#What does it take to feel human in my own body

[monstersflashlight]

Commission for @sammehshark

Request: dragon x fem reader, where the reader is a knight sworn to protect the dragon who is royalty. does that work??🥺

A/N: Hope you enjoy this!

From fury to fire

Dragon x fem!reader || teasing, hate sex (but not really), oral sex, size kink, overstimulation

Feeling him inside of you, so deep you could feel him in the back of your throat as he pounded into you chanting about how much he liked your human body, you couldn’t avoid thinking about the first time you met and how his feelings about you weren’t exactly of love (or so he said).

His father, the king, just introduced you as the new royal knight, the one who would protect the prince from now on. You knew it was unusual, a human protecting a dragon? Nobody would suspect that, and that’s exactly why they choose you. And because you were the best knight in the royal army, that too, but the surprise factor was the main reason. You would blend in as his servant, as someone there to help him, but not to protect him. And that would make you the best royal knight possible, and the king knew this. But his son wasn’t so keen on the idea.

“How can a human protect me?” He almost spit the word. The way he roared his disapproval made you feel like a bug, but it also ignited such fury inside of you that before you could realize you were walking up to him, so much bigger than you, your eyes blazing with rage.

You pressed your index finger to his scaly chest, not even caring he was your boss AND your prince. Without blinking you told him: “What better than a human,” you mocked his tone, “to protect a dragon? Is somebody going to suspect I’m the best knight in the army?”

He huffed a laugh, smoke coming out of his nose as he did. “You aren’t the best knight in the army,” he mocked, like the idea was stupid in its own.

You knew you shouldn’t. You knew it wasn’t a good idea. You knew you just got hired, and even if you were great, kicking the prince’s ass was probably not a good move. But he laughed at you, and you were beyond annoyed. So you did what you did best: you maneuvered your body around his much bigger one until he had his back to the floor and you were sitting on his chest smiling down at him.

“Well, my lord,” your tone was full of venom, “guess you aren’t better than me.” You couldn’t believe you used to have a crush in the stupid dragon. (And couldn’t believe even less that you still did.)

“Enough you two,” the king roared, a breath of fire leaving his mouth and almost setting the curtains on fire. “She’s going to be your new guard, and you are going to let her,” the king continued, stopping your bickering.

He grunted in annoyance but didn’t say anything else as you got up. You didn’t offer him a helping hand, you didn’t even say anything as he walked out of the room and you followed close. Your job just began, and you already knew it was going to be intense.

The first couple weeks were weird. He didn’t talk to you and you didn’t talk to him, you simply followed close every time he left the palace and he dismissed you as soon as you entered. You didn’t have to do much outside pulling away some of his fans (even though he insisted they weren’t his fans). It was okay, an easy job.

Until one day someone tried to stab him and you saved his life. He grunted as you stopped the attacker and diffused the situation, calling reinforcements to take him away. He seemed tense when you walked back to the palace, as if your presence alone was driving him insane.

“You should quit,” he stated as you walked him to his room, your body still thrumming with adrenaline and pent up tension after the incident.

You registered his words a second later, grunting a very loud: “No.” You just saved his life and he was acting like you were still a bug, and it started to make you angry. Adrenaline and anger didn’t mix well with your impulsive self.

You arrived at his door, and he turned around to look at you, his face impassible as he asked: “Why are you so infuriating? Why aren’t you scared of me even? I’m twice your size and you are standing there as if I was normal.” He sounded almost annoyed.

“I have loyalty to the crown, my lord,” you told him. His title left your mouth like a dart, leaving him speechless for a second.

You tried not to refer to him as my lord after he specified, you couldn’t, but you had enough. You were mad at him, and high on adrenaline, and he was being a dickhead. You protected him, he could have died, and instead of being concerned he was attacking you for doing your job. For protecting him.

You could see the muscle in his scaly jaw twitch. “Stop that.”

You couldn’t hold yourself back from teasing him more, wanting to get a rise out of him, wanting him to be as mad as you were. As desperate. “What do you mean, my lord?” You played dumb.

“Stop acting all proper and shit. Stop referring to me like that. I don’t like it.” You already knew that, but your anger blinded your brain.

“What do you like then, my lord?” Your voice was filled with amusement and teasing.

“You,” he answered simply, leaving you speechless.

Your brain short-circuited and all the anger inside of you disappeared, confusion overpowering any other emotion you could have. “Wh-what? I thought you didn’t like humans like me.” You cursed yourself, your words sounded stupid out loud.

He laughed bitterly, his claws grabbing your arms and getting you closer to the heat of his big body. “You were wrong. I like humans like you a little bit too much.” There was something in his tone you couldn’t decipher.

“What does that mean?”

He looked at you like you were stupid, and you almost felt like it at the moment. “You think I haven’t been dying to taste you since you knocked me on my ass? You think it hasn’t been driving me crazy to see you all proper and ready to fight for me every time we leave the house? You are wrong, little knight.” And then he claimed your mouth, his big wings coming around your body, cradling you into the tightest and warmest embrace of your life as he devoured your mouth like a starving dragon.

You give back as much as he was giving you, kissing him senseless as you moaned against his mouth. His hands found your middle and he urged you up, your legs wrapping around his middle as he walked backwards into the room, closing the door behind you.

And then his claws were everywhere, groping your ass, touching every inch of your body as you shivered and moaned. The kisses became frantic as you ground against the hard on you could feel against your hot center. He playfully bite down onto your lower lip with his fangs and you let out such a loud moan that he chuckled, pulling away and looking at you like he just saw you for the first time.

He kissed the tip of your nose in the most tender gesture ever, making your heart beat faster and faster. He walked to the bed, laying you down so carefully you felt like a treasure. “You are going to be a good little knight for me now? Are you going to let me give you what you deserve?” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge of intensity there that made you shiver.

“And what is that?” You asked, out of breath after such intense make out session.

“To be worshiped.”

He launched at you, tearing down your clothes and his own, getting you naked in less than a minute. His hands found your legs as he pulled them apart, burying his face in your dripping pussy. He ate you out desperately, his way too long tongue hitting every pleasure point in and out of you, his movements frantic as you moaned. Your hands tried to find some kind of grab in his head, but the smoothness of his scales didn’t allow you to. You ended up grabbing onto the sheets as you cried out his name in an earth shattering orgasm.

You had never come so fast and so hard, but he wasn’t done with you. He positioned himself over you, his big body towering over you like a god. You looked at his scaled dick with concern. “I don’t know if that will fit,” you warned him.

“It will, my little knight, you were made for me,” the tone of his voice left no room for arguing and it made your heart skip a beat.

He started slow, pressing inside of you little by little. He felt so big, so wide, you were about to be split apart. But in a good way. In the best way. He was panting over you, his wings twitching as he tried to be as slow as possible as he kept going and going… and going. By the time he bottomed out you were squirming underneath him, your mouth closing around his hand next to your ear. You bite down hard, making him curse and bulk against you, the movement making both of you groan.

And that was it. It was all it took for him to lose himself on you completely. He roared and started a frantic pace, each thrust making you scream his name as he pounded into your aching core. The scales of his dick felt smooth and soft inside of you, stimulating your G-spot until you were trembling under him with another orgasm.

He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you as you groaned and moaned, the universe fading into the background as he drove you to another dimension filled with pleasure and an incredibly hot dragon fucking you.

You came at least three more times before he looked up and roared his climax, fire leaving his mouth as he burned part of the ceiling as you giggled under him. His erratic movements making you see stars, but your body was too spent to come again.

He filled you to the brim and pulled back, staring at the point where his come was leaking out of your overused pussy. He smirked, his claw pushing the come back inside over and over as you whimpered in oversensitivity.

“My little knight wasn’t as fierce in bed as she’s in combat, are you?” He teased, kissing your soft tummy with reverence.

“You are so cocky…” You caressed the top of his scaly head, and he purred in delight, making you smile down at him.

“And you like it,” he stated, and you couldn’t deny that. “And I like you,” he said with another kiss to your hip, tickling you at the same time.

After that day everything got better. Knowing he didn’t hate you, but he was head over heels for you made it simpler (and complicated at the same time). But you two made it work. You took care of him outside the castle… and he made sure to take care of you inside it.

[ghouljams]

Hi hi hi! Mythology nerd here again and I'm srry for plugging your inbox <3 I think Hades and Persephone would be perfect for Ghost!

Hades!Ghost who after stealing you away gives you the finest jewelry under the surface.

Hades!Ghost who tries to be gentle with you, the poor little sheltered spring goddess.

Hades!Ghost who let's you bloom flowers in the palace.

Hades!Ghost who builds a very own garden for you.

Hades!Ghost who offers to build your own damn *sun* beneath the surface, just to make you comfortable.

Hades!Ghost who sneaks his symbol into all your clothing, a silent claim.

Hades!Ghost who's sure to take you to bed before you must leave, sure to leave marks that will last so your mother knows who you belong to now.

After all, some think that when the spring goddess was bonded to the Underworld half the year, not everyone was sure what they ate was a "pomegranate"

(Hades!Ghost who worships and adores his spring flower, cherishing the time he has with you. Eejehfhrkfn <3<3<3)

Ok lemme raise you Ghost in the Eros/Psyche myth because it is my favorite "put that man in a situation" idea I've ever had.

Psyche!Ghost who never expected anything out of love, who's been burned by everything he's ever held close, who's lost everyone he's ever grasped between begging fingers.

Psyche!Ghost who never forgot that aphrodite was a goddess of war because she never let him.

Psyche!Ghost who wakes up in a soft bed with a soft body beside him, and feels his heart stutter to a stop when you tip your head back to accept the knife he presses to your throat.

Psyche!Ghost who's always been good at following orders, so when you beg him not to look at your face he's prepared to blind himself permanently. For the person that lifted him from the crushing darkness of loss into the soft embrace of sleepless nights, he'd do anything.

Psyche!Ghost who knows it must be a god that stole him, but when he runs his hands over your skin you feel more human than anyone he's ever known. Who knows the legends of humans who dared to covet what they couldn't have, and never responds when you tell him you love him.

Psyche!Ghost who listens to Soap tell him that he should find a way to look upon your face, just to check that you aren't some horrid monster, and feels that damning curiosity creep in.

Psyche!Ghost who doesn't need the box of needles to blind him, he does it himself. Anything to keep you, for you to keep him...

[thememestrider]

Come Back to Me - Mephiston x F! Reader

Wrote this for the beautiful @solspina : I hope I did your man justice :)

Sypnosis: Following a psychic breakdown, the only person who can bring Mepheston back from the brink is his beloved.

C/W: Blood, angst, reverse hurt/comfort, I've only read Dante's novels so my knowledge of Mephiston is second hand at best, I did do some research and I'm confident in how I wrote him but I apologise in advance for the inevitable ooc and lore inaccurate moments XP, unedited so probably errors and typos scattered about.

Mephiston bleeds.

Blood flows untempered from his nose. It leaks from his ears. The taste of copper coats his tongue and fangs, and tears streaked with red tumble in streams down his cheeks. His soul is bleeding, too. Punctured by the warp, he can feel what little is left of his humanity pouring out into the void to be devoured by the unspoken horrors that call it home.

But he does not stop. He can't. For if he were to fail now, the flagship Covenant of Baal, as well as half of Lord Dante's entire fleet would be lost in the warp forever.

His brothers are relying on him to get them home. Trusting him to get them through the warp unscathed. He must not fail them. He mustn't.

"Lord Mephiston!"

A deep voice made tight by fear breaks through Mephiston's reverie. A space marine; a librarian. Mephiston searches for a name, but his mind hasn't the strength to find it.

"My lord!" the librarian shouts again. "The ritual is unstable. We must leave the warp. Now!"

"No." Amplified by the warp and his own, growing fury, Mephiston's voice booms like a war drum. "Baal is close. I can feel it. A few moments longer and we will be there."

"You'll kill yourself, my lord! Or worse, you'll-"

Mephiston cuts him off with a growl. He knows what the librarian is insinuating; that should he loose control of his powers, he could kill everyone on this ship. The marine isn't wrong, Mephiston understands that better than anyone. But that doesn't stop it from stinging just a little when it is brought up.

Which is why I must succeed now. I must not fail my brothers. I must show them they can rely on me. That they can trust me.

The librarian continues to shout his warnings, but Mephiston is no longer listening. The pull he feels towards his destination is strengthening. When he looks out through the infinite dark of the void before him, he can see Baal outlined in red.

So close.

Pain takes him in a vice-like grip. His body seizes. Daemons rake their claws down his soul. They're feeding off his power, he realises. Preparing to use him as a gateway into the material world. In his weakened, exhausted state, Mephiston isn't sure if he can fight them off.

Through the cloud of psychic agony, he remembers words spoken to him by Lord Dante, just days ago.

"You are my friend, Mephiston, but know this. Should you ever become a threat to this chapter or humanity at large, I will strike you down myself."

Dante had said it as a vow. Not only as a leader, but as a friend. It pains Mephiston as much as the creatures tearing into his soul. He wonders if the librarians are seeking out the chapter master so he may fulfill that vow now.

A daemon sinks its fangs into him. He feels them puncture his hearts and shear through what's left of his strength. He screams. Eyes slamming shut, chest heaving from the pain. His mind is determined to hold on, but his body is failing. The strain is too much. It seems the librarian- still Mephiston can't recall his name- had been right.

"Meph? Can you hear me?"

I am sorry, my brothers. I am sorry, my beloved. I was not strong enough. I believed that I was, but I am not.

Her voice cannot hope to pierce the cacophony that is the warp. Yet, somehow, it does.

"Just focus on me, Meph."

Throne, her voice is beautiful. It was one of the first things he'd noticed about her. Wielding both strength and kindness in equal parts, just like her heart.

"You can do this, Mephiston," she says to him. "You can break free. You always do. Just come back to me. Like you always do."

Mephiston opens his eyes. Amidst the haze of psychic madness, the planet Baal remains tantalisingly near. But Mephiston is not searching for it any more. He's searching for her.

"I love you, Meph," she says. "I love you so much. No matter what happens to you or how much you change, I love you all the same."

In spite of everything he is enduring right now, her words pull at Mephiston's hearts like nothing else ever could. It drive him to go faster. Push harder. Tear his way free from the warp and get back to her. It means cutting the warp-jump short; there will be questions from the captains, maybe even Lord Dante himself. It means failing his duty, failing his brothers. But Mephiston does not care. He would rather fail them all a thousand times than cause his woman pain.

The shift from the warp to the real is near instant, and far less physically taxing that vice versa. Typically, it'd be as simple as opening one's eyes. But Mephiston is weakened, his body on the brink of total failure. The real world returns with the force of a whip, and immediately, Mephiston's world is dominated by agony.

The Lord of Death falls to his knees. Blood spills from his eyes and nose. His long silver hair clings to the sweat pouring off his shoulders and chest. His vision blurs. The room begins to spin. Again, Mephiston feels himself falling. This time, though, a pair of soft, nimble hands catch him.

"Easy, Meph. Easy. I've got you."

Her tone is gentle. Her voice, as soft as her touch. Her body trembles under his weight. In spite of his hurts, Mephiston pushes himself upright so as not to lean on her anymore. She frames his face with her hands. He can see tears in her eyes. "Gauis!" she shouts. "Fetch an Apothecary."

The librarian called Gauis nods and takes off without another word. Mephiston realises he was the same librarian who'd been shouting warnings at him before.

With Gauis gone, it is only the two of them here, now. It's then that she throws her arms around Mepheston's neck and drags him into a crushing embrace. "You silly, silly man," she whispers. Mephiston realises she is weeping. "Don't you ever do that to me again. Ever."

She squeezes him tighter. The sleeves of her shirt are growing stained with his sweat and blood, but she doesn't seem to care. Though he barely has the strength to raise him arms, Mephiston returns her embrace in earnest. "I am sorry, my sweet." His voice is thick with fatigue and emotion. He hates it when she cries. He hates it even more when he is the cause. "I thought I had it. I have done this so many times before, I-"

"I don't care." Arms still wrapped around his neck, she draws away just enough so as to meet his eye. Her hands find the base of his scalp. Ever so gently, she strokes him there. "The next time Gauis tells you to cut a ritual short," she tells him. "You listen. If not for your own safety, then for my own peace of mind."

Mephiston looks at her. Since his transformation, his hearts have lost much of their capacity for compassion. But what shreds are leftover belong solely to her. Every piece of him that is still human, still a man, loves her as fiercely as they possibly can. All of this, he lets show in his face. It almost moves him to tears. "I will," he says. "I promise."

She smiles at him. It's the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen. Ignoring the blood plastering his face, she leans in and kisses Mephiston, so fiercely it makes his jaw ache. Mephiston struggles to return it in kind, almost tipping over backward from the force with which she presses into him. He winces as the room sways again. She catches his head and guides him to the floor. "It's okay, Meph. You're okay." Gently, she lowers herself down beside him. "The Apothecary will be here soon. For now, just rest."

Without thinking, Mephiston reaches for her hand. She takes it in both of hers and squeezes it tight. "Thank you, " he murmurs.

She brushes her lips across his knuckles. "You know you don't need to thank me. Not now, not ever."

[roughentumble]

God. I bet Logan gets really bad domdrop. He'll finish a scene and get real quiet and then softly asks, "Babe, am I bad person?"

GOD. LITERALLY ABSOLUTELY SOOOOOO TRUEEEEEE

because he's always at war with his desires and his impulses and he tries to act very Human, like he doesnt /hate/ being a mutant and there are parts he embraces, but he also tends to hide/downplay those sides and only bring them out when he WANTS to shock someone. he contains multitudes. he's like, big on how others perceive him and will play into that intentionally in order to get the social upper hand by not presenting exactly how you'd expect, either being more or less animalistic than his apperance and your own biases would lead you to think.

im getting a little off topic but it is related! despite all that he is scared of being Too Other, Too Freak, Too Beast, Too Animal, Too Mindless. is he too violent? can he put down the violence, will the world let him? is he only made to be a weapon? what would others think of him, if they saw all the instincts he fights against? is he the instincts he fights, or is he the thinking man who wrestles with them?

all questions he struggles with, so any scene-- but extremely and especially a scene where he's mean or violent-- is going to bring those questions back up in his head until he's found a way to settle them and accept himself. i love the idea of wade and logan going out into the woods to dismember and gut each other, and then fuck in the bloody aftermath while their bodies are still knitting together, but logan is still trying to cling to normalcy and humanity enough that it would cause MAJOR domdrop once they were done. he'd be nauseous over what he got pleasure out of doing to another person, because doesnt that just confirm every evil thing ever said about him? while wade doesnt have the same reservations, because he's made peace with his own violence, and is much easier able to compartmentalize what theyre doing here as their version of "playing" because they can both take it. logan has absolutely no desire to dismember someone who cant grow back from it(or even if he does have the urge to do so with people who wont heal, the fact that they wont heal stays his hand and makes the thought repulsive even when the urge to do so with SOMEONE remains), so clearly this doesnt say anything bad about logan, to wade. clearly logan is just someone to the left of human who has inhuman urges and has no interest in sating them with the blood of innocents, he's just a Guy. its Fine. but logan isnt able to see that distinction in himself, and really struggles with feeling like a monster

he needs a lot of TLC and gentle introspection to get over it, and even after he's dealt with it there will be times where he looks over at wade and needs to know. did i hurt you too badly? am i bad because i want to hurt you? am i a monster? could you ever love me when i have your blood in my teeth?

then there's the "dont touch me, im a fucking monster" days where he starts breathing heavy and getting in his own head, and he needs to be talked to nice and sweet, reminded of how happy it makes wade and how he isnt alone in their games. he isnt bad for being an aggressor. because that's what it comes down to, being the aggressor feels like an evil tainted role when its him, but obviously its not bad when WADE is hurting HIM-- a flaw in his logic that he cant see when he's in the moment and panicking and feeling like utter crap

logan getting domdrop is actually something that can be so personal

[inflamedrosenkranz]

Jayvik: The Mystical Union

"If I am pressed to say why I loved him, I feel it can only be explained by replying: 'Because it was he; because it was me.'" Michel de Montaigne about his dear friend, Étienne la Boétie and their ardent romantic friendship in his Complete Essays.

"And so long as you have not attained it, This, 'Die and become!', You will only be a gloomy guest On this dark earth." Goethe, Blissful Yearning

"Love entered me And became blood in my veins Emptied me of myself And filled me with the beloved Every single particle of my body Is soaked in the beloved My name is all that's left of me He became the rest" ****** "Wherever you go, you are with me still, you who are my eyes and my brightness; if you will, draw me to drunkenness, if you will, transport me to annihilation." ****** "Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure." ****** "You are the drop and the ocean My heart bears your mark, It does not wander elsewhere. Without others, all is well. Without you, all is lost. You my wine, my inebriation, My garden, my springtime My sleep, my rest, Without you, nothing goes right." Rumi

In the main story, Jayce and Viktor have always been there for each other and better, in all timelines, they were always meant for each other, and even when we thought they had become enemies, episode 9 made us understand that Jayce killed Viktor to save not only the entire world, but also to save the man from himself—and their relationship as well. And episode 9—when it is revealed that it is the Viktor of a future where he destroyed the world (after realizing that the success of his project had plunged him into the most atrocious solitude) who asks Jayce to help him, and when the viewer understands that the fossilized and destroyed statue holding Jayce's hammer beside which they both stand is the Jayce of that future—proves that they have never ceased to be there for each other.

This scene also contains what may seem to be a detail to many, but which illuminates and finally reveals the deeper meaning of their relationship from its very beginnings and up to this precise point where it finally makes sense: it is that moment when Viktor speaks of this "dreamless solitude" of his while Jayce's statuesque, fossilized body is filmed.

I believe it is indeed because this Viktor saw what he had done to his dearest Jayce (that is, turning him into one of his dearticulated, dehumanized mechanical dolls, all identical to each other) that he realized the horror of his destiny, the horror of his beautiful ideal ending up in the void of death, chaos and nothingness, and so called upon the Jayce "of the present" to prevent him from ever reproducing this abominable mistake in his timeline as well.

Viktor wanted a totalitarian world, unified under his demiurgic yoke, where all human suffering of any kind would be abolished. A noble goal on paper, but one that would lead to absolute destruction and the advent of a dreadful nothingness once carried out. For to achieve it, he had to terminate not only disease and death, but also the distinct identities of every sentient being in the world, since it is these very individuals who, with their fundamentally unique interests, feelings, emotions, experiences and worldviews, violently oppose each other and create irresolvable conflicts, interminable wars and pointless tragedies.

Viktor finally wanted a world where universal benevolence would reign supreme, a world where logic and reason would prevail over the deceitful and frail human emotions that always lead to an ever-renewed discord between men on Earth. This is why, through the Arcane, we see him take possession of all human beings in order to kill their spirits and infuse his own will into their bodies, which then transform and become identical to one another: dehumanized, dearticulated, white-and-gold robotic dummies. Viktor is thus everywhere in the universe, on Earth and in Heaven. There are no more humans, no more animals, no more flowers or plants, no more life. No earth, sea or sky, for that matter. Just Viktor, everywhere and nowhere at once. Viktor, or the embodiment and re-enactment of the original nothingness (or is it primordial chaos?) from before the Creation.

But from the start, there was a flaw, a grain of sand destined to jam the perfect cogs of his well-oiled totalitarian and falsely humanist machinery: Jayce. And it was when he took possession of Jayce, destroyed his identity, and turned his body into a humanoid machine absolutely like all the others, that he finally opened his eyes, looked around him and realized the horror of his ideal: not only had he destroyed humanity as a whole and created a giant open-air cemetery where only the silence of the most ineffable cosmic solitude could be heard, but he had also just sacrificed Jayce on the altar of his mortiferous ideal. Jayce, his Jayce, his partner whom he loved because he was Jayce, him and nobody else. His deep feelings for Jayce, whatever they were, all these unique emotions that Jayce used to make him feel, he had just lost forever because Jayce was simply no longer there to provoke them and respond to them. And that's when Viktor realized that instead of having found the peace he aspired to, he was actually suffering, and would suffer forever in a world without Jayce, an individual among billions of others but who, precisely because it was he, he Jayce and not someone else or just everyone else, was the only person who gave meaning to his very existence.

That's why my interpretation of the scene I mention above is that Viktor could have extinguished a billion more lives and he wouldn't have minded, as long as Jayce was alive and well somewhere in the world. But it's only when he takes Jayce's life too that he becomes aware of his "dreamless solitude", and in despair destroys his entire macabre creation in an explosion. For what's the point of continuing to live and act for the advent of Glorious Evolution, if it's only for Jayce not to be there with him?

Similarly, when the Viktor of the future tells Jayce that only he, of all time, could bring him to realize the solipsistic nightmare into which he had dragged humanity and locked himself in ("only you could show me this"), it's not just because he has arranged to travel through space-time and contininuums to hand him runes as a child until he finds the right one, the one that will allow Jayce to reach this point in the future to stop Viktor. No. In my opinion, there's a double reading here: what Vik is telling Jayce is that it was only by sacrificing him that he was able to understand how unbearable his existence was without him, and therefore how much he loved him. It was the loss of Jayce, and therefore through this loss, Jayce himself that showed him all this. We then see the Viktor of the present widen his eyes and open his mouth in shock at hearing his older self's confession: it's because it's precisely at this moment that all his probably repressed feelings for his companion leap out at him.

Jayce was the professional partner of a lifetime and more than that, his twin flame, his soulmate. Viktor believed he was a rational man, and over the years he convinced himself that he had freed or could eventually free himself from emotions and the weakness he believed they created in the hearts of men. But he lied to himself, refusing to see the powerful emotions he felt for Jayce and how they made him who he was: Viktor, a being who was sick, impaired and imperfect, but very much alive and worthy of existence in spite of it all. And so it was in killing Jayce that the realization stroke him that there was no world in which he could live without him. It is his love for Jayce, at last fully understood and accepted, that makes him open his eyes to the extent of his ontological and metaphysical corruption, to the appalling nature of his totalitarian endeavour, and to the beauty of humanity in all its infinite diversity, with all its legitimate flaws and the necessary tragedy of its condition. For all this is balanced by beautiful things, and all these beautiful things, he finally understands that it is only through Jayce that he can see them and accept to embrace and live them. The realization of his love for Jayce helps him take the measure of his humanity, and give him the validation that his existence is worth living in spite of his infirmity and his past, a past he is now free to let go. Ultimately, it's the combinaison of Viktor's love for Jayce and Jayce's love for Viktor that save Viktor and the whole of humanity.

This is why the Viktor of the future arranges for the Jayce to come to him: so that he and the present!Viktor (to whom Jayce was able to convey his vision by hugging him), can hear and see in turn everything he has to say and see the extent of the damage to come if they return to their temporality to put things right, but also so that together they can become aware of the love they've always had for each other, because this love is precisely the key to ending the disaster.

That final scene where they hold hands and join foreheads; where Jayce's other hand grasps Viktor's neck and Viktor's hand tenderly caresses Jay's arm as if to tell him that all will be well and to express the relief of finally being together, is for me an absolute love scene. Certainly, two male friends who share a romantic friendship could touch each other in this way. But, assuming that everything I've written above and everything I'm going to write below is a pertinent analysis of their relationship, then dare you tell me that this one is just that, an intense bromance. Their body language, with all the context finally put together of 2 seasons (in which certain hints at something other than a purely touchy-feely friendly relationship were distilled—blind are those who do not want to see), and of what happened just before for them in the episode and which led to them holding each other in precisely this way, is therefore here frankly connoted as gay. It's the gesture of two lovers who are going to die together at the precise moment when they've finally stopped lying to themselves about the nature of their feelings and surrendered themselves body and soul to each other. It's their ultimate way of saying both that they've loved each other all this time, and of bidding each other farewell.

This scene is also a touching parallel to the one where Jayce discovers Viktor alone in his field of ruin in the future: as I theorized above, it's Jayce's death that sends Viktor into absolute despair, not that of millions of other people, no, just Jayce's. And in the Arcane, they're all alone. Viktor has given his victims their freedom, in life or in death. But they all have left the Arcane and so, it's just him and Jayce now. And that's enough for them. They only need, have ever needed each other, not the rest of the world.

Yes, that's just the two of them in the Arcane, in an otherwordly place without beginning or end, without borders of any kind; they're alone like Adam and Eve were alone in Eden. And together they will seal this strange garden of theirs from the inside: they will seal the Arcane and let it be their tomb, of the real beginning of their love story in the afterlife. Who knows?

Perhaps they'll even dissolve into it, their particles blending together. They will scatter into the Great Whole and become One forever. For their love and ultimate union deep within the Arcane is what truly saves the universe and, on the ruins of the old world, helps create a better one, where for among many other good things, Piltover and Zaun will finally be able to make peace and live in harmony. Their love is anything but sterile: it engenders a new humanity, perhaps the one Viktor has always dreamed of. In fact, no: the fulfillment of the love between Viktor and Jayce in the Arcane actually is the fulfillment of Viktor's (and Jayce's) dream: that of a humanity united in a shared vision of the common good, due to it being traumatized by the murderous consequences of past divisions—and, last but no least, that of a definitive union with his Jayce. Viktor had no qualms about sacrificing the whole of humanity to bring to fruitition his misguided ideal of universal peace.

But it was in sacrificing Jayce, the only human who had any personal value to him, that he discovered the true measure of his suffering and humanity. To some extent in his life, he was able to make do with his broken leg and his illness. But a world without Jayce? That's for him the worst kind of suffering, and the rest is nothing compared to it. It took losing, killing Jayce for him to finally embrace his necessarily imperfect humanity, and to realize that he had no right to project his own pain, worldview and wishes for its resolution onto others. To understand that he had no right to impose his will on others about how to live, or die. Here, the fanatic Viktor was humbled down in that he fully accepted that he too was an individual among so many others, and that the only thing that finally mattered to him was being with Jayce, just as other individuals only wanted to be happy by living alongside their loved ones and pursue their own goals in peace. And no matter what bad things happen in the world. For there are also good things, like love, which we must also know how to welcome as such when they arise, and for which we must know how to show our gratitude. An imperfect world, with both positive and negative events, with love as well as hate; health as much as disease; inclusion as much as discrimination; life as much as death, is a world in which hope is left untouched, a world that lives, a world that moves. A resilient world that, even after suffering the worst disasters, can pick itself up and build something good out of its still smoldering ashes. But Viktor's ideal future? It's a frozen, dead, breathless world. A world returned to the original unity of nothingness, a world before the individuation that gave birth to life and all the different violent currents that stir within it and clash. By wanting a world that is absolutely good and just for all, animated by a common universal will embodied by Viktor, and with no discordant voices or anything else evil running through it, Viktor has created a self-fulfilling prophecy where it is precisely evil that happens. At least, before his love for Jayce and Jayce's love pulled him out of it and restored the balance between good and evil in the universe.

Their very last scene shows them seemingly merging into the Great Cosmic Whole of the Arcane. It doesn't matter that there is no carnal act between them. For their love is nonetheless fruitful in that it engenders a renewned humanity (cleansed of its past sins and crimes, and eager to finally pursue a goal of lasting peace), and, needless to say, this is a metaphor for sexual union and childbirth. Yes, they're like Adam and Eve who, after they ate of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, opened their eyes, discovered their nudity, which they immediately hid, because it brought them shame for the first time in their existence. As a result, God chased them out of Paradise, and they had to live in a world full of suffering, but in which they were finally able to love each other as they wished, have sex and father children. In Eden, they were infertile because they lived in the totalitarian unity of God, who decided everything for them. In old Viktor's dystopia, it's he and he alone who animates his mechanized golems with his will. His terrestrial paradise is a world as sterile as the Garden of Eden in Genesis. Then there's the passage where the Viktor of the present opens his eyes, shocked, to the implicit revelation of his love for Jayce by his future self. When you think about it, it's a bit like biting into the apple... For then comes the realization that he is not just a work-obsessed scientist seeking to free himself from his shameful frailties, nor a god who has succeeded in doing so and therefore no longer fears, feels or wants anything, but simply an ordinary man who naturally and actually desires someone else, and who understands that only by welcoming this desire and the emotions they entice into himself can he save himself, his companion and the rest of the world as well. He is then ejected from his own Eden (a trap of his own creation), accepts that the universe is a perpetual balancing act between good and evil, accepts his emotions, his feelings for another person, a man. Jayvik becomes a fertile couple at this point, because it is thanks to their union, and directly from it, that damaged humanity can rise from the ashes and start anew. And their fertile union in the arcane, though not carnal, is no less erotic. Indeed, it's a mystical union, and mysticism contains the most evolved form of eroticism, in that it is a platonic eroticism that portrays the fervent spiritual fusion between a mortal (Jayce?) and God (Viktor?). At best it may be lowkey sensual, but not sexual.

Because of this, I think Jayce and Viktor's love is therefore an ethereal love, which contains within it all the different forms of love (agápē, érōs, philía), whose merging therefore results in the most perfect and accomplished form of love in the universe: cosmic divine love.

For me personally, at least, the way I've interpreted the series, it's a chaste (so again, asexual) romance that transcends the barriers of creation and the boundaries of space and time, countries, civilizations and social norms of any kind—a soulbound but discreet passion that doesn't bother with any of those reductive boxes. I can understand why some people might complain about Cait and Vi having an explicitly romantic and sexual love story, just as Jayce and Mel have had theirs before he went to join Viktor, but not precisely Jayce and Viktor. But that's because their love is on another plane, a plane that encompasses all the others and transcends them all at the same time, and which is as much the origin of, as it illuminates, the future happy days of Piltover and Zaun, but also of the entire Runeterra universe. This is the legacy they leave on Earth. Together, they have achieved their goal. And honestly, is there a more powerful and beautiful love between two men than this one?

[wickedsmille]

broken and still breaking

uhhhh, this is a little fic technically titled Angsty McAngst Pants Angst in my notes because Jason goes to his Re-Welcoming/It's A(n Alive) Boy! gala then gets triggered into a PTSD episode of dying which Tim helps him through. It was SUPPOSED to be gen but then they started flirting and bantering so. Welp.

Buyer beware cause I haven't beta'ed this, aforementioned PTSD episode, mild depictions of blood and injuries and what nots.

Alright then *thigh slap*

If it weren’t for the overwhelming feeling of being settled in his own skin, Jason would’ve told Bruce to fuck a cactus for offering to make Jason Peter Todd a real boy again. On principle alone he nearly said no. Besides, creating aliases is fun. James Austen, John Red and, to be nothing if not a mature adult with refined tastes, Dick Dickins. So many others, too. He could get the utilities at a new safehouse hooked up under Stephen Wolfe’s name then turn right around and renew Emmerson Bronte’s license at the downtown DMV.  

See? Being legally dead has allowed him room to express himself creatively in a way that has nothing to do with experimental ammunitions and testing the limits of the human body. One might even say it’s a healthy passtime. Sort of. Relatively speaking, okay. He’s not a perfect person, wouldn’t even dream of entertaining the thought. Not when he’s had so much practice turning the inside of someone’s skull into a modern day Picasso. 

But he’s been trying. Is trying. 

So, rather than testing the integrity of Bruce’s dental implants, Jason bit his cheek so hard it bled, swallowed back every bitter, snide remark dancing along his tongue and nodded tightly. He can’t think about the way Bruce deflated after. How his eyes went soft and the weight of the cape and cowl fully slipped off to reveal an infinitely exhausted but relieved Bruce Wayne, Failed Father Extraordinaire. If Jason does, he might ask himself what it was all for anyway and if any of it really ever mattered. Those kinds of thoughts lead to nothing but self-imposed isolation and self-destruction. 

He’s definitely regretting his decision as his gaze scans over the crowded ballroom of the Grand Hotel in downtown Gotham. A sea of opulence swims below the upper landing he has stalled out on. Men and women stand around in circles, chatting one another with plastic smiles etched into their faces. The sound of faked laughter grates, making his jaw clench and his teeth grind together. Wouldn’t it be just his luck that the food tables are all the across the room.

“Ha, ha, ha. Oh my, this little thing?” a woman simpers loudly at the bottom of the stairs. “Why, it was my mother’s.” She fingers the delicate gold chain around her neck. On the end is a diamond large enough it could feed a family of four in the Alley for a couple years.

A man across from her, entrenched in his own conversation partners, tips his head back and holds his belly as he chortles. “Mr. Campbell, you’re in luck! I have a penthouse in uptown and a condo on the westside and they’re alright but, if you’re looking for a sound investment, I suggest getting a cabin or three in the Northwest. Best decision I ever made!” he says blithely like there aren’t families and children sleeping in their cars because every apartment building is leased up and the list for voucher programs are thousands long.

Jesus fuck, he did not miss this.

Being a Wayne again means he gets the horrific honor of taking a half-step into the limelight. At first, Bruce wanted to do a full spread. Interviews and press conferences, staged sightings by the paparazzi and several welcoming events. Jason promptly shut him down by threatening to find every copy of his adoption papers and burning them. He’d rather chew off his own arm and beat Bruce with the appendage than do any of that. The compromise? A single gala as a re-introduction then Jason could fade into the background once more. 

So long as you don’t cause a scene, Bruce had said sardonically, knowingly. Bastard.

With the implied threat to his privacy, Jason has smartly decided to be on his best behavior. Even though the simple, black suit he’s wearing feels too tight and too hot. Though his hair is stiff from all the product in it. Despite the shiny leather shoes pinching his toes. No matter the way he feels like everyone is staring at him even if they’re not. 

Sure, quite a few of the guests are surreptitiously staring, thinking they’re oh so clever with the way they side-eye him before quickly looking away. They’re subtle, or so they think. It’s not like everyone is facing him, gazes boring into him. He almost thinks that would be better. At least he’d have a good reason to sneer and dip out scot free. Would it really be a scene if he were to loudly trip coming down the stairs? He’ll feign embarrassment at drawing attention to himself if it means he can back out. 

An elbow bumps into his side, making him jolt. Jason’s head whips around, intending to give whoever has invaded his personal space a thorough tongue lashing until he sees Tim. Calm, cool, collected Tim holding two champagne flutes, one held towards Jason. He’s smiling softly with his head tipped to the side in an unspoken question. The gold and white of his corset vest contrast well with the black of the rest of his suit and make the blue-gray of his eyes pop without washing him out. Tim would look right at home if he were down on the floor swimming with the other sharks. Goddamn him for fitting in so well.

“I’ll back you if you want to leave,” Tim tells him. ���Due to your violent bout of diarrhea and uncontrollable gas.”

Snatching the offered glass out of Tim’s hand, Jason drains the entire thing in one go. “I hate you,” he murmurs miserably, only partly meaning it. Then he snags Tim’s own glass and downs that as well. 

A thoughtful frown makes its way onto Tim’s face. “I’d be careful. Getting tipsy won’t actually make this any easier to navigate.”

“Stop talking like you know me.”

Tim shrugs amiably. “I might not know you as well as I’d like to but I know them.” 

He inclines his head towards the dodos guffawing over their latest insider trading power plays and gossiping on whose husband is sleeping with which of the help. Or lamenting on how finicky children can be, not realizing their kids aren’t really the problem because they’re capacity for introspection matches the frigidity of their hearts somewhere below absolute zero. Jason tries very hard to not bite and snarl at Tim since he’s one of the blue bloods. Born and bred for the hoity-toity bullshit with a silver spoon shoved so far down his throat he must’ve been gagging on it. 

Tim isn’t like that and never has been, he reminds himself. In fact, for all the ways Jason had to show Tim how to effectively coupon stack and explain why he microwaves his sponges, Tim is as far removed from the vultures and roaches and leeches they’re surrounded with as he could be given his upbringing. For one, Tim isn’t a total douchebag. Unthinking at times and eccentric, but not outright malicious. He can be surprisingly sweet like when he requests Alfred make one of Jason’s favorite foods when he knows Jason will be coming over for dinner or upgrading Jason’s helmet when his own tech know-how fails him without Jason ever needing to ask. 

The guy is a squishy ball of good intentions wrapped in a deceptively tiny package which has never, not once, held him back from putting dusty, crusty board members and hardened, violent crooks in their place. Once he’d had a chance to actually get to know Tim, Jason found himself feeling grateful. Bruce didn’t concede to just anyone stepping into Jason’s pixie boots. At least he went for the best. 

“If you knew me any better you’d have a key to my apartment and a drawer in my dresser,” Jason drawls, steering the conversation away from the swarm of jewels and silks he wants to pretend doesn’t exist.

“I already have a key to your apartment,” Tim points out. 

Rolling his eyes, Jason stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, but you come over so I can make you buy pizza and kick your ass in Mortal Kombat. Not fucking you into the mattress and making you breakfast in bed after.”

“You never asked, did you?” Tim asks him slyly.

Just about every coherent thought in Jason’s mind fucks off into some deep, dark hole. Leaving him a flustered mess with vague recollections of waking up sticky and wanting. So his witty, top of the line comeback is, “Nope.”

“Eloquent as always,” Tim laughs, patting Jason lightly on the shoulder like he didn’t just break Jason’s brain. “We should get down there before they start chattering about how egregiously anti-social we are.”

All the clamboring what if’s and could be’s get ruthlessly, shamelessly smothered and die a quick and violent end so he can get himself back on task. “I don’t want to,” Jason says petulantly to drive the conversation back to safer, calmer waters.

Now it’s Tim’s turn to roll his eyes. Huffing, he points at Damian to the far left where he’s leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed tightly. “Suck it up. If he can do it, so can you. Now come on.” 

Tim holds out his elbow which Jason bats away with a scowl. He can make his own way down the stairs, thanks. Telling Tim as much, Jason nearly trips over himself when Tim challenges him to put his money where his mouth is. There’s a reason Tim is his favorite because it’s just the thing he needs to unstick his feet and get him moving despite the way his skin prickles the closer they get to the main floor. Although Tim had been joking when he volunteered to escort Jason down, he finds himself wishing he’d taken Tim up on it if only for the grounding comfort of a familiar touch as the smooth soles of his shoes land on the polished floors. 

Graciously, Tim does see him through the crowd to the food tables Jason had been eyeing up. As a kid, they were an oasis. It’s hard for others to talk to you when you’re stuffing your face as fast as you can while chewing as slowly as possible to delay and discourage conversation. Plus, it’s good. A little bland because the chefs have to cater to the tastes of so many, watering down their usual Michelin star flair to a point that probably pains them. But still good in spite of it being pretentious.

Once satisfied Jason can be his own keeper no longer in need of a handler, Tim drifts off. He switches over from the insufferable geek Jason has come to like to the smoothed, glacial veneer of a corporate socialite. The totality of the shift leaves Jason reeling. One thing he’s never understood, no matter how much he puzzled through it and tried to emulate it, is how Bruce and Tim can switch between the two extremes so flawlessly. It’s like trading out coats for them. A flick and a swish then, poof, like magic they’re entirely new people. What that says about their psyches and the inherent fault in their neural wiring is something he shies away from.

Jason tucks in with gusto when an older woman in an inappropriately low cut halter dress and coiffed hair sets her sights on him and starts striding over. With nimble fingers, he loads up the plate his grabs and shoves whatever in his mouth, hoping the age-old trick still works despite being over a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. 

Score because it totally does. She wrinkles her nose at his puffed out cheeks and actually sniffs haughtily when he chews purposefully with his mouth open. He even smiles, masticated mush on full display, and waves cheekily. The woman redirects her steps to take her closer to where Dick is holding court about twenty yards out. She joins the gaggle of women and men magnetically drawn in by Dick’s natural charm. He doesn't quite fit like Tim and Bruce do but he has his natural personality to make up the difference.

Unlike Jason. Which he has no problem with. He’ll take himself, authentically cynical and caustic and brutally honest, over being a fake fuck any day. 

The bacon wrapped, maple seared figs don’t settle well as more people attempt to approach him. Even for him, there’s only so much he can eat. Rapidly, he’s reaching his limit. The twisting viper pit turning his stomach inside out isn’t helping his appetite either. So far he’s been successful in warding people off but his stomach flips, signaling his need to find a new method to avoid unwanted advances and carelessly hurtful words. 

Setting his plate aside, Jason casts his gaze out across the crowd once more. Being tall does have its advantages. Like being able to pinpoint where exactly the rest of the family is and relatively what they’re up to. Dick is wholly unaccessible with the amount of attention he’s getting. He can keep the center stage, Jason is trying to move behind the curtains. Bruce is similarly front and center with his own gathered horde so that’s a no go even if he thought he could handle it without fisting Bruce’s collar and dunking him into the champagne fountain in the corner. 

Damian is somewhere. It’s a toss up whether Jason just can’t see the shrimp or he’s faded into the shadows to either eerily stare out at the crowd from a corner or making his way towards a Bat bothole to go on an ill-advised patrol. As helpful as it would be to have Cass, she’s no better handling these things than Jason so Stephanie has been guiding her. Her attempts at bumbling but Stephanie is nothing if not determined and relentless. It’s why Jason likes her even though he hates those qualities, a reflection of his own, weaponized against him. Duke, the lucky duck, got to skip.

Then, there’s Tim. He’s making amiable small talk with a couple to Jason’s left. They’re too far for Jason to make out the words but close enough Jason feels comfortable weaving between bodies to reach him. So what if it makes him needy or weak. Everyone has to take a knee from time to time and he doesn’t need anything more than a temporary crutch to get him through the next hour or two before he can leave without causing a fuss. Tim is crutch-shaped. It makes sense. 

Saddling up to Tim’s side, Jason inserts himself into the conversation. The man speaking stutters, words petering out as he looks up, up, up at Jason. Jason flashes what he hopes passes as a polite smile. He’s not sure it works when the guy recoils minutely. The woman, his wife Jason assumes if the three-figure rock on her finger is anything to go by, gives him a flat grimace he assumes is supposed to be a smile.

“Jason, it’s good to see you. Enjoying the party so far?” Tim asks him, voice level and almost serene.

“It’s a blast,” Jason deadpans, bumping his hip into Tim’s as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“It is a fabulous venue,” the woman says. “We were delighted to get the invitation and haven’t been disappointed yet.”

Yet. Goddamn. He forgot just how snippy these people could be. 

“I’ll be sure to pass your praise along to our event planner,” Tim replies so Jason doesn’t immediately make an ass of himself. “By the way, Jason, this is John Anders and Mary Ann Anders. They’re the founders and CEOs of Anders Packaging. Wayne Enterprises is lucky to call them partners.”

“Jason Wayne,” Jason introduces himself. He holds out his hand which John hesitates to take but social norms win out. Jason makes sure to squeeze on the side of too tight and doesn’t stop till John winces. He goes easier on Mary Ann though, maybe he shouldn’t have because she digs her nails into the skin of his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

When Tim’s hip bumps into him, Jason reads it as the warning it is so he backs off. Tim takes back the reins of the conversation to steer them away from Jason himself. The transition back to dull, unassuming chatter is easy when Tim is the one leading. The tension from John drains away as he falls under Tim’s spell. Jason does feel some small amount of respect for Mary Ann as he notes she isn’t as enamored with Tim’s performance as her husband is. She gives Jason a shrewd look as if to say I see you both, I’m watching you and, yeah, he kind of likes her and hates that he does. But she probably hates him right back since she has to like him. Or pretend to.

Jason rises to Mary Ann’s challenge when she narrows her eyes at him. It becomes a game where they both adopt an air of cordial confidence whenever Tim and John are looking. Then they cast it aside for suspicion and mutual distaste when the other two aren’t. It’s kind of fun. If Mary Ann doesn’t think so, sucks to suck. Jason has had an entire lifetime of pissing people off by doing nothing but existing to hone his craft of being a nuisance without lifting a finger.

Tim looks at him askance, drawing Jason away from his silent feud with Mary Ann and back to the conversation. 

“I thought it would be fun,” John laments ruefully.

“You’re adventurous,” Mary Ann says as she pats his arm. 

“I suppose so,” John replies, giving her a small, genuine smile. “I certainly have a better appreciation for remodelers! Doing the kitchen in our summer house? Never again! I was trying to knock out the cabinets with a hammer for ages until Mary Ann grabbed me a crowbar.”

Jason’s blood runs cold. He abandons the game with Mary Ann in favor of racking his mind for a graceful, or graceless if necessary, way to leave. 

The mention of a crowbar sinks its hooks into his mind, making it run syrupy slow. Too slow to slink away before John keeps going. 

“Now that did the trick! It still took me an hour but, whoo, let me tell you. That is a workout,” John laughs. The arm he has around Mary Ann’s waist unwinds and he takes a step back to give himself some more room. Then he’s miming swinging his arm back and forth. High above his shoulder then down and across, grunting from the effort and smiling from the humor of it all. “You have to throw your shoulder into it. Really get into it. It was fun!”

John laughs again but it’s not John. Not to Jason. It’s too high, too loud. The sound echoes in his head and amplifies with every reverberation. He would cover his ears if he knew it would do any good but it’s all in his head. Now would be a good time to leave, decorum be damned. But his feet feel rooted to the spot and every muscle is coiled so tight he’s shaking with it and immobile. Jason's hands start trembling as John keeps going. On and on and on about his skill with a crowbar. Proud of himself for it. 

In horror, Jason watches as John’s smile keeps curving and twisting into a rictus grin so wide it should be splitting his face but it isn’t. The white straight line of his teeth shift and dull to a pale yellow while all the color of his skin drains away to an unnatural white. The charcoal gray of his suit bursts into color Purple and green and red. So much red. John’s hand isn’t empty anymore either. Now he’s swinging a real crowbar with the end of the metal dented from where he used it to shatter Jason’s femur and tailbone. 

Jason watches as John as the Joker pummels Jason as Robin right there on the ballroom floor. A deep dark red spreads out across the ground. Jason as Robin screams and pleads. Snot and blood and a broken jaw making it difficult to form words but he knows what he said. He was calling out for Bruce. But Bruce never came and the pool of blood has spread far enough he’s standing in it and Jason can’t do this anymore - 

He’s off like a shot. All the restless, animalistic panic inside him zips through his veins. His chest heaves with the effort to suck in as much air as possible but it’s never enough. There’s nothing but the jagged, wet sound of him breathing and the pounding beat of his pulse in his temples. Maybe someone is yelling his name, too, but it’s muffled like someone is holding his head underwater. The elite, esteemed guests gawk at him as he flies by and he doesn’t understand why they aren’t in a tizzy about the dirty warehouse they’re in. 

When he reaches the door, it isn’t locked with a winding length of chain. His hands scramble to clutch the knob of the door but it opens easily under his hands. Over the din of the crowd behind him, Jason can hear the tick, tick, ticking of the bomb. But the door leads to another warehouse so he sprints to the next door, hopping over the puddle of blood on the concrete. The next door opens without issue but it leads into a small, black hole. Yawning and bottomless and hungry.

“Get out!” someone commands from close behind him.

On instinct, he lashes out but whoever it is isn’t having it. Their arm smacks into his wrist, redirecting his punch. Then there’s hands on his chest, shoving him back and into the void. He expects to be falling endlessly but his ass crashes into the ground, arms buckling from the way he catches himself to keep from toppling over completely. He hasn’t even completely settled on the floor before the darkness is chased away by a bright cascade of light from above. Shadows lurk in the corners, wriggling and writhing like a mass of worms and maggots. 

“Jason, Jason,” someone says urgently. They try again gently, “Jay.”

“I need you to breathe with me,” they say, tone brooking no argument. It’s all a serious, low tone Jason can hear clearly over the he ha, ha, HA in his head. “You need to follow me. Fuck. Okay, okay. Can I touch you?”

He wants to understand who it is crouching next to him but the black spots dancing across his vision, the blurry edges of it, keep him from piecing it together. A hand encircles his wrist and he tries to twist away from it. They’re strong though. Stronger than he thought they’d be. His hand is planted firmly on a plane of smooth, warm fabric. The fingers around his wrist pop lose and disappear completely so he moves his head up until the pads of his fingers brush against skin. 

Then he latches on and squeezes with his teeth bared and all the higher thinking of a cornered wolf spurring him on. 

“J-Jay,” they choke out. “Alright then. Feel that?” 

They draw in a comically large breath around the pressure Jason is putting on their windpipe. The pulse beneath his fingers is thumping hard and quick but controlled. Up and down their throat presses against his hand. Unconsciously, he finds himself mimicking the movement. His focus narrows down to the rhythmic movement of their throat and the stuttering attempts his chest is making to imitate it. 

“Jay,” they say faintly. 

Jason becomes aware of two things immediately. He’s in a spacious store room. It smells like a hodgepodge of herbs and spices co-mingling into something overpoweringly herbaceous. The smell is enough to tickle his nose. Several overhead lights are shining down on the packed shelves of nonperishables and Jason and Tim. Because Tim is there with him, on his knees in front of Jason with his pants rucked up and jacket rumpled. With Jason’s hand around his throat and the pale skin of his face a worrying shade of red.

Like he’s been burned, Jason’s arm snaps back. The dimples from Jason’s fingers fade, leaving red indents sure to turn a nasty purple later. Tim gasps loudly and pitches forward onto his hands. He coughs and sputters, rubs at the tender skin of his throat. Checking for any cartilage damage, Jason realizes.

He did that.

The thought has Jason leaning to the side and emptying the contents of his stomach. It’s disgusting. Everything he ate earlier comes up for an encore but its decidedly less appetizing this time around. The bitter taste on his tongue makes him gag even after he’s done. All he can smell is bile as shame wells up, threatening to muscle everything else out because he was choking Tim. Fuck the food. They can get more food. If he seriously hurt Tim, they can’t get a new Tim. 

“Why didn’t you stop me,” Jason rasps, clearing his throat and spitting it out onto the rest of the mess. Not like it's salvageable anyway. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Tim looks up at him sharply. He pushes himself back onto his haunches. Defiance draws his shoulders up and back. Out of them all, Tim has never let him get away with shit. The kid spat in his face even after Jason beat him to a pulp. Never once has Tim backed down from Jason’s misdirected anger or shown fear the times they’ve needed to play fight for the villains intent on pitting them against one another. Dick lets his guilt bleed through too much and lets him be lenient with Jason. In contrast, Bruce is as immovable as Tim but where Tim is kind and even sweet at times, Bruce is a complete and utter asshole.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Tim snarks. 

Jason really hates how little Tim values himself sometimes. Especially given Jason’s own high regard of Tim. 

“Never do that again,” Jason orders, whole body quaking with the aftershocks of his episode. PTSD, one doctor had told him. A normal side-effect of The Life, Jason had privately corrected him.  

“LIke to see you try and stop me,” Tim says, cheeky and sharp with a half cocked grin to match. 

This fucking guy.

“Can I hug you now?” Tim asks with a hint of hostility hiding in his tone. 

Jason can appreciate Tim’s innate ability to understand him and all the ways Jason would outright reject him if he were nicer about it. The contrast to Dick’s antsy need to use touch as a comfort is stark and wonderful. Grumbling, Jason nods his head at the nasty puddle of ick next to him. 

Tim rolls his eyes so hard Jason’s surprised they don’t pop right out of his skull. “Oh, yeah, like I don’t deal with worse on a nightly basis.”

“Touche,” Jason mutters. 

He scoots closer to Tim and away from the gross. His palms stay flat on the ground but Tim shuffles to fit himself against Jason, molding them together as he winds his arms around Jason’s neck. One hand buries itself in Jason’s hair. The nails scratching at his scalp break apart the gel in his hair. It kind of hurts but it keeps him present and helps chase away the jittery feeling in his limbs. The other hand splays across the broad expanse of his shoulders. This close, he has no choice but to follow the rise and fall of Tim’s chest so the quickened pace of his breathing slows to normal. 

Jason’s gut says to push Tim away and maybe even kick him in the jaw for daring to touch him. The impulse dies a quick death as warmth spreads out from his center. It’s soft and sweet and gentle. He presses his face hard into the curve of Tim’s neck and breaths in Tim’s overpriced cologne. Although he’s bigger than Tim, he feels protected like nothing can touch him in this bubble of fragility they’ve created. Finally, finally his mind goes blessedly silent and he settles back into his own skin, not the phantom corpse of a boy who lost more than he ever gained and was cut down before he ever really had a chance. 

Shifting, Jason moves so he can wrap his arms around Tim’s torso and cling tightly to the back of his suit jacket. The ribs of the corset vest flex under his hold. Aside from a quiet grunt, Tim doesn’t say anything. To be a shit, Jason makes them flex again. A warning rumble reverberates from Tim’s chest straight down into Jason’s bones, shaking out the cobwebs of memory and making him puff out a breath through his nose in a parody of a laugh. 

“How do you breathe in this thing?” Jason mumbles into the damp skin of Tim’s neck.

“Force of will and spite,” Tim tells him succinctly. 

“Anything for fashion.”

“More like anything to make Mr. Williams as horrendously uncomfortable as possible after he let slip a couple choice words to me at the last gala.”

“Your commitment to pettiness is unrivaled.”

“Have you met yourself?” Tim accuses him incredulously. 

“I don’t have a commitment to pettiness. I am pettiness.”

The sound of Tim’s easy laughter washes over Jason. He can’t help but to join in even if his own is weak and half hearted at best. Things feel less heavy than they did, less inevitable and better. So much better. Tim still hasn’t let him go and he has no intentions of releasing Tim either. 

With the silence comes the realization of what happened and how it must have looked to everyone else. Jason curls into himself, arms tightening around Tim. In an uncharacteristically small voice, he gives life to his uncertainty and shame. “Everyone saw, didn’t they?” he asks. 

Tim shrugs as much as he can in the vice of Jason’s arms. “You were more subtle than you think you were. Nothing a quick cover of explosive diarrhea won’t fix,” Tim tells him lightly. The callback and absurdity of the idea forces a bark of laughter from Jason. More subdued and serious, Tim adds, “Besides, it doesn’t matter. To hell with them. What matters is that you’re okay and everything else we can fix.”

“Trying to say I can’t be fixed?”

Making an irritated noise, Tim bops his head into Jason’s in chastisement. “I’m saying you don’t need to be fixed. You are who you are and we wouldn’t have it any other way. If it means you need more support, we’re happy to give it but you don’t need to be fixed, Jason.”

“Cool it on the soliloquy, Timberly,” Jason teases so he doesn’t start tearing up. “Ain’t nobody wants to hear your bleeding heart.”

“Charming as always,” Tim sighs, resigned, but he still hasn’t let Jason go.

So Jason smothers the poisonous voice in the back of his head whispering about Tim backing away to leave him cold and bereft, mocking him then relaxes entirely in the safe space Tim carved out for Jason between his arms.

[spitdrunken]

Your Mr. Scarletella dear lord that was delicious!! I’m kinda obsessed w the concept of not knowing what you’re doing is bringing someone pleasure or at least not until they’ve cum from it. I praise you and I hope for more fics of that kind in the future <3

You're not sure why Mr. Scarletella has seen a bit more fidgety than usually lately. None of his behaviours present in typical, human ways. So, whereas you might have fiddled with your fingers, paced back and forth or talked too much, he's been eerily quiet and constantly distoring the space around him. Colours warp and twist. Sometimes, you'll blink and he'll be beside you. Then, you blink again, and he'll be in front of you. Before you know it, he's behind you again.

You simply can't shake the feeling something's going on. You stop walking. (Where had you been going again...?)

"You hurt?" You ask. "Upset? Troubled? Many quick... Move." Mr. Scarletella, usually eager to respond in his own way, remains quiet. He does appear right besides of you. You reach out for him, the brush of your fingers hovering right above his non-existent body. "Me want help you. You understand?"

"Me understand," he says. His voice is accompanied by more static than usual. The whole air around him seems to hum. Beyond that, his face looks a little different too, but you can't quite put your finger on it. "Me like you. Me want touch. Me want give you [...]... Happy. Enjoyable." He lowers his head a little, averting his face from yours. "You understand?"

You don't know one of the words he used. You try to repeat it. "[...]... Me not understand."

Mr. Scarletella tilts his umbrella a little towards you. "My body. ...Container. You want?" He shifts his hand so he is holding the handle of the umbrella out towards you. He wants you to hold it, it seems. If that'll make him happy, you're happy to oblige, though you don't quite see the significance. You smile at him.

"Me want. Give me." When you take it from him, you catch a glimpse of his face. It becomes obvious now what had been unclear to you before. A reddish flush has settled on his face, wide eyes only staring at your face for a moment before darting away. That should've been your first warning sign.

Even though he'd told you the umbrella could be touched, it's still a surprise that your hand doesn't go straight through it. There's a weight to the object that you hadn't expected. The handle seems to hum and vibrate in your hand with some kind of unseen power.

You twirl the handle in your hand, gliding your hands over the material. It's squishier than you would've thought. It's like holding an approximation of an umbrella made by someone who had only ever seen the object, rather than touched it themselves. You search and fiddle for the button to shut the top, just to make it a bit easier to carry, but you can't seem to find it. Static teases the edge of your hearing. You only see Mr. Scarletella out of the corner of your eye.

You twirl the handle in your hand, gliding your hands over the material. It's squishier than you would've thought. It's like holding an approximation of an umbrella made by someone who had only ever seen the object, rather than touched it themselves. You search and fiddle for the button to shut the top, just to make it a bit easier to carry, but you can't seem to find it. Static teases the edge of your hearing. You only see Mr. Scarletella out of the corner of your eye.

You sigh a little, your hands fiddling with the material before groping up and down the main body. Maybe it's unable to be closed? That would suck. Brow furrowed in thought about your silly little task, you extend your arm and press down on the outer canopy, trying to get it to fold in with no luck. When you push it in, it just pops back out again. Your arm is starting to ache from the weight. You squeeze the handle a bit tighter.

Then, Mr. Scarletella whines. Or, at least, you think he does. The noise is fragmented with so much static and garbled noise that it's hard to entirely tell. You whip around to face him, finding him in an entirely different position than before. He's slumped against the wall, feet facing outward, with an even deeper flush on his face as his fingernails scratch at his cheeks. His eyes are wide and his shoulders shake.

He looks downright loopy. He's lost control of his form, back having sunk several inches into the concrete wall behind him. Behind his fingers, he's grinning, eyes half-lidded and gaze unfocused. The sight sends an immediate, unmistakable shot of arousal through your body.

You're immediately overwhelmed with the desire to ruin him even more. If you had been able to touch him, you would've practically pounced on him, pulling his hand away and pressing your lips against his. Since that isn't possible, you lift up the umbrella and kiss it instead, intent on finding out how many more noises you can pull out of him now that you know what you're doing.

[giddythekitty]

Body vs Soul vs Consciousness

Warning: This is an explanation based on my personal understanding of the difference and connection between the 3. This is only meant to be seen as a study you can use for shifting and not as direct advice on it.

So… shifting, am I right? The one thing that saves and/or betters our lives and yet might be hard to achieve.

So I decided to make this little thing about how they are a part of us.

Let’s begin with the body and go from there.

The body is the very physical you, the ‘vessel’. It is what lets you experience what you feel and do. That’s why it needs to be maintained and the likes. Like a robot, if you will. It’s battery is it’s energy storage, and it can be aquired by consuming something(in our case, food, in theirs, energy) or taking certain breaks to properly process things(in our case, sleep). It has it’s own cooling system, it’s control centre, etc. It’s what lets your soul interact more directly with certain things.

The soul is what you are as one person in one reality. It is what has emotions, what makes it possible to feel happy, sad, angry or the likes. It decides what the body does. You don’t feel when your stomach digests something, you don’t feel each and every muscle tense and untense to make your hand raise or your foot move, and your soul is what makes it possible to pilot the body. The soul is tied to only the reality it inhabits, none other, and it is only meant to experience one. Lives in that reality however, it can experience as many as possible, and it’s existence is dictated by your own beliefs. If you believe in Heaven and Hell, you go to one of them. If you believe you’ll just roam the Earth until the end of time, you will.

The consciousness is the very essence of existence, of every single one of us. Like in that theory that we are the universe experiencing itself, but a little to the left. It can’t be classified as something. It doesn’t feel, it doesn’t see, it doesn’t move, it has no name. It just is. It is the very core of what we are, what some of us called a ‘higher self’ a few years ago because we didn’t understand what we are.

When we shift, the consciousness doesn’t change. We are it. What changes is the vessel(the body) and the soul. That’s what is hard about shifting to so many of us, why it takes hours or minutes, but it still takes time. We change the very person we are in everything but consciousness and memories(maybe, not too sure about that one). We choose what we look like, what our name is, our personality, based on the knowledge we have from another reality we experienced. Like an AI. It can’t paint a flower if it has never seen one or held a brush. It’s what fascinates me about this stuff so much. Humanity has played god to the point all answers are in front of it, but I digress.

What I mean to say right now is: It takes a while because we have to disconnect from one soul to another, from one set of emotions to another. Maybe here you’re angry, but that reality you’re going to? You’re feeling peaceful right now. I myself have shifted hundreds of times, I do it quite a few times on the daily. I sense or feel snippets of that reality I want to be aware in, but snap out of it because I am still in tune with the feelings and senses in the reality I want to leave.

I hope this little study I’ve aquired through the power of overthinking helps you, and I will remind you again that this is NOT direct advice on shifting. It is meant to explain the layers of what you are in order for YOU to put the pieces of your journey together on your own, as it is a personal one.

Let me know if there is anything unclear and I’ll be happy to explain or fix it.

Happy shifting!

[melit0n]

Madame Genesis

- Oneshot

- OC related work (no pairing: gen.)

- Word count: 6.8k

- Warnings: Descriptions of blood and gore

Notes:

- This is narrated from the perspective of a God of Knowledge; the appearance is left up to the reader asides from a few minor details

- Many names are written in traditional Latin, when they are, they will be written in bold, and then translations and additional details will be added at the bottom of the chapter

It is quiet in The Library. Quieter than usual. Although, not silent; for here even the exhale of a breath can be heard. The familiar rustle of thousands of book pages echoes throughout the endless aisles of The Library, ink forever being sewn into their flaking pages. It is a constant hushed noise that holds a sense of comfort in this place. 

Other than the customary flit of yellowed paper, other noises can be heard. Sometimes, it’s a giggle; one of pure joy and innocent pleasure. Pleasure of a child playing gleefully with their friends. They’ll whirl playfully among the bookcases and dance to music from forgotten empires; even in death so joyful for the life they had been given.

Yet, constantly, the moans and screams of the dead will reverberate through the halls, their pain and agony cooked into the leather books that the souls reside in. Typically, these sounds are unending; anguish stalking through the halls – tied to the Earth –  and groveling at my feet for redemption. Pathetic, in Death’s own words, but understandable. I can do nothing but hold the human remains of their frigid faces in my own unfeeling hands and offer sympathy. When some die they wear a frown, others a smile. But then, then there are those that die with their mouths wide open and screaming in terror, yet, they all end here. 

Here forevermore. 

To distract myself, I gaze bordedly at the ageing tapestries that hang dutifully on the limestone and marble walls. I see these tapestries each waking day, yet I manage to spot a new detail each time I look. Some are torn, ripped apart by anger-ridden claws, swords and spears; hanging onto the brass rods by mere ribbons of fabric. However, others are new; bright with freshly dyed wool. Each tells a different story. I do not care much for any of them, especially the ones that depict me. I do not like being showered with crimson, liquid life, nor being depicted on every battlefield and funeral as if I had caused them myself. 

I am not fond of the Churches, nor the people who crawl to them each early morning and deadly night. They bow down to statues and paintings and pray endlessly for absolution to a God who cares more for their sacrifices than them. 

Naturally, they show the famous stories The Fabulatores tell of; war heroes praised as deities for mass murder, and lovers whom Death and Life decide will never be able to hold one another again. Cruel, in my eyes, but to Death’s; humbling. Death isn’t unfeeling, but with the way they speak of their own stories, they seem to take great entertainment in mortal’s suffering.

I continue to wander forward, peering into darkened corners and listening for anything but the wisp of the dying and dead. Someone will be here today, wandering these halls with a bow, battle-axe, or broadsword; seeking my blood. When they will arrive, Time refuses to say; I suspect it’s in the mood for a fight. I am happy, at least, Death wasn’t the one to greet me with information. 

The spirits that flit past eye me with disdain, even those with joyful smiles printed onto their translucent corpses. From their temperament, I think they know when this mortal will arrive. Maybe he’ll bring an army with him, maybe he’ll try to burn this place to ash and sorrowful dust, maybe he’ll aim to drain my veins of golden ichor, maybe he’ll seek information in exchange for his soul. I am unsure. 

I think, sometimes, I wait for mortals to harm me. I have hope in their pacifism, but what an idiotic hope it is to pray that humans of all creatures will react to me with sympathy. I wait for the pain, and I receive it with arrows in my back and spears through my ribs. When I do, I feel a certain smugness at being right, for I am always right, but then? Then I just feel pain. And I wallow in it.  

Too many thoughts today. I find a need to distract myself, and my eyes find themselves dawdling on the many bookshelves.

Considerately, my clawed hands graze through a shelf, feeling each dip in the spines of the books. I am gentle, as gentle as I can be with the ageing books, and close my eyes as the soft scraping soothes me. Yet, my hands catch on the raised bands of one, and my eyes slowly open in mild annoyance. The spine reads ‘Isaac Ryder’ in shining gold leaf, bright against the blood red of the leather. Pulling it out of its designated space, a space it must not have left for decades, a cloud of thick, yellow dust –almost like the mustard gas spread in the plague-ridden streets of Aqua Regia- rises into the cool air. The pages are yellowed, as to be expected with most books here. It is old and will soon fall to pieces; the dust lingering in The Library forever. 

Not a single soul will remember ‘Isaac Ryder’ soon. No one but me.

It is a thought that lingers when I carefully open the book. It is short, barely containing more than twenty pages with nothing decorating them but scribbled drawings. What a short life, I muse, eying the chicken scratch drawings with mild amusement. Yet, a thought appears. 

A child. This was but a child. 

I am hesitant now, as I flick to the end of this young one’s short life. There is nothing but a measly five words sitting in the middle of the page; the sun is bright here. I contemplate its meaning for a moment, just a moment, when the scent of ash and smoke creeps into my frigid lungs and I feel myself choke on the warm embers. 

A deep sadness settles in my chest along with the ash, and the sound of burning wood temps, dares me to look up from the ending page. Bravely, my eyes wander upward, and I am met with a cradle. It is carefully carved with what could have only been the adoration of a new-found father. I can almost see the splinters stuck just underneath his skin as he carves. The loving details are lost to the flame that holds it tightly, rocking it back and forth as if to calm the screaming child that lies choking on smoke inside it. It echoes, as all agony does, yet nobody but myself hears it. 

I slam the book shut. Shut it with a sad sense of grief for the life that ended much too quickly. I come to the conclusion that although Death is not unfeeling nor cruel, but they are most definitely senseless when it comes to premature passing. 

Turning, I place the book back on the shelf and make a symbol with my fingers across my chest; rest in peace. 

Someone is looking at me. I worry for a moment that this mortal has arrived, without my knowing, but, turning, I find a spirit waiting, fidgeting, behind me; wide eyes and all. It stares at me unblinkingly. Its hands tremble ever so slightly as it reaches for my own. Confusion settles quietly in my stomach along with sorrow, yet, I allow it to hold my hands.

Its hands are cold. Colder than mine. 

Tender palms leech the little warmth from my own and I’m sure the spirit itself doesn’t understand it’s actions. I see my hands through its blue-tinged fingers, and, if I wished, I could engulf both their hands in one of mine. 

Maybe crush their wrists. 

Gently, it lifts my hands near its cold face and whispers to me. Whispers words I don’t understand, words I wish to understand, words I should understand. It feels as if a strange, garbled muffle keeps me from understanding them properly. Yet, before I can question their child-like actions, it quickly let’s go of my hands and flits softly behind one of the bookcases. 

I stand still in the aisle, and everything seems to still with me. Calmly, I bring my hands near to my face. They’re steady and unmoving; my fingers do not tremor with life nor do my palms shake with each pulse of a heartbeat. I call them hands, but they look closer to claws; malnourished, blackened skin hung tightly to bones to form them. Even in death, mortals hold onto their humanity; living and dying as a perfect image of Milia Susurros. There is salt on my tongue as I think this. Perfect image. 

However, before I can dwell on my thoughts, the suffocating stillness and silence elevates itself from The Library; interrupted by the sudden collective whisper of the spirits. I watch as many of them, almost excitedly, flit by the passage I stand in and head towards what must be the mortal. 

Huffing out a tired sigh, I begin to follow the spirits, peering into each corner as I stalk the halls. I keep one eye on the darkened corners, other eye on the upper layer’s rails, while the other eye follows the scarlet trail of spirits.

Eventually, I find the man, yet, he is not what I was expecting. He is clad in simple leather, for he must know the rustle of chainmail is never best for when one wishes to be silent, along with an iron breastplate and forearm cuffs. They shine in the low light of The Library, only covered by his woven cape and hood, yet still beacon-like in this place of death and dying. A longbow rests, tense, in his arm; arrow nocked and seconds from being fired. 

Mortals call the bow to be the weapon of cowards. Cowards who fight from a distance; afraid of the glint of their enemy’s sword. Maybe this man is a coward of a fighter, or maybe just a farmer not too fond of foxes. Too many maybes. 

He whispers questions to the spirits as they stare at him from afar with awe and sorrow; for it is not usual for a creature with a beating heart to wander into this place, let alone leave it with blood still pumping in its veins.

He has not brought an army with him, nor a torch to burn this place to ash and sorrowful dust, and he certainly doesn’t look the type to seek holy information in exchange for his soul. 

For the second time today, I am confused. I know when someone is here other than myself. I always know. I know when a Fabulatores decides to prance through my marble palisade and I know when a mortal seeking absolution arrives in my halls. Yet this man is unknown. I did not see his woven cloak in the back of my mind’s eye, nor the bow nocked in his calloused hands. Too many unknowns. For all I know, should know and don’t know; I wonder if Death holds an audience with me today, skulking in the shadows of the carefully carved pillars and eyeing my body with amusement. 

I continue walking forward, to a point where I am but an arm's reach from the man. His eyes dedicate themselves to focusing on the gaggle of spirits eyeing him curiously, talking in quiet, comforting tones; as if he’s trying to calm a wild deer or a scared child. He wants information. 

As I stand just behind his turned back, I wait a moment; I hesitate. The tip of my claws grazes the hilt of the dagger tucked in the belt of my robes, and I tap on the pommel in contemplation. My claws slowly wrap around the leather-swaddled hilt and grasp the dagger firmly. Yet, a memory reaches my mind; a conversation with Death itself. 

"You let them run. Run around your little maze as they lose their mind and call out to you for mercy, yet, you still can’t simply pierce their heart and grant them death. That is what makes you good.” 

Good…that, that is what makes me good? The definition of it is that which is morally right; righteousness. Good is the doctors who heal the broken’s wounds. Good are the farmers who provide food for the poor. I am not good. 

I cannot kill in mercy like the other Dii Minores; hesitate to give death to those who deserve it. My fatal flaw seems to be my lingering sympathy, from where it developed, I am unsure. I cannot fight, even if the adrenaline flows through my soul, I cannot. When met with the slash of a broadsword, I dodge and don’t dare to swing back. In my sympathy, I drive mortals to a maddening death in which they pray for a mercy I can’t bring myself to grant. 

Mortals say it is cowardice to stab a man when he is not looking anyways. 

My claw eases and, now, simply rests on the pommel of the dagger. I stare at this martyr of a man; older than most who arrive here. Most seeking my blood are young and reckless; losing their life here, and for what? Knowledge? To better themselves? What do they expect but death at the hands of Milia Susurros’ Dii Minores? 

His age is shown through the grey strands that loop their way through his bark-brown hair, and the wrinkles that rest by his eyes. Maybe…40, in human years. His build is as steady as an old oak, with arms shaped by hauling weapons and legs by running through bush after his prize. A ‘hero’ of some sorts. An old one, but a hero, nonetheless. 

I open my jaws for but a moment to say something, yet, shut them as I whirl quickly around the corner of a bookcase as he turns with speed, pointing the nocked bow at where I had once stood. He does not call out like most do. There is no idiotic and echoing call of ‘Who goes there?’, nor does he fire his arrow out of fear. He knows what lies in these halls, the creature that haunts each page. 

He stalks, fox-like, through the bookcases, checking each corner before he enters an aisle. I mirror his actions. He does not hear the breath I never exhale, nor the pulse of my frigid veins filling with adrenaline. 

I may not kill, but the hunt always interests me. 

After many minutes of waiting, watching and following, I notice, while staying completely observant of his surroundings, he is searching through the names in the books of the dead. So that’s it; he’s looking for a lost loved one. I have no doubt in my mind he was searching the spirit’s faces for one familiar to him.

I hope he is humbled. I hope it comes to mind the fact he is glimpsing thousands of lifetimes and glossing over them as if they are mere footnotes in a textbook. He enters my domain and prowls like a fox in a chicken coop, walks on these tiles as if he owns them, as if he carved each one. Even with all this watching, I cannot catch a glimpse of his face; hidden by his woven cloak and hood.

My claws, yet again, graze the dagger on my hip and stays lifted millimetres above it. They do not tremble, but they do contemplate. Again. He stands, again, unknowing in front of me. 

I must do it. 

But he has caused no harm to me, he is nothing but a subtle annoyance; a small rock in my shoe. Bearable. 

If I don’t, he’ll end up like the others. Tears soaking into the cold stone as they wither to dust. 

A scowl forms on my face. I am not fond of how this mortal makes me think. 

Be quick, end him with a slash to his neck. It will cause him no pain. 

.

.

.

.

. 

. 

Who would I be to murder an innocent man? A coward. As much of a coward as a bowman. My hand leaves the blade and a sigh escapes my mouth. 

Pathetic. 

I do not wish to fight nor maim, so, I speak. 

“What do you seek, mortal? An ale to cure sickness? A lost loved one? Immortality?” I accuse him. He has not nocked another arrow and stands, tense, in the silence. I let out a laugh.

“You’re an unwise creature.” The salt of annoyance still lingers on my tongue, I cannot help but degrade him. 

He shakes his head back and forth, and I watch as his eyes fill with a blaze. The type of blaze that wrecks havoc on forests; unstoppable and bright. In the sky inked over in black, his glaring eyes burn brightly with all the fury of an inferno. 

"How dare you,” He places his bow on his back, string crossing over his chest and wood resting just out of my eyesight. “How dare you use her voice.”

There is the deepest sense of anger in his tone as he charges forward with a broadsword I did not see. I am surprised; I judged this man as a coward, yet I find myself wrong when I dodge each strategic strike of his sword. I am never wrong. 

I do not like this man. 

He strikes through the stagnant air with such vigour I can almost feel my eternal bones breaking under the force. When he makes the realisation I have but nothing to defend myself, he stops and screams; 

“You cretin of Hell!” There is no reason in this man. There is nothing but pure, in every sense of the word, unadulterated rage. The forest fire burns on. 

With each swift, cutting movement of his sword, he gets much too close to where my heart resides in its cage of bones for my liking, and I swiftly take out my dagger and swipe out against his sword. He scoffs, he knows this is an unfair fight, but he is determined to win. 

I balance his slashes with my smaller blade, watching as sparks seem to fly as the blades collide. Each spark seems to be mirrored in his wrathful eyes. Maybe he will burn this place to ash and sorrowful dust, if even with nothing but his eyes.

I do not get tired, nor do I lose my breath (for how am I to lose a breath that never existed?), but there is an odd feeling in my stomach. It isn’t anger, sorrow, or peacefulness. It is as if his sword has already pierced my stomach and is twisting the blade in my innards. Maybe this is fear. I have never felt this before. I do not like this. 

I do not like this man. I do not like the way he makes me think. I do not like the way he makes me feel. I think he is more than a small stone in my shoe. 

I catch his sword with my hand, gripping it just in front of my face. The cold blade digs into my darkened skin with the force of his forearms.

Maybe I will bleed today. 

"What-” I wince slightly as he attempts to tug the sword out of my claws, but I hold him there firmly. If I am to die today, if Death watches my form with amusement from the shadows, I wish to know what caused the eternal flame in this man’s eyes. “-What have I done.” I realise it is more of a statement than a question. It has been a while since I have talked to mortals and needed my own information out of them. 

He tugs again at his sword, lungs inhaling and exhaling air quickly. I realise I am giving his raging soul a rest he did not know he needed. Maybe the adrenaline will evaporate from his veins. Maybe I will not die today. 

"Open your jaws and speak, mortal. Or I’ll rip them open for you.” I growl out. I sound less God and more hungry animal. 

"You know what you have done, Scientia," He calls me by my Holy name. The name they use in the Churches. “You are knowledge, after all, are you not? You are residue of thought, the silence on sacred shores and the stillness before a battle. Do not pretend to be sanctimonious.” He mocks, quoting one of The Fabulatores’ fables. Those eyes seething with a lifetime of pure anger look into me, rip past layers of muscle and bone, and leave me bare as a new-born babe. I wonder if this is even a fraction of the burn Issac felt. He looks at me with nothing but hatred, and under the heat of his glare, I feel as if I have brought death to whomever he seeks. 

He makes me feel as if I truly am at fault. 

He laughs sarcastically, mocking smile turning into a scowl at an instant; “You murdered her. Ripped her into ribbons of flesh all because she took one of your stupid leather books.”

By ‘stupid leather book’ I conclude he must be speaking of Life and Death’s books; Immortality and Resurrection. They’re what most come here for. However, what I find odd is that I have no memory of anyone, let alone a human woman, succeeding to steal one of Life and Death’s books. I am the God of Knowledge for a reason, and that is certainly something I would remember. The martyr is not only a coward, I surmise, but a liar. 

“Liar.” It is a childish response, nonetheless.

He looks at me incredulously. The fire burns close to my fingertips. 

"I am known as Scientia for a reason, mortal; such a mission as successfully stealing one of Life or Death’s books would hold a golden pedestal in my eternal mind.”

“You are truly as the fables say,” He speaks slowly now, as if to try and calm the annoyance he himself feels bubbling in my hollow chest, “an unfeeling creature hiding in its lair; a Deathbringer of the most ludicrous kind.” 

Nevermind.

I move my jaws to speak, but, he interrupts me.

"Have you no heart?” 

I have to contemplate my answer before responding in the same cold, slow, mocking tone. 

“The drum that beats in my chest is nothing more than a reminder that I am killable. Immortal, yes, but killable. It does not pump liquid life through my frigid veins; it simply waits to be pierced. Milia Susurros’ creations are holy and pure, a sin above all else to deface them, but War forgive if they don’t have a drop of similarity to Milia Susurros’ perfect creations.”

“Then I’ll certainly make you bleed. I’ll enjoy the golden ichor on my hands.” He snarls. He bears his canines and I can almost sense the animalistic urge to dig his teeth into my carotid. He wants me to bleed. Bleed out like a lamb to slaughter. 

“I may be heartless, martyr, but you are naive.”

"I may be naive in your eyes, but I’ll certainly take a pound of your flesh before you take a piece of my soul.”

Abruptly, fuled by anger, he tugs the sword from my grip, and I am surprised I do not bleed. With the way he glances expectantly to my palm, he is as well. 

Quickly, he begins his stabbing and swiping motions, slightly sloppier than before but still holding the same amount of strategic skill in each swipe. I am back to stepping backwards decisively as he comes centimetres away from tearing my skin. 

He fights well, but I am displeased. Annoyed. Perhaps even bored of his claims. I am built on sympathy and pacifism, but I am done trying to convince someone so utterly blind with anger and grief. 

“How dare you act as if you do not remember! Act as if she never existed!”

I gain the confidence the grab onto his sword again. I feel it pinch against my inky skin as I mimic his heavy breathing. Mortals do it when they are angry; I think they think it makes them look bigger.

"Remember.” I growl. How ignorant. “You are asking if I remember? I remember every drop of blood spilt-” 

I fully tug the sword from his hands, holding tightly onto the blade as I shove my dagger back into its placeholder. I have surprised him.

"-Every blooming flower-” I feel the strain in my vocal cords as I talk louder. I flip the sword in my claws as to hold it by the hilt. He realises the danger and I hope he silently curses his obvious idiocy in his head. 

“-And every mortal there is and ever will be.” I punctuate each syllable with a footstep forward. He mirrors my actions; a careful step back for each inhuman one I take forward. “You call me coward and cretin, and by the West winds I know what mortals see me as, what I am; the mouth of a wolf with the eyes of a lamb. But, for Paradises’ sake, do not doubt a God, creature.”

I snarl and bare my own teeth, sharpened by aeons of arguments and evangelical pain.

I do not notice the stars that still burn to black holes in his eyes; I believe I have subdued him. 

I am not good, and I truly know this when I realise I will find pleasure in his tortured cries as he withers away. Withers away and becomes a part of the dust like Isaac Ryder. 

“You are angry, mortal, and that is plain to see. But no amount of self-sought fury will bring back the glory of whomever you lost.”

It is quiet now. He heaves breaths like a dying man.

"Wander, child,” I let the broadsword rest at my side, the tip of the blade hovering just above the carefully carved marble like branches to a river, “seek your friend, lover, or sister and pray.”

I turn slowly and walk along the aisle, walk as if I am floating, yet my feet feel heavier than usual. The odd feeling is gone from my stomach and I feel oddly numb. The heavy stillness rests around me again, and I feel my brain go oddly blank. The library feels like a meat freezer, the type butchers prize themselves in, and I dangle in it like cold cuts. The spirit’s cold, pale eyes watch the interaction intently.

I seem to forget the martyr is not only a liar, but a coward as well. 

And by the cold winds of the North, it is a horrible mistake. 

It hits in between my shoulder blade and the tender muscle and stays there. By Milia Susurros, it is a terrible pain. It is a sharp, piercing type of pain that penetrates deep in my muscle. It is a type of pain I haven’t felt in a while. My shoulder is pushed forward in hurt as my claws immediately reach up to put pressure on it, to ease any of the aching throbbing. I can feel as my muscles convulse around the arrowhead and a noise of agony escapes my mouth. I feel the ichor of life seep into my robes and trail down my skin like sweat. 

I am sure it's a symphony to the martyr. 

When I pull my claw back from the wound, I am horrified at what I see. Blood. Crimson blood, crimson liquid life painted, like the old tapestries, on my blackened claws. It should not be like that. Mortals bleed this colour, mortals bleed in red. 

Yet here I am, bleeding a pool of scarlet. I wip my head around to glare at the mortal, to bear by teeth, to growl like a rabid animal for how he has defaced me. The unwise, coward of a creature seems just as surprised as I am to see me bleed in red, bleed like a human. The inferno still burns, but there is…pity there, now.

Stop looking at me like that, with pity in your darkened eyes. What do you see in me? Tragedy? 

Stop it. 

Stop looking at me like that. 

Do you hear me?

"That is for Aelia."

A jolt of pain runs from my core and it is excruciating, my vision flashes bold reds and quiet whites. I have been struck by arrows before, I am sure arrowheads are still stuck inbetween my bones, but at that name my whole being seems to tremble. 

He takes a step forward. He nocks his arrow again as I hunch like wounded animal. He shoots another arrow, this time in between my ribs. More pain. Endless pain. I am struck to the floor. I feel, no, I am, pathetic. 

Is this what it feels like to be mortal? To be a perfect creation? 

“I hope you feel even a fraction of the pain Aelia felt when you ripped her to shreds.” Another flash of reds and whites, and as I look forward into the endless aisles of The library, into the eyes of all the spirits, I see something. 

A hound, although, not like those that Death keeps, sits happily in the middle of the aisles. It rests next to a large satchel, a carefully sharpened axe resting against it. I can almost feel the rough leather of the handle in my claws, hear the chink of the metal as I sharpen it. The canine barks loudly, yet only I seem to hear it, and bounds forward to my crumpled form, followed by a young woman calling the name ‘Duke’ happily. They disappear in a blink. I glance quickly behind me to check his hands for an open book, but he holds nothing but his Hell damning bow.

“I hope you feel the pain she felt when you left her to nothing but chunks of flesh. When you sat there in her home staring at me in the dark covered in her blood.” His voice cracks in what is either sorrow or unyielding anger at the end of his sentence. 

More flashes of colours, and I think I am having what humans call an epiphany. I feel the odd pain of blunt nails crawling and scratching just underneath my withered skin. It feels like there are hands under it trying to rip their way out. 

Standing behind me, he whispers, “I hope you go to Hell for what you did, Scientia.” 

Taking the broadsword from next to me, he raises it upwards, he aims for my heart. I cannot tell if fear digs deep in my chest, or if that is just the pain of the arrows. I want to move, I want to run, run away and hide from possible death like I always do, but I cannot bring myself to move. I feel painfully human with all this fear.

“What gives you the right?” 

He pauses. He hesitates. 

"What gives you the right to deal a pain so deep?”

He has no answer. I remember a name. His name. The flashing reds and quiet whites mould into kind chestnuts and calming greens.

I...I see him.

I see him, I see this martyr sitting next to me, and he talks to me as if I am a friend; as if he has known me all his life.

“Don’t you know you the pain you sow is pain you reap, Brutus?"

It fits him. Fits him and all his raging anger. 

He pauses, and, obviously, he is slightly surprised by the fact I am not mocking him, instead, using a name I had shown to not even had known. Yet, my eternal existence of Knowledge gives me the under-hand. Even so, I continue. 

“Brutus of Mallowkeep, son… son of Fabricus. Hunter of the Leviathan and friend of King Paulinuis the III.” I speak, almost desperately. The name is a sin I breathe like Oxygen.

“You do nothing to save yourself by calling my titles, Knowledge.” Says he. I find small peace that he is still idiotic enough to engage in conversation to buy me time to find an excuse, no matter my pain and odd visions.

“My name is Brutus, and my name means heavy; so with a heavy heart I’ll guide this sword into the heart of my enemy.” He encourages himself, as the tip of the sword reaches closer to my aching chest. However, words slowly conjure themselves in my mind as he continues on with his angered matra.

“Know my actions are motivated by my grief and agony. Agony you caused her. I too have a destiny, and your death will be art. My people will speak of this day from near and afar; this event will be history, written in the same damning leather book as Aelia. You’ll rot in endless suffering for your sins, Excetra." He accentuates each final word in his sentences, almost sounding poetic.  

I open my jaws again to rebuttal, but a phrase comes to mind. As well as a memory, a voice. My own voice, but…less eternal. I speak with less sanctification in my mind than I do now. I speak with mortal words with ideas so simple-minded that I wonder if it is a memory of a child. 

“Golden child, lion boy, when the West winds bring you home, tell me what it’s like to conquer.” It is simple, as I have said, but it is something. It is not a moment of a mortal’s words coming to mind, but my own.

My own, simple voice with scarlet blood, peachy skin, soft hands and a heart. A heart that beats and pumps blood through warm, thumping veins that protrude out of my skin on my hands. I see it. I see myself. I see humanity. 

And I think Brutus sees it too. I think Brutus sees, with dilated pupils and a face shimmering with sweat, the soul he is searching for. I think he sees that soul in the curve of my jaw, in the pallid of my skin, in the eyes that float in and out of existence. 

“Fearless child, gracious girl, when you spear the heart of the divine serpent, tell me what it is like to burn.” He mutters out. He has to contemplate what he has said for a moment before he staggers backwards.

Scared, he shakes his head back and forth in disbelief, broad sword slipping out of his hands and clattering onto the marble of the floor. The sound echoes loudly in The Library of endless longing. The Library haunted by a human playing God.

He steps back from me, fear holding place on his face. He mumbles a mantra of ‘no’s as saline solution builds steadily in his eyes. 

I do not like this man. I do not like the way he makes me think. I do not like the way he makes me feel. I do not like the things he has brought to my eternal existence. 

For what am I but a God? What am I but the ruler of this black-lit paradise? What am I but Knowledge in its purest form? Who am I but a bad omen that haunts the unknown crevices of humanity’s minds?

There is a sense of impurity that digs a hole in my soul and moulds a place for itself in my hollow body. I am the apple of Milia Susurros’ eye; a creation of utmost holiness. Yet as I stand here with my human heart, I feel insufficient.

I am Milia Susurros’ adjutant, I hold the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of empires to come and long past. I am a God; a thing of utmost glory and holiness. My vessel is meant to be a sacred note, sung between the flesh and hope of philosophers. I am creation, both haunted and holy, but made in glory. Yet, I seem to be a defiant act of the rule of creation. I am a whole solar system placed in a mortal body. 

It comes in the form of a revelation that I was…am, human. Do I have friends? Do I have a family? Do I have a lover? Do I have friends, friends like the hunters who arrive in Spring laughing and jovial, who carefully choose their prey, and send the animals off painlessly and with a prayer? Do I have family, family like those who traverse each winter to and from the mountains in search of food, who ride their steeds with care and laugh at each other's jokes? Do I have a lover, lovers like the man who sits by the wise Maple tree through all the seasons by the flat, armorial, well-kept headstone and plays tunes of love and better places? 

There is human under this pallid skin. The sympathy and pacifism placed in my veins holds a place of reason. 

Carefully, I look up at Brutus, look into his glassy eyes and watch intently as tears slip down his cheeks. The fire is quenched. Sparks and ash fly upwards from time to time, trying to reach the Gods. He is angry, wrathful, still, but not at me. 

We sit adjacent to each other; the same but different. Both cowards, both cretins, both creatures; both humans.

------------

1 - Latin; 'A Thousand Whispers'. This is the main God of this planet. Endlessly large and beyond mortal description. Think of something very eldritch, draped in whites and golds speaking with thousands of voices with an ensemble of whispers following behind it. Its face is constantly changing; it doesn't really hold any true form unless it's appearing (for whatever reason) to mortals. Seeing its Godly form would drive anyone mad from its staggering existence.

2 - Latin; 'Narrators' or 'Storytellers'. Their purpose is in their name; they tell the fables of the world (some true, some made up for the purpose of teaching mortals lessons).

3 - Latin; 'Royal Water'. A King made a deal with the sister Gods Life and Death to save his ill (and dying) son in exchange for his own life. Making a deal with another minor God, the king hid himself from immortal eyes. Unable to reap his soul, angry at the betrayal, the sister Gods sent plagues into the waters of the city. To combat the plagues, a form of mustard gas was spread in the city. Some say, even to this day, the streets still stink of death.

4 - Latin; 'Minor Gods'. Knowledge is as much of a God as Milias Susurros, but they are only fractions of M.S's power. Knowledge is M.S's knowledge; it just needs a vessel to channel that into.

5 - Latin; 'Knowledge'.

6 - Latin; 'Sun'.

7 - Latin; 'heavy' or 'dull'. Chosen for the fact that it fits his character, but also for the fact he is named after Brutus of Rome, the man who stabbed and killed his best friend (which is what almost happens here).

8 - Latin; 'craftsman'. From humble beginnings comes a God killer. 

9 - Latin; 'tiny' or 'puny'. Ironic that a king would be called this, no?

10 - Latin; 'water snake'. This has multiple points. 1: Aelia's killing of the 'divine serpent'. 2: This is the fancy Latin way of calling a woman (what Knowledge is seen as) wicked and malicious, this was basically a massive 'screw you go to hell' to whomever you were speaking about. 3: Capitalisation makes the insult named, which, instead of calling Knowledge wicked as an insult, he's calling her the embodiment of wickedness.

Thank you to anybody who sat down and read this. Again, this isn't fanfic related so I don't expect this to get much traction. But, if you enjoyed it, I'm completely open to constructive criticism as well as compliments (lol) and or questions on any lore if you have any to ask. Thank you for reading, whoever you are <3. 

[demidevildonnie]

were not gods

[sysig]

But would you tho (Patreon)

[ruvviks]

having an idea for a game but it's miles above your skill level

[ananke-xiii]

cas practising (en/forced) exo-/endo-cannibalism will always be important to me.

[outlying-hyppocrate]

positively despising how my consistent personality is leaving me and how i resort to such strange lies

[davinawritings]

Werewolf neighbor that can’t hold himself back from breeding you once he smells you ovulating.

Warnings: Oral (fem receiving), Major Breeding Kink, Slight Overstimulation, Knotting

Pairing: Male Werewolf x Female Reader ( Reader could be read as human or monster or hybrid)

You had moved into his apartment complex a few weeks ago, and he had tried to keep his distance.

He had only really seen you on that first day when you were guiding the movers to your apartment, which happened to be on the same floor as his. You had given him a shy smile, and he quickly responded with a tense nod before entering his apartment and slamming the door shut, already feeling his cock hardening.

Unfortunately, he could pick up on your smell whenever you were in the hallway due to his heightened senses. It never failed to send his blood rushing to his cock, but he always managed to keep himself locked away in his apartment, rutting into his own hand.

As he hears your door unlock tonight, he waits for the inevitable moment when your delicious scent will hit his senses. Like every other day, it does, but it is much sweeter this time. His cock is almost instantly hard, and a low growl is involuntarily released from his chest.

All of his instincts are screaming at him to breed your fertile pussy, and he groans at the realization that you smell so sweet because you are ovulating. His legs move faster than his brain, and before he knows it, he is in the hallway and pacing towards the elevator where you are calmly waiting.

He grabs you and pulls you over his shoulder, causing you to gasp. “ What are you doing?” you ask. He doesn’t answer and carries you back to his apartment and bedroom. He lays you down on his bed, and you stare at him wide-eyed. He watches as your eyes trail over his tall body stopping on his throbbing cock, hidden only slightly by some gray sweatpants.

He smirks as you lick your lips. He quickly strips you of all your clothes, pulling your legs apart to settle his face between them. You let out a low whine as his breath hits your wet center. “ I’m going to get this pussy nice and ready for my cock, and then I am going to spend hours breeding this beautiful body. Got it? I’m not stopping until I’m sure you are carrying my pups”, he says, his voice rough with lust.

You moan out a simple “please”, your body on fire with need. He licks a stripe up your slit and moans, giving you a grin before burying his head in your pussy and eating you like a god. Every lick has you clawing at the sheets and moaning in pleasure.

He moves to fucking his tongue inside your already dripping cunt, and you cry out at the feeling. His snout rubs your clit as he shakes his head back and forth, and you scream as you cum on his tongue, back arching off the bed.

He crawls up your body and doesn’t wait for your orgasm to end before starting to push his thick cock into your still convulsing cunt. Tears come to your eyes at the stretch and overstimulation, but you just pull him closer, needing to feel him fill you completely.

“Fuck. Your pussy feels so good. So fucking tight around my cock. You can take it. Just a little more”, he tells you. You look down, already feeling so full, and see that there really is still more. You whine, gripping the sheets and bracing yourself for the last few inches of his impossibly large cock, wanting to take all of him.

His clawed hand wraps around your hip, and he gives one last hard shove, pushing the final few inches inside of you. “Such a good girl. Taking all my cock. Fucking perfect”, he says, and your cunt clenches at his praise.

He slowly withdraws his cock, relishing in your soft mewls, before thrusting back in and starting a brutal pace. He nips along your neck and chest as your hands claw at his shoulders and back. He never relents in his thrusts, loving the feeling of your cunt clenching around his cock.

You cry out for him, your own release washing over you multiple times, but his instincts won’t allow him to stop until he has filled your womb with his seed.

He flips you over onto your stomach and enters you from behind, fucking you into the mattress. You moan at the new angle, his tip bullying your g-spot and your clit being repeatedly shoved into his silk sheets.

“I tried to leave you alone, pretty girl. I could fucking smell your sweet cunt each time you left your apartment and every fucking time I had to rut into my own fucking fist”, he says, each word followed by a harsh thrust.

“I tried, baby. I rea- fuck. I really fucking tried, but when you walked out today, I could smell this perfect fucking pussy ovulating. Your body practically screamed that it needed me to breed it. I just couldn’t hold myself back”, he growls out, and you feel his cock start growing at the base.

His knot starts catching on each thrust, expanding quickly with his fast-approaching orgasm. He switches to grinding, his knot no longer allowing him to thrust in and out of you. His cock rubs against your g-spot relentlessly as his hips grind your lower half into the bed harshly, your clit being dragged against the silk sheets over and over.

You scream in ecstasy as you cum once again, cunt clenching around his knot as you milk his cock for his seed. He growls loudly, claws digging into the mattress as his cum begins to fill your pulsing cunt, his knot keeping all of his cum locked inside of you. His short thrusts don’t stop as rope after rope of cum continues to fill you, the pressure and fullness making you whine.

After a few minutes, he finally stops and rolls you to your sides, keeping you pressed firmly to his chest and firmly locked on his knot. He releases a small chuckle when you give a small yawn and snuggle further into his chest. “Go ahead and rest, baby. You have a long night ahead of you once my knot goes down.”

🖤💕❤️❤️💕🖤

[moondirti]

MDNI. dubcon. objectification. degradation. humiliation. guys being gross. female reader. fingering. cunnilingus. pussy slapping. brief aftercare. an absurd amount of filth for something so short.

price helping you get over your fear of humiliation by inviting the guys over and prying your pussy open for them, half-slouched on his lap with your legs held up in the air :( they’re so mean about it, too. cooing condescending compliments, curling their nasty hands around your jaw to keep your head in place as they pet your most vulnerable places, like you’re the winning pup at a dog show and not a whole human—entitled to any boundary you set, regardless of how your husband feels.

they pay no heed to your protests, though. actually, the men avoid addressing you at all. rather, all their personal, invasive questions are directed to price, who answers them with his own self-satisfied grin.

‘keeps clenchin’ around nothing, desperate thing. hole this willing deserves to be gaped. how often d'you stuff her?’ depends on if she's been good.

‘fookin’ drooched, cap. does she taste as guid as she looks?’ mm, better. smells like nectar too. take a whiff, son. don’ wash my beard afterward on the occasion, jus to keep her under my nose.

‘think i can thaw a winter’s worth of ice with this cunt alone. heat’s practically radiating off ‘er. pathetic slut.’ y’should see how much worse it gets after a good beating, lieutenant. swells up, and damn well sears my palm.

and of course they take it upon themselves to test the validity of his answers. kyle works four fingers into you, then his thumb, stretching you open for his probing, angling your hips up to the light so that your insides are illuminated for his curious eye. if price didn’t have his rough hands anchored to the underside of your knees, you would have kicked his prized sergeant off.

embarrassment washes your neck in warmth, lashes droopy with fat tears. all your husband does to comfort you is place a scratchy kiss to your shoulder, soft hushes tickling your skin.

then, soap intercedes to shove his nose to your mons. he doesn’t just take a whiff — rather, he sucks in the sweet-sour tang your slick provides, testing it in both scent and taste. his hot tongue laves over where kyle’s fingers had been, incisors nibbling at the ripe bud of your clit. mortifying pleasure sinks low, sloshing in your belly’s bed. though you did not expect him to be, he isn’t modest about it. soap presses completely into your pussy, muzzle lacquered with wetness that rivals yours.

your whimpers devolve into moans. loud, a little unhinged. you’ve always played at dressing them up around price, worried that he’d turn away if your face screwed too tight, or your pleasure made itself known beyond what directly serves him. it’s exactly the habit that got you into this mess; and as you lose yourself to the scene, you can feel his delight blossoming against your back.

ghost scares you the most. he lets you have your orgasm, towering behind the man between your legs, but does not let him revel in it, yanking him back by his mohawk at the first twitch of your toes. in the fervour, you have hard time remembering what you should expect. especially when he doesn’t get to it immediately, wiping the gloss off your plush cunt. his callouses rash you, gritty, abrading the soft surface of your skin. it is only when you wince do his eyes crinkle in a manner cruel enough to evoke what’s to come.

but it’s too late to prime yourself. his hand flies back, coming back twice as fast to strike dead centre between your legs. it hurts. hurts so much more than it ever has before, your body unused to unrestrained strength. you scream, throat mangling around the rough cut of it, fighting wildly against price until you manage to escape his hold. immediately, instead of running away, you twist backwards, burying your face into his neck, calming yourself by taking deep breaths of his cologne. something heady — leather, tobacco, sandalwood — bridges the synapses in your brain, numbs the pain, if only a little.

“shhh, little one. you’re alright. it’s okay. doing so good for us.” he soothes, rubbing your sweaty back. the world narrows to just you and him, his men reduced to mere afterthoughts. to be dealt with later — though you doubt the conversation will be anywhere near reprimanding, more likely to end with a bottle of scotch split between four, approving slaps to the captain’s back, than it ever will in your defence.

“n-ne- never a-ga…”

“come, now. let’s not be brash, mm. i promised them a pump each. ‘n’ what kind of host would i be if i didn’t make good on that?”