesn’t care much for the title of Count itself, but whoever inherits will control the small fortune Kazdak made in selling commandeered ships to the crown, which means they can cut her off from the money that goes to feed her gambling debts and various addictions. 

Alyo (deceased). Wife to Kazdak, put much of her ambitions as an artist and own life aside to raise their four children nearly by herself while he was off privateering. Beloved by all and encouraged each of her children’s interests while allowing herslef to fade into the background, silently suffering from an illness that took her life a little over ten years ago. Kazdak has the only portrait of her but has kept it covered out of grief.  

Dalyk (deceased). Kazdak’s eldest son who died nearly fifteen years ago while at sea. Born before his father set off in service of the crown, mentored Kardin in sailing and was swept overboard when a vessel the two of them were in was caught in a storm.

Sequence of Events:

Kardin and the party arrive at Breakreef lookout by skiff, the skies promise a storm, as does their employer’s on edge mood.  Kazdak meets them on the stairs as they make their way up from the dock and welcomes his son up, directing him to his rooms and the party to their place in the servant’s quarters.

The party is allowed to get settled and do a bit of nosing around while Kardin and his father catch up, talking to the servants (and potentially being roped into preperations), poking around the fort, and potentially running into the other siblings: Akado is on the ramparts inspecting the old siege weapons used to hold off pirates back in the day, Zak is bored and has sulked off to the foretower, using her magic to doodle on the clouds. 

The Storm breaks. Zak and Kardin have tea together and gossip, during which Kardin encourages the party to go snoop around. Akado, a canny judge of character has sussed that the party aren’t infact servants and goes to see if she can goad the most dangerous looking one into making a move, confirming her suspicions that they’re hired muscle. 

Dinner is a shitshow, Kazdak has the portrait of his wife brought out and hung on the wall making all the siblings feel uncomfortable and Zaddak has gotten high to deal with her nerves and keeps wandering in and out of lucidity. Kardin and Akado quickly grow tired of talking around the reason that their father has invited them there and nearly get into a shouting match over the matter of inheritance as Kazdak gets more and more evasive.

In the middle of all the chaos the dog starts barking and the servants panic, apparently a ship (not a skiff, but a full on brig) has dropped anchor outside the fortress and those aboard are currently climbing the stair. The doors crash open with a peal of thunder and who should walk in but Dalyk, clearly alive, flanked by a dozen or so rowdy pirates sailors, soaking wet from the rain and chastising his old man for starting dinner without him. Kazdak doesn’t seem surprised by the fact that Dalyk is alive, though he does take exception to the crew of armed miscreants currently dripping all over his hall. If the party isn’t careful here, Akado and the frightened servants might just start a brawl, which Dalyk seems more than happy to join in with, though their father will put a stop to things before anything comes to blows.

With a promise by Kazdak that all will be explained in the morning, Everyone retires to their rooms, with Dalyk’s crew posted up in the hall. The servants are all a buzz and the siblings are in an uproar, but Count Havelock is master of the house, and folk tend to follow his commands.  The party will have to be careful if they want to investigate, but creeping about in the dark will let them spy on the secret dramas that play out over the next couple of hours. 

In the dead of night, with the storm not yet abating, those still asleep  will be woken up by the cries of servants. Akado apparently sent them searching after Kazdak half an hour ago when she went to talk with her father but couldn’t find him in his quarters or anywhere else sensible. They discovered him in the disused tower on death’s door, passed out from bloodloss, chilled to the bone from an open window, and with a strange dagger carving a terrible wound in his midsection. The siblings demand to know what happened, blame and accusations fly, and if someone doesn’t start answering questions soon, it’s very likely that Breakreef fortress will see battle once again.  

Some time after the party have become fully embroiled in the mystery and each of the Havelock siblings have barricaded themselves in a different corner of the fortress , the Count’s dog will rise from its place by the fire, stand up, remove his magical disguise, introducing himself to the party as Deacon Riax servant of the witch god, and inform them that unless they want a lot more people to die, they’re going to have to have to ensure Kazdak Havelock dies before dawn. 

Mysteries: Things the party can uncover, with minor requiring only a little snooping but major requiring the party to win trust and gather clues.

 (minor) Both Kardin and Zaddak are terrified of Akado, who bullied them relentlessly as children, once going so far as to nearly drown her sister when she stood up for herself. This latent fear and Akado’s history of military sanctioned violence spurred Zak to learn magic in order to defend herself, and prompted Kardin to hire the party in the first place.  Who knows? All the Havelocks, the oldest servants.

(minor) Kazdak has known that Dalyk has been alive and acting as a pirate for years, having maintained a lengthy correspondence with his apparently castaway son. The Eldest Havelock sibling apparently wants nothing to do with the title, despite his father’s insistence that he return home. Who knows? Kazdak, and anyone who reads the many letters stashed away in his office.

(minor) Alyo was a follower of Wee-Jass, a forign goddess of power, death, and passion, working much of the witch goddess’s iconography into her paintings. This includes a skull-ruby medalion which she wears in the portrait unveiled at dinner, and which Kazdak has carried since her death. Who knows? Anyone with theological training that looks at the portrait or the pendant. The Havelock siblings remember the pendant but don’t know much about religion between them, and their mother was private with her faith.

(minor) Count Havelock has been having terrible dreams this past year or so, and has been in frequent council with a mysterious foreign priest by the name of Riax who comes and goes from the fortress without anyone seeing how. The servants often hear them talking, but enter the room to find Kazdak alone.  Who knows? The servants, though they’ve been sworn by their employer not to speak to the siblings of the red robed priest.

(minor) Both Akado and Zaddak are well aware of Kardin’s ambitious streak, and have a sneaking suspicion that their younger brother had something to do with Dalyk’s disappearance. Ruthless Captain Akado believes it far more strongly than the ever sympathetic Zak does.  

(minor) Though muddled by blood, rainwater, and the actions of hasty servants, the disused tower room Kazdak was found in bears signs of being used for some occult ritual.

(minor) After dinner, Kardin snuck out to talk to his father but had to double back when he say Dalyk walking through the halls. For his part, Dalyk maintains that he didn’t get to talk to his father, hearing him having a stressed conversation with an unknown voice through the door.

(minor) Akado will patch up her father using some field medicine and whatever help the party can offer. In her estimation, anyone else would have died from a wound like Kazdak suffered, but like her, Old Havoc was toughened by many years of combat and held on by a thread. The knife itself is odd, ornamental though still sharp, not her first choice for a murder weapon.

(major) Though most think he made his name and fortune as a hunter of pirates and raiders, Kazdak supplemented his commission by engaging in the crown-sanctioned persecution of a local coastal people known as the Valtal, destroying their villages to push them out of land the kingdom wanted to occupy. An old man no longer proud of the bloody deeds that won him his title, guilt ways heavily upon the Count, doubly so that the navy continues his brutality as a matter of policy. Who knows? Kazdak, Dalyk and Akado, though she takes pride in being the hobnailed boot of the state.

(major) Lost at sea, Dalyk was taken in by the very people his father was set to exterminate, Outlaws and Valtal people forced into piracy through desperation. He rose in their ranks, and eventually married into their culture, renouncing his father’s name and swearing an enmity against the royal navy. Who knows? Dalyk and Kazdak, though the Count thinks he can convince his son to come back.

(major) Kazdak’s dreams are symptoms of a fiend’s bargin coming due, a thing of violence and fear that had been feeding off his evil deeds for years before he was struck down in a clash with pirates. On the edge of death and with a mouth full of blood, Kazdak wished more than anything to see his family again, which the fiend took as terms, driving its talons into his soul to afix it to his body until his flesh could heal. Dwelling on this unwitting pact during his recovery and long journey home, Kazdak developed a fear that if he ever saw his family all at once, wife and children together, that the fiend would take them in his place. Avoidance worked for many years, until dreams of his children’s violent death convinced him that the fiend was tired of waiting for him to fall into its trap.  Finding no solace in local temples, the Count sought out a priest of his departed wife’s god and enlisted his help. Together, he and Deacon Riax formulated a plan, gather his family and subvert the pact by performing a blood sacrifice before the demon could claim his due on the anniversary of Kazdak’s averted death. This likely would have worked had Old Havoc not been so hardy, or had his body not been found. Now time is running out and the only way to avert disaster is for the party to finish Kazdak’s self-assassination. Who Knows? Kazdak (unconsious) and Riax ( disguised as a dog)

From there the story branches: None of the siblings will be on board with killing their father and will likely think that any explination as to why is part of a botched scheme orchestrated by one of the others. Zak or Dalyk could possibly be convinced to help and Kardin might step aside, but Akado will hold out until the end. Right up until dawn breaks, the fiend possesses her father’s exhanguinated body, and snaps her neck.  Unless somehow exorsized, it will persist until it has killed each of the Havelock siblings, then retreat allowing Kazdak see his family one last time before his body gives out from under him.  A tragedy the party will be hardpressed to prevent unless they are lucky, tactful, and act very quickly on the words of a man who was pretending to be a dog for most of the last week.

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #d&d #5e #pathfinder #mystery #orc #wee-jas #mid level #seaside #horror #haunting #fiend #I was riding the glass onion highs while writing this #seriously i know this is a lot but I'm very proud of how this all turns out #pirates #Assassin #oneshot

[see-arcane]

some additional texture to stories/story collections like The Harker Records (which touches on much more than just Dracula-related doings)

The Couple Meets More Horrors compilation

Jonathan: "You know, it occurs to me that we really had a very small social circle prior to the Dracula mess. Two whole people."

Mina: "Who died. Followed by gaining four new friends! ...Before one of them died."

Jonathan: "So it's still a total of three people in our contacts list."

Mina: "Let's resolve to make more friends going forward." :)

Jonathan: "Agreed." :)

-gothic horror version of "Monster Mash" plays ominously in the distance-

#they're going to meet so many friends and fiends :) #my writing #jonathan harker #mina harker #dracula