#Guile Sharp

[spawn-universe]

Spawnuary Covers

Covers by Franck Uzan

Covers by George Todorovski

Cover by Guile Sharp

Cover by Jake Goodman

Cover by James Harris

Cover by Jethro Morales

Cover by Jonathan Lau

Cover by Manú Silva

Cover by Mark Marvida

Cover by Michal Ivan

Cover by Ryan G. Browne

Cover by Samal World-McNealy

[jedivoodoochile]

Skeletor.

Art by Guile Sharp.

[femmefataleart]

VANYA THE LOST WARRIOR by Guile Sharpe

[yanderenightmare]

Mahito discovering all the carnal urges he has for you

Mahito

TW: NSFW, yandere, noncon

fem reader

He likes alleyways. 

So private, so intimate, so many different people to pick and choose from. 

It’s where he finds you.

You’re just on your way home – late at night and just a teensy bit tipsy – at least enough not to care about why taking the shortcut through the dark alley is a bad idea, despite being all alone. 

It’s your mistake.

Mahito thought little of you at first – you were another dumb drunken whore to nab. He never got tired of listening to stupid girls like you squeal and scream, so you seemed as good as any when teetering between the brick buildings in your pink pumps.

You’re tied to his wall by your hands a few hours later – club dress in a pool on the floor alongside your kitten heels.

Sure enough, you begged for your life like all humans do with tears and cheers and silly prayers. Calling him mister, as though polite manners would earn you his favor. But he was no stranger to your feminine guiles and wasn’t sweet on them either. 

Yet… there was something about the way you shivered that just seemed different from all his previous victims.

Or maybe he’d just evolved – grown up, as humans like to say – into something that craved to play a little differently.

Either way, he didn’t bother giving it too much thought. All he knew and all he cared to focus on was how delicious you looked hanging there – sweat pilling on your smooth skin, running over slopes and crevices down your body in pretty sparkles. 

He was more attentive to it now than he’d been with the others. Licking his teeth at the sight of you and how your chest reacted to the air, becoming perky in the cold. 

Granted, you were just as dinky as any human in his eyes, but something in his gut possessed him into being gentle when he began touching you – as if in reverence – as if something about you was just too potentially gratifying to waste.

It was the thing between your thighs he gravitated to first. Feeling it with his fingers for the first time and realizing what a tender spot on the body it was.

His dual-colored eyes peeled in curiosity, keenly studying you and how you sucked in a sharp shuddering breath and twisted your soft thighs around his hand, where touching you made you pour out a whole other string of pleas, one more whiney after the other, shaking your head as though to try and make it all go away – or... to deny how he was making you feel.

It made him chuckle, feeling you get warm and wet on his digits.

And ever since then, he’s always laughing when threatening you. Making you feel fun-size – like a playful little pet project he gets to figure out. His smile all crooked when dragging his fingers over your soft flesh, playfully teasing you with how easy it would be to twist your pretty body into an ugly fleshy puppet if you don’t listen and do what he wants.

It keeps you sweet for him – eager to please – hurriedly working your hands up and down his shaft while kneeling before him. His fingers holding your face, digging deep into the chub of your cheeks, keeping you looking up at him. 

You’re too perfect to alter – too cute – all perky tits and plump lips and big doe eyes pleading for your life with his dusty pink cockhead keeping warm on your tongue.

[dycefic]

The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

---

Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

[loveundrwrld]

oneshot, trying something new. gender neutral reader x male yandere

cws: kidnapping, implied stalking, general yandere creepiness

you get into a relationship with a man you met on a blind date, but you begin to regret not breaking the relationship off sooner . . .

you take a deep breath, and take another sip of your wine. it had to be today. you had your mind set on it. you were on a date with him and you were going to finally bring it up.

today, you were definitely going to break up with your boyfriend.

you had felt bad over wanting to do so. after all, you had liked him so much in the beginning.

the relationship had started out so well.

you two had met on a blind date your coworker had set up. she had a friend, jack, who was looking for a partner and she knew that you were single. to her, the solution was obvious.

you had your reservations, not wanting to get into a relationship too soon after your last one. but eventually, she successfully cajoled you into it, reassuring you that he was nothing like your ex. and it’s only one date, after all. what’s the harm in that?

the first date went surprisingly well. he was a good listener. he had a lot of hobbies in common with you, liked a lot of the same movies, and seemed very into you.

he was flustered, nervously stuttering his words and blushing. you were flattered by how much you affected him.

he was cute, too. tall and long, with soft shaggy hair and big brown eyes. he just had a sweet look to him. it was like he was a big dog- cute, but in an approachable way.

it was all enough to charm you into asking for a second date. and then a third, then a forth.

as the dates went by, you slowly went from feeling charmed to feeling wearied of him. he was sweet, but sickly sweet, like a candy that left a bad taste in your mouth.

he gave you lots of compliments and affection. excessively so. he was always early to dates, no matter how early you tried to get there. he began calling and texting you, all the time, even while you were asleep. he was constantly giving you gifts as a surprise, too.

it was all too much for you. you kept being too cowardly and backed out of it ending things every time you met, but this time you resolved yourself that you would do it for sure.

and then, to your surprise, during your date, he starts to get down on one knee. he brings out a box from his back pocket, and you grimace, knowing now for certain that you have waited too long.

you stand up as a reflex. "jack, don't-" you hiss slightly, nervous.

his wide smile quickly falls.

"what do you mean, don't?"

you suck in a deep breath, and look around you. everyone is looking at the two of you.

"i mean, i'm very flattered, but isn't this relationship moving… a little fast?" you say, keeping your voice quiet. "it's only been a few months and you're proposing."

despite your best efforts not to make it a scene, you can still hear people muttering in hushed tones.

"but i know that you're the one for me," he says in a wobbling voice. "why wait any longer?"

"because! i don't think that you are the one for me."

his face immediately drops, his eyes beginning to shine with tears. still on the floor and looking up at you, he looks rather like a kicked puppy. you instantly regret your sharp tone.

you feel the pressure of everyone's eyes on you. all the guests around you now are giving you dirty looks.

"i'm sorry," you say, in a quiet voice. "i didn't mean to say it like that. but, it's the truth. i can't do this any longer. it's just all moving so fast for me. you should have someone who can move at your pace, but that’s not me.”

"…that's ok." he looks at you with a pleading expression. "if you don't want to get married yet, we can try to take it slow."

"no… actually i think that it's best we end it now. let's just break up."

he keeps looking at you with tears running down his face, silently begging you to change your mind. you smiled at him, tensely, as an apology. he starts to sob a little, and you feel awkward and guilty, aware of how everyone around you is silently judging you.

you turn around to leave, but you feel a hand tugging on your shirt sleeve.

"wait. at least let me drive you back. you've had too much wine today for me to let you drive."

you nod, looking down. you let him lead you into the passenger seat of his car, waiting for him while he pays.

you look around, idly. it was the first time you had been in his car, as he always insisted he’d rather be driven by you anywhere than the other way around. it was a lot less clean than you expected.

there is a mess on the dashboard, tons of paper and receipts. you see that it’s credit card statements after glancing briefly. you see a lot of zeroes and you avert your eyes, feeling some guilt over the questions that pop into your mind.

might have something to do with the ring, too, you think with a sinking feeling in your stomach

he comes back, and you avoid his eyes, looking out the window to the parking lot as he climbs in the driver's side.

"…i'm sorry," you say again, softly.

"but you won't change your mind?"

you shake your head.

you feel his arm tugging you into a half hug, and gives you a small smile. you look up at him, confused. his grip on your arm tightens.

he quickly pulls out a rag, pushing it over your mouth.

you weakly try to scream, muffled by the rag. you quickly start to feel tired, the chemical scent lulling you into darkness.

"shhh… it's ok. just close your eyes."

he holds down the rag firmly, holding you to him with his other arm. when your squirming slows down fully, he leans you down into the car seat.

he was just thankful you hadn't looked closer at the papers on the dashboard before he got in.

after all, those had his real name on them.

[delta-pavonis]

OKAY. OKAY.

HEAR ME OUT.

Hellknight!Hob wearing this. Chest hair and tiddies out, full happy trail, all of it...

Of course, I think about that, and that inspires a ficlet. And then that ficlet turns dark. So... *shrug* *shoves new baby out in the world*

Rated T

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time Hob sees Dream is when the latter has the audacity to enter the Morningstar's realm. He watches as the Dream King intimidates Squatterbloat into bringing him to the Palace. The demon is stupid and gullible, easily swayed, and Hob has a mind to bury his morningstar in the moron's fleshy head, but he would rather observe the visitor and his raven from the shadows.

Hob trails them, the straps of his armor expanding and morphing to cover his body with the mottled charcoals and midnights that are the palette of Hell. Squatterbloat leads the King in a circuitous route to their destination, passing a cell whose occupant not only commands the attention of the sovereign of the Dreaming, but whose pleading pains him. Curious.

He follows the pair of black figures beyond their guided tour, all the way into Lucifer's Hall, sliding unnoticed through the crack in the main doors. Hob is good at his job. He hadn't been successful at being a bandit and cutthroat in life for nothing.

Hob takes a place in the long shadows of one of the pillars and observes.

Apparently the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares is here in Hell to retrieve his helm, one of his important symbols of office. And of course it is some overly ripe idiot like Choronzon who has it. Sometimes Hob just wants to kill them all and promote new individuals to the positions of power, sometimes the house can't be cleaned, it needs to be razed and rebuilt.

But what is truly awe-inspiring is watching the battle between Dream and the Morningstar themself. The Dream King wins, although not handily. It makes the victory even more impressive. Hope. Of fucking course. Hob is quite sure that he has never seen the Lord of Hell so visibly angry in all his 600 plus years in the underworld.

Helm secured and confidence restored, the Lord of the Dreaming is proud and... well, he is incredibly beautiful. He is sharp angles in soft greys and blacks, luminous white skin draped in flowing ink, spikes of hair wafting against gravity.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Hob follows Lord Morpheus and his raven back outside. They walk slowly through the barren, twisted landscape, calculated and careful. Imperious.

Hunger ripples down Hob's spine. He wants.

The Lord stops, body going more still than death. "I am here in my official capacity as King of Dreams and Nightmares. You have followed me for long enough. Show yourself, fiend."

The Dream King's voice is so much deeper and darker than Hob expected and now it is directed at him and it goes directly to his cock. He decides to drop any pretense all at once.

Hob has no shame as he steps out from hiding, the shadow-plates sliding back and leaving him in what really amounts to a series of leather straps and a loincloth, buckled to accentuate the triangle of his torso and the strength in his chest, with sleeves from biceps to palms. The Knights of Hell need no metal protection - they shield themselves in darkness and guile - and so Lucifer Morningstar gives them intangible weapons: the ability to inspire lust and envy as much as wrath. He drops his physical weapon and holds his hands out to his sides.

"Dream King," Hob inclines his head. "I am not here to harm, nor am I here at the behest of my Lord, the Lightbringer." He meets the King's piercing blue eyes and has to grit his teeth to hold in a gasp at how sharply they cut into his breast.

That look trails from Hob's head to his toes slowly, then back up. Judging. Assessing. "So why do you dog my steps, Hellknight?"

He shrugs and takes a step forward. There is no reason for Hob to not be bold. He has long been dead. He has been a resident of Hell and served the Devil themself, has lived that fate worse than death, for almost seven centuries. He has, quite literally, nothing to lose.

So Hob nudges a the magic at his disposal into the cant of his hips, the tilt of his head, the purse of his lips. He lowers his eyelids and takes another step towards the luminous being of black and white before him. "I merely wish to look my fill before I can no longer."

"Bossss..." The raven flies a nervously tight circle above them. He is summarily ignored.

"You wish to more than look, Hellknight, for I can taste your dreams." The Lord of Nightmares snarls as he takes multiple steps to get into Hob's personal space. "You dare-"

Hob laughs loud enough to interrupt him and those ice shards widen in shock. "Oh, yes. I dare." He steps up once more and now their faces are within inches of each other. "How do you think the Morningstar trains their knights? Do you think there is anything you could do to me that would be worse than 700 years of this?"

The resonant chuckle that curls across Hob's skin should probably worry him, but he cannot muster such sense when he is watching the pupils of the Dream King's eyes bleed black outwards, eclipsing his eyes entirely, and wholly captivating Hob. "Lucifer Morningstar's sins often get in the way of their... creativity."

A pale hand shoots towards him and Hob braces for impact, for pain.

He gets nothing of the sort.

Fingers that are the coolness of a lake in summer skate with hedonistic gentleness across Hob's cheek. The palm cups Hob's jaw sweetly. Honeyed breath caresses Hobs lips before they are pressed together. Then he is being kissed with the fondness and warmth of a dear lover.

And that is when Hob realizes that he has vastly miscalculated.

Against his better judgement, Hob is lost to the tide of it. The softest touch of tongues morphs into lazy familiar licks, mapping Hob's mouth as if to memorize, immortalize.

The King of Dreams pulls away and Hob is left panting and hazy.

"I touch you, I kiss you, as I would a lover, as I would my beloved." The King whispers it like a benediction. Hob gasps at the horror that settles into the marrow of his bones. "And never will you feel it again."

And then he is gone.

Hob watches, frozen, as each stride the King takes covers miles. It is only when they have disappeared over the horizon, both Lord and Raven, that Hob realizes tears are streaming down his face.

[bloggingnsfw]

Deep in the forest

Sequel to Werewolf breeding

Warning: smut, pregnancy, female reader, Gnoll, 2 Monsters X fem reader, creampie, implied creampie, rough

Part 2

As she traversed through dense forests and treacherous landscapes, strange beasts came upon her occasionally. At each instance, however, your courage and resolve only seemed to intensify. She swiftly dispatched the threats and continued onwards towards her destination, unaware of the numerous eyes that watched her departing figure vanish into the distance. Meanwhile, the alpha wolf waited patiently within the cave, eagerly awaiting her return. Whenever danger loomed near, Y/N employed various techniques learned from the wolves – stealthily navigating around obstacles, stalking her quarry, and utilizing guile to deceive potential predators. In doing so, she managed to maintain her sense of self-preservation, although her spirit was tested many times over. In the distant she could see a cavern, she hoped so find some shelter from the brutal wind.

The air within the dimly lit cavern reverberated with an underlying sense of excitement and danger. Every step taken echoed loudly against the stone walls surrounding You, as if every movement was amplified, drawing attention towards her arrival. Her eyes roamed about restlessly, trying to discern anything familiar among the peculiar array of creatures gathered around the large, smoke-filled space. Clothed in a tight leather bodice accented with intricate silver designs, she exuded confidence despite the oddity of her situation. As her footsteps drew closer, more curious glances were cast upon her – it seemed they had not encountered such beauty before. "What brings you here, lovely one?" The voice came from behind her, huskier than expected, causing Y/N to shiver involuntarily. Turning slowly, she met the gaze of a towering figure cloaked in black - its body barely concealed beneath the garment. Despite the obscurity, his size alone spoke volumes; he was undoubtedly the master of these lands. "I seek companionship," she replied boldly, allowing herself to be swept up by the moment. With each passing second, the allure of his presence grew stronger, enveloping her senses entirely. As their bodies pressed together, Y/N felt the heat radiating from his chest seep through her clothes, leaving goosebumps across her skin. Unable to resist any longer, she reached out to touch him, tracing her fingers along the contours of his broad shoulders and down his muscular arms. In response, he pulled her even closer, pressing his hardened length against her soft curves. Without warning, his hand snaked around her waist, pulling her close enough so that their lips nearly touched. His breath quickened, sending waves of desire coursing through both of them. It was then that Y/N made her move, sliding her hands up his chest until they reached the hem of his cloak. Grabbing hold firmly, she began untying the knot securely fastening it around his neck. With each gentle tug, the fabric parted slightly, exposing tantalizing slivers of flesh. Glancing upwards, Y/N caught sight of a pair of steely grey eyes peering back at her intently, filled with burning desires and expectancy. Unperturbed, she continued teasing him further, pushing the boundaries of what could have been considered polite behavior. Running her tongue seductively over her lipstick-stained lips, she whispered suggestively, "Do I make you want me?" This time, there was no doubt in his expression, only lustful intent etched deeply onto his face. Reaching down to cup her breast lightly through her top, he groaned audibly, the sound filling the confined space, making the warmth between her legs grow exponentially. Taking a deep breath, Y/N closed her eyes briefly, savoring the delicious feeling of anticipation. Lowering her head demurely, she brushed her nose against his collarbone before biting playfully at the flesh. The sharp pain served as a trigger, releasing a flood of endorphins that intensified the arousal. Desire now coursed through her veins, propelling her movements faster and harder.

[little-shop-of-stories]

Ballroom thoughts

Will you be my Belle

For this masqueraded ball

I'll dance away the night with you

Or with none at all

Enchanted by your candy smile

And sharp, observant eyes

Enraptured by your knight's disguise

Your subtle wit and guile

Dressed in lies you tell yourself

With a bright sun shining through

I'll undress you neath the moonlit sky

I've eyes for naught but you

gasp I did not mean to sound so crass

I shouldn't feel like this again

Mortified by my own thoughts

Of such metaphors abstain

Yet I do wish to know you deeper

Help you with old wounds and woes

Protect you from phantasmal foes

I too'll be your soul's keeper

I want to peer into your shell

To see you, to accept you whole

In costume still you shroud your soul

... I'll wait for you, I shall not dwell

So I ask to dance the night with you

'Till the dawn's too early chime

And let me see, in your own time

Your dark side of the moon

(This one's a bit different, in that it's an attempt at fanfiction of sorts. Just what I think might go through Edwin's head if he and Charles had to go to a (masquerade) ball for a case.)

[divineatrophy]

Daniel watches him for a moment, his smile tight and his gaze shrewd. It’s hard not to feel braced for this. “Are we gonna cut the bullshit now, Armand?” Armand’s eyes linger on the table for a moment before he takes a deep breath, visibly collecting himself before they flick upwards, pinning Daniel in place with their own kind of guile. “You’re the interviewer, Daniel,” he says, each word as sharp and pricking as little teeth against his neck. “Ask a question.” His mouth goes dry, but he refuses to take a sip of his drink. Yeah. Yeah, Danny. Ask the question. “You were Alice,” Daniel says. And then, because it has to be a question, goddammit: “Weren’t you?”

chapter 7: date niiiight. a blood mary, painkillers, and mind games like a jenga tower

[manicr]

Bullseye, Elektra & Black Widow by Guile Sharp

[ugotnojamzzz]

Rulers of Ruin

Chapter 6

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: There will come a day when I will sit down and write an alluring synopsis for this series. But that day hasn't come just yet lol. Stay tuned for more chapters to come.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 1.7k

Masterlist

Chapter 5

After her altercation with Jimin, YN’s frustration only grew stronger. For someone who supposedly played an important role in the upcoming feud, she’d never felt more sidelined. Always kept outside of the loop.

She found herself more restless and defiant than ever. Taking advantage of Taehyung’s occasionally distracted nature, she spent the following week slipping out of his line of sight every chance she got, exploiting the slightest opportunity to explore—or test—the limits of her captivity.

One evening, as she was escorted to the mansion's library for a new book to distract her from her boredom, Taehyung's attention was momentarily captured by a conversation with another agent, a young woman whose laughter seemed to echo distractingly down the dark hallway. Seizing the moment, Y/N discreetly slipped away, her steps silent on the plush carpet.

She wandered down the corridor, not expecting much, really. Only she stopped dead in her tracks, her ears picking up the muffled tones of a serious conversation seeping through the thick door of an adjacent parlor. Her curiosity piqued, she pressed closer.

"…seems they’re gearing up for war," She recognized Namjoon’s distinctive baritone, “We may need additional eyes out there soon."

“Maybe Hoseok?” another voice spoke, “"He's returning soon with Kookie, right?"

"Stop that,” Namjoon chided, his voice sharp, “you know he hates that nickname."

“Aish, you don’t need to fight his battles,” the voice said, “if your father was here-“

Her heart thudded with the thrill of the forbidden knowledge just within her grasp. She leaned in, straining to catch more.

“While on the topic of my father,” Namjoon’s voice grew tenser, “any updates?”

“He’s alright, for now,” the voice spoke, “but…”

Y/N's mind raced. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the conversation inside had ceased until the door suddenly swung open.

Namjoon’s piercing gaze met hers immediately, a frown creasing his brow. Behind him, YN recognized Seokjin standing in his white blouse, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Y/N," Namjoon's voice was a blend of disappointment and irritation. "Spying requires guile and vigilance," he paused, “it appears you’re lacking both.”

Her response came quick, tinged with defiance. "Maybe I need some lessons from your agents," she retorted sharply, her voice echoing slightly in the spacious hallway, “they’re clearly doing such a good job at keeping track of me.”

He chuckled dryly, not out of amusement but as a prelude to a sharper critique. "Watch your attitude,” he shot back, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed her, “it’s unbecoming."

She exhaled a frustrated sigh, feeling cornered yet defiant. "I've been kept in the dark for two weeks, Namjoon.” Her voice rose, a clear note of irritation threading through her words, “How long do you expect me to sit around waiting for you to decide my fate?"

Namjoon stepped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Information is dispensed on a need-to-know basis," he stated firmly, approaching her. "And right now, you don’t need to know anything."

Y/N bristled at the dismissal, her anger flaring. "So, what do I need, then? More guards? An ankle bracelet, perhaps? Shall we test how tight this leash can get?"

Before he could respond, rapid footsteps echoed down the hallway. Taehyung appeared, breathing heavily, his usual composed demeanor unraveled by exertion. "Sorry, Boss—I lost sight of her for just a minute," he panted, casting a wary glance at Y/N.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked between Y/N and Taehyung, his displeasure evident. "Ensure it doesn’t happen again," he warned, then turned back to Y/N. "As for you, try to remember your place. If you keep this up, I won’t hesitate to make your conditions less... comfortable.” His threat hung heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the power he wielded. “Or perhaps I’ll simply ship you back to your brother, see if you prefer what he’s got in store for you.”

Before YN could utter a response, the broad-shouldered leader went back in the parlour, firlmy shutting the door behind him.

YN's anger boiled over as she stormed off, her heels clicking angrily against the marble floors. Behind her, Taehyung hurried to keep up, his own frustration mirroring hers but tinged with resignation. "Come on, don't do this," he called out, his voice barely cutting through her tirade.

"This is all ridiculous!” YN shouted back over her shoulder, her words sharp as daggers. “Complete, utter bullshit!" The cool night air did nothing to temper her heated words as she burst through the double doors into the garden.

She stomped outside still ranting to herself.

Taehyung sighed, dodging low-hanging branches as he tried to keep up with her brisk pace. "Ranting isn’t going to change anything," he called out, his voice barely cutting through the sound of the wind.

"And what would you suggest, huh? Compliance? Silent obedience?" she snapped back, turning to face him with a glare, “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You miserable pieces of shit!” she shouted

Taehyung sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's raining, Y/N. Let’s go back inside before you catch your death," he tried reasoning with her, his voice calm but firm.

“Oh sure, it’s the rain that’s going to kill me,” she rolled her eyes. "Last time I checked, a little water has never hurt anyone," she snapped, dismissing his concern with a wave of her hand. Her focus was solely on venting her frustration, paying little attention to where she was stepping. The garden path, slick with rain, was a treacherous terrain for her furious pacing.

Before Taehyung could warn her, YN's foot caught on the edge of a stone near the koi pond. Her balance lost, she stumbled with a startled yelp, arms flailing as she tried desperately to regain her footing. It was no use; gravity took over, and with a splash that echoed louder than her shouts, YN found herself submerged in cold murky water.

“Ah, shit,” Taehyung rushed to the pond’s edge, suppressing a chuckle as he extended a hand to help her out. “Looks like a little water might hurt after all," he remarked, trying to infuse a bit of humor into the situation.

Soaked and shivering, YN grasped his hand, her earlier fire doused by the icy pond water. "Very funny," she muttered, pulling herself up with his help. She stood dripping beside the pond, the rain mixing with pond water, her elegant outfit ruined and clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

Taehyung’s expression softened as he draped his jacket over her shoulders. "Come on, let’s get you inside and dried off," he said, guiding her back towards the mansion. "And maybe skip the midnight garden walks for a while, yeah?"

"Fuck off," she muttered under her breath, even as he escorted her toward her quarters, his jacket still wrapped around her.

--

In the warm embrace of the shower, Y/N let the hot water cascade over her, washing away the pond's chill and the night's frustrations. As the steam clouded around her, so did her thoughts, swirling with the events of the evening.

The steam seemed to seep into her pores, attempting to soothe the sting of humiliation and the cold realization of her helplessness.

Her mind replayed Namjoon's words, sharp and cutting, echoing against the tiles with every droplet that fell.

Remember your place.

the fall into the pond had been a jolt back to a reality she’d been trying to ignore. It wasn't just the physical shock of the cold water but the absurdity of the situation that gnawed at her. Here she was, a pawn in a game of power, maneuvered by people who saw her not as a person but as a leverage point—a tool in their negotiations and strategies. The very idea that she could be discussed as part of a war strategy was infuriating.

With every drop that washed over her, she pondered the bitter irony of her safety. Here, in between the tigers’ claws, surrounded by those who viewed her as little more than a bargaining chip, she was, in a twisted sense, probably safer than she had been in a long time. The thought stung, a reluctant admission that clawed at her pride.

Her last encounter with her brother had been under circumstances shrouded in shadows and tension, their parting more a series of harsh whispers and hurried steps than heartfelt goodbyes. The memory was a sharp jab to her conscience, a reminder of unfinished business and unresolved conflicts that lingered like ghosts in her mind.

The steam fogged up the mirror, and for a moment, she imagined it clouding out the world, giving her a momentary respite from the watchful eyes and calculated moves. But as comforting as the warmth was, it couldn't wash away the reality of her predicament.

She needed to be more than just compliant; she needed to be cunning. If they were going to use her as a piece in their games, then perhaps it was time to learn the rules and play back. Tonight, however, she would allow herself just a few more moments of solace in the simple, searing heat of the shower.

The comforting rush of warm water was abruptly overshadowed by some noise coming beyond the bathroom door. Y/N's muscles tensed beneath the cascade. "Taehyung,” she began, her voice, sharp with annoyance, echoing slightly off the tiled walls, “I told you not to—"

Her sentence was abruptly cut off as the door swung open with a force that suggested urgency—or a complete utter lack of care. "Jesus Christ—" Y/N exclaimed, a mix of surprise and irritation in her tone. She instinctively spun around, her eyes squinting through the billowing steam. She could make out a figure, distinctly different from Taehyung's lean silhouette.

Before she could fully shield herself or demand an explanation, a deep, unfamiliar voice cut through the mist.

"And who the fuck are you?"

--

guess who? lol

Anyway hope you liked it. If some of you are intrigued or interested in finding out more, don't hesitate to interact and I'll start posting some more chapters! Also questions and remarks and feedback are welcome xxx

Chapter 7

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

[grimoirey]

The Suit of Swords:

A Journey

The Suit of Swords, sharp and piercing, tells the story of the mind, intellect, and the trials of thought. It is a journey through the winds of clarity, conflict, and truth, where the seeker must face the shadows of their own mental world, cutting through illusion to find wisdom. The sword is both weapon and tool, a double-edged force that can bring understanding or pain.

» » » » » » » » » » » »

It begins with the Ace of Swords, where a hand reaches from the clouds, offering a gleaming blade crowned in light. This is the gift of pure mental clarity, a breakthrough of thought that cuts through confusion. The seeker stands at the precipice of truth, where the sword of the mind can pierce illusions and reveal higher understanding. It is a moment of revelation, where insight and logic are born, leading the way toward new beginnings. This sword is a symbol of power, intellect, and the unflinching force of truth.

But as the seeker wields this new sword, the Two of Swords presents a dilemma. The figure sits blindfolded, holding two crossed swords in tension. Here, the seeker is faced with a difficult choice or inner conflict, torn between opposing forces of the mind. This is a moment of indecision, where the way forward is unclear, clouded by the refusal to see or feel the truth. The heart and mind are at odds, and peace can only come when the seeker is willing to remove the blindfold and confront the reality before them.

The tension builds, and in the Three of Swords, the blade of truth cuts deep. A heart is pierced by three swords, symbolizing sorrow, heartbreak, and emotional pain. Here, the seeker must face the harshness of loss, betrayal, or grief, where the mind’s sharp edge has wounded the heart. This is the card of suffering, where mental clarity reveals difficult truths, and the pain of that understanding must be felt. Yet within the storm of sorrow lies the potential for healing, as truth often brings the release necessary for renewal.

As the pain of the heart settles, the Four of Swords calls for rest and retreat. A figure lies in repose within a church, sword by their side, signaling the need for mental recovery and contemplation. After the storms of conflict, the seeker must now withdraw into stillness, finding peace in quiet reflection. It is a moment of healing through solitude, where the mind is given space to recover from its battles, and clarity is sought through introspection. Here, the seeker learns that wisdom sometimes comes from silence.

But the rest is fleeting, for the Five of Swords soon appears, a scene of conflict and defeat. A figure holds three swords, while two figures walk away in sorrow, having been bested in a battle of wills. This card speaks of hollow victories, where the pursuit of mental dominance has led to isolation. The seeker may have won, but at what cost? It is a warning of the dangers of pride, ego, and the desire to conquer others through words or intellect. The mind, when used as a weapon, can cut others down but leave the soul hollow.

The journey continues into the Six of Swords, where a small boat glides across calm waters, carrying figures away from a troubled shore. Here, the seeker moves from turmoil to a place of peace, leaving behind conflict in search of mental and emotional harmony. This is the card of transition, where the mind seeks solace after a period of difficulty. The swords remain in the boat, symbolizing that the lessons and burdens of the past are still carried, but the journey is toward healing and resolution.

The Seven of Swords presents a figure sneaking away with five swords, leaving two behind. This is the card of deception, strategy, and cunning. The seeker is faced with a situation where the mind must act carefully, perhaps through stealth or guile. But there is a warning here—seeking shortcuts or acting dishonestly may bring temporary success, but the consequences will eventually follow. Remember that it is difficult to carry too many swords, as one may get cut. It is a time for the seeker to question their methods and intentions, for the mind’s cleverness can become a trap of its own making.

The shadow deepens with the Eight of Swords, where a figure stands bound and blindfolded, surrounded by swords. Here, the seeker feels trapped by their own thoughts, imprisoned by fears, doubts, and limiting beliefs. This is the card of mental restriction, where the mind has become a cage. Yet, the bindings are loose, and the swords do not block the way—this is a prison of the seeker's own making, one that can be escaped through the courage to see clearly and free oneself from self-imposed limitations.

As the struggle intensifies, the Nine of Swords reveals a figure sitting up in bed, hands covering their face, tormented by nightmares and anxieties. This is the card of worry and mental anguish, where the mind has turned against itself, creating sleepless nights and haunting fears. The seeker is overwhelmed by the weight of their thoughts, replaying past mistakes or future fears. It is a time of deep introspection, where the mind must confront its darkest fears to find release from the cycle of torment.

The journey through the swords reaches its most painful point with the Ten of Swords, where a figure lies face down, ten swords piercing their back. This is the card of ultimate defeat, where the mind and spirit have been brought to their lowest point. The dawn rises in the background, signaling that this end, while painful, is also the beginning of renewal. The seeker has reached the bottom, but from here, there is only the potential for rebirth. The mind's sharp edge has cut through every illusion, and now, in the darkness, the soul can rise again, freed from what no longer serves.

» » » » » » » » » » » »

But from this point of despair, hope reemerges with the Page of Swords, a youthful figure standing tall, sword raised high. This is the card of fresh ideas, curiosity, and the willingness to explore new paths of thought. The seeker, having faced the trials of the mind, now steps forward with a renewed sense of intellectual vigor. The Page brings a message of mental clarity and the excitement of new challenges, ready to wield the sword of truth once again, but with wisdom and discernment.

The Knight of Swords charges forward, sword raised, embodying the fierce and determined pursuit of truth and justice. This is the card of action, where the mind, sharp and clear, drives the seeker forward with unstoppable momentum. But there is a warning here—the Knight's speed and intensity can sometimes lead to recklessness. The seeker must be careful not to rush headlong into conflict or decisions without considering the consequences. It is a reminder that the pursuit of truth must be tempered with mindfulness.

The Queen of Swords steps into view, sitting upon her throne with sword in hand, her gaze sharp and discerning. She embodies the wisdom of the mind, balanced by emotional clarity. This is the card of intellect tempered with compassion, where the seeker has learned to use the sword of truth with fairness and justice. The Queen cuts through lies and illusions, but she does so with grace and understanding, having mastered the balance between heart and mind. She teaches the seeker to speak truth, but with empathy.

Finally, the King of Swords stands tall, a figure of authority and mastery. He represents the culmination of mental power, where intellect, logic, and clear thinking reign supreme. The King is a leader, one who commands with wisdom, fairness, and strategic insight. He has mastered the sword, knowing when to wield it and when to lay it down. His story is one of mental clarity, where the highest truth has been reached, and the seeker now governs their world with justice, understanding, and strength.

» » » » » » » » » » » »

Thus, the journey of the Swords is one of mental trials and triumphs, from the first spark of clarity to the ultimate mastery of thought. It is a path fraught with conflict, but also rich in the wisdom gained from navigating the sharp edges of the mind. In the end, the seeker emerges with a deeper understanding of truth, intellect, and the power of thought, having faced both the light and shadow of the mental realm.

[thepenultimateword]

Until Death Do Us Part: Part 2

@writing-on-the-wahl I have finally completed my bribe! I hope you enjoy!

Part One

Villain considered running. One more last-ditch, blind dash for the exit. Who cared who tried to stop her? However, no sooner did Superhero drop her hand, than he scooped her into a bridal carry.

Her breath hitched as she bumped against his chest, her entire body freezing within his heroic--dangerous--grip. Those circling arms would crush her if she wasn't careful. She'd experienced that strength before, only not with her own body. Over a dozen robotic shells had fallen victim to Superhero's hands, now little more than ripped and flattened scrap, she didn't want to imagine what he could do to a human body.

Superhero strode with a pace untethered from the laws of gravity, quickly bursting through the blur of brown and gold that was the exit and floating the wide staircase to the sidewalk. She barely sucked in one last breath of cool spring air, before the hero bustled her skirts around her and tucked her into the leathered backseat of a waiting car.

She immediately felt around for the door handle but found it locked. A moment later the opposite door slammed shut as Superhero slid in beside her.

"Here." Cool plastic slid over her ears and the bridge of her nose and suddenly she could see again.

Superhero's face grinned wickedly into her own, appearing even more devilish with a sharp red-haired, long-canined, high-cheekboned combo.

"I made sure one of my people got them back for you."

How magnanimous, Villain wanted to spit, but instead only managed a quivering glare.

Superhero grinned wider. “So cute.”

Villain bristled. Did he take her seriously at all? Maybe not since it had been so easy to haul and bind her here. She had never wished more for one of her suits.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t say that, hm? So…intimidating?”

That was enough.Villain's entire face flushed with fury. “Don’t make fun of me!”

Superhero cackled. “I’m not! I’m not! I just didn’t expect you to be so expressive; your reactions are so fun. If it helps, you really do intimidate me, even all itty bitty.”

Villain folded her arms across her chest and stared firmly out the window. She refused to give Superhero what he wanted. What that was…she didn’t exactly know, but as long as she didn’t speak or look at him at all, she should squash it out soundly.

Superhero chuckled, leaning toward the driver out of Villain's peripheral. "Let's go home, Hero."

Villain jolted, whipping toward the front seat where the usually bedheaded and raggedy vigilante really was seated in a only slightly crumpled suit and tie.

"You got it!" Hero chirped, and the car lurched into motion.

Villain couldn't believe this. How much reach did Superhero have over the heroing community? She expected this sort of behavior from him; he'd never made a secret of his willingness to misuse power or compromise morals for results. But Hero always gave her stray kitten vibes, always mewing at people's heels or spitting at the big dogs but not an ounce of real guile in his body.

Maybe she was bad at reading people. She hadn't thought Superhero was serious about flirting with her either.

Superhero leaned back, settling one long arm across the back of Villain's seat. "Don't grimace so hard, dear, you'll get wrinkles."

Villain fought the urge to scoff. Or bite. Right, of course, he didn't want any damage to his little prize.

"Glaring is no better."

"Shut up!" she snapped but still didn't dare wrench forward in case it encouraged him to place his hands on more than her seat.

Her breath caught in her lungs as the full extent of her situation settled on her, weighing like heavy stones she couldn't seem to lift, aching and suffocating on her chest. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

She pressed her forehead to the cool window, glasses digging into the bridge of her nose. It took several seconds for her to exhale any air to cloud it.

"Come now, Villain," Superhero said. "Being married to me isn't so bad. I'm cute aren't I?"

Villain clenched her fists tighter in her lap.

"What?" Hero piped from the front seat. "No, you're not; you're ugly."

"Whaaat?"

Hero grinned in the rearview mirror. "Just being truthful."

"You just don't appreciate my softer beautiful because you're used to Sidekick's raw edges," Superhero said matter-of-factly.

Hero's expression turned melty as warm ice cream, like his grin might slide right off his face. "She's scary and beautiful, and that's why I love her."

Sidekick. The ex-assassin. Was she in on this too? Villain's chances of escape really were getting slimmer and slimmer.

She focused on breathing, in and out, in and out. Her heart rate slowed a fraction, but the nervous racing seemed impossible to quell entirely. Not with whatever horrors awaited her. She barely noticed the turns they took or the streets they traveled., so she was surprised and filled with dread when Hero finally announced, "Here we are!" and pulled into a wide driveway.

Villain wiped the wide circle of fog off her window. She had expected a mansion, or a 100-story skyscraper with a penthouse, or even a tunnel to a secret underground base. She did not expect the perfect model of domestic suburbia.

Two squat, square stories with a wrap-around porch, peeling blue shutters with pink and lavenders flowers painted up the sides, and a little herb garden growing beside the steps

"You live here?" she said before she could catch herself.

"We live here," Superhero corrected. "Mind if I carry you across the threshold?"

Villain cringed away from his outstretched hands, causing Superhero to frown and Hero to bark a laugh.

"Well...I'll hold your hand then."

Superhero's fingers suddenly twined in hers, tugging her across the seat and out of Superhero's side of the car.

"Let go!" She sank her nails as hard as she could into his knuckles, but he merely grinned through a wince.

"I can't really do that, can I? You'll run right off, and no doubt you'll be brilliant at it, and I'll have to spend all night tracking you down. So unless you'd prefer ropes and manacles--"

"I would!"

Superhero blinked. "Well. Unfortunately, I don't have anything like that, so you'll have to make do with this--" He lifted their twined hands. "--for a few more steps."

Villain dug her heels into the pavement, but Superhero easily managed to drag her up the steps and across the threshold, locking the door behind them before finally letting her free.

Villain, pulling back with all her strength against his grip, toppled at the sudden release, landing hard on her tailbone. Superhero extended a hand to help her, but ignored it, scrambling up quickly and sinking into the corner behind the coat hanger .

"Living room is through here." Superhero gestured to an arched opening beside the entryway, not even addressing her avoidance. "Kitchen aka meeting room is down the hall. The bathroom is that door to the left, and there's another upstairs next to Hero's room. Sidekick is down in the basement which is also a sort of armory thing." He waved his hand flippantly at that description. "I'm the room at the far back, it's a little bigger but don't be jealous, it's seniority and the fact the house is in my name. Hero can show you to your room: it's the one at the top of the stairs.

"What?" Villain gripped hard to coatrack but peeked out from behind a burgundy sleeve.

"You know, that place where you'll be sleeping and keeping your things?"

Villain blinked. “My room?”

"Of course, what sort of devil do you take me for?”

She narrowed her eyes. "The type that forces people to marry him against their will."

Superhero draped himself over the stair railing. "Well, obviously you're not staying in my room, you'll clutter it up with your robot junk, and besides the bed's not big enough."

"Superhero," Hero said from where he hung back against one of the passage walls, "maybe now is the time to tell her?"

"Tell me what?"

"Oh, alright," Superhero said, "but show her her room first, I'm sure she'd kill to get out of that dress. And I don't mean that as hyperbole."

Villain refused to move until Superhero had removed himself from the stairwell and into the kitchen, as far away from her as she supposed she was going to get.

Hero trotted up the stairs like a young colt, gangly and ungrateful. He nearly tripped over the top step, but quickly balanced himself with outstretched arms. Villain followed slower, needing to grab her ridiculous train skirt in a bundle in her arms to even see her feet in front of her. Hero waited in the doorway as picked her way to the top. First one by the stairs, just as Superhero said.

Except for a twin bed under the window, a bedstand, and a dresser against the back wall, the room was unfurnished. As far as decorations went, a lamp with a pink ruffled shade sat on the bedstand beside a metal pencil cup all made up of screws and bolts to look like a squat robot. Instead of pencils, a variety of colored lollipops stuck out the top of his head.

"I told Superhero you'd hate that," Hero said, motioning to the cup. "But he saw it at a thrift store last week and insisted."

"How long has he been planning this?" Villain asked, eyeing the lollipops uncomfortably. Was it a coincidence or had another villain informed Superhero that she tended to keep one in her mouth while she worked? No doubt Supervillain had shared all sorts so intimate information with the heroes already. He'd never liked her, and she'd been too unbothered to worry about what he noticed.

"About a month?" Hero said. "Give or take a week?"

Villain insides dropped. Had Supervillain been in agreement that long too? Were the two of them just watching her? Biding their time until she was vulnerable enough to strike? She was an idiot, she never should have drawn Superhero's attention in the first place. But then...what had she done exactly? She'd fought Superhero like she would anyone else. Yes, there'd been a little more flirtation than with the others, but any sane person would have realized that wasn't an invitation.

"He's really not as bad as he seems," Hero said, reading the furrows in her expression.

"Then you marry him," Villain spat.

Hero winced. "No, I didn't mean...I mean the situation he's put you in isn't as bad-- No, that sounds pretty bad too... You're really just going to have to hear him out to understand. Though I can tell you this isn't exactly what it looks like. I'll um...be waiting outside until you're ready. There are some clothes in the dresser."

Hero ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Villain was glad to find a lock on the inside, twisting and testing it before immediately yanking at the ties and zipper on her back. She got it about halfway undone before losing patience and struggling the rest over her head. Her hair staticked around her face, but it felt nice to have all that weight off, and she took great satisfaction in throwing the balled wad of lace and frills into the corner.

She half expected the drawers to be full of pretty clothing just as uncomfortable and twice as revealing, but the first drawer contained several pairs of sweats and jeans, the second a few tolerable blouses. The third was empty, but Villain was thankful for the absence of underclothes. She didn't even want to imagine Superhero shopping for such things with her in mind.

She chose a pair of thick black sweat and an oversized t-shirt was a soda logo on the front, a little surprised at the nice texture of the fabric. As she opened the door, she didn't wait for Hero to guide her back downstairs, instead marching straight past him, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Superhero sat at the table with shoes kicked off and tie undone, annoyingly unconcerned as he ate a bowl of yogurt. In a moment of boldness, Villain plopped into the seat straight across from him, glaring murderously over her glasses.

"Sorry," Superhero said, mouth full. "I skipped breakfast. Wedding nerves."

"What's going on?" Villain said.

"Did you eat breakfast? We've got oranges, yogurt, cereal, this gross breakfast smoothie mix Sidekick keeps buying. Once we know what you like we can start--"

Villain pounded both fists against the table. The frustration exploded and simmered down in an instant. She shouldn't have done that. Not in the middle of a hero base without any resources to defend herself. She sank back against her chair, arms wrapped around her knees. With the right tools, she could be big, deadly, threatening. As herself...well she'd learned early on that if she was in trouble it was better to be small. People skimmed over you. They didn't take you seriously, but they also didn't worry.

"Sorry," Superhero said.

Villain's gaze shot up from her toes to Superhero's tired hand over his face.

"You need an explanation. Everything just...gets more complicated after this."

Villain rested her chin on her kneecaps and waited for the hero to continue.

"To start, this," he waved between Villain and himself, "is a front. I needed an inside ally, but I also needed them close and out of Supervillain's range of power."

A hot and cold mixture rushed Villain's intestines, relief and anger and confusion and resistance. She wet her lips. "And I had the luck of the draw?"

Superhero tipped their hand back and forth in the air. "Sort of. I probably could have picked someone else just as well, but you checked quite a few boxes: you're a villain who has met Supervillain, you commit crime for a purpose and avoid hurting people, you're not psychotic, and you are one of the only villains that I can see being really formidable. Oh and of course there was palpable tension between us."

Villain made of show of gagging.

Superhero pouted, "No need to be so rude. The people--and Supervillain--really ate it up."

"So..."Villain said slowly, slowly uncurling her legs and lifting her fingernails out her palms. "You married me so that I would help you take down Supervillain?"

"Yes, like I said, it won't be strange if we're seen together now. And I think I made a big enough show for people to believe you're just a trophy. And as far as Supervillain knows, we have a deal. You for a blind eye to them. I'll let them think that's true for a while but--"

"Why would I even help you after all this?" Villain clenched her jaw, forcing herself calm. "This was quite possibly the worst day of my life, and you want me to forget and work with you?"

"I'm pretty sure after what they did to you, you want to destroy Supervillain as much as I do."

"I also want to destroy you."

"You can try."

Superhero and Villain both swiveled their heads toward Hero as he slid in on the other end of the table. He shrugged at their furrowed faces. "Once Supervillain is taken care of, you'll have plenty of opportunities to fight Superhero. You might even know a little more about him."

Superhero looked about ready to complain but then stopped. "He's right. Wouldn't you rather destroy me after learning all my weaknesses?"

Villain sank against the table, rubbing her temples with her index and middle fingers. She wasn't sure what to do. She did want Supervillain gone, and not only because she wanted vengeance. He was a plague on this city, even from a criminal standpoint. And he would only get more power. But she hated the idea of being on Superhero's side almost as much.

"If I was to decline...would you let me go?"

"Afraid not," Superhero said. "Things have already been set in motion. I can't make a deal to marry you and then pretend it never happened."

"You could've asked me before having me kidnapped."

"You would have said no."

Probably. But Superhero didn't know that for sure. How dare he assume he knew her. How dare he force her to... Another thought suddenly crossed her mind.

"Are we really married?" she asked.

Superhero grinned that signature devilish grin. "Legally, yes. I didn't want Supervillain to become suspicious if he went digging. But it can easily be annulled later, after all, you hardly consented."

"Don't you care about your reputation? A superhero marrying a villain, let alone forcing it against her will is hardly a good look for your precious citizens."

Superhero shrugged. "Once it's all over I'll give a statement explaining everything, but honestly, my reputation is already bad, so it hardly matters if it gets worse."

Right. Superhero was the questionable hero. The one who valued results over ethicality. Did he really not care what people thought of him? It seemed unlikely in an organization that depended on civilian cooperation and sponsors, but Villain was one to talk. She didn't make nice with the criminal underbelly either.

"Well," Villain said, "you've made it abundantly clear I have no other choice. Let's get this over with. You mentioned something about robot junk?"

Master Taglist:

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[vibke]

Part 2, yeeeea!

Sooooooo, this is like part 2 of my AU lore. The 1st one is pinned on my tumblr acc and I’d recommend reading it before this one. But in any case, this is just entertaining reading with blood, trauma and stuff, so it still can be read without knowing the context (￣▽￣) 

As Pure Vanilla's eyes fluttered open, he found himself once again in this oppressive void that seemed to stretch on endlessly. This time, however, a noticeable shift in the atmosphere hinted at a different kind of acceptance. The void accepted his new nature, revealing to Vanilla the secrets hidden in its concealed space. Once barren and desolate, but now it overflowed with clumps of dark magic coalescing into ominous shapes, birthing new entities that exuded malevolence and promised chaos and destruction to the world. Born from the depths of darkness and emptiness, the radiance and rhythmic pulse of delicate hearts in living beings cast a mesmerizing and alluring spell upon them. Upon their emergence, creatures punctured ethereal fabric with fangs and claws, weaving their way into the realm beyond. In a breathtaking spectacle, the rifts swiftly healed, akin to a colossal entity tending to its wounds with seamless grace. The place was devoid of light's touch, yet it held an openness to receive a soul that had once been a beacon in the darkest of hours. After all, now only smoldering embers remain from its former brightness. 

Pure Vanilla felt the Beast's presence as towering figure materialized out of nowhere, casting a long, sinister shadow over him. An aura of malevolent power seemed to emanate from Shadow Milk, seeping into Vanilla's very essence and sending a shiver down his spine. With a chilling grin he reached out to run his fingers through Vanilla's disheveled hair. His voice was dripping with guile and feigned gentleness. "You're a pathetic creature, Vanilla," - he sneered, his words were like venomous whispers. - "A mere shadow of your former self. Simply adjust this new grand reality, for it is your only salvation." This is not true. This can't be true. For a moment disobedience, the desire for freedom flared up in the fading soul. Vanilla's throat constricted with fear and defiance, but as he moved to speak, he was confronted by the sharp edges of his teeth, still stained with blood from his accidental unfortunate victim. After all, the truth cannot be escaped. Tremors wracked his body, his eyes betraying a mix of terror and despair as Shadow Milk produced a grotesque offering — a severed limb held out with a twisted grin. 

With every fiber of his being, he fought against the predatory instincts that threatened to consume him whole. But each moment of resistance only seemed to fuel the insatiable appetite within him, driving him to the brink of madness as the line between the ancient hero and the beast blurred into a terrifying haze. The conflict raged within him, tearing at his sanity and shredding his resolve to cling to his dwindling geniality. "I see the struggle within you, Vanilla," - Shadow Milk's voice echoed through the darkness, a cold chuckle underlying its words. - "You cling to your old self, but that part of you is loooooooong gone. Embrace the darkness within you, for it is your true essence." It seemed that what was said was the last straw. In a heart-wrenching surrender to the beast within, Vanilla succumbed to the overpowering craving, his once gentle nature eclipsed by a savage hunger that demanded to be sated. As he tore into the flesh before him, the taste of blood on his lips and the primal satisfaction of the predator sent a shiver of revulsion through his core.  When the haze of frenzy lifted and clarity pierced through the darkness of his actions, a profound sense of horror and self-loathing gripped Vanilla's heart. The realization of what he had become, the monstrous depths he had plumbed in his desperation, struck him with a force that shook him to his very core. Again. This happened again. Shadow Milk only watched with a grin. 

In the relentless cycle of haunting visits, Vanilla found himself succumbing more and more to the dark urges that clawed at his sanity, as resistance crumbled before the rising tide of his predatory instincts. With a chilling calmness that belied the horror of his actions, he began to consume morsels of his own kind. 

 Amidst the grim banquet of flesh, there came a moment that pierced through the numbness of his descent—a torn rib cage, a macabre feast that shattered whatever fragile illusion of control remained. A solitary tear fell upon a stark collarbone protruding from the remains before him. In that fleeting moment, a whisper of doubt crept into his mind— The world will only become a better place without a creature like him, right? The weight of his monstrous deeds bore down upon him, a burden too heavy to bear. Driven by a desperate impulse to escape the horror of his own nature, Vanilla seized a bone with trembling, bloodstained hands and plunged it into his own eye. 

 A searing agony tore through his being, but it was the awakening of his feral essence that sent a shiver of dread. Reality blurred at the edges, consciousness slipping through his grasp as a primal hunger seized control. The pupils narrowed. In a frenzied quest for sustenance, Vanilla tore through the void in a savage frenzy, driven by a primal thirst for life's essence. Shadow Milk sighed in slight disappointment: "You're really a fool, aren't you? Even if you had the strength, did you really think that something as simple as death would make a bit difference?" The space was filled with irritated laughter, but Shadow Milk was merely talking to himself since Vanilla was unable to perceive anything. The real world beckoned to him with subtle sounds and tantalizing scents, stirring a primal urge within him to seek sustenance, to hunt and feed on the life that pulsed around him. 

 While Shadow Milk droned on in another monologue of disdain and worthlessness, Vanilla's gaze caught sight of a peculiar anomaly — a thinning gap between the realms, a fragile seam that beckoned to be torn asunder. In a wild attempt to get out he extended his pointed nails and began to tear up the line between the worlds. Each rending motion unleashing a surge of dark magic that twisted and corroded the fabrics of the void. As clumps of malevolent energy coalesced around his hands, the line broke, opening a narrow passage into the realm of the living. Shadow Milk, taken aback by this unexpected turn of events, froze in shock as he witnessed Vanilla unraveling the canvas of this ominous domain. He smiled slyly: "How curious! Already mastered the dark moon magic, huh? It looks like you can be quite a lot of use!" While he was thinking Vanilla had already managed to get out and the gap between the spaces had tightened again. 

In the grip of a savage frenzy, Vanilla descended upon the unsuspecting settlement of cookies with a primal ferocity that knew no bounds. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, a scent so intoxicating it seemed to fuel his insatiable hunger with each breath. The death cries of the unfortunate victims reverberated in his mind, a macabre symphony that stirred within him a perverse pleasure, a twisted ecstasy born of carnage and chaos. The lives of the cookies crumbled before him with alarming ease, their fragile forms no match for the relentless onslaught of his savagery. Each morsel of flesh he devoured, each life he extinguished, brought a strange satisfaction. Their deaths became a spectacle, a morbid game of predator and prey where the line between cookie and monster blurred into shades of crimson. Amidst the chaos and the carnage, Vanilla's senses were drowned in the depravity of his actions. The sheer number of victims overwhelmed him, their bodies mere vessels of sustenance to be consumed without remorse. He picked and chose the most delectable parts of each lifeless form, discarding the rest as meaningless husks of flesh and bone, their once vibrant existence reduced to mere offal and refuse. 

As the frenzy subsided and the clarity of consciousness returned to him, Vanilla stood amidst the remnants of his cruel rampage, a statue of horror and despair. The realization that he had become the very thing he feared most—a monster in the guise of a cookie, bore down upon him. Vanilla fell to his knees. Unable to distinguish the faces of his victims, they blended together in a macabre tapestry of death. To him, they were nothing more than variations of flavor, their individuality lost in the maw of his insatiable hunger. Each cookie, once vibrant and unique, now reduced to a mere part in his feast, their essence devoured without a second thought. 

Shadow Milk materialized behind his back. He took a quick look at the horror going on around them and stroked Vanilla's head with a slight smile.” What a sight to behold, am I not right?” - His voice was soft and mesmerizing - “Now you're not going to run away from the truth anymore, are you?” Vanilla slowly turned his gaze to the Beast. “You have seen for yourself the depth of your power and the darkness that lurks in your soul. You have a gift, a potential for dark magic” - His eyes lit up -” It would be a huge omission to just ruin it like that. You are no longer bound by the constraints of things like conscience and virtue, Vanilla. Embrace the darkness within you, let it flow through your veins. Together, we shall carve our legacy upon the tapestry of existence, and all shall tremble before the might of our power!" 

Vanilla knew that there was no redemption for him, no absolution that could wash away the stains of his sins. The path of defiance would only lead to greater sacrifices and untold suffering, a futile struggle against the forces that now held sway over his fate. 

 The outstretched hand of Shadow Milk beckoned to him cut through the haze of his thoughts. 

Vanilla remained wordless. His gaze fixed on the hand before him. In a silent gesture of acquiescence, he extended his own hand, stained with fresh blood. 

A cruel smile played upon Shadow Milk's lips as he opened a portal into the void, where Vanilla had already stepped willingly, his path now irrevocably intertwined with the dark forces that awaited him. 

[shroudandsands]

Prompt #7: Morsel

Her fingertips skittered across the strings like sparks between blades. Her heart rattled against her ribcage in tune as the heel of her hand slammed against the body of her guitar in her frantic rhythm. Her voice clawed its way out of her throat and scraped itself against her sharpened teeth. Her thoughts minced, bitten down, and mauled by it all only to arrive to waiting ears with words that could only be described as raging. The dagger-sharp-heel of her boot dragged against the stone as literal sparks flew. As pale gold eyes burned as hellfire in the low light.

When you were an emotionally stunted winter of a woman with all the social abilities of a particularly poisonous plant, what did you do? How did you go about having the conversation? With yourself, or if you were being particularly generous, with someone else? A specific someone else who’d actually been the topic of thought for some time now? Did you just drop it there, in the midst of something else, as a cold open and pray for the best? Did you wait for the conversation until the moment was right? Did you stuff it away and pray the thought never came to you again for as long as you lived? Rakaso wasn’t Ishgardian or repressed enough for that last option. No. Instead, then, she sidestepped all of the above with all the guile of someone who’d only ever been able to barely survive brief moments of emotional intimacy by pretending they hadn’t happened at all. Or by blaming booze on the moment of weakness. No, no. Instead of all of the sane or perhaps insane options. Instead of holding up a letter, sealed, and asking of its contents without needing to open it. Instead of flicking it open herself and simply reading within. Instead of stewing in her thoughts and letting them spiral out of control in that melodramatic way she’d been rather fond of lately. Her claws screamed their way down guitar strings in a display of sleep-deprived mania.

The heel of her hand sped with the beating of her heart as she screamed her way out of the start. Out of the rough, quiet, unhelpful beginnings of the song. Get to the speed, the rage, the therapeutic escape of thoughts. Well, you look like trouble but I guess I do too-- Well, you look like trouble but I guess I do too-- The wrong string, the wrong chord, a bash of her heel against the amplifier as she careened her way back on course. If she couldn’t do it right the first time, do it first the right way, she’d force it anyways. Who cares if she fucked it up one way or the other? To the audience it was all the same, maybe, and to the target of it all it wasn’t going to matter anyways. Through it all, if she was going to admit it, there was only the question only the dread only the worst thing she could possibly say to herself in the midst of the lyrical self-flagellation that was happening. What do we do now? If for some odd reason, any reason at all, if she wanted it to be more than just some awful song to sing. More than a heart between her teeth. More than blood and bone. More than some long, dark prayer that was filled with the selfish wants of a woman who didn’t know if that was what she wanted at all. Gods above just kill her. It’d be so much easier.

At least by the time she was coming off the stage she’d gotten it out of her system. Even if it was that same, half-flushed smile that was greeting her. She’d tired herself out. Her heart’s energy all spent on running as fast as the percussion. As running as fast as her thoughts. Enough that even flicking the other across the chin with her claw didn’t even elicit a skipped beat or an aching chest. Enough that she could slow down to see the flicker in Nat’s expression. That same change. That same reaction. She clicked her worn claws in practiced Huntspeak that she knew the other couldn’t repeat or even begin to understand. Still. As she glanced back. That look of hers that Rakaso had long since given up parsing. She returned it with a lopsided grin, a wave, a beckon.

She headed for the door.