#I was supposed to only do this for an hour or 2

[seungfl0wer]

*𝘼𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙒𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜*

Pairing: Minho x Reader (Fem)

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Daddy!Minho, Degrading, (Slut and whore used), Orgasm denial, Chocking, Spanking, Oral(M), FaceFucking, Creampie, Unprotected sex, Sorry for any mistakes or missing warnings

A/N: I’ve had this idea for awhile- kinda made it a little uhm- mean dom Minho lol so hope you enjoy.

-🖤

Minho had been gone for the day. Leaving for work early in the morning. Prying himself from you to get out the door. He had been gone for so long, and you were becoming incredibly needy. You texted him around 4 asking him if he was gonna be home soon. He’d texted back ‘not for a few more hours kitten’

As you waited you plopped yourself down on the couch sighing loudly. Not even the cats were coming to comfort you. You huffed whining loudly to no avail of course. You felt like you were going insane. Board and needy out of your mind you made your way to your room. Rummaging through the closet to find one of your toys to play with. Minho wouldn’t be home for at least a couple hours, so what he wouldn’t know wouldn’t hurt him right?

You rid yourself of your bottom lazily pressing the toy to your sensitive clit. Finally getting some relief, the first touch made you moan loudly. Body already arching from the bed. You had your whole body spread now getting yourself off to the thought of your boyfriend. Wanting nothing more than to have him come home.

Something you didn’t realize though was the Minho was watching. You had forgotten all about the cameras he had installed to watch the cats while he was gone. He would check them occasionally to check up on you. What he saw made an evil little grin come across his face. He watched as you toyed with your puffy clit, moaning loudly. Calling out his name as you grabbed ahold of the sheets. Oh was he gonna punish you, because you knew better. ‘Naughty thing’ he thought to himself. He made up some excuse to leave early, not telling you he was on his way to catch you in the act.

Unbeknownst to you as tears pricked at your eyes Minho had gotten home. You moaned out loudly finally cumming as your legs shook. In your daze you didn’t hear Minho opening the door. He stood there with that evil grin watching you “What do we have here?” He said from the door way.

Your body jumped at his words. “Minho I’m” you started to say before he cut you off.

“Who?” He said shooting you a glare.

“D-daddy I’m sorry” you said eyes avoiding his gaze.

“You’re sorry? You know better kitten.”

“I- I just missed you and I-“ you stuttered out.

“No excuses, you know you’re not supposed to touch yourself and especially not supposed to be playing with toys without me hmm?” He said in a stern voice.

“M’sorry” you said softly.

He moved to sit on the end of the bed patting his lap. You knew what he wanted but didn’t move. “M’sorry daddy please” you said trying to give him puppy eyes. Only for him to start counting. 1. 2. He started, you got up slowly slinking your way to him with a frown. You assumed the position laying your body over his lap. “Count”. He said before smacking your ass. “One” you whimpered out.

“Louder” he growled with another smack.

“Two” you said louder. He smacked your ass a few more times as you counted each becoming a bit harder as he rubbed it softly afterwards. The last smack was the hardest, making your body shoot up. “That one hurt” you whined looking back at him.

“It hurt? Is that why this bratty little cunt is dripping?” He growled pushing your body back down onto his lap. His hand roughly came down pushing his fingers into you with no warning. “This dirty little cunt is soaked? You sure it hurt that badly?” He said with a grin.

He pushed his fingers in and out of you his thumb coming up to press against your clit. “Daddy!” You cried out, your head feeling dizzy from his fingers working their magic. As you felt another high coming he could feel your body clenching around him making him chuckle. He removed his hands from you and before you could even whine he was man handling you in the bed. He pushed your body down, back against the bed. Your head was at the edge of the bed eyes glossed over as you looked up at him.

“Open that filthy mouth” he demanded as he lazily stroked his cock. You don’t remember when he took his pants off but they were gone. Thrown across the room somewhere with your own clothes. You looked up at him not really hearing what he had said. His hand found your face gripping it as he repeated himself “open. That filthy mouth don’t make me say it again.” He growled. And you did. Opening your mouth as wide as you could before Minho pushed in. His cock quickly filling your mouth.

He used your mouth roughly, fucking into it as his hands gripped at your hair. “That’s it- fuck take it- little brat couldn’t even wait for me to get home hmm? Such a little whore.” He groaned. His cock hit the back of your throat his head falling back at the feeling. Your hand moved on its own moving slowly down to your soaking cunt. His eyes shot to your hand smacking it away quickly. “You don’t learn do you?” He said with a low chuckle.

He leaned himself down as he fucked into your mouth. Hand coming down with a loud smack to your cunt. You jumped at the feeling head moving up taking more of him back your throat. “Fuck-“ he moaned out.

He quickly pulled out of your mouth maneuvering your body how he wanted it. He pushed your body down, stomach now laying flat on the bed before you felt him behind you. His cock head poking at your entrance. “Color” he said as he rubbed the head up and down.

“G-green” you mumbled out.

That’s all he needed to hear before he was pushing into you. His hands gripped at your hips as he fucked into you mercilessly. His cock head kissing your cervix so nicely. “I bet this is what you wanted huh? For me to catch you just so I’d punish you? Is that what you wanted kitten? Wanted me to treat you like the little slut you are?” He said.

Your brain was fuzzy however you knew you needed to answer “n-no- I- ah I just missed you” you cried.

“Missed me? So since you missed me you thought you could get yourself off without me hm? You know that I’m the only one allowed to touch the pretty little cunt. I’m the only one that is allowed to make it cum” he said.

“M’sorry” you cried louder.

His hand came down hard on your already raw ass “you knew you weren’t supposed to and still did. Right?” He said almost coldly.

“Y-yes” you answered.

“So do you think you deserve to cum?” He asked.

“Daddy-“ you said softly.

Another smack coming down on your ass “answer me”

“Please- I won’t do it again- just- I wanna cum with you please please” you repeated.

“Do you think I should let you?” He said again. “You did something knowing you shouldn’t so why should I let you?” He spat.

“M’sorry m’so sorry!” You cried feeling tears pricking at your eyes.

His hand came down around your throat, choking you slightly. “You’re gonna take everything I give you. No cumming. Got it.” He said against your ear. You only nodded knowing he wasn’t gonna let up. His body was now pressed firmly against yours as he rutted deep into you. “Let this be a lesson next time you decide to do something you know you’re not supposed to.” He growled against your skin.

He pushed once more deep into you before cumming, painting your walls white. His arms came around you pulling you to him. He left soft kisses to your skin as he came down from his high. “M’sorry” you whispered out.

“It’s ok kitten” he coo’d.

“Do you hate me” you said softly. He knew sometimes with punishments you felt guilty for whatever you did. He knew you’d need more reassurance.

“Kitten, I don’t hate you. You just gotta listen ok? I love you so very much” he said as he cupped your face to look at him. He kissed your lips softly holding you as close as he possibly could.

“I’m really sorry” you said again.

“Sssh it’s ok love, don’t apologize anymore. Everything done, so how about we go shower and I’ll cook us something hm?” He said with a sweet smile.

You shook your head yes but you held onto him tightly “can we cuddle a little more first? I really missed you today” you said looking up at him with those pretty eyes.

“Of course kitten. I love you.” He said kissing your cheek softly.

“I love you to daddy” you said back nuzzling into him.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

Taglist: @satosugu4l @do-you-remember-summer-127 @xines16 @minh0scat @troublemaker02 @tr-mha-fan @lunearta @velvetmoonlght @minghaosimp @ldysmfrst @felixleftchickennugget @0omillo0 @jellymochii @stilltrynafuckingtumble @catlove83 @delulkpopstan143

[twistedpink]

nsfw below the cut! 2 1

The format is Character/Length (in inches)/Bedroom Skill

Rook Hunt - 4 - 6/10

-His only sexual education is very much “Rabbits make more rabbits” but his romance is to die for!!! You won’t even have to ask to be indulged- all you have to do is say yes :)

-Rook is astonishingly well groomed for someone who works on their feet. The spare hours of self care he gets between his beauty sleep and people watching does wonders for any sport-stenches (I mean, unless you’re into that kind of thing). He’s always doing something with the “presentation of his undercarriage”, and isn’t afraid to let you cop a feel in public!

-He’s all about experimentation with your pleasure, and it’s not that he refuses online resources, but isn’t it so much better naturally? Where’s the sense of adventure if some stranger on the internet is telling you where to touch him? After lots, (loads, really) of trial and error, he’s sure you’ll get a sense of rhythm. It’s never too early to start exploring!

Idia Shroud - 7 - 3/10

-Everyone can agree that Idia is too big for his own good. Massive, really- And he hates it. He’s been perma banned from the most comfortable thing on earth! How’s he supposed to enjoy going commando when his tip’s out in the open??

-He does NOT know how to use the monster in his pants, but he’s not objecting to a teacher :) When you first start getting “active” he’s painfully professional about it. No eye contact, no problem! You’ll wear him down eventually, but it’ll take awhile for anything truly intimate,,

-The worst thing about sex with Idia is the need. White-hot and throbbing, but so infrequent!! His libido is SO high, always pawing at you after school, but he can’t hold back for the life of him :/ Ten full minutes of rest for another three of penetration? Oh no, your only option is to overestimate him,, whatever shall he dooooo

Malleus Draconia - 3 - 7/10

-Two words. FUCKIN MARATHONS!! Malleus is comically bad at anything sexual- and you’re the one who has to initiate most things, but he can go hours without any pain between the two of you! And the AFTERCARE?? 10/10. Imagine playing with his scales while you wait on breakfast in bed <333

-Malleus is far too big for any usual quicky spots, but nobody can compete in forced proximity! It’s so easy to drag him into a broom closet between classes- Everyone avoids him anyways, and because he very rarely slouches he has to in the confines of your rendezvous, so it’s a completely new angle!

-He’s a little (lot) inexperienced, but he’s learning so much with your help! Nobody questions that he keeps his nails short or demands chapstick whenever he recalls the time, because nobody questions Malleus Draconian. He’d like very much for you to change that- order him around, kiss him bloody! So long as it’s you he’ll be happy :)

Lilia Vanrouge - 5 - 8/10

-Lilia’s a believer of “it’s the motion of the ocean - not the size of the wave”, and he KNOWS his ass has motion. All these years working on his core and arms only to be reduced to some petty slut :/ It’s all he’s ever wanted!

-Doesn’t bother shaving, nothing on him grows quickly enough for regular maintenance, and that does include his sex drive :( He wakes up sweaty and shaking whenever he ignores his rarer urges, but he’s lucky enough to have you! You’ll indulge him for a little biting, won’t you? Not his fault if you want more,,

-He’s a MASSIVE whiner, but he knows you loveeee it <3 All these years muffling his voice for colleagues and kids, it’s a miracle to have soundproof walls! With his little bouts of energy, you won’t be leaving bed anytime soon- lay back and let him cook for you! Or maybe you’d rather he just eat?

(no full proofread until tmr, we die like Malleanor)

[dellamortethelesser]

The Wigmaker Job

Notes and Thoughts - Part 2

pt1 | pt2 | pt3 | pt4

Picking back up in the next scene, Lucanis and Illario are exiting the tavern on their way to the contract. Here, they are described as "lean with dark hair and umber eyes". ← THIS MEANS THEY PURPOSELY GAVE MY POOKIE BLUE EYES TO MAKE HIM LOOK MORE EVIL.

(I also forgot to mention in the previous scene they discuss that Illario fastidiously grooms his 5 o'clock shadow so they also took THAT from us. But! Veilguard did give him a huge ass… no, I need his brown eyes back).

"Illario was all smiles. His was a calculated handsomeness. From his smooth skin to his perfect, white teeth, everything was contrived to be enticing". ← insane thing to say i think what did caterina do to influence that so strongly. like yes, lucanis is a mage-killer and that's certainly a Niche, but let's not pretend that Illario isn't filling a different sort of niche. both of them have been trained to be more valuable Alive than Dead.

"As they walked through the crowd, he basked in the appreciative glances he received," ← unsure whether this is omniscient on part of the author or intended to be directly lucanis's pov. this specific passage i've never been able to figure it out. if it's lucanis's pov though, i would wonder if that 'basking' isn't just… a front.

I have to assume this passage is somewhat omniscient because it goes on to say that "… while Lucanis stared ahead, focused and intense. He was the kind of man you couldn't look away from—until he looked at you." ← i have to assume this is all referring to Lucanis? if so? because if it is lucanis's pov why would he… idk. 'the kind of man you couldn't look away from' could still refer to illario? idk. it's a really hard passage for me to parse i feel stupid. debate in the reblogs

This whole next part of the story makes me insane because it's just further emphasizing my point that Lucanis gives absolutely no thought to Illario as an equal working with him on this contract—THAT HE ASKED ILLARIO TO BE HERE FOR. i'll try to break this down but i recommend just reading along in your own copy alsfjk

"So what's the plan? Now that Ambrose knows we're coming" / "We were never going through the front door." ← Illario is asking here, now that there's proof the Venatori know the Crows are after them, what the new plan is. he is only JUST NOW finding out that Lucanis never HAD a plan that didn't account for this? again i'm not sure how lucanis "knew" unless it's supposed to make him out to be the better assassin, but it reads as though he was purposefully keeping Illario in the dark.

hang on let me just directly quote this next part

"I bought THIS—" Illario gestured towards his tunic. "Because YOU said we were dispatching Tevinter's 'premiere' wigmaker at an exclusive party. Emphasis on exclusive." "Uh-huh." "It was a rush order. We were with the tailor for hours." "I recall." "Why let me go through the motions of purchasing formal wear for an event we're not actually attending?" "I know how much you enjoy dressing up," Lucanis goaded and ducked under a pointed archway.

But. You are attending this event. Crucially you are in fact both attending this event and do need Illario to dress the part to get YOU where YOU need to be. Why are you goading him on like this?!

You're both on the way to this contract—and Lucanis is leading him through a back entrance, btw, AND THE FACT THAT ILLARIO DOESN'T ALREADY KNOW THAT TELLS ME THAT LUCANIS DIDN'T TELL HIM THAT PART OF THE PLAN EITHER—so why are you doing this?!

Lucanis why are you fucking with him like this on purpose? THERE'S NO REAL REASON GIVEN IN HIS NARRATIVE SO I HAVE TO EXTRAPOLATE THAT THIS IS JUST NORMAL FOR THEM. WHICH ISN'T NORMAL

quick interlude to add that Lucanis's 'bleeding heart' sympathies are here from the jump; he is aware of the cultural importance of the vhenedahl, and remarks that the magisters trying to make a statue to keep their slaves in line had the opposite effect.

Again Lucanis reveals some way into the passageways they're using—that Illario didn't know about on both accounts—and is SMUG ABOUT IT. HE TOSSES ILLARIO A SMUG LOOK OVER HIS SHOULDERS.

"I wouldn't complain if you filled me in," he grumbled. "Yes, you would." "As much," Illario conceded. "I wouldn't complain as much."

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY THIS LUCANIS. The dynamic between them is just consistently reinforcing the idea that wherever Lucanis goes, Illario is expected to follow, unwaveringly, unquestioningly, and to be quite honest i would be driven fucking insane.

We're only so many pages in and there is a very clear way that Lucanis treats Illario just in the context of working CONTRACTS together, and that way is… not very good! YOU INVITED HIM HERE. WHY ARE YOU KEEPING HIM IN THE DARK?

I say this like I don't understand but a lot of people have rightly pointed out that this is their 'normal'. This is learned behavior, a learned dynamic, and I do believe Caterina is partly responsible for fostering it by showing such clear favoritism to Lucanis and likely giving him behavior to model.

Which goes back to my previous question of… why? If you're not going to name an heir and want this to be a winner takes it all relationship, why show such clear favoritism?! THESE ARE YOUR LAST TWO LIVING RELATIVES, CATERINA.

Back to the book. Lucanis's elf contact greets him with "Master Dellamorte". Cool! When she looks for an introduction, though, it is Illario that butts in with "Master Dellamorte the Lesser". ← hi my love. why did you do this? well because it reinforces the same shit we've been seeing the whole time. and calls back to how he already referred to lucanis as 'the great' in their first scene together.

"My cousin," Lucanis clarified. ← no defense or correction? fine maybe not the time or place. one of the more neutral statements that Lucanis has said to him but he's damned by faint praise and the fact there is no INNER NARRATIVE QUESTIONING ILLARIO'S ANSWER MEANS THIS IS ALSO ASSUMED TO BE NORMAL.

Heading up the passage. It's magic. the room spins

"Lucanis bit back a laugh as Illario held out an arm to steady himself." ← WHY. why is this funny to you. okay now im sounding like i'm seething at lucanis which i kind of am BUT TRUST I STILL LOVE HIM

THIS DYNAMIC IS JUST INSANE TO ME. okay anyways next bit. i'm covering one more scene and then will do another post for part 3. together we can work through this story a few pages every day. I'm gonna break up this last bit in some chunks

"You've made friends." / "You would too, if you ever left Treviso." / "I'm here now, aren't I?" ← Illario was trying to be nice. Lucanis immediately takes a shot at the fact that Illario stays in Treviso (are we implying here that Illario doesn't take jobs? Doesn't work?) and Illario reminds him that HE CAME TO VYRANTIUM FOR LUCANIS. He's here for you!

"Seriously, though, what is this place?" "A perk. Given by our mysterious benefactor." Lucanis quickened his pace, hoping to leave the answer at that. Illario did not take the hint. "Speaking of, I have some questions about him… her… them?"

1) diversity win

2) AGAIN. Illario is being kept in the dark about things and Lucanis is intentionally not sharing them. WHY? We are never given a reason WHY from Lucanis. Just that he doesn't want to share anything with Illario—ostensibly about their client but ABOUT THE WHOLE CONTRACT IS WHAT THE NARRATIVE SHOWS.

"Oh, come on," Illario urged, matching Lucanis's pace. "When have we ever taken on an anonymous client?" "Since someone could put tangible stock in the phrase 'Silence is golden'." "You're not the least bit curious?" Lucanis exhaled through his nose. "If someone wants to pay me top coin to kill a bunch of racist blood mages—who have it coming—I'm not going to complain."

again we see Lucanis's sympathies coming to light. these are not bad feelings to have obviously we should hate racists. but they are assassins paid to kill and not get emotionally entangled in the job which Lucanis consistently does in this short story.

additionally. again. the way he talks to illario. i just. can it be stated enough at any point.

Quotes are either paraphrased or taken directly from The Wigmaker Job, written by Courtney Woods.

[jannythewriter-pt2]

Girl at the Club Pt. 2

It was a busy night at the club. You had been on the floor more than enough times tonight but you had the will to keep going, after all you had bills to pay. You were on the pole when you saw your homegirls man Eren and he’s with Connie too. After you finish your dance and you collect your money, you get a request for a private dance from Connie.

When you gon into the back room, he’s sitting there, his eyes are red and half lidded. He licks his lips when you enter. “Hey mami……. Come sit on me” you obliged and sat on him. You gave him a sexy lap dance, you got up and twerked for him, he gave your ass a smack and grab. He’s so fine… the way he looks, the tats, it’s making your pussy wet asf. “Throw that ass f’me mama….. lemme see” and you do just that.

He throws so much money at you, and he tells you to sit back in his lap. You look at him “what’s your name baby…?” You ask softly, he holds your gaze “Connie…. yours..?” you tell him your name and he smirks a bit, “pretty name for a pretty lady”. He’s rubbing your back now “you too fine to be working at a club like this” he says, “need the money hun… I have things to take care of…. people to take care of”.

“Why don’t you let me take you out…… take a day off or two” he exhales the blunt he’s smoking. “Why would I do that and the only thing I know about you is your name?” You as skeptically. “If you’re worried about being in danger, don’t.”

He brings your hand to his face and kisses your knuckles “let me take you out, we can go shopping or wherever else you want to go…” “and how am I supposed to know you don’t just want me for pussy” he smirks “you and me both know your not gonna let me fuck you on the first date…. The way you dance tells me you’re a woman of class” “I’m glad you know that” you say, knowing just because you strip doesn’t mean you’re easy.

He kisses your neck and you two end up making out in that very seat. His kisses travel from your lips, to your neck, to your supple breast. He takes your pasties off and plays with your nipple. “Mmmh…. fuck they’re so pretty….. your pussy this pretty too mami” he begins to suck on one, then touch the other. You run your hand down his abdomen which causes him to tense up a bit but he relaxes, you palm at his dick and you can tell that he’s packing.

“You horny…. you want this pussy baby?” he nods “Yk I do but imma wait for it”. He writes his number on one of the 100 dollar bills he gave you. He gives your ass a smack before you go to the back. You count the money and you realize he gave you 5,000 dollars for that one dance.

After you get home, eat and shower, you call his number. He didn’t know it was you “hello..?” He says calmly. “Hey con….. it’s me” he immediately recognized your voice “hey mama, you okay, did you eat? “I did… you didn’t have to give me all that money you know…” you say, you felt guilty but he assured that it was fine. You two needed up talking for hours, when you got off the phone, you went to sleep feeling good… the best you’ve felt in a while .

[silentplanetcat]

Fuck….I forgot about Jeff Dunham. I remember seeing a clip of him somewhere as a little 9 year old. This is actually bringing a lot of stuff back. I was in a very different area (namely, New York) and I was 3 when the attacks happened so I remember nothing. My first memory of the time was a WILD conversation that took place between my dad and me in 2003ish. Let me set the scene. I am a gangly little 5 year old with terrible hand-eye coordination, crooked glasses, pigtails that stuck out of my head and 2 years of 40-hour-per-week ABA therapy under my belt. I am going through something of a questioning phase as I try and figure out how the world works. Notable questions included “Mommy, how did you and Daddy meet? Are you siblings?” “Is George Washington Still the President?” “Do *all* boys named George become the president?” etc.

My dad and I are walking in New York. I had just finished reading a children's book about World War 2 and I have a lot of questions about it. This is how the conversation begins. Me: So World War 2 was started by Germany trying to take over the world...

Dad: Yes honey

Me: Did they want to take over America?

Dad: Well they didn’t get that far, but they probably would have tried. Me: Are we in any wars right now?

Dad: [considerate pause. Glances to his right. We are currently passing by the Iraqi Embassy, I shit you not.] Well…yes..yes we are.

Me: Who are we fighting?

Dad: Two countries you haven’t heard of. One is called Iraq. That’s its flag right there. Me: Whoa! What’s the scribble on it?

Dad: That’s writing in their language. Me: Do they speak…Irakian?

Dad: No. Their language is called Arabic and it has a different alphabet from us. Me: Are they trying to take us over?

Dad: …no Me: Then why are we fighting them?

Dad: Well Iraq is ruled by a very, very mean man named Saddam Hussein. We think he has weapons that could hurt a lot of people. Like I said, he’s a very bad man. So America is going to try and stop him from doing bad things.

Me: Like we’re gonna put him in a time out?

Dad:…something like that.

Me: Is the President gonna put him in a time out?

Dad: Well the President has to stay in America, so he’s going to send some very brave men and women to put Saddam Hussein in a time out.

Me: Wow! [Pause] You aren’t going to fight Saddam Hussain, are you? Dad: No, don’t worry honey.

Me: Ok. Good.

After this, I start getting interested in reading the newspapers my parents get every morning. I don’t know if they’re on the Internet. I only use the Internet to play flash games on the American Girl Doll website (RIP Flash Plugins). It starts with me looking at pictures and asking what’s happening in them. Then I move on to reading captions, then shorter articles, then longer articles. The New York Times and NPR become my foreign policy teacher—but I know not to listen too much to NPR because dad says sometimes they’re a bit crazy. My understanding of America is very…liberal. I know we are the Best country in the world with the best and nicest army in the world. I know that when I see someone in a soldier’s uniform I’m supposed to go up to them, look them in the eye and thank them for their service. I know that my classmates talk about these buildings that don’t exist anymore called the “Twin Towers,” but mom and dad won’t tell me what they are until I’m 9. I know that Saddam Hussein is a bad man with a very silly-looking mustache and that he hates freedom, children and America and we need to stop him. I also know about another bad man named Osama Bin Laden. He wears a hat and has a long beard, like Santa, but its black instead of white. I know he hates America and Freedom too and that we’re trying to find him so we can put him in a time out with Saddam Hussein. I am shielded from a lot of the homophobia and rape culture. When I find out the gay couple that introduced my parents to each other aren’t married, I’m very confused because I don’t know why the President or Congress would make a law against Uncle [Redacted] and Uncle [Redacted] from getting married. I’m also a bit peeved because I want them to make me their flower girl, but mom and dad say that they won’t have a big wedding because they want to do it quickly in case the government of Massachusetts changes their mind. The rape culture doesn’t become apparent to me until I’m 10 and learn what rape in my Catholic School bible study class. By the time I’m able to appreciate it at 12, it’s 2010 and the decade is over. Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein are dead. We’re still in Iraq and Afghanistan and nobody knows when we’ll leave. The economy is collapsing and a lot of my classmates are moving away. The rumblings of oncoming fascism are there, but Mom and Dad say everything is gonna be ok. I believe them. Then I’m in my college’s dining hall in 2016 watching the election, the results come in, a collective wail erupts from the crowd of students staring at the screen and a thought occurs to me that I’ve never really considered. What if Mom and Dad are wrong?

…I’m asking this as a younger queer person who was busy with other things during the 2000s (namely being a toddler/very young child)…what was being queer teen in the early 2000s like? Also, before I go interrogate the first willing 40 year old I find at the LGBT Center…do you know of any books or articles about this time period?

it was a lot of being forced through abstinence only sex education, getting hate crimed, being super eating disordered and that being completely normalized and even considered healthy, having classmates die of a mix of eating disorders & drug use, rampant teen pregnancy, both teachers and students getting into fistfights, being sexually harassed literally all the time, the one trans kid having to take school online so he wouldnt kill himself, 25 year olds hanging out around the school giving girls cigarettes and sexually assaulting them, working a part time job at the mall for 5.50 an hour then driving home to find your mom watching bill oreilly ranting about how people like you are evil and disgusting and next thing jeff dunhams on the tv doing jokes about dead muslims. cant tell you just how ambient and everywhere both violent homophobia and rape culture were like it was omnipresent. lotta slurs too. lots of teens getting black out drunk all the time and puking and getting into situations. what resistance to the wars i got to see in my small ish city was a few rallies of a few dozen people and some protest signs tied to highway overpasses, but otherwise american flags and jingoistic propaganda were everywhereeeee, on every minivan window and classroom etc. nobody spoke up for gay people that wasnt gay and everybody hated women and were so so anti black

the internet was a lot better though.

[gosuckseamonkeys]

Arid Melancholy - Chapter 4

Summary: Rafayel is captured and endures brutal torture at the hands of an agent of EVER Group intent on exploiting his people’s secrets.

Zayne, Xavier, Sylus and Rafayel must confront their deepest fear, losing you, and fight against an enemy whose ambition threatens their survival.

AN: Apologies in advance for the angst, I've been looking for similar heart wrenching fics on here for a while now before I decided to write my own. Then an evil little idea formed and pulled me reluctantly out of writing retirement.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4....

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚

Chapter 4 - Hallucinations

Burning. He was burning alive.

He didn’t know how long he had been in this wasteland. Hours? Days? 

Time had unraveled, leaving him trapped in an endless cycle of agony. The heat gnawed at him—relentless, merciless—devouring him from the inside out.

His fingers, bruised and raw, clawed at his own skin. He could barely feel it. The pain had dulled into something distant, something worse than suffering—emptiness.

How many of us have they left here to rot?

He couldn’t move. Every attempt sent violent nausea rolling through his gut. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else—someone broken, someone dying.

When will it be my turn?

Rafayel’s mind fractured under the weight of memories, hallucinations bleeding into reality.

The desert consumed him. The sun overhead turned his flesh to embers, his bones to dust. The sand beneath him was a graveyard of souls, and soon, he would join them—just another forgotten grain tumbling over golden dunes.

Still, he held onto the idea of you. The only thing keeping him from slipping into the void.

My bride…

You stood before him, veiled in gold and teal. His hands—adorned in jewels, stained with blood he could never wash away—trembled as he traced his thumb across your lips.

He pulled you into a searing kiss, one that barely satisfied the flames licking at his very soul.

My queen…

Your voice shaped his name, the syllables a sacred thing. Two broken souls abandoning their kingdoms, reaching for memories as you refused to let him slip away. 

He would choose you in every life, no matter how many times fate tore you from his grasp.  

My heart…

He could almost feel your tender hands cradling his face, the softness of your lips brushing against his. He had always held himself back, terrified of scaring you away with the depth of his hunger.

Beloved…please.

His lips parted, cracked and bloodied, to whisper a single plea—broken, desperate, wrecked.

“Please… don’t leave me.”

Underwater

The colors around you are spellbinding—a symphony of deep teal, lavender, and cobalt blue swirling and pulsing as though alive. They wrap around you like a liquid aurora, undulating in hypnotic rhythms that blur the line between sea and sky. You’re weightless, floating on your back beneath the waves, suspended in a dream where the ocean itself breathes.

The water cradles you, its currents a gentle lullaby that pushes and pulls, spinning you in lazy spirals. Above, faint rays of the setting sun pierce the surface, their golden beams breaking into soft hues of violet and pink that bleed into one another. The shifting palette dances across your skin, stirring something in the deepest corners of your mind—a memory, faint and just beyond your grasp.

The light shifts again, deepening into a molten orange as the sun sinks lower. Shadows stretch and twist, and a sudden chill creeps into the water, curling around you like a warning. 

Night is coming, its approach slow but inevitable, and with it comes a sense of unease. A faint urgency hums in your chest, intangible yet insistent. There’s something you’re supposed to do, somewhere you’re supposed to be—but what?

A glimmer below catches your eye, pulling your gaze downward. Fins—sleek and iridescent. They shimmer like molten silver, moving with a grace that feels both foreign and familiar. You flex them instinctively, and the water parts as you surge forward, exhilarated by the rush of cool liquid sliding past your skin.

But the ocean has gone silent.

The ever-present symphony of life—the whisper of currents, the distant calls of unseen creatures—has vanished, leaving behind an eerie stillness. A heavy quiet presses down on you, thick and suffocating. You stop, your movements halting as a prickle of unease dances along your spine. The silence feels alive, a presence lurking just out of reach.

Then, breaking through the void, a sound.

Faint at first, it ripples through the water like an echo of sorrow—a muffled cry, distant and distorted. You pivot sharply, your pulse quickening, every fiber of your being straining to locate the source. The cry comes again, sharper this time, tugging at something deep inside.

Your gaze snaps upward to the surface, where the fading light of the setting sun casts an otherworldly glow. A voice filters down through the water, faint yet unmistakable. Someone is calling.

You hesitate.

You’re not meant to leave this world, not meant to breach the safety of the sea. But the voice pulls at you, its tone laced with grief, a pain so familiar it feels like your own. Against your better judgment, you flick your tail and propel yourself toward the light above.

The water grows brighter as you ascend, each stroke faster than the last. The voice grows clearer, louder, and more urgent, wrapping around your heart like a plea you can’t ignore.

“Please,” it whispers, the word drenched in despair.

As you break the surface, the air rushes into your lungs, sharp and searing. You gasp, your chest heaving as your body struggles to adjust. The burn is unbearable, a cruel reminder that you don’t belong here. For a moment, the instinct to retreat pulls at you, urging you to sink back into the dark, forgiving depths.

But the voice holds you fast, breaking through the roaring of the waves.

It calls again, clearer now, the desperation in its tone slicing through your pain. “Please…don’t leave me.”

The words pierce the haze of your thoughts, their familiarity anchoring you. You cling to the sound, to the raw, unyielding emotion behind it. The world tilts, the ocean dissolving into fragments of color and light as the voice becomes your only tether to reality.

Consciousness 

The first thing you felt was an ache—a deep, relentless throb in your chest. It wasn’t just pain; it was a hollow, all-consuming emptiness that seemed to seep into your bones, leaving you fragile and broken. Even that ache, though, was muffled, as if your body couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

You tried to move, but even the smallest shift sent a wave of exhaustion crashing over you. Your head was pounding, limbs heavy and useless, and even behind closed lids your eyes burned with the effort of existing.

A hand tightened around yours. The sensation was grounding, but it sent a jolt of confusion through your addled mind. Your mouth was dry—parched to the point of pain. When you tried to speak, the sound that escaped was no more than a weak whimper, the cracked remnants of your voice.

With agonizing effort, you forced your eyes open, blinking against the harsh light. The blurred world around you slowly sharpened, though it still felt like a dream you couldn’t wake from. 

Sunlight poured through the windows, casting long shadows and fiery streaks of gold across the room. Against the light stood a dark silhouette, their form hazy and indistinct, a phantom watching over you.

Turning your head to the right, you saw you had a second guardian. His silver hair was disheveled, his shoulders slumped as he clung to your hand like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. When your gaze met his, beautiful blue-gray eyes widened in shock, glistening with unshed tears.

“Get Zayne,” he choked out, his voice trembling with urgency. His warm fingers brushed against your cheek, and you instinctively leaned into the touch, desperate for the comfort it offered. “She’s awake,” he murmured, as though saying it aloud would make it real.

“You’re okay,” Xavier said softly, though his voice cracked. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

The words pierced through the haze, and you exhaled shakily, letting go of the tension you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Xavier?” Your voice was barely audible, raw and strained.

His lips twitched into a sad, fragile smile. “Yeah, honey. It’s me. Don’t try to move, alright?”

Your lips moved to respond, but they were dry and cracked, refusing to cooperate.

“Here, kitten.” The figure by the window stepped forward, his imposing form now visible in the fading sunlight. Sylus held a cup to your lips, his carmine eyes filled with worry. “Take small sips. Don’t overdo it.”

The cool water soothed the fire in your throat, and you gratefully met his gaze. “Sylus…” you rasped. “What happened?”

His hand lingered at your bedside, brushing loose strands of hair from your damp forehead. “You’ve been through hell, kitten. But you’re here now. That’s what matters.” His voice was gentle, but his jaw clenched, betraying the turmoil beneath his calm exterior. “What do you remember?”

You closed your eyes, grasping at fragmented memories that slipped through your fingers like sand. “I… we were at work…”

Xavier’s voice broke through, calm yet coaxing. “That’s good. What else, sweetheart?”

Before you could answer, the door burst open, and Zayne stormed in. His hair still damp from a rushed shower, shirt hastily thrown on, and face etched with desperation.

“Why didn’t you call me right away?” His voice strained as he stared at you, his hazel eyes brimming with worry.

“She’s only been awake for a few minutes,” Sylus said, stepping between the two of you as though to shield you from Zayne’s frantic energy.

Zayne ignored him, shoving past to kneel by your bedside. His hands trembled as he took yours, his breath shaky. “Hey…” His voice faltered, “How are you feeling? Are you… are you in pain?”

“Chest hurts,” you whispered, the admission barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” Zayne murmured. His fingers brushed over the back of your hand as though trying to anchor you—and himself. “I’ll fix it. Just give me a second.”

You watched in silence as he prepared an injection, the small syringe in his steady hands. “This will help,” he said softly as he pressed it into your IV. “You’ll feel better soon. I promise.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Zayne’s voice was gentle but urgent.

Images flashed through your mind: the warmth of a beautiful dress, the cold gleam of ivory statues, vibrant paintings. And then—purple hair, eyes like lavender and roses. 

His screams tore through your memory.

“Where’s Rafayel?” The words tumbled out in a frantic whimper, tears welling in your eyes.

The room fell silent, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Sylus and Xavier exchanged a glance, and Zayne’s expression darkened.

“We’re close,” Sylus finally said, his voice soft but firm. “We’ll get him back.”

Your chest tightened with panic. “What do you mean? Where is he?” You tried to sit up, but agony erupted in your chest, and Zayne’s hands pressed you firmly back into the bed. 

“I need you to relax,” Zayne said, holding you steady. “You were shot two days ago. Do you remember the exhibit?”

“They took him from me,” you choked out, tears spilling over.

“We’ll get him back,” Sylus promised again. But even as he spoke, the fear for you in his eyes betrayed him. 

Sylus placed his hand on your other shoulder, his firm grip joining Zayne’s, while Xavier stood silently at the foot of the bed, poised to intervene if necessary.

“Sweetie, I promise we’ll tell you everything as soon as we know more,” Sylus said gently. “Right now, you need to heal. Your condition—”

“They’re hurting him,” you sobbed, your voice rising in anguish. “He’s so scared… I have to find him! Please!”

Sylus glanced at Zayne, shaking his head solemnly.

“Darling, stop,” Zayne begged, cupping your face in his hands. “You’ll hurt yourself. Please don’t make me sedate you—I can’t lose you again.” His voice was broken and pleading.

“He’s right,” Xavier said quietly, his voice heavy with unspoken grief. You turned to him where he was standing at the foot of the bed. His expression was strained, his usual stoicism fracturing, revealing a vulnerability that made your heart clench.

“When I saw you at the gallery…” He hesitated, his breath hitching as he struggled to speak. His hands trembled at his sides, and his eyes—those usually steady, composed eyes—shone with a sorrow that threatened to consume him. “They had to… you were dead.”

The word fell like a stone between you, cold and unforgiving. His voice wavered on the last syllable, shaking with the weight of the memory. “They had to bring you back. I watched them do it…” His voice trailed off into a haunted whisper.

Your breath caught as his words pierced through your chest, more painful than the lingering ache from your injuries. You shook your head in protest, but the truth loomed over you, undeniable and suffocating. Tears spilled freely down your cheeks as the enormity of it all pressed you into the pillows, leaving you hollow and defeated.

“Do you trust me?” Sylus’ voice cut through the suffocating silence like a lifeline. It was steady, firm, and unyielding—a single constant in the sea of uncertainty.

You turned your head toward him, meeting his crimson gaze. It burned with intensity, his resolve like a flame that refused to be extinguished.

“Always,” you sobbed, the word barely audible over your ragged breaths.

“Then let me do what I do best.” His tone was resolute, leaving no room for doubt. His hand rested on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the midst of your spiraling despair. Slowly, his thumb moved in soothing circles, trying to chase away the tension knotted in your muscles. “I won’t rest until we’ve found him.”

His promise hung in the air, but it felt as fragile as glass—one wrong move, and it would shatter.

Your gaze flicked between the three men standing around you, each of them carrying their own burden of guilt, fear, and desperation. The weight of their devotion left you breathless. 

With a faint, bittersweet smile, you shook your head in disbelief, tears still streaking your face. “I never thought I’d live to see the day you all agreed on something.”

Zayne lowered himself into the chair beside you, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. The raw love in his gaze made your chest ache all over again. “For you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “I think we’d do just about anything.”

And in that moment, the truth of his words was undeniable. What terrified you most wasn’t their willingness to fight—it was the growing fear that it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Rafayel…” you whispered your lover’s name under your breath, willing your intentions into the bond that stretched between you. “Hold on, we’re coming. Don’t you dare die on me…”

Double Trouble

The twins tore down the highway in the sleek black Aston Martin, Kieran at the wheel, pushing the engine at least fifty miles over the speed limit.

“We’ll have to ditch it about five miles from the facility,” Luke muttered, eyes glued to his phone as he scrolled through the details the boss had sent that morning. “We should’ve picked something less conspicuous.”

“Does the Boss even own anything inconspicuous?” Kieran snorted, his grip tightening on the wheel as they blew past the sign for their exit. “Besides, he never lets us take the fun ones out. He said to get there fast, so… I picked something fast. We’re almost there. What are we walking into?”

Luke glanced up briefly before returning to his screen. “Looks like an abandoned agricultural processing plant that EVER Group repurposed a few years back.” He scrolled further. “Actually, scratch that—they bought out the whole damn town. Whatever they’re running, it’s big.”

“What kind of resistance?” Kieran asked, his voice shifting to something sharper as he veered onto the off-ramp.

“If it’s EVER, expect the unexpected. For an operation this size, I’d guess at least a hundred employees, maybe a fifth of them security.” Luke tilted his head toward a cluster of distant buildings. “That’s it up there. There should be an old farmhouse on the right—we’ll stash the car there and walk the rest.”

Kieran nodded, eyes locked on the road as they closed in. The farmhouse loomed ahead, a relic of a forgotten time, standing in the midst of overgrown fields. He pulled into the lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

“Get the barn door open,” he ordered. “I’ll tuck the car inside.”

Luke hopped out, yanking the rusted door aside. The Aston Martin purred forward into the shadows, disappearing from sight.

Kieran stepped out, checking his knives with quick, practiced movements before turning to his brother. “What time’s sunset?”

“7:15,” Luke murmured, glancing up at the darkening sky through the eyeholes of his mask. “We’ve got twenty minutes. Let’s move, stick to the fields. Boss said if we’re caught, we’ll be on our own until they come for the artist.”

“Race you?” Kieran grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Luke scoffed. “You know I’m faster. Why even try?”

Without warning, Kieran swept Luke’s legs out from under him and bolted for the cornfields. “Not today you’re not!” he called over his shoulder.

Luke swore, scrambling to his feet and taking off after him.

It took them twenty minutes to reach the edge of the property, the dense fields keeping them concealed. Luke pulled out a pair of binoculars and handed them to Kieran, who scanned the buildings for an entry point.

“Blueprints show Buildings A and B are mostly office space,” Luke whispered, scrolling through the plans. “C is for material drop-offs and sorting, D is for treatment—whatever that means—E and F are storage and loading.”

“So we’re looking at D or E,” Kieran muttered, lowering the binoculars. “My money’s on E.”

“Agreed,” Luke said. “But let’s check C to be safe. A and B are probably just paper-pushers.” He glanced up as the last sliver of sunlight faded, plunging the facility into shadow. The once-busy parking lot had mostly emptied, leaving only about twenty scattered cars and a handful of trucks.

“You take C and D. I’ll handle E and F,” Kieran murmured, crouching behind the nearest vehicle.

Luke nodded. “Meet back here in thirty?”

“Race you,” Kieran whispered, flashing a sly grin before melting into the darkness.

The twins split, slipping through the shadows—silent, unseen, and very much up to no good.

Arrival

“Sir, prepare for landing,” the pilot called over his shoulder to the passengers in the back of the Cessna.

The tall man, dressed in an immaculate cream suit, moved with practiced precision, folding his documents into his briefcase before retrieving a cell phone from his breast pocket. With a flick of his thumb, he dialed a familiar number.

“Marcus, I’ll be arriving within the hour.”

A voice on the other end responded, briefing him on the status of their latest acquisition.

He listened, expression unreadable. Then, with quiet finality, he cut in. “That’s all well and good—just make sure he’s coherent by the time I arrive. I don’t like being made to wait.”

Without another word, he ended the call, lifted his tumbler, and swirled the last remnants of amber liquid before downing them in a single motion. He handed the empty glass to his assistant, who took it without question, standing rigidly at his side.

“Are we sure it’s him?” the assistant asked, his voice measured, yet slicing through the thick tension in the cabin like a blade.

The suited man reached into his briefcase, retrieving a glossy photograph. Without looking at it, he passed it over, “See for yourself.”

The image depicted a man with tangled violet hair, chained to the cold floor of one of their facilities, stripped of dignity, of power. A rare specimen.

“We won’t know for certain until I inspect him myself.”

The assistant studied the photo for a moment before tucking it away. “Understood. I’ll prepare for landing.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across the suited man’s face. “Either way, Marcus has proven himself a valuable asset. We should consider extending his contract.”

“And the brother?” the assistant inquired.

The suited man exhaled, a low hum of amusement under his breath. “As far as we can tell, he’s out of commission. That fire Evol is formidable.”

His grin widened, sharp as the edge of a knife. “If he recovers, he recovers. The blood has already done much to restore him.” He leaned back, folding his hands over his knee. “But leverage is a powerful thing. Now Marcus has a vested interest in ensuring our operation continues. Without further infusions, there’s no guarantee his brother will survive.”

He chuckled, dark and knowing, “Desperation makes men so very… compliant.”

Brothers

Marcus sat beside Bennett, who lay motionless on a pristine white cot. Half of his face was hidden beneath layers of sterile gauze, the bandages stretching down to cover his chest and left arm. He hadn't stirred since the incident at the gallery.

The artist had inflicted third-degree burns that should have killed him. By all rights, he should be dead. And yet, ironically, the very blood the Lemurian had unwillingly sacrificed was the only thing tethering the mercenary to life.

With a measured breath, Marcus rose, retrieving another vial of the life-sustaining substance from his pocket and pressing it into the nurse’s waiting hand. “Administer this at the top of the hour.”

She nodded, tucking the vial away before slipping silently through the door. It clicked shut behind her, leaving Marcus alone with the steady, mechanical rhythm of his brother’s breathing.

He hadn’t wanted to extend his contract. Hadn’t wanted to dig himself deeper into this web of blood and power. But with Bennett’s condition, he had no choice. His brother was the only family he had left, and worse—Bennett was here because of him. Marcus had convinced him to take this job. That made his survival Marcus’ burden to bear.

Exhaling slowly, he pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen flashing with an all-too-familiar name. Their benefactor was due to arrive today, but the firm’s impatience sent an uneasy weight settling in his gut. They wanted to inspect their latest acquisition sooner than expected.

He pressed the call button, bringing the device to his ear.

“Sir,” Marcus answered, his voice carefully neutral.

A brief silence. Then—

“Understood. I’ll have him ready for you.”

Bonded

Rafayel...Hold on, we’re coming.

Rafayel’s heart lurched violently, a raw, searing jolt as the bond pulsed awake for the first time since his capture. His battered body spasmed in response, agony carving through his ribs, his muscles seizing as the mark flared to life against his mangled chest. 

It burned—not just against his flesh, but deep inside his soul, a commanding force pressing its will into his own. For a moment, it was enough to push back the numbing weight of exhaustion, flooding him with a desperate, flickering resolve.

He sucked in a ragged breath, the air sharp and stale, scraping through his lungs like broken glass. His entire being trembled as he choked out a hoarse, disbelieving whisper.

“You’re alive….”

If his body had anything left to give, he would have sobbed. Instead, all he could do was curl onto his side, hunching over the pulse of warmth within him, clinging to it as if it was the only thing tethering him to existence. 

No matter what happened to him, no matter how much more blood he spilled onto these cold, metallic floors, at least he knew you were still breathing. For now, that was enough.

He was so consumed by that fragile, fleeting relief that he didn’t hear the footfalls until it was too late. The door wrenched open with a deafening clang.

Blinding fluorescent light sliced into the darkness, searing his retinas like fire. Rafayel recoiled, his body curling in on itself as a gust of cooler air followed the figures stepping inside. The scent of steel and sweat filled his nose—gunpowder and antiseptic. Footsteps. More than one.

His stomach twisted.

Marcus entered first. Behind him, a suited man moved with calculated ease, his presence heavier than the fleet of armed guards waiting just outside the threshold.

“Turn him over. I need to see his face.” The voice was smooth, clipped, accented. Distant, like a man giving orders at a dinner party.

Rafayel barely had time to brace before a boot came down on his arm, pressing—grinding—against his shattered ribs, forcing a broken, strangled gasp from his lips. Then, with effortless cruelty, Marcus rolled him onto his back.

A whimper slipped free before he could stop it. Shame curled hot in his chest, his body betraying him in ways he could no longer control. His vision blurred, unfocused, and his gaze dragged sluggishly over the faces above him, indistinct shapes against the burning light.

“Well done, Marcus. I’m impressed.” The suited man’s voice was a serpent’s hiss, oozing satisfaction as he clapped Marcus on the shoulder. His smirk cut through the haze.

“How do you feel about—”

Don’t you dare die on me…

Pain flared.

A violent, involuntary convulsion wracked Rafayel’s body, his back arching off the ground as the bond pulsed again, brighter this time. Then reduced to a dim, flickering glow pressed through the tattered remains of his silk dress shirt—what little was left of it after the gallery showing.

The suited man froze. His eyes narrowed, calculation flashing across his features before he knelt beside Rafayel.

“What do we have here?” Fingers prodded at his sternum—cold, invasive, prying. Searching.

Weakly, Rafayel tried to shove them away. He might as well have been swatting at the tide. A sharp backhand cracked across his face, snapping his head to the side. His vision blackened for a second, a high ringing filling his ears.

Then, hands gripped the edges of his collar, tearing.

The last few buttons of his ruined shirt pinged off the floor, the tiny sounds vanishing beneath the rasp of his own ragged breathing. The mark lay exposed now, its glow fading, but unmistakable.

Silence. Then, a slow, creeping smirk.

“You’re bonded.” The words dripped with triumph. A revelation. “That makes things easier.”

Rafayel turned his face away, pressing his cheek into the cold, filthy floor, hiding the raw emotion twisting in his expression. 

He couldn’t let them see.

Couldn’t let them know what you meant to him.

Couldn’t let them see how deeply he loved.

They would rip you from him piece by piece. They would use you, break you, and then dangle whatever remained before him like a noose, waiting for the moment he begged.

He would give them anything.

His life. His people. His last, tattered fragments of dignity.

He had done it before.

What did it matter if he drowned his soul in more blood?

A hollow, rotting sickness curled up his throat. He never should have fought so hard to find you. Never should have clawed his way into your life—your heart. 

“What is that?” Marcus crouched beside him, phone in hand, snapping a picture of the mark. The sound of the shutter was a gunshot to Rafayel’s ears.

The suited man stood, brushing off his hands like he had touched something unpleasant, “Was he with someone when you found him?”

Terror clamped down on Rafayel’s lungs.

No.

No. No, no, no—

Marcus exhaled, unconcerned. “His assistant. And a woman.” He shrugged. “A hunter.”

The suited man stilled. Slowly, he turned, glancing back at Rafayel’s broken form.

“The woman. Where is she?”

Marcus’ answer was careless. “I shot her. Could be dead for all I know. Left her at the scene—I had other priorities.”

“His bonded. His mate.” The suited man tsked and shook his head. “She’s alive.” 

Then, almost amused—almost pleased—he murmured. “Find her, and he’ll beg to tell us where the colonies are.”

Marcus cursed under his breath. Dragged a hand through his hair as realization hit him like a fist.

“Bring the footage of the capture to my office.” The suited man only chuckled. He was already walking away, but just before he vanished down the hall, his voice drifted back, casual, offhanded. “I want to see her for myself.”

Rafayel’s heart stopped beating in cold realization. 

They’ll know…your Aether Core….

He was a death sentence, a curse wrapped in warm flesh and whispered promises. He should have let himself fade years ago, let the sea take him back before it was too late.

He should have left you alone, kept his distance.

He deserved to be forgotten.

It was too late for that now.

With a guttural snarl, Marcus spun and drove his fist into the wall. Rafayel flinched, but the blankness in his expression never wavered.

Inside, though—inside, he was screaming.

Anguish. Rage. Horror.

Self-loathing so sharp it could cut.

Maybe if he pushed them hard enough, they’d make a mistake. Maybe if he gave them nothing, they would break him beyond repair. Maybe—

Maybe they would end him.

It would be better than letting them use you.

Better than letting them leverage his heart against him.

“Bring him to D for treatment,” Marcus ordered, his voice tight with barely contained fury. “I’ll meet you there shortly.”

Rafayel didn’t resist when they seized his arms. Didn’t fight when they dragged him away.

His mind had already slipped into the dark, spiraling abyss of possibilities.

All he could do was hope—pray—that Zayne and the others would protect you.

Because he had already failed.

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚

Apologies for the delay, I had an extended work trip in Miami and I didn't have the chapter uploaded. I didn't feel right publishing it un-edited from my phone. I'll do my best to get the next one up over the weekend.

Cross posted on AO3 under "holywaterbucketchallenge" for those of you who prefer that platform.

Appreciate your patience! I hope it was worth the wait. As always, looking forward to your feedback :)

[garyroachsandersonsbf]

Cowboy Hat Rule Part 2 - Ghostroach

SFW | Suggestive

—

Eventually, some of Graves’ men had picked up the stranded soldiers, and brought them to where they held the sicaria in an abandoned mill. They interrogated her for roughly an hour, drilling information about the missiles and El Sin Nombre out of her. During this time, they also learned that Alejandro had a previous connection with her, so they used it to their advantage as much as they possibly could. Finally when they were done, they collectively agreed to go back to their post and wash up before heading out for a small celebration.

Cowtown was still loud and lively as they strutted down the brick street passing by the various shops, restaurants, and bars. “Still cannae believe El Sin Nombre was right in front of us this whole time.” Soap exclaimed to the group.

Gaz then leaned over his shoulder, “And that Ale never told us he and Valeria used to be a thing.” He turned his head at Alejandro who’d kept himself from the conversation this far.

He cleared his throat and glanced awkwardly at Rudy before trying to explain himself, “We were teammates, not a… thing.”

“Nae, she totally implied something happened between yeh.” Soap prodded.

“No. And anyways, our involvement wasn’t relevant to the mission.” Alejandro was trying his best to end the conversation but Soap and Gaz kept going at it.

Ghost stood close to Roach as he watched the three men to his left argue back and forth. He would occasionally brush his pinky lightly against the back of Roach’s hand, a ghostly touch. Roach only pressed closer as much as he could while still maintaining a friendly demeanor to the public.

Graves trudged behind the group, keeping his attention on the signs of the buildings as they walked passed, avoiding other pedestrians. Suddenly, he pushed himself to the front of the group and stopped them, pulling them aside. “How bout’ we get some good authentic cowboy hats for our three Brits here?” He raised an eyebrow intriguingly at the men.

Soap’s eyes lit up at the American’s proposal, “First of all, I’m Scottish, but aye, that sounds great!” He grabbed Gaz’s arm and began to pull him across the street towards one of the hat shops. Alejandro and Rudy chuckled together and followed them, while Graves waited behind for Roach and Ghost to follow as well.

They walk into the first of many hat shops in awe, rows and rows of cowboy hats displayed on the wall. Soap walked over to the wall and picked one up off the hook, settling it on his head with a wide smile, “Ay, an’ how do I look?”

Roach took a step towards him and plucked the hat off his head examining it, “Let’s go to a different store. This one’s a tourist trap, too expensive for mediocre quality… at best.” He set the hat back on the hook and stepped out of the shop, the rest of the men following behind him confused, even Graves.

Ghost caught up to him and whispered, “Say Bug, how’d you come to that conclusion?”

“What? About the hat?” Roach raised his eyebrow at Ghost and Ghost responded with a nod. “Oh well. I grew up in rural Georgia, and had a friend that did farm work. I was almost always at their plot of land, and the grandpa would tell stories from when he was this supposed big time cowboy. Told us about how he’d herd the cattle, work in these stock shows, and all sorts of things. He’d also show us how to make our own cowboy hats and stuff, and pointed out the right materials and things. It’s all kinda hazy but I still can spot the cheaply made ones over authentic ones.” Gary had a smile on his face reminiscing over his childhood memories.

They continued to walk back down the brick street until they arrived at a smaller, less busy shop at the very end of the block. As they stepped through the threshold, the old wooden planks creaked under their weight, alerting the store owner of their presence. A short, old man came waddling out from the back of the shop, smiling brightly at the new customers. He greeted them with enthusiasm and urged them to come over to the counter where he could comfortably talk with them.

“So boys, what can I do for ya?” He flashed his smile, a few teeth missing from his grin.

“Just lookin’ for some hats for these three big guys,” Roach clasped the nearest shoulder to him, which happened to be Ghost’s. “They’re from the UK, first American southern experience.” Roach let his accent draw out, appeasing the older man.

“Oh well wonderful! Y’all came to the right place, we make every hat in here by hand, just unfortunately not by my hands,” the old man held his shaky hands up and chuckled. “My granddaughter is the best in all of Texas though, I’ll tell ya that.” He chuckled again and yelled out for her. She came walking around the corner in a pair of bootcut jeans and tucked in a flannel shirt, the classic southern dress. Soap’s attention snapped to her and he leaned against the counter attempting to look appealing.

Eventually after a small talk with the old man and everyone introducing themselves, they were finally able to see their hat making magic begin. Soap’s was up first. Majority of the time while the nice lady was taking measurements and forming the actual hat, Soap was flirting with her. Gaz and Roach kept laughing at every ill attempt at seducing her, but she looked every bit uninterested in what the Scot had to say. Finally he was shut up about an hour after, when his hat was finally complete. She set it on his head and he winked at her before turning to the rest of the group. “How do I look now? Better?”

After about two more hours of waiting and talking inside the small shop, the three men each had their own personal cowboy hat. Roach thanked the man for his time and the granddaughter for her skills, then gave them a large heap of money. Alejandro rushed them outside and forced them to pose for a photo. Gaz and Soap smiled so widely their cheeks would hurt while Ghost stood there on the side, his black surgical mask covering the majority of his face up. After photos, Graves then dragged them to a bustling bar across the street, the booming country and rock music able to be heard from blocks away.

As they stepped inside they were greeted with the strong smell of cigarette smoke & alcohol. They made their way through the crowds and stepped up to a round table big enough for the seven of them to sit comfortably on the high chairs. After a waitress came over and took their orders, Soap noticed a mechanical bull smack in the middle of the very large bar. People were gathered around watching as a man holding the rope in one hand and a beer in the other, tried to stay on top of the jerking bull, ultimately failing in the end and spilling his drink all over him.

“Aye Ghosty, how much fer yeh tae ride?” Soap inquired of Ghost, pointing over at where the bull’s next victim was getting ready to try and take it on.

“Not even going to entertain that idea, Johnny.” Ghost brushed off, instead watching as the waitress came over quickly with the tray housing their drinks.

When she passed out each drink, Soap leaned in to her with a mischievous expression, glancing once over at Ghost and then the bull. The waitress listened carefully to Soap and pointed somewhere behind Ghost, then said one last thing to him before walking away. Soap took a sip from his draft and slid off of his seat, inching closer to Ghost. “Say Ghosty, let’s check out the bar, aye?” That mischievous face still present.

As Ghost was about to decline, Roach spoke up next to him, “I’ll come with, Simon. It’ll be fun to look around, yeah?” Roach under the table tugged at the hem of Ghost’s shirt trying to encourage him to get up.

Ghost in the end gives in and stands up, waiting for Roach to do the same. Soap cheers as Ghost obliges and begins to follow him through the bodies. They walked around for a few minutes, finding where the bathrooms were, where a small dance floor overrun with people was located, and even a beer fountain. But before they could make it back to their seats, Soap pretended to be curious about a seemingly random line in the middle of the bar, “Wait, let’s see what this leads to.” Soap begged Ghost to stay and wait, Roach as well. Ghost, suspicious but not being able to see through their plan yet, agreed to wait. There were only 3 other people in front of them, so why the hell not?

Ten minutes later, when they were finally next in line, was when Ghost realized Gary and Johnny had set him up. The large, black and brown leather, mechanical bull sat still underneath the spotlights. “You lot are assholes. You hear me? Assholes.” Roach and Soap only pushed him onto the padded mats, but before the gate closed, Ghost grabbed Roach’s wrist and pulled him into the ring.

“Ladies and gentlemen, seems like we’ve got a pair goin’ at the bull tonight!” The bull’s operator yelled into the mic, broadcasting it through the entire bar. “Let’s see how they can handle it!” The lights then dimmed, replacing them with red colored ones, and an upbeat country song began to play. The people around them clapped and hooted at the two men standing awkwardly.

“I suffer, you suffer,” Simon whispered into Gary’s ear. He tugged Gary to the set of steps leading up to the bull, letting him go to straddle it before offering his hand again. “Let’s get it over with, Bug.”

Gary shook off his nerves and took Simon’s hand, pulling himself up onto the bull, facing Simon. He grabbed the rope hanging from the ceiling with one hand, his other bracing himself behind him. Just as the bull began to rock slowly, Simon reached out and gripped Gary’s waist, holding the two of them steady. They stayed like that for a few seconds before the bull’s movements became more fast and aggressive. Simon steadily slid back and forth on the machine’s back still holding onto Gary’s waist as Gary himself kept a tight hold on the rope.

Just as the music changed to the song ‘Country Girl (Shake It For Me)’, Gary reached up with his free hand and grabbed Simon’s brand new cowboy hat. He gave him a wink before putting it on his head and quickly lifting himself up and onto Simon’s abdomen, pushing Simon down on his back on the bull. His body rocked on top of Simon’s, occasionally pressing down and grinding against his hard stomach.

This goes on for another few minutes before the bull stops and they both hop off, sweaty and out of breath. Gary repositions the hat on his head, securing its place before heading back to their table where there will no doubt be questions. He put his arm around Simon’s shoulder and pulled him into his side, his lips brushing against his ear, “You know the ‘cowboy hat rule’?”

Simon could feel Gary’s grin against his skin, “Enlighten me, Bug.” Ghost discreetly hooked a finger in one of Gary’s belt loops, his thumb sliding under his shirt and brushing against his hot skin. Gary’s grin grew wider as he explained to him what it was, feeling Simon start to squirm.

Back at the table, Soap grouped up with the others, letting Simon and Gary have their moment together. He anxiously watched the others' reactions to the two men displaying this type of affection so publicly and carelessly. Ale, Rudy, and Gaz seemed shocked but didn’t press on about the situation, instead now indulging in their own conversations. Graves on the other hand curiously watched Simon and Gary walking back towards the table together. He noticed Soap staring and switched his expression to something smug, “Do those two have something going on?”

Soap straightened his posture, “No, but if they were and you had a problem with it, you can take it up with me.” Possession and protectiveness lacing his words.

Graves tried to hide his smirk, “No no. No problems here, Sergeant.”

—

End

[0ann3]

I'm dead, I saw the cards right before I sleep and my brain just went "I wanna doodle 'em" KSDJHSKDJHAKLSJHA

[brainrotcharacters]

The one where Wade and Logan remind me of Achilles and Patroclus

Because what the fuck do you mean "Do I know you, bub?" Bitch I'm going to spay you

You would recognize him by touch alone. By smell.

You would know him blind by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth.

You would know him in death at the end of the world.

[crystalpallette]

so I finished side order recently

[themyscirah]

Complaining abt Suicide Squad yet again but the fact that they have Waller exposing the alien community to space racist attacks and talking abt how she got to her position through deceit and being a terrible person and stuff is just. Ahsfiwueh JUST SAY YOU DONT KNOW WALLER.

Anyways literally the 3rd mission of the Squad ever (and the first framed as smth Waller picked and not orders from above) was the Squad discrediting and stopping a rogue vigilante who was only arresting POC and funneling white people into white supremacy groups (of which he was the most prominent member) in SUICIDE SQUAD #4. and it's explicitly framed as this mission being personal for Waller that she's hiding from the government bc its illegal like. Guys. Please why are we having her incite (space bc comics) racist attacks now

Also the whole "Amanda got her position through deceit and being a terrible person" NO. she KEPT her position through being shitty and playing complicated political games!!! She wasn't always that way like there is a difference and it is IMPORTANT ppl PLEASEEEE. In Secret Origins #14 we learn Amanda's backstory and she used to be a normal, caring person! Like even after she entered into working in government and politics she wasn't automatically morally bankrupt like please people. She was originally given control of the Squad by Reagan (*sigh* 80s comics...) to distract and get rid of her because she was so successful at pushing progressive social policy in Congress. Acting like she's this static pillar of evil is such a waste of her character and so fucking uninteresting and disrespectful to her arc it drives me MAD.

Like I am NOT saying Waller is all sunshine and rainbows, she fucking SUCKS (said w love <3) but like there's a human being there. It's a progression, she has a character arc like please, DC, please!!! They've fucked up Waller so bad and made her so opaque and uninteresting she can't even be the protagonist of her own story for fucks sake!

Like I don't know how many times I have to scream it until DC hears me or remembers but WALLER IS THE MAIN CHARACTER OF SUICIDE SQUAD. ITS HER BOOK. yet right now she's a cutout to be used as the villain wherever the writers please. Even in her book we get none of her perspective really displayed, no exploration of her thoughts with any kind of understanding of the role she traditionally has played and was made to play in the story.

[iambecomeafangirl]

The first half of "The Great Impersonator" was like a start of a breakdown, crying and gasping for air; the second part - it's the numbness that comes after hours of crying.

[stiffyck]

Marvel rivals has opened my eyes to so many ships tbh but I have a home cooked one I haven't seen yet.

Adam Warlock x Steven Grant

Hear me out okay-

(Going with mcu Steven cuz i like him a bit more than comics Steven and also we don't really know anything about him in rivals yet I think, so-)

The team had a long and difficult mission. The strategists are patching up their allies.

Adam is currently tending to Marc's wounds. Dude starts to sorta dissociate half way through- it was a long day and the mission wasn't easy.

Enter Steven! I honestly think he'd get along well with Adam. I also think Adam would find him nice and fun to talk to. They'd be incredibly awkward at the start, at least Steven, but I feel like they'd become friends pretty fast.

Also I like the idea of it like. Becoming a thing- after missions, Steven and Adam just chatting.

Anyway that is all.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

this week is making me wish I could spontaneously human combust with no lasting consequences

[tears-of-boredom]

ok so...I wouldnt call myself necessarily "artistically talented", and I famously am very bad at perspectives.. but i drew a thing for @bearotonin-international

[icewindandboringhorror]

Pictures and things