#Dark & Twisties

[peachesofteal]

Black Sun

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/female reader 5.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Dark and twisty. Explicit sex, dubious consent, forced breeding/pregnancy kink, praise kink, size difference, creampie. Simon is insane about you. Panty sniffing/stealing. Obsessive behavior. Possessive Simon Riley. Alcohol. Reader is prescribed/taking muscle relaxers. Toxic but I think it's sweet. Angst, comfort, emotional hurt/comfort. Tags are for your health, not mine. Simon never wanted a divorce.

Simon does not consider himself a common criminal.

A war criminal, perhaps. The things he’s done for the 141 would put him behind bar in over fifty countries, and on death row in at least eight. The things he’s seen alone make him eligible for life in a padded room, and that’s if you don’t count the things that have happened to him.

But he’s never stooped to petty crime like this before. Before this mess. Before you asked for a divorce, insisted he move out, demanded time apart.

There’s a first time for everything, he thinks. First time for a lot of things, actually. The first time he actively tried to avoid the divorce paperwork, first time he let his obsession take him this far, first time he indulged in his darkest fantasies, things he wouldn’t even dare whisper about to Price-

The door welcomes him like it always does, squeak gone from the hinges, greased out by his hands in the middle of the night last week, swinging wide so he can silently step across the threshold… into his house. Into yours.

Riley whines in greeting, lowering himself into a play bow, and Simon kneels to pet him, rubbing his between the ears and under the chin just how he likes, before instructing him back to his bed, to keep watch. He’d maul another man who tried to step foot in here, per his training, but his dad- his dad is okay. His dad is allowed.

It’s not that he’s too far gone to recognize the complete dismantlement of your boundaries, it’s that he doesn’t care. The chilling fear of losing you has seeped deep into his bones, fostering the growth of a plan that he knows is not rational, or right.

He knows what he is doing is wrong, but he cannot stop himself.

You are his. His wife. His life, his person, his reason for it all. You’re the sun and the moon and the stars and everything that makes this miserable fucking existence worth living.

He’ll do anything to keep you.

Anything.

So, it doesn’t feel wrong when he stands in the bedroom at the foot of his bed, watching you sleep, twisted up in the blankets, favoring your one side like your shoulder must have been bothering you before you fell asleep. It concerns him, worries him, this lack of improvement regarding your pain, and he wonders if maybe you should be in physical therapy.

It doesn’t feel wrong, when he traces the curve of your ass, perked up in the sheets, as if you’re waiting for him to strip your ratty little sleep shorts down to your knees and shove his cock to your cervix. He wonders if you’d even wake up if he rubbed his nose across the seam of your cunt. You’ve always been a heavy sleeper, through thunder or commotion, you’d stay sweet with your lashes flush against your cheeks, mouth slightly open in a soft snore.

He leans over you in bed, stroking the back of your head with his hand before pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple, something he knows won’t stir you, not with you how deep you’re dreaming, and certainly not with the muscle relaxer in your system.

He is a stealth operator, after all. It’s not like he hasn’t been watching, observing your new routines, the changes to your schedules and habits that have appeared over these last few months. The muscle relaxers, for example, that were prescribed for the strain in your neck and shoulder, that you’ve been taking once an evening for a week and a half, around six thirty. They’re extended release, usually able to keep you mostly pain free through the night, and he’s grateful to your doctor for insisting upon them. For more reasons than one.

He gives you another light kiss before pulling the sheet up around your shoulders, tucking you in how you like. You get cold in the middle of the night, icicle toes usually wandering across the mattress to seek the space between his thighs for warmth, shocking him into a gasp that would elicit a string of sleepy giggles from your mouth. He makes sure you’re comfortable, before slinking onto the second part of his routine.

The bathroom.

Every night, he holds his breath as the medicine cabinet pops open. He hates the anticipation, the fear of what he could discover, dreads the idea of having to start the clock over or worse, swap them for placebo. You never disappoint him though, and he catalogues the perfectly color-coded rows of birth control pills that haven’t been touched in over a month, not since his last op with wicked desire hearting his belly. What a good girl you are.

Before, he would have told you the opposite. He did, tell you the opposite. He told you were good, so good, for taking your pills, for making sure that you were safe for him, that there wouldn’t be any accidents. Guilt would eat at him each time the two of you had the argument, the ‘discussion’, about having a baby, and you would cry with misery staining your cheeks.

 “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” He tried to tell you, dozens of times, that he didn’t think he’d be good at it, that he wouldn’t like being gone so much, leaving you at home all the time with a baby.

“I love you, Simon. I want to have a baby, with you. My husband. Is that so wrong?” You would cry, and he could feel the weight of his choice breaking you apart, the pressure cracking beneath his skull.

“You… you don’t understand. I- I can’t.” 

It’s not why you asked for a divorce, but it certainly played a part.

Something catches his eye when he turns to leave, a wayward item of clothing hanging haphazardly outside of the hamper.

Your underwear.

He plucks the scrap of blue lace and cotton from the edge and balls it into his fist, bringing it to his nose with a deep inhale. It’s sick, the way he needs you, the way the smell of your dirty panties, the honeyed ambrosia of your musk, makes his mouth water like a juvenile. Before he can change his mind, he shoves them in his pocket. He doesn’t usually take things, too aware of potentially tipping you off, but this; this is something he needs.

“Simon, can we please just… can we please just meet up and at least look at these papers?” It’s early for you to be up, on a Saturday, and he frowns at the screen in contemplation. Before, you’d never be up this early. Before, you would have insisted he stay under the covers with you, would have draped your body over his eagerly to convince him, sweetening him to your side with barely a whisper.

“How many weekends do we even get, anyway? This is your first one home in weeks. Stay in bed with me.” And he would, because of course he would. Because there was no place he’d rather be in those moments, curled up in bed, his nose in your hair, watching the rise and fall of your chest just to be sure it was all real, that it wasn’t some cruel dream that would disappear as soon as he woke up.

“You’ve been home for two weeks and haven’t even looked at them.” He grits his teeth, pressing the hard edge of his phone into his cheek. He can’t be divorced if there’s no signature. But you sound exasperated, stressed, and he’s eager to fix it for you, easily agreeing without too much badgering.

“Alright, sweetheart. Alright. I’ll meet you.”

He cannot believe his luck.

You’re nervous. Your hands flitter about, constantly touching the table, the silverware, your sore shoulder, the manilla envelope before finding the stem of your wine glass and tilting it to your lips, swallowing the alcohol over and over without any kind of hesitation. You must not have taken the muscle relaxer. He's well versed in navigating your emotions, calming you into a relaxed state with a few words or a reassuring touch, and he wants to reach out and take your hand in his, soothe you, tell you that everything is alright but… it would serve no purpose for him tonight. Sorry, sweet girl. He sits at the little two top across from you with his arms crossed, watching his lack of interest in the conversation break you down, little by little, until you’re ordering another glass of wine, and then a third, all while he nurses the same glass of bourbon. The alcohol distracts you, strays you from your course, and you eventually stop trying to try talk about that bloody manilla envelope, leaning to one side a little more than the other in your chair. When you order a shot after dinner is over, he doesn’t protest, just watches your tongue follow the seam of the citrus wedge, dabbing along the spongy white fibers before your teeth dig into the flesh of it, lime juice squirting across your tongue.

He loves you drunk. Loves you sober, loves you tired, or grumpy, or smiling. He loves you anyway he can get you, but sometimes, when you’re like this, your smile sweet like sticky toffee, buzzing and humming, it helps him get away from himself, helps him stay present and lost inside you, swept up in you. It makes him think about the honeymoon, your feet buried in the sand, tucked away in secluded cove, no one around for miles. He fucked you on the beach, fucked you in the ocean, fucked you in someone else’s cabana that day, and you giggled the whole time. Pearly pitched music that wrapped in him the strongest feeling of bliss, skin that tasted like brine and sun, your hand in his on the walk back the hotel, peeking under your wide brim hat every few minutes to press his lips to yours.

“Wan’ one?” He shakes his head, but pulls your hand into his, feeling the warmth of your skin. When you don’t pull away, his blood heats, churning through his veins like fire. “Figured.” You sigh, and then flash him a mischievous, coy grin. Cheeky girl. Think you’re so clever. “Want to get out of here?” You croon, and he smiles indulgently behind the mask. “Lead the way.”

You’re giggly, excited when he bends you over the table, the kitchen table where you used to eat together, breakfast for dinner when he’d come home, waffles and bacon at one in the morning.

You don’t protest when he slides your skirt down your hips and over your ass, thumbs spreading you wide to reveal your glistening cunt, twitching and desperate.

“My poor girl, has it been so long?” He coos, relishing in the way you moan with your lips on the wood. He knows it has, knows you haven’t been with anyone since the last time he fucked you, months and months ago, on the night you asked for the divorce. “Shhh. I’m here now, I’m gonna take care of it.”  

“You have to pull out.” You slur, breath hot, fogging against the finish of the table. “Promise.” He grunts something under his breath, nonsense, but you can’t tell the difference, and when he slides inside your scorching cunt, you howl, breath hitching with the stretch.

Bleedin’ Christ. You’re so tight, so wet, soaked enough that it sticks to the curls around the base of his cock. How could he ever give this up? 

“That’s it.” He kisses your shoulder, pressing his chest to your back with his weight, pinning you in place, his hands clamping down around your wrists like shackles. “Squeeze me tight, good girl. Show me-“ Show me how you’re going to hold my come in your tight little pussy once I fill you- comes to mind, but he bites his tongue instead, not willing to tip you off too soon.

To have and to hold. In sickness and in health. For better or worse. 

I promise to love and cherish you. 

Till death does us part.  

Till death. 

“Simooon.” You sing, hips start to push back with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, chasing him, chasing your pleasure, mouth half open with the little pants and whines that are music to his ears. He keeps you pinned, flat against the table, fingers between your legs, stroking your clit, shoving you closer to your orgasm, delightfully pleased by the way your pussy pulses around him.

“Come on.” He urges, big hand between you and the table, pressing against your lower belly, still tapping away at your clit, indulging in the trembling of your legs.

“Fuck- fuck, Si.” You cry, clenching down around him with your orgasm, voice breaking.

“There it is… what a good girl.” He hisses, keeping his pace, pushing deeper and deeper until he’s notching himself nearly inside your womb. It’s overwhelming for you, he knows, but he doesn’t stop swirling his fingers around your clit, zapping electric pulses through body.

“Nngh Si. Too- ooh it’s- it’s too much.” You wail, a tear on your cheek, and he nods, nosing above your ear.

“I know. You’re doing so good for me, so perfect.” It’s whispered with a groan, hands stroking your hip, keeping your steady, in place. “Just need a little more, just- just a little, I’m gonna-“

“What-” You ask, more with it now that you recognize the edge he’s riding, the roughness in his voice clueing you in to where he is, but he sends you back into orbit, pressing your clit and working you in circles. “Oh, oh.” Your hips rock, and he moves with the momentum, fucking into you faster, grunting the truth as he speeds towards the cliff, desperate to drive the car over the edge, eager to change the course of his life, your life, his marriage.

“Take it.” He spits, wide palm spread across your shoulder. Everything in him tightens, fire spreading through his veins, pressure rising in his body like a fucking tea kettle, about to scream out a whistle. He’s going to breed you, fuck you deep with his come and put a baby inside you, give you what you want, what you’ve always said you wanted, the thing that made you cry in the middle of the night when he refused.

Well, he’s going to give it to you now.

“Fuck- here it comes.” You rock again, half lost to the world, eyes glazed over in pleasure, spasming around his cock with your second orgasm. He slams into you, burying deep and you keen, fingers gripping the edge of the table, his hips flush with yours like a lock.

And he’ll throw away the key. 

You blame yourself for the first time.

You blame your nerves. Your lack of self-control. You drank too much, trying to fight the anxiety that was threatening to spill from your mouth by way of your tongue.

  And well, didn’t he just look too fucking good, sitting across from you at dinner. Eyes on your lips. Hand dwarfing the rocks glass. Shoulders broader than a door frame. He put on mass since you saw him last, and you spent half the meal trying not to think about stripping his shirt off so you could inspect for new wounds, new scars, new stretch marks. 

And didn’t he feel so fucking good too, bending you over the kitchen table, sliding into you from behind with almost no prep, hint of pain making you see stars, just the way you like it. Fucking you like the man you married, like the man you fell in love with. Calling you his good girl and making you come all over his cock like a champ. 

You blame him for the second time.

You could blame yourself, for inviting him over- but your intention was clear. Sign the papers. Discuss the house. Be done with it all and close this chapter. Move on with your life, with both your lives.

But he showed up on the wrong day, at the wrong time, with a bottle of your favorite wine, the malbec. The one from your first anniversary, with a large pizza, thin crust with extra cheese (your favorite) and an order of garlic knots.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d eaten or not, figured I’d pick something up, just in case.” He shrugged, and just like that, you were bereft of words, staring at him with nothing coming to mind. Didn’t you say tomorrow? You stood in the door, blinking, Riley whining behind you, already eager to see his dad. “Sweetheart? You feelin’ okay?” His hand was on your arm, warm, thumb rubbing a circle on the inside of your elbow, and even that small amount of contact, that little trickle of concern, sent you into a spiral, muscle relaxer already working its way through your system, slowing your response time, making your brain a little fuzzy. His eyes shimmered in the porchlight, and you nodded, robotically, feet still stuck in the doorway, until he was prompting you to let him inside. “Can I come in then, get this signing business done?” 

You ate pizza and drank a glass of wine (frowned upon considering your medication, but one glass couldn’t kill you, right?) out of regular glassware (a sin, if anyone asked your poor mother) as the manilla envelope sat on the coffee table and practically watched the two of you, oozing with judgement.

You’re supposed to be divorcing. Not cozying up on the god damn couch. Weren’t you the one who told him to find a new place to live? Weren’t you the one who said the two of you wanted different things in life, from it? Weren’t you the one did this, pushed him away, shoved him out the door, told him it was all too little, too late?

But when his fingertips drifted to the top of your spine and then over, like he knew exactly where you were tender, you couldn’t stop yourself from melting into his touch, more and more until he had your back against his chest, strong grip on your shoulder, working your taut muscles with expertise.

His fingers dig deep, groan slipping between your teeth, breathy and low, enough that he’s immediately releasing you.

“Did I hurt you?” 

“N-no.” You shake your head, which only makes you dizzy. Probably shouldn’t have had that glass of wine. “Feels good.” He chuckles, and tucks you closer, head tipping back into his chest, eyes half closed. “Tweaked something in m’shoulder a few weeks ago.” For some reason, you feel the need to explain it, to tell him. “Went for a slide tackle, ended up halfway under the girl. And she was a lot bigger than me.” 

“You still playin’ in that women’s league?” 

“Every Sunday.”

You were so relaxed, so pliable, that you didn’t utter a single protest when he leaned you back on the couch like a doll, pulling your leggings down and off your ankles, sliding your panties away to bury his face in your pussy. You didn’t want to protest, or stop, or get up off the couch, even though, somewhere, in the back of your logical mind, you knew what you were doing was stupid. You knew, that doing this once was mistake, but doing it twice was just downright foolish. It’s just sex though. He can still just sign the papers and go. Who hasn’t had a little runaround with their soon to be ex-husband before the final nail is hammered in the coffin? You’ve never been a saint, after all. 

“Lift your hips.” He taps your side, and you do, letting him slide a throw pillow under them, plumping it under your ass for good measure. “Good girl.” You beam, woozily, and he chuckles, face cracking into something that’s flooded with light, something happy, the face of the man who used to be your husband, used to love you, want a future with you, not just endless rotations around the world with the 141 and a sometimes wife that he sometimes saw. 

“You have to pull out.” There’s backbone to your words, but it’s brittle, and easily breakable. “You didn’t listen last time, and ‘m still mad about it.” 

“I’m sorry, sweet girl.” His lips press against your thigh, and then your knee, trailing up to where he’s got your ankle in his hips. “You just feel like fuckin’ heaven.” You huff. “I will this time, promise.” He rubs your thigh, zinging your skin with a small slap, your yelp teetering off into a moan when he presses knuckle deep into your sopping wet cunt. 

“This doesn’t change anything.” You don’t know why you say it, why you’re so compelled to draw the line in the sand in this moment, when you could have said it any time before hand. Or, even better, had him sign the papers like you originally planned.

“I know.” He shifts you, pulling his occupied fingers free to rearrange your legs, folding your knees back against your chest, the position combined with the pillow under your hips practically tilting you all the way back, the angle enough to make you a little dizzy. Your hand shoots forward to latch onto his forearm for balance, little whimper sneaking away from you, making his brow crease in concern. “I’ve got you.” He whispers against your cheek, lips ghosting over yours, plucking a sweet kiss from your mouth before there’s heat grazing your opening. He keeps a hand on your knee until he’s pushing inside, thrusting in one fell swoop all the way until he can’t go any further, punching your cervix with the head of his cock, swearing behind a tight jaw. It’s a lot of stretch at this angle, deeper, sharper, and you squirm, adjusting to the pressure of him splitting you open. 

“F-fuu-ck.” Your eyes roll back in your head, off somewhere, somewhere not this planet, not this plane of existence where he’s practically in your belly, slick noises bouncing off the walls of your living room, his knees against the pillow, back sloped for enough leverage that he’s practically fucking downwards into you, bent forward with his chest against yours, torso locking you in place, arms around your head like crown. Or a cage. “Si- fuck. It- it hurts.” you babble, gasping into his neck, teeth dangerously close to his shoulder. 

“I know, doin’ so good. Almost there.” You start to melt around him, gentled into it, the patting and cooing and kissing sweetening you soft by the passing second. “Easy love, open up for me.” He pants into your mouth, tongue licking in behind your teeth, invading your senses, your very existence, and it’s so much, too much, but you can’t stop. You let yourself get swept away, mind slipping deeper and deeper every time he thumbs your clit, rubbing a circle around the swollen bud, tapping across it just how you like. “Relax, sweetheart, that’s it.” He keeps bringing you closer and closer to coming, playing your body like only a husband could, plucking the strings that make the sweetest melodies, chords vibrating together until you’re clenching down on his cock, spine curling forward, everything inside of you exploding with a blinding, fiery orgasm that has you crying his name, body shaking underneath him with aftershocks. “You’ve been such a good girl for me.” He murmurs into your sweat-soaked temple, cock sliding out just to push all the way deep again, hips grinding against your ass in a circle. “Haven’t you, sweet girl?” You nod, because yes, of course. You’re always good. 

“Yeeah.” You squeak, vowels heavy, eyes heavy, head heavy, everything too thick underneath the weight of your orgasm, his cock lodged inside you, the muscle relaxer mixed with the Malbec, the chagrined manilla envelope sitting on the table, a mere two feet from your prone body. 

“I know. I know you have.” The muscles in his arm flex, tendons in his neck becoming more defined, and his movements stutter, fucking you in a frantic, desperate way, wild with some sort of chaotic need. “I’m gonna give you a gift for it. For being so good.” 

“You- you-“ You mean to say you what? What do you mean? What are you talking about? But you can’t get any of it out, only able to watch him through half shuttered eyes, admiring the slope of his jaw, the white of the scar on his chin, the drip of sweat in his clavicle. 

“I love you.” A big hand holds your hip upwards, steady, pinning you to the pillow, pace turning hungry, unrelenting, his forehead pressed to yours as he bottoms out, trying to fuck you as deep as possible, to consume you, to drown in you, shoving you further and further up the couch. It’s erratic, and insane, and so- so Simon, that the tears dripping down your cheeks feel normal, everything feels right in your hazy, fucked out brain. “I love you.” He tells you again, and his jaw clicks in your ear. “I love- fuck, fuck, I’m coming.”

You should have protested. You should have reminded him of his promise. Should have said no, remember, you did this last time. We talked about this. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Couldn’t even get your mouth to work right, too spun out on him, on yourself, on floating on a cloud, high above your life, like choices didn’t have consequences. You were blissed out on your own bad decisions, sleepy in the cocoon of an alternate universe with your hips tilted on a pillow, where your husband was still your husband, and not some absent ghost.  

You didn’t even protest when he gathered you together in his arms and carried you upstairs. Didn’t mind that he got one of your make up wipes from the bathroom and cleaned your face, tucked you in, and kissed you goodnight.

You didn’t mind any of it, until you woke up the next morning and faced that manilla envelope.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because in a weeks’, two weeks’ time, he’d be somewhere on the other side of the planet, or hemisphere, or country, somewhere classified, doing god knows what. He’d be gone, and you’d be here, just like always. Just like old times. The sex didn’t matter. It meant nothing. You hardly remembered most it, just clips here and there, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of being so full of him. It didn’t matter, and you repeated those three words in the mirror, four, five times in the morning, intentionally not looking at the gleam of your rings, the wedding band and engagement ring, a fated pair… all alone.

Besides, you could always mail the paperwork. Address it to John. He’d make sure it gets taken care of.

You cringed when you thought about the note you’d have to enclose, the awful acknowledgement of your ineptitude- “Hi John, sorry, but could you have Simon sign these when you get a chance?”

And then, everything changed.

“LT!” Soap shouts over the din of the common room, jerking his head towards the office at the end of the hall. “Price needs ye.”

Price is standing behind his desk, arms across his chest when Simon pushes the door open. His lips quirk, head shaking with a sigh. “You have a phone call.” He motions to the landline, one of the only phones in this entire building, currently off the hook, open line waiting in the air. A phone call? “I’ll give you some privacy.”

When the door shuts, and he’s alone with the phone in his hand, he takes a deep breath, and puts it to his ear. “Hello?” His thumb strokes the silicone wedding band on his ring finger, rubbing it in a circle as he waits for a response. This number is for family members and emergencies, real serious shit, and he’s not-

“Simon?” It’s you. It’s your voice on the other end of the line, wet with tears. His heart stops in his chest, lungs frozen in place, anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach. Your crying always puts him on edge, and it’s worse, with him here, and you alone, everything hanging on the precipice. “Simon? Are you there?”

“I’m here. What’s wrong?” He closes his eyes. Say it. Please. Fucking hell. Please.

“I- I need, I have to tell you something.” You’re still crying, hiccupping with distress, and he wishes desperately that he was there with you, holding you, telling you everything going to be okay to your face, instead of over the phone.

“What is it sweetheart?” He tries to encourage, relaxing back into the chair when you take a deep breath. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I’m pregnant.” His palm covers the receiver immediately, just in case, and he thumps the top of Price’s desk with his fist, stupid grin stretching his face wide.

“You’re what?” He feigns shock, confusion. “Did you say… you’re pregnant?”

“Yes.” You blubber.

“I thought you were on the pill, sweet girl. I wouldn’t have-“

“I told you to pull out! And I was b-but I stopped taking it, like two months ago. I forgot and after the first time when you were home, after the restaurant I thought, oh well, I had only been off the pill for a month, less than, after being on it for like fifteen years!” You practically shriek in his ear, a mix of sob and hysteria, trying to suck air into your lungs before continuing. “Getting pregnant after being on it for so long just doesn’t happen. It’s almost impossible! So, I d-didn’t worry about it. And then the second time was only like, two nights after that night and I just thought- I thought everything would be fine! I’m s-s-sorry, I’m so sorry.” You’re babbling, gasping, and he rubs his neck.

“Alright, alright. Hey, hey listen,” you’re still crying, voice cracking over the line and his heart breaks for you, guilt swamping him over you being alone. This was not the plan. He was supposed to be home for this part, to be there for you, if it took. “Sweetheart, breathe. You need to breathe.” You struggle through a few deep breaths, nearly wheezing, and he winces each time. It can't be good for you, or the baby, to be stressed like this. “Good girl, that’s it. Nice an’ slow. Good.”

“I'm sorry. I don’t know what to do, but-” You whisper, like you’re telling a secret, and he closes his eyes, imagining you pacing in the kitchen, hand in your hair, on your hip, anxious. He knows you. Knows you better than he knows himself, anyone. Soap, even. He knows, the reason why you’re saying sorry over and over, isn’t because you’re apologizing for getting pregnant, the two of you did that together. Or rather, he did it. 

It’s because of what’s coming next.

“I do know that I… I want this baby, Simon. I know you… you don’t want this. That you’ve never wanted it, and that’s okay. I can do this, alone. We’ll still get divor-“

“Stop.” He doesn’t enjoy cutting you off, but he needs to put an end to this talk, this idea that still seems to have a hold on you. “Look, I’ll… I’ll come home. We can talk and, figure out what we’re going to do, okay? You’re not alone sweet girl. I’ll be there.” You’re silent for a moment, a moment that feels too long.

“Okay. You promise?”

I promise to love and cherish you.

Till death does us part.

Till death.

“I promise.”

[shadowdaddies]

The Bride of the Shadowsinger

“Bryce asked Nesta. ‘You have a mate, right?’ She nodded to Azriel. ‘Do you?’

‘No,’ Azriel said quickly, flatly.

‘A partner or spouse?��

‘No.’”

-HOFAS Walmart Bonus Chapter

I’ve been having the most cursed fic ideas (I blame Halloween), including a Frankenstein retelling with Azriel as Frankenstein. So tired of believing that he is the only of his brothers without a mate, Azriel takes it upon himself to create a partner for himself. His bride.

dividers by the lovely tsunami-of-tears

[dreamersbcll]

“60/40”

i want a hundred of your time. you’re mine.

—————————————————————————-

Art was subjective.

Through any flick of the brush or stroke of paint, anything could be created. Anything could be interpreted. Perspective. It was all about perspective.

Tara had it. She knew how to draw on the inside and the outside. It was easy for her to decide what lines to remove and which to cross. It was quite simple when she had a straightforward rule.

Nobody touches Sam.

Bathed in neglect and sin, Tara was a rabid dog. She bit down, held on, and refused to give in. Too many times had she been the dog with a bird at the door of someone who didn’t want anything to do with her— especially with Sam. But that didn’t matter now. She was reunited with her big sister. And she wasn’t going to let go.

She couldn’t help that her hackles rose each time she saw Sam interact with someone that wasn’t her. She frothed at mouth each time she watched her big sister touch someone that wasn’t her, and she could feel her teeth sharpen each time Sam uttered I love you to anyone but Tara.

Tara knew how to create art. She was good with a pen and pencil. She excelled at oils and pastels. But the most underrated tool was what she could do with a knife.

It wasn't easy following in her big sister’s footsteps. Sam had a knack for violence and a lust to create. Some saw it as destruction, ripping people apart until nothing was left. But Tara knew better. Her sister was an artist, her canvas the bodies of the vexed and deplorable.

She wanted to be her big sister so bad. All she ever wanted was for people to look at her and say— Tara is just like Sam.

The planning took a long time. She was an architect, a creator, and a designer focused on concocting her own piece of art. She observed Sam noticed how the vein in her jaw jumped when she clenched it or how she dug her fingernails into her palms when angered. She learned how to subdue a body properly and carve it out from the inside out.

Once she felt prepared, all she needed was a victim. Someone to take a clean apart, turn it inside out, and make it new again.

So it really was a no-brainer on who to pick once Rebecca wandered into Sam’s life. For Sam, it was an immediate friendship. But for Tara, it was immediate aversion.

In all fairness, Tara tried. She did give it a chance. The girl was just too… boisterous. Too loud, always taking up all the oxygen in the room, leaving Tara uncomfortably breathless. Rebecca took everything- Sam’s time, energy, and power; and left Tara an exhausted and quiet big sister. When Tara wanted more love or attention, Sam couldn’t give it, as she was exhausted from giving her all to her fruitless friendship.

And Tara couldn’t allow that to happen anymore. She wouldn’t allow any more days of little conversations, nights staying up waiting for a too-drunk big sister to come home. Rebecca didn’t love or appreciate Sam’s creativity and heart as Tara did.

Rebecca would never see it coming, what Tara would do next. That was how the world worked—you had to leave before you got left or caught.

So when the girl wakes up in an abandoned warehouse, her wrists bound and her mouth gagged, she doesn’t understand. Typical. The arsonist never realized that they left a trail of gasoline for anyone to ignite.

——

Tara chuckles, watching the girl writhe under her restraints. She did such a good job making sure that the knots wouldn’t shift like Sam taught her. God, Sam was going to be so proud of her budding little artist.

Eventually, Rebecca spots Tara standing in the shadows, her dark eyes shining with lust. The girl flips her body around desperately, foolishly believing that Tara is actually here to save her. The absolute gall this woman had.

Padding out of the darkness, Tara stops before her little hostage, tilting her head. She couldn’t help the grin that grew across her face, a real Cheshire cat grin. Everything in her felt red-hot and alive, and it took more restraint than she would care to admit not to carve up her canvas now. She instead bent down and ripped the gag out.

Flopping like a caught fish, Rebecca gasps for air, her face crimson. She looks up at Tara with wide eyes, tears bubbling over and down her cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Why, Tara?”

Tara cocks her head, circling her prey, enjoying the chase. “You know what you did,” she hummed.

The woman shakes her head robotically, almost comically. She pulls against her restraints, Tara’s grin only getting more significant as she struggles. Finally, she stops pulling, tears pooling onto the cold concrete below her. “No, I don’t! What did I do? Why are you hurting me?” she wails.

Shrugging, Tara looks at her nails, bored. She forgot how much she hated monologuing. But she supposed she owed the girl an answer. “I’m not hurting you. I’m showing you what happens when you take what is mine.”

“What did I take? I didn’t take anything!” Rebecca shouts, pulling at her wrists again.

“Sixty-forty,” Tara whispers, her voice cold and sharp.

Rebecca stopped struggling and cocks her head in confusion. Tara could practically taste the blood on her tongue, her mouth salivating in anticipation of the kill.

“What? What does that mean?” Rebecca whispers, her eyes wide.

Tara bends down, roughly grasping the woman’s chin. She forces Rebecca to look her in the eye, as this was her artwork, and she was the artist. She was the mastermind. Everything would happen the way she wanted it to. “Look at me. It’s the time- look at me. There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Clearing her throat, now with the attention of her hostage on her, she continued. “Like I was saying, that’s the time you took from me. You took sixty percent of the time I should have with Sam and left me forty. I’m not too fond of that. No, it should be ninety-five, five. Or better yet, one hundred to nil. Do you understand?”

“You’re hurting me because I hung out with your sister?” Rebecca cries, her tears leaking onto Tara’s hand.

Pulling her hand back in disgust, Tara wipes her fingers onto her jeans. “Hey. No, no. I’m making art. I’m creating—Sam’s mine. I’m showing her that I'm capable of creating gifts to win her back. You’re just collateral, I suppose,” she muses, shrugging.

“Please let me go.”

And that’s what she heard it. That voice. The voice that soothed every fear and fed every need. The voice that spoke reason, and gave honesty. The one thing Tara could always fall into, and follow home.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t let her go Tara. Show me. Show me your love. Give me your heart,” Sam purred, circling the two. Tara looked up at her sister, grinning maniacally, her eyes dark.

For Tara, she knew she was safe. For Rebecca, she thought she was saved.

Looking up at Sam, Rebecca smiled, her face softening in relief. “Sam! You gotta help me. Please, please let me go. Tell your psycho bitch sister to let me go!”

However, those were the wrong choice of words. If the woman was even the slightest bit smart or had a shred of intelligence, she would’ve realized her mistake. She doused herself in blood and threw herself into the lion’s den.

Soft and calculated, Sam speaks. “What did you call her?”

Tara shivers at her big sister’s voice, sweat trickling down her back. It was the same tone that she heard in New York before the knife was plunged through Detective Bailey’s eye. The detached cruelty that Sam could slip on and off so quickly, forgoing her humanity.

She wants to master that skill one day.

As if sensing the reality of her situation, Rebecca sobs, snot running down her face. “Sam, please,” she softly begs, hiccuping.

Her big sister tilts her head, shaking it slowly. Tara could feel her heart bursting at the seams, her love for Sam overflowing. Sam tutted softly and, instead, kicked the girl swiftly in the ribs. Swallowing hard, Tara’s heart thumped, her hands twitching, waiting for a command.

As Rebecca moaned in pain, Sam turned back to her sister, her pupils dilated. “Tara, continue. Show me your love,” Sam orders, stepping back, allowing her sister room to work.

Tara grinned, looking down at Rebecca. She took her switchblade out, unsheathing the blade. “You heard her. It’s time to continue now,” she purred, her eyes glazed in passion.

All that could be heard was hollow screaming echoing off of an empty warehouse and the clattering of knives onto the cold pavement. Soon, the screaming stopped, and Tara stepped back, admiring her work.

Sam wrapped her arms around Tara’s shoulders, pulling her in and holding her down. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You’re such a good artist,”

Tara hummed. “I’ve had lots of practice,”

Her big sister’s eyes lit up in wonder. “Show me,” she softly growled, commanding Tara to her will.

And Tara obeyed. They were finally together. She wasn’t selfish. She just wasn’t sharing.

Sam was hers. Tara was Sam’s. That was it.

[taamlok]

looking for song recs to add to my muireann playlist, lmk if you can think of anything that matches this vibe

[jase-is-ace]

Yet another scene from Back into the Pit. In which Twisty is confronted by the all hearing Ink Demon

Reblogs are appreciated ❤️

[heynikkiyousofine]

Came up with a dark and twisty, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers InuKag fic. Here's Inuyasha and Kagome's first meeting below. 😈

The little girl tugged on her hand, almost desperate in her attempt to get to the strange man before her, but she kept a firm grip on the tiny hand, her fear overwhelming any rational thought. Hearing a soft whimper from her, Kagome winced and silently apologized, figuring she was squeezing her hand a little too tight, but Rin refused to let up, repeating over and over that she knew the man, that he was safe.

Figuring she spoke the truth, given that the girl had only been in Kagome’s care for less than days, she released her hold on her, carefully keeping her body hidden behind the tree. Rin dashed forward, crying out and she was scooped up by the silver haired man quicker than she imagined, her sobs crushing Kagome’s heart. At least she will be safe and he will never get her again.

A tiny sigh of relief left her lips, Kagome keeping her gaze trained ahead, in case this man, or the family behind them dared to take her back. What if…… what if they return her back to him? No, I won’t go back! A strange warmth spread through her, as if soul was crying out with her pain. Gripping her cloak tight, she kept her eyes trained on the scene before her.

Rin had climbed down from the man’s hold and he gently guided her to stand with the other children, two twin girls that looked like a perfect mix of the other two. Assuming they were their offspring, Kagome wondered how the silver haired man fit into the whole picture.

“Hey, we’re not gonna hurt ya.” He spoke, his voice soft but kind. 

Do not let me fall for their tricks. He could be one of the many dangers Sister Kikyo warned me about.

“Inuyasha, wait.” The other man, the one with indigo eyes and short hair that matched her own, stepped forward, his curious gaze boring into her, as if he was looking through her. “She’s a miko and an untrained powerful one at that.” Miko? What is a miko? The heat within her grew and she could feel her fingertips warming, as if she were holding them over the fire pit a little too close.

“I ain’t gonna hurt her.” The silver haired man, Inuyasha she deemed, snarled. 

Oh, kami. He’s not human. 

He stepped closer, no denying his cautious movements, but she didn’t dare to move beneath this predator’s gaze. If she ran, he would certainly chase her and bring her back to Naraku without question.

He moved closer, Kagome able to see the gold of his eyes, yet the fear and heat within her grew. Squeezing her palms so tight, she felt her nails dig into her skin, the lash marks on her right hand opening again. She did not dare to move, as the man approached slowly, repeating  softly that she was safe, his frown deepening when Kagome knew her hand was once again bleeding.

“My name is Inuyasha, and these are my friends. Rin is my niece. Thank you for your help in her return” His nose twitched, his eyes searching her form as he stood a mere three feet from her, but her body refused to listen to her. When his eyes focused back on her own, she swore she saw a flash of anger rise, leaving as quickly as she came, the fire dousing her skin morphing into an inferno.

“Inuyasha, she’s going to purify you if you get any closer.” The dark-haired man warned, confusing her. She was not magical, she had no way to hurt this man. Before she could tell him to stay where he was, a whisper of something washed over, causing her own blaze to rise. She blinked and suddenly Inuyasha was flying towards his friends, letting out a loud grunt as he collided on the grass. 

Swallowing, she exhaled, shocked to find herself surrounded in a barrier, resembling the one surrounding her village, only this one was a bright pink instead of deep blue. Had she done that to him? No, she was a normal girl. 

“Kagome!” Rin cried out, ripping herself from the woman’s hold before rushing towards her. Kneeling down, Kagome held her arms open as the little girl leapt into them, her body trembling as the barrier fell, her refusal to hurt Rin overwhelming. Why am I feeling everything so strongly? It’s like my emotions are enhanced and I can’t control them. 

“Kagome, they’re not going to hurt you.” 

Kagome shook her head, unable to stop the shivers that racked her body, keeping the humans and non-human in her peripheral, adrenaline pulsing through her veins. She would make sure Rin was safe before she took off on her own, her grip on the girl’s clothing tightening.

“Uncle Yash is my family. I promise you will be safe with him.” Rin pointed as her Uncle Yash nodded, his hardened features softening as she took him. He was powerful and whatever he did to make her react in such a way proved that. Never in her life had Kagaome imagined that she could raise her own barrier. If she had known that, she would never have succumbed to so many punishments.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, Rin quieting and she knew that all eyes were on her, waiting for whatever decision she would make. Can I trust them? Could I have his protection from the horrors of my past? Something within her spoke the truth, though she wasn’t sure what that was, but she went with what her soul was telling her to do. Sliding her uninjured hand in Rin’s, Kagome opened her eyes and rose, giving Inuyasha a slight nod.

Slowly walking forward, her body refused to relax, as if it knew the moment she wasn’t safe, she could use every bit of energy she had to run. Rin squeezed her hand, giving her a soft smile as she guided her towards the group.

“Uncle Yash, Uncle Miroku, this is Sister Kagome. She saved me from the bad place.”

Kagome glanced back at the woman and children behind them, finally noticing a small bundle attached strangely to her back, each of them smiling at her.

“Sister Kagome, is it? Please, allow us to guide you to our home so that we may look at your injuries. If you would like that is?” The dark haired man stepped closer, causing her to involuntarily shrink back. His home? Where I could be held against my will?

“No one is going to hurt ya, I swear on my life.” Inuyasha spoke again, her head whirling towards him and something inside her clicked, her soul reaching out for him all on its own. A loud chime rang in her ears, as if someone was ringing the village bell right next to her and all Kagome felt before blackness took over were warm hands around her waist.

[cryptvokeeper]

I think haunted museums are an underutilized concept

you take so many personal objects from peoples final resting places, at least SOME of that shit is gonna be haunted or cursed.

Night at the museum is the closest we as a society have come to a museum horror story and that’s a damn shame

[peachesofteal]

Oh god - I’m still stuck on this.

18+ MDNI / explicit sex, dark and twisted themes

I've been thinking a lot about Simon Riley who doesn't want the divorce.

Simon who never wanted to be separated, who hates living apart. Simon, who would drag you to a tattoo artist to get your ring permanently inked to your skin so you could never be rid of him, if he could. He’s been actively avoiding the stack of papers that are waiting for his signature, staying on longer Ops, picking up extra work.

Can’t be divorced if there’s no signature.

Simon, who unbeknownst to you, still comes home. Still pushes open the back door in the dead of night, keeping his steps silent so he doesn't wake you. Simon, who stands in the doorway of your bedroom, his old bedroom, and watches you sleep on his side of the bed in those little, ratty shorts with your ass perked up in the air like you're waiting for him. Like you’re ripe, and ready.

Simon, who checks your birth control every night. Who’s pleased when he realizes this month’s pack hasn’t even been opened, every color coded pill still in place, foil glinting at him in the low light of the vanity.

Good girl, he thinks to himself, shutting your medicine cabinet with a silent click. Getting yourself all ready for him.

Simon, who agrees to meet you for dinner.

"Let's just sign and get it over with. We can catch up, too. Talk about what we want to do with the house."

"Alright, love. Whatever you want."

You're a bundle of nerves when he shows up, seated at a little table in the back, glass of wine already half gone.

Normally, he'd try to soothe you. You've always been naturally anxious, a little dependent, and in a social setting, a little high strung. He's well versed in navigating your emotions, calming you into a relaxed state with a few words or a reassuring touch.

But this time, he doesn't bother. He sits there with his arms crossed, watching you nervously chatter away, one hand flat on a manilla envelope. He stays quiet, letting you go on, watching your hands seek something to do, fingers finding your wine glass over and over.

You drink two glasses of wine before the entrees are served, dangerously close to your usual self imposed "three drink" limit.

One thing bleeds into another. You start to lean a little, in your chair. He nurses a bourbon, you order a shot after the meal.

"Want one?" Your tongue follows the seam of the lime wedge, dabbing along the spongy, white fibers before your teeth sink into the flesh of it, lime juice squirting across your tongue.

“You know I don’t like tequila, but you go on.”

You’re a bit sloppy by the time he gets you home, but still sweet like honey, like you used to be years ago. Before everything changed. Before you asked him to move out.

You’re giggly, excited when he bends you over the kitchen table, the kitchen table where you used to eat together, breakfast for dinner when he’d come home, waffles and bacon at one in the morning.

You don’t protest when he slides your skirt down your hips and over your ass, thumbs spreading you wide to reveal your glistening cunt, twitching and desperate.

“My poor girl, has it been so long?” He cooed, relishing in the way you moaned with your lips on the wood. He knows it has, knows you haven’t been with anyone since the last time he fucked you, months and months ago, on the night you asked for the divorce. “Don’t worry, I’m gon’ take care of you and this neglected little pussy.”

“You have to pull out.” You slurred, breath hot, fogging against the finish of the table. “Promise.” He grunts something under his breath, nonsense, but you can’t tell the difference, and when he slides inside your scorching cunt, you howl, breath hitching with the stretch.

Bleedin’ Christ. You’re so tight, so wet, soaked enough that it sticks to the curls around the base of his cock. How could he ever give this up?

“That’s it.” He kisses your shoulder, pressing his chest to your back with his weight, pinning you in place, his hands clamping down around your wrists like shackles. “Squeeze me tight, good girl. Show me-“ Show me how you’re going to hold my come in your tight little pussy once I fill you- comes to mind, but he bites his tongue instead, not willing to tip you off too soon.

To have and to hold.

“Simooon.” You sing, hips start to push back with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, chasing him, chasing your pleasure, mouth half open with the little pants and whines that are music to his ears. He keeps you pinned, flat against the table, fingers between your legs, stroking your clit, shoving you closer to your orgasm, delightfully pleased by the way your pussy pulses around him.

“Come on.” He urges, big hand between you and the table, pressing against your lower belly, still tapping away at your clit, indulging in the trembling of your legs.

“Fuck- fuck, Si.” You cry, clenching down around him with your orgasm, voice breaking.

“There it is… what a good girl.” He hisses, keeping his pace, pushing deeper and deeper until he’s notching himself nearly inside your womb. It’s overwhelming for you, he knows, but he doesn’t stop swirling his fingers around your clit, zapping electric pulses through body.

“Nngh Si. Too- ooh it’s- it’s too much.” You wail, a tear on your cheek, and he nods, nosing above your ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, so perfect.” It’s whispered with a groan, hands stroking your hip, keeping your steady, in place. “Just need a little more, just- just a little, I’m gonna-“

“What-” You ask, more with it now that you recognize the edge he’s riding, the roughness in his voice clueing you in to where he is, but he sends you back into orbit, pressing your clit and working you in circles. “Oh, oh.” Your hips rock, and he moves with the momentum, fucking into you faster, grunting the truth as he speeds towards the cliff, desperate to drive the car over the edge, eager to change the course of his life, your life, his marriage.

“Take it.” He spits, wide palm spread across your shoulder. Everything in him tightens, fire spreading through his veins, pressure rising in his body like a fucking tea kettle, about to scream out a whistle. He’s going to breed you, fuck you deep with his come and put a baby inside you, give you what you wanted years ago, the thing that made you cry alone in the middle of the night whenever he refused.

Well, he’s going to give it to you now.

“Fuck- here it comes.” You rock again, half lost to the world, eyes glazed over in pleasure, spasming around his cock with your second orgasm. He slams into you, burying deep and you keen, fingers gripping the edge of the table, his hips flush with yours like a lock.

And he’ll throw away the key.

His phone dings with a text, two days later.

“Still mad at you… Can we please meet up about these signatures?”

This became a full fic here.

[14carrotghoul]

I dreamed that I had to attend a job training and me and my best friend were sat directly behind Beyoncé and we tried to keep a respectful distance UNTIL we had to go and inspect an irrigation canal with her??? And she was just nodding along all excited like

And then we were magically back at the training and she was spilling the tea after bonding with us and then drake showed up as a surprise performer and she turned to us and said (in peak deep and powerful Beyoncé voice) "stay away from that man" and we were like yes Beyoncé 🫡 of course Beyoncé 🫡

And this is only like 30% of my dreams last night??? Also dreamt the river through my hometown flooded and I was having to give directions to everyone like the fuckin snl Californians sketch???? And the instructions were ACCURATE like take [redacted] up the hill, turn left at the hiking trail until you hit [redacted] middle school etc etc like why is my brain working overtime to outperform Google maps in my sleep????

[angryspookyexpert]

My twisty Sapphic murder mystery is now available on Amazon. Lesbian representation is important, and I hope some of you read my new novel. There is on explicit scene, just fyi.

[dreamersbcll]

Prompt: drunk Tara being reckless and getting herself hurt or in trouble and Sam trying to pick up the pieces

“Betting”

with a little twist.

————————————————————————

Bloodshed felt good. It felt right. It felt like living.

It felt as natural to Tara as breathing did. When she spilled other people’s blood, tore into their skin, and got to hurt them, cry- god, did it feel fucking good.

If they wanted to keep their blood inside their bodies, maybe they should fight better. They should be quicker. They should hit harder. They should try and take Tara down before she finishes with the final blow.

What Tara did was mainly legal. It was an underground fight ring. Club. Whatever. All it meant was that Tara was allowed to sneak off when Sam worked nights and take out all her rage on willing participants. It wasn’t like they didn’t ask for it. Tara was just giving in to their wishes.

It was all generally legal. The only illegal part was how much she drank before it. She would down enough alcohol to kill a small child, and stumble her ways to the underground. They could smell the liquor on her breath and they would grin, thinking they bagged an easy fight. That they were going to come through victorious, and take her money.

They were lucky that she wasn’t allowed to kill them. That wasn’t how the betting system worked. She didn’t make any money if they were dead- only if she won the fight by knockout. And she was damn good at it. She hadn’t lost a battle in months. Even while black-out drunk, Tara could take down grown people in under ten minutes, swaying and smiling with blood running down her face.

Surprisingly it was effortless to hide this from Sam. With her sister working two jobs, Sam wasn’t there to watch Tara at all times. Plus, Tara was very good with a makeup brush and could get away with lying about being a makeup artist at Ulta. It wasn’t like Sam was looking at her employment records. All Tara had to do was ensure food was on the table and the rent was paid.

And it was all through Sam’s sweat and Tara's blood.

There was a nickname for Tara floating around the street. El vampiro de la noche . The vampire of the night. The bloodsucker, swooping in and destroying others in the still of the night. The girl who will bleed you dry before you lay a finger on her.

It wasn’t Tara’s fault that she was efficient. That she was short and quick. It was all about finding her opponent's weakness before they found hers. She danced around on the concrete ring, smiling as she broke bones and opened wounds. There wasn’t a night that she didn’t come home with dried blood pasted across her face and a cheeky smile.

To feel bones splinter under her fists and hot blood splash across her skin was to feel alive. Her medication wasn’t doing it anymore. Therapy was just an echo in her mind. She felt slow. Lethargic. She was beaten down. She needed a change and fast.

And a change where Tara got to make others pay for her pain was one that she needed—craved even. There was something so satisfying about hearing their cries, knowing nobody would save them like nobody saved her.

She would fall to her knees and kneel to their ear level, gasping at her own pain, but sucking it up unlike them. There she would whisper the words that her mother used to whisper to her; when Tara was little and wounded by the hands that were supposed to love her. The same mother would be clutching a bottle, ready to drink away her crimes.

“Esto es lo que se merece un pecador como tú,”.

This is what a sinner like you deserves.

They would whimper in pain, trying to force themselves up, and Tara would push them back down. They deserved to sit in their pools of blood and rue the day they fucked with Tara. This is what they deserved for believing that they had a chance.

Just like her mother used to say.

Tara had been brutalized enough to know that they would live on. But they would never forget the night they tried to take her down.

However, what was her fault was letting Sam catch her.

——

Grabbing a fistful of the girl’s hair, Tara screamed as she threw her into the concrete wall, pushing her face against the wall.

This one was a little tougher. She wasn't going down as easy. But Tara wasn’t worried. She would win. There were nearly two thousand dollars in this fight. She had to.

The girl was maybe a foot taller and twenty pounds heavier, but Tara held the upper hand. She could pinpoint that this woman’s weak spots were her knees and lower back. So she focused on that.

Throwing the girl down, she grinned as the girl fell to the ground like a limp sack of rocks. Tara wiped her nose, blood smearing across her cheek. She smiled, spitting out the pool of blood sitting in her mouth. This was what living felt like. She had never felt so fucking alive.

Raising a fist, Tara walked a circle around the crumpled girl, hyping the crowd up. People screamed and stomped their feet, chanting Vampiro, Vampiro, Vampiro. Closing her eyes, she basked in the attention, the audience fueling her darkest desires. It felt so good to be known, to be praised for letting the darkest parts of herself out.

It was goddamn exhilarating.

She stepped back, ready to deliver the final kick to the barely conscious, bloody opponent on the ground. But before she could, she heard the voice.

The voice. The voice of reason, of hope. The one person who made her life bearable. The one who kissed her “tripping” scars and got her ice packs after “kickboxing” class. The sister still loves her even though Tara lies all the time.

“Tara!”

Tara faltered, and her opponent saw the chance to strike. As Tara pulled back, her opponent grabbed Tara’s leg, tugging her forward. Tara slipped, throwing her arms out to break her fall.

But it never came. Instead, Tara was caught by someone and gently put down, the air only slightly knocked out of her lungs.

Her opponent was struck down by a quick kick to the jaw, her body smacking into the cold concrete.

Wiping her nose again, Tara looked up at her sister, wincing at the look in Sam’s eyes.

Betrayal. Rage.

But Tara could tell there was something else there. Something was hiding behind the anger, the hurt feelings. Something put that spark back into her big sister’s eyes.

Excitement.

A smile creeping across her face, Tara knew she had Sam wrapped around her little finger again. Good. Fighting alone isn’t as fun as it is with Sam by her side.

Life brought them pain and suffering. There were many ways to deal with that pain. The sisters’ coping mechanism was violence. Bloodlust. The thirst to strike first.

She’s not stupid. She knows Sam craves the same spilling of blood that Tara does. Her sister lusted for violence and prayed to kill.

And Tara would give it to her. Anything that Sam wanted, she would provide as long as they got into more violence together.

“Hi, Sammy,” she whispered, the grin growing bigger as Sam started to smile.

Bloodshed was good for them.

[discoveringmyself88]

[thepioden]

where was Clip Studio Paint 3D materials back when I was doing Homestuck fanart on the reg, having a positionable 3D horn model is a GAME CHANGER

[jase-is-ace]

She protecc!

Scene from my fic Back into the Pit ig

[dahmerskitchen]

I was the special children's clown to Rusty Westchester's Traveling Carnival. I made 'em laugh. I love the children. But not the freaks. - Twisty the clown

[natcat5]

I like when you’re driving on a highway at night and the left lane is wide open because everyone has just decided they don’t have the energy to Go Fast and are just content to do the speed limit in the middle and right lanes. Of course, this may be a scenario specific to highways with the topography of a roller coaster. Shout out to the Don Valley Parkway.