#-METAPHORICALLY TEARS OPEN MY RIBCAGE-

[darabeatha]

[thedragonagelesbian]

at least the fic edits are going well...

[babyxfce]

Dostoyevsky said, “your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”

I've felt rage seething in my chest for as long as I can remember. I've felt as his talons ripped open my sternum, digging for a place to call home. this rage has nestled deep into my ribcage, devouring my will to survive while carelessly residing within my nightmares.

I've surrendered to this forsaken depression fury has vacated deep in the confines of my irises - despite witnessing myself across grey-tinted glasses; a smoldering storm rippling miasma throughout my body, manipulating my hands into a devout pyromaniac; suffocating every chance to heal. I've known nothing but bitterness congesting my heart. My dreams were burdened dreadfully with the stench of wrath. it mutilated my arms; burrowing into capillaries, and asphyxiating my habit to vanish.

This incessant sin I've endured has brought me to my knees, existing only to snuff out my ability to be a mortal in an unforgiving universe. I am not a cosmic metaphor, the iron residing underneath my skin has become impenetrable.

I am adorned with stillness while this betrayal has bloomed into a supernova. the things in which I lack have ignited into an endlessly violent explosion -

Atomizing my bones, swirling stardust into a forlorn emptiness. A world that was held by the unfaltering resistance I persevered against, it has ravaged my memories, my moribund existence trembled; shivering from the growl of the recoil - the remnants of creation kissed abysmal lips within the faraway distance of a boundless abyss, raining tears for the last time as the destruction leaves a life void of meaning.

The last words ever heard in this universe spoke softly as if to lull the existential bereft into a long hiatus -

"This was all for nothing, just as destitute as this vacant nothingness, human life is ill-fated to be star-crossed and powerless."

[just-a-domesticated-cryptid]

The love and light of my life loves cannibalism as a metaphor for devoted love and intimacy, so it's only reasonable that I write prose for them-

using cannibalism as a metaphor for devoted love and intimacy >:)

Because I love them (anyway, fair warning because description of body horror and gore and stuff)

1.

I am holding your neck and I feel your pulse beneath my fingertips, like prey caught in a snare. I sink my teeth into your spongy lungs and they're rotten by cheap cigarettes, but I don't mind; just because it's you.

You let me open your ribcage with my bare hands, hot blood that will stain me for the rest of my days, up to my elbows. I will always remember the flesh I will consume tonight.

I am digging my fingers into your chest, rip apart with my thumbs the four chambers of your heart, sweetened by your kindness but soured by my presence. My dirty, sinful hands are tearing your chest with no mercy. I never knew mercy. Not for you, not even for me.

I bite on the hand that loved me, that held me, that protected me. With my canines, I tear the ligaments at your wrists, crush your bones, chew on your bone marrow. Everything about you is intoxicatingly sweet; your voice, your soul, your blood.

You thought you could put a collar on a wild animal and make it your pet. Dress it up, teach it how to sit. Maybe 'it' will become human.

But I'm sitting on top of you, your chest ripped open, blood dripping from my jaw as I'm chewing on a rib and I've never felt more human in my life.

2.

If you want to, you can tear me apart, and I promise I won't even cry when you sink your hands into the hollow below my ribcage, pulling out my organs one by one.

Like a lamb, I swear, I'll lay and let you dissect me, explore each cavity, sink your teeth into my lung. I'll stay innocent and clueless, staring at you with big dark eyes, as if trying to comprehend what you're doing.

I can be your biology experiment, cut open on your table.

Or I can be your dinner, served.

But I am scared you will open me up and find rotten flesh, spoiled by my vices; lungs tasting of Marlboro cigarettes, a stomach erroded by acid, a liver bitter with an excess of Paracetamol.

But worst of all?

I am scared you will find the bite marks the one before you left on my organs.

Anyway, love you Luciel 🩷💚🩷💚

[god-wept]

thou art creature of transcience.

warnings ; mentions of blood, religious imagery, metaphorical descriptions of gore, the act of harming one's self in pursuit of divinity. or rather, the hope of it. I took the words literary nonsense and went with it. meaning can be up to anyone's interpretation.

poeticism can be ugly and beautiful, good and bad, right and wrong, righteous and evil.

as I sit on my chair—scribing hymns and whatnot, jotting down literary nonsense—a thought suddenly occurred.

I must be lonely.

it was a wordless musing from out of the blue—subtle, sudden. it was a thought pushed into the back of my skull, its existence there yet not quite. a ghost of some meaningful sentence that once roamed the tip of my tongue.

though, even as the sudden amalgam of excerpts and writing—the flick of my wrist as starry ink stained parchment—led me to come to a dreary conclusion ; somehow, it imprints itself into my head, like anxiety embers from sparksun and indeed, it is a shard of my person.

ire bursts at my skin, soared across the plane of my existence, licks it up as would a gentle yet prickly caress from the scorch of desert heat. I was subjected to pen and paper, flesh and mortality : chagrin.

and then suddenly, my fantasy ripples and cracks and becomes a broken-off piece from the mirrors of reality. mindlessly, I held my breath and braced myself from nonexistent impact. tears trekking its pathway of sorrow and solitude.

my ribcage is open and in my hand is my beating heart, it bleeds sanguine as red as the seeds of pomegranate. it was a desperate attempt after scars etched themselves onto my skin—a constant reminder of my humanity.

I will never bleed gold, ichor ; I am not divine—rather, the epitome of vice.

undoubtedly so, I am human, was a human, and will be a human ; in this perpetual cycle of blasphemy from playing a higher being and throughout this arduous journey of chasing my false stoicism.

@god-wept do not reproduce, modify, or plagiarize my writing.

[hazbinned]

"Why?" Val whined, still heaving sobs. "I WANT you to! I'd hurt me! I'd hurt me bad!"

With an offer like that, he'd damage him. He'd hit him, and then he'd make the rest of the night so traumatizing for him that that first act of violence would feel like a hug. He'd humiliate him. He'd clip his wings— literally, metaphorically.

There would be no possible outcome in which he forgot what he had done to him.

Angel, though... true to his name... had reached out not to slap him, but to cup his face. To hold his hand as it hung there, limp against his frame, with gentle fingers and a saint's kindness.

Why, Valentino would never know. He didn't deserve it. Had he driven his tendrils so deeply into Angel's soul, into the spider's very psyche, that it was impossible for him to want anything but the best for his sovereign Overlord? His owner, his pimp? That was messed up. That was the goal, but it was twisted. It was wrong.

Valentino squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned heavily into the palm that embraced his cheek, hot with shame over the sorry nature of this whole thing and mourning the fact that he could not stop it. He was at a complete loss of control, and felt idiotic and base. Val couldn't change anything.

He was pleading not with Angel, but with history.

The request, though-- it lingered. Angel wanted to talk to him. Angel didn't want to hurt him. Val, however, didn't want to talk. Talking was frightening. Talking was to rip himself open at his ribcage, and show his friend... his enemy... his lover... and show Angel his heart.

The request lingered, but it lingered in a bad way. It lingered like a ghost. Like residue. Like mold. Could he scrub it away? Or would it fester? If he begged hard enough, could he make Angel change his mind? Val was good at making Angel do things.

Things that Angel didn't want to do.

Angel didn't want to hurt him.

Valentino wanted to be hurt, because being hurt was easier than being honest.

Strawberry-colored tears painted Angel's fur and left trails down Val's own skin, and Valentino sunk his teeth into his lip and forced himself to be quiet. To open his salty, stinging eyes and look not at Angel, but at something.

To keep his promise.

'Anything you want,' he'd said to his star. A guarantee. A bargain. 'You call the shots.' Angel wanted him to talk. To let it all out. To spill his guts upon the gravel.

Angel thought he was being merciful.

Was Vox watching? Was Vox going to hear this, too?

Please, just hurt him.

"I don't know," Val gasped. At last, a sentence. The moth's pink-red eyes flicked up to meet Angel's multicolored ones, but they were glassy. His lids hung heavy. "I d—" He hiccupped. "— Don't know what's happening. I don't! I had a bad day!"

He didn't move, but he somehow looked frail, a feat impossible for someone so tall, so grandiose. Maybe it was his face. Maybe his posture, or the high pitch of his voice.

"Everything was out of control all day, Angie! Nobody was listening to me! Vox isn't answering my calls..." This wasn't what Angel was asking about, but he would get to that. This had to run its course. If Val was going to dig for gold, he had to scrape the dirt away first. The bugs, bones, and sticks.

He had to give Angel the small stuff.

"We had to keep redoing the shoots, a-as you know, and- and my lunch order came back all wrong! There were bell peppers on my burger! And- And the worst part is, Travis didn't even look scared when I... threw the chair at him. He just stared at me like... like he was used to it... or, or bored... like it was MY fault...!"

Valentino resented the way he sounded. It was appalling. Maybe if he went on like this, Angel would want to hit him.

"A-A-Actually, he showed me the order form, and it was my fault! My eyes are so bad, I marked the... wrong thing."

The fingers that were hooked through Angel's tightened round the spider's hand. He leaned forward, and his voice grew louder. Shriller. Valentino was not hyperventilating, but his breaths were shallow.

"How long until everybody realizes there's something wrong with me?" he cried, "Is there even room for an Overlord who's fucking blind? And then—" He was about to go off on another tangent. He wasn't trying to weave a coherent story. He was just trying to belt everything out. "Then I started thinking about us, and you, and— and then I got... I got... it made things worse!"

As watercolor teeth bore deeper into his lip, the briny, disgusting tang of pheromone-laced tears tapped his tongue. Raspy squeaks slid from his throat, and he couldn't stop them, even if they were obscene and he hated them. He was trying to calm himself down. He managed to be quieter— he'd give himself that.

"So I got high," said the pimp, barely more than a whisper.

Owlish eyes blinked at Angel.

"You don't blame me, right? You would too? If your whore was gonna put a bullet in you, or- or worse, you'd get fucking high? I'm not an addict! I don't fucking need it!"

The seconds in which Angel waited for Val to respond to his pleading felt like hours, a liminal void in which Angel was neither dead nor alive. In this stretch of emptiness, pulled taught by tension as time slowed to a near stop, Angel crept closer and closer to the conclusion that this was the end. His captor showed no signs of receding, his disgusting smile too big for his face as pink spit dribbled from his lips, his teeth, his wandering tongue. This was the last thing Angel was ever going to see: the sight of Valentino out of his goddamn mind, grinning and drooling, enormous eyes the colour of mixed blood and spit, cold and dead and barren.

Angel searched them for some semblance of reason, of humanity, but all he was met with was loathing, the vile hostility of a rabid animal. Those eyes swallowed him, his own terrorised reflection captured within them - a lifeless corpse in a pool of blood.

This long moment came to an abrupt end as Angel was smacked hard across the face by Val's gun, the cold metal cracking his cheek with enough force to fracture bone. Stunned into paralysis, the spider was unmoving as his attacker shouted his deranged final words. Words that, even if Angel had not been seeing stars, would not have made a shred of sense to him. It was only as Val threw his body on top of the star that fight or flight overpowered his concussed stupor, his mind snapping into gear and forcing him to thrash wildly.

"Val!" Angel gasped, struggling under the full weight of the moth, "Getoffme, Val, GET OFF! Please, Val, just- please, please don't-"

His mouth spoke for him, his body writhed without his say so, sandwiched between the couch and the man hellbent on his murder. Six hands grasped at Val's clothes, his wings, the cushions - anything he could reach, anything that could save him. His babbling became a choked wheeze as he was crushed under the Overlord, his chest fluttering and failing. His lungs were hollow and his heart thrummed in his throat, erratic and palpable. He could taste blood, feel the cold steel of the revolver shoved into his temple, his eyes squeezed shut against this horrifying reality: Valentino was going to kill him.

Valentino. His boss, his owner, his lover. Valentino, who made Angel who he was, who built him up and adored him, who was so proud of him.

Valentino, with his gun to Angel's head, groping at the body he had pinned beneath him, seizing him by the jaw to steady him for what was to come.

It was only when the moth leaned down to kiss him goodbye, the putrid taste of blood-spiked venom like salt in the wound, that Angel finally ceased his struggling.

It's over. It's over. Shut your eyes.

This was it.

This was the end.

Only it wasn't.

With his eyes screwed tight, preparing for the click of the trigger that would end it all, Angel wasn't aware of the sudden switch in Valentino's expression as his actions came screeching to a halt. When the weight of the Overlord lifted from him, he briefly wondered if he was, in fact, dead. If this is what it was, to transcend the afterlife. If the utter nothingness he expected was instead a sensation of relief as his burdens dissipated and he was released from his shackles.

A sudden smack as something clattered to the floor severed the spider from his split-second wondering and his eyes snapped open, the overwhelming panic leaving no space to even consider that he was still alive.

Fading into the focus was the Overlord himself, backed into the corner of the couch as far from Angel as possible, wearing the face of someone horror-stricken, almost confused. A different man entirely from the one who had so viciously pinned Angel down and held a gun to his head.

The gun. It was no longer in Val's hand. Through the thick haze of Angel's mind, it took a moment for him to realise that it was Val hastily discarding the firearm that had awoken him from what could have been a pleasant dream.

Angel barely had time to process his narrow escape, much less the disgusted expression on his attacker's face, before the moth once again lunged for him. Too dazed and fuzzy-headed to make a quick getaway, the film star was snared in the moth's grasp, wordless yelps of terror once again forcing their way out of him. Not again.

No, no, no, I should have run. Why didn't I run? Why didn't I-

...No. This wasn't violent. This was... Val was...

Holding him?

The four arms of the Overlord had captured Angel in a firm, fierce hug, hands running over every inch of him, not so much sensual as it was soothing - at least, that was how Angel gathered it was supposed to feel. Instead, it felt smothering, hardly discernible from the times where the moth's "affection" was lascivious in nature. Valentino was clutching him so tightly that Angel's breath was stolen for the second time that evening, coming in ragged, laboured heaves as the panic and the pressure fought against him.

What is this? What does he want from me?

The first clue to the compromised spider that his boss was indeed crying was the feeling of warm, wet droplets trickling down his back. In the heat of the moment, Angel's robe had ridden down his shoulders and exposed his top half, leaving his bare skin exposed for Val's tears to drip and stain in candy-pink trails. The second clue was the Overlord's heaving breaths, the feeling of which had been masked beneath Angel's own desperate gasping. Valentino was bawling - ugly sobs choked out of him, jarring and frightful. The sobs were accompanied by a barrage of apologies, burbling and barely comprehensible for his weeping. He repeated them like a mantra, like a ritual of some kind, the purpose of which evaded the spider entirely. He repeated them until the words lost all meaning - just shapeless noise in an expansive emptiness.

Val never apologised. Not seriously. Not with any sincerity. And this, well... it wasn't ingenuine. No, it wasn't like anything Angel had ever experienced from him. It didn't compute. This wasn't Val.

Shocked into silence, Angel was rigid as the moth's wings closed around him in a gesture intended to be comforting, but instead he was stifled. Imprisoned within Valentino's many arms and now his wings, there was nowhere for him to go. He was trapped.

There were only two things Angel could be: held hostage in Valentino's unforgiving clutches, or dead on his Penthouse floor.

Then, an anomaly: a clumsy, forced kiss on the forehead.

It was something Valentino had only done once before. Something so trivial, so seemingly insignificant, and yet it haunted Angel like grief. Their first night together, when Val had been so sweet, so doting, even after the the sex had reached a conclusion. That last kiss on the forehead before the pair had fallen asleep in each other's arms played on repeat in Angel's mind when he was lonely, when he craved that kind of affection. He waited for it, he was so patient. Maybe this time. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he'll do it again.

Finally, he got what he wanted.

And he didn't want it.

Not like this. Not loveless, not terrifying. Not borne out of desperation, or whatever the hell this breakdown stemmed from. This wasn't affection. This was bargaining.

When the Overlord eventually relinquished his hold on Angel, he began to wheedle. Dumbfounded, Angel could only stare stupidly in response to this utterly un-Valentino display. Was this what Angel sounded like, when he begged for forgiveness?

It was sickening.

"Val..." Angel started, flexing the tremoring fist that Val had shaped his hand into and reaching to clasp one of Val's. "I ain't gonna hit ya." Firm, solemn. Not pitying. Val would hate that, especially since Angel knew damn well that whatever was going through Val's mind came from somewhere bad. He didn't know the finer details of the moth's past, and what he had been told he often doubted the legitimacy of, but whatever this was, it was real.

It was like looking in a mirror.

"I don't wanna hurt ya," he croaked, still awash with adrenaline. His mind was blank, his emotions were muted, all but for sheer blind panic. How the fuck was he supposed to comfort someone after having had an attempt on his life not moments before? How was he supposed to comfort the very person who tried to kill him?

Trembling, he reached to cup Val's cheek, rosy tears dripping down his wrist as he did so. He could turn this around. He could calm Val down, he could make this right! "Please, Val. Talk ta me."

He could forget this ever happened.

"Tell me what's goin' on."

[ugh-yoongi]

when it gets dark | myg

↳ read on ao3 • feedback

         ❝ such simple miracles have happened             since your steady hands have come             and stopped my unraveling. ❞

» pairing: yoongi x f!reader » genre: established relationship!au; smut » rating: nc-17/explicit; minors please dni » wordcount: 2k » warnings: author abuses the concepts of darkness and light as a metaphor for mental health, yoongi uses body worship as a coping mechanism, there are a lot of feelings, smut in the form of fingering and oral sex (f. receiving), bad language, brief mention of body image issues, yoongi is very in love and very whipped. » a/n: i’m finally posting something! this came to me in the middle of the night so i wanted to bang it out while the idea was fresh, even if it’s much shorter than my usual work. i’m also not a strong smut writer, so it’s secondary to the feelings and i hope you all enjoy it nonetheless. feedback is always welcome!

Yoongi gets like this sometimes.

Gets engulfed in his darkness. Lets his brain convince him of things that aren’t true, has him staring at the ceiling in a pitch-black room. Yoongi is so, so insecure—so terrified to let you see it, even though you know it’s there. So terrified to peel back his skin, let you see his worst parts, so he hides them. Wears a mask and does his best to love you so fiercely there’s no room for anything else. There’s just you and your love and all the love he holds for you.

A love that feels overwhelming sometimes, like if he loses his grip it could swallow him whole and he would let it.

He doesn’t always know how to tell you. Doesn’t always know how to say his darkness is back, that he’s having a bad day, nothing’s coming out right or making sense. But Yoongi knows how to show you.

Sometimes Yoongi fucks you hard, hands wrapped around your neck as he sucks bruises into your skin, claims you. Sometimes he takes his time, unhurried and unconcerned with your begging, your whimpers to please just let you cum, and he just pins your hips down, goes down on you until your cheeks are tear-stained and your body spent. Other times he lays beneath you and lets you take what you want.

But you can always tell when the darkness creeps back in. Yoongi always lays you gently atop the sheets, always holds your hand so tight you think your fingers might break. The lights are always off, a candle always lit, curtains drawn—because when the darkness creeps back in, Yoongi always tries to hide. It’s not a sight for the rest of the world to see. No one except you, because his darkness is your darkness, too, and when he can anchor himself to you, he can always, always see the light on the other side.

Sometimes it takes a while to reach it, but he always does.

And you’re always there, staring up at him with endless adoration and patience he doesn’t deserve as he works through the burdens in his mind. “Talk to me, Yoon,” you always say. Yoongi’s sitting on his haunches, those piano fingers tracing mindless shapes into the smooth skin of your calves.

Yoongi sighs. “Just a bad day, baby.” He leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your ribcage. “I’ll be okay. Promise.”

“Tell me about it.”

You feel the vibration of his hum against your skin. “Gonna take these off,” he says, deft fingers moving from your calves to the tops of your thighs. They play along the hem of your underwear before he drags them down your legs. “Thought about you all day.”

A soft exhale as he presses another kiss to the inside of your ankle. “Yeah?” you ask, octave growing higher as he settles between your legs. A small whimper as you feel the press of his clothed erection against your core. “What’d you think about?”

“This,” he answers as he rocks his hips gently. “Thought about how you’re always so good to me.” Yoongi’s lips find the column of your throat and his kisses are wet, insistent. “Thought about how I don’t deserve you.”

A low moan escapes you when he rocks his hips again, when you feel that familiar shock. “You do,” you promise. “You deserve the world, Yoongi.”

You know it’s the darkness that disregards you. His teeth bite at your earlobe, tongue darting out to lave at the sting. Another kiss to your cheek, just below your eye, your dark lashes fanned out against your skin. “Wondered what I’d do if one day you finally realized how much of a bastard I am and left.”

His mouth finds yours, then, because he can’t stomach the response he knows is coming. Doesn’t think he can hear you make more promises in that sweet, convincing tone—the one that’s dragged him back to the light so many times. He licks into your mouth with fervor. Tries to commit the taste of you to memory, because one day he might not have it anymore. Might forget. Sometimes he just needs to talk it through, this morbid fantasy he has of his entire world falling apart. Sometimes he thinks it’s the only way he’ll be able to survive it: acting it out before it happens, steeling himself for the inevitable.

“Wouldn’t,” is all you’re able to get out. His hands are everywhere: in your hair, thumbs pressed against your cheeks, tracing your collarbones, down your chest, pressing bruises into your hips. “Wouldn’t leave you, Yoon.”

His faith in you is immovable when he’s in the light. Trust so solid he could build kingdoms upon it. But in the dark—well, the dark is so, so impenetrable that it hurts his head. “Don’t say that,” he whispers, spit-slick lips moving against yours as he speaks. “Please don’t say that.”

He brings a hand up to your mouth, pushes two fingers inside. “Need to make you cum, baby. Gonna make you cum, I promise,” he babbles, that lazy drawl slurring his words together. “Gonna make you feel good so you won’t leave me.”

“Yoongi,” you moan as those fingers move to your clit. Torturous, slow circles. He needs to hear you, needs to see the way your body reacts to him, needs to know it’s him drawing them out. “Yoon—fuck.”

He just watches. Chest growing tight as your eyes squeeze shut, muscles of your stomach clenching as his fingers move a little faster. “Do you—do you know how much I love you, angel?” He curses as he drags his fingers along your cunt, feels how wet you are. “God—fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”

Your hips nearly leave the bed when he finally presses them inside. Yoongi is always overwhelming, his presence always threatening to consume you. But when he’s like this—so intense, so single-minded—it’s hard to breathe. Impossible to focus on anything that isn’t Yoongi; that isn’t his fingers fucking into you slowly, hooking to find the spot that makes your vision go blank for a moment; that isn’t his soft, breathy whimpers as he ruts against the mattress.

Because, when Yoongi’s like this, it’s all about you. You don’t touch him when he’s like this. He never lets you, just needs to worship your body as he gives voice to all those intrusive thoughts, all his transgressions. Uses your body like a balm to heal all the gaping, gruesome wounds he carries in his heart. Because, when Yoongi’s like this, this is the only way he knows how to talk about it.

“Yoongi, I—” Your words taper off as you choke on a sob, your orgasm creeping up on you lightning quick. “I’m so close—fuck.”

Yoongi groans, too, enraptured by the sight of your writhing, the way your fingers fist the sheets, the rhythmic, desperate way your hips rock against his hand. “Shit, yeah. Wanna feel it. Wanna see you come undone. You look so beautiful when you cum, baby. Could watch you forever.”

He nearly cries when your release finally hits you, walls clenching hard around his fingers. The feeling anchors him, brings him back to the present, reminds him this is real. “Fuck, look at you,” he moans, gathering you in his arms immediately, holding you so close you can’t decipher his frenzied heartbeat from your own. “So perfect,” he hums, nails tracing reassuring lines up and down your back. “Always so perfect for me, angel.”

It takes a few minutes for the fog to clear. “Love you,” you say once you’re back to reality, eyes heavy and limbs useless, but you always have enough strength to remind him of that.

Yoongi lays you back down, lips hovering over yours, eyes searching. “Can you give me another one, baby?” When you nod, he presses one more kiss to your lips before he’s trailing down your body. Stops to suck a purple bruise into your cleavage. Finds your hands and intertwines them with his own. “Gonna marry you one day, angel,” he says, words a sharpened vow, mouth so close to your cunt you can feel his breath against your slit. “Fuck, I don’t know what I did to get so lucky, but I’m gonna fucking marry you.”

Each pass of his tongue over your core sends your eyes rolling back in your head. “Want that,” you reply. “Want that so bad, Yoon.”

“Yeah?” He sucks your clit between his lips and your moan is lewd, back arching off the bed. “You’d let me have that?” he asks, hand leaving yours to move your leg over his shoulder, opening you to him more. “You’d let me ruin you like that, baby?”

(Ruin you.

Because he knows he’s too much. Has so much darkness in him that drags you down, too, and you never complain. You have so much good, enough light for the two of you, and you share it so selflessly. Just hand it over without Yoongi having to ask because you know he won’t—so content and ready to wallow in his pain, his insecurity. Needs so much convincing that he’s worthy of it.

Because you’re always there. Always a comfort he indulges in too often, takes and takes and takes and sometimes forgets to give. Always seeing through him—through the dark that doesn’t reflect any light, just selfishly absorbs it, all-consuming. Always whispering praise into his hair, the top of his head, his brow when you’re pressing soft kisses to his eyelids. Always so accepting of him that it strangles his heart in his chest, sometimes.

Because you never complain when needs to hide away in a dark room; when it’s all he can do some days to simply stand in the shower as you wash his hair, scrub the dirt and anxiety and shame from his skin; when he has to fuck you with a shirt on because he can’t stand the sight of himself. You just accept all these disgusting parts of him and turn them into something beautiful, something Yoongi can be proud of and accept in return.

And he’s working on it. Fuck, he swears he’s working on it. Wants to be better for you, is better because of you. But on the days he’s not, he knows you’re there. Knows you always will be, because he’s not easy to love but you do it so easily anyway.)

Words won’t come. Yoongi’s always been good with his mouth but his tongue moves like the devil when you’re overstimulated like this, when he’s in the midst of his darkness and so desperate to prove a point. All you can do is grip his hand tighter, roll your hips against his face, so slick from you already. There’s a possessive streak in Yoongi that loves marking you, but you mark him just as much, so subtle—the taste of you in his mouth, on his skin; your smell on his fingers. Parts of you that are meant only for him.

“Only you,” you iterate, words fractured, stuttered in between moans. “No one else, Yoongi. Only you.”

He whines, doubles his efforts as your words sink in, ease some of the darkness. “Gonna do it,” he says. “Gonna give you everything you want. Anything. It’s yours.”

“Want you to make me cum. Please, please—”

God, you’re so dangerous. So easy for him to get lost in, treat like an addiction. He’d do anything you asked, carve out any piece of himself you wanted and hand it over without a second thought. Especially when you’re like this. When the room is full of the sounds of your pleasure—Yoongi’s mouth working against you, your shameless moaning, guttural whimpers when he slows down, drags it out. When he’s drunk on the tang of your skin. When all his thoughts are consumed by you, you, you, no room for anything else.

One more harsh suck to your clit and you’re coming undone again, legs trembling under Yoongi’s solid body. You’re a dream. One he never wants to wake up from, and he never knows how to tell you this, just hopes you know it from the way he showers you in praise, covers every inch of your skin with his hands, his mouth.

Yoongi has so much darkness.

But he has you, too.

[samstree]

Just a Little Pretense

Jaskier and Geralt stage a fake breakup. Someone’s feelings get hurt for real.

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

AO3

“… It would be to take you off my hands!”

Geralt’s voice echoes in the ballroom, between the tall walls and the high ceiling. Everyone on the dance floor has fallen into silence. Even the band has stopped playing, their lead singer gaping with round eyes.

Jaskier blinks, impressed.

All the eyes are on the two of them. Jaskier’s back prickles with the gazes. As the fight escalated, more and more guests have stopped dancing just to eavesdrop on the witcher and the bard, the most peculiar couple in the room.

Which is just perfect. The more people witnessing their breakup, the more awkward it will be afterward, and the easier it will be to get out of this tedious party. And here Jaskier is, regretting ever having doubted his dear witcher’s ability to perform.

Who would have thought Geralt is a method actor? Drawing inspiration from a past argument is ingenious.

His old acting professor back in Oxenfurt would approve of this. The show is going swimmingly and he is pumped with adrenaline—maybe he should go back on stage one day, do a play or two.

But alas, he can muse the idea later. The show must go on.

“Really? Just like that?” Jaskier croaks, seemingly on the verge of crying. He’s not so bad himself, classically trained and everything. “Thirty years, Geralt. I followed you for thirty years, and just like that, you will kick me out of your life? Did I ever—” he breaks off with a whimper. “Did I ever mean anything to you? Or were you ready to cast me aside this whole time?”

A tear rolls down. His lips wobble. The crowd erupts in hushed murmurs and sympathetic sighs. The set-up, the build, everything has been perfect. Now the only thing left is for Geralt to break things off, and the two of them can ride into the metaphorical sunset and never see this court again.

Jaskier waits in anticipation, but his witcher opens his mouth.

And closes it.

Geralt looks as upset as he should, angry and torn and equally shocked, his golden eyes wide and his jaw clenched tight. It’s a nice picture to paint for the audience. They are supposedly having the biggest fight in their lives and his body language is very convincing.

More than convincing.

Except, it just might be … too convincing.

Wait—

Jaskier focuses on Geralt, who looks as if he wants to shrink into himself, his shoulders slumped and arms drawn in. He looks as if he’s waiting to be struck. Wait, something’s not right.

“I can’t do this.” A whisper leaves Geralt’s lips, small and achingly sad.

It’s not the line he’s supposed to say.

Geralt’s eyebrows droop ever so slightly, and there’s a flash of distress behind the molten gold. It’s gone in a second, hidden behind a façade of indifference.

The tells are subtle, near imperceivable to the untrained eye, but to Jaskier, they are clear as day—Geralt is hurt. For real.

Oh.

Fuck.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries, instantly snapped out of his character.

And yet, there’s no reply. Geralt lowers his head, turns around, and flees the scene within one heartbeat and the next. The crowd is too eager to make way for him.

“Shit,” Jaskier curses, ready to chase after Geralt, but the Countess de Stael appears out of nowhere with a flock of maids and positively blocks him in all directions. She’s eager to lament the loss of love and companionship, and to offer Jaskier a place at her court once again. Oh, shit.

Jaskier brushes her off, all the while painfully remembering he and Geralt’s goal from the beginning—to use the breakup as an excuse to get out of this place.

Well, the plan is shit. Is it too late to notice?

Weaving through dozens of nobles is a lot more difficult when they all want to extend sympathy, and Jaskier is only placating them absent-mindedly, faking regret and heartbreak. His mind is full of his witcher, who is either brooding or spiraling over the venom he spewed earlier.

The truth is, Jaskier has long forgotten about the mountain—not because it didn’t hurt. To be shunned by Geralt, blamed for everything, and denied friendship, was the worst thing to have happened to him at the time. It’s just that Jaskier has forgiven it, so long ago and so completely.

Jaskier cannot get to their room fast enough, and when he pushes open the door, the sight of Geralt’s dejected face is a stab through the chest. The witcher is perched on the bed, somehow looking a lot smaller than he is.

Jaskier never should have come up with the stupid fake breakup thing, never should have inadvertently reopened the old wound. They healed, together. They shouldn’t be hurting anymore.

“I explained. We can leave now,” Jaskier tires, but in fairness, he doesn’t remember what he said to the Countess. “Geralt?”

The witcher himself crosses his arms, hugging his midriff and avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “Good,” he answers curtly, shoulders still tense.

He looks angry, and when Geralt is angry, it’s most likely with himself. Oh, whatever heartbreak Jaskier acted out earlier, it’s not a match to a fraction of what he’s feeling now. It must be the one millionth time Geralt’s self-loathing has broken Jaskier’s heart, and it never gets easier, not when Jaskier caused it himself.

“Hey.” Jaskier desperately wants to wrap his arms around Geralt. So he does. He sits down on the bed and pulls his witcher into the biggest bear hug, which is returned immediately and so very tightly. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I fucked up, Geralt. I’m—”

“Don’t be.” Geralt buries his nose into Jaskier’s neck and shakes his head. “I never should have said those things, Jask. I should be the one apologizing. It was wrong and untrue and I would never abandon you. You are my best friend. How can I ever? Please, believe me…”

Geralt trails off, his hands rubbing circles into Jaskier’s back. Although it’s unclear who he’s trying to soothe.

“I know. It’s okay. I know,” Jaskier murmurs, over and over again, sealing each reassurance with a kiss pressed into silver hair.

“I never meant it, Jask.”

“I know. It was fake. We were pretending.”

Geralt pulls away, golden eyes dead serious, pausing between every word. “I never meant it.”

Jaskier meets his gaze unwaveringly, with not an ounce of doubt. “I know.”

They stay there for a while, just holding each other. Geralt keeps sniffing Jaskier’s scent the same way he always does to check for injury or distress. He thinks he’s subtle, the sweet man, so Jaskier never mentions it.

Despite what an outsider might assume, Geralt is the sensitive one between the two. He’s so careful when it comes to their relationship, especially after the mountain and sometimes to his own detriment.

He’s so scared of hurting Jaskier again.

“I was an idiot for suggesting it,” Jaskier breaks the silence, nudging Geralt in the knee.

Geralt hums, lips pursed.

“Fake breakup is a terrible idea. Next time we’ll just grit our teeth and sit through the month-long party.”

Still, no smile.

“Alright, you win. Next time I won’t take you to a month-long party to start with.” Jaskier gently pats Geralt on the cheek. “For your delicate sensibilities, darling.”

Finally, finally, Geralt’s lips turn upwards, just a smidge.

“You are an idiot,” Geralt says, the crease between his brows fading. “Just…don’t make me make you cry again.”

Melting into the warmth welling up between his ribcage, Jaskier leans forward and presses a tiny kiss at his witcher’s forehead, so softly as if he’d break with any more force.

“Yes, dear.”

Being careless with Geralt’s heart is a mistake that Jaskier never wants to repeat. As he put a hand over his witcher’s languid heartbeat, Jaskier feels the soft thrumming against his palm, and realizes just how terribly he needs to guard it with the same care too. Against his frivolous self, and against the past that never seems to stop haunting them.

Because Jaskier needs this thing between them to work. If a faked breakup already seems unbearable, he shudders to imagine a real one.

A witcher’s life is already riddled with pain and sadness and could-have-beens. A poet would hate it if he added himself to the list.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod @kuripon

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

i don't wanna die yet

listen to lost by christian gates for a truly sad time (linked at the bottom)

CW: major character death; canon typical violence; grief; gore descriptions

[image has alt text]

Dying as it turns out, feels a disturbing amount like accidentally slipping into a meat grinder and then spending the entire time terrified someone will turn it on before they realise you’re in there. At least that’s the only way Leo Valdez can describe it. A rotting festering acid churning through every system in his body. Blood turned rancid. Lymph nodes leaking sanies. Nerve fibres seizing. Disgusting. That’s what it feels like.

He wishes he had been braver. Wishes he had looked death in the face, metaphorical death anyway— Thanatos doesn’t show up till later on, and by then it really is too late— but he wishes he had stared his dying in the face and said ‘fuck you” or “not today” or “try me bitch”. No, instead he had suffered and screamed and cried his way through it. This last moment of bravery and he couldn’t even be brave.

Maybe it was those blue eyes he looked into, or the way a gentle hand was always resting against his burning cheek. But he couldn’t be anything but miserable as he left it all. How does anyone expect him to be brave when the weight of what he’s leaving behind presses against his final visions. Friendship beyond time and space and person. Love encapsulated in every hug, folding around him like stars curve around the universe. Jason Grace could laugh and Leo thinks he’d go to war to hear it again. Surrounded by all this lightning goodness, how can he be expected to die anything but wretchedly.

*One hour earlier*

No matter what happens his friends could not find out what he had planned. No matter what. The loop plays in his head, scratched vinyl, stuck cd. They deserve to know he will die but he cannot give them that knowledge. They will try to stop him. Maybe worse, maybe horribly selfishly worse, they will agree with him. He doesn’t know if his heart will be able to handle that confirmation. “It’s the best course of action,” he can just see Annabeth nodding. Piper’s eyes filled with tears but no words of protest escaping her lips. Frank’s half-hearted attempt to stop him. Percy may fight, say there must be another way, he and Annabeth will have one of their silent conversations and it will end with the son of Posiedon storming off and the plan going through anyway. He doesn’t want to think about Jason’s reaction. The good roman soldier who will die for his cause. “We are not here to live for ourselves. We must represent the bigger picture.” And Leo will want to know why dying is so lonely if living must always be for something bigger. Nonetheless today he must stop breathing. Today he stops. The boy who never stops moving, finally dead still.

He strokes a hand down Festus’ cool metal back, feels the hum of his engine, The sound is comforting, enough so that the heart racing behind his ribcage slows down a fraction. Running a marathon instead of a sprint.

“I dont want to die.” He whispers to the air. No-one responds.

He turns to Festus, “Will you miss me buddy?” It has come to this. Asking the dragon he created if he will be missed. He wonders if this is what Frakenstein felt like? If the doctor ever asked the monster created if he would be missed. Maybe gods ask the same things of humans.

“Leo?” The tent flaps open and a head of blonde hair and electric shockwaves fills the room. “What are you hiding in here for?” Even now with war at their doorstep, his blonde Superman has high spirits and so much hope.

“Wanted to get a little air before this whole thing blows up.” He smiles and he feels it reach his eyes, his head, his breaking heart. “You know i work best in suffocating heat.”

And gods the tent is hot. Air thick and heavy with the anticipation of war, and the unrelenting summer heat.

A breeze prickles against his skin and he looks up to see eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Better?”

“My hero! When this is all done would you mind if I hired you for the bunker?”

Jason’s laugh is carried along the breeze, brushing against his hot skin again and again and again.

“When this is done I'm taking a very very long vacation in the most remote area of the world.”

“Can I join?” Leo wants to live in this moment forever.

And then his friend smiles and maybe his mind starts writing sonnets of all the ways this convolutes time and space.

“You never had a choice, Valdez. I was dragging you with me whether you liked it or not.”

He’s laughing now. At a time like this. Forty five minutes before he ends a war. “For the record Grace,” He pronounces every curve of the surname, “I would like it very much.”

“Oh good!” The blonde wraps an arm around his shoulders, knocks their heads together. “I’ve got snacks and to-go bags waiting at the camp border.”

“So I don't have to bring anything?”

“Just Festus.” Jason strokes his hand over the dragon’s head. “We can’t leave you behind buddy.”

A horn blares outside, the signal that more enemy armies are fast approaching. Jason’s entire demeanor changes. Gone is the friend, enters is the soldier.

“See you out there?”

He nods, words caught in his throat. He is trying to pour every single fatal droplet of love into the hug they share. When the son of Jupiter pulls away, the entire world gets a little colder.

Leo takes a final steadying breath, sucking up the lingering breeze left behind by the demigod.

Festus whines at him, a clicking noise stumbling from his long throat. Leo strokes a hand down the metal again, all the comfort he can offer. Life is a worthy one if you leave it being missed. And if no-one else Festus will miss him. Of that he is sure.

“Okay buddy,” He clambers onto the dragon’s back, letting the familiar warmth of working parts settle into his bones. “We’re gonna take it to the skies and then you’re gonna find Jason for me while i sort some stuff out. Got it?”

They had been over this plan a hundred times, and every time Festus had protested and every time Leo had swallowed his sadness and did not change the path he had coursed.

The tent flaps billow open just as a conch shell sounds. He wonders, for the umpteenth time, why the call of war was so beautiful. Sorrowful, yes, but beautiful? It seemed cruel, and violent. As if this destruction could be made pretty with the exact right note. Not even Apollo had discovered such a sound yet.

With a final glance around, he knocks on the dragon’s side twice, and they take to the skies. Immediately he is engulfed with noise: yelling, and clashing metal, and roaring from various beasts. It sounds sort of like his mind. Loud. Engulfing. Inescapable.

“HEY LEO!” He hears a yell from below.

Peering over the side of Festus he sees Frank racing towards a pack of vicious looking wolves. Something about them didn’t sit right, as if they had been stretched and pulled into a different shape and then unsuccessfully put back. “Try for the other side of Gaia with your fire bombs.”

His friend is now a war strategist. No longer the scared little kid with too much grief, and a stickler for authority. He is the authority. And he wields it like a carved bow.

“Will do!” He gives a thumbs up in case his words are lost to the wind. Then he’s looking up and out into the mass of earth stretching itself from below to above above above. As if Gaia was once more trying to meet her husband.

“LET'S CHANGE THIS WAR!” He screams.

Him and Festus are barrelling towards the mass. He shoots fire from his hands, and the little kid in him obsessed with superheroes is proud of how far he has come. Festus breathes fire of his own, and the child in him obsessed with fairytales is looking at him with wide bright eyes. If he has made anyone proud, it’s the kid he used to be. He doesn’t have to worry about any adult version of himself being proud of him.

“Okay Festus.” He presses his chest into his dragon’s back so they’re head to head. “It’s time buddy.”

Another metallic whine. Enough clicks to mean “I love you”.

“I love you too my friend.” He keeps a warm hand on the dragon’s neck. “Remember to find Jason after this.”

And then Leo is standing up. On the golden back of Festus. And then Leo is taking a final deep breath, a final encompassing look at the world, at his friends scattered across the battlefield.

“Thank you for being with me.” He whispers.

“Leo?” Jason’s voice carries across the entire world.

He looks down, sees those blue eyes even across this violence. There is confusion in them, a starting gleam of worry and… horror.

He waves, smiles softly.

Jason is already shaking his head, feet stumbling, stuttering, sprinting towards him.

“I love you.” Leo mouths.

“NO!”

Leo Valdez leaps.

And his heart is so quiet as he falls directly into the dark swirling earth.

He explodes from within himself.

Heat pouring from every pore in his body, overwhelming the world, turning his vision white.

For the first time in his life, Leo’s fire burns him.

But the pain is inescapable. Charring at his fingertips. Gut-wrenching. Blistering. Bubbling. He feels like a cauldron melting into the earth. He feels searing with this pain. Food burning in an oven. Ripped apart by this being with no teeth. Scorching. He understand why stars turn into blackholes. Anything to escape this mind-numbing inferno. Gods he’s burning so much he doesn’t know the meaning of cold.

He knows he’s falling but how far or to where he cannot say. All he can focus on, all he understands, is this flame. Eating at him like a monster gorging on grotesque delicacy.

He hits the ground with a sickening crunch. Eyes failing to open. Doesn’t matter anyway, all he can see is endless blinding white.

He feels something at his side, a hand, or a leg, or a… someone. Someone is there. He can’t hear anything. There’s no ringing in his head, no crying, or wretching. It’s just quiet. Somewhere, he exists, but it is no longer here.

The white of his vision obscures with a dark figure. A person, with dark brown skin, dressed in silver and black looks at him, nods his head. “It’s time Leo, you can let go now.”

And he takes their hand, and he realises they’re a god and he sinks into their support. He takes a step, another, another. He doesn’t stop. Nor look back. Not this time. This time he’s home for sure.

***

Jason Grace has felt fear so many times he recognises it like a warm meal. It has kept him company, fed him lies and truths, and strange revelation. But nothing, not a single thing, living, dead, or abstract in this world has ever given him more of this poisoned meal than right now.

He is kneeling besides the burnt, broken body of his best friend and there is nothing but acid salivating in his mouth. He can’t touch the body, it is burning too hot, too fast. A self-made cremation.

“You’re not gonna die,” he’s muttering, trying to cool everything with wind he’s breaking to his will. It doesn’t work. It’s not WORKING! “Do you hear me Leo Valdez!” he’s crying and his tears don’t make it to the ground before they’re up in sickening sizzling steam. “You. Are. Not. Going. To. Die.”

There’s a shift in the air, a rippling of power and then Thanatos is over them. His shadow longer than it has right to be, as if his body can be made into a human form but his shadow is still that of a god’s.

“No, no, no, no, no,” He’s sobbing, and he still can’t touch Leo. “Please, Please save him. Please don’t take him away Please.”

“I am sorry Jason Grace.” The God gives a small bow.

He is fading away, disappearing the way Nico does. Into the thickening blackness.

Leo’s body goes quiet, scorch turning to simmer, turning to coolness. As if his soul had been burning like that. It wouldn’t be a surprise.

He reaches out, touches a blistered, broken hand. Holds it within his own bloodied, scraped ones.

“Why did you do that?” The silence is deafening. “Why did you leave me?” His friend that could never stop moving, is still at last.

“Please come back.” Tears choke him. “Please don’t leave me. Not like this.” There is nothing but violent calm surrounding them.

“I love you.” He strangles through the syllables, not wanting to let them out in case they too die in this catastrophe. “Please open your eyes. Please finish this war by my side.”

Jason tilts his head up. The sky is clear and bright blue. “Leo—” He trembles.

His head falls back down to his chest. The earth is flat, unmoving.

“We’re not supposed to be here.”

Leo Valdez does not protest. Leo Valdez does not move again.

---------------------------------------------------------

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

Decay Chamber

For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt (which I haven’t done in agessss sorry if I’m rusty)

TW: graphic description of injury and violence, self harm and implications of sexual violence/mutilation? idk just like Not Good ™️ in general for sexually coded harm but it’s all metaphorical and not overt so read at your own discretion

——————————————————————

On bad, angry nights when I’m falling apart

Mind and soul pierced by pink roses’ thorns

Before I let a single drop of my cursed blood shed

I listen to the ethereal stories you put in my head

I listen to tales of love and heartfelt promises

Told by morning-sunlit-kitchen warm voices

I stop burning and bruising and beating the girl in my mind

I unlock the gilded cage and drop the gleaming razors and knives

For my bubble of self-hatred is disintegrated

If only for a moment, my prisoner makes no complaint

I can take a moment’s rest

I can catch my breath

Mop up the steely salt lake of tears and crimson blood

Flowing freely like pretty silk ribbons from her face and cuts

Press bitter, searing alcohol to each open gash and wound

(She opens her mouth for a silent scream)

Apply a burning ice pack to skin galaxies of black and blue

(Sobbing, “Please stop, you’re hurting me”)

Watch her feebly try to eat

indents of flesh-coat ribcage heave

Food rises back up, neon red, orange and green

I can never clean it all; and it will never leave

All fluids reforming the hatred bubble around me

Trapping me in a self-sentenced torture chamber

An untouched, ripped and wilting flower

~ A Starry-eyed Dreamer

[c-optimistic]

scar

Kara is not mysterious.

She’s not, though she makes a valiant attempt at it. She’s secretive and brilliant and more than talented at putting on an act, but she’s not mysterious. While there are dozens of things that don’t make sense about her, she has a refreshing habit of wearing her heart on her sleeve, consequences be damned, and even if Lena doesn’t understand what Kara does, she certainly can follow why.

Which is why the eyebrow thing is so…confusing.

(Perhaps the more accurate word is frustrating, frustrating that Lena can’t figure it out unlike some of Kara’s other idiosyncrasies.  

Understanding Kara’s preference for fatty and sugary foods was simple enough. Her Kryptonian physiology meant that fats and sugars took longer to break down, leaving her feeling full longer. Her partiality for movies with happy endings also made perfect sense—after all, who would wantto have more tragedy in their life? Even her habit of listening for Alex’s heartbeat every night before bed made sense; it had been how she’d fallen asleep when she first landed. But the eyebrowthing…)

Lena studies Kara as she settles into bed, watching her take her time to remove her glasses and run her fingers through her hair. The lamp on Lena’s side of the bed (it still leaves her a little breathless whenever she thinks things like that—whenever she notices the second toothbrush in the bathroom or nearly trips over one of Kara’s boots still laying where she kicked them off carelessly the night before) is still on, illuminating the thick file Lena’s been going through steadily for the past hour or so, waiting until Kara got back from dealing with the rogue alien causing a ruckus downtown.

“What?” Kara asks when Lena continues to stare rather than put out the lamp or put her work away. “Is there still gunk in my hair? I washed it out as best I could but—”

“—why do you do that?”

Kara blinks.

“…uh, wash my hair?” she asks, frowning as she settles back onto the pillows, looking over at Lena with playfully narrowed eyes.

“No. Why do you do that?” she asks again, this time raising her hand to press her fingertips right above her left eyebrow, attempting to demonstrate Kara’s inexplicable behavior. “You touch your scar before bed every night.”

“Do I?”

“You don’t realize you’re doing it?” Lena asks incredulously, her eyebrows rising. She puts the thick file away, shifting so that she’s more settled against the pillows and is facing Kara. “Though maybe it makes sense. I suppose someone like you wouldn’t be all that used to scars.”  

“I don’t touch it because I’m not used to scars, Lena,” Kara laughs, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Lena’s temple. She’s being annoyingly calm about it, either not realizing or not caring that this one unexplainable habit has been driving Lena nuts since she first started spending the night. “It’s just…comforting.”

“Comforting?” Lena repeats blankly, not quite sure what Kara could possibly mean. She doesn’t like drawing comparisons between herself and Kara—that’s just begging for a downward spiral, who could possibly want to be compared to Supergirl?—but in this one instance, she can’t help herself. Lena has a great deal of scars (and she allows herself a moment to be poetic as she thinks of all the metaphorical scars Lex and her parents have left on her) and she hates them all. There’s the thin white scar on her left index finger, where she accidentally cut herself while cooking, a careless moment brought on by the first news reports about Lex’s plots against Superman. There’s a darker, misshaped scar on her right knee, where she’d landed on hard concrete after a particularly brutal lesson on ‘how to be a Luthor.’ (Lillian had been horrified by the incident—by her own ability to do such a thing to a child or the very sight of bright red blood rolling down that child’s leg—and had apologized for it later, lavishing Lena with attention and care, very vigilant from that moment on to physically treat her gently, even as the emotional abuse continued.) And of course there’s the scar below her ribcage, which she doesn’t remember the exact details of, just knowing it involved tequila and bad choices. This scar she’s come to love; Kara has not once allowed the opportunity to kiss that scar go by.

Lena doesn’t like any of her scars. They only serve as a harsh reminder of who she was, and she rather likes the person she is now. But Kara’s looking at her softly and her eyes are so blue and Lena has to admit that if someone asked her right in that moment, she’d say her girlfriend was absolutely mysterious.

“Why?” she asks, even though every part of her is screaming that she can figure it out later—just like all the other things—even though a part of her believes she’s showing exactly how invested she is, just how important Kara is to her, and vulnerability is one scar Lena’s still not quite sure how to feel about. (When she’s feeling more poetic, she can admit that it’s not a scar at all, not yet. It’s a deep and still bleeding wound, and she thinks with Kara’s help it might heal into a neat thin line rather than the jagged edges for which she has a propensity.)

“On Krypton…” Kara begins slowly, reaching out to take Lena’s hand, threading their fingers together and gently running her thumb over Lena’s skin. It’s a mindless gesture, but one that has turned into a moment to latch onto—yet another simple thing that can take Lena’s breath away. “I had no powers on Krypton. I was…normal.” Kara pauses long enough to take a deep breath she doesn’t need, shuffling over enough that her entire body is pressed up against Lena’s, hand never ceasing its ministrations. “I could get hurt, bleed, become so exhausted that I wanted nothing more than my bed, any day, any time. I didn’t need kryptonite or a rogue alien to make me feel like everyone else.”

“You got the scar on Krypton,” Lena guesses, unable to help the track of her eyes. Realizing there’s not point to pretending, she reaches up with her free hand and gently runs the pad of her thumb over the scar, watching as Kara’s eyes flutter shut.

“I was young when I got it,” she all but whispers. “I’m not sure exactly how. I remember it involved my father and uncle and one of their experiments.” She laughs a little, lost in another world—a long since lost world. “My father petitioned the Science Guild to allow me to join as soon as possible, but they wanted to wait until I was a little older. So my father and uncle had me work with them in secret—my mother was furious when she found out.” She laughs again, opening her eyes and meeting Lena’s gaze steadily. “I remember her lecturing me as she cleaned me up—didn’t even allow Kelex near me. At the time, I didn’t think it was very fair. It’s funny,” she adds softly, not sounding amused at all, “I’d give anything to hear her yell at me again.”

“Kara…” Lena tries, but she doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what she cansay. How does one comfort their girlfriend over the loss of their entire planet, their family, their friends—the only life they’d ever known? She can lay here and recite as many platitudes as she’d like, nothing would take that sadness out of Kara’s eyes.

(Lena knows, she’s had her fair share of scars, understands how much pain they could still cause even though for all intents and purposes the skin had healed over, the tissue repaired itself.)

“I used to hold my mother’s necklace as I prayed to Rao every night,” Kara says suddenly, breaking through Lena’s thoughts, looking inexplicably calm and at peace. “It seemed important to do, especially when I really began coming into my powers and didn’t need sleep.”  She tightens her grip on Lena’s hand just briefly, letting out a soft sigh as she does so. “In some ways, it makes me glad I gave the necklace to Mon-El.”

“Kara, I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense. It was the last thing you had of your mother’s.”

“And I got it when she was putting me into a pod and saying goodbye. Carrying it around…carrying it around felt heavy. It was a constant reminder of losing my planet, of years in that pod, of nights spent crying with the Danvers…of nearly dying myself.” For the first time she looks away, apparently invested in the patterns of the curtains. “But the scar is from a moment when my uncle’s experiment went wrong and my mother cleaned me up and my father kept apologizing and snuck me a treat later.” Kara sniffs, and Lena doesn’t mention or acknowledge the tears that have rolled down her cheeks. “The scar reminds me of who I am. I like it.”

(Lena was right about one thing: Kara is not mysterious. But her notions about scars? Lena might need to rethink her stance.)

“I like it, too,” Lena says, pressing her lips to the scar above Kara’s left eyebrow in a lengthy kiss. It must be the right response—or something close to it anyway—because Kara practically sags, resting her forehead against Lena’s.

And they fall asleep just like that, heads close and hands intertwined, but not before Lena makes the mental note to never allow the opportunity to kiss Kara’s scar to go by.  

[theevangelion]

Red Bottom: Red Kryptonite D/S Supercorp Story (Complete)

Prompt Fill for Gabs: Redk!Kara wanting it fast and hard and lena fucking her gently until she's in tears? With lots of praise kink pls

*OR*

Under the effects of Red Kryptonite, Kara has to be kept somewhere secure. The L-Corp Laboratory is about the only location with enough lead lining to hide her heat signature while the DEO worries about bigger threats. Kara’s frustrated arousal and darkened mood is nothing compared to her girlfriend, Lena Luthor’s.

There’s a dark and evil side lurking inside Lena too. Always there, always out of sight. With Kara under the influence of the Red Kryptonite, Lena finds herself indulging in her own primal dark side in order to quell Kara’s own.

“Again?” Lena’s eyes fly wide open at the DEO circus.

“The red kryptonite particles went up with the explosion last week,” Alex says, overseeing the transfer of her sedated sister to the secure L-Corp laboratory. “And what goes up must come down. Jesus, I can’t believe we didn’t account for the rain.”

“Wouldn’t she be safer at DEO headquarters? It’s just, her safety should be the priority.” Lena doesn’t want to seem too eager to palm off her girlfriend.

“If the DEO headquarters were still secret, sure.” Alex rubs her temple, now suddenly thinking of other problems.

Her hazel eyes find Lena with a sense of exhaustion, as though there are too many things being juggled in the air and she needs someone to take Kara out of the equation.

Alex continues, “The League caught intel about our security protocols. Ironically, the one place Lex will probably not look is the place right beneath his nose. The building has enough lead-lining to hide her heat signature?”

“More than enough,” Lena confirms.

“Well,” Alex pats the chief executive’s shoulder. “I’ll call you tonight, and I’ll leave her in your capable hands for a few days.”

Lena laughs suddenly, the uncomfortable noise barely escaping through her tight teeth. “Please don’t.” She eyes Alex cautiously. “Just maybe let’s workshop this idea—”

“It will be fine,” Alex promises. “Just don’t listen to her, put your headphones in, think of it as babysitting duty. I’ll owe you one, big time.” Alex stares as though she means it regardless of the complications it might cause later down the line.

An unconditional favour from one of the higher-ups in the chain of command at the Department of Extranormal Operations… That could certainly come in handy one day.

“Not the holding cell. Put her in the observation suite, the glass is resistant to her heat vision.” Lena points to the clear glass room opposite the laboratory. “Extra restraints, green kryptonite lamps—”

“Green kryptonite could kill her,” Alex balks.

“In larger quantities, sure.” Lena nods. “In a smaller, medicinal dosage it nullifies her power for a short time. Like the small amount emitted by the kryptonite lamps your tech team developed last year in the event of…” Lena pauses, quirking her crimson lips as she searches for the right word. “Something unexpected.” Alex instantly closes her eyes. “Bring them, bring all of the equipment. And extra restraints too, please.”

“Why extra restraints?” Alex lifts her brow, confused.

Lena rolls her eyes, then turns to her personal assistant. “Jesse, clear my entire schedule from now until Tuesday. Alex, trust me, I’m doing you a favour, but I need the restraints and the kryptonite lamps. For my safety, you understand?” She glances at her girlfriend’s sister.

“Whatever you need, Lena.” Alex doesn’t ask further.

***

Kara awakes slowly and feels the tension in her arms. They’re captured around her ribcage, as though she is trapped in a suffocating hug. She shifts her shoulders, wiggling, unable to get herself loose from the poor, rough excuse for a blanket that has entwined her.

“You’ll forgive me for being cautious,” Lena says through the speaker. “It’s for your safety, mostly.”

Kara opens her eyes and simultaneously rolls them when she sees the applied restraints. Her arms are secured in a white strait-jacket, the tan leather straps buckled tightly, with another strap of leather secured between her nude legs to stop her wiggling out of it.

“For my safety or yours?” Kara flexes against the strait-jacket.

“Alright,” Lena levels seriously over the speaker. “For mine then.”

The strait-jacket isn’t torn to pieces when Kara flexes a second time, which strikes her as strange. She wiggles again, harder, flexing, stretching her arms as far as she can against the secured sleeves.

“Sorry baby,” Lena says, walking in to view as she stops in front of the glass door that separates them. “Another precaution. I can survive your bad mood, but only when we level the playing field.” Her emerald eyes glance to the industrial spotlights that emanate a low, dark green colour over the observation suite.

Green Kryptonite.

“If you think there’s such a big bad monster lurking inside of me—” Kara stops, heaving furious breaths. “Why risk it the other three-hundred and sixty-four days a year? Am I not capable of tearing you apart then, if I wanted to?”

“There is always a monster lurking inside of you, baby.” Lena folds her arms over her black cashmere sweater. “But you are the strongest, most level-headed woman I know. You would never let it hurt anyone.” Her eyes flicker with love. “The other days of the year, of course.” She pushes a small smile, but then it disappears as she dips her head.

Kara narrows her eyes. “Oh, you want to talk about monsters, Lena?” She can’t help but laugh.

“Not particularly.”

“Because you know the one that claws inside of your ribcage is so much more violent and hungry than mine.”

“Don’t do this, please,” Lena pleads. “I know you can’t help it, but could you… try and help it?”

“Sad, poor, angry little girl—lost and unlovable,” Kara scoffs, her lips forming an angry smirk. “How does it feel knowing that I am the only one capable of loving a creature as tortured as you?”

Lena’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly.

Her face is beautiful and smooth like porcelain, but her eyes are utterly empty and her jaw flexes with the tiniest slip of anger. To Kara, she is still beautiful, still the finest human she has ever met, a bride to be made fit for House of El yet.

It’s simply a case of subjugating her first, Kara thinks. To teach Lena who exactly her better half is, metaphorically and literally speaking.

“You’re still pretty when you want to cry,” Kara says coldly, unbothered and unconcerned. “You should know that.”

“Funny,” Lena doesn’t skip a beat, her tone equally cold. “I’ve always thought the same of you.”

There’s a flash, a tiny strike of lightning. It hits Kara right in her belly and sends her flying backwards. The pain is the least of her concerns. She doesn’t understand what it was. Kara pants and opens her eyes, curled in the corner of the glass cage with a tight grimace.

“For my safety,” Lena explains, lifting the remote that controls the shock pulses. “In case I feel threatened.” She smirks slightly.

“You always feel threatened,” Kara laughs despite the painful ripples in her body from the electric shock. “Always threatened by other powerful women, always worried you’re too small, too unimportant, too weak to compete—”

“Whoops.” The powerful shock hits Kara again and makes her whimper. It leaves her crumpled and curling, sweating and gritting her teeth. “My finger slipped,” Lena says, unamused.

Despite the red kryptonite, despite the hubris it imbues her with, she is completely defenseless and that only compounds her anger. Kara wrangles as hard as she can, until she nearly dislocates her shoulder trying to get free from the pathetic little strait-jacket that on any ordinary day could be ripped apart with a sneeze.

The door alarm rings out. Lena steps inside the lion’s den, her Blahnik heels clicking quickly over the cold hard floor. Kara refuses to look at her, she tucks her sweaty head away as the pencil skirt gracefully bends at the knees to appraise her closer, as though she is some kind of small animal.

“See,” Lena whispers quietly, moving the damp blonde hair off her face. “Still so pretty when you want to cry, baby, I told you.”

“Don’t start a war you cannot win, Lena,” Kara growls with gravel in her throat. “I will still have my power and might when the weekend is out, and you—”

“Will still have mine, too.” Lena slips her hand over Kara’s bottom, pulling the curled up little monster close like a pet to be made tame. “Why don’t you be a good girl and let that nasty tongue of yours rest. I don’t want to sedate you. There is so much more productive fun to be had when you’re awake.”

Kara’s ears lift at that.

“Fun?” She looks at Lena with a craned eyebrow.

Lena looks different. Kara isn’t sure whether it’s the effect of the red kryptonite, or whether her girlfriend has always had that air of cruel arrogance and she’s only just noticing it now. But Lena’s eyes glean her as though she’s a wolfish little whore, a thing to conquer. Her crimson lips pull into a small smirk.

“Fun for me, yes.” Lena pets her damp, long blonde hair softly. “The way I see it, Kara Danvers, is that I’m going to marry you one day. That means for better or worse. And, if I can’t find a way to handle you at your worst—” Kara hisses when slender fingers yank her hair tight in a tight fistful. “Then what business do I have enjoying you at your best?” Their eyes lock seriously.

“You think this is me at my worst?” Kara’s eyes grow wide with indignation. “Oh just you wait. The Hell I will reign down upon you—” Material is quickly stuffed inside her open mouth as gag, stifling the threats.

The material is slightly damp, heady almost, the feminine taste that is so distinctly Lena Luthor coats Kara’s tongue… Kara realises that this isn’t a traditional gag.

“Hold my panties for me like a good girl,” Lena whispers and stuffs them a little deeper into her mouth. “Don’t spit them out, otherwise I’m going to push them in another hole. And believe me, I have such better, bigger plans for your pretty tight holes…” Her manicured fingers slipped over the tanned leather strap between Kara’s sweating thighs.

When Kara’s blue eyes fly open in surprise, the question doesn’t even need to be uttered. Lena can practically read her mind. The executive peers down at her with a loving smile, her palms gently taking each side of her face and cradling it close to her own.

“The red kryptonite cannot be chemically neutralised. That means I need to find another way to control you when you’re… under the influence of dangerous substances.” Lena trails her hand through Kara’s long hair, her nails dragging and gathering it neatly. “That means I need to condition you to see me as your handler, to prevent my brother ever using the red kryptonite compound as a weapon.”

“My handler?” Kara scoffs through the panties between her teeth, laughing. “You couldn’t handle a guinea pig without help—” The sentence is slapped out of her mouth, hard.

“Your ears work, how reassuring.” Lena remains blank-faced. “Now, come with me, let’s see how reward-motivated you can be, little one.”

The fingers entwined in the back of her scalp tug, pull, coax her to follow on her knees across the glass room towards a desk with a laptop on top of it in the corner. There’s a soft, plush cushion beside the chair. Kara realises too late what exactly her girlfriend has planned.

“No, no.” Lena stops when Kara stops, glancing down at the ravenous little creature digging her feet into the floor. “Wouldn’t you rather feel good, sweetheart?” She swiftly takes the panties out of her mouth.

Kara thinks, too optimistically, that it’s so she can reply clearly.

Instantaneously, Kara feels all of her muscles tighten at once. Something has started vibrating inside of her—quite literally, vibrating inside of her—it’s pressed deep inside of her folds, right behind her clit against that perfect spot that made her cunt feel tight and hot. The panties were removed from her mouth so they weren’t a choking hazard, she realises.

Then, it dwindles away to nothing.

“I am going to hurt you in ways you cannot fathom,” Kara growls furiously at the denial of her pleasure.

“No, you’re not.” Lena cranes down and pecks her temple. “Because I will crush you before you ever get the chance, little girl,” her soft voice becomes a stern tone against the ear, the responsive slither of crimson red kryptonite emanating from Kara’s temple not going unnoticed.

The moment Kara snatches at Lena’s throat with her teeth—she is made to learn the hard way around why it’s a regrettable idea.

A sudden shock of electricity hits her, but not externally, this time it’s deep inside of her cunt, attacking the back of her clit with needle-like precision. It hits her so hard that Kara squeals and releases Lena’s throat before the slightest amount of pressure can be applied with her teeth.

Unlike the earlier electric shock, this one is prolonged and hateful almost. Kara curls on her side and cries, clenching her thighs, yelping like a wounded little animal. Lena stands over her calmly, hands clasped in front of her neat black pencil skirt while her thumb continues to press the remote control.

“Please!” Kara squeals. “Please make it stop!”

“Good girl,” Lena whispers and lifts her thumb off the trigger. “Manners will get you everywhere, sweetheart. I would advise that you don’t ever try to hurt me, otherwise I will have to rectify the situation with some sense of equalism. You understand?”

“Yes,” Kara spits the affirmation between her clenching teeth.

“Yes Ma’am,” Lena insists.

“You have lost your soft little fucking mind if you think—” Kara wails a sharp sob that cuts her off, squirming her thighs together again as a small jolt hits her deep in the back of the cunt.

“When you’re like this, Kara, I don’t see my girlfriend,” Lena says firm. “My sweet, gentle, strong Supergirl... She would never try to hurt me, would never hurt a fly even. But you?” Her tone is suddenly accusatory. “You are not my Kara. You are the monster that lurks beneath the surface, and you will kneel and be made tame or you will be crushed into dust. I’m not your girlfriend, your little human, or your subordinate. I am the only authority in your tiny fucking insular world and you will obey me.” It isn’t posed as a question, simply posited as fact.

“We’ll see about that, Ma’am,” Kara growls sarcastically.

“Good girl,” Lena’s tone is suddenly praising, her eyes narrowing with pleased surprise. “You don’t have to enjoy saying it, baby, you just have to do as you’re told.”

Instinctively, Kara wants to protest and be difficult. But whatever Lena has buried deep inside of her cunt…it begins to strangely swell, filling her, vibrating and pulsing against her slick hot folds in a way that is entirely pleasurable. Kara understands too late what game they’re playing. Lena is operantly conditioning her. A game of punishment and reward.

The corner of Kara’s vision glitters, almost. The red kryptonite heightens everything, her emotions, her mood, her aggression, and apparently her arousal too. The wolfish creature can’t help but gasp, closing her eyes and unable to form coherent words.

“I think that’s enough baby,” Lena whispers softly.

Slowly, the strange new toy inside of her cunt recedes in size and slows its vibrations. It feels like a knot growing smaller, then a love egg, then it’s too small to be descriptively felt any more. Kara can still tell something is inside of her but it’s the smallest, most inoffensive intrusion. There, but not there, like a tiny pill-sized probe of sorts.

Kara glances down to the  leather strap buckled tight over her slit. She had assumed it was there to stop her slipping out of the strait-jacket, but Kara now understood it was also there to keep something buried inside of her.

Kara shifts slowly on the floor, twisting her hips, trying to feel out the sensations in her body that no longer seemed to exist without Lena deciding they should. It makes the chief executive smile this wolfish, chipper grin that looks strange on her usually dour face. Her beaming white teeth are on display with the breadth of her smile.

She looks beautiful, Kara can’t help but notice.

“What-” Kara blinks, completely confused. “What did you put inside of me?”

“A very, very special toy.” Lena gently takes her by the chin, guiding her shying face to meet her authoritative eyes. “I made it especially for you, though the punishment features were certainly a last-minute revision. If you’re a very, very good girl I’ll show you just how nice it feels when I decide that it should.”

“And if I’m not a good girl?” Kara lifts her brow defiantly. “If I don’t want to be your unconsenting little fucking pet slave?”

At that Lena’s eyes widen slightly.

“Baby,” Lena whispers with a knitted brow, her voice slow and loving. “I’m trying to help you here. The green kryptonite—” She nods at the deep green spotlights that cast the room in dark shadows. “I don’t know how much exposure is lethal, but I know that if you ever posed a risk to the general public then the DEO would ask questions later after they had put you down like a feral animal.” The theoretical possibility seems to make Lena tight with worry. “You don’t have to like this. It’s non-lethal, it’s for your own good, and my Kara would perfectly understand why it was necessary.”

“Then your Kara is a submissive little whore, and you probably know as much.” Kara glares at the unshakeable human she had underestimated.

Lena tucks a long weft of blonde hair behind Kara’s ear.

“Come along,” Lena instructs, turning on her heels to walk to the desk in the corner of the room. “You can either come willingly or I will give you a damn good reason to regret being so difficult.”

***

To Lena’s surprise, Kara did as she was told. Lena sat down in the chair and opened the laptop, her thumb on the shock button, ready to hit her girlfriend where it hurt once she reached zero on her mental countdown from ten.

But Kara crawls forward as best she can like a wounded little animal, her arms secured by the strait-jacket, her cheek pressed to the floor as she pushes forward indignantly on her knees.

The miracle happened. The pigs flew over the sky. The chickens had come home to roost. Lena felt her smile widen proudly, her fingers slipping around Kara’s neck and tickling the nape.

“Good girl,” Lena hushes, then she slips her hand around Kara’s jaw and brings her cheek to her lap. “There you go, just kneel there and show me you can be good.”

Lena rewards her in tangible, felt ways. The bullet-like toy inside of her cunt was activated with the remote, Lena’s thumb slipping over the control trigger to increase the swell in size, then the vibrations too.

Lena kept it on the minimal settings, flexing her thumb back and forth, giving her girlfriend just enough to coax her submission. She imagined that it probably felt like a pulse inside of her tight slick cunt, a pressure that grew and pressed into the back of her g-spot with delicious accuracy, then receded into nothing.

“Say thank you, princess.” Lena idly traces her fingertips on the panting jaw pressing to her thigh.

“Go fuck yourself you arrogant, precious little cunt.”

Lena just closes her eyes and presses the button.

Tense and tight and squealing, the wolfish little creature slumps to the floor and wrestles against the strait-jackets straps. Lena opens her eyes and peers down at her, guilty, curious, aroused beyond words and not ready to take her thumb off the trigger yet.

“Please!” Kara yelps with tears streaming down her red cheeks. “I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry, what?” Lena lifts her eyebrow, waiting for the appellation.

“Oh go fuck yourself—” Kara regrets it instantly.

It was thrilling to bring a god to her squealing, tightly curled-up kneels. Lena knows it’s wrong, that it’s villainous in all the ways she holds herself to be morally higher than. But all Kara has to do is be polite, it really isn’t that hard. She increases the electricity until it feels like a thousand tiny needles digging and prodding, Lena has no doubts about it.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am!” Kara sobs. “Please make it stop, I’m sorry!”

“Good girl,” Lena hushes and takes her thumb off the trigger. “There’s a good, good girl.” She pets her long damp hair. “See, it isn’t that hard baby. You just have to do as you’re told, you just have to be a good girl.”

Lena replaces the pain with a flood of pleasure. It takes her girlfriend off her centre of gravity. Kara slumps again, her toes flexing and curling, her belly tightening until she is curling like a little kitten. Lena makes sure to show the submission an abundance of reward, her thumb flies upward on the control trigger and gives Kara a brief taste of how good obedience can truly feel.

The toy swells so big and wide inside of Kara that her weeping baby blues fly open, entire constellations mapped in the whites of her eyes. The vibrations are so powerful that Lena can hear them — thrumming, pulsing, mechanically growling away like a revving engine. She brings Kara down slowly, gently, backing her away from the cliff edge of a quick hard orgasm.

“Please!” Kara whines and brings her cheek back to Lena’s lap, kissing and digging her nose into the top of the chief executive’s thigh. “I’ll be good, I’ll behave, please just let me cum.”

“I think I’ll leave you right here.” Lena settles on a low, gentle vibration setting — enough that Kara can feel it stirring her orgasm, but not enough to push her over the edge. “If you’re still being a good girl by the time I’ve finished my ordinance paperwork, we can revisit things.”

“Please,” Kara whimpers, her voice barely a choking whisper. “Please, please, please—” She buries her face into Lena’s lap.

Lena ignores it and gets on with her tasks. It takes longer than it usually does, she’s more aware of the ticking time. The panting little mouth pressing to her thigh whimpers and moans, but Kara’s face is entirely slack and resting on the leg as though she has no energy to hold it up of her own volition.

“Please Ma’am,” Kara whimpers, “Please, Ma’am, make it feel good.”

Lena says nothing, offers nothing in response, but she pushes the trigger upwards and increases the vibrations and swelling size of the toy, incrementally and almost procedural. Then, she clicks into her emails for a quick update on the minute notes from the meeting she missed.

Ten minutes pass, if that.

“I need to cum,” Kara pants. “Please?”

“No.”

“Please Ma’am!”

“I said no—ow!” Lena glances down to where Kara had nipped her with teeth, hard. “What did I tell you?” Lena asks calmly, her fingers catching the shying chin. “I was fair, I warned you Kara, all you have to do is be a good girl and do as I tell you to.”

“Please no more shocks, I’m sorry—I didn’t, I didn’t mean to!”

“I’m not going to shock you,” Lena says reassuringly, closing the laptop lid. “You want to be fucked? You want to be pleasured? I’m going to show you exactly why you wait for my freely-given permission. You think this is degrading? Oh baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

***

Kara cries so hard it makes the veins in her throat bulge and stick out. Her legs thrash and kick, her arms wrangling desperately against the tight, taut sleeves of the jacket. Externally, it looked as though she might be in the worst pain one woman could possibly experience. Lena almost felt guilty. But, Kara wasn’t in pain.

She was in terminal pleasure.

“Spread your legs,” Lena only has to whisper the instruction.

Kara does as she’s told instantly, as best she can, opening her shaking legs as far and wide as she possibly can. Her cunt is pink and swollen against the wet leather strap, bucking desperately for an orgasm she isn’t permitted to have.

Whenever she gets too close, Lena dials the toy down—or gives her a tiny shock—depending on whichever is necessary to keep her an obedient and well-behaved girl.

“What a pretty girl,” Lena croons, brow furrowing deeply as she leaned against her chair and crossed her leg. “Tell me again, what are the rules baby?”

“I do as I’m told,” Kara pants. “That’s all I have to do, exactly as I’m told to do.”

“You’re such a good, obedient little girl.” Lena dials up her vibrations almost imperceptibly. “I wanted to break you in gently, Kara, but if you need to be brought under the thumb with ruthless efficiency then that works for me too. Come, hump my foot like a good pet.”

The red kryptonite glows and ebbs under her skin, everywhere, pulsing, from her temples to her toes, the slithers of red slip and glide beneath her skin and then reappear a moment later somewhere else. Lena surmises that her body, her primal aggression, it’s fighting her from the inside out and telling her this is wrong.

Kara ignores it and does as she’s told.

“What a good girl!” Lena cranes down and kisses her temple as the slick leather strap begins to work the top of her bare foot. “What do good girls get, Kara?”

“Rewards, Ma’am,” Kara whimpers.

“And what does the good girl want?”

“For you to fuck me hard, Ma’am,” Kara breaks into a sob and grinds her hips harder. “Please, please, it’s too gentle.” She dissolves into hiccuping tears.

“You’re sure you want a big hard orgasm?” Lena furrows her brow, as though she doesn’t understand. “Wouldn’t you rather a nice, soft, gentle little orgasm that just takes you over the edge—”

“Please let me cum hard,” Kara squeals, her face dipped down and cradled between her handler’s thighs. “Please, Ma’am! I’ll be a good girl, I promise!”

“No baby,” Lena says calmly. “Just a tiny soft orgasm tonight. If you are good, I’ll let you have a big one tomorrow.”

“Ma’am please!” Kara yelps as though agonised, her fingers digging tight into Lena’s kneecaps. “Please, please—”

It’s important that Kara learns the size and depth of a reward is Lena’s to call. She won’t get her own way all of the time, that’s Lena’s rationale with denying her. Lena dials down the vibrations incrementally, then makes the swell of the toy just a little bit smaller. Responsively, Kara sobs and bucks harder as she loses the pressure on her g-spot.

“The more you push the more pressure I’m going to take away,” Lena is stern because she feels that she has to be. “Are we going to be a good girl or a ruined girl?”

“Good girl,” Kara whimpers and bucks. “Can I cum, please? I’ll be a good girl, I’ll be obedient.”

“Chase it. I’ll cut you off when you’ve had enough baby, don’t you worry.” Lena cruelly smiles.

Kara bucks and grows silent for a moment, her pained expression slackening as the orgasm creeps up gently—nowhere near as forceful as the wolfish little thing desires it to be—but that will come in time, Lena thinks. She cups Kara’s chin and stares down at her, appraising, judging perfectly, grinning when the wild little thing comes undone with a sob and clutches at her leg like a humping little pet.

“There we go,” Lena whispers, turning the toy off suddenly just as Kara hit the peek. “What a very, very good girl. I’m pleased, Kara.” She cranes and pecks her temple, her tear-stained cheek, then her panting lips. “What do we say?”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Kara stutters.

“Good, good girl.” Lena cradles her cheeks. “Let’s get you comfortable in bed. You’re not going to give me problems, are you?” Lena teases her thumb over the shock trigger.

“No Ma’am!” Kara shakes her head frantically. “No problems!”

“Good girl, that’s what I like to hear.” Lena kisses her more fervently this time.

It was a gamble with her life that paid off, Lena thinks with relief.

The green kryptonite lamps had died hours ago, the room was completely dim and dark save the backlight from the row of monitors opposite the other side of the glass. Unbeknownst to Kara, she had slowly regained her powers, or certainly enough of them to beat Lena in a fight if she so wished. But, she had been such a very good girl.

Lena had no concerns now that her little wolfish pet could be brought to heel.

FIND MORE STORIES/SUBMIT ME YOUR IDEAS HERE!

[ajwrites52]

Batober Day 4-FEAR

(Set on a different Earth, please head to Ao3 to read the origin and background of this Batman. If interest is large enough, I might post some chapters over here on Tumblr.)

The chill October air sends shivers down the boy's spine. Most children the age of ten would be in bed, being tucked in by their parents. But not Jimmy Prescott, an absent father and a mother who worked nights, and the ten-year-old had nothing at home but an empty fridge. Like many boys in Gotham, he and the others found entertainment; this was probably the worst one ever devised. With only a flashlight in hand and the clothes on his back, Jimmy wandered into the cold and empty cemetery. He looks back at the gates, his seniors sitting on their bikes waving to him and pushing him to keep going. Biting his lip, he pressed on before stopping at the rusted fence and overgrown weeds that protected a closed-off part of the cemetery. 

"H-He's not real. He's just a story, that's it."

His trembling hand pried the gate open, the loud creaking of the hinges scaring a murder of crows to fly away, startling the young lad. He could hear his classmates laughing at him from a distance. He clenched his fist and shined his flashlight forward before entering the dark walkway towards the dilapidated and crumbling tombstone surrounded by rotten weeds. Jimmy shines the flashlight on the fallen golden plaque and reads it beneath his breath.

"Here lies Dr. Jonathan W. Cane. March 1635-1692. May his spirit forever lie in rest and never return."

He rummaged in his coat pocket and took a deep breath, his body quaking as he unfolded the slip of paper and set his phone to record. He stared at the broken grave and swallowed his fears before beginning to speak.

"Oh, dear Doctor Crane. Long may he reign. When the red roses bloom and the moon hangs in the air, shall your eyes open? When the crows cry out, and the land turns cold, shall you speak your first words?"

BRAKAKOOM!

He shakes as he stares up at the sudden arrival of storm clouds above him. He gulps before continuing with a shaky breath.

"When Gotham cries, and her children grow old and die. S-Shall your fingers grasp your scythe."

The second crash of thunder erupts in the sky, causing Jimmy to jump as cold raindrops begin to hit his head. He would turn back, but if he didn't bring back proof, he would be the victim of endless teasing and bullying by his compatriots. So, he continued.

"Will you stand up when the streets flood with lights and people? Will you take your first steps when your demonic servant takes flight in the night sky?"

The wind begins to whip around him, causing the drops of rain to feel like razor blades against the child's skin. He's now utterly terrified and wants to leave as soon as possible. 

'Screw this!' he thought. He grabbed his phone and crumbled up the paper before running for the exit. But the wind got stronger the farther he got from Crane's grave. He felt as if he was fighting nature itself as he got closer to the fence; the thunder roared and screamed in his ears while the lightning blinded him temporarily. Jimmy didn't know why, but every part of his body shouted to him three simple words.

"Don't. Turn. Around."

The hairs on his neck stood up as he ran faster than ever before. He felt something, some dark and horrifying thing behind him. He could hear it too; it had a voice like a cold blade scraping against his eardrums. He was almost there. But he then felt the wind whisper in his ears; it was that voice once again carried by the wind. He feels long, and skinny fingers wrap themselves around his neck while another grabs his left arm. A cold and boney presence places itself on his shoulder as he hears it whispers in his ear. 

"Don't turn around. Finish it."

Jimmy's eyes welled up with tears, his short life flashes before his eyes as he can feel his pants warming up upon him, soiling himself in fear. He wants to scream, to scream for help from his mother, who he wants to arrive and save him from this THING! 

"Finish it."

"I-"

"Finish it."

"Help."

"Finish it!"

"HELP! ANYONE!!"

"FINISH IT!!!"

He sobs and cries out, hoping that he'd be close enough for at least his friends to hear his pleas for help. But it was to no avail. No one was coming for him. Not his so-called friends. Not even his mother, who had no idea where he even was. He then felt himself being slowly dragged back towards the grave. The boy's body turns ice-cold as he nears the tombstone once again. He feels the claws of this creature pierce his neck and slither themselves into his esophagus. As he returns to the grave, he once again hears that same spine-tingling voice in his ear once more commanding him.

"Finish it."

So he did.

"M-Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane. When you stand and talk again, who will be your Scarecrow of fear before you disappear?"

Jimmy felt his vocal cords severed; he slowly held his throat. His hands feel something warm and wet. His torso follows the same sensation before his eyes look forward, only to find the graveyard gone and replaced by a dense, thick fog. Jimmy's tears hit the ground as something begins to form in the distance. A silhouette starts to form of a tall male figure walking towards him. His eyes widen as he recognizes the man. A feeling of elation and joy overwhelms him at the appearance of the tall, dark-haired gentleman dressed in a black cloak with a strange cowl with white eyes. The man removes the cowl and smiles, revealing a handsome gentleman's face with a kind smile.

"Hey, kiddo."

"D-daddy?"

Tears of joy now fall from Jimmy's cheeks as he holds out his arms for his father. The man smiles and embraces his son before whispering into the child's ear. 

"Why you, of course. You shall become my silent and strong Scarecrow while I walk the earth. For you shall show them all their true fears."

Jimmy freezes up, his father pulling away from the hug and looking at him with angry and hateful eyes. His father screams and shakes the young man, blood dripping from every orifice as he berates the young boy.

"I hate you! I HATE YOU! YOU USELESS BRAT! I LOST EVERYTHING BECAUSE OF YOU!!!"

Jimmy tries to defend himself, to understand as he feels himself sinking. He cries out to no avail. His father continues to bleed out before falling to his knees and screaming as Jimmy can do nothing but watch before falling into the grave of Dr. Crane. 

"Thank you, Scarecrow."

 His screams bounce against the seemingly bottomless pit before he can hit the metaphorical bottom. A large hand grasps onto Jimmy's wrists, holding him in mid-air, "Don't struggle." 

Jimmy could barely piece together descriptions of his savior, he couldn't tell where the shadows began, and the figure ended. All he could note was his piercing white eyes and the yellow light ruminating from his chest. His voice was gruff, almost like he was a monster, and his palm covered his whole wrist. 

"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" 

The tunnel trembled and began to fall apart; Jimmy looked down at his feet and screamed at the horrors he saw below. The shadows of the abyss below glowed bright orange; from shadows emerged a colossal skull consumed in flames. Its fanged maw opened up, unleashing a giant tower of fire upwards. The apparition roared with an abhorrent and ear-shattering scream. 

"HE IS MINE!!!!"

"Hang on!" The dark figure unlatched itself from the walls, its wings unfurling as they took off upwards towards the closing gap. The heat hits their backs; they escape by a hair's breadth, crashing onto the muddy ground. "Ow." 

Jimmy's eyes open slowly as the rain hits his face; now looming over him was the exact dark figure that saved him earlier. Now freed from the abyssal darkness, Jimmy could sparse more precise details of his hero. The glowing circle on his chest held an Emblem in the shape of a bat; he discarded the burning black cloak that once decorated his back. A metal cross with a gold center and silver tip; his body was covered in grey armor. His waist and face were covered by a black cowl sporting elongated ears. His white eyes didn't seem human; they were cold and detached. 

"Get out of here. This place isn't safe." His voice was just as cold and harsh as in the tunnel. He glares at the pit, walking towards the place they just escaped from; he pulls the cross from his back and stiffens. That's when the ground beneath them shook with deadly fury, the earth cracked, steam and hellfire burst forth from the ground sending both flying away as he emerged from the grave. 

"THAT BOY IS MINEEEE!!!!!"

His roar ruptured the sky and summoned a ferocious storm. The sickening orange glow illuminated the area as Batman glared at the light. 

"HE SPOKE THE ENCHANTMENT! HE BROUGHT FORTH MY POWER! HIS FEARS FEED ME!!!" 

Jimmy could no longer scream, the sensation of his lunch evacuating his body prevented as he looked upon Crane's indescribable horrific visage. His fingers, long like needles jutting out his bony wrists, his torso was nothing more than a ribcage with little to no skin attached to it and shackles attached to his arms and neck. But what would never leave the child's mind were his eyes. 

A skull covered by a burlap sack, sharp fangs in place of normal human incisors, and black voids with burning crimson embers in the area of eyes. Crane emerged from the grave, towering over them both like a giant while screaming in anguish and rage. His wide mouth tearing parts of the bag, revealing rotten skin underneath and long grey hairs. 

"YOU CANNOT TAKE HIM FROM ME!!! THE CONTRACT IS SEALED, AND HIS FEARS SHALL BE MINE!!" 

Batman spat on the ground and clenched the cross in his gloved right hand; in his other, he pulled out four Bat-Shaped daggers to hold in between his fingers.

"Bold of you to think that I actually care. You're not taking that child or anyone, Crane." 

His screams were unholy. He slammed his bony palm into the ground sending shockwaves towards man and child. With a click, the silver tip of his cross fired outwards like a bullet, a chain acting as a cable. It wrapped around the boy's leg and pulled him towards the cowled man as they crashed onto a nearby clearing. Jimmy's breath became erratic, and his tears ran down his already wet cheeks. His eyes glazed over as he could only mutter words in a language lost to modern ears. Batman groaned in pain as he carried Jimmy behind a nearby gravestone, hiding them from Crane's wrath.

"Damn it. C'mon kid. Wake up and snap out of it!" He shook the boy by the shoulders, quickly rummaging through one of the pouches on his belt for aid. He placed a paper talisman against the boy's forehead and pressed his thumb, causing the slip to glow and burn with a bright yellow light. Instantly, color returns to Jimmy's skin as he quickly exhales another round of bile. "Good. You're out of the trance. Jimmy, right?"

"W-What's going on?" asked Jimmy, fighting the words out in between sobs. The boy is hoisted up onto his feet, with Batman placing a charm in the boy's hands. 

"No time for questions. Listen to me, run to the gate and place the charm on the outside. Then say these in this order, never break it or stop. And whatever you do, don't look back!"

"B-But," Batman pulled him close, whispering the chant into his young ears before pushing away. With little to no hesitation, he leaped over the grave, chain whip in hand. 

"No buts. NOW GO!" Jimmy trembled as he cowered behind the headstone. The sounds of battle raging on behind him, Crane's screaming and roaring burrowing into his eardrums. Clutching the charm to his chest, he bolted forward, screaming with his full breath. 

"JIMMY! JIMMMMMYYYYYYY!!!!!! Don't YOU RUN FROM ME!!!"

Jimmy screamed louder to ignore the ghouls' cries. He felt the ground distort and change around him; each drop of rain felt like another weight being added onto him. His legs wobbled, and his breathing became raggedy.

"KEEP GOING!" Screamed Batman from the battlefield. Jimmy pushed forward, ignoring the pain in his body as he neared the gate. 

"Jimmy?" 

His body froze; still, his blood went cold as he trembled in place. A feminine voice wormed its way into his ears. It was kind, concerned, and all-around comforting. "Jimmy? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be home!"

"M-Mom. I-" his words clung to his throat; every synapse in his brain screamed at him to keep running, but his legs refused to move. 

"I work day and night! Slave over a hot stove to feed you! And here you are, doing god knows what! HERE! WHAT ABOUT YOUR BROTHER! GOD! WHY MUST YOU CONSTANTLY DISAPPOINT ME!!!" 

Her once kind voice fell apart at the arrival of a sinister and distorted cracked tone. Like nails on a chalkboard, she continued her ravings, getting ever closer to the boy. "I SHOULD'VE LEFT YOU ON THE STREET WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE! YOU' IRRITATING CANCER ON MY LIFE!!!"

Her rants continued, even more, causing Jimmy to fall to his knees in terror. He was done. This was all too much for one boy to go through. He-he should've just surrendered himself to Crane and saved himself and others the pain, but before he could turn around to accept his fate. One of Batman's daggers flew past him, nipping his cheek and snapping him out of the trance. In the reflection of the blade, he saw Batman lunging at the giant Scarecrow avoiding every attack. 

"KEEP GOING!" he yelled from the battlefield. Jimmy clenched his teeth, and despite every molecule in his body yelling at him. He ran forward, ignoring Crane's grip on his soul as he grabbed hold of the rusty gate and slammed the paper charm against it. With a deep breath, he screamed out the command given to him by Batman. 

"Through the murky waters and misty woods, I cast this spirit out of this infernal boon. I renounce your evil power and hold. I remove your binding from my soul! Jonathan Crane, I demand your soul leaves this place! I remove your brand and fear you NO MORE!!!!"

BRAKAKAKOOOM!!!!!!

A bright white light blinded Jimmy, its light burned his shirt, and he felt what felt like lightning strike every cell in his body. As he flew back from the explosion, the world fell apart around him into a bright orange void. He turned around, and all he saw was the burlap sack containing Crane's face burned away, and his natural face was revealed to his former victim. 

His hollow eyes released a waterfall of blood and tar, and his mouth released curses in a language, not even he could parse. The demon's face opened its maw and flew towards Jimmy, cackling as it attempted one last time to claim the boy's soul. 

"NOT TODAY!!" 

Before he could swallow the boy whole, Batman descended with his cross in hand, unleashing the bladed tip with the chain. He slammed his weapon in between Crane's eyes, cracking the skull apart and unleashing a bright and unholy white light. Jimmy screamed, only to be scooped up in Batman's arms as the two were engulfed in the explosion.

"Yo, Jimmy. You okay?"

Jimmy opened his eyes and screamed as he fell to the dirty floor. He scanned the area, finding himself surrounded by his former friend as they stood before the gate. The Batman was nowhere in sight and not a sign of Crane. The scratch on his cheek was no longer there nor the charm he'd used to defeat the demon. 

"I-I gotta go home." With little hesitation, Jimmy rode off home. A new sense of vigor in his veins as he left the cemetery. The remaining boy's began to ponder and eventually mock Jimmy's quickness. Still, they too fled in droves as they finally took notice of the large black and grey figure that loomed over them draped in a long black cape. His white eyes sent fear deep into their souls as they evacuated the area in haste. 

"Good. And stay out." He said. Batman Batman turned to the site of the paranormal he stood in moments earlier. He placed a small blue gem within the lock of the gate; within seconds, the gate crackled and resonated with an electric blue aura. It hummed before going silent, forever. Batman smirked and turned away, vanishing into the night to his next battle against the monsters in the night. 

-THE END-

[organabanana]

leaves of three, let it be [2/3] || harlivy

Chapters: 2/3

Fandom:  DCU (Comics)DCUHarley Quinn (Comics)Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel

Characters: Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle

Additional Tags: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of batman fucking bats, most of this is straight up idiocy tbh, i just finished watching the cartoon so everyone swears like a sailor i’m sorry, rated for (ahem) happenings later on, ivy/harley/catwoman frenemies

Summary

After Harley mistakenly confesses her love and then promptly takes it back, Ivy spends some time sorting through the things she absolutely doesn't feel (and the ones she does). Selina and Harley don't quite help.

Chapter 1: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 2: AO3

If you ever asked Poison Ivy if she’s into meditation, she’d say she isn’t.

Actually, if you ever asked Poison Ivy if she’s into meditation, she’d probably stare you down until you crumbled under the sheer weight of her judgment and apologized for ever talking to her, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, Ivy doesn’t meditate. The concept of meditation, if you ask her, goes in the same patchouli-scented box as moon-charged crystals and essential oils.

No. What Ivy does is… introspection. Yeah. She introspects. She consciously clears her mind of all intrusive thoughts. Which may sound a lot like meditation, maybe? But — she cannot stress this enough — it’s not the same thing.

So there she is. Sitting on her couch. Introspecting. And it may look like she’s staring off into the distance, but she’s actually looking at a nearly invisible, tiny little hint of a green sprout that’s managed to grow in a crack on the windowsill.

There it is. A tiny little fighter. Just like—

Nope.

No way.

We are absolutely not thinking about her. We’re introspecting. So Ivy takes in a deep breath, in through her nose, eyes fluttering closed as she exhales slowly and then opens them and tries again.

As she was saying. A tiny little sprout. She could go over there and touch it and quite literally breathe life into it. She can’t tell what kind of plant it is, but she could make it bloom if it’s a flowering species. What if it’s a tree? She could make it grow so big its roots would tear this whole building apart just like her heart was torn apart last ni—

Motherf—

“Morning, my little dill pickle.”

Selina climbs in through the window, practically gliding into Ivy’s apartment with the kind of grace that would normally make Ivy stop and stare and perhaps have a not-quite-respectful thought or two.

Listen: she has eyes. Don’t read into it.

Anyway. As graceful and ridiculously nimble as Selina is, she’s also way up high in Ivy’s shit list at the moment (second only to you know who), so today is not the day for lighthearted conversation and platonic crushes.

“Fuck you, Selina,” Ivy offers as a greeting, glancing at the plant to make sure it’s still there. And it is, of course. Selina fucking Kyle may be a bitch and a half, but she knows how to move without leaving a trace.

“Now?” Selina cocks one perfectly manicured eyebrow at Ivy, the slightest hint of a teasing smirk on her face. “I mean I was gonna offer brunch, but that doesn’t sound like the worst midday plan.”

Ivy simply stares for a moment, as if she’s forgotten if there’s one person in the world that’s absolutely immune to even her most wilting looks, that’s Selina fucking Kyle.

“Oh, come on,” Selina practically groans, “stop it. Brooding is such a teen boy move.”

“I am not brooding.”

“Right.” With one single word, Selina makes it clear that she doesn’t believe Ivy and, most importantly, that she doesn’t care enough to argue. “Anyway. Brunch? My treat.”

Ivy closes her eyes. Not meditating. Just introspecting. Just trying to channel the urge to make a full-grown sequoia grow out of Selina Kyle’s ass into something productive. One deep breath in through her nose and—

“We can have margaritas!” Selina lets out a quiet chuckle as she admires the perfectly matte black polish on her fingernails. “Yikes. Too soon?”

Fuck introspection.

“I. Am going. To fucking murder you.” Ivy stands up with every intention to make good on that promise, and Selina must read it in her eyes because for the first time since Ivy’s known her — for the first time in her life, maybe — Selina looks scared.

Well, maybe not scared.

But she is absolutely concerned.

“Fuck me, Ive, damn,” Selina takes one step back, no longer smirking, “calm down, will you?”

Ivy stops, Selina’s audacity basically jolting her out of her murderous rage. “Calm down, Selina? Fucking seriously? You did what you did and now you come here and tell me to fucking calm down?”

Selina tilts her head just so, like she’s conceding (against her will) that maybe there is a reason for Ivy to be somewhat upset with her.

“Oh, come on,” she sighs, rolling her shoulders like the tension has to leave her body somehow, and it will certainly not be via an apology, “it wasn’t even real poison.”

Ivy’s eyes widen slightly in disbelief. Does Selina think she’s mad because she thinks Harley was in actual danger?

No. No, Selina can’t think that, because Selina may be an asshole, but she’s a very smart asshole. So she must know Ivy’s well aware of Harley’s immunity to toxins. She must know that’s not even remotely the reason Ivy’s spent the last eleven hours and some change introspecting all thoughts of last night out of her mind.

For a split second, Ivy feels something similar to warmth towards Selina as she considers that maybe she’s simply ignoring the embarrassing part of the event to spare Ivy. Maybe she’s pretending this is about Harley’s physical wellbeing and not… well. The other thing.

Sadly, the split second passes.

“If it helps,” Selina says, and even before she finishes the sentence Ivy can already sense it won’t help at all, “it’s totally reciprocated.”

Ivy feels it crawling up her veins, thick like sap. She’s managed to distill plenty of emotions, turned them into tonics and toxins and elixirs and used them for her own benefit and the Green’s. She’s bottled love — well, lust — and hatred and rage. Fear, even. Insanity, ironically enough. But this.

This… this humiliation.

Oh, this is something else.

Ivy closes her eyes. In through her nose, and even the air feels like it has to go through that thick mixture of (public) pain and weakness and acknowledged vulnerability to get to her lungs.

It’s one thing to have Harley see her like this. Like that. Like last night. Defenses down and heart out there in the open like her ribcage’s forgotten its purpose. That’s fine, she figures, because it’s been the norm for years and years and years. It’s nothing new, really, to have Harley see her accidentally stumble over the line into pathetic from time to time. It happens.

But Selina.

Selina fucking Kyle.

Selina saw that and she understood what she was seeing and now she’s acknowledging it, and Ivy isn’t even mad anymore.

I mean, she is. She’s really fucking mad.

She’s just many other things as well as mad, so it’s harder to focus on it.

Out through her mouth. Slowly. And her voice is nice and even when she opens her eyes and looks at Selina once again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ivy lies, walking towards the kitchen like that had been her intention all along, “there is nothing to reciprocate.”

Ivy can feel Selina’s look on the back of her head. She’s not going to give her the satisfaction of turning around, of course. Selina Kyle’s ego is healthy enough as it is. But she can absolutely feel it. A look involving an arched eyebrow and narrowed eyes and possibly a smirk. Maybe the slightest purse of painted lips, if she’s going for judgmental rather than smug.

Selina is multi-faceted in her scorn.

“You have got to be shitting me, Ive,” Selina says, and Ivy still refuses to turn around, focusing instead on staring at the interior of her fridge and ignoring the fact that ninety percent of its contents are there for Harley’s all-day snacking needs.

She ends up grabbing a jug of water not because she’s thirsty, but simply because it’s the only thing in there she knows for a fact is there just for her.

“Seriously?” Selina prods, walking closer and crossing her arms over her chest as she watches Ivy methodically fill a glass of water like it’s a delicate operation that requires her undivided attention. “You’re such a fucking pussy. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

Ivy does turn around then, gripping the glass with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary. In her defense, she’d much rather be gripping Selina’s neck instead.

“Once again, Selina,” she says with a slight shrug, taking a sip of cold water, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

Selina gapes at her. It’s kind of flattering, actually. It’s not every day something leaves Selina Kyle fully unable to speak. Maybe — Ivy thinks to herself, enjoying her water — she’ll never speak again. Maybe she’ll leave Gotham entirely. Wouldn’t that be just—

Ivy’s train of thought is completely derailed by something that is never a good sign: Selina Kyle is laughing.

Not chuckling. Not snickering. Not letting out one of those sarcastic giggles she likes to use to obliterate people’s entire self-esteem.

No. No, this is honest to goodness, full-on belly laughter, and it’s fucking terrifying.

“Wh— what the fuck, Selina?” Ivy asks, trying to sound less scared than she actually is. Selina’s sense of humor is not so much dark as it is downright fucked up, and if she’s finding something in this situation funny, it can only mean someone is about to get crushed, metaphorically or otherwise.

All signs point to Ivy.

“Look at you!” Selina points in the general direction of Ivy, like she’s about to rip her fashion sense to shreds. But this, sadly, has nothing to do with clothes. “Holy shit, you’re in so much deeper than I thought, this is fucking hilarious.”

Ivy takes one step back, until her hip bumps against the counter and she blindly feels around to leave the half-empty glass on it. To her credit, she still manages to try and infuse her voice with something resembling nonchalance one last time.

“You’re not making any sen—“

“Man, you’re in love, in love, huh?”

Ivy’s been shot before. So she feels like she’s not being overly dramatic when she says Selina’s words feel just like that. Like being shot right in the gut. And Ivy tries to be as stoic as she usually is when faced with things like gunshots and blunt force and bat-shaped ninja stars (holy fuck, he’s such a nerd), but she feels a bit like she’s been standing on a castle of cards for the last… however many years it’s been since she met Dr. Quinzel in Arkham, and Selina’s just figured out exactly where to blow to make it all come tumbling down.

“I mean I knew you two were into each other. Obviously,” Selina continues, and Ivy suddenly understands the exact meaning of all those expressions regarding cats and mice, “but I thought it was like… well, you know. Friends in need of a nudge towards the benefits. But this.”

Selina shakes her head, smile as wide as her eyes. She looks both surprised and delighted. Like she’s really just found out there are feelings involved in whatever lust-filled fever dream she’d interpreted as reality before now.

“And you’re the one who’s doing all the yearning. I totally thought she was the useless one. Holy shit.” Selina takes a couple steps in the direction of the window, like using a door like a normal person is simply not an option for her. “How long?”

Ivy opens her mouth, but Selina interrupts her before any sound can come out.

“Don’t answer that. I already know.” Selina waves her hand dismissively. “No wonder you’re fucking terrified. You’d be safer falling in love with an actual hyena.”

“I’m not—“

“Please.” Selina reaches the window and notices that little plant for the first time, giving it a little pat that could almost pass for affectionate if you didn’t know Selina Kyle. “So what’s scarier, Ive?” Selina almost purrs the question. “That she may not love you back, or that she probably does?”

Ivy tells herself she could murder Selina right then and there, with the help from the little plant. Hell, she could probably kill her without help from the plant.

But that wouldn’t really fix anything, right?

“Anyway!” Selina lets out a happy little sigh as she slinks out of the window and onto the fire escape outside. “No brunch, then. I’ll leave you to your brooding.” Her smile turns into a smirk then, eyes narrowed like she’s about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. “And don’t worry, Ive. I can keep a secret.”

Selina winks at her before she disappears.

Ivy refuses, pointedly, to think about her conversation with Selina.

She tries to go back to her introspection, but it turns out there’s no breathing in and out when your chest is full of feelings to the point of actual physical discomfort, so Ivy gives up on that, too.

She could plot. Scheme, if you will. It’s been a while since she’s gone for an actual multi-step plan to rid Gotham — and, later, the world — of parasitic CEOs profiting off nature. A bit of environmentally friendly murder never fails to put her in a good mood.

But it turns out it’s nearly impossible to come up with a solo plan without being constantly aware of the fact that going solo is no longer her default. A plan involving only herself doesn’t feel like just any random plan anymore. Now it feels like a plan without her, and that’s just— that’s just the opposite of what she needs to be thinking about right now.

So.

What’s an eco-terrorist to do when eco-terrorism is not an option?

Eight hours later she’s in her lab, hair haphazardly held in a bun with a pencil as she looks at her latest experiment through her microscope.

The little sprout from her windowsill sits right next to the microscope in a beaker serving as a makeshift flower pot while Ivy works.

“You know, if this works,” Ivy tells the sprout, eyes trained on the cell that should enter active mitosis any second now, “you’re going to be my sidekick when we take down the next big guy.”

If this works, and she can give this tiny plant the powers she hopes to give her, they can take over Gotham and the world as a team. Ivy’s always worked best with plants, anyway. Who needs—

“Red?”

Harley’s voice is uncharacteristically mellow, but it manages to startle Ivy anyway.

“Jesus, Harley,” Ivy doesn’t look away from the microscope, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

She’s not mad. Not at Harley, anyway. None of this is her fault. She’s just—

Listen. Figuring out exactly what to call what she’s feeling would require introspection, and we’re not doing that anymore.

“Oh. I uh—“ There’s something in Harley’s tone that twists uncomfortably in Ivy’s chest. “Wanted to talk?”

Ivy doesn’t want to talk. Talking, as it turns out, may be the very last thing she wants to do. But there’s that something in Harley’s voice. Something that sounds a bit like embarrassment. Like shame, even. Like maybe if Ivy were to listen in on Harley’s inner monologue right now the voice in there would sound suspiciously like him calling her a fuck-up and an idiot and—

“I’m sorry.” Ivy leaves the little plant’s cell to enter mitosis in its own time and turns to fully focus on Harley. “I didn’t mean to snap. You just startled me.”

Harley visibly relaxes. Ivy decides she hates him just that much more than she did ten seconds ago.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya,” Harley leaves her bat propped against the trunk of a giant nightshade and takes a few steps towards Ivy.

Normally, Harley has no concept of personal space. She sits on whatever surface is closest to Ivy, invading her space and making it impossible for her to fully focus on anything that’s not Harley. It should be annoying, but it isn’t, for reasons Ivy is absolutely not going to consider at this time.

This time, however, Harley hovers just a step or two away from Ivy and her microscope and her standing desk.

It feels…

It feels wrong.

“What did you want to talk about?” Ivy taps the desk and tries not to smile when Harley beams as she practically bounces to sit on it. Her legs dangle over the edge, well-worn combat boots lightly bumping against Ivy’s legs with each soft swing of Harley’s feet.

Nothing really feels wrong anymore.

“I’m sorry, Pammy.”

Ivy shakes her head. “It’s fine. You know you’re always welcome here, I just wasn’t expecting—“

“No,” Harley says, and when Ivy looks into her eyes she realizes Harley’s not going to let her pretend she has no idea what this is about, “I mean I’m sorry about the other night.”

Ivy stands up a little straighter. Takes half a step back, like that’s going to help. Crosses her arms over her chest.

“It’s fine.”

Harley tilts her head just so, bright blue eyes narrowing for a second, and Ivy sees a flash of Harleen right there staring back at her. Reading her fucking thoughts, almost. It’s unnerving.

“It’s fine, Harley,” Ivy insists, tone sharper as she takes another step back. She can hear the low rumble of every vine in her lab stirring along with her mood.

There’s a moment there, maybe a few seconds long, where they both simply stare at each other in silence. Like they’re trying to figure each other out in a way that feels completely foreign because she knows Harley, and Harley knows her, and there’s nothing to figure out. Nothing at all.

“You know—“ Harley’s voice sounds a bit brittle, like it may just break if it hits the wrong word, “you know I didn’t mean it, Pammy.”

Ivy nods. Once.

“I know.” She knows now and she knew when she first met Harley and she’s known for the last however many years it’s been. She fucking knows it’s love but it’s not love like that. She knows. “It’s fine.”

“You know Selina just got in my head, right?” Harley keeps talking, and on some level Ivy knows there’s nothing to be angry about because Harley just wants to explain. She just wants to make sure things aren’t weird between them because they’re best friends. But it feels almost cruel anyway. “You know I don’t—“

“I know you don’t love me, Harley, yes, for fuck’s sakes, I’m not an idiot.”

“But I—“

“Don’t.” Ivy holds one finger up. If she has to listen to Harley say she loves her, but just not in that way she may lose her fucking mind. “It’s fine.”

For a few blessed seconds, it feels like maybe Harley will let it go. Like maybe she’ll just drop it and let Ivy get out of this with some semblance of pride.

But that would just be too much to ask, wouldn’t it?

“I do love you, Ive, it’s just—“

“Holy shit, Harley!” Ivy raises her voice and hears the tell-tale creak of vines growing up the wall. “I know! I fucking know, all right? Selina is a dick and you thought margarita mix was a love potion and you’re not fucking in love with me, all right? I know!”

“But—“

“No! No fucking but!” Ivy swears she hears it. The little snap when she loses her last thread of control over what she’s saying and things spill out before she has a chance to filter them. “I don’t love you either, have you even considered that?”

Harley’s eyes widen in the purest expression of surprise Ivy’s ever seen in her life.

“Right!” There’s a part of Ivy that wants to stop. She wants to stop and backtrack and tell Harley she didn’t mean it because she can’t stand the thought of hurting her, and she needs her to know that of course — of course — Ivy loves her. But she just can’t right now. “I’m not secretly in love with you! All right? I’m glad you don’t love me. I’m fucking fine.”

Harley opens her mouth like she’s about to speak, but closes it without making a sound. She doesn’t look hurt, necessarily. She looks… she looks disarmed, almost. Like she doesn’t know how to react.

“I’ll just—“ Harley swallows and jumps off the desk. “We’re fine, so I’ll just leave. Yeah?”

Ivy nods. “Fine.”

“Cool. Yeah.” Harley sort of smiles, but not really. She moves a bit slower than usual as she goes back to her bat and walks towards the door, and there’s a part of Ivy that wants to stop her and fix this somehow — because it’s not fine at all — but self-preservation wins in the end.

“Remember to lock the door on your way out.”

For a second, Harley almost looks like she may say something. And for a second, Ivy almost hopes she will. But Harley just nods and walks out, and when she hears the lock snap into place, Ivy knows she’s all alone with her plants.

Right where she belongs.

[sasorikigai]

“ things would be so much easier if we were a bit more honest with each other. “ ( twunk Ryou @ modern Hanzo )

love confession starters || @sonxflight || accepting

💥 || Grief has cracked open his ribcage, stuck its hands in his chest and is still tearing out all that it could grasp. It is sitting on his heavy legs, to keep him anchored and rooted still, hands bleeding crimson red, slick, shredding his lungs, clawing his stomach, squeezing his heart to bursting. Most often, being the Commander of Tactical Retrieval Force becomes not only a honored title, but his raison d'être so he does not dissipate into nothing and hurtle himself in the throes of maddening imprisonment of depression. The walls are all around him; so close, and Hanzo Hasashi is a pebble lost in the middle of a barrel of boulders. This place, this universe he takes his residence in is so small, and yet, he is forced to see everything in his delirious ruminations. Claustrophobic, suffocating, his sanity getting more lost every day he plunges himself into the inescapable vacuum of void. 

Even in the most excruciating pain and disquietude of his heart and soul, for so long, there had been no sound, no word that could rid them from his vessel. This must be the price I pay for love, Hanzo bitterly muses with such nostalgic yearning writhing his heart and soul that he has to grimace. Something is missing now. I need to get it out, but the accumulated grief empties my chest and fills with further burden; sharp and dense and so unbearably heavy and its face is permeated with impuissant sorrow and melancholy. This is the price I pay for love; for grief is unconditional, immortal love, unfinished and unrealized. 

The Commander and his Second-in-Command find themselves strapped in the same police cruiser, with him in the driver’s seat and the latter in the passenger’s. And Hanzo finds himself in a displaced reality where time grows smaller, while his heart expands. A sky hidden inside, breaking colors of dawn and dusk, feeling every single day like a rising tide lapping with vehement force, as a metaphorical earthquake shakes his loose-psychological and mental wounds, rendering Hanzo Hasashi’s even rarest happiest moments naught. He must pull closer to the reality than those inconclusive, incorporeal dreams he continues to conjure in his psyche, by stretching dimensions, by letting go. 

“Indeed, but what do I do when I am too wounded at times, in the place where I would know love? The proverbial sun of my love now feels more like a dagger in my chest; too bright, too sharp, cracking me open as the reflections burn through my eye,” but he could bare in his skinless shape, all the crude terror of his faults and vices wide open. For violent nature of his life had permeated and painted stains and blemishes, leaving bloodstains in the churning palms of tightened fists, grinding apart the brittle bones in adversaries’ shaky necks. Lest his own frayed vocal cords wither away as decrepit screams drown his lungs in muck, the hazy sunlight directly challenging his view seems to taunt him from on high, far above the murky waters of inevitable nightfall, as swallowing rain clouds enshroud the quiet highway. 

“My love won’t be all fucking cotton candy, strawberries and cream, and tartlets. It may be bitter and sour like vinegar, like that unripe fruit or like that pasta sauce that you don’t usually like. My love is bittersweet; it’s every goddamn fucking thing and it is also nothing, but you will get every unapologetic, authentic honesty of me that isn’t shrouded in deception, fabricated nonsense and shit.” It is up to Ryou Sakai to either savor its true essence and taste of him or let it pass. How Hanzo Hasashi’s eyes beg to receive, still somewhat weary from delivering his no-bullshit and direct declaration of his love. How his sensuous smile, which used to seldom mask the scarring that taints his austere, gruff countenance, as the ebullient scintillation of his dark brown eyes linger towards his subject, before having to coax his concentration back on the road.  💥 ||

[gothbitchjuice]

Gone So Long - A Pick-Your-Own Insert

A small, fluffy love letter drabble written for you to insert the character of your choosing <3

------------------------------

Months passed by, for what had felt like years. A mission like this normally didn't take so long, but there was more to it than what was originally anticipated. Every day you sat. Every day you waited. You stared at the door longingly, awaiting that it would vibrate with a knock, signaling your love sending you word of his safety, or even word arriving of his demise. At most, you hoped to hear the heavy deadbolt slide and he be standing there with his awkward broken smile and arms wide open for you to fill the void between. But it had been so, so long. Finally, the moment you looked away from the door and forgot momentarily of the slab of wood on hinges, a knock echoed through the empty home. You ran, swinging the door open, but alas- no one was on the other side. Only a letter wrapped in an envelope dotted with blood. You frantically your through the wrapping, unfolding the letter.

You began to read.

"My love. The time I've spent with you over the past year has been some of the happiest, most memorable experiences and times of my life. Everything you do in this world illuminates us all. You have such a light that shines from you and eliminates all the darkness. In my life, there's been suffering and heartbreak at every turn. Trauma hides around corners to pop out when I least expect it. Anxiety seeps its way into my skin and plagues my brain, while depression overtakes my soul. All of these monsters seem to be out to get me just like they have since the beginning of my existence, but ever since I met you, I'm not scared of the monsters anymore. With you here, they don't seem to come out anymore. Instead, they cower back in fear, and if they dare try to emerge from the shadows, your light disintegrates them into dust. Pretty ironic, isn't it? You emit such immense amounts of love, I sometimes worry that I'll be crushed beneath the weight of your heart. I often ask myself what good deed I've done to deserve you. There's no amount of good karma on this earth to equivalently exchange for your mere presence. I know at times you worry about your impact and feel that you are alone. I want to assure you that you'll never, ever, ever be alone with me here. I couldn't leave you alone after being with you... you've become my oxygen. Without you, I'd asphyxiate; but if you wanted me be to, I'd happily give up air. I'd drown in you. I'd gasp for air until my vision went white. I feel like I could go on forever making romantic analogies and metaphors, but to be honest it would just be too prolong the inevitable.. to prolong telling you the truth that I've been too scared to say to you seriously. There aren't words to properly explain to you the way that you make me feel; just how cared for, appreciated, joyful, at home, excited, thrilled, tranquil, at peace you make me feel. How yellow you make me feel. If I could fit every synonym and adjective on a confession letter for you, I'd do it, but sadly, there isn't enough room or enough time. So I have to settle for small words with such enormous meaning. I love you. I love how you treat me. I love how you play music because it makes you think of me. I love how you cry because I cry. I love the way your nose crinkles when you genuinely smile. I love how you hold my hand and give me kisses and hug me close. I love that you miss me. I love your excitement for the little things in this life, and I love that you want to share these experiences with me. I wish I believed in a God so I'd know who to thank for sending you to me, because you couldn't have come from less than a higher power. You really are my soul mate, in every sense of the word. Now that I have you, I don't know what I'd do without you. When you're far away, my heart hurts. It pulls against my ribcage like there's a magnet in it strong enough to pull me to wherever you are, and my eyes pool with tears whenever I miss you. So I cry a lot. I don't really know what else to say to you, because as I said, there just aren't enough words to exist to express my sentiment to you, so I guess 'I love you' will have to suffice.

I love you, darling. More than you'll ever know."

You hold the letter close to your heart and smile brightly, just as you always do. He really does love you too, and he's alive. It makes it better, heals you a bit.. that he's been Gone So Long.