#Wrought up in my bones | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nvuy · 7 months ago

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to invoke perjury (and to love no one else) — sunday

summary. an old telltale whisper of a confession leaves sunday defenceless, and all the more paranoid of your loyalty to him.

notes. omg this is so epic i say as i hold up this work that nobody asked for. i finally finished the penacony tb quest everybody clap it up for me. my sunday obsession is so so bad somebody save me from the trenches.

warnings. mdni. implied explicit content, dark themes, manipulation, sunday is (unsurprisingly) very controlling, sunday is also tremendously paranoid of everything, yandere themes, he makes you cry, sunday uses that weird lying curse on you, but worry not he does love you. i think. let me know if ive missed anything!

“You are breaking my heart.”

You glanced up from the model of the city, growing tired of picking at the corner of one of the buildings. A nervous habit, if you will. When Sunday noticed the damage later, he’d scold you for it.

For now, his eyes were elsewhere. He, too, was staring down at the miniature pinball machine, spinning it with a gloved finger.

You fidgeted, uncertain. “What?”

“You’re lying to me,” Sunday accused. His tone was soft.

Your hands pressed to the sides of the table. “I haven’t lied to you.”

“Not recently, no,” he agreed. He agreed, and you almost sprang from your seat. “But you have. And you still are.”

To that, you gripped the edge of the table tighter. Uncertainty wrought heavy in your bones like lead.

It suddenly felt cold. As if he’d slid ice along your spine. A chill wracked through you. You realised the feeling was his gaze.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off you.

But he was still slowly twisting the pinball machine around and around. He then sighed.

And then he leaned back and traced a finger along the edge of the table, not at all mindful of the small animated figurines occupying the city.

He gave one of their heads a small push, and the small figure’s body sank into the floor.

You took it as a warning.

“Do you remember the night we met?”

Of course you did.

It was a swirl of colour and muted hushed whispers now, but you could recall taking his hand, promising him the world, and kissing along his fingers to the swell of his wrist.

You nodded meekly.

Sunday hummed, clearly lost in thought. “I never forgot what you said to me.” Oh, you knew that look. That distant, faraway look. Like he’s trapping himself in his own head again. He was good at that. Acting, pretending. Putting on a show. “I’d never felt the same again.”

He was still tracing the edge of the table.

There was a small grin on his face.

Such a pleasant expression, paired with that a gorgeous light-hearted tone. His voice sounded like a lullaby echoing in the back of your mind.

His halo was glowing in the light.

“You said to me you’d be my everything. You offered a piece of your very own soul to me.” He gloved finger flitted from the polished wood, and then stopped short of your hand resting on the table. “You have such a lovely heart.”

The muscle raced in your chest.

You weren’t sure if it was out of flattery or fear. You weren’t able to tell the difference anymore.

“Such a shame you continue to spit poison at me. I used to love talking to you.” His gloved finger followed the curvature of your knuckles. “You’ve changed. You’re so different from when I met you.”

Your hands curled into fists as he traced the bone-white colour as you squeezed. Your nails dug into your palms.

He’d changed, too. He’s different too. He’s more watchful now. He barely makes time for himself anymore. He’s always either working or watching you like a hawk.

It’s unnerving. The unsettling brush of his lashes against your skin, and that unbreaking stare.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was all you said. “I haven’t changed at all.”

Sunday hummed. “Are you sure?”

“Very.” You found the courage to glance up at him. That same unbreaking stare. When you met his gaze, he smiled. “I still care about you.”

“But, you don’t.” There was a light hearted ring in his voice.

You stopped. “What?”

“You don’t love me anymore.”

And there it was.

He was paranoid. He always had been, since the day you shedded a glove from his hand to kiss the skin wrapped around bone white knuckles. He’d been so busy pressing his nails into his palm, so preoccupied in what you were doing, why you were doing this, what you gained from it.

He’s paranoid now. He’s never stopped. He’s always been anxious. He’s always been overthinking your every move like you’re an opponent in a game of chess; always on his toes, always watching, either with his own eyes that more often than not, glared daggers into you, or through the nightingales that swarmed the mansion.

You were shaking. You tried to stop yourself.

He noticed. “You’re upset.”

“Of course, I’m upset.” Your nails dug into the underside of the table. You felt them strain as your jaw clenched.

“Is it wrong to think you’re dishonest?”

“Yes,” you answered. “Yes, it’s wrong. You’re wrong.”

“Perhaps I am, then, for falling in love with a liar.” His fingers chased up your arm slowly. “I always valued honesty above all. How rich.”

“But I’m–” You didn’t even know how to defend yourself.

Instead, you fell completely silent, face burning in humiliation.

The scent of him was intoxicating. Orange blossoms and sandalwood. You had memorised the scents of his favourite fragrances, the shampoo he used, down to his toothpaste. You knew all of it. The way he brushed his hair, the temperature of the water he preferred for his baths, to the chronological order of steps on how he got ready in the morning.

It was all order; a set of stagnant unchanging steps. Like he was following a recipe to its very word.

He was particular.

And he hated change.

He took your silence as an invitation to pry further. “You were so enchanting that night.” He was telling the truth. You could read it on his expression–and his expression. That same expression he held on that night you offered him your heart to take. “And I know now, that you are most enchanting when you lie.”

“What’s–” You interlocked your fingers. His own were tracing the bone of your shoulder now. “What have I done? Why’re you–”

“You, of all people, must understand my uncertainty,” he spoke. He sounded as if you were supposed to know the answer.

Maybe there was no answer at all. No spark to his flame. He’s just doing all of this, because he can. Because he’s paranoid, and he’s hiding his churning stomach and the anxiety that fills his throat with this stage play he’s put on.

“You willingly took in a perfect home, much different from where you came from.” He gestured to the room around him. Pillars that intricately curled into the ceiling, floor polished, the scaled model of Penacony tended to and dusted, and the walls featuring thousands of commissioned pieces from artists all over the galaxy. “No sorrows, no disorder, no dishonesty. Certainly not here.

His eyes shift to you again. “And certainly not now.”

You shrank down into your seat.

“And, under the light of the Harmony–” He raises his hands to gesture to the ceiling, as if THEY’RE watching over him. “–All wickedness is revealed. That is precisely why you're so radiant in the sunlight.”

What the fuck is he talking about?

He must have noticed your expression. You must have appeared distressed. Fidgeting nervously, your blood running cold beneath your skin.

Perhaps your apprehension, the clear anxiousness drawn over your face, egged him further.

He did not dwell on it. Instead, he simply narrowed his eyes. “It is as I suspected.” When your eyebrows raised in surprise, he continued, “you’ve been lying.”

“You don’t trust me anymore?” You frantically wiped a stray tear that had fallen. You hoped he didn’t notice the waver in your tone.

Sunday merely nodded, blinking slowly. “You understand now.”

You stared at the floor. His eyes were burning into your skull.

Your brows knitted together.

A bell tolled nearby.

You don’t recall any sort of church close by.

“I cannot excuse, nor house, nor bed, a liar. It is beyond THEIR natural order. Liars have no place in an assimilated, perfect world.”

You looked elsewhere. You picked nervously at the hem of your shirt, suddenly feeling like you were drowning in hot water.

Your nose filled and clogged with a horrible earthy scent much unlike his shampoo. This was different, real and raw, like there was somebody else in the room.

When you looked around, there was nobody else.

Just the two of you.

“Stand up,” he ordered softly.

You did so, hesitantly, still shaking.

You must have looked pathetic.

Sunday offered you his hand.

Desperate, you took it, and kissed his knuckles.

He let out a faint laugh. “That will not work. Not this time, I’m afraid.” He looked up towards the ceiling for a brief moment, before he closed his eyes. “O Triple-Faced Soul, let fire brand flesh and bone with the mark of honesty–”

Something was wrong, and his face was changing.

For a moment, you saw tracks like golden water flow down his cheeks.

His halo was glowing, but there was something else behind his head. A clouded and muted swirl of colours, mismatched and ever changing.

You tried to pull your hand from his grip, but there was a weight pressed to your limbs.

“–And ensure that every vow is etched in the fervour of undeniable truth.”

“What’re you–” He let go of your hand and you stumbled. The bell toll was only just louder by a margin, and there was now a searing heat in your head. “What’re you doing?!”

Your hands desperately rested on his shoulders, trying to keep yourself upright.

You tried again to wrench yourself from his touch. It was sickening how gentle he was being.

Slowly, he guided you back to the love seat, tutting and scolding you as you fought in his hold. How could somebody so horrible be so gentle?

You felt the urge to throw up all over his clothes. Sweat beaded down your neck and pooled at your collarbone like a necklace.

“What did you do to me?” You were panicking. “What have you done?” You pressed the pads of your fingers to your temples to try and soothe the burning. “You cursed me?”

“I’ve blessed you,” he whispered. “This way, you will be rectified.”

Something was whispering to you. Almost inaudible, indiscernible, like the banging of a death knell in your ears.

What is it? What is that?

You looked to him for an answer, but words caught heavy on your tongue like lead.

“All you have to do is tell the truth.”

You shook your head. “I’m not speaking to you like this,” you tried. Your voice came out strained.

“You don’t have a choice,” he snapped. “You are not in control.”

“You’ll hurt me for the sake of your precious pride?” Your hands coiled into fists at your sides. Thank the Lords he’d seated you, for you were sure you would’ve fallen over by now. Your feet had since gone numb.

The whispering was right in your ear. When you turned your head to confront the noise, there was nothing there.

“It will not hurt if you tell the truth,” Sunday explained gently. “I hope that doesn’t come as a challenge to you.”

Get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head–

“I’m not answering anything you ask,” you forced out through gritted teeth.

Sunday only let out a breathy, exasperated sigh. “Then don’t. We’ll see what happens to you.”

You said nothing.

Instead, you tried to stand up to leave. Screw this curse he’s put on your head because he’s retreated into his own insecurities. He wasn’t winning this time.

You were so sick of this paranoia.

When you stood, a dizziness hit you like a wave. You desperately reached for anything, and your hands found his. He did not guide you back down into the seat, but his gloved hands remained encased in yours.

Such a perfect, warm fit.

Sunday offered you a gentle, yet peculiar smile.

“Question: have you ever lied to me?”

You didn’t answer.

Your flesh felt as though it was set alight. As if the halovian had personally poured gasoline over you and held a match to the tip of your nose and watched you burn alive.

The whispering was loud. The voices was indiscernible. You couldn’t place a finger to its source, nor a face, nor a name. Three voices, all repeating the same thing. You could tell from its tone, its pitch modulation, and yet you couldn’t understand what was being spoken.

It didn’t sound like any language you knew.

“Answer the question, angel.”

Hot tears bubbled over your lashes.

“Yes.” You fought to keep the word lodged in the back of your throat, but when you forced it out, the lava on your tongue cooled significantly. The whispers grew softer.

He noticed the look of relief cross over your face. “See?” A gloved hand came down to gently touch the crown of your head. “Just answer truthfully, and it will all be okay.”

Then, the white material of his gloves came forward to swipe gently at the tears below your eyes. Salt soaked the soft cotton.

Your hand reached up shakily to hold onto his wrist.

“Did you lie to me the night we met?”

The swirls of colour around his halo were returning.

Your thumb traced the ring on his finger. Gold, with a blue gem on its interior.

Instead of answering, you tried to press your lips to his.

Sunday stopped you, though it took restraint. He held your face still, lips just barely brushing against your own. He tasted salt. Salt and sweet lies, and Aeons above was it addicting.

He sighed. “Don’t tempt me.” He watched you flinch, and rang a simple reminder, “answer.”

“Yes,” you said.

As he expected.

You were so beautiful like this. Raw, and honest.

His heart squeezed with disgust. “Did you lie when you said you loved me?”

Frantically, you shook your head. “No.”

He smiled.

“Did you lie when you said you’d die for me?” He tilted his head.

Your lips pressed together. Your fingers curled tight in the loose curls of his hair. Your nails brushed softly against his feathers.

Your chest heaved when he finally sat beside you on the couch. His skin was so warm pressed against yours, and the contact made you feel dizzy.

“Yes,” you responded.

He accepted it. His finger softly petted your cheek.

Oh, you were crying.

You felt so pathetic and weak, and bubbled words caught in your throat like fish on a hook. You felt trapped, and the colours behind his head were growing more vibrant, brighter, accompanying and drowning out that awful halo.

He’s horrible. He’s so horrible.

You wanted to say it, you wanted to tell him that you needed him to leave. You needed him gone.

He beat you to it. “Do you hate me?”

You heaved a sob. “No.” And you didn’t. You didn’t hate him, despite his obsessive control and unjustified possessiveness. His hubris, and his inability to see past his own paranoia and fear. “Please stop.”

You pressed your lips to the small, poniard-shaped jewel on his chest.

Your sign of devotion did not deter him, though, he was sure you would always have some sort of effect on him.

“It shouldn’t hurt if you tell the truth,” Sunday reminded you. There was a teasing lilt to his voice.

“I don’t hate you,” you repeated, this time as firmly as you could—albeit your voice shook with fervour. “I never hated you.”

“I’m relieved.” His hand petted your hair. “So, so relieved.”

You buried your face into his shoulder and sobbed.

You prayed it was over. You prayed and prayed for the voices to dissipate from your mind. You tried to will them away, to squeeze your eyes shut and beg for the whispers to fade into the background of white noise and static.

The kaleidoscope of colours crept below your eyelids.

Sunday held you securely, and as warm as he was, and as firm and yet so gently his arms sat snugly against you, you felt so cold. So cold and alone and so afraid.

He could fix that.

He hadn’t said a word for a moment.

The burning feeling of your skin returned, and you let out another drawn out noise of distress.

He shushed you. “One final question.”

You shook your head.

Your hands were trembling, fingers weakly pressing to your temples to rid the pounding that made your stomach churn. Your vision was swamped in swirls and patterns of colours you couldn’t put a name to.

His face, too, warped into something evil.

This wasn’t the man whose knuckles you’d kissed, whose wings gently fluttered against your skin, who’d plucked a small feather from them and handed it to you as a symbol of his devotion.

His halo dimmed for a moment.

You felt his lips brush against your ear and the tickle of a feather.

“Do you still love me?”

#sunday x you #sunday x reader #sunday hsr #yandere honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #✦ ( the macrocosmos. )#✦ ( after hours. )

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future-dregs · 1 month ago

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@righteousriot

An old piece.This is the first wincest art I’ve done.

#It's so 💞tender💞#Wrought up in my bones #Supernatural

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dancingbirdie · 11 months ago

Note

I saw you did a new submission for Astarion. Is it okay if I ask for another thing for Astarion who’s very submissive and whiny for your touch?

Hi anon! I hope I did your request justice. I was feeling a little angsty today and this is what came out. Feel free to submit another request if this didn't scratch your itch, so to speak.

As always, comments and reactions are appreciated.

xoxoxo

Bring Me Back

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x gn!Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings/Tags: Oral sex (Astarion receiving), slight hand/finger kink, body worship, mentions of blood & gore, trauma/trauma response, disassociation, fluff and angst and smut, p0rn with a little plot.

Summary: Astarion just needs some love and comfort from you after a particularly brutal fight.

*****

There was blood on his hands. Too much. Dried and crusted, saturating the wrinkles around his knuckles. He sat on the edge of the bed you were sharing, hands limp in his lap.

He’d killed so many today. You all had, but he more so than anyone else. It had been a vicious battle, the reality of which seemed to be sinking into his bones now.

“Astarion?” you ventured carefully. You were carrying in a water pitcher and basin you had pilfered from the cook’s quarters downstairs.

He didn’t seem to register your voice. You tried again, moving cautiously to kneel on the floor before him.

“Astarion?”

“Hmm?” he responded, his glassy eyes finally sharpening enough to take you in. “Oh, apologies, darling. My mind… it must’ve wandered.”

“Are you feeling all right?” you probed in a low murmur.

“I feel…,” he trailed off, his head shifting to stare vacantly out the dingy window near the bedside. “Numb.”

“Numb?” you echoed.

“Mm. Disconnected, more like,” he amended distractedly.

“Hm, I see,” you replied, unsure of what more there was to say.

Certainly you could understand the feeling. And certainly it was justified, after the carnage you all had wrought today. No matter how noble the cause, things had still ended in a tide of blood and viscera.

You were at a loss for how to comfort him. But the rational part of your brain settled on addressing the most immediate problem before you. Namely, the blood on his hands.

“Astarion,” you soothed, waiting until he turned back to look down at you again. “I’d like to clean up your hands before we rest.”

He stared at you blankly. Then slowly, his gaze drifted down to his hands. He turned them over, palms up, studying them absently.

“Is that okay? Can I touch you?” you pressed.

You knew his displeasure in being touched without warning. You’d seen his reactions frequently enough, on the road with your other companions. Each clap on the shoulder from Gale. Each good-natured shove from Karlach. His response was subtle, but not lost on you. He would grimace and shrink away. Every time.

“Touch me?” he repeated now, brows upturned.

“Yes,” you nodded. “To clean your hands of the blood, love.”

He shuddered. You watched as his fingertips twitched. His bottom lip trembled.

“Please,” he uttered in a broken plea.

You nodded again and set to work. Gingerly, you lifted each hand, cradling it with reverence. You passed the rag soaked in tepid, rose-scented water over each digit, in between them. You swiped under each nail, over each knuckle, clearing his fingers of blood, one by one. You soothed over his palms, over the patchwork of calluses on the pads of fingers, over the delicate skin of the backside of his palms. He watched you in silence as you carried out your cleaning, mesmerized.

The basin was colored deep crimson by the time you finished. Grabbing a dry cloth, you patted his hands dry. You squeezed them both gently before moving to release them. You prepared to stand and get yourself ready for rest.

But Astarion stopped you. His hands, once limp while you were caring for him, suddenly clutched yours desperately. Your eyes whipped up to meet his in surprise. They were limned in tears that had yet to fall.

“Please,” he whispered in a desperate sort of voice. A whine, almost. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop touching me.”

You swallowed thickly, unsure of what to make of his plea.

He plunged ahead at your reticence. “I can’t… I want to be here. In this moment. But I can’t find my way back,” he croaked.

His voice, so broken, so desolate, was rending your heart in two. It was more than you could bear.

“Touch me,” he begged. “Bring me back. Please.”

You nodded, never breaking eye contact, as you rose from your crouched position on the floor before him. Tears streamed silently down both of your faces. Neither of you made a move to wipe them away.

Slowly, carefully, you urged him to shift back on the bed as your legs parted to straddle him. Perched atop his lap, you threaded your fingers through his silvery locks. Pulled on them slightly. Tugged at them until he groaned.

His hands grasped your hip bones, hard enough that you were sure there would be finger-shaped bruises there tomorrow. You didn’t mind. You would cherish them, those marks from your lover.

“Come back to me, love. Come back to me,” you whispered in between hot, open-mouthed kisses. Your tongues danced together, like old friends.

You nipped at the hollow place near his clavicle. You sucked on the skin where his neck met his shoulder. His needy, breathy whines only goaded you further. You hoped the fire that was igniting in your veins would transfer to his. If the way his hips were canting into you was any indication, you were both tinderboxes itching to be set ablaze.

“Be here. Be here, in this moment with me,” you crooned in his ear, rolling your hips into his. You were both still fully dressed, but your bodies crested and fell together in perfect timing. A practice performance for what was to come.

“Yes, yes,” Astarion keened, as you slipped a hand to brazenly rub the flat of your palm against his erection. The fabric of his breeches was strained to the point of stretching.

“I’m here,” he panted. “I’m here.”

“Good, stay with me, I want to taste you,” you whispered. “Come back to me, let me taste you.”

“Fuck, please,” he moaned, his head drooping onto your shoulder. He was so pliant in this moment, like putty in your hands.

“Lie back,” you ordered, nudging him backwards with your body. “Untie your breeches.”

“Yes,” he agreed, all too eager to follow your command. Chest heaving, he reclined further back onto the bed. His fingers quickly set to work on freeing himself from his leathers.

“That’s it, darling, yes,” you cooed, watching him bare himself before you. “Stay here with me. Watch me. Watch me keep you here.”

“Gods, yes, yes,” Astarion whined, lifting his head to witness you take him fully in your mouth.

“Fuck,” you heard him bark wantonly above you. Felt his hips cant himself deeper into your mouth, until your lips were meeting the base of him.

His dulcet whimpers and moans were music to your ears. As you worshiped him with your mouth. As you caressed him lovingly back into his body, back into this moment, back into this bed with you.

You could sense he was close to climax as his hands gripped your hair tighter and tighter. You swirled your tongue around him with greater fervor, teasing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Let me come in your mouth, please, darling, please,” he keened, hips bucking erratically against you.

Refusing to bring him down from this high with words, you met his eyes and nodded your assent, gripping his thighs tighter as if to say go on then, love.

And he did. He spilled himself down your throat in delicious pulses. You swallowed every bit, relishing his release as if it were your own.

With a soft pop of your lips, you released him. Licked him clean, before stretching out to lie on the bed beside him.

His chest was heaving as he recovered. You delicately traced the muscles of his abdomen as he came to. After a few moments, he lifted a hand to clasp your fingers. Stilled them with his own as they interlaced on his chest.

“Did you find your way back?” you whispered.

He turned his head to look at you. His lips upturned in a quiet, muted sort of smile.

“Thanks to you,” he returned quietly. “I’m here again. Here with you.”

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faeriekit · 5 months ago

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Health and Hybrids (XXIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... J'onn broke the news that Danny thinks he's going to be forced into combat in exchange for his medical care. Everyone disliked that™.

Trigger warnings for this story: body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) | my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

COME GET YOUR NEW ART HERE 💥🍳!!💥 IT'S FIBERCRAFT!!Shoutout to @rainbowbeansprout for crocheting a fic accurate injured ghost Danny!! That's outstanding!!

💚👻👽👻💚

So, Wally broke all of the bones in his legs yesterday.

Which is…not ideal. Still. He’s pretty used to it at this point, though, and he’s already mostly healed.

It’s just that. Well.

…The rest of healing is kind of…time-consuming.

So Wally’s in basketball shorts and a mask and a t-shirt he’d started using as pajamas when he was in college and he’s on the med floor of the Watchtower, and yet another physical therapist is helping him bend his leg back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, because he’d tripped in the middle of the Speedforce and busted everything hip-down.

So. (Back, and forth. Back, and forth. Back…) This sucks.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Wally asks, as if there isn’t a team of medical professionals kept on hand to deal with Superpower-wrought Super Medical Problems.

“Do you have to shatter your legs every time?” the PT asks back wryly, which, hey! The pressure pressing up against his bare foot is an additional stressor to the sass. “Bend this more for me, Flash. You can do it.”

Wally grumbles, and pretends the angle his leg is bending at doesn’t make him wince. Wow is he going to have to build his flexibility back up again.

The physical therapy room looks just like any other gym, basically; a lot of squishy mats in playful colors, a lot of grippy tape; a LOT of wipeable vinyl surfaces that can be sanitized at a moment’s notice. It smells kind of weird and plasticky and kind of like alcohol cleaner.

It’s not his favorite room in the Watchtower, but, eh. It could be way worse. What’s unusual is the whirrr of the door opening and closing in one of the private care rooms for another patient, since, you know...HIPAA and all that. Wally assumes. Or is it costume confidentiality once you leave Earth's atmosphere...?

Usually everyone knows who’s stopping in for PE through the sheer power of the Justice League gossip groupchats. (There’s at least nine. Wally’s in four of them. He aspires to be in two more by April.) There hasn’t been a big fight that requires long-term medical care in a while, and there’s no one Wally can think of who’d need this kind of recovery.

Something’s buzzing at the outside of his awareness, though. It sounds kind of…

Wally perks up. “Hey, the alien kid’s here!”

The PT holding Wally up at the waist hums. Her name is Cindy, and judging from their previous conversations, she thinks that Wally is the dumbest man alive. “There’s a million of those, Flash. Which one?”

“The one who bit Superman,” Wally adds.

Judging by the face Cindy makes, this clarifies nothing.

“Most recently,” Wally stresses, carefully not wincing as his leg gets stretched out again, only to be pulled back into position as tightly as before. “OW. Cindy, you’re killing me.”

Cindy makes a strangled noise. She asks: “What, again?” which is how Wally remembers that he got torn back out of the time stream not all that long ago, and it may be a big gauche to joke about your own death with the people who care about it.

Whoops. Wally winces. “…Nevermind?”

The other PTs make various fussy and annoyed noises, but the alien kid is wheeled onto the other side of the medical floor’s only gym. (The actual training floors are on another level. Wally wishes he was there. Alone.)

(Without four PTs clinging to his legs at all times.)

Wally waves. It’s a nice enough gesture, and now that the alien-phantasm-turned-flesh-and-blood-boy is more physically embodied than he used to be, the boy even deigns to carefully wave back.

The kid’s PTs—Wally thinks at least one of them is from the team that supervises Bart and his super-powered-leg-problems—end up encouraging the alien kid’s chair round to the soft mats where the kid can lay down. He ends up in the exact same position Wally is—horizontal on the floor, legs forcibly pinwheeled by enthusiastic but firm PTs.

Wally can physically feel the kid’s astonishment and discontentment buzzing in the air as he figures out what’s being done to him. Wally can’t help but laugh.

The kid angles his head towards the speedster. His face still looks—well, it looks…bad. It looks bad, unhealed and still threatening to weep neon green body fluids; there’s a wet, living crack running up and down his face that makes eye contact kind of hard. His hands are all spidery—this kid can probably hold and grip things, but the previous breakage have left his hands a little too easy to splay, a little too oddly-angled. He’s too thin to keep himself fully upright for long. When he looks at you, his eyes shake like a poorly lined-up television signal.

Martian Manhunter had said that he’d once looked like a healthy, happy human child. His current form is a reflection of the injuries he’d experienced since.

...What a thing for a kid to go through. Wally wouldn’t wish this sort of injury on anyone.

“Alright, up you go,” the PT above him—Rhys, Wally remembers at the very last second—orders, and Wally is prompted to let the man help him back upright. “Over to the bars for you. You think your legs are up to bearing that kind of weight as you try out walking?”

“…Sure,” Wally lies to Rhys. It’ll be fine. Probably. By the time he gets over there, his legs might have already speed-healed by then. “Hand me the—?”

“Yeah, yeah, here’s the crutches. Don’t destroy yourself trying to make this happen, okay?”

So Wally gets set up at the glorified playground equipment in his least restrictive gym clothes, one long iron bar under one arm, and one long iron bar under the other. Two full-size physical therapists spot him as the speedster completes the most strenuous task available to him at the moment: walking across a very short distance without putting his full weight on his legs.

Wally puts one shaking leg in front of the other. The steps are slow. The urge to zoom to the end of the little bowling lane he’s stuck in—and therefore shatter his legs under the speedforce, again—is irresistibly temping.

Healing sucks. And Wally’s even got the longer end of the stick.

In the end, Wally sticks the landing. He is unreasonably sweaty. He is miserable. But he makes it to the end. Every one of the witnessing PTs applauds as if this is a great success. It’s literally not. It’s the inevitable result of pushing himself too far for the third time this year.

A question buzzes through the air, fluffing through Wally’s hair and the little fine hairs up and down his body. It’s nothing but inquisitive—whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?

Wally lets the PT maneuver a chair underneath him. It gives him enough breathing room to turn his upper torso, and he ends up catching the eye of the little alien kid in the corner. He’s sat on a yoga ball, two members of his medical team and one of the kids’ PTs trying to get his attention back to his exercises.

“Hey,” Wally realizes suddenly. “Your casts are gone!”

The kids’ legs are actually bare, which Wally’s never seen before. They’re twiggy, sure, stretched taut over a bone frame, and discolored and pale, but they’re legs. Wally hadn’t even known the alien had possessed legs until he’d formed a physical body months and months ago.

“Dude, that’s great!”

Happy/smug/proud vibrates through the room, making Wally’s teeth buzz. The kid smiles through a half-split lip, and bounces on the yoga ball ever so slightly.

“Good,” the kid says, surprising Wally, his PTs, and the kid’s usual medical team. He was talking already?! He thought J’onn had said—

“Hurt?” the boy asks, concern/concern flooding through the air. Oh. Right. He’s probably here for his busted legs; it would make sense that by virtue of the setting, Wally would be injured too.

And, sure, Wally busted his legs, but he at least heals with all the swiftness of the speedforce. “Meh.” Wally waves off the question. “I’m fine. It’ll be quick for me; some rehab and some lunch and a few days off, and I’ll be in shipshape.”

Wait. Wally’s eyes scrunches up. Is using wordplay appropriate with this kid…?

“Pain?” the kid asks, and turned his attention to the closest member of his medical team. “He pain?”

The medical professional sighs, which finally clues Wally in that the man is no longer masked. Hey, the kid is out of medical isolation! “The Flash has his own medication, thankfully. His doctors know what to do.”

The kid frowns. He doesn’t get it. He looks at Wally, and he looks at the staffer, who shrugs. “It’s the usual indicator word he uses for pain medication. He’s wondering if you’re hurt enough to need some.”

Wally hums. On one hand, it’s sweet that the alien kid is worried about him. It’s a huge step upwards from the alien who spent all his time hiding in abandoned meeting rooms and occasionally biting Superheroes.

On the other hand, the kid doesn’t just look worried that Wally might not be getting care; he looks scared.

Something happened to this kid. Something he can't shake off.

Wally breathes in, and breathes out.

—And breathes in sharply when Cindy starts wiggling his feet. She doesn’t respond at all to his glare, because she is a professional, and he is not a big baby of a superhero.

Mean.

“I’m fine,” Wally finally responds, trying to alleviate the kid’s concerns through sheer vibes-telepathy alone. Who knows if it’s working, but it makes Wally feel better about trying at the very least. “I’ve got my own team to fix me up, and they do a good job of taking care of me. Even if they’re bullying me at my most vulnerable.”

“Anything for you, boss,” Cindy volleys back cheerfully. “Gimme your other leg.”

The tension in the air slowly dissipates. The kid doesn’t stop shooting occasional looks at the unadorned, half-out-of-uniform Flash, but he does let Bart’s little PT team get to working on stretching out his previously-bound now-physical legs and getting him upright—if only for a few seconds at a time, balanced precariously by humans who actually touch his back and arms and hips and legs.

Wally’s session wraps up before the kid’s does. He’s not in any rush. He gets onto the walking crutches Rhys leaves out for his temporary use and lopes over to watch, occasionally hooting and applauding when the kid pulls off something no one’d been sure he could do.

The double handed high-five Wally offers him at the end is punctuated with shaky eye contact, two working hands, and a green-threaded beaming grin.

Diana cheerfully digs into her kebab lunch, plastic cutlery pushed to their maximum limit before threatening to break under her prodigious strength. “You know, Batman,” she starts, beaming, “My charge gave me his name the other day.”

Bruce sets down his muenster-ham-and-whole-wheat sandwich mid-bite. “I’ll need to hear everything,” he says immediately, to which Diana tuts.

“Oh, Batman, I could never break his trust like that,” she says, sweet as anything. She finesses a bite of lamb from the skewer and takes a neat bite.

“…Wonder Woman,” Batman says.

“Hm?”

“Diana.”

“Is there something you needed, Bruce?” Diana asks, pleased with herself. There genuinely is very little that could be done with a vague description of a now-altered human form and a first name alone; besides, she genuinely does feel that hearing the boy’s name come from others’ lips would be upsetting for him. Danny offered his name to Diana alone, and so it shall remain until hers alone he offers it to others.

Still, she is not above bragging.

“I need information.” Bruce’s face underneath his mask is stone.

Diana dips a second chunk of lamb into a little container of tzatziki sauce. “Well, then,” she points out, “Shouldn’t you spend some time building rapport with my charge, then?”

The feared Batman of Gotham, father of a half-dozen highly trained heroes, bristles like a wet cat. The demeanor is almost comical. He knows what he looks like to non-Gothamite children. He knows his suit will make this fight for common familiarity an uphill battle.

Diana smugly works through her lunch and ignores Bruce’s silent brooding as he does the same.

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genshin-impact-updates · 4 months ago

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Gemstone Wrought of Tears and Mettle

"Not long after we first met, I saw Kachina crying, and tried to hand her a handkerchief. But smiling back, she said to me, 'Don't worry, I'll wipe my own tears away.' That was a moment I'll always remember. So don't you worry about her either — the girl's made of strong stuff. Just make sure you give her all the encouragement she needs."

— Mualani

◆ Name: Kachina

◆ Title: Mottled Gold Yet Unsmelted

◆ Nanatzcayan Young Braveheart

◆ Vision: Geo

◆ Constellation: Ochotona Princeps

Just like other younglings of the Children of Echoes, Kachina grew up surrounded by adorable Tepetlisaurs, shiny gems dug up from the depths, and heroic stories passed down by tribal elders. She came to know the mountain paths like the back of her hand, developing a great instinct and skill for searching out the treasures of the earth. In her leisure time, she and her friends would often visit the recording studios where musicians made their music, where they would dance freely to the pulsing rhythms. Growing up in such an environment, the occasional bump or scratch was unavoidable, and when she hurt herself, Kachina would cry out in pain just like any other child. But long before others had recovered from their pain, she would have wiped away her tears and stood back up again.

Of course, she understands why the adults might see her as a good kid — yet she struggles to comprehend why she, of all people, was given the name of "Uthabiti." For as the ancient poem goes:

"The one that dares stand firm as a mountain, their bones like battlements, and hold the sun's gaze — it is they that shall be given unto eternity."

"Fear itself should instead fear me, for my body is like a roaring blaze; destined to melt down all that is mean and lowly, then cast it once more as an epitaph."

What part of her lives up to the lofty spirit embodied by this great name? The young Kachina has yet to figure this out. But having been granted this great honor, she is determined never to give up, no matter how many of her bids at the Pilgrimage of the Return of the Sacred Flame end in vain. Even if it means being ostracized and reproached by her peers, or feeling disappointed, inferior, and at times nearly overwhelmed by landslides of negativity... In the end, she'll wipe it all away along with her tears. Because one thing is for certain — that "Uthabiti" Kachina will never be defeated by her tears.

#genshin impact #genshin impact updates #genshin impact news #official #kachina #well! here's this

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future-dregs · 2 months ago

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Your brother has come back to you.

It seems impossible. But you test him and you test and you test him, and he keeps coming back true.

Your brother is back.

But you dont know his body.

His smile seems the same, but he doesn't meet your eyes the way he used to.

He smells almost the same, and he still likes it when you pull into him and bury your face against his neck, making yourself small again.

But theres a scent underneath that didnt used to be there, like hot metal and blood.

You think he can smell it too.

He washes more often.

You run your hands over him but no, you dont know this body at all.

Neither does he.

It scares you both.

Wheres the scars from when you were children? The crooked nose and fingers from too many fights? The spidering silver line across his forehead that marked something you'd never forget?

His skin is as smooth as a child's, and you shudder because of it.

The first wound you stitched up for him, that didnt heal well but he wore with pride because "Chicks dig scars, Sammy" and because that was you, you on his skin? That's gone, replaced by a stranger's handprint, branded in.

You hate it.

The only mark left on your brothers body is from someone else, and you HATE IT.

You want to cut it off, but he watches you differently with a knife in your hand now, like he's afraid of it, and you can't bear that so you don't.

The two of you spend afternoons minutely examining his body, looking for anything familiar. He's always completely naked and you wish it were erotic.

Instead, it just feels like grief.

#Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Supernatural #Post hell #Sam's perspective #Wincest #Weirdcest #SamDean #Wrought up in my bones #📒#I think theres a horror in a resurrected body. Esp one that has no physical memory of your life on it

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dandelions-143 · 28 days ago

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Fear Play - Minho

Kinktober Masterlist

Word Count: 3600

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, sexual content, elements of fear and psychological tension, mild (implied) violence), consensual fear play/ knife play

Authors Note: I’ve had this one in my drafts for a while now. It’s much more detailed than the others. Maybe a little too detailed and wordy but you can be the judge of that! Enjoy babies!

No summary just smut under the cut

The mansion loomed before you, a dark silhouette etched against the inky night sky. Its gothic spires and ornate turrets seemed to claw at the heavens, casting long, ominous shadows across the overgrown lawn. Minho had texted earlier, his message a cryptic plea for your presence, claiming he missed you desperately. As you approached the wrought-iron gates, an unsettling feeling crept over you, raising goosebumps on your skin.

The windows of the mansion were pitch black, not even a flicker of light visible within their dusty panes. It was as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for your arrival. Your hand trembled as you input the passcode, the electronic keypad's soft beep sounding unnaturally loud in the eerie silence. The ancient key turned with a rusty groan, the lock's mechanisms protesting as if warning you to turn back.

Minho's house had always unnerved you. It was a relic of a bygone era, its weathered stone facade telling tales of centuries past. The sheer size of it was overwhelming - countless rooms and winding corridors that seemed to shift and change with each visit. The air around it felt heavy, charged with an energy that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It wasn't just old and huge; it was a place that seemed to exist outside of time, unwelcoming and filled with secrets that whispered from every shadowy corner.

The door creaked open with an ominous groan, revealing a void of darkness so thick it seemed to have physical form. As you hesitantly stepped inside, the oppressive silence engulfed you, broken only by the thunderous pounding of your heart echoing in your ears. The floorboards beneath your feet protested loudly, each step eliciting a series of creaks and groans that reverberated through the empty halls like ghostly whispers.

"Minho?" you called out, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. His name hung in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the suffocating darkness. Instead of a response, you were met with an eerie whisper of wind, its soft susurration seeming to emanate from the very walls themselves, carrying with it the musty scent of age and secrets long forgotten.

A bone-deep chill crept up your spine as you ventured deeper into the bowels of the house, each step feeling like a descent into some nightmarish realm. Pale slivers of moonlight filtered through grimy windows, casting elongated shadows that danced and writhed across the walls, their movements seeming to defy the laws of nature. The darkness grew more intense with each passing moment, as if actively resisting your intrusion.

"Minho, please," you pleaded, your voice now quivering with unmistakable fear, "this isn't funny anymore." The words echoed back at you, mockingly, from the unseen corners of the house. As you began to ascend the stairs, each step felt like a monumental effort, as if the very air around you was thickening, becoming more resistant. The staircase seemed to stretch endlessly before you, a twisted path leading into the unknown depths of the house's upper floors.

Suddenly, a sharp crack pierced the silence - a floorboard creaking directly behind you. Your heart leapt into your throat as you whirled around, eyes wide with terror. But instead of finding Minho or any other presence, you were confronted with an impenetrable wall of blackness. The darkness seemed to pulse and writhe, alive with malevolent intent. You stood frozen, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps, as the shadows around you seemed to close in, threatening to swallow you whole.

Without warning, a hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your scream. An arm like iron wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a solid form. The sudden contact sent a jolt of adrenaline through your body, your heart racing wildly in your chest. A voice, low and menacing, whispered in your ear, "I've been waiting for you." The hot breath against your skin made you shudder involuntarily. Your blood ran cold as you realized this voice, though familiar, held none of Minho's usual warmth. It was colder, darker, almost predatory. As you struggled against the grip, your fingers clawing at the arm holding you, a chilling thought gripped you: what if this wasn't Minho at all? The possibility sent a wave of terror through you, your mind racing with horrifying scenarios.

Suddenly, you felt Minho's grip loosen ever so slightly. It was barely perceptible, but in your heightened state of awareness, you sensed the opportunity. Taking advantage of this moment, you summoned all your strength and wrenched yourself free, your elbow connecting with something solid behind you. You didn't wait to see the result. You bolted down the dark hallway, your feet pounding against the wooden floor. The darkness seemed to press in on you from all sides, making each step feel like a leap into the unknown. Your heart pounded in your ears as you ran, a deafening rhythm that almost drowned out the sound of pursuit behind you. A potent cocktail of excitement and fear coursed through your veins, making every nerve ending in your body sing with tension. You could hear Minho's footsteps behind you, steady and unhurried, a stark contrast to your frantic pace. His low chuckle echoed off the walls, the sound seeming to come from everywhere at once, disorienting you further. The playful menace in that laugh sent shivers down your spine, a reminder that in this game of cat and mouse, you were very much the prey.

"Where are you going, baby?" His voice called out, a mixture of playfulness and menace that sent shivers down your spine. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing off the walls and making it impossible to pinpoint his location. You darted around a corner, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Your eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, frantically scanned the shadowy corridor for any sign of movement.

The house seemed to come alive around you, creaking and groaning as if it was conspiring with Minho to trap you. You don't know why, but a part of you loved these random menacing games he would play. The thrill of being hunted, the adrenaline coursing through your veins - it was intoxicating. He never actually hurt you... yet. But the possibility, the danger, made every nerve in your body sing with anticipation.

You stumbled into what felt like a study, the musty smell of old books filling your nostrils. Your hands frantically searched for a lock on the door, fingers trembling as they traced the smooth wood. Finding none, you ducked behind a large, ornate desk, its polished surface cool against your heated skin. You tried to quiet your ragged breathing, pressing a hand to your mouth to muffle the sound. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the thunderous beating of your heart.

The sound of Minho's footsteps grew closer, slow and deliberate. Each step seemed to echo in the empty room, a countdown to your inevitable discovery. "I can hear your heart racing," he called out, his voice closer than you expected, rich with dark amusement. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as you realized he was in the room with you. "You can't hide from me forever," he purred, the predatory tone in his voice making your stomach flip with a mixture of fear and excitement. You held your breath, pressing yourself further into the shadows, wondering how long you could prolong this exquisite torture before he finally caught you.

Suddenly, a strong hand grasped your shoulder, yanking you up with unexpected force. You found yourself face to face with Minho, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and something darker in the dim light. The moonlight filtering through the dusty windows cast eerie shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his features. Before you could fully process what was happening, he pulled you close, his body heat radiating through your clothes.

Minho's lips crashed against yours in a passionate, almost desperate kiss that left you breathless. At first, you melted into him, your body responding instinctively to his touch. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath your palms. As the kiss deepened, Minho's hunger seemed to grow. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, the slight pain sending a shiver down your spine. His kisses became more demanding, more intense, bordering on bruising. The taste of him - a mixture of mint and something uniquely Minho - filled your senses, making your head spin.

Overwhelmed by the intensity, you shoved your hands hard against his chest, breaking the kiss with an audible smack. Your chest heaved as you gasped for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kisses. Minho stumbled back a step, but quickly regained his composure. His eyes, now dark with desire, roamed over your form, taking in your disheveled appearance and flushed cheeks. A soft smirk played on his lips as he murmured, his voice low and husky, "So fucking pretty when you're scared."

Before you could fully recover, Minho closed the distance between you again. His strong hands found your waist, fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you flush against him. You could feel every hard plane of his body pressed against yours, the heat of him seeping through your clothes. His breath was hot against your neck as he leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Did I scare you, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent vibrations through your body.

You shivered involuntarily, caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The lingering adrenaline from your fear mixed with the undeniable desire his touch ignited in you. Your heart raced, but whether from fear or excitement, you couldn't tell anymore. "You're terrible," you whispered, but there was no real anger in your voice. Instead, it came out breathy and weak, betraying the effect he had on you. Your words held a mixture of reproach and anticipation, your body trembling slightly in his arms as you waited, with bated breath, for what was to come next.

He chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent your heart into overdrive. "You know I can be way worse," he purred, his voice dripping with dark promise. Your eyes widened as you turned around, heart pounding in your chest. His words sent an electric jolt straight to your core, your clit throbbing with arousal. As you finally got a good look at your boyfriend, your breath caught in your throat. Minho was holding a knife - a large, wicked-looking blade with a matte black finish that seemed to absorb the dim light. He gripped it tightly in his right hand, the muscles in his forearm flexing with the motion.

"What the hell are you doing with that thing?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a tremor of fear evident in your tone. Minho stayed silent, his only response a slight tilt of his head to the side. His eyes, usually warm and inviting, now held a predatory gleam as they raked over your form. You felt exposed, vulnerable under his intense gaze, as if he was assessing his prey before making his move.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Minho's eerie silence and posture only heightened your anxiety, yet you couldn't deny the growing wetness between your thighs. The playful atmosphere from moments ago had evaporated, replaced by a tension so thick you could almost taste it. It was thrilling and unsettling in equal measure, your body caught in a paradox of wanting to flee and yearning to stay.

"I smell you," his melodious voice suddenly pierced through the silence, startling you. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Minho's nostrils flared slightly as he took a deep breath, his eyes darkening with desire. "You're wet for me, aren't you, baby?" he continued, his voice low and husky. "It turns you on that I scare you so much." The amusement in his tone was evident, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Your cheeks flushed with heat, embarrassment warring with arousal as you realized he could sense your body's betrayal. The knife glinted in the dim light as Minho took a step closer, the anticipation of what might come next making your breath catch in your throat.

Suddenly, Minho's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist. With a swift, forceful tug, he pulled you closer, the sudden movement causing you to stumble slightly. His handsome face was mere inches from yours, his warm breath fanning across your cheeks. The intensity of his gaze bore into you, dark eyes glittering with a mixture of mischief and something more sinister. You could see the muscles in his jaw working, as if he was barely restraining himself.

"Let's play a game," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, spreading goosebumps all over your skin. The words hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and threat. Your breath caught in your throat, a potent cocktail of fear and excitement coursing through your veins. Despite the alarm bells ringing in your head, you found yourself nodding, utterly captivated by Minho's dark charisma.

Without warning, Minho tugged you forward again, his grip on your wrist unyielding as he led you deeper into the shadowy hallway. Gone was the gentle touch you were accustomed to; this Minho was all rough edges and barely contained aggression. Your heart raced wildly in your chest as you stumbled after him, your free hand reaching out to steady yourself against the wall. The darkness seemed to press in around you, making each step feel like a plunge into the unknown.

As Minho led you through the luxurious house, your pulse quickened with each step. The floorboards creaked ominously beneath your feet, and you could have sworn you heard whispers echoing from the shadows. "What are you doing?" you asked, your voice trembling with a mixture of uncertainty and fear. The words came out as barely more than a whisper, almost swallowed by the oppressive silence of the house.

Minho remained eerily silent, his only response a slight tightening of his grip on your wrist. You winced at the pressure but didn't dare pull away. His face was a mask of indifference, any hint of emotion carefully concealed behind those dark eyes. You found yourself wondering what thoughts were swirling in the depths of his mind, what plans he had in store for you.

As you rounded a corner, a faint red glow caught your attention. Your eyes widened as you spotted a door slightly ajar, the crimson light spilling out into the hallway like a river of blood. The sight sent a fresh wave of trepidation through you, your imagination running wild with possibilities of what lay beyond that threshold.

Minho pushed the door open wider, revealing a room bathed in a soft crimson light. Your eyes widened as you took in the sight before you: black candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows across the walls. In the center of the room stood a large, ornate bed, its dark sheets a stark contrast to the red glow surrounding it. Your breath caught in your throat as Minho's hand slid from your wrist to the small of your back, gently guiding you into the room, the knife held in his hand still unused but very much in the forefront of your mind.

At first you thought this looked romantic until you took another look noticing that the bed had black steel handcuffs at each corner. Your eyes darted between the bed and Minho, uncertainty, excitement, and fear evident in your face. The sight of those cuffs made your clit throb with anticipation. As he guided you further into the room, the door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both in this crimson-lit sanctuary of desire and fear.

You didn’t dare speak At first, your eyes fixed on Minho's steely face. The tension in the air was palpable, the warring mix of fear and excitement making your skin tingle as if you were vibrating. You watched, heart racing, as Minho slowly approached the bed, his fingers trailing along the silk sheets. “Minho…what is this?” You whispered, your voice trembling slightly. Minho's head tilted, the expressionless mask he made sure to keep up hiding any feelings behind his dark eyes as he turned to face you. His silence was unnerving, but there was an undeniable electricity in the air. Slowly, he reached out, the tip of the knife gently tracing your jawline. It was a gentle steely caress by the blade, not enough to cut you but enough to make you shiver.

The cold metal against your skin made you bite your bottom lip to suppress a whimper, your teeth digging into the soft flesh. Your eyes, wide and filled with a mixture of fear and desire, remained locked on Minho's intense gaze. His eyes, dark as obsidian and just as hard, held a promise of both danger and pleasure that sent a shiver to your core. You felt your breath quicken, coming in short, shallow gasps as he traced the knife down your neck. The sharp edge of the blade barely grazed your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The cool metal contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from your flushed skin, heightening every sensation.

Without warning, Minho's free hand lifted, gripping the collar of your white shirt. With a sudden, forceful tug, he ripped it in two, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the room. You gasped, the mixture of shock and excitement evident in your face as your chest heaved with each rapid breath. "Minho!" His name escaped your lips in a breathless yelp, a mixture of protest and arousal. His response was a dark, rumbling chuckle that reverberated through his chest and into yours. The amusement dancing in his eyes nearly infuriated you, but the heat pooling in your core betrayed your true feelings.

The cool air of the room hit your newly exposed skin, sending a violent shiver down your spine. Your nipples hardened instantly, the sensitive peaks straining against the fabric of your bra. Minho's hands, calloused and warm, found their way to your bare waist. His touch was electric, leaving trails of fire in its wake as he pulled you closer. The heat of his body contrasted sharply with the chill of the room, making you acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

Just as you thought he was going to pull you in for a kiss, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to yours, he surprised you once again. With a swift movement, he spun you around, pressing your back firmly against his chest. His face found the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin. Each exhale sent a new wave of shivers through your body, your pulse quickening with every passing second. You could feel the solid planes of his chest against your back, the strength in his arms as they encircled your waist.

His hands began to roam your exposed torso, fingers tracing patterns on your skin that left you trembling. Every so often, the cool metal of the knife would graze your skin, a sharp reminder of the danger that lurked beneath the passion. The juxtaposition of the warm, rough skin of his hands and the cold, smooth metal of the blade had your senses in overdrive. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your body caught between the instinct to flee and the desire to press closer.

As Minho's exploration continued, your eyes darted to the bed once more. The sight of the cuffs, gleaming ominously in the crimson light, sent a fresh wave of anticipation coursing through you. Your mind raced with possibilities, each more thrilling and terrifying than the last. What did Minho have planned for you in this crimson-lit room? The uncertainty only added to the intoxicating mix of fear and desire that consumed you, leaving you dizzy with want and trembling with anticipation.

He pulled your pants down slowly, leaving you standing in just your underwear. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your exposed skin, making you shiver involuntarily. Minho's eyes raked over your body, dark with desire, as he twirled the knife between his fingers. Without warning, he hooked the blade under the elastic of your panties, the cold metal a stark contrast to your heated skin. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sliced through the fabric, letting it fall to the floor in tatters. Your breath hitched as he repeated the process with your bra, the sharp edge of the knife barely grazing your skin as he cut away the last barriers between his gaze and your naked form.

You couldn't deny the thrill that ran through you at the sight of Minho wielding the knife with such precision and control. Your body betrayed your arousal, your pussy clenching as you felt your juices coating the apex of your thighs. Minho's nostrils flared slightly, as if he could smell your excitement, a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands ghosted over your hips, fingers splaying wide as they traced up your torso. The calluses on his palms created a delicious friction against your soft skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. As his fingers traced the curve of your breasts, you couldn't help but arch into his touch, silently begging for more.

You shivered, feeling exposed and vulnerable under his intense scrutiny, but loving the way he gave all of his attention to your body. Every touch, every glance felt like it was setting your skin on fire. Minho's grip returned to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he tightened his hold on your waist. With a forceful tug, he guided you towards the bed, the metal cuffs gleaming ominously in the dim light, seeming to beckon you closer.

"Babe... why won't you speak? This is scary and-" The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. Before you could finish your sentence, Minho's hand shot out, gripping your throat firmly. His long fingers pressed against your skin, not enough to cut off your air supply completely, but enough to make you gasp. The sudden assertiveness in his actions sent a jolt of electricity through your body, your pussy throbbing in response. You could feel his face close, his hot breath fanning over your ear, causing you to shudder. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous, barely above a whisper, "No more talking. It's time to play."

With those words, Minho firmly pushed you onto the bed, your back hitting the soft sheets with a soft thud. His face remained an impassive mask, but his intentions were clear in every touch, every movement. The weight of his body pressed you into the mattress, his muscular form a cage of flesh and bone that both thrilled and terrified you.

As you lay there, bound and exposed, a potent cocktail of anticipation and vulnerability coursed through your veins. Minho's fingers trailed down your body with exquisite slowness, his touch a paradoxical blend of gentle caresses and possessive grazes. Each brush of his fingertips sent electric shivers rippling across your skin, causing you to arch your back involuntarily, pressing into his touch, silently begging for more.

Your eyes darted frantically between Minho's handsome face, etched with intense concentration, and the menacing knife still clutched in his hand. The blade ghosted over your skin, following the path of his fingers, its cool metal a stark contrast to your feverish flesh. Your heart hammered in your chest, a primal fear of being cut warring with an overwhelming desire for his touch. You wanted to scream, to beg him to put the knife away, but your voice seemed trapped in your throat. Instead, only pleading whimpers and desperate gasps escaped your lips.

"Minho... please..." you finally managed to whimper, your voice barely above a whisper. In an instant, his hand moved, gripping your jaw with bruising force. He yanked your face towards him, forcing you to meet his smoldering gaze. "Didn't I say no more talking?" His voice was low and dangerous, each word dripping with stern authority. Your mouth snapped shut immediately, teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle any further sounds. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, a mixture of fear and arousal making them glisten in the dim light.

Minho's hands resumed their torturous exploration, alternating between feather-light touches and firm, almost painful grips. The unpredictability kept you teetering on the edge, your body taut with tension, never knowing what sensation to expect next. Suddenly, his fingers found your nipples, pinching them tightly between his thumb and forefinger. The sharp pain lanced through your body, but it quickly transmuted into a jolt of intense pleasure. A strangled gasp tore from your throat as you arched your back, pushing your breasts further into his merciless grasp.

His fingers continued their relentless assault on your sensitive flesh, twisting, pulling, and flicking your hardened peaks. Each touch sent waves of sensation coursing through your body, the mixture of pain and pleasure so intoxicating that you felt dizzy. Your breath came in short, ragged pants, chest heaving as you struggled against your restraints, desperate for more contact yet simultaneously overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

With deliberate slowness, Minho reached up and grasped your hand, guiding it towards the headboard. The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into your wrist as he locked it in place, the click of the mechanism echoing ominously in the room. He repeated the process with your other hand, effectively immobilizing your arms. The vulnerability of your position sent a fresh wave of both fear and excitement coursing through you.

Minho's strong hands then moved to your legs, gripping your thighs firmly. With a swift, powerful motion, he spread them wide, exposing your most intimate area to the cool air of the room and his hungry gaze. You felt utterly exposed, completely at his mercy. Minho's face tilted as he observed you in this compromising position, his dark, devious eyes roaming over your glistening folds. The intensity of his stare made you feel as if you were being devoured visually, your pussy throbbing under his scrutiny.

"Fucking delicious," he groaned, his voice husky with desire. The knife in his hand glinted as he slowly dragged it up your inner thigh. Your breath hitched, a mixture of fear and anticipation causing your body to tremble uncontrollably. The cool metal of the blade traced a path dangerously close to your aching core, but Minho kept his touch light and teasing, never quite making contact where you desperately wanted it.

Your chest heaved with each ragged breath as Minho leaned down, his face hovering mere inches from your engorged clit. You could feel his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves, the warmth a stark contrast to the cool air on your exposed skin. The combination of your complete vulnerability and the mounting excitement had your heart racing at a frantic pace. Your body trembled with desire, every nerve ending alive and singing with anticipation of what was to come. In this moment, suspended between fear and ecstasy, you had never felt more alive, more aware of every sensation, every breath, every beat of your wildly pounding heart.

You watch, transfixed, as Minho slides off the bed with feline grace. His heated dark honey eyes never leave yours as he begins to undress, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch in your throat. Your eyes hungrily follow every deliberate movement as he slowly peels away each layer of clothing, revealing his sculpted form inch by tantalizing inch.

The dim red light bathes his body in an otherworldly glow, casting deep shadows that accentuate every curve and plane of his muscular physique. His golden skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat, emphasizing the definition of his abs, the sharp cut of his hipbones, and the powerful lines of his thighs. A small scar on his abdomen catches your eye, appearing darker than the rest of his skin in the crimson lighting. The sight of it awakens a primal urge within you - you desperately want to trace it with your tongue, to taste the salt of his skin and feel the slight ridge of healed tissue.

As Minho steps out of his last piece of clothing, you can't help but suck your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes widening at the sight of his fully aroused state. His cock stands proud and thick, so hard that it curves slightly towards his stomach. The veins along its length pulse visibly with need, and a bead of precum glistens at the tip, catching the red light. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, and you feel an answering throb between your legs. Involuntarily, your thighs fall open wider, your body's silent plea for his touch.

Minho stands at the foot of the bed, his head tilted as he surveys your bound form. His eyes rake over you with predatory intent, drinking in the sight of your naked, vulnerable body. The anticipation builds to an almost unbearable level as he slowly approaches, like a panther stalking its prey. One hand ghosts over your ankles, leaving goosebumps in its wake as it trails up your calves and along your inner thighs. The other hand, still clutching that damned knife, follows a parallel path up your body. The flat of the blade glides over your skin, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your core.

Without warning, Minho presses the knife to your throat, the razor-sharp edge biting into your flesh but never quite breaking the skin. Your pulse races beneath the blade, each heartbeat a reminder of your complete surrender to him. "That's my good girl... so tame for me," he coos, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sends shivers down your spine.

Minho's free hand brushes against your drenched core, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. You bite back a moan, too scared of the blade at your throat to make a sound. He explores your folds with agonizing slowness, his touch a maddening combination of gentle caresses and purposeful strokes. His fingers dance lightly over your throbbing clit, barely ghosting over the sensitive bundle of nerves before dragging down the length of your folds. They circle your creamy entrance with painful slowness, gathering your arousal but never dipping inside where you need him most.

You struggle against your restraints, desperate for more contact, for anything to relieve the aching need building within you. But Minho keeps his movements measured and controlled, a stark contrast to the wild, frantic energy thrumming through your body. His eyes, dark with desire, watch your every reaction - the flutter of your eyelashes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your hips cant upwards seeking more pressure. He drinks in your desperation, savoring every moment of exquisite torture he inflicts upon you.

"So wet for me already," he murmurs, his voice low and husky behind the mask. His fingers circle your most sensitive areas again, building the tension in your body with each passing moment. You whimper, biting your lip to keep from begging as he'd instructed earlier. Your hips involuntarily buck upwards, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. The ache between your legs intensifies, a throbbing need that consumes your every thought.

Suddenly, Minho withdraws his hand, leaving you trembling and desperate. A small, needy sound escapes your throat as you begin to open your mouth, but he silences you by pressing the cold blade more firmly against your skin. "No," he growls, the single word filled with dark promise. You feel the sharp edge of the knife trailing down your neck, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake. Minho shifts, positioning himself between your spread legs. His face looms over you as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. "Remember," he whispers, his lips brushing against your sensitive skin, "no talking. But I want to hear every other sound you make. Cry for me, little one... let me hear how scared you are." His words send a shiver down your spine, a potent mixture of fear and arousal coursing through your veins.

With agonizing slowness, Minho slides his smooth, hard cock through your slick folds. The feeling of him gliding over your aching clit is so exquisite that a loud, uncontrolled moan escapes your lips. Your eyes flutter closed at the overwhelming sensation, your body arching off the bed, seeking more contact. You can feel every ridge, every vein of his length as he teases you, the pressure both too much and not enough. "Jesus..." you hear Minho bite out, his usual composure cracking. The sexual tension in the air is palpable, crackling between you like electricity. You can feel the desire radiating off him in waves, his muscles taut and hard against your soft curves. His breathing becomes more ragged, matching the frantic pace of your own. The anticipation builds to an almost unbearable level as you wait, trembling, for his next move.

Then, with no warning at all, Minho enters you in one swift, powerful thrust. You gasp sharply, the sensation overwhelming every nerve in your body. His thick length stretches you wide, the delicious burn of the initial penetration mingling with waves of intense pleasure. Your eyes roll back in your head as he fills you completely, the feeling so exquisite it borders on painful.

Minho shows no mercy, no gentleness. His hips snap back, almost withdrawing entirely before slamming forward again with bruising force. Each thrust is deep and hard, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room. You cry out loudly, your voice a mix of pleasure and pain as he sets a punishing rhythm.

The handcuffs bite into your wrists as you instinctively pull against them, your body arching off the bed with each powerful thrust. The metal restraints hold you firmly in place, leaving you completely at Minho's mercy as he takes you with animalistic intensity. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him impossibly deeper.

Pleasure builds rapidly within you, your body responding eagerly to Minho's rough treatment. Each thrust sends jolts of ecstasy coursing through your veins, the pain only serving to heighten your arousal. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your inner walls clenching around him as he drives into you relentlessly.

Through it all, Minho's grip on the knife never wavers. The cold, sharp edge remains pressed against your throat, a constant reminder of the danger, the fear, the exhilarating thrill of surrendering control. The blade moves with each of your frantic breaths, the threat of it cutting into your skin adding an extra layer of intensity to the overwhelming sensations assaulting your body.

Minho's carefully placed expressionless mask finally cracks as his plump lips part and a guttural groan escapes them. The sound sends shivers down your spine, raw and primal. Your heart races, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, right where the cold blade still presses against your skin. The biting pain of the knife's edge and the overwhelming desire coursing through your veins create an intoxicating cocktail of sensations, each amplifying the other.

Despite the fear - or perhaps because of it - you find yourself arching into his touch, your body betraying your desperate need for more. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hyper-aware of Minho's presence above you, the heat radiating from his skin, the slight tremor in his muscles as he fights for control. The tension between you is palpable, thick enough to cut with the very knife he wields.

"More..." you whine, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You tug hard at the handcuffs, the metal chafing your soft skin, leaving angry red marks that only fuel your arousal. The pain blends seamlessly with pleasure, until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. "Let me touch you, please!" you nearly cry out, your voice a broken, pleading whisper. The desperation in your tone surprises even you, but you're too far gone to care. All you know is that you need to feel him, to run your hands over his sweat-slicked skin, to pull him closer until there's no space left between you.

Minho silences you with a searing kiss, his teeth grazing your lower lip with just enough pressure to elicit a gasp of mingled pain and pleasure. The metallic tang of blood mingles with the taste of his tongue as it invades your mouth, dominating and possessive. His free hand releases the knife, the clatter of metal on wood barely registering as it hits the floor. Both hands now tangle in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands until your scalp tingles with the exquisite pain.

With a sharp tug, he wrenches your head back, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat. You can't suppress the yelp that escapes you, the sound a mix of surprise and arousal. Minho's lips ghost over your pulse point, his hot breath fanning across your hypersensitive skin. "You know I love you," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl that sends shivers down your spine, "but I'm going to fuck you like I hate you."

True to his word, Minho begins to drive into you with relentless force. Each thrust is deep and punishing, the angle allowing him to hit that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. Your cries echo off the walls, a symphony of pleasure and pain that only seems to spur him on. His grip on your hair never wavers, keeping you pinned in place as he takes you with animalistic intensity.

The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter in your lower abdomen. Your body trembles uncontrollably, every nerve ending alight with sensation. Minho's hands finally release your hair, only to grip your hips with bruising force. He pulls you closer, somehow managing to drive even deeper. "Fuck," he growls, his usually controlled voice rough with desire. You can hear the strain in his tone, feel the tremor in his muscles as he fights for control.

The intensity of the moment is overwhelming. Your body is slick with sweat, the crimson light casting an otherworldly glow on your skin. Tears burn in your eyes, threatening to spill over as Minho fucks you with an intensity that borders on too much. You're teetering on the edge of begging him to stop, yet craving more at the same time. Every nerve in your body is singing, alive with sensation in a way you've never experienced before.

Minho's presence looms over you, his powerful body caging you in. His own grunts and moans of pleasure mix with your desperate cries, creating a primal chorus that fills the room. You can feel the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter, ready to snap at any moment. Minho's thrusts become more erratic, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release. The air between you is electric, charged with the intensity of your shared pleasure as you both hurtle towards the precipice of ecstasy.

Suddenly, Minho's movements become more erratic, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully as he nears his own climax. The tension in your body reaches its peak, and with a final, powerful thrust, you're both sent over the edge. Waves of intense pleasure crash over you as you nearly scream, your body arching off the bed despite the restraints. Your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, milking every last drop as he spills himself deep inside you.

As the intense waves of pleasure subside, you lie there panting, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. Tears of overwhelming emotion slip from your eyes, trailing down your flushed cheeks. Minho collapses beside you, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. His body glistens with a sheen of sweat, the crimson light accentuating the defined muscles of his torso. His cock, still semi-hard, shines with the mix of your combined juices.

With a gentle touch, Minho reaches into the nightstand and retrieves a small key. He carefully unlocks both of your restraints, his fingers lingering on the reddened marks left behind. Your arms, limp with exhaustion, fall to the mattress. Despite your fatigue, you manage to languidly reach over and caress his handsome, sweat-dampened face. His eyes meet yours, dark pools filled with a mixture of love, lingering desire, and a hint of concern.

A small, tender smile plays on his lips as he leans in to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. His fingers, now impossibly soft compared to their earlier roughness, wipe at the tears on your skin as he moves closer. "Are you okay?" He murmurs, his voice a low, affectionate rumble. His hands gently grasp yours, bringing them to his lips to place feather-light kisses on the raw spots encircling your wrists.

You don't answer right away, mesmerized by his gentle ministrations. You watch as he kisses up your arm, his lips leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He moves to your shoulder, then up your neck, his touch now reverent and soothing. He lingers on the small red mark the knife left behind, licking over it with his soft tongue as if trying to erase any trace of harm.

"Yes..." you finally say, your voice slightly hoarse from your earlier cries of passion. A mischievous glint enters your eyes as you add, "But next time you're going in these fucking cuffs." Your fingers trace the metal restraints still attached to the headboard, emphasizing your point.

Minho's laughter bubbles up, a rich, warm sound that fills the room. His eyes crinkle at the corners, softening his features as he gazes at you with unbridled affection. The tension from earlier melts away, replaced by a tender intimacy that wraps around you both like a cocoon.

With deliberate slowness, he leans in, his breath ghosting over your lips. The first brush of his mouth against yours is feather-light, a stark contrast to the passionate frenzy of before. His lips move languidly, savoring every moment of connection. One hand cups your cheek, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin, while the other arm snakes around your waist, drawing you impossibly closer.

As he deepens the kiss, you can taste the lingering sweetness of his earlier laughter. His embrace tightens, strong arms enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth and security. The solid planes of his chest press against you, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your own. In this moment, wrapped in Minho's loving embrace, you feel utterly safe and cherished, the fear and intensity of earlier giving way to a profound sense of belonging.

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future-dregs · 24 days ago

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Uh yeah @freakbylanadelrey

I think you're right

Come on, man, it's like the good old days, an honest-to-goodness monster hunt.

SAM AND DEAN 4.05, “MONSTER MOVIE”

#They're so unbelievably fond of each other it hurts #Sammy #Dean #Wrought up in my bones #Supernatural #Gif

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silverskye13 · 11 days ago

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"There you are, Demon."

Evil X's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a deep, resonant sound with a mechanical edge. The Demon, standing in his Colosseum box overlooking the sand, startled. His long, dragon-like elytra wings, repaired after his skirmish with Helsknight, shuddered briefly. The Demon forced a smile and uncrossed his arms from behind his back, trying to hide the sting to his pride at being snuck up on. He turned away from the window, searching the empty room for the voice's source. The shadows moved, light bending, and Evil X stepped into sight like the slow render of a distant horizon; all haze and shape and then sudden definition.

"You're playing a dangerous game." The robotic sovereign and admin of hels tilted his head slightly in a look of amusement, the movement punctuated by the wur and click of half a dozen mechanical parts. "Aren't you?"

Evil X was unassuming, as far as evils went. He was shorter than his brother, Evil Beezuma, which made him shorter than the Demon. Where Evil Beezuma was long and thin and axe-sharp, Evil X was broad and solid and square. Human sized, human shaped, but in the uncanny way of one who has sculpted himself to be perfectly so, piece by piece, as though he had to carefully study humanity in all its forms to settle on something that would pass. On first glance, he seemed so terribly normal it was almost inconvenient -- an easily dismissible mundanity. On second glance, once you noticed the intentionality of his design, he implied power so profound, and actions so calculated, it bordered on the god-like.

∆ The Demon couldn't help but be envious, any more than a moth could help its desire for light and heat. ∆

The Demon bowed low, tail curling nimbly around his ankles, an attempt to appear humble. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Majesty?"

"Amusement," Evil X answered simply, ignoring the formality. He hummed tunelessly as he moved to join the Demon by the window. "Curiosity."

Evil X peered down at the sand far below them, the ruby light from his pixelated screen of a mask aligning itself into a bored expression. He braced his hands on the windowsill, the thick, knobbled joints deceptively dextrous as they curled around the edge. All the mechanical pieces that made up Evil X's robotic body were brutal in their display, unyielding and utilitarian. It was the kind of grim mechanics the Demon might expect to see in a factory; dark oil, black hinges and unyielding jaws. There was a heft to Evil X's movements that implied wrought iron and tempered steel, where Evil Beezuma was a creature of lighter metals -- aluminums and titaniums. Still heavy, but in comparison to the sovereign of hels, he was all bird bones.

∆ The Demon could imagine every hinge and servo in Evil X's powerful grip locking around someone's hand and crushing it with simple ease, the same way he might crush an eggshell in his fist. ∆

"You've upset my brother," Evil X said, not looking up at the Demon. There were fighters on the sand far below -- not a Colosseum Match, though the date for the next one was swiftly approaching. They were training, getting ready. The Demon had taken to watching, revelling in the performative struggles in the sand, knowing they were there because of him. "He thinks you've rigged the next match."

"I'm sorry he thinks so," the Demon said, his voice a cautious smile, obeisant. He needed to feel this conversation out, dance with the danger of it, to determine his odds. There was a thrill of fear and adrenaline in his chest, as intense as the pressure in the End. "I was merely trying to craft a compelling show."

"No you weren't," Evil X said flatly, his tone bored. "How many sponsors and show writers did you have to bribe to force the Champion into such a disadvantage?"

The Demon wisely kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to mirror Evil X's bored glare down at the sand. There was a flicker of red in the corner of the Demon's eye, the glimmer of reflected light on the glass as Evil X glanced in his direction.

"No, you would never stoop to bribery," Evil X hummed, as though agreeing with some unspoken statement. It made the Demon's skin crawl, a feeling like his thoughts were being plucked from his head. "Not when so many people owe you favors. Did you cash in terribly many? Seems a bit moot, given it should have only taken one."

The Demon snapped his gaze down to Evil X then, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. He said with forced civility, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I've been downgraded to sir?" Evil X grinned, turning so his back was pressed against the glass, his arms crossed over his chest. "I liked Majesty better, I think."

The Demon smiled graciously -- and only in doing so realized he'd stopped smiling in the first place. He bowed stiffly, "My apologies, Majesty."

"Helsknight owes you a favor," Evil X said, smoothly ignoring both the bow and the title.

∆ A thorn of hurt pride stabbed itself deeper into the Demon's side. ∆

"Couldn't you have simply asked him to throw the match?" Evil X looked down as if to inspect his fingernails. He fidgeted with something on his wrist, tightening some gear with an audible click! "It would certainly be more direct than... whatever this mess is. I suppose you might be excited to show off just how much of hels is in the palm of your hand."

There was another audible click, and the mechanical hand snapped open. Firing redstone glimmered from seams in the plates of his arm, traveling up to the elbow in a series of popping noises. The Demon wrinkled his nose at the sudden biting smell of redstone. It took him a moment to realize Evil X expected an answer.

"The, ahm direct approach wouldn't work," the Demon said at length, crossing his arms behind his back again. "Helsknight isn't what I'm after."

"An example, then?"

"Not exactly."

"Cryptic."

"I feel its in my best interest."

Evil X opened and closed his hand, flexing joints that were suddenly much stiffer than they had been before... whatever he'd done. The fingers opened and closed in stiff, jerking motions -- something that reminded the Demon somewhat squeamishly of a vice. The image of crushing eggshells came back to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

"Oh relax, Demon. I'm not here to punish you," Evil X chuckled, a deep, resonant sound like the clatter of metal. "I'm simply admiring your work."

"My work?" The Demon asked cautiously.

"I used to love playing these games," Evil X sighed wistfully, turning again so he faced the glass. He straightened each individual digit on his hand, those harsh, snapping motions looking almost painful. "It's... Difficult showing people you mean business when death has so little sting."

Evil X rested a fingertip against the glass, as if he meant to scrub away some imperfection there. The glass wasn't completely clear -- it was very subtly tinted yellow, a color the Demon had chosen intentionally. He had always loved motifs of gold and glamor. It was one of the few things about his Hermit he allowed himself to keep.

"The Universe is cruel," Evil X monologued, his gaze focused on the point where his finger met the glass. "But eight, nine times out of ten, we still respawn as if it weren't. Hels is scarce, but not so scarce that losing something means it's impossible to replace. At least, not for people like you and Helsknight, who have wealth and power, and a healthy amount of fear ascribed to your names."

∆ The Demon found it interesting that Evil X didn't include himself in that statement -- did he not consider himself as someone with wealth, power and fear? Perhaps he did, and was simply aware he was far out of anyone else's league. ∆

"So then, how do you truly threaten someone, when the world is so forgiving?" Evil X asked the glass, gaze still intent on that point his finger rested against. "The direct approach has its merits -- death and maiming are always unpleasant. And even though the body returns whole, the mind takes time to recover."

Unease tiptoed along the Demon's spine. A noise made it to him, a quiet groan of stress, oddly sharp, something straining in its casing. The bite of redstone stung the Demon's nose again.

"Sir?"

"But you're clever. The direct approach is too straightforward and barbaric for people like you. So, you build a web."

The glass fractured, suddenly and without warning. Webbed lines spidered out from Evil X's fingertip, focused on the point of contact. It startled the Demon back a step, half-expecting Evil X's hand to crash the rest of the way through, but it didn't. The fracture stopped after the initial break, four odd nearly-concentric circles streaked by smaller perpendicular breaks, very much like a spider's web. Evil X laughed, quick and sharp, almost surprised.

"I got bored of the web making ages ago, and even if I hadn't, I promised my brother I wouldn't meddle in his business. But I do admire good craftsmanship when I see it." There was a click! somewhere in the mechanical pieces in Evil X's wrist as he pressed harder against the fracture he made. The glass broke further, more cracks spiraling out from the source; a larger web. "I was once quite good at it -- building them, and reading the lines. Care to let me guess at yours, Demon?"

He tilted his head in the Demon's direction, the red light from his eyes reflecting in a dozen different facets of cracked glass. The Demon clenched his fists at his sides, and it was an act of will not to take another wary step back.

"The knight is a sacrifice," Evil X hummed, another crack shooting out from his fingertip to spiral across the golden glass. "It's what they're made for, really. I don't play chess -- do you? I know the knight is a deceptively mobile piece, and a crowd favorite, for how pretty it is, but it's movements are complicated and, all bound up with invisible rules. It will never be the most important piece on the board, but it will content itself with being useful. I'm sure he'll be flattered when he figures out he's a means to an end. Knights like that kind of thing."

Another crack, this one spearing sharply to the far edge of the window pane. The whole window shuddered with its violence.

The Demon lurched forward, all previous attempts to appear calm and unbothered forgotten. He almost grabbed Evil X's shoulder to pull him away -- almost. The heat stopped him. Evil X's machinery, either by convention or design, radiated heat like a burning brand. The sudden fear that touching the metal would scald him drew his hand up short.

"Stop that," the Demon hissed, glaring up at the shattering window, so he wouldn't have to witness Evil X's smirk.

"Stop what? This?" Evil X chuckled, another long crack shattering out to touch the top of the window.

"Yes, that!"

"Why?"

"Because it's--"

"--yours?"

Evil X laughed again, and much to the Demon's relief, he removed his hand from the glass. Evil X bared his wrist, fiddling with whatever knob or screw he'd tightened earlier. One by one, the robotic fingers relaxed again, moving much more like a hand was expected to. Evil X clenched and unclenched his fist experimentally.

"The little thief that's found itself in Helsknight's shadow. That's what you're after," Evil X hummed. "I admit, I only know he exists because I know what my brother knows. I assume he stole something from you?"

"What's it to you?" The Demon growled, his wings ruffling uncomfortably.

"Like I said, I admire your craftsmanship." Evil X reached forward and flicked the broken window with a metal finger. The weakened glass shuddered, one jagged shard popping free of the network of webbed cracks. Evil X caught it deftly. "I got bored of this kind of cloak-and-dagger thing ages ago, but I do still understand the allure."

On the words "cloak-and-dagger", Evil X rolled the glass over his knuckles, the jagged shard flickering in the low light in a way that reminded the Demon of the flash of a drawn blade.

"If you're so... Bored by this nonsense," the Demon gestured to the broken glass, "then why--?"

"This isn't web-weaving," Evil X chuckled. "I prefer the direct approach."

The Demon narrowed his eyes. "Then, directly, tell me why you're here."

∆ He did not say "Your Majesty." He thought if he demeaned himself to Evil X again, he might tempt himself to violence, and Evil X was the sovereign of hels, and there were some fights the Demon knew he could not win. ∆

Evil X smirked. It was in the way the red lights of his eyes narrowed, and the way he dipped his head, amused.

"You have a blind spot, Demon," Evil X said. "This web you're weaving -- you've forgotten something very important."

Nervousness thrilled its way down the Demon's spine again.

"What am I missing?"

"Now, where would all the fun for me be, if I told you all the answers?"

The Demon snorted and crossed his arms. He considered, briefly, making himself look bigger. More intimidating. He didn't think it would work, but it would make him feel better at least. Less bullied.

"You are doing a lot of meddling in the Colosseum," Evil X said, tapping the glass again. The window shook, but no other jagged pieces fell free. One of the cracks widened threateningly. "Walking around like you own the place, leaving messes everywhere."

The Demon bared his teeth in his closest approximation of a smile, "I'm well aware the Colosseum isn't mine. It belongs to you, of course."

Evil X laughed, sharp and biting and scornful. "You're sorely mistaken, Demon. I wouldn't dream of calling the Colosseum mine."

"You're worried the knight will take offense to my meddling?" The Demon huffed. "By my reckoning, he's too busy with his own shortsightedness to bother--"

"Gods above and below," Evil X sighed. He leaned in close to the window, blazing the shattered lines in bloody hues. The Demon watched him warily, and then stepped forward to look down at the sand. Far, far below them, the fighters still trained. One in particular meandered among them, offering advice and correcting form.

"Beware, Demon, as you weave your web." Evil X hummed, his voice so low, so close to the glass, it nearly seemed to shake the shattered panes. "Some wasps eat spiders."

"Your brother?" The Demon said, trying to keep his skepticism from his voice.

"My brother," Evil X agreed, flickering that broken glass over his knuckles again in a flourish, "is quite protective of his Colosseum. And as I said, Demon, I have promised not to meddle in his affairs."

"Aren't you meddling now?"

"No, this is a warning, from someone who appreciates the craftsmanship in a well-spun web." Their gazes met, Evil X radiating heat and smoke like breath. "If he does something to you Demon, I won't intervene. He's the nice one -- but he still has Evil in his name, doesn't he?"

Evil X smiled. He reached out gently to pluck a small piece of glass from where it had fallen on the Demon's shoulder, so small it looked like glitter. The Demon had to force himself not to recoil from the touch, from the scald of hot metal so intense it had its own smell; flint and oil and redstone.

Evil X flicked the piece of glass away, the smooth mask of boredom slipping back over his mechanical features, "I'll be interested to see what you choose to do, in any case. Gods know it gets boring enough in hels. Too many rats, not enough races."

"Then change it," the Demon snapped, his pride and temper bristling in tandem. The implication that he was just one more game for a bored god stung.

∆ He was quite sure it was meant to sting. ∆

"No, I don't think I will." Evil X shrugged, sauntering towards the door that led from the Demon's box to the long hall beyond. "I'm quite content watching events unfold as they want."

He opened the door and grinned back at the Demon, "Once you get so good at these games, they stop being fun. Entertain me though, and I might make you my protege."

"I don't need your patronage," the Demon hissed.

"Sure you don't," Evil X chuckled. He flicked his hand, that shard of glass he'd taken flickering through the room like a knifepoint. It hit the cracked pane of glass, and with a shriek, it shattered. The Demon sprang back from the waterfall of sharpened points, watching the golden cascade tumble across the floor. One of the pieces cut him, but he only knew it by the itching trickle of blood that ran down his arm long minutes later.

"That was unnecessary," EB groused that evening, when Evil X descended the long stairs to his cell. "I don't need you sticking up for me. I don't want you sticking up for me."

"Sticking up for you?" Evil X laughed. "Darling baby brother, I don't stick up for anybody."

He ducked the swat EB aimed in his direction. EB didn't try to hit him again -- yet.

"I was just making sure I still leave an impression." Evil X grinned. "And I still got it. You can bill me for the glass, if you like."

"I will." EB snapped a hand forward, and Evil X let himself be caught. "Stop breaking my Colosseum, X." EB towered, and shoved, and Evil X felt the wall divot behind him from the strength of the push. "You can break everything else in hels, playing around, but this is--"

"Yes yes, it's yours," Evil X conceded, prying EB's hand off his chest. "Lighten up, you're supposed to be the nice one."

EB looked away from him, buzzing a long, unintelligible stream of noise.

"Language."

"You were meddling."

"If I were meddling, there would have been TNT involved." Evil X sobered just a bit. "And I wouldn't be telling you."

"He's impulsive, EX," EB sighed, running a hand down his face. "He's impulsive, and you threatened him."

"And I can't wait to see what he does," Evil X chuckled, rubbing his hands together conspiratorially. "Impulsive people make truly spectacular decisions when they're threatened."

"Not in my Colosseum!"

"And if he does?" Evil X grinned. "I can't wait to see what you do either." He rapped a knuckle against EB's chest, and chuckled at the resonance. "Live up to your name for once. You make me look soft."

He ducked another of EB's swats, cackling, and vanished. It took long minutes for the lights in the room to bleed away the red tinge that seemed to follow in Evil X's wake.

"I liked you better when you were busy with Hermitcraft," EB grumbled to the empty room. "You're a terror when you're bored."

#rns ficlets #redstone and skulk #evil x #evil beezuma #evil xisuma #the demon #hels!impulse #i should be doing literally anything besides this

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