#IT IS TEARING AT THE SEAMS AS IF I AM STARVING AND IT IS THE LAST POMEGRANATE ON EARTH

[bluebellhairpin]

PERIOD SEX.

[greenwitchfeedee]

Royalty

Cw: weight gain, clothes ripping, soft feedism

*knock knock* “Princess, may I come in? I got what you asked for.” Hellen, my hand servant, said as she stood outside my room. I had an important court meeting in a few hours so I was dressed up in my formal dress, but it meant I had to skip second breakfast so I was starving. After my hangry outburst at the last meeting, I was threatened to be put on a diet. I had put on some weight in the past couple years

“Yes, please come in!” I eagerly replied.

Her slender frame gracefully entered in her maid uniform carrying a tray of food. “It took a little bribery of the cooks and the guard, but I was able to get what you asked for. I hope it is up to the standards you expect.” She explained while I was visibly bouncing in my seat with excitement.

“I’m sure it’s going to be delicious, just give it to me already!” I said teasing. She knows how excited I get about food. She took the cover off the tray to reveal my favorite foods, steak with buttery mashed potatoes and gravy, asparagus, bread rolls with even more butter, and a strawberry shortcake for dessert. I was salivating just looking at all the delicious food. Eagerly, I grabbed the utensils and started cutting my steak.

“Princess, if I may. I am concerned that your usual…eating habits may result in that dress being unacceptable for the court. You have a tendency to drop food when you’re excited. Would you prefer if I fed it to you.”

I got a little embarrassed, and I couldn’t feel my face flush red, but she was right. This dress was already tight and hard to move in, and I had a hard time being tidy in the best of conditions.

“Yes, I believe you’re right. Thank you.”

Hellen picked up the utensils and began preparing my food. As she presented me the first bite, I couldn’t believe how delicious it was. The juicy meat paired perfectly with the gravy and mashed potatoes and felt warm and comforting as it warmed my belly. I closed my eyes and squealed a bit in excitement before opening my mouth for another bite. Every bite was divine, not just because of how the food was prepared, but how she was serving it to me. After a few bites of steak, she would change to the veggies or the rolls so I wasn’t eating the same thing all the time. The contents of each fork full was perfectly balanced, severing containing too much of one thing. Slowly, my belly started feeling full and pressed against the tight fabric of the dress. I probably outgrew this one, I’ll have to ask the seamstress to make me a new one, a bigger one.

“Thank you Hellen, I’m lucky to have a servant as thoughtful as you,” I said, when I finally broke out of my food induced daze.

“Thank you for the praise, my princess. It is an honor to serve your excellency.” A slight blush broke out over her face. She tends to be reserved with me but I know how much she enjoys the praise. “Are you ready for your cake now?”

“Yes, please!” I said enthusiastically. In reality, I was starting to reach my limits, but the cake looked so delectable that I couldn’t help myself but to try it no matter how full I was.

The first bite melted in my mouth with creamy, sweet, tart goodness. I couldn’t help but let out a small moan as the treat passed my lips then open my mouth for another. I mindlessly rubbed my bloated tummy as she kept feeding me bite after incredible bite. There was about a quart of the cake left when I heard a loud *RIIIP* emanate from my side.

The seams of my dress split on the side, revealing my stretch mark lined love handles. “Oh my goodness, my princess, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

“No, don’t stop!” I exclaimed. “Keep going! I want you to feed me the rest! Please don’t stop now!” I could see on her face how shocked and embarrassed she was. She was hesitant at first, but picked the fork back up and got back to work. By this point my stomach hurt from how stuffed it was, causing me to moan a little louder with every bite. Every so often I would hear a little rip as the tear in my side got bigger, letting more of squishy body push out of the side.

I opened my mouth to receive another bite, but was met with a pair of soft lips and a tongue. Gentle hands caressed my sides and bloated tummy and she kissed me deeply and passionately. I opened my eyes and to see my adorable servant lost in her own actions. Without thinking, I reached out and pressed her narrow frame against my soft body and kissed her back. Her hand massaged its way from my jiggly love handles, under the rip in my dress to my back, and gradually lower, grabbing and squeezing my fat ass.

When I finally came to my senses, I was able to mutter under the waves of pleasure, “Thank you Hellen, never stop treating me like this”

[instarsandcrime]

Tuned Out

Oh gosh it's been uh. Almost a month since I've written something??? Well, I hope you enjoy this one! I loved the idea of a sick L/uc/ifer spiraling, and being broken out of it by A/la/stor's radio show because I'm weak to the idea-- though it can be interpreted as both platonic and Ra//di//o//A//pple.

And here's a quick heads-up: Though this is still the usual fluffy fic, the spiral paragraph itself is a bit rough. So I'm going to put a trigger warning below and in the summary when I add this fic to the list. If intrusive thoughts and vague thoughts of self-harm are too much, please skip the italicized second paragraph. You can still read the fic without needing to include this part, so don't feel ANY pressure to do so if you aren't/will never be ready. Please, pleeeassseee take care of yourselves!

Otherwise, enjoy!

TW: Intrusive thoughts, vague thoughts of self-harm

---

Burning. His skin felt like it was burning him alive. That was the only sensation Lucifer could feel. His tired eyes stared up at the canopy of his bed, face glowing softly with fever. Its flush spread gold across the embedded pearls above, making them sparkle like stars. He sighed, crackling sparks floating from his lips as thoughts poked and prodded at his overheated mind.

Fuck. He really was pathetic, wasn’t he? Can’t move, can’t get up, can’t get a glass of water, eat dinner, call Charlie– call. Charlie? Oh, poor Charlie. She must be so disappointed in him. He chuckled weakly, What would she even say to him that she hasn’t already thought? He could imagine it. He really could. ‘Seriously, Lucifer?! I literally meant nothing to you for years and now suddenly you waltz into my life? And instead of actually spending time with me, you’re calling from a room that could’ve gone to someone who truly needed it, ordering me to wait on you hand and foot like I’m your butler? Like our entire relationship meant nothing? You threw me away, and now you’re going to do it again?! You know what? You deserve this! You deserve to rot in your bed! Get as starving and sick as you want! At least now the inside will match the outside! You’re terrible! I hate you! No. No, you know what? I wish you got your second shot at Heaven. I wish you had at least a week of laughter, fun, and fucking fireworks so they could tear off your wings andyoucanFallalloveragai–’

A burst of static pierced the air, shattering the constricting spiral just before it could break him again– and replaced it with a new form of dread.

“Why hello there all you wayward sinners! Welcome once again to tonight’s show with your host: The Radio Demon!”

“Uuugh!” Lucifer groaned dramatically, snatching one of his many pillows to press over his head. 

Right. The stupid fucking radio. From under the shadows, the sickly demon couldn't help but glare daggers at the piece of junk resting on his nightstand. Alastor had requested those old, outdated mortal inventions for every hotel room– specifically from the 1920’s era because apparently he preferred style and substance. Whatever that meant. 

Regardless. He insisted that it was needed for announcements, communication, and entertainment. In other words– somewhere, somehow, Alastor was currently studying him and him alone with invisible eyes. Surgically scanning him at the seams for the slightest rip. The slightest tear. As if his prey wasn't the most powerful being here. Dramatic bastard.

“And how are you doing this fine evening, Your Majesty?” The radio sung.

“Go away.” The lump of fluff grumbled.

"Of course not! It is my duty as your hotelier to take note of every little detail of my building, no matter how tiny and insignificant. And I am ever-so-glad I have! It is quite the rare sight to watch our King of Hell lose face to a simple case of the sniffles. Truly a headline for the ages!"

An angry red blush painted over the king’s golden cheeks, immediately pushing himself upright. Towering wings puffed, pillows and blankets tossed about the bed as he went. "Now see here! Sinners get sick. Overlords get sick. Hell, Charlie and Lilith can get sick! Me? I’m just rehhh…Snff! Ugh, resti'g…"

"Resting. Of course. I suppose I will believe you for convenience’s sake--"

"Hhheh…! Het'shiew!"

"--oh! Bless you."

"Het'shhhiew!"

"Bless y--"

"Hep'shhhh! 'Etshhh! 'Tshhh! 'Tshhh-'tshh-'tch! ...HhhhehhHH...! HEH'TSSHHHIEW!"

"My goodness, bless! You sound absolutely miserable. Shall I fetch you a glass of water? Or another blanket, perhaps?"

"Nhhh– no." Lucifer protested between hitching breaths, conjuring a handkerchief with the flick of the wrist, "N-no thahhh...hhhah! Hhhh...”

He finally lowered the cloth when the tickle finally fizzled out, heaving a sigh of relief. “Ndo thadk you. Snff!" He took a deep breath before letting loose a mucky blow into the fabric, "It's fine. I'm fine."

A pause. "Ah."

"What? What is it now?"

"Oh nothing, nothing! I’ll let you get back to your rest. But before I go, could I mention one more thing?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s just. Well, I had my first impressions, but I assumed that the King of Hell wouldn't be so cowardly."

"Cowardly?!" Lucifer repeated incredulously, spitting a plume of smoke.

"I see your hearing is as sharp as your wit."

"I'll show you cowardly you…y-you…hhh-!" The demon’s nose twitched desperately, and he cursed between hitching gasps as it tried again and again to just get. The damned itch. Out.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite catch that."

"You…you self-important…hehhh…p-pompous…!" 

"How flattering of you to notice my worth! And would you believe it? You're absolutely right! I am the fundraiser for this humble project, after all. The guide for these poor, misguided souls. Ones such as yourself."

"Oh, please! We both know you’re...you're no behhh...better than…hhhH–!" Lucifer's handkerchief raised to his face.

"Trying to use your infamous silver tongue through a sneeze? My word! Charlie had told me you were stubborn. But this?"

"Eshhh! Et'SCHHH! HEH'ETSCHH'HHHIEW!" He quickly twisted his head away to let loose a breath of flame, barely singeing the well-abused cloth.

"Poor, poor Lucifer Morningstar.” Alastor teased, his voice as soft and careful as a snake in the grass. The smattering of footsteps echoed across the floorboards, circling the bed. “Always choosing your own heavenly guilt over the needs of everyone else."

"HEH'ESCHH'HHHIU! Hehh! Hhh…hghh…"

"Which is a shame, considering the ill resident who requires attention. Trapped in their own feverish mind. Alone while their partner is away. Unable to move or think or even ask for help properly. But I’m sure you wouldn’t know how it feels for them, considering how indestructible you are."

"...There is?" Lucifer finally croaked, cringing to himself at another gurgling nose blow.

"Of course! While you were hiding in your room with your wings tucked between your legs, I'm afraid you've missed someone very important. Someone close to you."

Lucifer froze. He didn't mean.

"Mmm. Let's see." As the radio host thought stubby knobs spun on their own, playing flickers of songs diluted by time. "Rosy cheeks. Blonde hair. Red eyes that sparkle so damn brightly one could go blind."

Oh no.

"Puffy bow tie. Black fingernails."

Did. Did he get his little girl sick? Please, please don't let that be the case.

"The most spell-binding singing voice."

He thought back to breakfast. How Charlie had eaten less than normal. How she sniffled once or twice at the table. Wait, did her face look pale? Maybe the light didn’t catch it?

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

"Wh-where is she-- they, um! That. Resident right now?"

"Oh, performing the usual suffering patient routine. Lying in bed. Being miserable. Quite adament about sleeping the bug off. Reminds me of the ol’ picture books that star wealthy socialites and their sickly Victorian children. The ones who die due to their parents' neglect and mistreatment."

"I could help her." The fallen angel mumbled anxiously as he pushed himself upright. "I could help her right– …now..." 

The second he dared to stand he nearly fainted, stumbling dizzily to grab the bedpost for support. From beneath a small string of black tentacles sprouted from the ground, nudging him back into place and under the covers as The Radio Demon tutted disapprovingly. 

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If you can't partake in the complex act of resting, then what good are you to our dear, sweet Charlie?"

"Shut. Up." Lucifer hissed, "I am a grown adult--"

"--debatable--"

"--and I choose what to do with my free time! And it's my jo-- koff koff! j-job to help my daughter when she needs it!" A shaky finger waved at all six radios. Or were there seven?

"To be quite honest Sire, I would prefer to do my tasks without your meddling. Actually, I would prefer not to perceive your existence at all, thank you very much. Unless..."

"Unless?"

"Unless you'd rather call her yourself. But I know you won't." A mocking tone laced with static, “You c̴̨̮͊o̶̗̤̿ẇ̷̙á̴̼̖ȑ̶͉̕d̶̙͚͗̕.”

“I– wh–” Lucifer laughed in sheer disbelief, snatching up his phone. “Y-you’re– you’re joking, right? I’m not some– some godforsaken hermit!"

"Then by all means, prove it."

"I am!"

“I’m waiting."

"Oh, I’ll do it! I’ll do such a good call. It’ll be the– snff! goodest caller you’ve ever seen.” The King of Hell pouted like a child as he moved his claws.

“Ugh. Lord knows how he’ll act if he gets worse.” The radio mumbled quietly.

“Whassat?”

“My apologies, Your Majesty! I forgot that your company as of late are less of the civilized and more the rubber duck variety.”

"Of all the– if you weren't stuck to Charlie like a parasite I would take the sharpest end of my tail and shove it up your--"

Click!

"Dad?" A voice croaked.

"Charlie!" Lucifer's venom turned saccharine sweet, flipping on a dime. "Hey! Hi! H-how are ya, sweetie?"

"Mmrgh...what time is it?"

"It's. Um. Evening…time? Look, that doesn't matter right now. Are you feeling alright, kiddo?"

"Am I feeling alright?" His patient echoed sleepily.

"Yeah! I uh. IIIII just wanted to check in. See if you were okay." 

"Oh. Um, I'm okay." A bit of rustling and a pause. "Are you okay?"

"Snff! Me?"

"Yes, you! You looked so tired at breakfast this morning, a-and you didn’t eat anything which never happens! And you were kinda glowing? It kinda seemed bad but I didn’t want to ask because maybe it was a personal thing and– wait, your voice is…are you crying?!" Rustling turned into the shuffle of pacing slippers.

"What? No! Nonononono! I just--" Lucifer froze, feeling another itch start to build, handkerchief nowhere to be found under the sea of fabric. "Jhhh-just excuse mbe for– snff! For a seggond. Keebp t-talki’g…!"

He quickly pressed his hand against the speaker, stifling into his shoulder until the scratchy wool felt damp. "Hh'ntt! Hh’ngk! Hhh’TCH! ‘TCH! Hhhhh...HT'CHNXT'hiew! Guhh..."

"Sure. A-anyway, you called me pretty early in the morning and after all that and this. Soooo…is there anything I can do to help?"

Desperate claws scrambled to craft a new handkerchief and wipe his streaming face. "N-no! No, no-- snff! absolutely not! Worry about yourself Char-Char, I'm fi--....f-fihh...!"

Hang up, pinch your nose shut, do anything but--

"HET'SHHH'HIEW!" Lucifer doubled over.

–sneeze.

"Oh geez, that sounded terrible!” Charlie gasped, “Is that why you've been in your room all day? Are you sick?"

A sudden, very obvious realization hit him. Silently the fallen king sunk into his mattress, wishing he could be swallowed by his comforter. His cheeks burned. The familiar description. The taunting. 

“Can I. Call you back, Stardust?” 

“What? Whoa, whoa, wait, we’re not finished here–” With a final monotone beep, the call ended.

"You.” Lucifer clenched his fangs.

“Yes?” Alastor hummed non-chalantly. “YOU.”

“Gracious! No need to shout. Even The Devil Himself should know that a sickly patient musn’t raise his voice, lest it get worse than it already is!”

“Watch your back, bellhop. Next time I see you, no ring of Hell will compare to what I-- koff! I’ll–" The threat died with a wheeze, breaking into another ill-timed fit.

"And that's all for tonight, folks!" The radio suddenly hopped back to life, "Tomorrow's show may be a little dicey schedule wise, as our guest star is feeling quite unwell. Will he finally exit his literal and proverbial cave of sorrows for once in his miserable life? Or, much like his saintly past, will pride once again be his downfall--"

"Dad! Are you– eep!"

Charlie's entrance was suddenly interrupted when a black fist rained down on the damned noise box, breaking in a fit of bouncing springs and wooden splinters. The room stilled until a meek, nervous chuckle finally broke the spell.

"Charlie, dear?"

"Y…yeah?"

"Um. Could. Could I trouble you for a glass of water?"

[ilyuu-archive]

i would like to request…. *taps on mic* scaramouche sewing….

pls i don’t know why but i have been starving for some scaramouche sewing content like pls imagine him making you plushies etc i would be in tears.

-love you lots L 🫶🏻💗

(you might know me based off that one anon ask🤭

your work still has me crying😔🫶🏻)

,,,omg anon did you fall from heaven because THANK YOU?? THIS IDEA?? IS SO?? CUTE?? now i have to write about this smh

a pin of a needle pricks a piece of cloth, and peeks up. and again.

rustlings of leaves reminded him of where he was.

yes, of course, all he has to do is turn on a light and let it brighten a room, whichever one, even a bit for him to sew. easy. no need to resign oneself to the dark, let out the outside. and yet, here he is.

there’s little to no light other than the night itself - the moon and stars against the skies - that could help him see, if a bit than anything. that and it’s silent. quiet. something he’d prefer, especially now for a calm mind. he lies against a bark of a tree, and the shadow casts a small spot for him to hide away.

in spite of the lack of light, one could still see the bandages around his hand, from his fingertips to his palm. mistakes, errors, marks his skin so seamlessly.

he still feels your hands on his - grazing along the edges of his bandages in a way that’s too kind - phantom, faint, yet there. the drift of the thread tacking it the cloths, tight, with the promise to never unravel, lightens.

in his hand lies a small doll - donned in all sorts of shades of teal, white, and inky blue; a look etches in its skin; and the unfinishing touch that is its sleeve. (it’s a bit obvious who it is) a product of sleepless nights and his affections for you, even if neither is something he’d be willing to admit.

a small something to keep you company, he’ll admit, which isn’t too far from the truth. but it’s more of a reminder than anything - that he’ll always be there. in presence, or not, he’ll exist in some form and in some way not too far from you (not ever far from you, he thinks.) perhaps you’ll see it too, that this doll is the collection of every single, small thing that he is and what he is with you.

will you like it? will you accept it? will you take it in your arms and smile the smile that he’s always adored from you? but, just for now, it’s a gift to someone who he cares (a bit too much about.)

he huffs. (the wind laughs along with him.) “how hopeless i am.” so he says as he continues to stitch in seams to the edges of the sleeves.

every drift, every shift of movement, along the slightest tugs of the thread, holds a softness to it that’s reserved for you and you alone. and it is not something he can hide, not even from himself.

general taglist (open!) : @iinuko, @starz222, @haliyamori, @taokives, @tartaglia-apologist, @aimynx, @angelkazusstuff . . .

[thepenultimateword]

Love Thy Enemy Part 4

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Vorrin wanted to destroy everything. Starting with this idiotic outfit.

The guards shoved him writhing and snarling into his bedroom, giving him no time for a proper charge before slamming and locking the grand oak door like the cell that it was. His fists slammed on the wood hard enough to send his nerves prickling, and a throat-scraping roar ripped the cold, empty quiet asunder.

He threw his overcoat off his shoulders, working his thumb into a little tear in the back—it must have happened when he fell to the street—and ripped it straight down the middle. He didn't stop tearing until the fabric lay in silky tatters on the floor. The suffocating tie of his tunic was next, ripped entirely from the collar to leave a jagged, triangular hole from throat to mid-chest.

More. More. His fingers itched, no, burned with hungry fury. Almost like if he didn’t find more things to release it on, it would consume him from the inside out. He searched the room rabidly, quickly settling on the bed. In a few strides, he reached the mattress and wrenched the bedsheets off, shredding the silk fabric into long, frayed strips. Next, pillows, ripping them by the seams and tossing the feathers to the ground in violent handfuls.

He kicked the table over. He broke the chair legs by crashing it into the stone wall. He was just about to pull down the velvet curtains when the door unlatched and Empress Callista strode through.

Two guards trailed at her heels, reaching for their weapons at the sight of Vorrin’s recent work. Empress Callista halted them.

“Are you done throwing a tantrum?” she said coolly, stepping within arms-length.

“How could you do that?” Vorrin seethed. His fingers twitched at his sides, fighting the overwhelming urge to wrap them around her throat. He wouldn’t last two seconds against her guard. And where would it get him? An execution order and nothing changed.

“Defend you? It was quite easy actually, despite your bad opinion of me, I don’t particularly like seeing my consort shoved to the ground and verbally assaulted for things outside his control.”

“She hadn’t seen her son since the surrender; she was scared.”

“Everyone is scared, but we all make a choice on how we manifest it. She chose poorly. As did you.”

Vorrin reeled, an incredulous scoff already on his lips. “Me?”

“You humiliated me.”

“How—”

“You publicly spoke against an imperial ruling.” Her hand darted out like a cobra, seizing him by the jaw. “These people need to know that there are no other options. That I am impenetrable. You made me look weak.”

Vorrin gritted his teeth, expression turned to stone beneath her bruising grip. “You made yourself look weak.”

The implication was there, as stupid as it was for him to remind her. If she wanted him taken care of, she’d have to send him to the dungeons or kill him. She would never tame him into her pet.

Empress Callista raised a brow but said nothing, molten amber eyes poring over his own brown like she could read every thought and secret within. Vorrin broke first.

As his gaze hit the floor, Empress Callista stepped back toward the door.

“Since you take pleasure in destroying the comforts I provide you," she said, "you can enjoy the night without them.”

Vorrin scoffed knowingly. “I knew it wouldn’t be long until you were starving me for results.”

“Hm? No. Your manservants will bring you dinner, but they’re not staying. You can undo that hair on your own; no new outfit either, since you've proven you can't take care of them. You may sleep without a sheet or mattress since you apparently don't want them, as well as figure out how you'll be eating your food without a chair for your table." She swung the door wide and strode into the wall with a whoosh of fabric, rich black braid swinging on her back. She stopped just over the threshold, not even turning as she called one last punishment. "I'll see you in the morning."

***

As it turned out, undoing Pins's meticulous work was harder than Vorrin thought. The chains tangled in his awakening curls, only tying knots--in both metal and hair--the more he tried to free them. He was able to tear one side free, strand by broken strand, leaving a clump of wispy locks twisted around one end. The other side pulled at his scalp but held a much larger chunk of hair for him to risk tearing it out by force. He let his hang behind his ear with the rest of the tangles.

Luckily, today's outfit was more familiar than the previous one's, making it easy to remove what remained for bed. And he was used to sleeping unclothed, so he wasn't too concerned about lacking a nightshirt. That is, until night fell and the room became an ice house. He'd never realized how much the sheet had aided in keeping him warm.

He chided himself. He'd grown soft these past months, accustomed to the luxury he scorned. He'd slept in colder conditions than this on the battlefield, or even in the barracks when winter hit. There was only one hearth in that wing, and it hardly heated the entire space. He had his own here, but no flint to light it. He hadn't thought to ask either manservant when they dropped off dinner if they could spare some.

He curled up in the middle of the bed, drawing the lightweight covers--only spared by being crumpled on the floor during his fury--around his shoulders. With that, he fell into a restless slumber.

Until the knife woke him.

He knew it before he was fully conscious, eyes shooting open, hand flying to his side for a nonexistent weapon, and then toward the threat, only to have his arm pinned to his side like the one on the other side which the intruder knelt on.

Vorrin opened his mouth, but the blade held his cry hostage in his throat, a large lump he had to uncomfortably swallow.

"Don't try to scream," said the intruder from the dark overhead. "I'd rather not damage valuable goods."

Vorrin swallowed again. Was this a kidnapping? Another cursed gift the empress had bestowed on him by showing him attention? He never would have had to deal with this when he was just a general.

"You hate her, don’t you?"

The voice interrupted his thoughts, low and creaky, like wind on an old tavern door. The blade lifted just slightly to allow words.

"What?"

"The empress," the voice urged impatiently. "You hate her."

A new warning bell sounded in Vorrin's skull. This could be a trap. The empress's own attacker sent to test him. Though his hatred was no secret.

"Yes."

The knife lifted a fraction further.

"We saw you in The Dregs. A chink in the dragoness's bloody scales. Or maybe a weapon. An unwieldy one. Now, why would she keep something like that so close?"

"Don't know," Vorrin growled noncommittally. "Guess I'm just that pretty. How'd you get in?"

A chuckle and the weight shifted off of him. "We're everywhere the light isn't."

"We?"

"Freedom fighters. People in rebellion against the latest power exchange. Like you."

Half a question, half a statement.

This reeked of a trap.

What were the chances of an actual rebellion, what he'd wanted but found impossible to reach, coming straight to him within the palace walls.

"I'm not a freedom fighter."

"Not yet."

"No, I'm--"

The shadow dropped their hood.

The moonlight illuminated a long, hollow face, pale and ghostly as the ashen hair that framed it. The angry red lines of a sigil burned from the center of his forehead to his brows and hairline: an eye with a compass coming out of it, though the arrow points were shaped suspiciously like daggers. Even if Vorrin didn't recognize the man, he certainly recognized that mark. Not that he'd had many chances to see it on someone breathing.

"Since when are The Eye freedom fighters?"

"Since our home became enemy soil. A man can be a cutthroat and a patriot at the same time."

Vorrin tightened his jaw disbelievingly.

The assassin grinned. "The Empress may have also threatened our profit if that is a more trustworthy motive. She’ll have us all hunted like dogs before the year is out."

Vorrin slowly pushed himself upright, keeping eye contact all the while. He quietly slowed his breathing, in turn calming his heart. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

"Now that's the right question." The man sat crisscross on the mattress, chin leaned into one hand while the other still twirled his dagger. "I got in here, but believe it or not, we can’t get anywhere near the Empress."

Vorrin thought about his daily patdowns and her constant entourage of guards. He could believe it.

“You, on the other hand, my angry friend. You are up close and personal with the Empress all the time.”

“Only just,” Vorrin muttered, seeing where this was going. He’d only made contact with Empress Callista yesterday, and he was certain that whatever the man imagined their relationship to be was nowhere near the truth.

“Better than any of our other options.”

“Look,” Vorrin eyed the assassin’s dagger, preparing for a wrestle when this probably went badly. “I have no interest in joining The Eye.”

“Shame. But not important. I don’t come on behalf of the Eye; I come on behalf of a united rebellion. I am simply the vessel that was chosen and willing to reach you. That’s what you want after all, right? The Empress gone?” He flashed another crooked tooth grin at Vorrin’s narrowed eyes. “See, I’ve done my research, High General Vorrin. Your position. Your stand against the Empress’s army. Your surrender as a war prize for the lives of your men.”

“How…” Not even all his men knew the truth of that day.

“I make a habit of knowing exactly what I’m dealing with before walking into a dark room. Point is, we want the same things. Empress Callista dead and the kingdom restored under a Totholian flag.”

“Under who’s rule? Yours?”

“Thank you.” The assassin held a dramatic, flattered hand to their chest. “But not my style. No, the rebels are chasing the rumor of the King’s Duras’s survival.”

Vorrin straightened a little taller in his seat. King Duras may have been problematic but when it came down to it, a legitimate royal brought comfort. The people trusted it more than another total overturn of power. And it meant a chance to end this nightmare. “Do you know—“

“No,” the assassin said. “Could be true, could be rumor, but if anyone can find him, it will be us. In the meantime we need to move. Before her hold grows any tighter.

Vorrin tried not to show his disappointment. He’d never been a gambler. As much as he wanted the Avarose Empire out, he wanted anarchy even less. With no concrete option for the throne, he would do well not to kick the already panicking beehive.

“I know it’s risky,” the assassin said as if reading Vorrin’s thoughts. “But what can we do? What will you do? Accept your fate? Doom your men to the dungeons? And…don’t you want redemption?”

Vorrin clenched the covers. “Redemption?”

“You did what you had to in the moment. But you can still save your kingdom for real.”

Save the kingdom. He’d lived months with this guilt, it weighed on him at all times. And then there was Empress’s condescending. The way she had taken his life at sword point. What she’d done today. He couldn’t trust her word that his men would one day be released.

“What would you have me do? She doesn’t trust me.”

“Then make her. Get close to her. And when she lets her guard down…” The assassin pressed the dagger into Vorrin’s hand. “Finish what you started.”

Part Five

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii i @deflated-bouncingball l @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps @demonictumble @inkbirdie @vuvulia a @bouncyartist t @lunatic-moss-studio @breilobrealdi @freefallingup13 3 @i-am-a-story-goblin @ryunniez @rainy-knights-of-villany @distractedlydistracted @saspas-corner @echoednonny @perilous-dreamer @blood-enthusiast @randomfixation @alexkolax x @pksnowie @blessupblessup @wolfeyedwitch @thedeepvoidinmyheart @cornflower-cowboy @bestblob @a-chaotic-gremlin remlin @espresso-depresso-system @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @paleassprince @takingawildbreath @yindo @psychiclibrariesquotestoad @harpycartoons @pickleking8 @urmyhopeeee @goldenflame2516

[howlingmidnightmoonlight]

On the streets

I say alot of things when the sun goes down, even the devil knows I lie

I have seen tomorrow in a winter snow fall before midnight drifting carefully

I never understood where I was till it was too late to go home again

I left so long ago, that I am a drifter now coursing through the veins of the city

I wander on the remains of the dead, left in the park, still living feeble dreams

That tomorrow won't be the same, that we might find a little hope to live on

But anyone knows the turth, knows hell is all we will ever see

I loved an angel, but it was too late to show her that I could give all I had

In the morning dust that crawled away from my dried tears I wished once

I saw the river floating down the line, down the time running out in the sands

The hourglass don't lie when it runs dry it pried open life along the seams

Strewn about the shores of the night, starless and broke in the alley

Drank away the blues, tried to starve my soul in the dark

Gave a gold coin to the phantom on the corner for another try at eden

Turned off the moon, found an empty subway haunting neon

A score of years marked my eyes as I wore this time on my brow

Life was a scourge burning pain in the trains heading down south

Brimstone boiled as I suffered in the rain, on the horizon nero played

Dawn rose dancing on a pinhead staring down the stars

Heart stopped too many hours before to even wonder

You got to get on now, you can't sleep here

[fat-slobby-gamers]

Put Vicar Amelia and Malenia in the same room as well as put a weight gain curse on them

"BWOOOOOOOOORP! BURRRRRPP!" The thunderous sounds of thick bassy belches filled the halls of the grand cathedral as Amelia last vicar of the healing church laid sprawled out on the stone floor clutching her growing gut. Thanks to the beast plague running through her veins she was already quite the sight to behold. A massive woman with flab clinging to ever part of her once frail body. "Forgive me... Master Laurence... I am not strong enough... oh look at my flesh, swollen and covered in fat. A disgrace surely I am not worthy.." Amelia said praying quietly to herself as she continued to expand her dress shredding and tearing at the seams.

Above her Malenia goddess of rot hung in the air rotted wings keeping her afloat.

"It seems we've both been cursed, both by the afflictions that ravage our bodies and by this unnatural fattening sickness. Though I must say you look rather ravishing in this light. Such soft features... You carry the weight well." Malenia said her prosthetic hand cupping Amelia's cheeks before she planted a kiss onto the vicar's swelling lips. The two women grew together slowly filling out the cathedral their bellies pressing together, sweat covered rolls jiggling and rubbing against one another. Malenia reveled In their new size while Amelia hesitated though the growing hunger and temptation of Malenia's affection sent her heart aflutter.

"I mustn't succumb... I can't be a grotesque slob! I must uphold the purity of the church BWWOOOOURP!" Amelia moaned as Malenia squeezed her belly forcing a deep belch from her core. As her body grew Amelia's animal urges grew stronger driving her into a hungry food starved frenzy. "Oooh... but it feels so good..." She whined howling at the sky in a mixture of anguish and pleasure.

"Let us grow together~ Devour this world that cursed us. We can do so much more than what fate would have in store for us." Malenia cooed tracing her fat fingers along her fellow slobs belly. The ground beneath them cracking and crumbling from their combined weight. The world would never be the same as these two giants fell for one another and would stop at nothing to satiate their endless hunger for growth and food.

[pridepoisoned]

The vibrations in the air are familiar, and start as low thrums in more open hallways and empty spaces. They start over a period of days, the mild aural sound like audible heat distortions.

The hours pass and those thrums turn into deep droning noises, though there's nothing that picks them up as audible.

And then it ebbs and flows like the slow undulation of waves, the feeling of a massive presence that could not be quantified. Titanic does not even begin to describe the vastness of that feeling.

"Hear me," it says- though it does not use words, "I come. I am coming. For you."

The vibrations in the air are familiar, subtle, tickling the edges of Eris's senses and dislodging old, buried memories. During busy workdays, the Devon ascendant finds herself coughing more frequently, heavy breaths catching in her throat and interrupting her charismatic siren songs addressed to the business elite. During sleepless nights, she tosses and turns, wrestling with an unknowable, uncomfortable pressure. (It's as if something is perpetually perched atop her chest. Weighing her down.)

It doesn't take long for the paranoia to set in. Eris's perfectly-composed mask starts to stretch and tear at the seams, revealing pockets of anxiety, bitterness, and anger.

A disorienting dizziness confines her to the underground labs, where she can at least suffer in peace. And then one day, surrounded by backlit screens and eerie contraptions, the 'reformed' researcher's bloodshot eyes fly open in a clarifying moment of recollection. Chain.

She remembers this feeling. Arceus, it's like being thrown back in time. Back when Galactic was standing on the precipice of everything, the leashed god-forms at their supposed beck and call.

(But Jupiter knew that they had never truly been in control. Atop the Pillar, the pressure nearly suffocated her as she fought off Sinnoh's 'heroes' in a tag battle that seemed to stretch on for a painful eternity, surroundings folding over each other like a horrifying kaleidoscope as time and space writhed around them all. It hurt so much.)

And yet, Jupiter still fought for him--fought for their vision, blinded by false promises and her insatiable ambition. When the foundations of their imagined empire had collapsed, she glimpsed an opportunity to disappear amidst the fallout, easily molting her 'Commander' title to make a grand escape and continue her personal evolution into a more monstrous entity...

However, the pendulum always tends to swing back around...and now Eris's past--burdened with all of her sins--is rushing back with nauseating force. Her pulse thuds against her temple as she stumbles out into the deserted, restricted-access hallway, lab coat rumpled and glasses askew. The corridor's darkness seems to stretch on forever, the cold walls bending inwards.

Eris knows this oppressive feeling, but hasn't reckoned with it since a lifetime ago. A delirious laugh escapes from her mouth, and when she speaks, her normally-saccharine voice cracks.

"...It's been a long time," the former commander calls out, her voice echoing, echoing, echoing endlessly down the expanse. She can't see a thing. Her knees shake with equal parts anticipation and fear, yet a wolfish smile still plays on her face. Still so starved for knowledge, even if it means her end--maybe this is all just one, unfurling dream.

"I need to know what you want from me. I thought that I left everything behind."

(Despite her confidence, Eris's leg twitches, always ready to bolt, to escape. Ever the slippery snake.)

[etruatcaelum]

This is the first thing Salem learns, after the brothers leave Arziant in flames behind them: that the creatures of grimm know kindness.

Everything turns to fire.

Even the air itself screams with a heat so intense that her skin cannot regrow before it starts to melt and blister again. Salem burns alive and burns alive and burns alive and—

When she wakes from mindless agony, she finds herself in the sweltering warmth of a deep cave and bathed in the stagnant-water stench of grimm. These creatures she was taught to hate and fear as abominations pace in silent circles all around her, everything limned with the sunset glare of their fiery eyes, their pitch-black flanks singed and smoking. They do not in any way acknowledge her presence; but they brought her here with them, to shelter from the inferno outside, and she will never be able to look at a grimm and think monster again.

Time slips so easily away from her. Days, weeks. Months. Eight thousand nine hundred twelve: the number branded into her soul by hunger. Eighty-nine hundred and twelve times she starves to death before she loses track.

That hollow feeling. The ache, before light rakes her apart and sutures her back together and she rises again, unsteady. Searing pain clarifies itself; the hateful golden furnace of infinite life burns crimson through the brittle membrane of her skin. Eight thousand—

It doesn’t matter.

The plangent echo of her pulse fills the deathless silence at the end of the world: a catathymic note throbbing in the nexus of planetary song; that awful cosmic heartbeat, in the tearing aftershock of violent divinity. Sometimes the deteriorating scrim of human delusion peels away and she falls into hematic convulsions as the world turns inside her chest, pulverizing meat and bone to gory pulp while she writhes in transcendent agony. Creation—an inchoate redness—life. Everything begins in pain. The first taste is always blood.

She understands—

After fire comes darkness, and then even the grimm begin to waste away: unspooling their flesh in long ropes of slime as what little survived the cauterizing of the shattered moon withers under the scorched-black sky. Salem flays herself to feed them, for all the good it will do. Starvation still dissolves them one by one.

She just wants to save something. Wants to give life instead of death, for once; and the grimm were kind to her, in their way.

Hunger makes them brutal. The last grimm in the world tears her apart, and it hurts, and…

…and she is on her knees in a wide but shallow river of water clear as glass. Mist treads softly through the quiet darkness, and the air tastes fresh and sweet.

Salem stays where she is for a while, eyes half-closed, basking in the soothing peace of a rare pleasant dream—but nothing remains still in the river for long, and it dawns on her gradually that she is not alone. Kneeling beside her, resting a hand between her shoulders, is a giant woman of wicker and painted clay.

She asks: “What are you? Who are you?”

The woman answers: “I am the germinating seed and the mouth that opens. I am the circle drawn by itself. I am the Artisan.”

“…Is this real?”

“It is real to you.” The Artisan’s thumb caresses her back, and Salem curls in on herself, ragged and tearing at the seams before the vicious claws of even that small tenderness; at her choked cry, the hand lifts away, leaving her huddled in miserable anguish. “You can leave this behind,” the Artisan says, “if you would like.”

“Leave–?”

“It is the nature of things to change. Living things grow.”

“I don’t,” Salem rasps, “understand.”

“You cannot die,” says the Artisan, and she flinches, “but you can change. Leave behind the burden of what you are now to become something new. If you let the river wash you away, who could you be?”

The water flows over her hands, pure and cold. Her eyes sting with unshed tears. She whispers, for the first time since before the end of the world daring to hope, “Could I find Ozma? Is this—what happens when people die?”

“You are the first of your kind to come here,” the Artisan tells her gently. “The one you love is in the place the Brothers made for their creations.”

It feels like her heart breaking all over again, and her fingers curl and become clawed. “Are th– are they happy?” she breathes.

Maybe it can be okay, as long as she knows they’re safe and well wherever they are—maybe. Maybe.

“They are at rest,” says the Artisan. “Preserved, feeling and knowing nothing.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

“But—” A nameless horror overwhelms the words. Her mind conjures up an image of Ozma on their deathbed, insensate; the notion that that is their eternal fate—the fate of everyone who ever lived—to lie in feverish oblivion until the end of all things, is unbearable. It is not to be borne. “No.”

“It is the truth,” the Artisan says.

Salem throws herself onto her feet as a keener fire than the embers of hope kindles in her soul: she names it wrath, and cradles it against her heart. “I will not leave them behind,” she seethes. Just as they pulled her from her tower, she will find a way to win them free from theirs; free everyone slaughtered in her name. “I—”

How? How, when the world lies dead and broken and even the grimm cannot survive? Salem squeezes her eyes shut, trembling. Afraid.

She has never felt so small.

“What is this place?” she asks, plaintive. “Where did you come from?”

“This is the place that is,” says the Artisan. “It is the drawing together and drawing asunder that is maker and made of all things. It is the transformations of fire. I am the shaping hands of what was ever before and will be ever after.”

“…of fire,” Salem echoes, turning away. The river flows and flows forever in silence. She can feel the Artisan watching her.

Of fire.

She takes a breath. “Your face is fired clay. Will you allow me use of your kiln?”

———

There is a fire. Salem builds a forge, digging slabs of clay out of the riverbank with her bare hands in this strange, protracted dream. Sometimes the Artisan sits at their workbench and talks to her while they sculpt, and sometimes there is a thing with feathers that perches above the kiln to give voice to a hollow, keening cry. Mostly, she is alone.

Infinite life hurts so much. Not a single part of her can die; immortality riddles her with cancerous, painful light. The God of Light did not understand what he asked for when he bade her to heed the importance of life and death: and perhaps that is why his brother had grinned.

Destruction, to clear the wilderness away.

She claws her belly open and pulls out the vermillion meat of herself in fistfuls, gasping but undeterred by the pain. The wounds seal over and blood congeals on her skin while she feeds herself to the ever-living fire, and as the forge feasts her flesh and blood melt together into iron. It takes time—it takes trial and error and more tries than she could count—but Salem forges herself a sword.

The blade blazes like the sun when she holds it. It sings of pain and desolation: it doesn’t know how to be anything else but what it is. But it makes the light hurt less.

“Can I come back?” she asks,

and the Artisan says, “You will find the door again when you need it.”

When she returns to Arziant, the world is still dark and terribly cold. Nothing lives—not even the grimm, whom she mourns almost as deeply as she mourns her own kind.

Her sword sunders the darkness, burns the poison out of the sleet, thaws the sheets of ice. She wanders: a solitary vagrant so delirious with hunger that she takes to gnawing her own arms until her teeth hit bone. The sky turns blue again. Sunshine bathes a landscape of churned mud and barren rock. For—years, decades, centuries—for an age, she combs the planet, searching for even the smallest sign of life.

There has to be something.

Finally—finally—she finds a newborn colony of fungus poking through the muck, spongy and soft, finger-shaped, dull yellow and rancid on her tongue. She digs a second one up, careful to disturb the rest as little as possible, and returns to the place that is.

In her absence, the Artisan has begun to work the forge, but when Salem asks for use of it again they press the hammer into her hand with a patient smile. The idea in her mind is clearer than before, and she has a better sense of how. When she casts the little fungus into the flame it bursts and turns to gold; she alloys it with her memories of sunlight, of wheat fields, of oceans and blue skies.

This time, she makes a staff. Its haft radiates the warmth of summer, and the crystal setting at the head glows with the pure, rarefied blue of mountains on the horizon.

(It reminds her too much of Ozma; it aches.)

When she clambers back into the carcass of Arziant with the staff in her hands, the whole world seems to shiver. The little fungi have swelled and flourished into vast, peculiar forests; and there are other kinds now, as life heaves itself bodily from the mire. Wherever she goes, carrying the staff as a walking stick, new things begin to grow. (Most of them foul: it comes as a surprise the first time she tastes something and finds it sweet.)

Notions of self bleed away. Past and future slough away too, neither cognizant of the present; there is only and always the work. Existence, in a trancelike artistic fugue. Sometimes the sword, sometimes the staff. Death and life. Life and death. There is a rhythm to it. A kind of song. The planet flexes its claws and remembers how to breathe; the wilderness dances, ever-shifting, a symphony.

(Later—much later—she will turn these memories over in her hands like fragments of a dream. Some of it, she’s certain, was real; and equally certain that some of it wasn’t. Reason dictates that she was alone, but she won’t remember solitude.)

The world begins to look familiar again. It is the sound of birdsong that draws her out of waking dreams to the hush of surf on a rocky beach and the feeling of cold, clean rain on her face. She falls to her knees and weeps for missing Ozma, grief splitting her open as if she had lost them only yesterday, because the world is beautiful again and she wants so desperately to share it with them.

So Remnant is born from the grave of what was, and brings Salem back to life with it. She is not its creator, not its maker—she does not feel like any kind of god—but it is born by her hand. If pressed, if coaxed, she might offer instead the suggestion of midwifery.

She does not go hungry anymore. She eats seaweed and crabs and oysters until she collects a handful of pearls, and these she fills with moonlight before she returns, once more, to the forge whence the river flows.

The third time Salem asks to use the Artisan’s workshop, she already knows what will become. The pearls gleam like glacial ice when she nestles them in the coals of the ever-living fire. They run together as molten glass, and she fills out their shape with sorrow and joy and anger and love—she loves so, so fiercely, it is all she knows how to do—and sets the shining bauble in gold spun from the names of every person she has ever known.

The lamp gives illumination of a kind the God of Light could never and will never know. It is the heart of Remnant which never forgets. When she journeys up the long dark spiral of the path to her world, she can see the barest shape of something by lamplight, an inkling on the edge of her sight, a whisper.

She brings the lamp to the top of the world, where the air turns thin and the snow never melts and the broken moon hangs almost close enough to touch. (She wants to see. She is trying to see.)

There, she finds a grimm: sleek and pantherine, midnight-black, still soft as newborn clay.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wanted so much to save you.”

And, “I hoped this one would bring you back.”

It doesn’t attack. It needn’t starve. The sword and the staff and the lamp can feed it all it needs, and it seldom leaves her side. (Salem likes to pretend it enjoys her company; she can almost imagine that it forgives her.)

There is one more left.

She is not sure how, but eagerness gnaws in her with a relentless, esurient pain. She wants—and the grimm wants—

“You should have a name,” she tells him one day. “Do you want a name? I think Firwitt would suit you well.”

He collects feathers for her to try, but it needs to be right—it needs to be perfect.

In the end, she gets what she needs by happenstance. A storm, like so many others. Lightning lances the air and splatters the sand on the beach like so much glass, and Salem catches a molten droplet in her hand and thinks: yes. This will do.

Feathers of ravens and hawks and sparrows in one hand, liquid glass in the other, she dives into the place that is to ask, for the fourth time, for the last time, to use the forge.

“What will you make?” the Artisan asks,

and Salem says, “A crown, this time. For what might be.”

The lightning-struck glass and the feathers turn first to blood and then to rubies when she offers them to the primordial flame. For the rest, as with the sword, she gives of herself: a braid of her hair, a breath from her lungs, a drop of blood, a long strip of flesh, soldered together with all the words she cannot say.

The crown is beautiful and it is cruel, in the way that only hope can be, silver as moonlight and burning with the fires of dusk. It is defiance and spite and willpower and it will, she hopes, be freedom too.

(It is not.)

When she ascends to Remnant once more, Salem kneels in the meadow that reminds her most of them and dons the crown. With Firwitt curled around her and the sun and moon and all the stars wheeling overhead, she tries—she casts herself far and wide, she rakes the talons of her will over the chains and rattles the bars of the cage and burns and howls and goes blind before the fierce white light and still the gates of death will not open; until at last hunger whittles her down again and she falls out of the dream to wail, face pressed into the inky flank of the only grimm in the world.

Aura seeps into the ruined sockets of her eyes, sluggish, foaming over scorched retinas in jittery sprays of crimson etched with gold. It is hours before she can open them and see anything through the scintillant haze besides a grainy impression of blue.

Despair wells up in her chest.

“I don’t know—” she begins desolately, and then stops:

Because she does know.

The place where the font of creation had been is not difficult to find, though the land has torn and shifted long since. It has remained stubbornly bare and lifeless through all her efforts: a vitrified expanse of rock which had, eons ago, been wrung dry of the water that now flows in her soul. Her footsteps make no sound against the glassy rock as she climbs to the apex, sword in hand.

She whispers: “Destruction,” and plunges the sword into the stone.

The ground heaves; the glass shatters; the lifeless blister craters at long last, and Salem goes down with it. The liquid rushing up from beneath is not alive, but when the rocks crush her the sterile water mingles with her blood, and when it rushes down her throat it remembers how to breathe, and the possibility of life ripples out and out until it laps against the distant, sandy shores of a new sea.

She leaves the sword buried in its basin, and retreats into dreams while the currents drag her ever so slowly back to land.

It is weeks before she finishes choking up saltwater.

Next, she travels east, traversing the vast ocean to the desert at the opposite end of the world. In the desolate, burning center of those windswept sands, she plants the staff and murmurs: “Creation.”

The dune ripples and becomes water, becomes soil, becomes lush vegetation as a great tree with silver flesh and golden leaves surges out of the desert to engulf the staff. Salem rests for a long while in that luxuriant oasis, basking in warmth and living on fruits that exist nowhere else in the world, giving names to the things that come to eat and drink and doze in the shade, until she is ready to move on.

North, then: to the highest peak at the top of the world, where the sun never sets in the summertime but the darkness of the winter lasts for months. She sculpts a lighthouse from the ice at the summit, and nestles the lamp inside. She says, “Knowledge,” and the winter night fills with a ghostly memory of sunlight, a promise that the sun will find its way home and daybreak will come again.

And, finally, she sails south to a place where the ocean swirls and churns in a great whirlpool, the basin miles below straining to hold back the inchoate rage of darkness below. She hurls the crown to the maelstrom, and when the water takes it she breathes, “Choice.”

And the land screams upward to meet it in the most violent eruption the world has ever and will ever know. It forms a jagged scar of barren rock and mud and molten tar, but it will grow into life when it is ready, and the crown will roam in the rivers far beneath the waves.

Finally, having given of herself and feeling dizzily light for the absence of their weight, Salem washes back ashore, and holds Firwitt’s face between her hands, and asks him, “Where did you come from?”

(“Fate,” the spirit chained to knowledge will one day say, “led her back to the land of darkness;” but that is only half true.)

She is afraid, a little. She does not want to die. Even more than that, she fears she will be wrong. When she approaches the black dome of the night’s domain, the jagged rocks unfold for her like a great maw, and she stands quivering on the shore of a boiling lake of atrum that has not changed. Unthinking, she reaches out to Firwitt for comfort, for reassurance—for nothing, because he is not there.

(He never has been. The realization is abrupt and thorny. In a way, it makes it easier to clamber into the largest outcropping.)

The sun burns overhead. Salem kneels above the pool of grimm, feeling the heat of it on her face, the foul vapor, and bows her head in prayer to any god who cares to listen that this will be the answer: to Darkness, to the fire, to the Artisan, to the Singer, to the sun and the moon and to all the stars, perhaps even to herself. If this is not it she does not know what she will do or what she will become. So she prays, shaking, wetting the rock with her tears until the moon claims the sky.

Then she closes her eyes, and lets herself fall.

She expects it to burn: it does not. She expects to be flayed apart: but the atrum is gentle, and the grimm simply fold around her and bear her down and down to the heart of the world, where the pressure is infinite and the blackness radiant.

There, slowly, grows the sense that she is lying in the coils of some vast serpent; that its head rests on her back, scales sharp as knives but caressing her skin too delicately to do her harm, its breath a reverberation of her own.

“What are you?” she asks.

I am the roots, it says. The Walker in the deep.

“Am I going to die?”

It is strangely meditative. Her eyes remain closed. She curls her hands against the scales, the bark, half-sleeping. The Walker says, there is no death here. Only stillness, and motion. Stay, and we will become one, you and I; I dissolving into you and you settling into me; to cease, and be renewed.

“That is a semantic distinction.”

…Perhaps. Or, if you prefer, ascend: and go away changed into yourself.

“I wanted to bring people back,” she whimpers. “I wanted—”

You have, says the Walker. That world is not of the Brothers now; it is of you. Time stands still here, in the roots, but it runs in circles above and your kind pour forth from the sundered gates. Dear child, you have not failed.

She sobs: with relief, with old anguish, with new hope. “Then I want to live. Please.”

If you return, the Walker says, no less gently than before, you will bring the darkness back with you.

“Grimm?”

As you call them, yes.

She feels a half-hearted flicker of hesitation. Of something too base to call nobility: she wonders what Ozma would think. But she wants to live. She wants so very much to live.

And the grimm saved her once, and she had wanted to save them in return.

“I want to live,” she whispers.

Then rise, answers the Walker. Become what you will and be free.

[buglyknight]

310) Weeping Crimson

Sleep underneath frozen covers

Goosebumps line your arms

Bloody knuckle prints line the hardwood

Leave more of your markings here,

Loverbug

Stained a weeping crimson

Grit your teeth with this loathing

You are that creature in the mirror

How could you be a sculpture?

What did she see, that night?

Rest your head

You are to shut up

And wait

Coffee in the morning

Feel faint when you stand

Blood pressure is shot

Stomach grips with the grave

Coffee is all you'll have

Starve the emptiness away

Sleep for 5 hours

Work till your mind is sore

Go home and repeat

Once more

Once more

Back in the straitjacket

Needles in your brain

Little insects wriggling

Once upon a time, you were sane

You thought she was sending messages

Fingers gripping your words

It could be that simple, I thought

Delusional little bug

Squash yourself, you're absurd

You should have kept quiet

Kept your mouth fucking shut

Stitch your lips together

Rip your wrists to bloody stumps

Fingers are too much

They keep talking and talking

Rid yourself of your hideous hands

Rip the hair from your head

White flashes

Brain bouncing

Slam knuckles

Stab screwdriver

I am tearing my seams

Hear me scream

Hear me scream

Sorry for thinking

For reaching for you

I will set my brain to snooze

Numb it till you choose

When you are ready

Send me something clear

I thought it was cleverness

But I've got nothing between these ears

Sorry for asking

For leaving you notes

I thought you knew

But I shouldn't have thought at all

Stupid

Delusion

Braindead

Closet painting

Who is going to hurt me, finally?

I'll do everything myself

I'll get it all wrong

Waiting

Waiting

Watching

I was trying to find a way

I am lost

My internal compass is broken

My brain is racing with delusion

So I will do nothing

And wait like a child in the grocery store

For you to lend a hand

I am done reaching

You close this distance

Or never speak at all

I will not act again

Be a good pet

Sit in the kennel

She'll let you out when she wants

You are at her beck and call

On standby

Loyal and unfaltered

Just sit in my padded white room

Rock back and forth

And be a weeping crimson painting

[taxfraudhousewife]

i wish i had a red and yellow cheongsam that fit me

one that hugs my unmistakably southern lack of curves

i wish i’d had one made to span the measure of ox shoulders and dog ribs

i wouldn’t have even had to pay for it

if only i hadn’t hated myself so much

that id sooner welcome sweet jaws of death before letting some elderly cantonese woman take the measure of my waist

does everyone have to think they’re dying before they stop hating their body

i like smoking in a tight dress and the sound of my ribs tearing a few seams

i like the slender view of the mirror from the side and the bear like broadness i always forget to expect from the front

i got grubby little retard hands just mini versions of those of brave cossack cousins

extremely specific facial fat distribution so i can never escape my mom and her sisters

i look just like luka or rather he looks like me

i always worry that luka will turn out like me

i know it’s not the same but i’m racist so how can i not worry

something feels dutch angled when i forget i’m asian

but it always filters back in albeit painful slowly

maybe it’s cause those ancestors never haunted me like the white

they don’t claw and clamour over each other

they don’t bawl or beg to not be forgotten

maybe i just need to take the time to understand

to know what makes the river yellow and the soil sweet

to follow the blood money back to before money

all the autism in the world can’t thrust me far back enough to really know it

or at least think i know it

maybe i’ll find my leftist messiah along the way

maybe i’ll find the last camp we made before we parted ways

maybe we can stay in our cozy little yurt in the buttfuck middle of bronze age mongolia

it took two seconds to come up with that scenario and i already know it’ll haunt me forever

what a netflix writer level contrived way for your life and mine to be planted in the same dirt

why can’t we

can’t even have an ethnicity crisis without dragging my sticky brain across the thought of muslim jesus

still why can’t we

no ethnically specific checkpoints no sterilized sisters no chinese spies in the attic

it would be quiet and simple and willingly mundane

lovingly average

just one big happy family and you and me and some steppe horses and a fire

i just want to witness you witness the sublime

might the golden light of god burn the sick out of you

might it’s warmth on the grass and on you bring even two seconds of comfort

i know neither of us would last two seconds in bronze age mongolia

you’d say we’re built for being smart not strong

but im neither and now you and me in bronze age mongolia is all i want

i’d keep you safe

you’d make fun of me if i said that

and you’d make even more fun if you saw my sorry current state

it’s getting worse and i feel like a piece of shit for not pursuing anything medically

it makes me think of how paranoid you were how privileged i am to not refuse treatment because they bugged the hospital

i know i should tell someone but i don’t know what to say

other than you shouldn’t starve yourself during puberty

maybe we’re exactly the same cause i can’t even admit to a living human that i’m not good

but i wouldve to you

maybe i’m just going crazy from lying in bed for too long

it hurts so bad to breathe and it makes me think of you and every faint and dry heave and low oxygen burp makes it worse

if it made me this small and weak and vulnerable what the fuck did it do to you

is that and worse how you spent your last months on this planet

honestly i just wanna crawl back into bed with you where we can both die in peace

i can handle the fainting and heaving and burping if at least you’re warm and well fed

last night i dreamed i had a man warm in bed with me

there was some sort of sexual connotation that i refused to investigate

he looked some type of brown like my dumb brain doesn’t even really know your face anymore

even in dreams it’s always the sexual connotation in place of the thing you’re supposed to know years before that

as if i could learn how to be an adult when i don’t even know how to be a human

i got scared my subconscious liked incest so i played with the thought

grateful to have found it funny and gross and absurd

maybe that’s what happens when men don’t learn to use their words

when fleeting moments of touch are all you have to cling to

i never learned to use my words to say i love you and you look like shit and im worried

still can’t say i miss you and i long for you and im going crazy without you

can’t say how we’ve maybe spent a combined hundred and forty four hours in each others presence

and maybe half of it i was too young to know

it’s stupid but anything good in me came from you

you gave me anger and sadness with a definitive source

not an age old curse not physiological misfortune not inherent wrongness rooted deep in my bone marrow

is that a stupid way of saying you introduced me to basic marxist theory

words for anger and sadness i couldn’t place

words that insist there is still something worth saving

i’m gonna hit a blinker and listen to the aaron bushnell audio

you’d say it’s a big deal

he said this is what our ruling class decided will be normal

[erenspussy420]

Which twst characters do you think would be into face sitting?

This is a list of me brainrotting who would be into it. I wrote this with one eye open. Finally after a pretty bad month, I can write things.

FEM Reader Insert

Tags: Face sitting, oral, Mod 420 Is a simp, aged-up chracters

MDNI 18+ ONLY

JSNAM OKAY I AM TRYING SO HARD NOT TO BE A HOE AND SAY THEY'RE ALL INTO IT BUT HERE ARE MY HOT TAKES

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR: 

SNAJAL HE'S THE ONE WHO HAS TO COAX YOU TO COME SIT ON HIS FACE. Like ugh, Leona could coax me to do the weirdest things and I would. Listen. He. Wants. You. On. His. Face. That man is licking his lips as you tentatively come down, he hands on will take you down so you can sit on his face already. He isn't a coward. Leona has been waiting for this. He likes it alot when you have your panties on, it's fun when the seams get torn off but a flick of his sharp nails. He is a menace, tearing up your panties like that so he can eat you up, making you cum on his face with his hands clamped tightly on your hips to keep you in place. He loves the way you shudder around him, clamping your thighs around his head. This man is demanding, him telling you to stop being afraid and fuck his face. He isn't always this generous so use him.

RUGGIE BUCCHI: 

HE'S EATING LIKE HE'S STARVING HERE. God, listen his filthy moans as he licking you up, hands gripping onto your thighs to keep him there while his hips are fucking the air. Ugh he's messy, but Ruggie is willing to die there, babe let's be real Ruggie's gonna do his best to make you squirt on him. I can trust in Ruggie and his shifty eyes, wouldn't tear up your panties like a certain lion, (listen underwear is expensive), but believe it or not he really likes it when you have your underwear on for him, when you sit on his face he burrows his nose in your clothed pussy. While he doesn't tear up your underwear, he sure is pocketing it while you're too busy trying to remember how to walk. He would probably use his Laugh With Me on you, to make him suffocate more with your hips matching the pace of his. 

CATER DIAMOND: 

ya'll see that meme where the person got a neck brace on after having their gf ride their face so hard? That's Cater. Literally him updating on Magicam after you face fucked him so hard. Winking at the camera while the tags read #TheThroneHasBeenRepaired 💗. Cater goes viral for that and doesn't get any facesitting for a while :(((.  He's down for it ok, so eager, dick flushed up red and leaking as he's jacking off as you ride him. Fistful of his hair in your hands and his tongue licking you up. Lips sucking noisily on your clit. Please know Cater gives me vibes of someone who would do this in a semi public place. Probably in the maze when no one is around for those photoesque pics with his face between your thighs and hands on your ass. His moaning is almost loud, keep pulling his hair to remind him he's gonna get you caught, but you're only making him go louder. Cater's clones help with making you go a bit rougher with him, one helping keeping you down, another sucking and playing with you chest and one praising you to keeping moving keep going fuck him into the hospital again as the clone keeps your legs spread for Cater. *please don't for Trey's sake*.

Azul Ashengrotto:

Listen JUST LILISTE....he isn't just hiding in his octopot as the ONLY place for comfort. Now he has you. And your legs. He only does this behind locked doors in his own room, where no one can barge into it. He's all red faced as you lower yourself on him, but the groan he lets out makes you throb with need. His hand on your back rubbing it down to squeezing your ass while another hand presses your thighs against his burning cheeks. Just like the pot, this closeness keeps him safe. Of course he does brush his lips over your clothed pussy. Kneading it with his hands and pushing it away so he delved into the wet folds. Azul's starts off shaky but over time he becomes more and more confident in making you come on his face. The time you finally can sit on him in his merform the more …stimulating is for the both of you. Tentacles holding you above him almost hovering, as his hands now on your hips pushing them down on him as he eats you, the suckers on his tentacles playing with your chest, nipples getting suctioned and your clit being played with has you coming on him in no time. 

Rook Hunt: 

THIS GUY. THIS FUCKING GUY. UGH HIS ARM STRENGTH IS AMAZING. THOSE ARMS KEEPING YOU BALANCED ON HIM WHILE YOU SIT ON HIS FACE, HIS MOUTH SUCKING ON YOU CLIT. I AM BRAINROTTING OVER THIS MAN. 

*breathes* 

Okay I'm good. This is the first time he is ever quiet, but that's because he is too focused keeping his mouth busy. He will go at it for hours, his jaw can be sore, his face soaked from you cumming on his face. Fingers dipping into you to keep you stimulated, only to be replaced by his tongue. His hands do keep busy, roaming down your sides, up your chest gliding over your skin in a reverenced sort of way that should be cherished. The few times he comes for air, he's kissing your clit, mummering in soft French,"Mon doux petit bouton de rose." God, the way his voice just deepens with devotion and lust, has you buck down on him for more. Love it when you reverse sit on him, he enjoys everything about this. Pants/skirts on or not he doesn't really care, what he wants is the beauty of you using him, the suffocation between your legs. Rook will die here. Yes please as long as Rook has a face you have somewhere to sit. Please remember to kiss his mouth, sticky with cum. He's a devoted man, kiss him like the goddess he worships you as. 

Sebek Zigvolt : 

I know this is a surprise but you can't look me in the eye and say Sebek isn't a submissive man and would very much want you to sit on his face. OBVIOUSLY YOU FILTHY HUMAN WITH YOUR DEGENERATE THOUGHTS HAVE CORRUPTED HIS TONGUE TO LOOSELY CONFESS, BUT HE SUPPOSE HE MUST TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR HIS WORDS. Please sit on him, ass first ok. This half human half fae man, can handle the most rigorous climates so please do not be afraid to sit on his face! Sebek is pretty bashful about this, but he's tenting and it's speaking volumes how much he wants this. His hands are on your ass, playing with them muttering under his breath, how it feels nice as it looks, his breath hitching as you lean forward to massage his crotch. Please keep teasing him, he's a mess here and knowing he's strong as hell he would probably have to turn you around so he eats you out with you on top. Sebek mouth is occupied keeping you pleased with it, hump his face! Make him beg for more of you. When you switch again, his hands keep your slit open for him to get back to work, your hands playing with his cock as a reward.

Artemiy Artemiyevich Pinker/ Che'nya:

Che’nya’s totally using his unique magic to his advantage. He actually didn’t even realize he was into it until you sat on him by mistake. To be fair to you, you poor poor reader, Che’nya has fallen asleep on your awful couch, turning invisible as he came to surprise you! Next thing he knows, he got thick thighs on him, the pressure of being sat on and it changed everything for him. Watch as his eyes dilate when you come down on him, his tail is flickering as you do. Che’nya adores that way he has you on his face, shaking above him while he gives long languid licks over your pussy, he’s such a tease mouth at your entrance, ready to tongue fuck you only to go and suck hard on your clit. “Aww, what’s wrong? Cat, got your tongue?” he’s laughing, as you grind down on him to make him shut up.” Don’t worry, I’ll have you feline good, you’ll be mewling in no time~.”

[lokisprettygirl]

The Bodyguard (Loki x Female reader) (Au) (18+)

Read Chapter 7 here // Series Masterlist

Chapter 8

Summary : The party brings you and Loki closer.

Warning : Harsh language, bodyshaming, mention of neglect and abuse, emotional abuse, Unhealthy Eating Patterns, starving and under eating, implied smut, mention of drug use

You couldn't even breathe in the dress, that's how tight it was. Maybe this was Steve's way of punishing you for whatever you did to piss him off. Your hair was straightened and you had a heavy makeup on with glittery eyes and bold lips. As you stepped out of the room loki was waiting to take you downstairs, his eyes widened as he looked at you, you clanked on your heals and walked alongside him. He had a black suit on but he changed the shirt to white. His hair was slicked back, he smelled so good. 

"Are you okay?" He asked you and you smiled.

"I am.. it's just too tight.. I feel as if I'm being suffocated" he stopped in his tracks as you said that.

"Change it then" he said to you and you shook your head. You grabbed his arm and started to walk again, you can't be late. The last thing you wanted was to bear Steve's insults.

"I can't, it's his party and I'm his trophy fiance" you mumbled and he furrowed his brows. You let go of his hand as you both stepped downstairs. Steve grabbed your arm and gave your dad a hug before you all made your way out of the mansion. You were to sit with Steve, his bodyguard Bucky and his driver. While Loki was to follow you behind in a separate car. He closed the door of your side and you smiled, he nodded as he stepped away before walking towards the car he was taking.

"What's with the smiling? Did you fuck him whore?" Steve whispered in your ear, he had a sly smile on his face and that made you cringe. 

"Remember it doll, the moment you fuck that man, I'm taking him away like I have done before" your eyes teared up as he said that so you turned your head, you could see Bucky smiling from the mirror view. You didn't want them to take him away, you didn't want him to be gone from your life. 

When you reached the venue, there were photographers waiting to click pictures, so you posed with Steve, acting like you both were in love. He was kissing you in front of everyone, pretending as if he felt anything other than disgust for you.

Loki walked alongside Bucky, right behind you and Steve when he heard something that made him want to punch the bastard right in the face, 

"Suck your fat tummy in, I can see your flab" your jaw clenched as you felt utterly humiliated but you did what he said. He showed you off to his rich business colleagues, that's what you were here for.

Whenever your eyes met with Loki, you gave him a small smile, he didn't return it but there was a softness in his eyes that was unmatched. You have never had anyone look at you like that. 

"Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move, Before I make a move" you heard the song blaring in the background. How befitting ?

After a while, you really felt as if you'd faint again so you walked over to Steve, 

"I have to use the loo" you told him and he rolled his eyes 

"Take that bodyguard, I have rivals here and I wouldn't want any drama" 

He clicked his fingers so Loki walked closer to you two, then he followed you to the bathroom. Once out of their sight, you grabbed his arm and pulled him inside quickly then you pressed him against the door. That made him nervous because he knew if you were to come onto him, he won't be able to stop you.

"What are doing darling?" You really wanted to kiss him but you can't. You remembered what Steve said. 

"I can't..breathe" you mumbled and he nodded, he looked down and he could see your breasts being so constricted in there so he pulled your hair aside to the front. His hand trailed up from your lower back following the seam of your dress until he found the zipper and pulled it down slowly, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes as the action brought you relief in so many ways. This was mildly erotic especially because of the way he was looking at you.

"Breathe darling, take a deep breath for me alright?" He whispered softly so you nodded. You clutched onto his arm as you could finally breathe properly .

"Better?" He asked so you looked at him 

"Yes thank you Loki" you stepped away from him and he fidgeted in his spot, the straps of your dress has slipped past your shoulders, your breasts were dangerously close to slipping out so you placed your palm on them.

"I have to use the loo" you turned around and headed towards one of the stalls then you got inside quickly, a lady was knocking on the door so Loki stepped away and opened the door. When you came out you washed your hands and pulled your hair to the side, then you looked at him,

"Zip me up?" you mumbled so he walked towards you, you looked at him in the mirror as he stood behind you, pulled your straps upto your shoulders and slowly pulled the zipper up to not break it. You gasped as you felt the fabric tightening around you again. 

"Sorry darling, just few more hours okay?" You nodded as you heard his sweet tender voice.

"Excuse me I saw you before too..This is ladies room..get out" the lady from before said to him so you smiled.

"Excuse mee..He's my bodyguard, my life is in danger, I was attacked last month, almost shot right to head...you wanna hear more? I have got all the time in the world" that was enough for her to back off, she gave you a dirty look before she stormed out. 

You had a fire in you, he knew that, that's why it bothered him when your dad and fiance treated you like that and you allowed it to happen.

"Let's go" 

You both went back the party and you saw Steve was not there, you asked Bucky and he just shrugged. After a while Steve came back from God knows where and with whom, but you knew he fucked someone. Not that you cared, but then he had the audacity to call you a whore.

"Drop her home, I have a meeting with some of the guys here" Steve said to Loki, and you couldn't have been happier. A security car was supposed to follow you two. He opened the door of the backseat but you sat down on the front instead, he shook his head and sat down on the driver's seat,

"Turn around, let me free you from this contraption" he said to you and you obliged instantly. He didn't want to see your bare breasts so he took his coat off and put it on you. 

You weren't ready for him to loosen his tie and rolling his sleeves up before he started to drive. He was so hot, you have found a man so attractive before as well and if he was just another man you'd fuck him. But he was loki and he cared about you. You cared about him

"Can we go somewhere?" You asked him and he shook his head, you got really pouty and sad so he sighed 

"Where?" You squealed as he said that and that made his mouth curve into a smile 

"Beach, Coney Island, mom used to take me there, I haven't been there in.. 5 years" your eyes teared up and he gulped. 

He turned around the car, the other guards worked for him and he would take care of them but he won't let you sleep sad and hurt tonight. You smiled and turned the music on, you opened the window and allowed the wind to get into your hair. He smiled as he looked at you. What the fuck he was doing? He had no idea but it felt right.

When you both reached the beach, you stood with your feet under the water, closer to the shore, taking it all in, you closed your eyes and thought of the memories you had of her and this place. Loki stood next to you and smiled as he looked at you,

"Thank you Loki, you are too sweet" you mumbled and he chuckled. You grabbed his hand and walked away from the shore, then you both sat down on the sand. 

"I'm sorry, I read about her before I came to work here, I know what cancer does to a person" he said softly and you nodded 

"She killed herself" he looked at you shocked by the revelation. That can't be.

"No I read.." 

"That's just what my dad wanted to be said about her death, he couldn't have the truth out in the open, truth that she was depressed and suffering mentally. She didn't have cancer, she hung herself, in her bedroom, I found her like that the next morning" his eyes teared up so he linked his fingers with yours to comfort you, his thumb rubbing over yours gently

"I'm sorry darling, I'm so sorry" he tightened his grip around your hand and you nodded.

"It's okay it's been a long time" you smiled to shift the mood. You didn't want to make the moment sad and depressing. You took his coat off and placed it on the sand behind you, then you laid down on it and took him along with you, he didn't resist either. 

"How many black suits you own?" You giggled and he smiled.

"Too many to count, why?" 

"Well it's all I see you wearing and I think this black coat is ruined with sand" 

"It's alright, the trouble is definitely worth it" he looked at you as he turned his head and his eyes lingered over your lips, same as you. Then you both snapped your head away at the same time.

"We should go madam" he said as he sat up hurriedly.

"Absolutely" you got up as well and the drive back home was quite but it wasn't uncomfortable. He fixed his clothes to not bring unnecessary attention onto him. You gave him his coat so he could put it on. 

Giving him a nod you headed to your room, Rocky wanted to talk to him and that made him nervous.

"So anything suspicious yet? Is she still being followed?" Rocky asked him and Loki shook his head

"No sir, I haven't noticed anything as such yet, but I'm keeping an eye on her and everyone she meets, if the attack was caused by someone you know, I'll find it out soon" 

You heard their conversation and sighed. You knew the reason why you were attacked and who caused it but truth can never come out in front of your dad.

You took a shower and changed into a night dress then you stood outside his room for reasons you didn't understand, you could hear him arguing with Paris. The thought of him fucking her made you insanely jealous all of a sudden. 

You hid behind the wall as she came out of his room and stormed away to the ground floor where the in-house employees were supposed to stay. 

You knocked on his door and he opened it instantly,

"You have more insults to hurl at me?" He snapped so you flinched, his eyes softened as he realised it was you and not Paris.

"I'm sorry hey I'm sorry" he grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, then he closed the door, you stayed against the door,

"It's okay, is she being a trouble? I can get her fired" you told him and he sighed.

 "I wouldn't want her to lose her job, she's just.. nevermind..I'll handle it, something wrong?" He asked you and you shook your head.

"I just.. I was wondering if you wanted to..umm..hug me again?" You smiled but your eyes teared up with nervousness, you felt stupid.

His own eyes teared up at the innocence you carried in the moment. You craved gentle hugs and soft touches, he could tell how love starved you were.

He cupped your cheeks and kissed your forehead and the touch made you shiver, then he wrapped his arms around you, much tighter than yesterday. Your arms curled around his neck as you held onto him.

"Better darling? Feels good hmm?" He whispered softly and you breathed in sharply,

"Perfect, it's perfect Loki, it's perfect " 

🖤💚🖤💚🖤💚❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️💚🖤💚

[morgana-ren]

Hear me out. Shiggys captive gf tries to escape so he punishes her by ruining her poor lil butthole

Oh my GOD I love this. I don't know what my fucking deal is today but I am seriously SERIOUSLY just loving the degradation and dominance of him fuckin' you square in the ass when you’re all squeamish and meek about it. I had a few other ones I was gunna try to do first but I am feeling it today.

tw for the standard stuff: Noncon, Dubcon, assplay, bondage, kidnapping, abuse mention, manipulation, general rudeness, etc.

You yank and pull at the bonds that keep you tethered to the headboard, but the rope finds no mercy for you, offering no slack as you desperately attempt to thrash your arms free. Stomach pressed against the filthy mattress, you writhe and kick. It digs into your hands, tearing sores into the delicate skin that covers the bones in your wrist. You can scream and shout and throw your little tantrum, but the binds don’t have the capacity to show leniency, much like the sentient things that dwell in this building where he holds you captive. 

None of them investigate your cries for help. Those that did never lasted long. 

Tears of frustration bead in the corner of your eyes, breathless and aching in your useless act of defiance. It was your last little display of rebellion that landed you here in the first place. 

He’d grown complacent around you, or at least you’d thought he had. Kissed you all too tenderly on the temple before leaving you alone in your cell, hands left free for the first time in months. You’d pondered briefly if he believed you tame now, wondered if he thought he had managed to subdue your rage as you slipped the confines of your prison. 

It was a simple task. Far too simple. Had you been more observant, perhaps you might’ve noticed the mischievous glint to his eyes as he had locked the door, the slight grin that tugged at his lips. 

But you were feral in your hope, so terribly reckless in your pursuit of freedom. A smarter girl would have waited. A more clever one have wondered why his demeanor had changed so suddenly. 

But months of his forced affections had left you starved and broken, so eager to feel the sun on your face and the precious autonomy of moving about the world without the leash he kept for you pulled so taut you would could suffocate. You’d acted far too rashly, and he would punish you for it. That’s all you were certain of. 

Your heart drops as the door to your cell swings open, hinges creaking so slowly it makes you want to scream. He’s a theatric at heart, loves to leave a lasting impact. Each footstep carefully timed, precise movements calculated to ensure lasting terror. As he comes to stand so closely you can only hear his breathing, the silence fills you with dread. A shiver wracks your spine as you hear him sigh, breaking the quiet and as he tuts you dramatically. 

“And here I thought we’d moved past this.” 

His hands graze your calf, slowly moving up to your thigh before stopping just short of the curve of your ass. He studies you, paralyzed in fear and pulled apart to his liking, and you swear you can hear him shudder in some twisted form of anticipation. An ill omen of things to come. 

“I guess you just aren’t ready yet.” His cold, lithe fingers toy with the seams of your threadbare panties, pulling them down just enough that you wiggle in defiance. “I don’t enjoy punishing you like this, you know.”

‘Yes you do!’ The accusation seethes behind your tongue but you’ve learned better of it. He’s quick to strike you down in your fits, any semblance of disrespect swiftly culled. Last time you spoke out of turn, it landed you with a fat lip and a swollen cheek, his tongue licking the blood from the open wound on your mouth. it’s best to save your energy for whatever is to come. 

Your panties find their way to your knees courtesy of him, the harsh yanking motion enough to jerk the mattress. Despite how many times he’s seen the intimate parts of you, you still clench your eyes in embarrassment when he reveals you. He palms the fat of your ass, kneading his fingernails into the plump skin hard enough it hurts. He’s breathing too hard despite having barely touched you, pulling your cheeks apart despite how you wiggle to lurch yourself free.

“I guess I just have to put you in your place again.” 

One of his hands keeps you pried open, the other lifting to his mouth. He wets two of his digits between his tongue, letting his saliva gather thick on his skin before sliding them down your crack, positioning them just short of the puckered hole above your pussy. 

“Wait, no- Tomura, please, don’t! I’m sorry!” 

He laughs, sinister and cruel, tapping the pads of his fingers down as you clench. “You’re going to want to relax. It hurts less that way.”

A thin finger slides in, wiggling past the first ring of tight muscle and slowly works itself deeper inside your cavity before pulling out and repeating the action. It’s uncomfortable bordering on painful, but no matter how much you worm in his grasp, he doesn’t relent. Before long, he slithers his other finger in alongside the first, scissoring ever so slightly. 

“You should be grateful I’m trying to loosen you up after how you behaved. I could fuck you dry, you know.” 

You only whimper in response, teeth digging into your bottom lip in an effort to ease the tension, trying to focus on anything but the sensation of him prodding all too deeply inside of you. 

“I was going to use toys to make this nice and easy at first, but those are for girls who obey me.” He pushes in as far as he can before turning his hand and pumping in and out once again. 

It hurts, and you’re far too aware that if his fingers cause this level of discomfort, things will only get worse when he decides he’s done trying to prepare you to take him inside.

“Please! Don’t! I’ll be good! I promise!” 

Your begging falls on deaf ears. Somewhere deep down, you know he’s lying. He’s been waiting for this for a long time, almost shoved his cock there many times before but hesitated and decided better of it. He orchestrated the perfect scenario, one you couldn’t resist. He’d set you up to fail, and like a rat in a cage, you’d fallen for it so easily. He enjoys his little games, loves giving you hope only to yank it away and punishing you for even considering it.

“That’s what you said last time.” He tries to add a third finger, chuckling at your low whimper. “I don’t like lying little whores.” 

Your nails dig into the soft of your palms, embedding so deeply that you’re surprised the flesh hasn’t ripped. Anything to keep your mind off of what’s to come. Your mind rapidly files through things you can say or do to appease him, things he seems to enjoy. He likes when you humiliate yourself for him, when you throw yourself into pretending that you love him as much as he is obsessed with you. 

“T-Tomura, my love-” You swallow back the stem of tears, quickly wiping the few escapees on the dirty mattress beneath you. “I’m sorry. I won’t try to escape again, I promise. I get confused sometimes, but I know you love me. I love you too, you don’t have to punish me.” 

He pauses, slowing the movements of his fingers before withdrawing them from you completely and pulling away.

You almost heave an audible sigh of relief, but it’s short lived. He swings one leg over you, straddling your backside on his knees before leaning forward to whisper in your ear. 

“I told you to relax. Don’t make this harder on yourself than it needs to be.” He hisses, hand brushing the cleft of your bottom as he undoes his zipper. Your crying begins anew, thrashing in an attempt to buck him off of the back of your thighs. 

He’s accustomed to your outbursts, easily able to stabilize himself as he frees his cock from the confines of his pants. He doesn’t bother pulling them down all the way. reaching instead into his pocket to pull out a small packet. He rips it with his teeth, using one hand to massage the liquid onto his rapidly hardening prick, the other smearing the excess around your opening and prodding you again with his thumb this time. 

“Shh-” He hushes you, stroking your hair as he brings his cock to sit right at your backdoor entrance. His gentle gesture is contrasted directly by the malevolence in his voice, blatantly mocking you. “You might even like it, huh? Might even beg me to fuck you here again.” 

He doesn’t give you time to respond, pushing his hips forward and beginning to press his dick against the resistant cavity. Your sniffles and cries garner you no sympathy, he only hold himself steady as the tip slips past the first ring and slowly pulses his hips to break down the resistance of the ultra-tight walls. You can’t help but wail every time he inches further inside of you, each centimeter of his length burrowing deeper and deeper into your ass with every teasing little maneuver. 

“Shit- So fucking tight here too! I knew you would be.” He laughs, almost gasping. “Is it your first time being fucked here?”

You don’t answer, don’t give him the satisfaction of either response. 

“It doesn’t matter now.” He reaches one of his hands down, pulling you apart further as he shimmies his hips in an effort to stuff you fully. “My cock is the only one you’ll ever have again.” 

You can’t help the strangled sob that breaks from your throat, as desperate as you were to not give him the pleasure. “Tomura please! Please, it hurts!” 

“I know it does.” He coos at you a baby voice.

All you can do is grit your teeth and do your best to shoulder the pain as he paps his lower body against you, eventually fully enveloped inside. You feel too full, his intrusion inside of you almost too much to bear. He presses his hips against you, rolling them a few times for good measure as you cry into your bound arms. 

“Fuck- that’s so good! That’s one tight little hole you’ve got back here. I’ve only barely gotten inside and I could probably blow my load right now.” He cackles, smacking the side of your hip and causing you almost jolt against him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Make it nice and fast?” 

You nod, sniveling pathetically and knowing that your answer ultimately doesn’t matter. 

“Don’t get excited. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” 

He lets his chest rest fully against your back, one hand holding your hip steady to keep him inside despite your wriggling while the other comes to tip your chin up, forcing you to look at him. He studies your watery eyes, your trembling lips, the hastily mumbled pleas that beg him to stop. He only smiles softly, placing another all too gentle kiss on your forehead. 

That’s the finality of his tenderness, raising his legs up slightly and sliding out of you by several inches before immediately pushing back in. Another choked cry escapes your lips, petering out into a whiny blubber as his hips meet the back of your thighs once more. He repeats the motion again and again, each time with a little more force. 

“I told you to relax, baby.” He arches himself over you, moving his hands to hold himself up with a firm grip on your arms. “Or don’t. It’s like you’re sucking me in. Damn, I really can’t get enough of this!”

You do your best to relax your protesting muscles, focusing on anything but the sensation of his large cock invading your asshole. With every thrust, it’s like he forces himself deeper and deeper, small groans escalating into grunts and growls as he works himself up. Every subsequent stroke, he plunges harder, skin smacking against skin as his breath grows heavy. You can feel as he begins to sweat beneath his shirt, or at least could until he pulls away suddenly, leaving you connected as he situates himself upright. 

He pulls up on both sides of your hips, forcing your lower half up into the air to meet him, bottoming out inside you again shortly after. He rams himself into you, barely keeping you stabilized as his nails dig into the soft fat of your waist, pinky wavering as he tries to keep himself in control. The rhythm he sets is intense, only finding the confidence to weave one hand through your hair after several minutes of practice. 

He forces your head down even further into the mattress at first, shuddering at the intensity the new angle offers him. You think, if only for a moment, that he might be close, but your hope is quickly dashed when he yanks you up by the roots and arching your back to a painful degree. 

“You like this, don’t you? You like my cock buried in your ass, like it when I use your slutty little body however I want to. Tell me you want more, tell me you want me to ream your ass and use you as a cumdump!” 

You refuse to respond, trying in vain to keep the tears from falling as he uses you mercilessly. Unfortunately, Shigaraki is nothing if not accomplished at getting exactly what he wants. 

The hand steadying your waist slithers down between your legs, teasing the little bud there with his still-lubed fingers. He doesn’t miss your quiet gasp, the way your thighs clench if only for a moment. It’s all that it takes to know that he’s got you. His touches are feather light in the beginning. Gentle grazes and light strokes to get you worked up. He even relaxes his brutal thrusts inside of you, dulling it down to a languid roll. 

“Please-” You stutter, trying to block out the pleasure blooming between your thighs even as he abuses your ass. 

“Please what?” He feigns innocence, middle finger working small patterns around your swelling clit. 

“Stop!” You beg, struggling against his poisonous lavish of affection. 

“Aw, is that really what you want?” He giggles, now using two of his fingers to work tight knit circles, coordinating his movements to match that of his cock. Your breath grows heavy from his expert movements, unable to deny the tightness winding as he plays with you. 

“My pretty, stupid little slut. You really think you can resist me, don’t you? I can drag this out all night if I want. I can find something else to stick in that tight little pussy of yours too, show you what it’s really like to be stuffed so full you can’t move. You can beg me to cum in your ass, or I can find another use for that mouth while I do it over and over again.”

Even despite his harsh words, your eyes are glazing. You can feel your apex throb as his fingers expertly stroke across your cunt, the forced intrusion in your hole starting to feel something other than painful. As much as you wish he didn’t, you know he’s aware of this, breathing heavy in your ear as he adds more weight to both his hips and his hands. 

“What do you want? Say it!” He seethes, punctuating his sentence with a particularly rough slam. 

“I want you to cum in my ass! Please!” 

Your acquiescence seems to please him, rewarding you with his fingers. “Do you like it when I fuck you here? Tell me.” 

“Y-Yes, I love it when you fuck me in my ass! Please use me however you want, I’m yours!” 

You don’t have to see him to know the terrible grin that slices across his face. He speeds his motions once again, coaxing a loud moan from you. The bedframe squeaks with every punch of his cock inside you, but the pain has subsided to a dull roar. Raw pleasure takes its place, flooding out from your thighs and spiraling through your limbs. Your nipples pebble in response, tingling from every brush against the mattress. 

“What are you? Tell everyone just what you are.” He pulls you up higher by your hair, unnatural arch of your back only adding to the cacophony of sensation bombarding your nerves. He licks your cheek leaving a thick stripe of saliva across your face, waiting for your answer. Picking up the pace, both of his movements and the manipulation of your quim, he revels in the unraveling of your will power under his hands and the lust-drunk emptiness in your expression. 

“I’m your stupid little whore and I want you to cum in my ass! Please Shigaraki, please fuck me!” 

His eyes narrow, satisfied in your broken pleading.

“Good bitch. Now let me take care of you the way you deserve.” 

He slicks his fingers in your juices, kissing your neck when you whine at his absence before expertly beginning to rub you again, groaning as your clench and squeeze around him. His animalistic grunts echo off the cement walls alongside your needy, licentious moans, mumbling half coherent sentences in the shell of your ear as he nibbles and bites at you. He ramps up his treatment, his cock throbbing in your ass cluing you in to the fact that he’s close. 

The coil winds tighter and tighter and you find yourself bucking your hips against him to meet his thrusts, inebriated on the ecstasy of his nimble fingers. If he wasn’t holding you up, you’re fully certain you would have keeled over by now, unable to keep yourself upright between the quaking and the overwhelming waves of pleasure that threaten to drown you. You’re so close now, drool slipping from the side of your mouth, eyes hazy and fluttering. 

“Perfect little slut! You’ll cum around my cock no matter what hole I stick it in, won’t you?” His words are bold, but like you, it’s painfully apparent that he’s on the brink of orgasm. “Beautiful- fucking-” He heaves, shoving you back down on the mattress, arching over you again but keeping his palm centered on your sloppy cunt, incessantly grinding the pads of his fingers on your pulsing pearl. “Whore! My whore! Fuck, I love you, I love you-” 

Blinding white encompasses your vision, searing pleasure erupting from your abdomen. You throw your head back onto against shoulder, practically screaming as your thighs quake and you lose any ability to keep yourself steady. In the outskirts of your consciousness, you can feel him as he’s thrown over the edge as well, cussing and spitting as he forces his cock as deep as it will go, cumming deeply with a breathy groan against your ear. He rolls his hips against you, muttering about how tightly your ass milks him, but at the present moment, you can’t quite process it. Not when you’re breathless and seizing in bliss of your own. 

Your hands shake and your eyes roll backward, cunt clenching around nothing as your hands flex uselessly against the air. You can hear his name spill from your lips alongside vile sentiments you would never say otherwise, but in the moment, it feels so right. You can feel him rest against your sweaty back, stroking you tenderly through your orgasm until the sea of pink starts to subside and his motions begin to border on painful. 

“T-Tomura-” You sigh, finally fully waded through your shameful undoing. His heart pounds against you, so hard you can barely feel your own beat out of control in your chest. He decides upon kindness and you’re grateful for it, removing his fingers gracefully from beneath you before falling to your side and wrapping his arms around you. The uncomfortable wetness between your cheeks and dripping from your hole becomes uncomfortably apparent, alongside the now throbbing pain of your abused ass. Disgust washes over you, swallowing down a sob as he tenderly rubs your ribs. 

“I’ll get you cleaned up in a few minutes, but I want to lie like this for now. Don’t try and run from me again, okay? I don’t like hurting you but you know sometimes I have to.” He kisses your temple again, sickly sweet and gentle. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad, was it? I promise you’ll get used to it.” 

[wri0thesley]

Sub Gojo hc’s please ma’am 🥺🤲

i am not ma'am but i will still grant ur request bc i seem to be in a Domming Boys mood

warnings: not sfw, minors dni. dominant reader, gojo being the little shit he is, afab reader implied, pegging, face-sitting. 

♡ Gojo isn’t exactly opposed to taking the submissive role in a bedroom scenario, but as the strongest jujutsu sorcerer (and someone who’s good at absolute everything he sets his pretty mind to), it takes a lot for him to not get bored and flip the tables. It’s fairly easy to get him to agree to letting you do whatever you want to him, a lazy grin playing on his unfairly handsome face - the difficult part of it is getting him to stay interested. So the best thing to do is to start off slow. 

♡ Gojo can’t bear being teased; he gets whiny and pouty, shoving his hips in the air and trying to goad you with phrases like; ‘is that the best you can do? c’mon, sugar, i can take it harder. c’mon, wreck me!’. This is him seeing what he can get away with; if you’ll start to falter around him and let him take his place dominating you. Shove your fingers in his mouth and mournfully tell him that he should be quiet, you’re concentrating - and if he still tries to mumble around them instead of sucking on them like a good boy, there’s another extremely good way to shut him up. He’s good at oral when he’s in charge - pull his hair and look into his pretty eyes and tell him; “If you want to get to cum, you better make me do it too.”

♡ He cannot resist a challenge. He’ll eat you out like a man starved, and he’ll keep looking up at you waiting to be told he’s doing a good job - to really drive him wild, don’t do anything of the sort - simply lazily pump his shaft, running your thumb over the tip, looking a little bored of all this. He can’t stand not feeling like he’s good at it - he’ll be all eager to please and needy like a puppy dog, and the constant stroking of your fingers softly against his cock without giving him as much stimulation as he actually needs will drive him wild.

♡ His nipples are really sensitive, especially after he’s been teased for a while. Suck on them; bite them gently, tease them until they are red and sore against his pale torso and he’s basically unable to form coherent words any more - he’s just whining, thrusting his hips up, being a brat in how needy he is. His eyes are extra pretty when they’re shimmering with tears of want. 

♡ By this time, he’ll be stammering if you seal your mouth around his cock and lick along the elegant length of it; tease the seam around the plump head, lick up his precome and smile at him as you coo about how hard he is and how much he needs you. His voice is starting to get a little threadbare, his composure barely hanging on as he whimpers about how he needs needs needs you to touch him more--

♡ Yes, Gojo gets pegged. He’s already all messy and dropped deep into subspace and drooling, so it doesn’t take much to roll him onto his front and trap his still leaking cock beneath a toned stomach. He makes the prettiest noises as you press your lubed up fingers into him, the choked noise as your fingertips stroke his prostate worth all of the attempts to be bratty and teasing before he realised just how good you could make him feel.

♡ Even dropped this far into being your needy, pliant pet, Gojo still has it in him to be a little bit of a size queen. He gasps out that whatever strap you’re putting in him isn’t big enough - and then, of course, he gets fucked so hard he forgets what he was going to say. Spank him whilst you fuck him and watch how his pale ass turns pretty and red - suck and bite on his neck. He’ll never admit it, but he loves being marked up by you. This is a man who has pushed other people away for a lot of his life - he trusts you so implicitly, and the reminder of you on his skin makes his heart burst into light. 

♡ Says he can handle orgasm denial but absolutely can’t. Let him come at the very end of the session and he’ll be so thankful that he’s already promising that next time, he’ll do anything you want. 

[arwamachine]

17 - Sleepy

“What do you think they’re talking about up there?” Mrs. Hudson whispered to Sherlock. She stood close to her door, opening the thing as far as she could without it making a telltale creak, straining to hear the conversation upstairs. So far, she had heard very little.

Sherlock sat on her sofa, hugging at his knees. He said nothing.

Mrs. Hudson had intercepted him on his way out of the flat, grabbing his arm and dragging him into her flat. “I’ll get you some biscuits,” she said. “Biscuits always help.” Now, Sherlock sat with an unopened box of ginger nuts in front of him, picking at a seam on his trousers and trying his best not to think of anything at all.

“What does that woman even want?” Mrs. Hudson whispered. “Did she say?”

“I imagine she wants to reunite with her husband and daughter,” Sherlock said. His voice didn’t sound much like his own. “Carry on with the life they used to have.”

“John won’t go for that,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Will he?”

“However John feels about the situation,” Sherlock said, working a little string out of the seam, “I am sure he feels, at minimum, an obligation to reconnect with the woman he has married. The mother of his child.”

Mrs. Hudson tiptoed over to the sofa, as if John and Mary might hear her move about from upstairs. “But surely he won’t do that?” she asked. “I mean, what about…” she gestured at Sherlock.

“I don’t believe I factor into this equation,” Sherlock said quietly.

Mrs. Hudson sat down next to Sherlock, placing a hand on his back. “Surely you must,” she said. “You’ve always been there for him, especially when that woman wasn’t. You care for Rosie. You’re like a father to the little thing. You’re—”

“Not her father,” Sherlock said. “And John is not my—” he waved a hand, “whatever.” He let his hand fall back to his lap, defeated and suddenly more than a little sleepy.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Tell him how you feel, Sherlock,” she said. “It’ll help. I know it will.”

Sherlock tugged the string further from his trousers. He’d created a little hole in the fabric, a small tear slowly growing bigger. “I’m not sure it will,” he said.

Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth but was interrupted by someone gently clearing their throat. The both of them looked up.

John was standing in the doorway.

--

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