#MIND THE CONTENT WARNINGS

[idonthaveanyurlideas]

so this is what ive been working on since the first half of the jy finale. high 5 heroes/rat grinders/kipperlilly animatic.

CW: Violence against minors, death of minors, blood, animal cruelty, incineration

Spoilers for all three seasons of fantasy high!!!

You can also watch it here on YouTube

anyway ive been slowly losing my mind over this for the past few weeks. i hope you all lose your minds too.

[desultory-novice]

Apologies AU - "Allergies"]

The kinds of things Noir put up with...

--

CW: implied sexual abuse of a minor (dialogue) + emetophobia

BLEAK AF + NO HOPE / NO HAPPINESS

it's also very sketchy and hastily drawn

--

-

"You're allergic to fish, beef, chicken, pork, lamb..." "What did you used to eat before coming here?"

"..............." "...I can't remember anymore..."

-

posting this after all, sans context.

[sapphicscholar]

A/N: This fic deals heavily with food and eating (or not) and their relationship to pleasure, especially in chapter 1, so a content note that I'll be depicting Blanche’s canon-compliant disordered eating. The whole chapter is a tight Judith POV, though, so we won’t be in Blanche's head if that helps. And I suppose a further, less serious heads up that Evan very much exists in the world of this fic! When canon gives you husbands, make the ship dynamic even messier 🫡

Fic Preview:

Frustration is still etched in every line of Blanche’s face from the time she steps into Knopf in the morning until the moment she leaves in the evening, but she’s softened some with Judith since the start of her kindness campaign. Blanche is as acerbic and driven as ever, but she’s more often angry near Judith than she is at Judith—a far more tolerable situation.

Truth be told, it didn’t take much. A hand-delivered lunch Julia would deem little more than ingredients for a meal nowhere near completion. A last-minute invitation to a dinner Blanche wouldn’t eat. Simple kindnesses Blanche hardly allows herself. Yet somehow, they add up to a palpable shift.

It would be easy enough to leave it there. Judith no longer dreads the office the way she had for several long weeks, after all. But something inside her clenches at the idea of letting whatever warmth has sparked between them die down without tending. So the following Tuesday, Judith invites Blanche over for dinner later that week and asks her to think about it before answering. On Wednesday, Blanche looks anywhere but at Judith when she thanks her for the invitation but tells her she can’t come; Alfred is expecting her.

The following week, Blanche rounds on Judith before she’s even finished inviting Blanche to dinner again. “Why do you keep asking?” It feels like a confrontation, but there’s no anger in the words. All Judith hears in them is incredulity.

Judith gives a small shrug of her shoulders. “It’d be nice to have you. We can light the fire.” It’s only just now beginning to feel like fall in earnest, but Blanche always seems a little colder than most. “I even bought a mahjong set.”

Blanche’s head jerks upward. “For me?”

“The food wasn’t much of a lure, was it?”

Blanche’s lips twitch, and she blinks rapidly, though not so rapidly that Judith misses the glimmer of moisture that’s gathered in them. “Maybe…maybe next time.”

[whumpcereal]

the kennel, part twelve

part of the kennel (masterlist here). occurs a couple weeks after part eleven. if you thought it was dark before, it's about to get even darker. please proceed with caution.

content warnings for: explicit noncon, threats of future noncon/dubcon, noncon touch, noncon use of toys and restraints, forced nudity, death threats, intense fear, pet whump, filmed whump, extreme dehumanization, negative self talk, adult language

part twelve, betrayal

Tommy knows it’s coming. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out–not that anyone would accuse Tommy of being a genius. Certainly not now. Weeks ago–shit, it’s not months yet, is it?--he was a person. A talented young dancer who’d just signed his first contract with a company. Now, he’s a wan paper doll in bouncing puppy ears, his every movement recorded and beamed to sickos around the globe, and it certainly isn’t his brain they’re tuning in for.  

That’s how he knows. The tail, its phallic bulb long and thick inside of him, was the first clue that Doc was starting to think bigger and better. Doc’s left it in for weeks now, only removing it out of the barest consideration for lubrication and biology. Eventually, Tommy stopped noticing it was even there. His body’s adjusted to its new role, accommodated something that it should have refused. 

But even though he knows it’s coming, he still isn’t ready when it does. 

Tommy is asleep on his cot when Doc comes in; he’d sprained his ankle during one of Doc’s fucking marionette tableau sessions, and Doc had taken pity on him and let him sleep lying down for once. 

“Rise and shine, Champerooni,” Doc murmurs. “It’s time to get up. You’ve got a big day today.” 

There’s no outward indication that it’s morning. There are no windows, only unrelenting fluorescent lights. Maybe it isn’t a new day at all. Tommy has no way of knowing. Doc likes it that way, Tommy thinks. 

He whimpers a little as Doc tugs the blanket away from his naked body. His mouth is cotton around the silicone phallus that’s been stuffed inside of it since Doc’s last visit; he needs water, but he knows Doc will make him beg first. He knows how this goes.  

Doc wraps his hand around Tommy’s tail, jerking it around inside of Tommy until it prods at one particular spot. Tommy moans, and Doc laughs, letting the tail go and scratching lazily at Tommy’s bare ass. 

“Rise and shine, I said,” Doc says again. His voice is harder now, more demanding. 

Tommy does what he’s told. He shifts from the cot onto his knees, careful not to sit back on his injured ankle; part of him still tries to protect himself from permanent damage, even if he knows it’s a losing battle. Doc strokes him a few times, and Tommy stiffens beneath his touch. He dangles his mitts in front of his chest and stares down at the floor, waiting. 

“Such a good boy,” Doc coos. “Already begging for more.” 

He isn’t, but it doesn’t matter.  

Doc reaches behind Tommy’s head and undoes the gag, slipping the silicone cock from between his lips with what might pass for tender care. He drags his thumb over Tommy’s dry lips and nods in approval. 

“Speak, Champ.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Tommy says, shifting his jaw back and forth to try and dissipate the ache in his muscles. He swallows, and the inside of his throat feels like a crumpled piece of paper. 

Doc’s hand moves around him again. “You’re welcome, boy.” 

Tommy’s cheeks burn, but he lets his body respond the way it is supposed to. Okay, so he doesn’t let it do anything. He knows that he doesn’t have any control. He’s just obedient. That’s all. 

He doesn’t want to admit that it feels good, that he misses being touched so badly that Doc’s unwanted attentions aren’t really so unwanted at all. 

“Would you like some water?” 

Tommy nods, whining the way Doc likes. He keeps his hands limp in front of his chest. 

Doc fills the bowl with the plastic jug he brought, and then he smiles back at Tommy. “Alright, Champ. Free.”

Tommy doesn’t waste a moment. He scuttles to the bowl on his hands and knees, dropping his face down and lapping hungrily at the cool water. He’s so absorbed that he almost doesn’t notice it when Doc squats behind him and starts to stroke the small of his back. 

Almost. 

“Stay,” Doc says, his voice low and husky.

Tommy freezes, his face inches above the water bowl. He can feel the water dripping from his chin, hear it as it falls back into the bowl, but he can’t move. Doc’s thumb massages a heavy circle into Tommy’s skin. 

“Today is a very special day,” Doc murmurs. He yanks at Tommy’s tail, not hard enough to pull it out, but enough that Tommy can’t help the bleat of discomfort that escapes from his mouth. “Your fans have decided it’s time, Champ.” 

“T-time for what?” Tommy asks, even though he already knows the answer. His knees feel like rubber beneath him. 

Doc presses the fly of his jeans against Tommy’s ass, and the tail rasps in again under the pressure. 

“For your training to progress, my good boy.” 

“No,” Tommy whispers. For a second, he contemplates shoving his face back into the bowl and drowning himself. It can’t be time. Not yet. This can’t be how it happens. 

Except that of course this is how it happens, because Tommy’s life is a complete fucking nightmare, and he’s starting to believe that he will never wake up. 

Doc grinds into him. “Yes. Now, this isn’t my favorite chore–no offense, Champ, but you’re not really my type–but it’s important you have a firm and guiding hand. That your public can see you’ll be worth whatever they’re willing to pay for you when the time comes.”

Doc’s firm and guiding hand dips beneath Tommy and strokes him again. Tommy imagines other strange hands doing the same, and he thinks he might be sick. 

He was supposed to have this moment with someone special. He was supposed to feel safe and loved. He was supposed to be in control. 

“Please,” Tommy says. “Please, don’t. I’m not ready, I–”

“You are,” Doc insists. 

He wraps his hands around Tommy’s hips, positioning Tommy so that his ass is in the air, and then he starts to work the tail from Tommy’s backside. Tommy groans and tries to move away, but Doc’s free hand digs into Tommy’s hip again. 

“Stay, goddamnit,” Doc snarls. 

Tommy stays. He feels the tail give way, and he’s ashamed of the emptiness he feels.

It doesn’t last long. Doc’s fingers dip into his hole, which is, by design, loose and ready. 

“Well done, Champ,” Doc says. “Now, this first time, we’ll be quick. Just to rip the bandaid off, you know? We’ll work on technique a little later.” 

Doc’s zipper drops, and Tommy hears the telltale click of the lube bottle being snapped open. 

Something inside of Tommy snaps with it. 

Tommy’s body is still powerful, even if it’s a little banged up. He kicks his legs out from underneath him, and he feels his heels connect with Doc’s solid gut. The older man grunts, and Tommy hears him thud against the floor. But Tommy doesn’t look back. He manages to get to his feet and starts for the door of the cage. 

It’s not open. It never is. Doc is never that careless. He always locks that door behind him. 

Tommy bangs on it anyway, like that’s going to make some kind of fucking difference. He screams as though someone will hear. 

No one hears. The door does not give way. Doc is back on his feet, and he’s ripping at Tommy’s collar, yanking Tommy backward and into the center of his glass prison. 

“NO!” Tommy screams. He manages to wriggle away from Doc’s grip for a second, and he turns, throwing his fists in front of him like some kind of deranged boxer. “Get the fuck away from me!” 

Doc’s salt and pepper hair is out of place, a chunk dangling over his eyes. He hasn’t done up his zipper. He doesn’t look kind now, and–more importantly–he doesn’t look intimidated. 

He sighs and then kicks out, nailing Tommy’s injured ankle. 

Tommy crumples immediately, wailing in pain. Still, he tries to fight, kicking and screaming even as Doc hoists him to his knees. 

“I don’t want this!” he cries. “You–you sick fucking bastard! I will never–never–” 

Doc backhands him across the face. “Shut your filthy mouth, boy. You don’t speak to me that way. And you certainly don’t get to tell me no.” 

“NO!” Tommy shrieks again, his chest beating wildly. 

Another slap. “Oh, Champ. You should know better.”

The part of Tommy that refused also forgot. 

It isn’t until Doc is fastening his wrists to the overhead rigging that Tommy remembers: it isn’t only him that will be punished for this. 

“You know what happens when you’re a bad boy,” Doc grumbles. 

Tommy shakes his head. Oh, God. Will. He’s just fucked Will over too. 

Doc opens an app on his phone, and the rigging retracts, forcing Tommy to his feet. He cries out when his weight rests too much on his ankle. Doc could give a shit. He kicks Tommy’s ankles apart and cuffs them to loops on the floor. Tommy whimpers, but Doc ignores him. When Doc is finished, Tommy’s naked body is a wide open ‘X,’ and he hears the automated zip of the cameras as Doc taps on the screen of his phone. 

“This could have been so easy,” Doc murmurs. He steps aside, rescuing the dog ear headband from Tommy’s cot and shoving it roughly over his head. “It won’t be easy now. Not for you, of course, but not for your little friend either.” 

Tommy jerks against his bonds, the stupid dog ears flopping down against his forehead. “No! No, please! I’m sorry! I’ll do anything–just, please, please, leave him alone!” 

Doc kneels to double check the restraints at Tommy’s ankles. He looks up at one of the cameras with a grin, wrapping a possessive hand around Tommy’s trembling calf. 

“He means the little mutt,” he says to the camera. “I rescued him with Champ here, and Champ knows the deal: when he’s naughty, it’s the little mutt who will take his knocks for him.” Doc squeezes Tommy’s leg. “I think you’ll enjoy his little guest spot today. And we’ll make sure Champ does too.” 

Tommy’s stomach roils. Doc can’t bring Will here. The things that happen in the doghouse–Will wouldn’t be able to handle it. Jesus, Tommy can’t handle it, but at least he’s had some preparation. At least Doc let him know what he was in for. 

He doesn’t want Will to see him this way. And he sure as fuck doesn’t want to see Will get hurt again. Especially if Doc–no. No, he wouldn’t. He can’t. 

“No–you can’t–” 

“I can, actually,” Doc says. He stands, letting his hand slip north as he rises. He cups Tommy’s balls, holding them like he’s trying to determine their weight. “You forget who’s master here, Champ. But you won’t forget again. Not after today. And neither will the mutt.” 

“You can’t do this to him!” Tommy shrieks. His mitts bat uselessly at the air. “I’m the–the Romantic!” The word hits him like a blow, but he swallows and forces himself to keep pleading. “This is what you took me for, and–”

Doc laughs, landing a patronizing pat on Tommy’s cheek. “Rescued, boy. And it’s interesting how you remember that now. If you’d only remembered a few minutes ago, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

“You can’t,” Tommy says again, but his head falls between his raised arms. 

“I’m not going to,” Doc replies. He pushes his hair back into place and locks eyes with Tommy. “You are.” 

What the fuck? 

Tommy’s chin jerks up. “What?” 

Doc’s eyes crinkle at their corners, and not for the first time, Tommy wonders how someone who looks so kind can be so completely unhinged. Doc wraps his fingers around Tommy’s chin and grips it hard.

“Oh, Champ. I have to make sure you learn, don’t I? And the best way to learn is by doing, you know?” 

Tommy swallows bile. There’s no fucking way. He can’t. He won’t do this. What Doc’s suggesting–Doc can’t make him. It’s not like Tommy’s body is just going to give into this. He won’t hurt Will this way.

But, of course, he’s wrong. 

Doc lets Tommy’s chin go and steps outside the box, zipping his pants as he goes. Tommy cranes his head to see; Doc is rifling through the cabinets by the computer monitor. That never ends well for Tommy. The things in those cabinets are sent in by the viewers, and Tommy’s spent enough days in the dog ears and tail to know that he doesn’t want any more of their gifts. 

Doc pockets whatever it is that he’s decided on and goes back to Tommy. 

“Champ here is going to be a good little stud for his mutt friend.” Doc is looking at Tommy but speaking to the cameras. “Whether he wants to or not.” 

“No,” Tommy whines. “Please, I can’t–” 

He can’t even get the words out. He squeezes his eyes shut. There’s no fucking way. This is insane. This isn’t happening. It isn’t happening. It won’t happen. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck–

“Oh, Champers, I’m here to help, aren’t I?” Doc reaches into his pocket, and Tommy doesn’t miss the soft whirring that starts in Doc’s hand. “We’ll make sure you’re ready for him, don’t you worry.” 

Tommy’s tears break free as Doc secures a black silicone ring around his cock. Already, Tommy can feel the vibrations starting to build around him, and he groans. But he knows it’s about to get worse. He understands exactly how Doc is going to force him to perform. 

Doc pulls the rest of the device back and between Tommy’s legs, slipping the thick phallus inside of Tommy without any warning. The thing pumps relentlessly inside of him, and Tommy knows immediately that he’s toast. If he could think, he would hate how easily he takes it, hate the way his body is ready after weeks of Doc’s careful training and attention. 

But he can’t think. He can only feel. He shivers as the pulses shake his nerves into some kind of mind-numbing static. His jaw goes slack with another moan, and he doesn’t fight it when he feels Doc slip the gag back between his teeth. Tommy’s mouth is full, and his head vibrates with the rest of him as his body bucks in its restraints. 

“What a sight you are, Champ,” Doc says appreciatively. He winks up at a camera. “Isn’t he?”  He drags his fingers through Tommy’s curls, yanking backward until Tommy’s collared neck is a column, his pulse leaping beneath pale skin. “See? You’ll be completely ready for the little mutt.”

No. The word echoes in Tommy’s head and then is drummed away by the rising vibration. It’s no use, and they both know it. Tommy sobs, but the gag muffles his protests. He’s shaking so badly that he’s almost grateful for the rigging keeping him upright. 

Doc leans close to Tommy’s ear. “You’ll be so needy by the time I bring that little fucker in here that you’re going to beg for whatever he has to offer.” 

Tommy tries to shake his head, but Doc only knuckles deeper into his hair. 

“And if you even think about fighting this time, if you think you can try to be noble and spare him–I’ll put him down and bury him in the sinkhole out back.” 

Tommy could swear his breath fucking stops, but the whirring inside of him does not; it burns, dry and unrelenting, and he knows it will never stop. 

Doc pulls away, slapping Tommy’s ass for good measure. He claps his hands and rubs them together, looking up again at the cameras. “I’m going to go get our little guest star. This will be such a surprise for him! And a treat for you all too.”

Doc leaves Tommy suspended in anticipation, his body slowly giving way to the inevitability of its own betrayal. 

...we'll pick up with poor Will next time. Buckle up...

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1926, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake

[undertale-museum]

Streettale Comic (+18)

@/amortemkun

Content Warning: fellcest (in-universe not brothers), non con, kidnapping, forced drugs, bondage, rough s3x, fetishizes gay people (Killing Stalking style)

Officer Edge takes an obsessive interest in a local thief, Red.

Part 1 / Part 20 / Part 30 / Part 40 / Part 50

Part 60 / Part 70 / last page

During the porn bans, Amortekun's channel got a mature flag which made it impossible to use the archive, took out the link chain and makes any of my previous links over the years break.

The content warnings should hopefully discourage ignorant folk from jumping in but I, Guide, advise you to take it slow regardless of your threshold for content. Emotionally it gets very intense during the process of Cop!Edge breaking Street!Red, and while I'm not responsible for your reading experience, I'd be remiss not to mention it.

[uefb]

A Home by the Sea x

Summary: Love isn't enough to keep a relationship alive, especially in the darkness of war, fear, and atrocity. And moving on--particularly as parents--requires more strength than anyone is given proper credit for. (Newt & Tina over the years, in England and America, and their children. // With attention to memory, individual & cultural trauma, and mental health.)

Excerpt:

Tina kept her memories from childhood in two letterboxes under their bed.

Newt kept his at the bottom of a drawer of mismatched socks in the basement.

Both were studded with different types of sorrows, and joy:

Newt had gone quiet when Tina first showed him her parents’ funeral program, a portrait of the family centered on the cover dated 1909, Tina’s dark eyes young and bright as she glanced up at the gentle curve of her mother’s kind lips.

He’d pressed a hand against her knee as he read through Queenie’s guardianship papers, that thing she’d fought for so hard in court, all alone apart from Lally, when she was just 17—

(Had smiled brilliantly to watch her in a photograph, standing straight-backed and proud in a group of twelve men, beneath the label ‘MACUSA Auror Training Program: 1922 Graduating Class’.)

In turn, Tina had bit her lip when Newt handed over his first discharge papers from the St. Mungo’s Children’s Ward (1903-12-11: unusual variety of intermittent idiocy unaffected by corrective spell or potion - incurable’), yellowed by age and ill-handled.

She’d hmmed in sympathy as she skimmed his report of the incident that shut down his unit and killed a half-dozen dragons and their caretakers when he’d just turned twenty—

(Had grinned to find his fourth-year photo with an herbology award from school. Lovingly framed by his mother even after his expulsion, she’d kept it on her wall until the day that she died.)

(And so Newt took that photo of Tina’s auror graduation and hung it on the wall by their marriage certificate. And Tina subsequently dusted off Newt’s framed childhood award and hung it right below them both, which made him roll his eyes, but press a kiss to her cheek, run a thumb across her lips, smile.)

[phthalology]

Overall, Netflix television show 1899 did several things I don't generally like toward the end, but with such gravitas and weirdness that my overall impression is positive

[canisalbus]

What if I told you that RoobrickMarine went and wrote an entire novella starring my 16th century dog couple? It's very canon-adjacent, well researched and thoughtfully put together, has inspired me a ton during these past months and it's now publicly available at AO3. I highly recommend it.

✦ Separation ✦

[enderlovez]

Stay Happy

Spencer Reid x Female BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 5700+

Summary: In the midst of a case, thinking it's safe after they've caught the criminal, you go into the crime scene alone to inspect the place, only to be taken hostage by a second unsub nobody knew about.

Content Warning: kidnapping, blood, stabbing, gunshot wounds, reader being tied up, broadcasting torture, mentions of death, blood again because there's a lot of it, broken bones, sprains, dislocation, speeding, drug usage (reader is drugged by the kidnapper)

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're not even sure how it happened.

One moment, you were simply walking around the crime-scene, scribbling notes down as you stepped around shattered glass and pools of blood, and it was peaceful for the most part — except, of course, for the police sirens blaring in the distance.

Perhaps that's why you felt so safe navigating the abandoned house alone, taking one for the team so they could discuss outside. The criminal had already been caught, so surely there was no reason to worry about something bad happening, right?

Wrong.

You were so extremely wrong. The moment somebody reached out from the shadows of a seemingly empty room, wrapping a hand tightly around your arm and slapping a hand over your mouth, you wished more than anything that you could take your decision back.

Spencer had insisted on going in with you. Practically begged you to take him inside with you, but his words about the possible dangers lying inside fell on deaf ears. They'd caught the bad guy. There was no danger, and he was the brains of the team, so surely they would need him more than you would, right?

Wrong.

Nobody hears your scream for help as it's abruptly cut off by the stranger's hand, nor does anybody realize you've been gone longer than would be necessary as you're being tied up and gagged and thrown into the trunk of a car with no more care than you'd give a piece of scrap metal.

You can do no more than screw up your face and beg for mercy as they jab a needle into your arm, then another into your neck, injecting a kind of colorless liquid directly into your bloodstream.

Your mind runs into overdrive, quickly running through all the possibilities as you would usually do when working on cases — except this time, you're the victim, and you're trying to come up with something — anything — before you lose consciousness.

You don't get very far.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

"Reid," Hotch says in a tired voice, not looking away from the paper in front of him, leaning it against the top of the car as he scrawls something down, "will you go in and see what's taking L/N so long? She's been gone almost fifteen minutes, we need her back here now."

Spencer doesn't have to be asked twice for him to make his way towards the crumbling house. Admittedly, he's been counting the seconds since you left, fighting the urge to run in there regardless of everyone's warnings of 'she's a big girl, she can handle herself' and 'she's good at her job, Reid, you need to relax a little'.

He knows you're beyond good at your job, which is why he trusted that you would be okay going in alone... But you typically only take, on average, ten minutes to do a quick search of the house and scratch down anything of importance.

While it might not seem like such a big deal to everyone else, Spencer knows you inside and out, better than anyone else in the world, and he knows that you taking even five minutes longer — especially in such a small house — is definitely a cause for concern.

Glass and debris crunches under his foot as he steps inside the house, flashlight pointed in front of him down the decaying hallway. It's quiet inside, unnervingly so, to the point where a chill runs down his spine. In a house of this size, with everything littering the floor, he should be able to hear your steps as you walk around, but there's nothing, just an ear-splitting silence that he can't seem to shake.

"Y/N?" he calls out hesitantly, pointing the light around in search of you. There isn't a response, not even a hum of acknowledgment from nearby, or a step indicating you've heard something close to you.

Just more of this silence.

He knows something has to be wrong now. Even looking past the fact that you would never ignore anybody, especially not Spencer, he has a horrible wriggling feeling in his gut, a sickening sensation that makes him want to curl into himself and hurl all over the floor.

"Y/N, are you in here?" he tries again, voice slightly louder and tinged with panic as he speeds up his search of the house, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees something sitting on the ground, too clean and white to have been there before, and covered in your delicate handwriting. Spencer's hands shake as he picks it up, eyes scanning over all the things you've written down.

And if he's not already in panic mode now, that changes entirely when he spots the smaller, fresher pool of blood, spreading out on the floor nearby, seeping into the cracks of the withering floorboards.

Without a second thought, he's running outside, notepad gripped in his hand so tightly that the paper crinkles. You're not in there. There's fresh blood on the floor in the same place he found your notepad, discarded.

Everyone turns to look at Spencer as he runs back to the car, lips turning down slightly when they see you're not following behind him.

"Where's Cupcake?" Morgan asks first, eyebrows furrowed as he peers behind the other man in search of you. "Thought you were going in to get her, is she not—"

"We need to get back," Spencer abruptly cuts Morgan off, already making to get in the car. "Y/N's gone. She's not in there, but I found her notes on the floor, next to her blood."

"That place was filled with blood," he tries to push, though the more time you spend in that house, considering you're usually so fast with this part, and without your notes, he's becoming less and less sure. "Maybe she just dropped it and hasn't realized yet?"

"All the blood in there is days old. This, most definitely was not." Something has happened to you — he knows something has happened to you, and every extra second that ticks by, he knows that you're likely slipping further and further away.

It seems that everyone else comes to the same conclusion, as they all immediately jump into action, splitting up and piling into the two cars. They're almost thirty minutes away from the Bureau, and by the time they even get there, who knows what state you could be in?

You could be dead.

You could be dead.

Spencer, of course, knows the dangers that come with this job. He himself has been shot and almost killed on multiple occasions, but it never really occurred to him, in all of his 187 IQ glory, that something similar could happen to you.

Emily is on the phone, speaking to someone — telling them to search the area, so it's likely the local police, who were already there before.

"I thought we caught the bad guy," Morgan comments tightly. "How's we even miss a second unsub?"

"Many reasons," Spencer replies instantly, force of habit. "Our primary unsub sits the profile so well that we've overlooked the possibility of a second offender. If they're working together, the second might deliberately mimic the first's MO or play a background role, making them harder to detect. "

"And what are the stats—"

"Twenty to twenty-five percent of homicides involve multiple offenders, and thirty percent of criminal partnerships have this dynamic. Cognitive bias affects nearly sixty percent of investigators."

"We don't know for sure if this is—"

Morgan is cut off by his phone ringing, so he picks it up without looking at the caller ID and puts it on speaker for everyone to hear. Before he can even greet the person on the other end, Garcia's voice, panicked and out of breath, comes through the speaker.

"Something pretty disturbing has come up here," she rushes out, the clicking of a keyboard vaguely there in the background. "You all need to get back here — now."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You realize three things when you finally come to.

The first, is that you are tied to a chair, ropes so tight that every slight movement has your skin raw and chafing. Your ankles feel cemented to the floor, held down by something heavy. Or maybe that's because the sedative hasn't fully worn off yet.

The second thing you realize, when you force your eyes to open against the drowsiness, is that you have absolutely no idea where you are right now. The plain yellow walls have no defining characteristics, and there are no windows to look outside — chances are, you're in a basement, or a room in a storage facility.

And the third and final thing that comes to your realization, is that there is a camera set up in front of you. One of those home-video cameras, propped up on a tripod, and pointing directly at you, little red light indicating that it's already recording.

Sick bastard.

You tentatively pull against the ropes binding you, face screwing up when they only dig into your already raw skin. Tears prick at your eyes as panic surges through you, realizing you're really stuck here, that you're too weak to even try to do anything about your situation.

I am going to die here.

I am going to die here.

I am going to—

A door opens somewhere around you, footsteps descending a set of stairs. Definitely in a basement, then, but knowing that doesn't really do much good — there are countless basements, after all.

"You're finally awake," a voice drawls from behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. "I was worried I'd already killed you back there, pretty girl."

Already.

He is planning to kill you regardless.

"Please, just... let me go," you beg weakly. Though you can't see him, you just know he's shaking his head, rubbing a hand on your shoulder. You try to turn your head so you can get a good look at him, but a shooting pain sparks down your spine at the movement.

"You know I can't do that," he says simply, the smile evident in his voice as he steps around you to adjust something on the camera, clicking a few buttons and zooming in on you some — trying to get the perfect angle, you quickly realize, to do...

"Why are you recording me?" you ask quietly, squeezing your eyes shut against the pain of talking with such a dry throat. You work with the FBI, you know very well about cases where the suspect has recorded their killings for their own sick pleasure.

You just... never thought you'd be on the other end of it.

"I'm not recording," he says after a beat of silence, looking away from the camera to stand at his full height, his smile somehow widening to show all of his yellowed teeth. You take a moment to memorize his face, but with the drugs still clouding your mind, it's hard.

"Well what are you doing, then, if this recording camera isn't recording me?"

"It's a broadcast," he says simply, stepping back around you and squeezing your shoulder so tight you worry it might break, "to all your little agent friends."

Your blood runs cold, eyes snapping to the camera lens. They're probably watching you right this second, tied up and in immeasurable amounts of pain, yet still interrogating the suspect like you're on the job.

"What are you going to do to me?" The question you least want the answer to, but the most important one.

He doesn't say anything more, remaining behind me for a few more minutes before crouching at my side. "You and your friends got my brother in trouble," he begins, reaching up and caressing your face, so gently you begin to wonder if this is even the same person who threw you in the car. "So let's just stick with this: I'm going to put you in trouble."

That doesn't sound good.

And before you can say anything more, he's standing up again, reeling his hand back behind his head, and punching you in the face with enough force to make all thoughts flurry from your head.

Warm liquid fills your mouth instantly, spilling out through your parted lips. Your head is ringing with a sound that's not really there, vision blurring even though you're not crying — or maybe you are. Your world turns on its axis as your head flops to the side, neck unable to support you due to the shock.

Not broken, though.

Thank God, your neck isn't broken.

"Please," you whimper, but the single word sends a peircing pain straight to your temple, and even the single word is slurred. He has concussed you, it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

"Sorry, Sweetheart," he murmurs, cupping your cheek with his palm, much like how a lover would — much like how Spencer does. Then, with an unnerving slowness that has you trembling, he pulls a tiny pocket knife out of his pocket, one of those little flower ones you'd get online for fifty cents, and brings it close to your face.

He presses the sharp point of it to the base of your cheekbone, and drags it alone your skin, opening a thin, shallow cut on your cheek, and stopping just before it reaches the corner of your mouth.

You cry out, struggling against your restraints. Shallow as the cut may be, and though you've been through so much worse throughout your career, it hurts like hell, and while you're already in so much pain, so vulnerable and exposed like an open nerve...

To say you're scared is an understatement.

Scared for your life that you're most definitely going to lose if your team can't find you. Scared for your future, and the things you so desperately want to do with it. And scared that you will never see the love of your life again — the very one who is likely watching you right now, through the camera.

"Please don't," you choke out through the tears that are now freely streaming down your face, stinging as they run along the length of the open wound on your face.

He smiles and walks over to a little table you didn't notice before, decorated with a variety of scary looking tools, and with the drowsiness still lingering from the drugs and the concussion you've been given, you can't stop your eyes from rolling back as your consciousness leaves you once again.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Everything hurts when you wake up again, your skin littered in a multitude of cuts and bruises and more injuries you think you've ever had at once. A gun sits on the other side of the room on a little table, loaded. It's your gun, the very one you had holstered to you when he grabbed you in that house. You don't want to know when he's planning to use that, but you're sure it's soon.

The man you've since dubbed 'Belial' is gone for now, leaving you alone in the room with half of a kitchen knife jammed into your right thigh and the camera still pointing right at your face. It's hard to tell exactly how long it's been, but if you have to take a guess, maybe a few days.

During that time he's been continually drugging you, this time not with sedatives, rather with things that'll leave you with lasting conditions. You're not sure what it is, but it doesn't necessarily cause you pain at the time. Only after, when the effects are wearing off, and you're left begging for more.

Right now it's all out of your system, and it hurts. Almost more than the deeper cut he left on your stomach, and the discus sized bruise on the back of your shoulder. Almost more than the knife stuck in your leg, and the busted lip and broken nose and—

You have too many injuries to count. You might just die of infection before he gets the chance to leave a bullet in your brain.

Though your hope isn't yet entirely gone — over the last while, you've been slowly but surely wiggling your wrists, stretching the rope and allowing yourself a little bit of leeway.

The indomitable human spirit, Spencer would have commented to calm you down, if he was with you right now, before spouting off some facts about why the human body stays fighting for so long. The thought of him brings a tiny smile to your face, but it's short-lived as something happens.

As you're twisting your wrists around, using your own blood as lubricant, a strange little sound from behind you, so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if you weren't so on-guard lately, followed by the sudden and immense release of pressure from your wrists as blood flow is restored.

Your hands are free from their restraints, you only fully realize when you bring them up in front of your face, eyes flicking between your own two hands and the camera. An exhausted laugh bubbled up in your chest, and luckily, you're able to keep it down as you lean around the knife sticking out of your leg and undo the knots around them.

Standing up on shaky legs, you take an even shakier breath, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife to keep it in place and the other pressing against your stomach.

Your gun is across the room.

You could probably grab it, if you can manage to get over there.

Smiling into the camera and making a vague gun symbol with your fingers, you shift out of frame, slowly limping across the room towards the little table where your glock 22 is sitting, along with the holster.

Almost there...

Your hand is reaching out towards the gun when a deafening sound echoes off the walls, and an excruciating pain shoots through the left side of your hip. You know that sound, and you know the feeling just as well — you've been shot once, but it was in your leg, and all of the doctors were able to repair the damage perfectly fine.

This time you're not so lucky.

In an instant you drop to the floor, the blade of the knife shoving itself the rest of the way into your leg as you hit the concrete. The tripod holding the camera topples over as the man rushes across the room towards you. It doesn't break, and just to your luck, the way it falls has it angled in a way where all of you is on show to anyone watching.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're entirely correct in thinking Spencer is watching everything, chest tightening and nausea rolling in his gut with every little pain inflicted upon you. He's seen things during his time in this job — mutilated bodies and such, things many others would deem so much worse than what you're going through — but in his mind, this is most definitely the worst thing he's ever been forced to witness.

Still, he can't seem to make himself take his eyes off you for more than thirty seconds at a time.

Nobody has tried to make him leave Penelope's office, despite the fact that everybody has access to the video footage, nor has anybody reprimanded him for being so distracted.

"How long is it going to take you to track him down?" Spencer demands, his knee bobbing up and down and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Garcia glances at him before looking back to her work, typing furiously on her keyboard.

"I'm trying my best, Spencer," she says back, calmly despite the frustration and worry burning inside her. "He's using a masked signal, I think. There's no way for me to easily get their location."

The man nods. He understands that Penelope's trying her very best, especially with him sitting right there, but as he looks back at your bruised and bleeding body, he can't help being more irritable than usual. Not as the man — Avery Kane, they were able to identify him as — stuck another needle into your arm and injected you with God knows what.

"We have to go out and find her," Spencer decides after a beat of silence, his lip now bleeding from how hard he was biting it. "They can't be that far, realistically, if he was trying to avoid being pulled over. At most thirteen minutes away from the crime scene."

"Spencer, you of all people know that probably won't work," Garcia answers back, eyes never straying from the screen. "There's nothing to go off of in the video, and she definitely won't know where she is."

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as Kane drives the sharp end of a kitchen knife into your thigh, pushing it in an inch before pulling it back out. "You heard him, Garcia — he's going to kill her. She'll be dead by the time we find her at this point."

The thought has her grimacing. She knows that he isn't just saying things — these are surely real statistics. You will be dead by the time they find you.

Spencer stands up and starts pacing the room, arms crossed tightly over his chest, mind reeling like a fishing line. They have to be missing something, otherwise they would have found you by now.

Garcia's gasp draws his attention, and he finds her staring at the screen with you on it. He rushes back and practically falls back into the chair, watching as you manage to free your bloodied hands from their restraints, smiling and making a pistol symbol with your hands as you shuffle out of frame.

Your gun is in the room.

A sense of half-relief washes over Spencer, and Garcia's shoulders relax ever-so-slightly — at least, that's until they hear the painfully familiar bang of a gun going off. Not your gun, but the one belonging to the man now standing in frame.

Everything happens in a rush. Kane rushing forward and knocking over the camera. Said camera being focused on you on the floor, knife sticking fully into your leg, pool of blood spreading out around you. Avery huffs and drops the gun on the ground, too far for you to reach, and walks out of the room muttering to himself.

Within seconds Garcia is frantically speaking to who Spencer can only assume is Hotch, and he is pulling the video feed up on his phone before rushing out of the room. His heart is nearly beating out of his chest, stomach in his throat and tears pricking at his eyes.

You can't die — not yet. Not for a very long time, after you've lived a very happy life together, not until he's gone. You're the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to him, he can't possibly live without you by his side.

And then, as if his guardian angel was leaning over his shoulder, listening to his silent prayers, Penelope starts yelling out about how she's got the coordinates, and she's forwarding them to everyone.

Spencer looks down at the video feed again, watches as you roll onto your back and cry, pressing your trembling hand to the wound on your hip, murmuring pleas about how you don't want to die —you're not ready. Your body is already weak from being beaten and cut for three days straight, nobody is sure how you'll handle being shot.

The odds aren't looking good.

There's a less than ten percent chance you'll survive this, and that's if they can get there in the next two minutes, with the wounds you've acquired. Spencer tells the team as much, as they speed down the road at three times the speed limit, lights blaring on top of the car to signal an emergency.

You make a little sound, barely audible through the video, so Spencer turns up the volume as far as it'll go. "Sleep, my love, the stars are dim, the night is soft, and the world is thin," he hears you choke out.

"What's she doing," Morgan asks from beside Spencer, peering over his shoulder and cringing at your bloody form. "Is she... singing?"

"It's the song her mom wrote for her when she was a child," Spencer replies in a broken voice. "She was so scared of the dark, and her mother wanted to make the night seem a little less scary. She sang it to her when she was in the hospital."

"Rest your head, and close your eyes, where dreams are sweet, and time is kind," you continue in a hushed voice, voice shaking from the effort of staying alive. You have to keep living. "The winds may call, the shadows dance, but here you're safe, inside my hands. Though I must go, I'll stay with you, in every breath, in all you do."

"She's not dying, Reid," Morgan says softly. "We won't let her. She can't get away from us that easily."

It was his attempt to lighten the mood, but it only earned him a quiet scolding from Hotch.

"Sleep, my love, the night will weep, but I'll be with you, in your sleep," you continue quietly, voice getting softer and softer with each word as you slowly bleed out on the floor. "And when you wake, the world will shine, a piece of me will always be mine."

They come to a forceful stop outside the house, ambulance already there in preparation for whatever happens and three police cars stationed outside the house.

"This man is armed," Hotch comments matter-of-factly, glancing around at everyone. "Morgan, you go in with the police to detain the guy — Reid and Prentiss, you run in immediately after with the paramedics..."

You've stopped singing, the only indicator that you're still breathing, and your unmoving. Eerily still with your eyes closed and a the tiniest smile on your face. You must hear all the commotion outside. Spencer slips his phone into his pocket, though he doesn't want to take his eyes off you, and nods.

So does Avery Kane, it seems, as he runs out through the front door and attempts to make a run for it. Someone tackles him, and just as Hotch said, Emily and Spencer are immediately running into the house with the paramedics hot on their tails, searching desperately for the basement.

"Y/N!" Spencer yells out, opening every door until they finally find one that leads down a set of stairs — where they immediately find you attempting to crawl across the floor towards them, hand clutched to your gunshot wound, movements sloppy as you continue to bleed.

He doesn't get a chance to touch you, or talk to you, as you're placed onto a stretcher and rushed back outside, or as he sits with you in the ambulance while everyone works to suppress the bleeding and keep you alive. You're all that's on his mind as he and the team sit in the waiting room of the hospital while you're in surgery.

Survival rates for gunshot wounds to the hip vary based on a lot of factors, but generally speaking, if the bullet didn't hit anything vital, there's about an eighty to ninety percent chance you'll survive... but that isn't taking into account that it very much might've hit something important, and it's not taking into account your already sustained injuries.

Everyone else seems to realize this, too, but they don't comment on it. Nor do they say anything when a nurse comes out and tells them the surgery was a success, and Spencer actually cries from relief. They don't push it when he asks if they can stay behind while he goes in and sits with you, just until you wake up.

That's not to say they leave the waiting room, though, except for Hotch, who says he has a lot of work to do. Everyone knows he's always had a bit of a soft spot for you, so this upset him more than any regular kidnapping case.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The feeling of someone holding your hand is the first thing that comes to your attention, their thumb rubbing gentle circles onto the back of it. You already know who it is without opening your eyes, but you open them anyway, wincing at the bright white fluorescent lights shining down into my eyes.

Spencer's forehead leans against the edge of the bed, his breathing even as he sleeps.

He hates hospitals, is the first thing that comes to mind when you look at him, the way his mop of brown hair falls down either side of head, like a curtain hiding his lovely face.

You can barely remember what happened to you, why you're in the hospital — only that you were in more pain than the human body should be able to comprehend, and that you're still in pain now — but the sight of him sleeping so peacefully in a place he hates so much has every thought eddying from your head.

You carefully reach your other hand across your body and run your injured fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as he begins to stir from his slumber. You almost feel a little bad waking him up, but you just couldn't resist the opportunity.

He's just far too cute for you to not want to touch him.

When his hazel eyes meet yours, you're suddenly filled with a sense of worry. They're red-rimmed, like he's been crying — a lot, and there are heavy bags under his eyes, due to lack of sleep.

Jeez, am I really that terribly injured?

"You're awake," he murmurs quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth and pressing a gently kiss to the back of it.

"You know," you start off with a teasing tone in your voice, "your hands are dirtier than your mouth. You're more likely to get sick from touching my hand than you are if you were to kiss me on the lips."

He hums in agreement, a smile on his lips, though it doesn't quite meet his eyes, the way it normally does when you start talking nerdy to him. "How could I forget?" he whispers, leaning forward and leaving a delicate kiss on your lips. He doesn't let go of your hand, continuing his ministrations of rubbing circles.

"So, what's the damage?" you ask when he's fully seated again, both of his hands holding your one to his mouth. "What happened to end me up in the hospital?"

His eyebrows furrow. He looks puzzled, and silver lines his eyes, tears building up and begging to be dropped.

"You don't... remember?" he asks softly. You shake your head and look down at yourself — you've never been in worse shape, casts and bandages littering almost every inch of skin.

A sob builds up in his chest, and he can't stop it from escaping against your hand. You frown and use your free hand to wipe the tears from his cheek, caressing it as you run your thumb along the skin under his eye.

"Are you okay, Spence?" you ask quietly, worriedly, like him crying is the worst thing in the world. In your mind, it actually is.

He laughs bitterly, but nonetheless leans into your touch. "You almost died, Y/N, and you're still looking after me?" he asks, sniffing. "You're too soft for this world, my sweet girl. I'm alright, you don't need to worry about me. Just glad you're alive is all."

You smile and gently pinch his cheek. "So, are you going to tell me what happened? Or at least, the injuries I sustained?"

He nods dejectedly and leans further forward. "You had three fractured ribs, a cracked sternum and a cracked scapula. Three broken phalanges, a broken nose. Dislocated mandible, left shoulder and both your wrists. Sprained ankle," he stops for a moment, simply watching you absorb the information he's feeding you.

You don't seem too worried, but he can see the confusion and panic in your eyes.

"Is... that all?" you ask hesitantly, as if you don't really want to know, and Spencer has half the mind to not tell you. But it's your body, and you're the one in the hospital, so you deserve to know regardless.

"Those are only the breaks, you're all bruised and cut up, like a piece of meat," he says, at least bringing a slight smile to your face with his 'joke'. "You sustained a full-length stab wound from a kitchen knife, a grade two concussion, and a gunshot wound on your hip. It's a miracle you're even alive."

Your mouth hangs open with a goldfish. "No kidding," you breathe, squeezing his hand, your eyebrows furrowed. He can't help but remove one hand from yours to smooth out the little crease, lingering as you leaned your cheek against his hand.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, in a voice so quiet, you can barely even hear it.

You're silent for a second, nuzzling your face against him despite the ache in your neck. "I'm wondering how I possibly could have gotten all these injuries, and I'm thinking that I'm glad you're here with me. And that I love you so much, and I'm glad you love me enough to stay with me in a hospital, even though you're a germaphobe."

He leans forward and leaves a kiss on your taped-up nose. "I love you, too. Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

You think for a second, the crease between your brows making a reappearance, but you ultimately shake your head — slightly, because you have a raging headache and more movement will only make it worse. "This seems bad, so... I'm not so sure I wanna know."

Spencer nods and leans back, getting to his feet. "There are some people who wanna see you, if you're up for it?" he suggests gently, watching as a smile makes its way onto your lips.

"I think I'd like that very much."

Spencer knows you'll need to know at some point, but right now, while you seem relatively happy, he won't tell you about how you were kidnapped and drugged with ketamine and heroin, or how your torture was broadcasted to everyone at the BAU.

For now, he'll let you stay happy.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Reasons to play In Stars and Time: Canon Pronoun Warfare.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

So I have not read this because I take the content warnings very seriously BUT I know that I can still recommend it unreservedly because everything that @hobbitwrangler writes is just excellent. So if you like horror and this particular topic area is one that interests you, I know that this story is going to be doing that horror in the most visceral and vivid and evocative way that will be powerfully effective and thought provoking and beautifully written.

a black evil

Prompt: 'corruption' for @tolkienhorrorweek day 4

Summary: There are rumours, about the Uruk-hai of Isengard and where they come from.

Character(s): Saruman, Orcs

Rating: M

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: implied rape, gore, forced pregnancy

There is a rumour, in Rohan, that some of the Uruk-hai of Isengard are capable of mimicking Men's voices, that the sounds of the speech of the Mark flow easily from their blood-encrusted lips. There is a rumour that they like the taste of the Men of Eorl in particular. It is said that they hack open the bellies of women that they find, crying out in disgust that there are no 'little brothers' to be found, only the mangled red remains of the children of Men. "They are so frail, Man-children," remarks one uruk, prodding the lump of flesh he has pried from a body at the roadside. "Nine whole months and it looks like that? No wonder the Wizard found them in need of improvement." There is a rumour that that they take the corpses of the women that they slaughter and bring them with them on the march through the burning fields of Rohan. Not to eat - not for a while, not until their features have rotted beyond definition and their skin has peeled away from their desintegrating flesh - but to sit with them by the fire, brushing out the tangles in their blood-clotted hair with clawed hands, like children playing with dolls. "Come back little cousin!" they shout after the six-year-old boy fleeing over the hills. "Come back and say hello!"

AO3 link - lovely dividers by @saradika-graphics

[taiso]

jarvis cocker (pulp) trading card from melody maker magazine (1995)

scanned from my personal collection ^^

[hoe4hotchner]

It's good to be king [A.H]

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐!𝙰𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟷.𝟷𝚔 𝙲𝚆: 𝟷𝟾+, 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕, 𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚎𝚖��𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕.

𝙰/𝙽: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢. 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔!!!! 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗.

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            The grand throne room was a shadowy expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, the heavy scent of burning wood mixing with the deep, earthy aroma of the kingdom outside. King Aaron sat on the massive throne, a figure as dark and imposing as the room itself. His broad frame was draped in luxurious black and crimson robes, edged with gold that glimmered faintly in the dim light, while a heavy crown rested upon his head like a symbol of his unyielding authority. His eyes, sharp and cold as ice, surveyed the room with a calculated hunger.

         𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.

            Outside the palace walls, the kingdom cowered beneath his iron grip. King Aaron had taken the throne through cunning, strength, and fear, his reputation as a ruthless and merciless ruler growing with each passing day. Whispers of rebellion had long since died out, smothered by his swift and brutal justice. His subjects knew better than to defy him, for to do so was to invite destruction into their homes.

            He relished it. Power flowed through his veins, thick and intoxicating, and he wielded it with precision. Every decision, every law, every order was an extension of his will, and no one - no one - dared to challenge him. He was the uncontested force that ruled this land, and the world bent to his desires.

         𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

            You stood at the far end of the throne room, a figure both regal and fragile, draped in silks that did little to mask the tension in your posture. You had not come to him willingly. You had been forced into marriage with him, a pawn in a game of power, a prize that the king had claimed simply because he could. But that was of little consequence to him.

            You were just another thing in his vast collection. His queen, sure, but in his eyes, more a possession than an equal. He could feel your resistance, the quiet, simmering resentment that lingered behind your eyes. You were trapped, and he savored that knowledge - there was no escape from him, no way out of the cage he had crafted for you.

            He rose from the throne, the sound of his boots echoing in the vast hall as he approached you, his dark presence filling the space like a looming storm. His gaze, intense and unreadable, flickered over you, he tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

            “You’re tense,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, each word laced with a chilling undercurrent of amusement. “It doesn’t suit you.”

            You didn’t respond, your eyes darting to the stone floor, it made him chuckle softly. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that was almost tender, but the weight behind it was unmistakable - he owned you, body and soul. His thumb lingered at your jaw, tilting your chin up so that you were forced to meet his gaze.

            “You should learn to accept this,” he murmured, his tone low and commanding. “It’ll be easier that way.”

            There was no cruelty in his words, only a quiet certainty, as though the idea of resistance was laughable to him. And why wouldn’t it be? No one resisted Aaron Hotchner. He got what he wanted. Always.

            He moved past you, his cape sweeping the ground as he walked toward the massive window overlooking the kingdom. Beyond the glass, the land stretched out, vast and unyielding under his rule, the distant villages mere shadows on the horizon. His kingdom. His world.

            “It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” he said, his back still to you. “All of this… mine.”

            There was a satisfaction in his voice, an edge of arrogance that sent a shiver down your spine. He turned his head slightly, his eyes cutting back to you, watching for your reaction.

            “You’ll come to see it as I do,” he continued, his tone soft but commanding. “In time.”

            He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Aaron wasn’t a king who sought approval or validation. He was a man who seized control, who took what he wanted, whether it was a kingdom or a queen. The thought of your resentment didn’t trouble him—it amused him. Because he knew, deep down, that it didn’t matter. No matter how much you resisted, no matter how much you longed to escape, there was no freedom from him.

            He could feel the weight of his power pressing down on you, and he reveled in it. The way you shrank under his gaze, the way your breathing quickened whenever he drew near. Fear was a powerful thing, and he wielded it expertly, a tool as sharp and deadly as any blade in his collection.

            But there was something else, too. Something that flickered in the shadows of his mind, an unfamiliar sensation that gnawed at him from time to time when he watched you. It wasn’t tenderness, not exactly - he was incapable of that. But it was something close, something darker. Possessive. Obsessive even.

          𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕.

            He turned away from the window and walked back toward you, his steps slow, deliberate. His fingers trailed over your arm as he passed, a touch meant to remind you of his presence, his control. He circled you like a predator stalking its prey, his eyes never leaving you.

            “I’ve given you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr. “Power, wealth, a crown. And yet… you still resist me.”

            You swallowed, the tension in your throat noticeable, but you didn’t speak. He smirked, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear.

            “You’ll learn, eventually,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and poison at the same time. “Everyone does.”

            There was no warmth in his words, no promise of affection. Only the cold, determined certainty of a king who ruled with an iron fist. He straightened, pulling away from you, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze lifted, allowing you a brief, fragile moment of respite.

            He returned to his throne, sitting once more in the seat of power, the dark crown upon his brow casting shadows across his face. His eyes, sharp and dangerous, gleamed in the torchlight as he watched you, a king studying his possession.

            Aaron Hotchner was not a man to be crossed. He was not a man to be loved. He was a force, a king who reveled in power, who took what he wanted without question or hesitation. And you, like everything else in his kingdom, were his to command, his to control.

           𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.

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[spookythesillyfella]

they make me want rip my brain out of my skull ...........

★ original template under cut :

[lilithnights02]

⚠️⚠️Some people here are just ridiculous, trying to use hypnosis, pretending to be a hypnotist, to get what they think they can have.‼️

Lonely people like that are just sad.

Report people like that. ⚠️⚠️‼️

[jofiah]

I've completely given up on following robot girl blogs that post anything horny now, it's all the same and it's very disappointing

no, I don't want to have viruses installed, or have someone reach inside and pull my guts out, or break my limbs

it's all gore basically, but it's excusable because people don't see robots getting broken as taboo, like we're not people but things it's okay to hurt and destroy