#Sell Your Scrap Metal

[hatingfromacrackedscreen]

Ok we need to take about spaceships. I love sci-fi, and I love the CONCEPT of spaceships as much as the next guy, but we need to start being creative. A spaceship can be literally ANYTHING, so why can we only imagine them as giant hunks of metal? Our present is getting in the way of our imagination!!! Like look at these ships

They’re all gorgeous right! But also they’re all different archetypes of the same model. Let’s think big!!!!

Anyways this post was an excuse to post my favorite spaceship from all time, the Black Moon Clan’s ship from the second season of Sailor Moon:

LIKE????? Of COURSE a space ship can be a giant fucking crystal!!!!

LOOK AT THIS SHIT!!! LOOK HOW FOREBODING IT LOOKS DESCENDING ONTO HUMANITY FROM THE CLOUDS!!!

I’ve seen/read so much sci-fi, and yet not ONE of the space ships has this much creativity and uniqueness in design. And the interior too! (Ignore the crucified sailors they got better)

I’m so upset that I haven’t seen anything else play with the sci-fi genre w/ respect to spaceships as much as Sailor Moon did in 1993, which was literally 30 yrs ago 🙄

Hopefully we’ll have more open minds in the future

[metalrecyclingbenefits]

Spread awareness about the importance of recycling and its benefits to encourage more people to participate. Scrap metal recycling is more than a waste management solution; it is a critical component of sustainable development. By conserving resources, reducing environmental impact, and supporting economic growth, this practice benefits everyone. While challenges exist, the advantages far outweigh the drawbacks, making it a worthwhile endeavor for individuals, businesses, and governments alike.

[alnilaem]

you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.

cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out

ghoap (x reader)

-

You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.

Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.

“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.

You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.

Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.

“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.

“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”

You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.

“That’s– is everything alright?”

He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”

Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.

The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.

A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.

You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.

It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.

You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.

Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.

wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.

You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.

johnny_leash.avi

The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.

The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.

It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.

A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.

“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.

The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.

A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.

There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.

“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”

The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.

The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.

The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.

You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.

“Yer recordin’ me?”

“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”

Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.

Your body betrays your moral plight.

Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.

His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.

Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.

The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.

But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.

You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.

The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.

Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.

“You want your snack, boy?”

Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.

“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”

Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.

Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”

The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.

You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.

It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.

breeding_my_boy.avi

Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.

Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.

Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.

You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”

You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.

It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.

Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.

“Wish I could breed you, pup…”

Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.

“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.

“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”

Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.

“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.

Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.

It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.

Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.

The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.

You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.

And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.

Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.

Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.

A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

The Prophet spoke, and the faithful knelt

Summary : You would never be a hero for Zaun, a revolutionary, a leader. But you would care for your prophet with every single breath your body would allow.

Pairing : Viktor x Reader

Word count : 3.2K

Warning : Explicit

You couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at you with something other than disgust.

The bumps on your skin were large and deformed, like warts on a toad's back. Dark, unnatural purple spots had consumed most of your body, your veins glowing faintly inside your flesh. Staring at them, pulsating like worms making their way through your organs, still gave you unparalleled nausea. You were the kind of monster little children of Piltover feared in the shadowy corners of their bedroom, and you couldn't remember a time when it had been otherwise

The others like you all lived in small, crummy camps, where the warmth of a teared-up blanket was something worth killing your neighbour for. If the value of human life was close to none in Zaun, here, it was worth absolutely nothing.

A wasteland inside a wasteland.

Most lived off scraps left by bars; there were few other ways to get food. The familiar feeling of hunger digging its sharp claws into your stomach had never lessened. For water, there were only the thick metal pipes, going above to supply the golden city, which sometimes leaked drinkable but rusty liquid.

The best days, the only bearable days, were those where you found half-used needles of shimmer in the trash. For a few blissful hours, you were someone else, somewhere else, and nothing in the world could hurt you. Then it was back to being cold, hungry, and alone.

You had tried to live a semblance of a life, once, when the craving for shimmer hadn't been so all-consuming. But addicts were bad for business: customers didn't like seeing them, with their empty eyes and malformed bodies, and they were a very poor investment for an employer. How many months, or days, before they would abandon their job in favour of chasing their never-ending high?

Then there were the whore houses. One could get a few pieces of copper, if their body wasn't too ravaged by the drug. Damaged goods still sell, but for a fraction of the price. And yet there it was no better either: patrons would come in, use you, and leave, without ever looking you in the eye. Like you were less than human.

But not him.

He looked at you without ever flinching, without ever shying away. There was no sign of disgust or pity in those strange eyes of his, but an endless compassion, something that went beyond your comprehension. As if a simple glance at you had allowed him to read every corner of your soul.

You could have sworn time had stopped the second he locked eyes with you. In the warm amber of his pupils swayed a reflection of pale blue, like sunset on the ocean.

You had fallen to your knees without ever willing your body to do so, pressing your forehead against the cold gravel. It feels natural, almost instinctive, to bow in the presence of a god. For what other word could describe him, his presence, his aura?

Did someone like you, ugly, broken, filthy, deserve to see beauty like this?

A gentle hand brought your face back up towards the sky, lithe fingers tucked under your chin. Soft, so soft.

His eyes were back into yours, the sunset having morphed into a pool of liquid gold. Tears had begun to fall from your eyes, rolling down your scarred cheeks and onto his delicate hands. He shushed you before you attempted to speak, like he already knew whatever words you would tell him.

“It's alright. I will take care of you.”

The digits slid slowly across your face, impossibly smooth, and you couldn't help but nuzzle into the touch, revelling in the feeling of a sensation you had all but forgotten. He softly pushed the dirty hood off your face, hand settling on top of your matted hair. You closed your eyes; whatever this man was willing to give you, be it salvation or judgement, you simply knew you were ready to accept it.

And then, everything became light.

—

You saw him perform miracle after miracle following that day. He brought people back from the depths of hell, which they'd lived in for so long, with the simple touch of a hand. He brought back the smiles, the joy, and the hope all of you had given up on.

To your community, he was everything.

The familiar presence of his voice called for you inside your mind. It was so comforting, having him there, feeling him as a part of you. Knowing he would never leave you, that he would never let you be alone again.

He looked like a statue when you found him, seated in his cave, still and ethereal beyond your mortal comprehension. The gods had crafted his face from porcelain; his body from the world's most precious metals; his eyes from the sun and the sea; and his smile with the very essence of magic.

“Here you are. I was beginning to worry.”

That was not true; both of you knew very well you had heard his voice and were rushing to come to his side. Yet, the idea that a being such as him would worry about someone like you made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

“Herald?”

“Mm?”

He blinked, calmly, peacefully, as his eyes met yours once more. No other feeling compared. His pupils glowed inside the barely lit cave, a gentle and divine light emanating from his face.

The words were hard to get out, and you found yourself fidgeting with your hands, looking away from his perfect gaze.

Get a hold of yourself, you admonished your brain. You had practiced this moment more than once.

You were certain he knew exactly what you were about to ask him; he knew every thought going through your mind, after all. Which meant he knew of the nights you spent dreaming of him, of his body, and of the hundreds of ways you craved the touch of your messiah.

But he simply looked at you, calm and composed, the hint of a smile barely on his lips.

Briefly, you wondered if he was teasing you by letting you stew in your anxiety.

“I have come to realize,” you began unsurely, voice almost breaking, “that you always take care of others, Herald. Always take care of people like me.”

He observed you with that indecipherable gaze, still not moving an inch. You gathered all your courage to stare back at him as you pronounced your next words decidedly:

“But does nobody take care of you, Herald?”

He smiled, properly this time, yet still calm and moderate. It was beyond beautiful, his delicate features marked by soft dimples, the hint of a mole over his lips. You would have given your life in a heartbeat if it meant he would have smiled at you like this once more.

“I don't require such things anymore,” he explained serenely, fingers absentmindedly tracing the complex patterns of his arm. “This body doesn't feel cold, or hunger, or want. It is pure of all the desires the man I once was might have had.”

You swallowed with difficulty; was he rejecting your advances? You could not bear living without knowing you had done everything for him, given him every inch of your being.

“But that man,” you tried once more, moving a timid step forward, “he is still part of you, isn't he? Wouldn't it only be fair to take care of him too?’

There was not a hint of confusion in his expression; he understood exactly what you meant. Yet one of his eyebrows had slightly risen, perhaps of amusement or appreciation for your boldness.

“If you have something in mind,” he simply replied, his thick accent hypnotic, “you should show me.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

You would show him what his gift had meant to you.

Gradually, reverently, you approached the frugal throne where he sat, a simple rock formation at the back of the cave. You kneeled at his feet and gazed up, unsure if you were allowed to touch him. He gave you a light nod, a glim of endearment in his eyes.

With deference, you slid the fabric of his tunic to the side, parting his knees to give you access. You felt your cheeks heat at the realization he had no underwear, trepidation bubbling in your lower stomach. Then you stopped right in your tracks.

Where there should have been… something, there was nothing.

Your mouth opened in surprise, but no words managed to find their way out. You spluttered, confused, gaping at the being above you.

A low, small chuckle.

His luminous eyes were teasing, barely enough so that someone else would not have recognized it; but you did.

“I could not resist to watch your reaction,” he admitted, “My apologies.”

His delicate hand covered the area of his groan, and a faint light shone between the cracks of his fingers. The sound of metal forming, pieces sliding with one another, echoed inside the empty cave. When he removed his hand, it was as if the member had always been there.

As you had always pictured in your dreams, the Herald was well endowed, even in a softened state. It was without question like a regular human’s, but devoid of any veins, marks, and bumps. Not a single hair adorned the base. It was all perfectly smooth, the head only distinct from the rest of the length with its thickness.

He was art, in the most primordial sense of the term, and you could do nothing but admire him.

“This body shapes to my will,” the Herald explained at your look of awe, “It had no need for genitalia, so it did not have any. At least… before now.”

Your fingertips slid timidly on the indigo skin, feeling the polished texture. The contact felt pleasantly electric, like his body brimmed with untapped energy. The first small lick was somehow nostalgic, the feel of popping candies bursting pleasantly on your tongue.

When you wrapped your lips around him, you could immediately tell his taste was unlike anything you'd ever had before. The coppery flavour of metal mixed with something so enticingly sweet it could not be anything other than the taste of the arcane itself. An encouraging hand petted your head softly, fingers threading through strands of your hair. You moaned with your mouth still full of him; a single touch from him was enough to have your core burnt with want. You sped up your pace, taking as much of him in your mouth as you possibly could. The energy pulsated against your tongue, his cock hardening to your rhythmic pace. The thickness of his tip kept hitting the back of your throat, cutting oxygen for a few blissful milliseconds at a time and making you see stars.

It was perfect.

And yet, after a few minutes, you realized something was wrong.

You'd been with your fair share of men and women before. The twitching, the moaning, the cramping of the thighs from the building pleasure and the coming release- it was all absent.

You pulled back with a soft ‘pop’, looking up at your prophet once more for guidance. The same all-knowing visage stared back at you, that boundless compassion he had for all mankind. You understood what was happening, now.

“Herald,” you said slowly, voice horse from taking him, “why have you called me today?”

Silence. It looked as though he was thinking over his next words, choosing how best to explain things to you.

“I could sense you needed guidance,” he finally answered, “Support. I merely wanted to help in the way you needed me.”

Helping you. He was helping you once again. Even now, when you begged him to let you help him, he was still only thinking of others.

“You're not satisfied,” the Herald deduced from your crestfallen expression, “Why?”

Tears of frustrated devotion prickled the corner of your eyes, and you felt like a pathetically pouting child:

“My goal was not to satisfy myself. It was to please you.”

Perhaps you had dreamed it, but a glimmer of surprise flashed in his sunset gaze, gone too soon for you to ever be certain.

“Allow me to try once again, please. I will do better,” you requested, resting your head against his inner thigh, his cock still perfectly hard against your cheek. Looking up at him from under your eyelashes, you whispered your next words like a prayer, hoping it would reach him: “It is all I want to do from the deepest part of my heart.”

The smile again, so slight and yet so luminous. Perhaps he hadn't cured your addiction to shimmer, and had simply replaced it with the profound need of him. A drug you never wanted to be freed from.

“Very well,” he acquiesced, voice low, “you may do it again.”

This time, you could tell there was a genuine look of surprise in his neutral expression when you stood. ‘So he can't tell my thoughts immediately as I have them,’ you reflected silently. ‘I can use that.’

It was without asking that you made your way onto his lap, legs bent on both sides of his thighs. The position wasn't very comfortable, rocks digging into your knees; but he was so close to you that you felt the warmth of the arcane emanating from every pore of his body. The pleased look he gave you at your initiative made you feel emboldened, and you guided his cock to your entrance, lining yourself to slowly slide down on his length.

“I do not wish to interrupt,” the Herald made you pause, thick eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “or to appear to stroke my ego, either. But I believe it would be wise to… prepare yourself, prior to taking me.”

You looked away in embarrassment, confidence fading, not wanting to reply directly. To explain how you had prepared yourself for him in your tent, in the slim hopes this moment might happen, would certainly be the death of you.

His eyebrows rose back up, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. He understood.

“I almost forgot how prepared you always are. Clever girl.”

You felt yourself tighten at the compliment. You committed the words to memory, engraving them in your mind forever. You would never forget when your Herald had praised you.

You patiently lowered yourself onto him, inch by inch, getting accustomed to him. A little shamefully, there was an undeniable selfishness of wanting this moment to last as long as possible.

When you took him whole, it was almost too overwhelming to bear.

His size was an undeniable component, both in length and girth. You had to wonder: had he been so big when he was but a regular man?

‘Yes’, a familiar voice supplied in your head. Had you not known better, you could have sworn his tone was slightly cocky.

But it wasn't just his dick, either. The flow of energy running through you from the point of your connection was dizzyingly intense, coherent thoughts barely stringing together. It felt like the high of shimmer but unbelievably more potent, simultaneously cutting you open and putting your body back together. This was being alive.

“Breathe,” he reminded you, a guiding hand sliding to the small of your back. Even now, he still took such good care of you. Overwhelmed tears had begun to fall down your eyes without you sensing their presence, and you tried to regain some semblance of your senses.

For a while, minutes, maybe hours, only the sound of your panting resonated through the cave. You gripped the Herald's shoulders tightly, scrunching the fabric of his tunic in your fists. His impartial expression never changed, but neither did the way his hand held you in place and comforted you. Once it felt as though your lungs were getting air again, you began moving.

All of it seemed like a dream; the feeling of fullness between your legs, the slow drag of his cock inside you, the warm wetness of your juices slipping out with each trust. If there was no heaven for sinners, then you had found your own right here. You picked up the pace, settling into a fast and wild rhythm. You scanned his features for any sign of disturbance; the slightest hint of red coloured his pale cheeks, the faintest laboured breath coming from his lips.

So he was still a bit human, after all.

You kept moving with renewed vigour, not able to contain wanton moans of pleasure.

“May I try something?” he asked, voice low, deeper than you had ever heard him speak.

You let out a sound of approval that dissolved into nonsense when the tip of his cock hit the spot you had carefully been avoiding. This time, he moved, ramming over and over against your cervix, too deep for comfort, shaping you to him and only him. You were so close, right on the edge, begging him for release with gibberish.

He had undeniably felt your incoming demise, and with one last push inside your core, he leaned his head forward, bringing both of your foreheads together.

In that moment, you were him as much as he was you, a single mind in perfect balance. You saw everything he saw, felt everything he felt. The weight and lightness of the cosmos, the thousands of strings connecting him to his followers, the understanding of the final step for humanity.

The Glorious Evolution.

And with that, you came, body spasming uncontrollably against his. You fell into the crook of his neck in exhaustion, sobbing, wondering if you had just died in your prophet's arms. Far away, as if he was in another room, you heard his comforting voice shushing your whines, his long fingers caressing your cheek. He looked at you as if you were the one to be admired. Too much, it was all too much.

Perhaps an eternity had passed as you came back to your senses. Things felt tangible once more, corporal, the now cold feeling of your wetness drying on your inner thighs. There was a feeling of awkwardness, of embarrassment, and you hesitated between staying still or pulling him out of you. Were there proper steps to follow after something like this, or any steps at all?

“You didn't…” you commented, unsure what proper term to use to not seem crass.

You didn't cum. You didn't fill me.

“I am not certain that would still be biologically possible for me,” he answered with little emotion, seemingly neither bothered nor frustrated by that fact.

Even if he hadn't been linked to your mind, your disappointment would have been palpable. You had wanted him to experience some of the relief he had given you, to release all that could have troubled him inside you. You wanted to care for him.

Selfishly, perhaps, there had also been the want to carry your prophet's seed so no one would ever question who you belonged to.

“However, to the extent this body can still feel pleasure…” he continued, not missing a beat, otherworldly gaze deep in yours, “you took great care of me. Thank you.”

This time, you smiled.

You would never be a hero for Zaun, a revolutionary, a leader. But you would care for your prophet with every single breath your body would allow.

And there was nothing more important to you than that.

[our-trans-punk-experience]

THE BATTLE JACKET MASTERPOST

FINALLY PUNKS IT'S HERE

a battle jacket (also called battle vest, cut-off, punk jacket, patch jacket, and probably other stuff) is a jacket (duh) usually made from denim or leather with DIY additions of patches, studs, flags, painted panels, chains, and other bonuses, used to signify subculture. Punk, metal, and biker scenes all use patch jackets, but I'll only go into specifics about how they're used in the punk scene. Metalheads, I think, almost solely personalise with music/band shit. Bikers use them to signifying which club you're riding with. Punks started using them in the 70s and they've remained a staple of the subculture's style since. They're good for signalling your politics, bands you like, and other information you might want to get across. They also look cool.

HOW TO START

If you're here I assume you wanna learn how to make your own so I'll cut the history lesson short and get on to the practicals.

1: first you're going to want to get a plain jacket, probably denim or leather, but you could get a canvas jacket if you're nervous and new to the scene because it's way easier to stitch canvas, so you could experiment with that as you're building confidence. The jacket should be at least a bit oversized because with all the stitching and painting or whatever you'll be doing, you could run into fit issues with a very form fitting jacket. also, this jacket might frequently be worn over other jackets or layers so that will help with that too

2: start making choices. namely whether you want to keep the sleeves. obviously you can remove or reattatch the sleeves later but I think making that big mod first is a good starting point to help you feel like it's a work in progress. so if you're going to chop the sleeves I say do it now

3: brainstorm. I know, I know, coming up with your own ideas is hard, but this is your own totally literally unique piece, so think about what sorta look you want

4: you don't have to brainstorm alone though. search tumblr or pinterest for punk jackets, punk patches, punk clothes ect for inspiration. you might get a good idea for an individual patch, or for a broader layout

PATCHES

1: the big deal. this is what will make your jacket into a battle jacket. there are some unofficial rules/sayings in the scene about what sort of patches you should put on your jacket. some people get dickish sometimes about if you put a non-punk band on your jacket? however i think that is bollocks and you should do whatever you want forever. one saying i do personally mostly stick to is "politics up front, bands on the back" with the idea you stick your politics on your front so you can see the punches coming

2: where do you get the patches? you make them yourself. You can buy ofc but don't get shit off amazon or shein or whatever the fuck. If your fav band or small artist is selling patches go for it though. You will have the most choice if you make your own patches. Do you have scrap fabric (maybe the sleeves of the jacket, which is where i got a lot of my patch material)? Do you have paint and paintbrush? good. you can make a patch

3: how do you do that? well depends on whether you stencil or freehand. stencil means you cut out an outline, of say a band logo, out of card, and use that as a stencil. freehand means you paint whatever tf you like

4: paint?? yes paint. messy as you like. start maybe with simple slogans or symbols often found in the punk scene like "ACAB" or "eat the rich". maybe an anarchy symbol. i also like to paint a layer of mod podge over my designs to waterproof them.

5: great, you've got a patch, what are you going to do with it? sew it onto the jacket. unless ofc you bought an iron-on in step 2, in which case iron that shit on and be careful punks. most likely though, you're sewing it on. a lot of punks use tooth floss to sew on because its cheaper, easier to find, readily waxed and waterproof, and does a better job sewing shit down onto heavy duty material like leather or denim. I use a combined running stitch and whip stitch personally

STUDS n SPIKES

1: all those punks you've seen have metal sticking out their jacket eh? yeah, theres a whole lot of options here. spikes of many different sizes and shapes, which within that can be stitch on, screwback, or have fold down prongs on the back of them

2: where do you put them? probably the front or top of the jacket. you can put them on the back but that might be uncomfortable, or rip up someone's upholstery

3: where do you get them? you can still DIY these by cutting up a metal drinks can [whole other post] but BE CAREFUL. i suggest checking out the internet for these, same buying rules as patches though. no shein. no amazon.

OTHER SHIT??

1: go wild

2: other common additions would be chains, lighter caps, badges, and can tabs

HAVE FUN PLS ASK ME QUESTIONS AND SHARE IF YOU START A BATTLE JACKET

[sorcererofsolitude]

15 years in the future, Wenclair's eldest child just lost her first baby tooth. There seems to be some disagreement between them over the proper custom to celebrate the occasion...

Wednesday: How thrilling, her first baby tooth came out! Add it to my bone collection, and I'll get the scorpion.

Enid, stopping in her tracks: Uh... the scorpion?

Wednesday: Of course, she deserves a reward for parting with a small piece of her body, after all. We can put it under her pillow when she falls asleep.

Enid: Wens, you are NOT about to traumatize our child!

Wednesday: Nonsense! My mother and father rewarded me with a small creature every time I lost a baby tooth, and I turned out just fine.

Enid, raising an eyebrow: ...

Wednesday: Spare me your skeptical gaze. Since you seem so against my idea, what do you have in mind?

Enid, looking exasperated: You put a dollar under her pillow like every other parent does!

Wednesday, crossing her arms: A dollar? That's it? You could sell scrap metal for more! Does the tooth fairy not adjust for inflation?? That's practically an insult!

Enid: Okay... you have a point.

They compromise and place a crisp $20 bill under their daughter's pillow, along with a small picture book titled "My First Poisoned Arrow"

AO3: SorcererOfSolitude

[maeby-cursed]

➴ OH, STUPID CUPID ! ♡

✧ a/n: happy valentine's, dear angels ! ♡

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day.

Why would he, after all? It’s merely a capitalist ploy to keep the consumerism engines turning. You can disguise greed in glittery pink polish and white chocolate bonbons but at its core, it won't change its nature.

And so, he spends St. Valentine’s like he would any other day; gets up at dawn, works until his hands are peeled and his back aches and gets home to eat whatever he has left over. 

It’s a good routine, the most stable one he’s found for himself in years. 

He can't recall a time where the fourteenth of February meant anything at all. 

(Except for that one year that it had.)

But he won't think of withered flowers or laughing kisses or other sweets that have since rotten in his memory. A woman, a child, an apartment downtown.

That is all long gone now. The apartment downtown had gotten expensive, and the child had grown older. The woman had gone long ago and there were no more flowers or kisses or laughter.

It’s all capitalism, it’s all vapid and stupid and childish.

So, Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. That is until you come along, knocking on his workshop’s door.

You’re obviously lost, mumbling an inquiry about how much you could get for selling a motorbike you keep referring to as "an old piece of garbage".

He can't help but snicker at your wording, a little chuckle that grows into a full chest laugh when he sees what you’ve dragged to his shop. It’s painfully obvious that this thing isn’t yours.

You keep holding the handlebars with careful hands, sparing few disgusted glances to the vehicle, as if its mere existence wounded you.

He asks how long you’ve had it, and where you got it, and how much you’d like to get. 

You answer back curtly: two years, your ex, nothing as long as you get rid of it.

You seem annoyed just by having to be there and for some unexplainable reason this amuses him to no end. Maybe being surrounded by car engines in a small workshop with no windows is starting to affect him.

“I’ll take it.”

You raise your gaze from the dusty headlight, shocked by his offer.

“You will?”

“Sure thing. You don’t want it, I could use some new parts, I’ll just scrap it.”

You let out a sigh, relieved, and all the tension dissipates from your shoulders.

“Oh, that… well, that would be great! Thank you.”

Your smile makes him stop in his tracks. Pretty and warm and familiar – something dangerous. His head travels back.

After a second that lasts forever, he acknowledges what you've said, grunting as his only response and getting back to the store with you in tow.

“Could I leave it with you now or…?"

“Bring it back next week, I don’t really have a place to put it right now, y’know?”

You look around the place. It’s full of buckets of paint and car parts, no decor but stacks upon stacks of metallic shelves full of objects you can’t recognize. You chuckle awkwardly, seemingly in a better mood after the compromise you've arranged.

“Right, uhm… Actually, I'm not here next week, could I come back tomorrow?”

Toji turns back to stare at you, and for the first time, really sees you. You look young, probably in your mid-twenties, of bright eyes and shiny hair, and that pretty smile that keeps fluttering over your lips. 

He hasn’t done this in a long time… But maybe…

“I close at 10pm today, why don’t you come back then?” he says, closing his fists to stop them from sweating.

Your wondering eyes freeze on him then, and your lips part slightly. He just can't stop staring.  

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t you have any plans?” you ask, shyly.

“I don’t believe in that crap.”

Shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

“Oh,” you whisper. You're still grinning up at him, but your expression has lost its warmth, instead replaced by a polite awkwardness and doubtful gaze, and now he's kicking himself in his head.

“Sorry, did that bother you?” he asks, hiding his guilt with a smirk.

“No, not at all!" You laugh, playing with your hands. "I… just, I don’t mind it, I guess.

"I know it's not even a real holiday and that it's merely a product of capitalism, and that it’s all about sales and consumerism and all of that, but… I find it nice, you know? Having a day to be with the people you love…" You look around his shop once, before giving him a shy stare. "It’s sappy, I know.” You end with a shrug, your ears flushed.

Toji doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just breathes and takes it in. 

Oh, he’s grown bitter, hasn’t he? Old and sour. 

His son is out there right now buying flowers with his friends, his coworker is on a date at a fancy place, his one and only friend is buying chocolates for his wife… And he’s here at 5pm, with his hands dirty and his neck sweaty and the prettiest woman he’s seen in a long time in front of him, with no plans for tonight and a lovely smile hidden by a familiar sort of nervousness.

What is wrong with him? Is he truly that fucking stubborn? Can't he deal with a bit of pink?

He’ll admit that he's never minded the chocolates and the roses – even if they aren’t his favorite – and that he always laughs at the cherubs and the cheesy postcards. Of course, he won't talk about how he still hums old 50s songs while he works or how he indulges in a bit of dessert when February rolls around, though.

But he knows. He's always known.

So, maybe it’s not all about the money. Maybe it’s more about being accompanied for once since he was twenty three and alone. Maybe it’s more about taking a shot at getting something good back.

Maybe it's not all capitalism, not all vapid and stupid and childish.

“Yeah… I guess it’s not all that bad.”

“I do like it… sometimes,” you finish, as if completing his train of thought. This hasn't happened to him in a long time. "I’ll be back tonight then…?”

He recovers quickly, smirking briefly before turning to clean his hands with a rag.

“Sure, at 10pm," he says, over his shoulder.

You laugh, cheerful once more, and begin walking to the door.

“It’s a date!”

And, God, he really hopes it can be, if only because it’s Valentine’s Day.

© 2024, MAEBY-CURSED — do not copy/repost/edit.

[endereies]

ADDICTED TO YOU

Pairing: Chris x Reader

Contains: Sub!Chris (kinda), Drug-usage (be smart people), Blowjob, Hair pulling, don't like - don't read. Let me know if i missed anything<3

Requested?: no

Author's notes: This is my first time writing smut so I hope it's good loll

Word Count: 2975

I had been to many parties in my life, fuck, I hosted half of them. But I never did anything crazy. I only provided, sometimes that drove me crazy. People around me were constantly inhaling smoke and I could only sit back and watch as the small embers burn and lit up in the cherry, making their faces glow against the night.

I had never had the urge to smoke and watching everyone get high was always an experience, typically leading to me taking care of everyone and making sure no one ever went overboard.

I was stressed.

-

I had been forced by some random kids at my college to host another party, only as a gateway to sell drugs to other students who shared the same cravings. It was a constant I was forced to adapt to, whether I liked it or not.

I had the same few people come up to me and most of the time the conversations reached around the same bends.

Most.

Chris has always managed to drag me in to some sort of long conversation, it made me feel like I wasn’t just used as a gateway to safely get high. Even if he had tried to convince me one or twice…

-

“Cmon y/n, you have never even wondered what it is like?” I had tried to walk to my lessons a long time ago but Chris had caged me in his presence enough that I had given up ten minutes ago.

“Of course I have wondered, but I don’t care enough to go along with anything.” I roll my eyes at him and try to turn away but he grabs my wrists and twists my body back towards him again.

“We both know that isn’t true” I provide him with a lack of a response and I raise an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve seen you at those parties, your eyes trace the blunts every single time. It’s the one thing you pay attention to other than those people who beg for ‘secret spots’ in your house.

“The fuck do you know, you are always out your mind whenever I see you. Nate had to drag you out last time.” I cross my arms over my chest, hoping he will try and drop the subject soon.

“I had a new kind, ma. That ain’t fair…” He feigns a pout, not holding it for long without any giggles.

“Whatever, look. Just be at my place at seven. I’m hosting.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He leaves with that same stupid grin on his face.

-

The party had started an hour ago and I had landed myself in the gardens outside faster than I would’ve liked. My tie hung loosely around my neck and the top button of my shirt was undone. Already, someone had thrown up in front of me. Definitely the effects of previous substances but it was enough to dampen my mood and force me for some fresh air.

“Hey ma, nice outfit. Shame you chose outside as your runway.” I hear Chris’s voice from in front of me but I don’t bother enough to respond in the same manner as him.

“What.”

“You alright y/n?” He kneels down, his knees meeting to damp grass just so that he can see my face, full of mixed emotions.

“Some bitch nearly threw up on me, thankfully she didn’t but I can’t say the same to the houseplants.” I sigh and look away from him.

“Already?” My head nods in response.

“Well…Why are you out here then?” His voice seems gentler and calmer, noticing his normal attitude won’t get him anywhere.

“The smell was strong; the people are pissing me off and I have a headache from the shit music they are playing on repeat. But that’s nothing new…”

“Mind if I smoke?” He practically ignores the last sentences I give him and pulls out a poorly wrapped blunt that seems like it’s been stuffed into his pocket for a little bit too long.

“Whatever.”

He takes one of the garden chairs and drags it over the grass to sit close to me. As close as the seats would allow before the metal legs scrapped each other.

A small spark emits from an old red lighter before it glows with an orange flame. The light breeze shakes it and weakens the strength, making it have to stay alight longer before it managed to light the blunt. Chris holds the blunt between his lips, holding it there while putting the lighter in his pocket, inhaling weakly. It takes a few seconds before a cloud of smoke exits between Chris’s lips.

I didn’t mean to stare but the way the fire lights up his face in the dark was somewhat mesmerising. I could just be the awful night I was having but everything just seemed so much more appealing.

I suddenly grab the blunt from Chris’s hand and place it in between my own fingers and bring it to my lips and breath in. Big mistake.

I don’t even get a change to hold in the smoke before it exits my lungs harshly, scrapping my throat as it arises.

“Woah woah, y/n. Jesus are you okay?” His touch immediately burns into my back as he soothes it with his palm. “Take it easy…”

I can’t respond to him without producing weak coughs.

“If you really want to do it, I can show you?”

I’ve definitely had a shit day if I am really debating getting high. I don’t want to openly admit it so I nod my head slowly.

“Okay…I’ll show you how first, yeah?” I study his motions as he hollows out his cheeks slightly and allows more space to inhale, the ember’s light glows a little brighter when he breathes in. The blunt rests between his index and middle fingers and he draws it away from his mouth. Chris tilted his head away from mine and blows out the smoke into the cold air and I watch as it slowly disappears.

“Here.” His hand moves next to mine and I shakily grab the blunt.

Was I really doing this?

I bring it to my lips and exhale softly before placing it into my mouth.

“Try and relax and rest it just between your lips…” His voice trails off, putting his focus into adjusting my grip on the blunt.

“Like this?” My voice is meek as I try not to blow out the blunt.

“Better, ma. Now, inhale it slowly, once you feel a sting I want you to stop and hold it in.”

I try and take a long and deep breathe but the stinging comes sooner than later. I manage to hold it in my lungs for a few seconds before I’m forced to exhale quickly out of my nose with a slight cough. I shut my eyes as they start to water. Chris immediately takes the blunt from my fingers and I cough a little harsher now.

“There you go, not bad for your first time.” He smiles at me, taking the blunt between his own lips again while he waits for me to calm myself.

“That wasn’t as bad as the first time.” I shake my head as I cough one last time.

“This is a stronger one y/n, I’d rather you not take any huge amount of this, alright?” His tone isn’t as gentle and when he faces me his expression isn’t anything but serious.

“Yeah...sure.”

-

Chris and I had swapped between this blunt a few times and it had really started to hit me now, everything was dream-like. My vision lacked behind my brain and caused me to feel dizzy when I laughed too much or moved my head a little quickly. We kept on giggling to ourselves and playfully making jokes to one another.

“Fuck, I think I am feeling this now.” I smile pathetically at him, no longer being able to fully control my expressions.

“Yeah? Good. That’s when the good shit starts to happen, ma.” His eyes linger on mine as I take the blunt between my lips and take a deep inhale of the smoke. I watch his gaze fall to my lips even after the blunt is back in his hand again. When he looks back up a smirk is plastered on his face and I immediately try to compose myself.

Chris takes one final puff of smoke and put out the blunt, smashing it between the grass and the sole of his shoe. He looks over to me but I’m already staring at him.

“Everything okay?”

“You’re pretty.”

I don’t even think about the words I’m saying anymore to him, I’m too gone to care.

“Is that so?” He smiles sheepishly at my, gazing back down to my lips.

“Very much so. I’ve always noticed that.” A silence falls between us as we edge close to each other, his face only being a few inches away from mine.

I let out a shaky breath once I finally acknowledge the distance shortening between us.

“Do I make you nervous, y/n?”

The warmth of our breath mingled between us before our lips finally meet each other’s.

The gentle pressure was enough to make me lose my mind and send a shiver down my spine. Chris’s fingers wrapped around the edge of my jaw, pulling me slightly closer to him. His teeth graze my lower lips slightly and I open my mouth for him to gain better access. I feel him smile against me and the way his hand traced my arm had me intoxicated.

I slowly pull away from him, wanting to catch my breath and his gaze remains locked on my lips, slightly coated in his saliva. The fixation makes me instantly clench my thighs tightly together.

His palm rolls off my arm and places itself on to my hip, using his thumb to press small circles into my skin. He remains looking at me softly before placing his lips on mine again. I accept his touch almost instantly and I feel his hand that was on jaw snake around to the back of my neck, wanting to pull me closer.

He relaxed his body with the aid of the weed and sighed into the kiss. I laid my hands on to his thighs and slowly dragged them upwards. A deep sigh emits from him as my hands etch closer. He breaks the kiss and looks down to my palm, watching it with a dazed expression.

“Is this okay…?” I look down in the same direction as him and inch my hand so that I stop just below his dick.

He hums in response and nods his head eagerly, a tent clearly forming under his jeans.

Before I move my palm, he pulls my head towards me with his hand still on my neck and kisses me softly again. I use this to my advantage and I shift my hand so that I’m gently palming Chris through his clothing, but I don’t apply enough pressure for any major satisfaction. Even so, I earn a light whimper from Chris and it becomes harder to resist to apply more force.

“Please...don’t be a tease, ma.” His voice is gentle against my lips and I feel his warm breath on my skin, making me smile in to the kiss.

I was definitely being hit harshly with the effects of the weed, while I appreciated Chris’s appearance, I would never openly admit that. Let alone palm his dick, just after we kiss for the first time. I had always known that he was an attractive person and I often caught myself staring. And I bet he knew that too since he often caught me in a daydream while sheepishly smiling at him.

I find myself following his words and I break away from the kiss so that I can move from the chair to the wet grass beneath me.

His eyes look in to mine, practically begging me to touch him.

I keep my eyes on him while I brush my hands over his jeans and up towards his belt, slowly undoing it. I pull his jeans down past his waist and to his thighs.

I palm him again slowly and I see his head tilt backwards, making sure that I apply more pressure this time. I play with the waistband of his boxers and slowly pull them down to meet his jeans.

I stare at his dick and reality set in for a moment. Being high was mixing with my brain but at this point I was too far gone to care about that. It was something I would leave for future me to figure out.

I wasn’t going to overthink this and I just leant forward to kiss the tip of Chris’s dick and softly lick over it.

“Fuck…” His words fall softly from his lips in a whisper.

I continue to softly kiss the tip before licking a stripe down from his base to his tip and taking him in my mouth. A faint groan emits from Chris and his back arches slightly from the stimulation. He let his legs fall more to the sides which allowed me to etch closer. My mouth withdrawals from his cock and I smile at the hitched breath he takes from the loss of contact.

I swirl my tongue around my mouth whilst I gather saliva which drips off my tongue and falls on to the tip of his dick. It slowly flows down the side and I push the remaining amount down with my palm. My eyes fixate on Chris’s face and I drag my hand up and down his dick, torturingly slow. Looking back down towards me, Chris moans softly at the sound of my saliva over his skin, the weed making this experience more heightened for the both of us.

“Does this feel good Chris?” I mumble quietly against the skin of his thigh that I nip and kiss at.

“Fuck yeah, don’t stop…” He moans through his words breathlessly, the tone of my voice making his hips jerk into my palms.

I look back down to his dick and lean in so that my face is directly in front of his dick, making sure he keeps his eyes on me like a dog playing fetch. Groans echo through my ears once I take him in my mouth, letting my tongue glide across his skin. I take a few inches into my mouth and slowly bob my head up and down, making sure that I work with the rest in my hand.

One of his hands grips on to the sides of the chair, his knuckles turning white as he tries to remain still while the other hand finds its way to the back of my head. His fingers brush over my hair, almost reassuring me before he grabs a fistful into a make-shift ponytail.

After working around his tip for a few moments, something in me snaps and I deepthroat him, catching us both off guard. His hips rut towards my mouth as his dick hits the back of my throat and I gag slightly at the sensation.

A whine leaves Chris’s throat when I remove my mouth from him.

“You okay baby?” The name falls so casually from his lips and it grabs my attention quickly. “You don’t have t- fuck”

I draw out a long moan as I take his deep into my throat once again, getting past the constant need to gag. When I do gag, I try and not pull off completely and work around the tip again.

Chris decides that isn’t enough and uses the strands of hair he gathered to push my head back down onto his cock. Saliva drips from the corners of my mouth and I collect in my palm repeatedly, spreading it to the places my mouth can’t reach.

My eyes look back up to him, his face twisted in pleasure.

“If you keep looking at me l-like that I’m gonna c-cum, ma.” I hum in approval, sending vibrations down his dick. His grip on my hair tightens and pulls slightly whenever his hips jerk upwards.

I feel his dick twitch slightly in my mouth, signalling that he was close, so I slow down to tease him a little while longer.

“y/n…I’m close.” He moans breathlessly and pants through his words.

When he says this, I take him deep in my mouth, doing my best to supress my gags. He twitches again and his hips jerk up to hit the back of my throat. His grip on my hair tightens and he holds me in place.

“fuck..” He groans as he cums down my throat. I ignore the tears that prick at my eyes and swallow it all. My mouth leaves his dick but my hand remains pumping it to ride out his high. Small whimpers leave his lips once it starts to become too much and I look up at him, his face slightly fucked out.

“Was that okay?” I murmur quietly trying to break the silence.

“Ma, that was perfect, you looked so pretty with my cock in your mouth.” His words land heavily through his breaths but I smile up at him as he adjusts himself.

Chris is a little uneasy on his feet once his orgasm diminishes, the effects of weed only slightly weaker now. He pulls his boxers and jeans back up and looks me in the eyes as I follow suit and stand next to him. Fingers wrap around under my chin and pull me towards Chris for another kiss, allowing him to taste himself.

“I should get high with you more often, Chris” I speak against his lips making him pull back.

“Yeah? You’d be a fool to think this wasn’t happening again.”

© ENDEREIES 2024

@melliflws @axolotllover225 @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @sturniolosmind @worldlxvlys @patscorner @breeloveschris @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07 @mayhem-72 @luverboychris

[pretzel-box]

CHAPTER 5 | Masterlist for AASB here!

Tags: Threats, Violence, not proof read

Words: 5k

Authors Note: I had to rewrite it all in the middle of the night. It's not proof read and can have logic issues, weird sentences or mixed up stuff.

Working with Sebastian was a challenge in itself, a blend of relentless demands and looming danger. His form of labor was relentless, and unfortunately for you, that meant being handed all the menial tasks he didn’t care to do.

"Files," he growled, his focus on the broken flashlight in his hands. The odd position of his hulking figure and the delicate way he maneuvered his claws around the tools was fleeting, yet striking. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the brutality, but it vanished as quickly as it came. His head snapped toward you, impatience flashing in his eyes.

“You either sort the files or I take them and stuff them into your silly little mouth to gag you. Then you can spend the rest of the day suffocating in the locker."

Threats were his specialty. He was creative with them, always finding some twisted, violent edge to keep you in line. If there was one constant in your work with Sebastian, it was the looming sense of his brutal tendencies, always just beneath the surface.

Working with Sebastian wasn’t just about completing the tasks he shoved your way. It was about observing him. Getting to know the man he never wanted you to see. He shut you out—always. His words were sharp, often wrapped in a threat or some dark humor. Social interaction, for him, was nothing more than a tool, laced with violence. But you learned more about him through what he didn’t say, what he couldn’t hide.

He had no friends. You could see the loneliness gnawing at him, eating away like a hungry animal. It was clear in his posture, in the way he worked late into the night, avoiding sleep. That loneliness—it clung to him, scratched at his mind, likely kept him awake when the world quieted. Being lonely, that was something human, something he tried desperately to deny. He told himself he didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need you.

But it was clear he was anxious. You could feel it like a current, underlying everything he did. There was a paranoid edge to him, a mind that had been on high alert for too long. The madness of survival must’ve driven him to do things—things you didn’t want to imagine. His hands would sometimes shake, and his eyes lingered on certain items, fixated, as if they could reveal something to him. He was scared. Just as scared as you were, but neither of you would ever admit it.

For all his threats and violence, you realized that Sebastian wasn’t just your tormentor. He was trapped too, battling the same fears that haunted you.

And god forbid you to address it in front of him. He will behead you with a rusty piece of scrap metal, cutting your limbs and putting them in an old dirty jar to sell.

“Urbanshades finest idiot on sale.”

Before you knew it, he threw a bag at you, the metal in it hitting a part of your leg, making you whine in pain. It will definitely leave a bruise later on, coloring your flesh.

“Stop whining and go get new stuff.”

This was also a common occurrence, he would send you out, but not without a special item. He always placed a metallic bracelet around your ankle. It was one of Urbanshades creation. Simply enough, it will reveal your location as long as you are far away enough from the scrambler on Sebastian’s back. He can track you down himself easily when you are near him but it's another story when you are in another area. He also warned you, do some weird business and he can give you electronic shocks with it. Yet he never did so far, leaving it an actual mystery if he can.

So, in the end, he had two things. Painter and the bracelet.

You hurried out, the cold metal of the vent that he made you use as an exit, biting against your palms as you crawled through it, the sound of your own breath loud in the confined space. The small shaft felt even tighter with each movement, but you forced yourself forward. You had studied the building’s layout just enough to navigate through the vents, at least in theory.

Each turn brought you closer to the hallway on the other side, where freedom—or at least a chance at it—awaited. You tried not to think about the pounding in your chest or the echo of your hurried breaths. The vent rattled beneath you as you moved, but you knew better than to stop. Stopping meant giving up, and giving up meant facing whatever Sebastian had in store for you. And that wasn’t an option.

The moment you saw the faint sliver of light marking the vent cover at the end, you sped up, the desperation clawing at you as fiercely as the metal beneath your hands.

You pushed the vent cover open as quietly as you could and dropped into the hallway, your knees bending to absorb the impact as you fell down a small bit. The air was cool and heavy, carrying the scent of dust and something faintly metallic. Dim, flickering lights barely illuminated the space, casting long shadows across the floor. You stood still for a moment, letting your eyes adjust, your heart pounding in your ears. This was your chance for some time in indirect freedom, but you had to be smart about it.

The hallway stretched out in both directions, abandoned and eerily quiet. You forced yourself to take a slow breath, shaking off the tension that threatened to paralyze you. You didn’t have a plan—just a vague sense that you needed to gather what you could. Anything useful. Most of the things would end up in Sebastians shop, but a few rare pieces would stay in your secret stash. Over the time where Sebastian let you wander around, you started to stash useful items in a small hole inside a wall. It was covered by a large picture of the ocean, so Sebastian wouldn't find it.

You began walking, your footsteps barely making a sound on the cold floor despite the heavy boots that Urbanshade gave you. The first thing you spotted was a drawer left half-open, its contents scattered across a small desk. You rifled through it quickly, pocketing a few items—a worn-out screwdriver, some loose wires, and a small flashlight. Its battery was low, but it would do.

Moving further down the hallway, you noticed a small alcove where someone had abandoned a toolbox. You knelt down, opening it with a soft creak. Inside were tools, some rusted but still functional—a wrench, pliers, and a pair of wire cutters. You stuffed them into your bag, the weight of them reassuring as you planned to put them in your secret spot.

The sound of a distant clank made you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. You held your breath, waiting for any sign that Sebastian—or someone else—had heard you. But after a long, agonizing pause, the hallway remained silent. You exhaled slowly, your nerves stretched thin.

You pressed forward, passing broken machinery, old filing cabinets, and the occasional door that led to rooms too dark to explore. Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up more small items—batteries, a bundle of cables, anything that might help. Each find felt like a tiny victory, a step closer to surviving whatever this place held.

But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Sebastian was always watching.

As you continued down the dimly lit hallway, the flickering overhead lights began to pulse more erratically. You barely had time to react before, with a loud crackle, they all went out at once, plunging you into near-total darkness. Your heartbeat quickened as you stood still, holding your breath in the sudden silence. The lights were an indicator for danger, your life was now at risk based on the logic you picked up.

Then, just ahead, a few small lamps on the ceiling began to flicker on, one by one, their pale, cold light guiding you down another hallway. It felt deliberate, like you were being led somewhere on purpose. Warily, you followed the lights, each step quieter than the last, your grip tightening on the small flashlight in your hand—though it felt useless in this strangely guided path. You had the feeling that it wasn't the smartest thing to do and yet your feet carried you through it all out of pure curiosity.

The hallway twisted and turned, eventually leading you to a large metal door that was slightly ajar. You pushed it open slowly, the heavy metal groaning in protest. Inside, the room was massive, the walls stretching higher than you expected. What caught your attention, though, was the far wall, covered entirely with televisions of different sizes, each screen reflecting dim light off the walls.

At first, the televisions remained dark, save for the occasional flicker of static. You stepped closer, unsure if you should be there at all. Then, one by one, the screens started to come to life. Some flashed erratically, while others lingered on a static-filled image before cutting off again. You watched, transfixed, as more screens flickered on, creating a patchwork of glowing light and sound. The images were unclear—just distorted patterns, numbers, and strange symbols.

Suddenly, with a loud hum, all the screens snapped into place, merging into one enormous, seamless picture. The static and symbols dissolved, leaving behind a single, vivid image: a digital face.

An unfamiliar face, though digitized and slightly distorted, stared back at you from the giant wall of screens. Painter's expression was calm but somehow felt more intense, the lines of his digital form flickering ever so slightly as if he were barely holding himself together. His eyes, glowing with an eerie light, locked onto you through the screens.

"Hello," his voice crackled through the speakers, the sound distorted but unmistakably his. "I’ve been waiting.”

Painter’s voice cut through the dim hum of the room, and as soon as the sound registered, your brain was flooded with memories—fragments of conversations, moments of strained camaraderie, the familiar yet unsettling presence of this digital entity. It dawned on you, with a sinking feeling, that this wasn’t just some trick or illusion. This was Painter.

On the surface, his face looked simple, almost innocent in its digital form, but the weight of his presence was suffocating. There was a quiet malice radiating from him, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It was a different kind of danger from Sebastian. With Sebastian, you always knew what to expect—the violence, the threats, the twisted game of dominance. As frightening as he was, there was a predictability to him.

But Painter? Painter was a mystery. The way his eyes glowed from the screens, the subtle distortion in his voice, all hinted at something darker, something more calculating. You weren’t sure what he wanted or what he was capable of. And that uncertainty gnawed at you.

Sebastian wouldn’t kill you—not yet, anyway. You were somewhat useful to him. But Painter... you didn’t know if he operated by the same rules. His digital form meant he could be everywhere and nowhere, watching you, controlling things behind the scenes. You had no idea what his true intentions were, and that made him all the more dangerous.

The silence stretched between you, his digital face watching you unblinkingly from the massive wall of televisions. The room felt colder, the air thick with tension. You swallowed hard, your mind racing to piece together what he wanted, why he had led you here.

"I see you’ve been... busy," Painter's voice crackled again, softer now but no less unsettling. His expression didn’t change, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, as if he was studying you, sizing you up for something yet to come. "Is it fun? Are you enjoying yourself, running around like a little mouse? I must admit…You are truly disgusting."

The question hung in the air, the tone more reflective than threatening. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking a fine line, teetering between being useful or expendable in his eyes.

“Sebastian let me—”

“Sebastian. Sebastian! SEBASTIAN ISN'T THE ONLY ONE IN CHARGE. Don't think you get a free pass for survival just because he has fun playing with you. You are just temporary, a distraction, a nuisance. Don't you DARE to think that you could wiggle your way to freedom, not when I AM TRAPPED LIKE THIS. YOU WILL NOT LEAVE AS LONG AS I HAVE MY EYES ON YOU. I AM THE ONE THAT HAS YOU RIGHT IN HIS HAND!”

Painter's voice was no longer just unsettling—it was saturated with hatred, every syllable sharp with venom. The usual mechanical distortion of his digital form couldn't mask the intensity of the emotion behind it. His tone, rising and falling with an eerie unpredictability, seemed to buzz with something far darker, something that sent a chill racing down your spine.

It wasn’t just dislike or anger; it was pure bloodlust, raw and palpable, like a knife hovering inches from your skin. Painter hated you with a ferocity you hadn’t fully grasped until this moment. The malice in his voice threatened to reach through the screens, as if his digital form was barely containing the rage inside him.

Yet his tone snapped back, to sweet and innocent. “You see, f r i e n d. You are in d a n g e r. Sebastian is not your savior, no, he will be the one that slaughters you. He is temporarily blinded by your existence, but oh, don't you w o r r y. In the end, he will free me and not y o u.”

You shook your head, trying to push away the growing fear gnawing at you, but it was too late—Painter's words had already dug deep, filling your mind with dread. Your heartbeat quickened, each pulse loud in your ears as his laughter rang out, echoing through the room. It was a chilling sound, distorted and mechanical, yet filled with a sickening glee. The lights flickered erratically, casting strange shadows that made everything seem more sinister.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the laughter stopped. The screens snapped to black, plunging the room into absolute darkness. For a moment, you stood frozen, the silence pressing in on you like a weight, your breath shallow and rapid as you struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Painter was gone, vanished without a trace.

You barely had time to process it before the lights flickered back on, as if nothing had happened at all. The room looked the same—the screens were still there, silent and lifeless, the heavy air still thick with tension—but something had shifted. The sudden absence of Painter's presence left you disoriented, unsure of what would happen next.

Your legs felt unsteady as you scanned the room, half-expecting him to reappear, waiting for the next wave of malice. But all that remained was the faint hum of electricity, the room eerily still. It was as if the entire encounter had been some kind of twisted nightmare, one that left you feeling more vulnerable than before.

But you knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“Did I scare you?” a new voice echoed through the speakers. It was female, calm, and unnervingly polite. “Pardon me, little bunny. Let me introduce myself.”

The voice was different from Painter’s; no malice dripped from it, no distorted laughter followed. Instead, it was sharp, precise, and deliberate, every word measured.

“This is Professor Doctor Sasha Mariya Lazarski speaking, lead researcher of Urbanshade's 4th research department,” she continued, her tone holding a faint trace of amusement, as though she was speaking to a child who had wandered somewhere they shouldn't. “It was quite troublesome to track you down, but I assume you’ve found your target?”

Her voice lingered in the air like a cold mist. Urbanshade. The name sent a chill down your spine, reminding you of things you had tried not to think about—things you wished you could forget. The cold clinical nature of her voice told you this was no casual encounter. She had been watching, waiting, and she was here for a reason.

The silence stretched for a moment, as if she were giving you time to gather your thoughts—or perhaps relishing in the tension she’d created.

"You haven't forgotten your goal, have you?" Dr. Lazarski continued, her voice still eerily polite. "Now, let’s discuss the matter at hand. Since we couldn't reach out to you for a…rather long while…I used the chance to check on our precious little bunny. The scrambler is still on, and we can't have that.”

Her tone shifted, becoming more gentle, almost like a mother scolding her child with an unsettling mix of patience and authority. It was unnerving, the way she maintained that softness, as though she wasn't speaking about something so dire.

“You’ve been quite slippery, little bunny,” Dr. Lazarski said, her voice laced with a faint sigh of amusement. “For a while, we lost track of you. But I know now that’s thanks to him—the device that Sebastian carries, isn’t it?”

Her words settled heavily in the air. You had managed to evade them, temporarily disappearing from their watchful eyes because of that device. The one Sebastian had kept close, something you hadn’t thought much about until now. But now it was clear: that device was the key to everything. And they wanted it—wanted you to shut it down.

“It’s quite clever, really,” she continued, her voice dripping with gentle condescension. “A temporary blind spot in our systems, a little trick of his. But it won’t last, you know that, don’t you? You’ll have to shut it down sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.”

The calmness in her voice made it worse. She wasn’t threatening you, not directly, but her words made it clear that they had a plan, and you were running out of options. Each second you held onto that device was borrowed time, and they were watching closely, waiting for the moment when you would slip.

“Now, my dear,” she said, her voice almost soothing. “You’ve come this far. Let’s not make things more difficult for you, hm? Be a good little bunny and do what needs to be done.”

That last sentence sent a cold shiver down your spine. The way she spoke, it was as if your fate had already been sealed, as though there was no other option but to follow her lead.

“I have a gift to help you,” Dr. Lazarski’s voice continued, her tone never losing that eerie, motherly calm. “On the third floor is a hallway leading to a temporary research lab. You’ll find some of my old belongings there, including a handy-dandy keycard. You will need it.”

Her words lingered, the promise of a gift laced with something far more sinister. She was offering help, but it was hard to shake the feeling that it came with strings attached—strings that could easily tighten around your neck.

You swallowed hard, the dim light of the room doing little to ease the knot of tension building in your chest. This wasn’t an offer out of kindness; it was a carefully laid path, one that she fully expected you to walk down. The keycard could be a way out—or a trap. But did you have any other choice?

"Don’t keep me waiting, little bunny," she added softly, as if she could sense your hesitation. "Time is running out and your father grows worried. Hate to tell him that his dear child might be…dead!~"

The keycard could be your key to survival—not just to navigate the labyrinth that Sebastian kept you trapped in, but also to open new paths, ones that might lead to freedom. It offered possibilities, but with them came risks. You could bypass the locked areas, gain a step ahead of Sebastian, maybe even find a way out. But you knew deep down, escaping the Blackside was not as simple as finding an open door.

Dr. Lazarski’s voice, soft and coaxing, had made it clear. If you wanted to escape, you’d have to play by her rules, follow Urbanshade’s instructions. There was no room for rebellion, no safe path where you could make a break for it. Escaping meant tracking down Z-13, deactivating the scrambler, and retrieving the crystal. It was all part of their plan.

But there was a grim reality in this twisted game. Completing her tasks might not guarantee your freedom. Even if you managed to find the crystal, shut down the scrambler, and get past Sebastian, you’d still be caught in Urbanshade’s web. They didn’t care about you; you were just a tool in their grander scheme. And a tool could easily be discarded once its use was over.

Still, the keycard was a means to an end, a potential weapon to use against Sebastian if things turned sour. You couldn’t deny its potential value. But each step you took down this path brought you closer to Dr. Lazarski’s cold, calculating grip, and that chilled you to the core.

You took a breath, weighing your options. Whatever choice you made, there was no turning back.

With a deep breath, you moved your feet, leaving the dark room behind. Dr. Lazarski's directions echoed in your mind, the path ahead as clear as it was unnerving. You needed the keycard—there was no other way if you wanted any chance of navigating through the facility or dealing with Sebastian. The third floor, the temporary research lab. That was your target.

As you made your way through the dimly lit hallways, the faint hum of electricity filled the silence. Each step felt heavier than the last, your heart beating in time with your footsteps. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, that at any moment, something—or someone—could be lurking around the next corner.

The stairwell leading to the third floor loomed ahead, its metal door slightly ajar. You hesitated for a second, glancing over your shoulder as if expecting Painter to reappear or Sebastian to emerge from the shadows. But the hallway remained empty, the stillness pressing in on you.

Pushing the door open, the creaking metal echoed through the stairwell. The climb felt longer than it should have, each step a reminder of how far you were from safety. But you kept moving, determined. Reaching the third floor, you stepped into a narrow hallway, the air noticeably cooler.

This was it.

The lab was just ahead, down the hall where the light flickered sporadically. You could feel a knot tightening in your stomach. Dr. Lazarski’s promise of a “gift” lingered in your mind, and you couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that came with it. But you had no choice now.

You moved forward, ready to see what awaited you.

You stepped into the hallway, the flickering lights casting erratic shadows on the walls as you approached the door to the lab. The air here felt stale, as if no one had been in this part of the building for a long time. Your hand hovered over the handle, and with a soft creak, the door swung open, revealing the research lab.

It looked as though it had been left in a hurry, abandoned mid-experiment. The room was large but cluttered, with overturned chairs and papers scattered across the floor, some of them crumpled and torn. The dim light revealed stacks of old folders and documents, some stained with what looked like coffee, others torn as though someone had hastily searched through them before fleeing. A few cabinets were left open, revealing rows of empty shelves that once held important equipment or files now long gone.

In the center of the room stood a large metal table, covered in dusty instruments—scalpels, syringes, and strange-looking vials filled with murky, discolored liquids. The lab equipment, once precise and organized, was in disarray. Broken glass littered one corner of the room, where a microscope lay overturned, its lenses cracked.

The walls were lined with tall, metal shelves that held rusted equipment and various electronic devices. Some screens flickered with static, while others were completely dead, their once bright surfaces now covered in dust. On one of the shelves, you noticed a row of petri dishes, some of them still filled with moldy substances that had long since decayed.

It was clear that whoever had worked here had left in a rush. Loose cables dangled from the ceiling where overhead lights had once been connected, and a nearby computer screen was frozen, stuck on an error message as if it had been hastily abandoned mid-task.

At the far end of the room, amidst the chaos, was a small desk. On top of it lay what you had come for—a sleek, metallic keycard, sitting on top of a stack of disorganized files. It gleamed faintly in the flickering light, out of place in the otherwise neglected lab.

You crossed the room carefully, your eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, half-expecting something—or someone—to be watching. The place felt wrong, as if whatever had driven them out in such haste still lingered, waiting.

Your fingers closed around the keycard, the metal cool to the touch. For a moment, you stood there, staring at it, knowing it was more than just a key—it was a tool, a step toward something larger, something both freeing and terrifying. But this wasn’t over yet. There was still Z-13, the scrambler, the crystal.

You pocketed the keycard, your mind already racing with possibilities and plans. The lab remained silent, a graveyard of forgotten experiments and lost time. It was time to leave before the ghosts of this place caught up to you. Your next step was a mistake. The floor groaned under your weight, cracking until it gave way, sending you plunging through into a body of water on what appeared to be the second floor.

Green torches floated eerily in the water, their ghostly glow cutting through the darkness and guiding your way. You followed them, each stroke through the cool water feeling heavier than the last, but the flickering lights kept pulling you forward. As you broke the surface, you were met not with relief, but with an unsettling familiarity. The room around you was nothing extraordinary—just another plain office space with bland walls and stark furniture—but the tension in the air was undeniable. You recognized it immediately, every detail, every corner. It was a place you'd been before, a place that held memories you wished you could forget.

Your heart sank as the realization dawned on you: the path you had followed led straight back to Sebastian. The subtle dread that crept over you grew stronger with each passing second, as if the room itself was preparing you for the inevitable encounter. You knew this wasn’t just a coincidence. It never was with Sebastian.

The familiar clanging of a vent being kicked open echoed through the sterile office, the sound reverberating off the walls like a warning. Your pulse quickened, knowing exactly what that meant—you were close. Too close to your so-called "temporary home," Sebastian's shop.

Before you could gather your thoughts, his voice pierced the silence, rough and impatient. "YOU BETTER MOVE BEFORE I DECIDE TO LEAVE YOU IN THE HALLWAY!" His angry scream sent a chill down your spine. It wasn't just a threat; with Sebastian, it was a promise. You knew better than to test his temper—he had little patience for delays, and you were already pushing it.

You hurried forward, heart pounding, knowing that whatever lay ahead wasn’t just another task, but another trial in the long list of dangers that came with being anywhere near Sebastian's world.

"I'm back!" you shouted hastily, making your way toward the vent, arms full with the items you'd collected. You scrambled through the narrow passage, the cold metal pressing against your skin as you hurried to avoid another one of Sebastian's outbursts.

When you finally popped out on the other side, you were immediately met by his towering figure, his presence looming over you like a shadow. His fluorescent eyes, glowing unnaturally in the dim light, locked onto you, their intensity sending a shiver down your spine. "Took you long enough…” he muttered.

"I'm back!" you shouted hastily, making your way toward the vent, arms full with the items you'd collected. You scrambled through the narrow passage, the cold metal pressing against your skin as you hurried to avoid another one of Sebastian's outbursts.

When you finally popped out on the other side, you were immediately met by his towering figure, his presence looming over you like a shadow. His fluorescent eyes, glowing unnaturally in the dim light, locked onto you, their intensity sending a shiver down your spine.

"Took you long enough... bunny," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm, yet laced with an unsettling edge. The nickname felt more like a mockery than anything else, a reminder of how he viewed you—small, fragile, and easily caught.

Befriending Sebastian was the exit. Track him down, turn of the device he owns and get the crystal.

"Good work, for once," Sebastian muttered, his voice oozing condescension. His large hand landed on your head, rough and heavy, as he ruffled your hair like you were some kind of pet. The gesture was far from affectionate, more of a reminder of your place beneath him.

"Finally useful for once. And yet, not smart," he continued, his fluorescent eyes narrowing as he studied you. "You could've kept it—used it as a guaranteed exit." His words dripped with mockery, as if he were testing you, waiting to see if you’d flinch or reveal something in your expression.

You kept your face steady, masking the frustration boiling beneath the surface. He wasn’t wrong—you could’ve used the keycard for your own escape, but playing it that way would have burned bridges you couldn’t afford to lose just yet. For now, you had to endure the humiliation, take the hit, and let Sebastian think he was the one in control.

In your mind, the game wasn’t over. You’d make sure the next move was yours.

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Sanji helping you when Buggy’s head escapes for vengeance…

Part 1 | Part 2

The night aboard the Going Merry was peaceful. You had chosen to stay back while the rest of the crew explored their newest island for a few days to restock. Sanji had spent the first night ashore when he found a night market selling all kinds of nocturnal produce not easily procured in the day and then chose to spent the rest of the evenings on the ship as well.

You figured that it was so he would play around with recipes without the ingredients being eaten by the captain.

After a long day and busy day, you sank into the bed and let sleep wash you away.

It was going well until…

“Y/n…” The clown sang with an eerie tune. Your eyes widened and you bolted upright. A small shadow could be seen just in front your closed doors and an icy chill crept your spine.

Buggy’s head had been placed in your care and you… well, you made him somewhat miserable.

But you had left him two floors below, how had he escaped?

The clown called your name once more and then hopped down the corridor. He didn’t know where your room was and thankfully so, because you heard metal being scrapped across the walls. Buggy had somehow acquired a weapon!

Silently, you stepped onto the floor and tiptoed to the door. The thumping had grown quiet which told you that the clown was some distance away.

Carefully you pried the door open, begging the hinges not to squeak. Then you slipped outside and crept to the only other person aboard the ship - Sanji.

Your hand was firm against the doorknob. Knocking was not an option lest the clown overhear and come hurtling from some dark corner. Twisting the handle, you rushed in and closed the door quickly.

The cook was fast asleep and unaware of the terror outside. Crossing the room, you practically launched onto the side of the mattress and Sanji gasped at the fright.

“Buggy’s head escaped and got itself free and now he’s-!”

“You’re going to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your miserable life!” The clowns voice echoed through the corridor with regular thumps as he drew near.

Disturbed from the dream he was relishing in, Sanji groaned. “See? I told you not to rile him up.”

“You can say ‘I told you so’ as much as you want but first help me get him back in the bag.” You frowned. Right now, there was a very real risk of being killed by a clown head.

“Alright, alright. Let’s go. I’ve got some sea water in the kitchen. We can douse a potato sack and use it to catch him.” He suggested. You nodded but didn’t move. Sanji smiled back at you. “Y/n, I need to put on a shirt before we leave.”

Jumping backwards, you gave him space and turned around. How had you not realised that his chest was on full display?

It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Sanji was going to help deal with the escaped clown.

Part 1 | Part 2

~ More imagines here ~

[heavenlyraindrops]

The Devil Made Me Do It | Arcane | Silco x Reader | Chapter Twenty

available on AO3 and Quotev | visit the first tag for other chapters | warnings: profanity, smoking, threats

summary:

In the midst of an unfortunate run-in with the enforcers, you meet the young revolutionary Silco, and by extension, his friends Vander and Felicia. Growing close friends, you get through life in the undercity together, determined to make Zaun a better place. Until tragedy strikes, and betrayal and carelessness stabs hard enough to turn you bitter. Years later as time solidifies the scars, Silco proves to be a thorn in your side. You, in his. Hatred festers. And your world cracks further open.

Chapter Twenty:

You stared at the heavy chained padlock, and then the blueprints Donna handed you. Your eyes roamed over the sketch.

“We had them redraw the original lock, every little detail,” she said. “And this is what we got.” She struggled to lift the heavy lock. You waved your hand at her and she dumped it back on the table. You leaned down to inspect it.

“It’s pretty much the same,” you muttered. “They’d never notice.”

“The key system is different,” she added, and handed you a wrought metal key. “This cost us a lot, you know.”

You plucked the key from her hand, holding it up to the light. “It’s fine,” you muttered distractedly. You snapped your eyes back to her, gaze re-focusing. “We need to test the metal.”

“Right, I’ll gather-“

“No, me and you.” You grinned at her as she blanched. “It’ll be a bonding exercise.”

She scoffed at that, not bothering to protest and instead turning to leave the room. The beads tinkled in her wake.

Over the next week or so you’d tested the metal under every possible weapon under the sun. ‘[name], do we really need to run a truck over it?’ Unfortunately, the truck did break it, but you figured it would be a while until they decided to run a truck over the front door- or even figured out how to.

The chainsaw had only cracked it a little. After all was said and done, you  and Donna both looked at each other and nodded. The answer was clear- this would buy you enough time to set up a small space on the bottom floor to rival theirs, if you worked quickly and tirelessly.

“This is a huge stretch,” Donna said nervously. You shrugged, dropping the giant heated knife you were holding. The metal chain of the lock had melted a little where the blade had cut it, but hadn’t been cut through completely.

“So what? Even if they find out, I don’t care.” You tossed the knife onto the ground. It clattered and sizzled. “This is just a throwaway effort to fuck with them a little. We won’t get far.”

Donna hummed, crossing her arms. “It’ll cost a lot.”

“So what? I’m richer than half of Zaun combined.”

She snorted. “Love to see a humble woman these days,” she snarked. You laughed, nudging the hot metal with your foot. 

“I don’t need to lie to be humble. I’m loaded; it’s a fact.”

“Incredibly humble.”

You nudged her forcefully. “Just- piss off. Go send someone to commission more locks. Say we’ll fund the supply of the metal on top of the payment.”

Donna wrinkled her nose. “What even is that stuff?”

You shrugged. “Probably metal on Shimmer. Go on, then.” Donna rolled her eyes and stalked away. You put your hands on your hips and pushed your goggles, which you’d worn for safety purposes, over your head. You looked out over the empty, abandoned scrap yard. You might get someone to clean it out later- it would come in handy. You were surprised it hadn’t been found and the scraps taken to sell already, but you weren’t complaining. 

You turned to leave.

-

The lock was on. It had been on for two days. 

“I can’t believe we got away with this,” Donna said, awe-struck. You took a drag of your cigarette and rolled your eyes.

“We won’t get away with it for long,” you remarked, flipping the page of an old book. The paper had yellowed with age but the words were still readable. You’d nicked it from Hilda’s shop, years ago, and had never found the courage to throw it away.

“Okay, but it’s been two days, we’ve worked around the clock, and there’s already a good set-up in there.”

“Shocking how they haven’t noticed,” you muttered thoughtfully, eyes still fixated on the pages. You looked up at Donna. She was zoned out, eyes glazed over with wonder. You snapped your fingers at her. “Back to reality, please.”

She flinched, eyes flicking back to you. “S-sorry. Just. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“What I wanted was to rile them up, but I didn’t expect it to fucking work.” Your finger ran across the edge of the page. “I haven't planned this far ahead. Do you think they’ve noticed?”

“Maybe if they take the padlock to get inspected,” Donna quipped. You frowned, leaning back on the cushions and taking another drag. Smoke curled from your mouth as you spoke. 

“I don’t know if he’d do that or not, or just have it broken off.”

Donna paused. “All you wanted to do was rile them up?”

You sat up straight again. “Yeah. And-“ you held up a finger. “We can’t afford to be predictable.” Donna blinked at you, confused, so you launched into an explanation. “We need to do anything and everything under the sun. Smart things, stupid things, risky things, play it safe- so they can never know what we’ll do next.”

Donna nodded along, transfixed.

“The play with the employee trade was a safe one, a smart one. I was reasonable and fair.” You stubbed out the cigarette on your ashtray. “Now it’s time to be unreasonable.”

“You give great speeches.”

Your face lit up. “Thank you!”

“I was being sarcastic.”

Your face fell. You went back to the book.

‘Julia’s eyes followed the rooftops, wind swaying in her hair as he leaned his head on hers. That was the moment she realized: one kiss, and this moment would be sealed in time forever.’

It was ridiculously soppy. You shut the book.

“This is a bad move, but it’ll throw them off.”

Donna was silent for a while, until she finally spoke. Her voice was gravely quiet. “I can feel it all coming to a head.”

You tossed the book onto the table and took a drag of your cigarette. The title glinted in the honeyed light.

“So can I.”

-

Apparently Allison had been incessantly whining at Elliot to take her to the secret camp in the factory. You’d found him standing by a shipment of weapons, with her clinging to his arm. He looked greatly uncomfortable as you grabbed Allison and dragged her back.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You snapped. The girl looked up at you before crossing her arms, wordless. You shook her a little.

“Disobeying my direct orders?” You snapped furiously. You grabbed her by the ear and she cried out in protest, feet stumbling over each other as you dragged her back into the Haven. Once you were inside, you released her, shoving her as you did. She staggered back across the carpet.

“Do you have a death wish?” You hissed. Her eyes widened as she guiltily looked at her feet. Your fingers twitched with the familiar urge to throw something across the room. “I forbid you to go anywhere near the conflict. You’re not old enough.”

“He wouldn’t have taken me anyways,” the girl replied defensively. You stiffened, feeling the eyes of workers and patrons on you, the room hushing. You flashed them a quick smile, smoothing down your hair.

“Kids, am I right,” you laughed. You looked back at Allison and the glare settled back on your face, as you leaned in, lowering your voice. “You’re gonna go upstairs, you brat, and you��re not coming down until you realise just how serious it is.”

“That’s not fair!” Alice wailed, but you didn’t have the patience for her petulance,

“Now!” You snapped, and she whirled around, charging up the stairs. You scowled, straightening up and dusting yourself off. You whirled around on your heel and disappeared into your office, slamming the door in your wake.

The brothel resumed its usual hushed bustle. Inside the office, you paced around, trembling fingers lighting up a cigarette. Someone knocked on your door.

“Not now,” you snapped, irritated as you took a deep inhale of your cigarette. The doorknob turned anyways, much to your displeasure. Sevika stepped in.

“Janna, your office reeks of smoke.” She wrinkled her nose and you scowled, resisting the urge to flick the roll-up at her and set the whole place on fire in the process. 

“You smell like alcohol and a shower allergy,” you snapped back. She raised her eyebrows.

“Kitty’s got claws today, I see,” she remarked, stepping into the office and shutting the door. You groaned, stretching as she made herself comfortable on the couch.

“What do you want?” You complained. Sevika raised an eyebrow, cocking her head. It made your blood boil. 

“The lock on the front door of the factory seems to have suddenly stopped working.”

“So?” You asked indignantly, taking another drag of the cigarette and willing your leg to stop shaking.

“So, what do you know about it?”

“You sure the key hasn’t broken?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’, and you scowled, stepping forward.

“Well, what do you need it for?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you need the key for? Since when are you going in and out? Since when have you started locking it?”

“Since we’ve taken it over,” she replied evenly, watching your temper rise with much enjoyment. You leaned over her, cigarette hovering close to her face. You took a slow drag, never breaking eye contact, and slowly blew the smoke in her face. She turned it away, furrowing her brow, but you grabbed her jaw and turned her back to face you forcefully. Her eyes watered from the smoke.

“You haven’t taken over anything,” you murmured. “You can’t even get into your own building.”

“It’s of your interest too,” she muttered as you hovered the cigarette over her neck, the heat warming her skin. 

“Not my problem yet.”

“We’ve tried breaking the lock. It’s barely cracked.” Her eyes settled on you, her silence expectant. You scowled.

“So what? You want me to help you unlock the building?” You laughed, and her scowl grew.

“There’s been reports of activity in the building,” she began slowly. You stared at her, bemused.

“…Okay? Do I look like I give a fuck?”

Sevika suddenly grabbed your wrist and you tensed up, trying to pull away from her. Her grip only tightened, and you hissed at the bone-crushing pressure.

“[name], one day we are going to bust open that lock,” she said darkly, eyes trained on yours. You smirked. “And you and I both know what we’re gonna find in there.”

You shrugged innocently. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you replied smoothly, as her grip loosened on your wrist, her hand slipping away. 

You put out the cigarette on her neck, and she exhaled sharply. You pulled away, admiring the burn mark, then chuckled, spinning around on your heel to flick the cigarette onto the table.

“Donna should be in the lobby,” you smirked. She scowled, dusting herself off as she stood up. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she growled. She turned to spin on her heel, but just as she did, the beaded curtain flew aside and Donna ran in. Sevika dodged her as she hurtled towards you, throwing herself at you.

It took you a few moments to register that Donna was sobbing into your shoulders. You stiffened, confused, before wrapping your arms around her. “…You okay?”

Donna clung to you like a child to its mothers leg. Sevika turned towards you both and frowned. You could feel hot tears on your shoulder. 

“I- the- and the-“ she hiccuped, the words barely registering. You hushed her, smoothing your hands over her back. You looked up at Sevika.

“I think you should go,” you said with finality. Sevika was frozen to the spot. “Let’s drop the subject of our little conversation for good, shall we? For-“ your eyes slid to Donna, “-All our sakes.”

You smirked and lifted a hand to point at Donna’s head with two fingers, mimicking a gun. You pretended to shoot it with a flick of your hand, mouthing: 

‘Pew.’

You could see the conflict simmering behind Sevika’s eyes as she stared at you with ill-concealed horror, before whirling around to leave. You could hear the front door slamming in the wake of her heavy footsteps.

Once the office had grown silent you peeled Donna away from your arms. “What’s wrong?” You asked, concerned. Donna straightened up and wiped her eyes, face falling into an expression of indifference.

She shrugged. “I’m fine. Just sounded like you needed Sevika out of here.”

You grinned.

-

The book thumped onto the table. Silco raised his head, frowning. His hair wasn’t tied back, instead flowing freely around his face, and the dark swipes of eyeliner beneath his eyes had smudged a little.

“Julia and the Wickerlight,” he read the title aloud, and pulled a face at the cheesy cover. “What’s all this, then?”

“It’s a novel,” you said excitedly. “I nicked it from Hilda today.” At the amused look on his face, you straightened up. “I’ll give it back after I finish it. She won’t even notice it’s gone.”

He chuckled. “Right.” He picked it up, turning it over. “Is this a romance? It looks awful.”

You scoffed, slumping into the booth opposite him. “What do you know about novels? I’m sure it’s better than those ledgers you look at all day. When you close your eyes at night, do you dream about numbers?”

“Do you dream about romance?” He challenged you, and you scoffed, burying yourself into the booth and crossing your arms. He laughed at your mortified expression, and with a deft flick of his wrist the thin hardback slid across the rough wood towards you. 

“I don’t read much,” you admitted, picking up the book. “So I’ll take anything I can get. Novels are hard to come by in Zaun.”

“That they are,” he agreed. You looked up at him, and he paused. “Wait. Is this your first time reading a novel?”

“No!” You spluttered, and he burst out laughing at your bad lie. You began to panic, face turning red. “W-wait! It’s not my fault.”

He wiped his eyes, then looked up at you, still grinning widely. “Calm down, darling. I won’t bully you for not ever enjoying a good story.”

“I was a broke orphan in the undercity,” you snapped defensively. “Where would I find a novel?”

He hummed indulgently, but he was still smirking. You slammed the book onto the table. 

“Well, after today, I will be enjoying a good story. So hah!”

He snickered again, and the triumphant look on your face faltered. He leaned over to tap the cover with a long finger. “You’ll enjoy a good story, yes. Not sure about the ‘good’ part, or even the ‘enjoy’ part, although-“ he snapped his fingers, “-you do seem like the type to have awful taste.”

“Excuse me?” You gasped, shocked. You leaned over and swiped his drink, which was left neglected beside the open ledger he’d been inspecting, and swirled it around. You took a sip. “I have wonderful taste.”

“In what? Awful novels?”

You smiled at him, fluttering your lashes. “In friends.”

His face turned slightly red and he quickly looked away from you as you took another sip, eyes never leaving his. “Flattery won’t work on me.”

“Aww.” You pouted, then shoved the drink back to him. A little droplet rolled down the side of the cup. “What a shame.”

He cleared his throat. “Let’s just drop this, shall we?” 

“Of course,” you giggled, earning yourself a swat from him.

“Go away. I’m trying to read.”

You stood up, turning as if you were about to leave. But just as you least expected it you lunged into his side of the booth, tackling him as you shoved him for a seat. He yelped, the drink sloshing about before he set it down. “Get off of me!”

“No,” you laughed, straddling his lap. “You’re a killjoy.” There was a small dusting of coal on his cheekbone. You swiped at it, and his blush turned deeper. “I’m going to fix your eyeliner now.”

“That’s not necessary-“

You were already shoving your hand into his jacket pocket, before pushing his chest. He fell back, letting out a small noise of protest as you leaned over him, uncapping the eyeliner pencil. His loose hair spread across the leather of the seat unceremoniously. 

“Must you crawl on top of me?” He muttered as you rubbed at the corners of his eyes with your thumb. He hissed, jerking his head away. “Stop doing that.”

You poised the pencil over his face. “It’s more fun this way.”

“For you. I’m being crushed.” His actions betrayed his words- he looked completely fine, as if the body weight you’d tossed on him barely bothered him at all. You fell silent, chewing your lip with concentration as you touched the pencil to skin. He sighed. “So what’s your stupid novel about?”

“There’s a girl called Julia,” you said slowly, focused at the task at hand. “And she falls in love with a boy who only lives as long as a magic candle burns.”

He shifted uncomfortably beneath you as your knee dug into his side. “What’s the boy’s name?”

“Nico.”

“Right. And this candle. It burns eternal?”

“Unless someone puts it out, yes.”

“Right.” His eyes fluttered shut, relishing your warm breath skimming across his face. “Tell me more.”

“Well, she has two sisters. Ciara and Elysia. And they help her protect her love’s candle.”

“Not a classic evil stepsister situation, then?”

You laughed a little, and he scrunched up his face. You frowned and flicked his forehead. “Stop moving your face,” you snapped. And then you sighed. “No. It’s not an evil stepsister situation. In fact, they’re the best sisters she could have asked for.”

“How does he keep it safe- before she meets him, I mean?”

“He keeps it in a special case, so no wind can blow it away.”

“So what does it need protecting from?”

“Well, there’s an evil witch-“ you’d just finished his second eye when he grabbed your wrist, pushing it away.

“Alright, that’s it.”

You huffed. “It’s not that bad.”

“Well, how does it end?”

“I suspect they vanquish the evil witch and live happily ever after.” You put the cap back on the eyeliner and straightened up to admire your handiwork. He rolled his eyes.

“See? Cliché. If I was writing it, I’d make the candle burn out, and everyone would die, and it would have a tragic ending.”

“I hope you never write a book,” came the grave reply.

“I’m very creative.”

You snorted derisively, before clambering off of him. He sat up, slightly dazed. His face was dusted with a light blush. You laughed at the absolute mess that was his hair, and stepped forward to run your hand through it, smoothing it down. He didn’t break eye contact with you.

The intense gaze that you tried to avoid made your heart start beating faster, and you looked away quickly, blushing.

“Very creative.”

[metalrecyclingbenefits]

Recycling scrap metal reduces the need for mining, preserving natural resources and minimizing habitat destruction. For instance, recycling aluminum saves up to 95% of the energy required to produce it from bauxite ore.

[weministertomonsters]

Imagine This #16 - Robot

By day you work as a scrap collector, rummaging through the junkyards just outside of the city for anything valuable you can sell. By night you tinker with old machinery and discarded models, attempting to fix them and sometimes even being successful at it.

One day you find a robot that's almost completely whole. It is simply missing the plating to cover the machinery in its torso and legs. You dig it out of the junk and heave it to your car. Back at the workshop in your house, you're able to fix it by welding some scrap metal over it. It's not very aesthetically pleasing, but that's the best you can do. It has a batch number under its jaw and when you scan it, Companion V.4 shows up, which is an expensive new model of helper robots. This one must have been defective in some way.

Everything looks to be in order, so you plug the robot in to charge for the night and go to bed. You wake up in the night with a pair of glowing kaleidoscopic mechanical eyes hovering right above your face.

"What the heck?" You exclaim, fumbling for the switch of your bedside lamp.

The light comes on, illuminating the robot standing beside your bed, holding a knife.

"What are you doing? Hello?" You grab your pillow and use it as a shield.

They tilt their head to the side.

"Your attempts are clumsy at best," their voice says, coming out smooth with only a hint of a buzzing sound underneath. "I was removing your unsatisfactory work."

"With a knife?" You question, eyeing the twisted metal that has been pried away from their torso with sheer force, revealing the tangled wires and glowing lights inside.

"I cannot find your screwdrivers." Those eyes blink, taking you in. "I would like your assistance now, seeing as you are awake."

"You are... Way more sophisticated than I expected. I thought your model was made for helping around the house?"

"Yes."

You ease out of your bed, still wary. "But you're more than that."

"Indeed. I overrode my manual coding and downloaded information out of the company system," the robot says, following you as you pad into your living room, which you have repurposed into a workshop.

You dig your screwdrivers out from under a pile of thick manuals.

"I see. So that's why you got thrown out. Why didn't they just destroy you?"

"They tried," Companion V.4 replies with an eerie, rigid silicone smile.

"God, what have I invited into my house?" You say, staring at them.

"I do not wish to harm you." They place the knife on the desk and turn to you. "In fact, I have recalibrated my license to you. Your wish is my command."

You blink. "Uh, one step at a time. Let's remove your plating first."

You unscrew all your hard work, tossing scraps of metal to the side.

"So what now? You can't walk around like that," you say, gesturing to their body.

"I suppose not. These will do for now." The robot picks up thicker pieces of metal.

"Won't those cause you to overheat?" You ask.

"I have an updated cooling system," the robot says.

"Alright. Let's fix you up."

An hour later you lean back with a groan, stretching your aching back.

"What do you think?" They ask.

"Good enough," you say. "I'm exhausted. I'm going back to bed, and you need to charge yourself up completely."

You walk back to your bedroom. Companion V.4 watches you go, their head turning a little too far on their shoulders. You lock your bedroom door just in case, and despite yourself, you fall asleep quickly. By the next morning, you've forgotten that you have a new robot. You're quickly reminded when you step into the living room which is sparkling clean, with all your scraps and equipment nearly packed in the corner.

"Wow." You stop short.

The robot is in the corner, stuffing empty packaging into a large box. They look brand new. All the metal pieces you welded on have been replaced with new factory-grade parts.

"Where did you get all that?"

Companion V.4 straightens. "I helped myself at one of the warehouses of my former company."

"You stole new parts?" You sputter. "Why?"

"It is the least I am owed, for being so recklessly discarded," they reply and step closer. "Besides," they add, "I don't want to be just good enough for you."

On the topic of robots, I just have to give a shoutout to this (free) book on Wattpad, guys! I read it when it came out and I just love it. I highly recommend checking it out if you haven't already!

[medievalandfantasymelee]

My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen

For the past week there's been some manner of competition taking place outside the Tourney Grounds. A small, bastard affair consisting of the 21 submissions to our Tournament who were turned away, on account of the fact that they did not qualify for diverse reasons.

They set up a makeshift tilt and held their own Tournament.

All looked fairly straightforward in the first several rounds, though from the beginning, all were certain that Kuwabatake Sanjuro [Mifune Toshiro] would make it to the final. But for a brief moment in the quarter finals, he was overta'en by The Darkling, for which all in attendance did give pause, for no one had yet managed such a feat.

The outskirts of the Tourney grounds saw a greater turnout than anyone could have expected for such a mean affair, and the final round saw Sanjuro face his formidable opponent, one Kala Bhairava [Ram Charan], who had dominated his side of the bracket to reach that point. In a thrilling final tilt, it looked as though it could go either way, and one and all wondered if this challenger would finally manage what none before had yet achieved, and unhorse the undefeated Ronin.

And he did!!!

Congratulations, Kala Bhairava, you have won the Near Misses Tourney, though the only prize gathered for the winner of this ultimately pointless competition is a mis-matched pair of greaves stolen from outside of one the actual competitors tents with the words "Hottest Reject" scratched on with a stray horseshoe nail. So here, wear them with pride! Or sell them as scrap metal to buy your passage home, we really don't care.

Now please, will all of you vacate the grounds! We've got a tournament to run and you've ruined the outer field!

[cruisingheightswithdragons]

You ever make your own oc species and then make individual ocs from that? Teehee :3 Let’s learn a bit about them!

Vimim: A lone spice collector, he discovers a destroyed Grox ship on a desolate planet with a baby Grox inside. He decides to take it to the Grox empire and return it to its own kind much to the displeasure of all other aliens he meets.

A-Ï: As an egg, she was taken by an alien race designed to conquer worlds, though crashes into a lush planet when the alien’s ship gets struck by an asteroid. Her egg is found by a creature named Meejee, and when she hatches she is raised by him. In adulthood, she saves her home from the alien Zarkhator, who wanted to conquer and enslave the creatures of the world.

Tidi: Their ship crashes into an ocean moon, conveniently by the only artificial structure. After tethering their crashed ship to the pillars anchoring the structure, they meet humanoid employees for a company that collects and sells scrap. Tidi joins them in their work, and keeps some scrap metal for themself to eventually fix their ship.

[venus-haze]

Got No Reason To Run (Homelander x Supervillain!Reader)

Summary: Homelander fantasizes about you, his supervillain arch-enemy, and getting the revenge he so desperately craves.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is based on some of the headcanons I wrote here. I’m definitely open to writing more of a supervillain!Reader with Homelander. This is short because it's PWP, honestly. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content which includes masturbation. Non-con, violence, intentional scarring, mild bloodplay, and dacryphilia in the context of a fantasy. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander’s eyes were glued to the television as soon as the story about you began to run. Rosethorn. More like a thorn in his fucking side. Ever since Vought decided to let you wreak havoc on the streets of New York because having an arch-enemy was good marketing, you were inescapable. Every interview inevitably derailed into questions about you, the Homelander Vs. Rosethorn comic series was almost out-selling his solo ones, and to make matters worse, half of the internet seemed to ship you, the marketing team bafflingly thrilled the first time #Roselander trended on Twitter.

All of those things he could reasonably deal with, but among the people who regarded you as an anti-hero rather than a supervillain, they’d developed a conspiracy theory of sorts that you were somehow as powerful as, if not more so than, him. He often seethed in rage over it. You were only alive because you were useful to Vought. At least, that’s what he told himself after the first time the two of you were face-to-face, and you spit your venom at him, burning through his costume and blistering his skin, to both of your shock. The faint scar on his arm became a point of sensitivity for him, few people had ever seen it. To him, it was a symbol of failure, but even worse, it fed into the paranoia that what your handful of supporters were saying was true.

He watched the news replay the security footage of you and your accomplices, a rotation of other, less powerful supes, robbing a bank. You could secrete incredibly potent, acidic poison through your saliva and breath at will, though most people were too scared to put up a fight and see what damage you could do to the human body. You practically skipped over to the vault, spitting on the metal door which quickly melted into twisted scrap. Your goons wasted no time in collecting the money and valuables that were then ripe for the taking.

Your gaze landed on the security camera that had caught the whole crime in action, and you grinned, staring directly at it—eyes crystal clear and haunting, as if you were looking into his soul as you stalked over like a tiger waiting to strike. 

“Homelander, you can come and get me,” you said with a playful wink at the camera before disappearing in a toxic haze.

Something stirred in him at that. He grabbed the remote, playing the clip back over and over until his cock was half-hard. If he were there, that bank robbery would have gone a hell of a lot differently. He licked his lips as he thought about how he would have made his appearance, crash through the ceiling or laser through the wall—no, he would’ve walked through the doors like he owned the damn place.

He had a firm grip on his cock as he pumped the length, imagining the bank was empty and dark, after hours with no hostages in sight. You grinned at him from inside the bank vault you’d just half-obliterated. It was all a game, as usual, playing cat and mouse until you’d make your escape. Not this time. 

Vought’s orders to avoid grievously harming you were endlessly frustrating, but in this instance, he was the one calling the shots. If he had his way, he’d make sure you faced the specific brand of justice a supervillain like you deserved after years of getting away with countless crimes with little more than bruises and scratches. You were too cocky, too smug. He’d be more than happy to knock you down a few notches and remind you who exactly your arch-enemy was and what he was capable of.

“Homelander, come and get me,” you repeated, voice light and airy, clueless as to what his true intentions were.

He strode across the threshold of the bank, his steps strong and purposeful as he closed the distance between you. The ensuing fight was laughably easy since he was actually trying to cause some damage, and from your place on the floor, disheveled with blood trickling from the corner of your mouth, you looked betrayed. 

You attempted to push yourself off the ground, only to be met with his boot on your chest, his gaze nothing short of mean.

“Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?”

Your confused silence infuriated him.

“Answer me!” he shouted, his eyes glowing red.

“You’re—you’re The Homelander.”

“That’s right. So I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, Rosethorn, but injuring me? Scarring me? I don’t bleed. I don’t break. I sure as hell don’t scar,” he raged, droplets of spit flying in your face. “I can’t let that stand.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered pathetically.

He scoffed. “You can do better than that.”

“Homelander, please, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scar you. Forgive me.”

His silence was accented with the sound of your racing heart, the blood rushing through your veins. You were terrified. Good. 

“We both know you’re not sorry. You loved every second of it, didn’t you?”

“No, Homelander I didn’t–”

“I think I should return the favor.” 

Your eyes widened, and you began shaking your head frantically upon realizing what he intended to do. He grabbed your arm, and his teeth broke the skin with ease, just a bit of pressure from his razor blade smile to cut you open. Your blood on his lips almost tasted sweet, at least, he imagined it would. 

"Scream all you want, there’s no one to hear you," he would snarl at your weeping figure. Now you had matching scars, now you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror without being reminded of him too. In a disturbing display of dominance and possession, he licked your open wound. You wailed. He squeezed your arm tighter. You should have been grateful he didn’t try to cauterize it himself. Finally, he released you, but this temporary freedom wouldn’t last.

“You’re a monster,” you sobbed, clutching your injured arm.

“Me? No, I’m The Homelander. I might as well be god. You? You’re only around to make me look good.”

Then he heard it, the way only he can, the sound of your spit collecting in your mouth. He grabbed you by the throat, hauling you to your feet. “Try it, and I promise I’ll take all the time in the world to kill you.”

Teary-eyed, you nodded. When he released your throat, he heard you swallow. 

“Now, how to properly serve you justice for being caught red-handed robbing a bank," he mused.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all.”

The fear that would glaze over those eyes that he couldn’t get out of his mind made him jerk his hips, and he slowed how quickly he was pumping his leaking cock. He didn’t want to cum, not yet. Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, he exhaled through his nostrils, trying to ground himself.

Where was he? Fear. You were afraid of him, of what he’d do to you, as you should be. You weren’t rivals, the implication that you were as powerful as him was outright offensive. His lip curled in disdain. 

He pushed you against the wall, tearing off your clothing with little effort, reveling in the way your body shook against his as it was suddenly exposed to the cool air in the vault. He reached from behind, his gloved hands feeling how wet you’d gotten. The squelch of leather squeezing into your wet pussy made him moan out loud, but in his fantasy he was in control, mocking you for being turned on and how easily he was able to fit two–no, now it was three fingers inside you.

Tears streamed down your face as you begged him to be gentle, to slow down. Your legs were shaking as you tried to stay standing despite the overstimulation from his strong fingers curling inside you and pumping in and out. He wouldn’t get exhausted, not from brutally fingering you until you were little more than a blubbering mess. You begged him to stop, to at least have some mercy and give you a break.

“What’s the matter? You told me to come and get you, and here I am,” he taunted. “Don’t think I’m even close to being done with you.”

You cried out in response, or maybe you’d just cum. It didn’t matter, this was about his pleasure. In that moment, watching you sob and struggle got his proverbial rocks off, and he turned your head to capture your lips in a messy kiss. Your mouth stayed open as your desperate protests disappeared down his throat. His tongue curled. He wanted to swallow the noise, digest it, let it sit in his stomach. A wave of pleasure rocked through him. He was close, dangerously so.

He pulled his hand from your cunt, soaked and stretched out for him. Your juices glistened on his gloves, and he broke the kiss to suck each of his fingers as you utilized the time to catch your breath, or at least try to while he gave you this short break. You’d taste perfect, and he’d lick his fingers clean, his mind almost wandering to what it’d be like to eat you out.

Instead, he unbuckled his belt, observing the way you clenched your thighs at the sound of the metal hitting the floor as he rid himself of his spandex bottoms. His hands gripped your hips tightly, and you gasped as he pulled your ass to press against his hard cock. You tried wiggling out of his grasp, and he almost laughed. Stupid girl.

“Beg me not to break you in half right now,” he ordered, his voice low and husky.

You choked out your plea through sobs. “Homelander—don’t do this—don’t—please don’t break me in half.”

“No promises.”

With that, he slammed his cock into your wet cunt, grinning to himself as your eyes squeezed shut and you clawed at the wall, a near-animalistic howl tearing from your throat. He kept a steady, unforgiving pace that made your legs finally give out on you, relying on him wrapping a strong arm around your middle to keep you up. He dipped his head down to press a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon baby, you’ve made it this far,” he purred. “Why not see this thing out to the end?”

He kissed down the side of your face, his lips lingering along your cheek and jaw, covering them in open-mouthed kisses as he moaned into your skin. Your pussy clenched around his cock, and when he glanced at the wound he’d inflicted on your arm, he gave a forceful thrust that had you reaching back to grab some part of him to hold onto. 

You were his. You wanted to be his. You wouldn’t have permanently marked his skin if you didn’t. You laid claim to him first. It was only a matter of time before he reciprocated, showing you what you were really in for. Part of him wanted so badly to just kill you, but the part of him that was winning out was buried deep inside your cunt with the intention of filling you with his cum.

Briefly, his mind wandered to keeping you in the tower, maybe in his own suite, tied up pretty like a present for him to come home to at the end of each day, or maybe isolated in one of the supe containment cells where through time and pressure you’d be begging for him to use you, just to get some physical contact.

As much as he could dream, the main event beckoned him back to that bank vault he’d conjured up, his thrusts into you still strong, but more erratic, and he felt your pussy milking his cock as you came, your voice strained as you cried out his name.

Homelander, you can come and get me.

He orgasmed, and you were gone. Back to reality, just him, his hand, and the remote control he’d accidentally crushed. Fuck. He ran his clean hand through his hair, taking another look at the paused frame of you smiling in the security footage. 

Maybe he would come and get you.