#and the ghost’s like a fragment or pathetic or something like that

[miupow]

[ 7:45 pm ] - c. seungcheol

── ★ [ 💭 ] NSFW, MDNI! pure smut, dom!cheol, sub!fem!reader, oral (f. rec), voyeurism + exhibitionism, jeonghan and joshua mention, nasty nasty filth. 700 words

based on a request from my beloved @the-quiet-nerd-guy ♡

“cheol, the door—!” you gasp, hand desperately grasping seungcheol’s hair as he nuzzled your breasts. he blinks his pretty brown eyes up at you, gaze soft as a caress, so lovestruck and innocent for his dirty actions; tired of your teasing, in a second he had pulled you through the door and folded in half on the mattress, his thick arms caging you flush against his chest and his rough hands quick in tearing you out of your clothes. with your body bare and your legs slung over his shoulders, seungcheol presses wet kisses across the flushed peaks of your tits, pink tongue peaking out to tease at your puffy nipples before skating across your hot skin. you tangle your fingers in the hairs at the base of his neck, whimpering desperately as he begins to mark his way down your chest and tummy with pretty purple bruises.

in his rush to get you alone seungcheol had left the door wide open, soft light from the living room shining and illuminating your figures. it was something he was often guilty of, and something you normally wouldn’t mind, but jeonghan and joshua sat just feet away on the couch, blissfully unaware of where seungcheol had dragged you off to and for why. you could hear their muffled voices chatting amongst themselves, too low to understand, and a surprisingly delicious thrill runs hot in your belly from the mischievous smirk seungcheol gives you in response to your whining.

“what about the door, honey?” he croons, deep voice dripping with poisonous honey. One of his big calloused hands sears a path down your trembling stomach to the soft swell of your hips, his pouty lips hot and heavy as they make their way down below your navel. his kisses were always overflowing with a tantalizing possessiveness, a sense of worship that overwhelmed you in the best way. you couldn’t control your pathetic keen of pleasure, tugging urgently at his hair as you throw your head back against the pillows— you desperately wanted to keep quiet, but it was impossible with how seungcheol so effortlessly flooded your body with red hot desire.

“cheol,” you cry out again, your rushed whispers squeaky and broken with arousal. “close the door, they’ll hear—!”

“and i what if i want them to?” seungcheol cuts you off, his head finally dipping down to nose at your soaking cunt, ghost the plush of his lips against your swollen clit. “want them to hear how good i give it to you… you’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby? other men listening in on you getting fucked?”

seungcheol’s confession shoots through you like a shockwave, leaves your thighs trembling and your chest heaving— you had not an inkling of an idea that your sweet, gentle and protective boyfriend had such a nasty mind, would ever entertain even the thought of other men in witness to your pleasure… but the idea awakens an all-consuming fire in your belly, one that heats up your skin and drenches your core. “cheol—“ you cry out again, breathless and begging, your thoughts too fragmented to utter anything else except his name.

the long thick fingers that had been caressing over your hip slides down to rub sweet circles against your weeping clit, tease down between your folds to collect your dripping slick. “fuck, i knew you were a slut,” seungcheol hisses, dirty words juxtaposing his loving smile. “would you want them to watch, too? want them to watch you get treated like a whore?” he roughly kisses your clit, slips two of his fingers into your throbbing pussy. your walls clench around them instantly, the stretch nowhere near enough for the rising arousal clouding your senses. “my whore. all mine. let’s let them hear you scream for me, honey.”

his tongue meets his fingers fucking into your messy hole, the wet noises clashing with the ringing in your ears; you wail for release, your hand not tangled in seungcheol’s hair grasping at the bedsheets as your boyfriend begins to eat you out in earnest. you distantly hear the floorboards creak, adjacent to footsteps, and a sickeningly large part of you hopes that it’s jeonghan and joshua.

[bzurk]

touch

It would be too selfish to have all of you - your thoughts, your body, your mind and soul. Simon doesn't deserve it. But he needs it, craves it. So he'll break you down, bit by bit. Because if he can't have you wholly, he'll settle for the pieces instead.

<- part 1 here

part 4 here ->

The world is a blur of shadows and whispers. You’re trailing behind your team, a shadow among shadows, adrenaline pumping through your veins like jet fuel. The mission is covert, silent, every step a careful calculation. Your senses are on overdrive, every flicker of movement, every rustle of leaves a potential threat. The air is thick with anticipation, the scent of damp earth and sweat clinging to you. You taste the metallic tang of fear on your tongue, feel the cool trickle of sweat down your spine. Your heart hammers in your chest, a relentless drumbeat. You grip your weapon tighter, its familiar weight both a comfort and a reminder of the stakes. Every movement is deliberate, every breath measured. The world narrows to the path ahead, your teammates’ silhouettes barely visible in the darkness. The ground is soft beneath your boots, muffling your steps, but every crunch of leaves sounds like a gunshot in your ears.

Suddenly, there’s a shift - a flicker in your peripheral vision, one too many footsteps. Before you can react, an attacker is on you, a blur of motion and aggression, heavy against your chest and arms, ice-cold steel to your neck. The shock seizes your breath, but it quickly transforms into something darker, something primal. Paranoia, ever-present, ignites a raw, unfiltered surge of anger and fear.

He’s found you. He’s caught up, and your team is too far ahead, and you’re going to die-

You let out a guttural snarl, fists flying in a violent frenzy. The knife plunges into the dirt next to your head, clanging against your helmet deafeningly, the sound reverberating in your skull. This man, this coward, would not be the end of you, you wouldn’t let him be. In your rage, it’s easy to swing your body weight to the side, legs wrapping around your attackers until you both roll, trapping the shadow beneath you.

Each blow is a release, a cathartic purge of the terror that’s been building up inside you, sloshing and overflowing from your soul. Your knuckles crack against bone, the pain a distant echo as you pummel your attacker. You don’t think, you just act, driven by an animalistic need to dominate, to survive. Your vision narrows, your world reduced to the brutal exchange of flesh and bone. The attacker’s face is a mask of terror and pain below you, their blood splattering with each impact, fragments of teeth and bone and cartilage debris to your destruction. You’re lost in the violence, overtaken by a primal fear that fuels your every strike. The enemy’s resistance fades, their body going limp under your assault, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Each hit is a desperate attempt to banish the shadow of your stalker, to prove you’re not helpless, not weak. You weren’t afraid.

“Fuck you!” Fire burns your throat, licking against your lips as you scream, shrill and wild and animalistic, “Fuck you! Fuck you! You pathetic fucking creep! Fuck you!”

The world fades, leaving only the raw, animalistic need to survive. Your fists are relentless, each strike a hammer blow against the phantoms haunting your mind. The taste of blood, not your own, fills your mouth, a bitter reminder of the violence.

Through the haze of your assault, you barely register the shouts of your teammates. They’re on you, hands pulling you back, trying to restrain your fury. Gaz’s face swims into view, his eyes wide with shock and concern. Soap’s grip is firm, elbows hooked under your armpits, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. “Easy, Stitch, easy!”

Someone else - Ghost, you think - grabs ahold of your kicking, flailing legs, fully restraining your body and forcing you away from your human punching bag.

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice is shrill, painful to your own ears, only interrupted by sobs and hiccups as you struggle to breathe amidst your wild flailing.

“It’s just us, love. Just us. Just breathe, okay? Breathe. Breathe.” Sergeant Garrick holds your face between his palms, his hold steady despite the slick of blood and sweat and tears. He repeats himself a few times before his words register in your screaming mind, the violent whirlpool that only settles when your oxygen thins.

Your breathing is ragged, your heart a sledgehammer in your chest as you finally relent, the fight bleeding out of you. The enemy combatant is a broken heap on the ground, moaning in pain, blood pooling around their battered body. The silence that follows is deafening, your heartbeat the only sound. Your hands are stained with blood, your knuckles raw and throbbing. You stare down at the crumpled body, the face unrecognizable, the violence of your attack evident in every broken feature. The shadows seem to press closer, the forest closing in around you, and for a moment, you feel weightless, lost in the maelstrom in your head.

Captain Price steps forward, his presence a weighty anchor. His gaze is fixed on you, a mix of stern authority and concern, ice-cold and sharp with clarity. You hesitate, your body still trembling with adrenaline, as you meet his eyes, legs wobbly as Ghost releases them, held up only by Johnny at your back. Inside, a storm rages - a whirlwind of fear, vulnerability, and shame. Your mind races, trying to find the words to explain, but they stick in your throat, heavy and unyielding. You want to prostrate yourself before him, to sob and beg for forgiveness under his gaze, reduced to a speck under his scrutinous stare.

Price’s expression softens, his stern facade cracking with sympathy. He doesn’t need words to see the turmoil you’re in, the cracks in your armour. “Talk to me,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

You flinch, unable to meet his eyes. The words tumble out, disjointed and raw, your voice tinged with desperation. “I... I can’t, Captain. I can’t.”

He listens, his eyes never leaving yours, searching for the truth you’re unwilling to share. His determination is a palpable force, but you’re too far gone, too crazed and paranoid to let him in. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words and shared pain. Finally, he sighs, a sound of frustration and resignation, before calling for an evac.

—

Captain Price’s office is a stark contrast to the chaos outside. It’s quiet, almost eerily so, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes your thoughts loud. The walls are lined with maps and tactical plans, the scent of coffee, tobacco and old leather filling the air. You stand at attention, trying to suppress the tremors that still ripple through your body. Price’s gaze is a steady weight on you, his blue eyes sharp and assessing.

“Stitches, sit down,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a command that brooks no argument. You nod, your movements jerky, and lower yourself into the seat. The leather creaks under your weight, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.

Price leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. “I want to know what’s going on with you. That out there... that wasn’t just about the mission, was it?”

Your mouth is dry, the words sticking to the back of your throat. You drop your gaze to your hands, clenched in your lap, knuckles still raw and bruised. “No, sir,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t.”

He doesn’t push, just waits, his patience a palpable thing. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until finally, you can’t take it anymore. The dam inside you breaks, and the words come tumbling out, raw and unfiltered.

“There’s... there’s someone. Someone on base. I don’t know who it is, but they’re fucking with me. They have been, for months. They’ve been leaving notes, pictures, items.” Your palms sting, nails digging half-moons into your flesh, “I’ve been collecting them all.”

Price’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see the gears turning in his mind. He leans forward, his gaze never leaving yours. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

Shame burns through you, a hot, searing pain. “I thought I could handle it. Thought they’d grow bored if I didn’t react. But it’s... it’s too much. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

For a moment, Price says nothing. Then he stands, moving around the desk to crouch in front of you, his hands resting on the armrests of your chair. “Stitches, you’re part of this team, and we look out for each other. Always. I’m your captain, and you’re my responsibility. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

His words are a balm to your battered soul, but they don’t ease the fear gnawing at your insides. “Please, Captain. Don’t send me home. I can’t go home. It’s safer here, with you and the team. I need to stay. You have to let me stay.”

Price’s brow furrows, his eyes searching yours. “I can’t ignore what happened out there. You’re barely holding it together. You need a break, some time to get your head straight.”

“Please let me stay,” you plead, desperation creeping into your voice. “I’ll stick to medical, or- or learn admin, anything. Just don’t send me away. I need to be here.”

He studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods, a slow, reluctant movement. “Alright, you can stay. But you’re off active duty. I’ll look into it, Stitches. Promise.”

Relief washes over you, so intense it’s almost dizzying. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Price stands, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Stitches. You’re not alone in this.”

You nod again, the words failing you. As you leave his office, a fragile sense of hope takes root in your chest. It’s not much, but it’s something. And for now, it’s enough.

—

The days blur into weeks, a monotonous rhythm that barely holds you together. The paranoia doesn’t subside, but you find yourself slipping into a twisted routine. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. You throw yourself into your medical duties, grateful for the distraction. The infirmary becomes your sanctuary, a place where you can lose yourself in the rhythm of work. Bandaging wounds, setting broken bones, administering meds - it’s familiar, grounding. But the shadow of your stalker looms large, a constant presence at the back of your mind.

Lieutenant Simon Riley, Ghost, is always near. His presence sets your nerves on edge. His lingering gazes, the way his fingers brush against yours just a bit too long when handing you supplies - it’s all too much, too similar. You can feel his eyes on you, burning holes in your resolve, eroding your sense of safety. The tension coils tighter within you, a snake ready to strike. He’s silent, an enigma, all broad muscle and intimidation, yet goes undetected if you lose sight of him. The hair on the nape of your neck is always on end, and you know it’s because he’s always around.

You have a feeling Price sent him. Whether it’s to keep an eye on you, or for your safety, you don’t know.

Even at night, you can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching you.

Price had you moved into a new room, in a more populated wing. Still, you take nothing for granted anymore - checking under your bed, cupboards, even inside your goddamn shower stall for any potential surprises. But your room is empty, just as barren and lifeless as before. Sleep doesn't come easy that night.

The darkness is a suffocating blanket, the silence deafening. Every creak, every rustle, sends your heart racing. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open, unable to succumb to the oblivion of sleep. You can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching you. The shadows seem to move, to shift, forming shapes that shouldn’t be there. The paranoia is a living, breathing entity, feeding on your fear, growing stronger with each passing hour.

Finally, you give up. You can’t take it anymore. Slipping out of bed, you move silently through the darkened corridors, making your way to the infirmary. Maybe some paperwork will help distract you, make the hours pass a little faster.

The infirmary is bathed in the cold, silvery glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. The familiar space feels unsettling and eerie in this light, shadows dancing across surfaces and making them seem almost alive.

Your footsteps are muffled by your thick socks as you approach the door, but your heart thunders loudly in your chest. You hesitate, hand hovering over the doorknob, as a dark figure moves within the infirmary. From here, you can only see their silhouette outlined against the faint light seeping into the room.

Fear grips you like icy fingers around your throat as you press yourself against the wall, barely daring to breathe. The sound of metal and paper rustling through drawers and files echoes loudly in the tense silence. What are they looking for? Why are they here?

With bated breath, you peer around the corner just enough to catch glimpses of the intruder's movements. They seem precise and deliberate as they search through your belongings. Time stretches on endlessly, each moment filled with creeping dread.

Finally, the figure stands up and turns towards the door. Your blood runs cold as the moonlight reveals his face - it's Ghost. The same man who has been watching you with his calculating gaze, haunting your every step.

You wait until he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, before daring to move. Your legs shake beneath you as you rise, trying to quell the tremors in your hands. You need to get out of here - now.

Silently and quickly, you slip out of the infirmary and make your way through dimly lit corridors. Fear and anger swirl within your mind as you reach your room and shut the door behind you, leaning heavily against it as if to keep out any remaining traces of danger.

—

The first light of dawn filters through your window, casting long, ghostly shadows across the room. You haven't slept, and the exhaustion weighs heavily on you, a thick fog that makes every step feel like a monumental effort. The events of the night replay in your mind, a relentless loop of fear and betrayal. Ghost. It was Ghost all along.

You force yourself out of bed, moving mechanically through your morning routine. Each action is deliberate, grounding you in the present moment, trying to push away the lingering dread. But it clings to you, a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate.

The corridors are quiet as you make your way back to the infirmary, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken secrets. You enter the room, the cold, silvery light of dawn mixing with the sterile fluorescence, casting an eerie glow on the surroundings. Your sanctuary feels tainted now, the shadows hiding sinister intentions.

You approach the drawers, your heart pounding in your chest. With trembling hands, you open them, one by one, your breath hitching each time you see your personal belongings disturbed. And there, amidst the medical supplies and paperwork, you find them: another gift and more photos. Moments you thought were private, angles that make your skin crawl. Your room, your workspace, your bloodied knuckles hanging limp by your side - too recent.

Ghost had left them there. You saw him do it.

But the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: you need more proof. You can't just go to Price with your collection of photos and gifts and point fingers. Not after your breakdown on the field - a quick way to label yourself as mad. You need something undeniable, tangible.

Your mind races as you consider your options. You can't confront Ghost directly; he's too dangerous, too unpredictable. Six feet and four inches of honed muscle and skill.

The rest of the day is a blur, the minutes stretching into hours as you move through your duties with a robotic precision. The paranoia is ever-present, a shadow that clings to your every step. You see Ghost in the periphery, always watching, always waiting. His presence is a constant reminder of the danger you're in.

You’ve had enough of waiting. Too long have you been looking over your shoulder, waiting for the shadows to move and strike and ensnare.

This time, you’ll act first.

[yandere-wishes]

𝕆𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕃𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

Summary: You try to escape from two fearsome Sith Lords. Surprisingly they take it rather well.

Author's note: This is totally getting a part 2. Or maybe a series we'll see. 

Warnings: dark, absolutely no regard for the rule of two, sorta a vent fic (venting that these two are so fine and I can't get them out of my mind), slightly fluffy.

The empire's warships have a tendency to blur reality. The interiors of their large hulking exoskeletons house endless corridors and makeshift chambers. Vast, endless arrays of space. They've been optimized for housing droids, clones, and artillery. Not for escape, not for an endless search of a freedom that has long since eroded. 

Calling yourself anything but desperate would be a lie. Your feet run to the chorus of your broken heartbeat. The need for freedom, the need to escape spreads through your body like a poison. You know it'll end up killing you, either from exhaustion or by their sabars. But you have to try, you have to run. Even if you've left fragments of yourself in the warm bed the three of you sleep on. Even if you forgot your heart under Anakin's pillow and your soul still lingers in Maul's warm embrace. Maybe freedom is worth cutting off pieces of yourself, if only in the hope that someday they might grow back. 

There's something wrong with the corridors you're sure of it. You've never been one for directions, instead relying on the holo screens and navigation systems to lead the way. Mirror images as far as the eye can see. Identical, plain. Nothing substantial to store in your memory. There's something ironic about this situation, a punchline that doesn't quite land. You half haphazardly tug on the skirt of your nightgown, desperate for anything familiar. You're not sure why.

You remember how Anakin called you pretty this morning, still hazy, still clinging to the sensation of slumber. Perfect blue eyes too dazed to look at you. Really look at you. The chosen one gazes at your ghost, your ethos. the perfect doll he and Maul had morphed you into. Behind you

 Maul pulls you to his chest. Hand running up and down her side, trying to resurrect you into his dreams. It's only when Anakin's eyes close, seeling the shimmering blue orbs, that you crawl out of bed and into the unknown. 

You're lost, abandoned in absolute desolation. The marble tiles bleed frost into the soles of your feet. Somewhere in the distance, you feel a disturbance in the force. Too far away to matter, yet leaking with a potent rage that burns. It's hope you think, albeit pathetically, maybe it's better to capitulate this pointless crusade and wait for the Sith lords to find you. The crash comes just as you're about to stop. You bump into him, falling in the process. All armor and steel. The Stormtrooper's mask is off giving you a clear view of his scarred face. His eyes flash, some dreary emotion too obscure to read, he offers you a gloved hand, something human something casual. 

You stare frozen. 

When exactly did you stop comprehending human idiosyncrasies? 

When exactly did you start reading every interaction as a threat? 

He's a monster, you think, just like the ones you've been warned about. Lectured time and time again by both Anakine and Maul. Monsters pry on little girls, especially ones who wander off on their own. Monsters lurk behind unsuspecting walls, ready to pounce when their prey approaches. You wonder if, the definitive definition of "monster" could be passed on to the two Siths who call themselves your lovers. 

There's blood, too crimson to be real. Metallic aromas wafted through the air. You've only now noticed how close the disturbance in the force really is. Close enough to distinguish itself. To reveal that, in actuality, it's not a disturbance at all.

 It's two...

Something cold yanks at your forearm. Pulling you to your feet. for a split second, your nerves calm. The familiarity of the cybernetic arm grants you a heavy ease. Anakin pushes you over to where Maul is standing. Golden eyes burning holes through the stormtrooper's armor. 'He didn't do anything' you long to say. But the words wisely die on your tongue as Maul grips your shoulders. Anakine's saber is lit, stabbing through the soldier's armor as if it were flesh. As if killing him where as easy as killing a rogue thought. "You're quite a foolish soldier for daring to touch that which belongs to your commanders. Even more imbecilic for so much as looking at emperor Palpatine's disciple." 

Maul's grip on your shoulders tightens, eyes never once leaving the bloodshed. One of his hands instinctively roams to your belly, then slides down to your thigh. Rubbing it ever so gently as his claws pierce your soft skin. You close your eyes trying to make yourself smaller. You hate how his touch grounds you. How the familiarity plucks at your heartstrings. When he touches you like this you wish you would forever rot in his arms.

"'I'm sorry" You don't know why the words come so easily. As if they've been itching to spill from your tongue. Maybe it's easier to say 'I'm sorry' rather than 'You've broken my perception of love, of reality and now I can only find comfort in your darkness.' "Hush" Maul's anger spills with every syllable. His claws dig deeper, earning him a pained hiss from his doll. 

"You're not sorry, in fact, you rather enjoyed this didn't you? Running away making us chase you down, I never thought your species would enjoy being the prey so much, little one." Anakin walks over, saber seethed at his side. His every step promised pain, retribution. He's angry, furious. They both are, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, they'll end it all today. 

Maul's chambers have always been a testament to Dathomir, bathed in deep scarlets and endless ebony. You wonder if he's homesick for a place he's only visited in his worst ephialtes. After the incident in the corridors, they drag you back to the Zabrak's room. Neither bothering to say a word. Merely permitting their rage to engulf you, subduing you into submission. It's an unwelcome surprise when they begin to prep for the day. Throwing on their black cloaks, prior to choosing your outfit. An abnormal affinity settles across the room. Too unnerving to go unchecked. 

They dress you each morning, a ritual you think, some attestation of love that's never been quite right. Maul drapes you in velvet dresses. Each one harbors a sui generis softness that sits erroneously across your skin. Their opulent sensation only brings forth feelings of aversion and despair. Their softness an ode to your imprisonment. 

the dresses come in shades of crimson, detailed sometimes in black, sometimes in gold, and sometimes in a frigid blue that sends shivers running up your spine. 

Anakin fusses over your accessories, why they feel the need to dress you so extravagantly daily is beyond you -as you've come to realize many things are- On days when Anakin's hubris reaches its apex, he bathes you in gold. Astonishing glittering collars across your neck and Kuat bangles hanging from your wrists. When he's sober from his pride he chooses black diamonds. Simple and exotic. scintillate and opaque.

Allusions to the dark side.

A hidden reference that crawls inside you. 

Once, back when you'd been sure defiance was still an option. Back when callow hope still dared to flow through your veins. Back when you'd been a jejune, stubborn thing. You had refused to wear one of the dresses they'd bought. Adimant in your refusal until Maul had stuck out his hand. Summoning the Force to remind you just who held the supreme authority here. 

The Force had strangled you, clawing hungrily at your neck. You felt your bones caving in on themselves, watched with exacerbating hysteria as your feet abandoned the floor. He'd only released you when he was sure you were near death's adorned door. Permitting you to molder on the floor akin to a ragdoll. 

Anakin had chastised you after you'd conjured enough strength to sit up, gasping greedily for air. He'd broken two fingers that day. One still harbors a small scar.

A Promise ring. 

An augury.

There are days, few and far between. When they've deemed you've been behaving adequately for long enough. That they permit you the choice of which dress you'd fancy wearing for the day. It's a rare event, reserved as a special treat. You think it's their way of proposing variety, giving you the illusion of choice. Making you feel a little less smothered. 

Today is not one of those days. Today, you feel them pick you apart, only to reassemble you in their image. Drowning you in extravagance. A reminder, one whose deprecating nature weaves itself within your muscles. You, little girl, are nothing more than a doll. And dolls should know their place.

No sooner do you feel the final lace fasten across your back, that Anakin is tugging you outside the door. Metal arm clasped around your forearm. 

Maul follows behind molten gaze locked on your face. The hallways bend to their will as if the walls themselves quiver with their presence. You recognize this corridor, recognize the frigid forlorn. 

There's something wrong with Emperor Palpatine's throne room. It's surreal, makeshift. His real throne lays somewhere cold, somewhere even his apprentices don't dare wander off to. The ironclad throne has never felt right. Never felt like it held any real power. Just terror, just dread, just hatred. But here it is in all its glory. Left to two apprentices who'd rather treat it as a toy than a sacred place.

 Anakin dramatically throws himself onto the throne. One leg thrown over the armrest as he leans against the other. His other leg planted firmly on the ground. He keeps you steady on his thigh. Torturing you with his distant, disappointed look. Maul stands in front of you. His eyes liquid gold melting into you. You see the galaxy in them. Hear it whispearing secrets meant to be forgotten. It's Anakin's voice that rattles you from your disjointed thoughts. 

"You caused us so much worry angel" he's being nice. You don't trust that. There's something sinister plaguing his words.  

"You know Ani, she may cease escaping if you'd cease to spoil her." Maul leans down, gripping your chin and squeezing. " The brat forgets her place, merely cause you'd rather coddle her than discipline her." 

Anakin glares, a shift in his eyes, blue bleeding into gold. "Hmm, Maul, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Kenobi right now."

"Why's that? Did the old fool tend to also point out your shortcomings?" 

You wonder who this Kenobi is, as you watch the Siths' exchange crude childish vitriols. Maybe he'd make a better lover than the two men you have the misfortune of being adhered to. 

They never could truly see just how similar they were.

Two sides of the same coin. 

One born of copper, the other, black rose petals.

Subconsciously you reach out. Grasping Anakin's robotic hand, fiddling with the panel, peeling it away to gain access to the wires and circuits. You have a bad habit of ripping things open. Anakin learned this the first time he kissed you and you tried to gnaw at his chest with your nails. Not in malice, but rather to satisfy a ravenous curiosity. A raging need to open him and see just how he ticked. You'd wished to perform an autopsy on his soul. Rip him open and devour all his secrets. Back then you'd wondered if you could kiss sunrises into Anakin's eternal night. Strip him of bleak blackened skies and introduce him to stars and a moon that shines. He'd only vaguely permitted it. Opting to pluck the stars lying within you. Swiping them for steel and lava and other mundane things that fueled his incessant rage. 

Anakin's head dips, lips pressing on your jugular vein. "You're ethereal" Anakin mubbles against your skin, like the dying prayer of a collapsing star. He's so pretty when he kisses your neck. Biting away pieces of you. Stealing your light for himself. 

"Princess" Maul seethes venom pelting from his words. You realize you'd been ignoring him. Something he's not too fond of. "What in the stars was going through your pretty little head?" 

 he looks like he'd love nothing more than to wring your pretty little neck right now. "I just..." your words feel heavy. Tiny bullets polluting your tongue. It feels so cruel to say when you know just how much they love you. "I just wanted some freedom. Just a bit of space." 

"Dumb little angel" Anakin chastes. You lower your head in embarrassment watching Maul kneel in front of you. He cups your cheeks, placing a soft kiss on your head. "You can never escape us beloved".

 "I love you," says Anakin. All you hear is, I'll haunt you, I'll break your ribs one by one so that I may possess your heart. Maybe they mean the same thing. 

"And I'm pretty sure if Maul could feel normal emotions like everyone else, then he'd love you too." You can't help but let out a giggle as Anakin throws his head back laughing. A rare melodious sound, that causes your heart to skip a beat. Maul merely rolls his eyes before pecking you on the lips.

You trace your fingers across Maul's chest, feeling the pummelling of two hearts. A double heartbeat. Two melodies entwined, You wonder who he harbors in those hearts. One for love and one for family. You nip at his bottom lip. Ushering the blood into your mouth. He tastes of Ichor and smoke. Of sadness and rage. From behind you feel Akanin bite into the hollow of your flesh. Leaving traces of himself upon your skin. 

"Our pretty little problem" Anakin mumbles. 

You're a problem, a vexation draped in velvet, an unsolvable equation. Trapped between a love that seethes through your body like a toxin. Engulfing you until your mind relents. Maybe it's easier this way. Easier to say 'I love you' without the double entendre. 

You do love them.

A rather arduous conclusion to reach.

Maul and Anakin.

Palpatine's apprentices. 

Your lovers

Yeah, that sounds about right...

💜💜: @athanasia-day @hotpinkboots @jenn-patterson-69 @nickiiiixoxo-blog @the-chains-are-the-easy-part

[kamesama]

— dairokuten-maō: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: n/sfw because suggestive. romanticisation of unhealthy stuff. it's sukuna, you get the point. — word count: 531

he is a ghoul — he  bleeds you out and licks your wounds with a foul tongue. he praises you; his pathetic little doll, his gleamy-eyed plaything, his beloved crybaby. dear god, you sigh as he crushes you, burns you, only to bring your crumbled fragments, your charred remains together again, shaping you into a prized possession on his shelf. the grandest piece in his collection. he shreds your pride and cracks it with a twist of his heel. he drags it in the mud and puts it in a grave with no intention of uttering a single prayer.

he is an artist — the twisted kind, the unconventional. his teeth paint vile scenes across your skin; red, blue and purple. he turns your lips into something precious; into rubies, garnets, jaspers. you scribble across his marked back in the thrives of cruel ecstasy, dragging desperate lines bearing crimson pearls in their midsts, and he kisses the edge of your jaw almost tenderly with horrific joy and horrendous pride. go on, go on, he encourages, tempting you to wound him in return all the more. squirm and resist, gasp and plead, because he wants you to keep trying. keep trying. 

he is a disaster — not a single thing blooms in the palm of his hand save for the starving, warmongering curls of flames. they twist and devour, and their passionate kiss brings the underworld to its knees. not a single thing blooms in the palm of his hand save for you; desperate and doomed, open and willing like a peony flower matured minutes after rainfall. you come undone. unraveled. time and time and time again until your lungs drown in the inferno and throat chokes on the embers. he handles you through the fluorescence and you wrap around him like ivy, aware that you might as well wither otherwise. 

he is a menace — with his crooked, wicked smile and bent neck. filthy tongue ghosts over his lip before he flashes his fangs, something unholy dripping right out of his mouth, piercing. amusement seeps from his pores and floods his face as you turn chagrined and exasperated, your mind filled with nothing but the thoughts of him and him alone. you can only spit out his name, and your eyes can only shed tears that he adores sucking off your lashes like morning dew on grass strands. can you even hear yourself, he asks, eyes beaming with curiosity as he cocks his head. your heart throbs and overfills and spills all over.

he is an alleviation — only in the way he submerges your thoughts and deluges your senses. he kisses away the frostbite across your ribcage solely to set your lungs aflame and make your skin gleam with sweat. he is the sole torrent coursing through the present with a force so ferocious that it leaves you no gap to catch a breath of past or a glimpse of future. there is only now that he chains you to, for you should not perturb your pretty little head with the thoughts of yesterday's wars or tomorrow’s armageddon. hush and take it. think of nothing else. you wouldn’t dare think of anything else, would you?

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[alicethemadhatterapprentice]

From the Specter!Carlo AU of ash-arts-a-thing, I present to you another snipper from my the brainrot happening H24 in my brain!

Thank you @ashes8338 for the AU and @miss-chouquettes for listening to my ramblings and giving so many awesome ideas!!!

Not really angst ? But some Carlo introspection happening, as he follows P around Krat. This takes place before they fight the King of Puppet, probably ? 

No beta we die like Carlo. Enjoy !

Carlo was going to kill his father.

It didn’t matter that he was technically a ghost following the puppet made in his image by said father around. He was going to fucking kill that piece of shit of a human being. 

He had been following Pinocchio for a while now, and was - as much as he didn’t want to admit it- growing fond of the kid. But also so very concerned. 

This boy - he couldn’t refer to him as a puppet anymore, not in good conscience- was growing, changing, and refusing.to.take.a.bloody.break.

Even the cricket was getting concerned !! And wasn’t that absurd ??

But no, Pinnochio was running himself ragged, running around Krat, beating things twice his size, being thrown around, and refusing to stay down. In a sense, Carlo could admire the spirit. Kid had a true Stalker’s soul. 

Carlo also had enough brain cells (if he still had them? He was dead after all, so who knew.He was trying not to ponder about his condition too much, it usually made him panic.) to know the kid was heading straight into burnout, fast. 

All that because their dear old dad wanted him to be a “good son”, telling him how “proud” he was, and that he needed to hurry. Carlo could see how fake Geppeto was being. But Pinocchio ? Who didn’t know any better ? He didn’t ! 

The poor sod actually thought their (when had it become their ? When did Carlo start to consider Pinocchio a member of his family ? A brother almost ? He didn’t know) pathetic poor excuse of a father was being genuine !! 

So, Carlo was going to find a way, even in his dead-but-not-really state, to kill his dad, and make sure the fucker’s ergo was split in so many parts that there would be no chance ever of it awakening again. Cause fuck him. 

It hurt, seeing his - damn it he had to admit it, at least to himself- younger brother running around in pain, exhausted, because he refused to sit down and take a break.  

He wished Romeo was still around. Maybe he could help in the “Hey, let’s murder my dad before he kills my brother in an attempt to resuscitate me” plan Carlo was thinking about.

He had to figure something out, but his only moments when he was solid where usually after his brother used a meteor fragment, and that usually meant being focused on fighting some monster way too fucking big. And he couldn't exactly leave and abandon the kid to a fate worse than death and break the trust Pinnochio had in him, now could he?? 

He sighed, before catching up to Pinnochio. They were about to enter the Opera…well that was bound to be interesting. 

[nondaffodils]

fragments

I don’t know how to explain the silence that comes after someone leaves without saying goodbye. It’s not the absence that hurts the most—people leave, I know that. It’s the way it feels like you’ve been erased. One day, you’re everything to them, a part of their life as natural as breath. The next, you’re nothing. You’re gone, too, but you’re still here, still breathing, still carrying their words in your skin like tattoos you didn’t ask for.

I sit with the ghost of him now. It’s not enough to say I miss him. That word feels too small, too polite. It doesn’t capture the way my body aches from the emptiness he left behind. The way my hands reach for a phone that will never ring, the way my heart still jumps at the sound of a message notification, only to crash when it isn’t him. It’s like my mind hasn’t caught up with the reality that he’s not coming back, that he’s not waiting on the other side of some imaginary bridge I’ve built between us.

I keep asking myself why I wasn’t enough. What did I say, or not say? What did I do to make him decide that I wasn’t worth it? I replay everything in my head, the late-night talks, the quiet moments when we sat together in silence that felt anything but empty. I can still feel the way he looked at me, like I was something fragile, something precious. But was it all just a lie? Was I only imagining the way his eyes softened when he said my name?

And now, there’s this horrible quiet. I talk to him in my head sometimes, filling in the blanks where he used to be. It’s pathetic, I know, but I don’t know how else to live with this. I gave him pieces of myself I can’t take back, parts of me I didn’t even know I was offering until they were already gone. What do you do when someone takes pieces of you and just walks away with them? How do you learn to live with what’s left?

I can still feel the weight of him in the room sometimes, even though he’s not here. And the worst part is, I don’t even hate him for leaving. I wish I did. It would be easier if I could. But all I feel is this aching emptiness, this cold space where he used to be, and it’s so much worse than anger could ever be.

I wonder how long it will take to stop feeling the gap he left behind.

[angrelysimpping]

Not only am I incredibly normal about @rotting-ink 's Rot of Witchwood, but I'm *also* incredibly normal about the two demons, mhm mhm 😖

Contents: GN Saleos, (they/them); Saleos has a cock but I 1000% feel like they'd have a strap on that they'd still refer to as as their cock; GN Reader/Witch, (you/your); pet play; the witch has a collar; begging; slight pain; toxic relationships

Words: 865

Your thighs ached from having fucked yourself on Saleos for what must have been well over an hour by now, but that didn’t matter. They just watched you, gold eyes flashing with a small smile as you rode them. They didn’t even touch you, help you. Saleos, for all the time you’ve been humping their cock, looks unbothered. They could just as easily be watching a show at the opera right now for how unruffled they looked.

Arms looped around their shoulders, you tuck your head into the crook of their neck, inhaling their scent as you keep moving. Hole puffy and sore, pain mixed with pleasure, exactly what Saleos loved to shower you in. They chuckle low as you groan, thighs trembling. Your fluids stain your skin and Saleos’ clothes, cum and drool and tears. Later they’ll tease you about what a messy pet you are, as if they didn’t get off on having you naked in their lap while they were fully dressed.

“So good,” you slurred into their skin. You lean back from their neck, try to meet their gaze. Eyes hazy, you can see a spark of something in those golden depths as they hook a finger under your collar, tugging you closer to them.

Their teeth flash in the low light as they smile, hummed words rumbling in their chest as they speak, “Yes, pet? You feel good?”

Their words curl in your ear, and you shudder as you nod. “Good, s-so g-good.”

They laugh again, tongue flicking out to lick over your neck, the skin right above your collar. Their collar. Saleos’ collar decorating your throat. You whine at the contact, tongue still somehow hot against your burning skin. You try to press closer to them, to seek out the safety that had been hiding your face in the hollow between their neck and shoulder, but they don’t let you.

“Go on my pretty little pet witch, tell me more.”

You sob, brain struggling to find the words you needed. “So g-good. You, you m-make me feel s-so good.”

They give a low hum of encouragement, making a small gesture for you to continue.

You know what they want, and you're in no position to deny them. Any restraint you had left, any shred of dignity that once stilled your tongue, died.

“Fuck, Saleos.” You let a high pitched whine, angling your hips so the tip of their cock presses against a particularly sensitive spot inside you. “Fuck,” you sigh again, eyes rolling back as you chase that pleasure. “You m-make me f-feel so good. O-only you make me feel l-like this.” You hiccup, vision going fuzzy. “G-God, you. Only you. Saleos. Saleos.”

You keep babbling, unthinking as you go on and on. Saleos lets you, their grin widening all the while.

Soon, you're not saying any words at all, just whining and making tiny, unintelligible sounds as your hips keep moving.

Saleos let go of your collar, and you let your head loll back. Every little sound you make seems to reverberate in the room, chest heaving as you keep bouncing yourself in their lap.

It's now that Saleos finally touches you.

A shudder racks your body as their hands ghost up your sides, fingers tracing over your stomach, ribs. Every inch of your skin tingles, craving their touch, and you can't help but let out a pathetic, choked sound as there's hardly any pressure behind their touch, a phantom fragment of feeling. That is, until nails scrape over your nipples, slow and cruel.

“Saleos,” you gasp, brain going utterly silent as the euphoria of their touch overwhelmed you. “Saleos, please.” The air feels heavier against your skin as your head spins. Almost delirious, you continue. “Please, please.” You don't know what you're asking for, what you're begging for. But it feels right, like you're doing exactly what you're meant to do. “P-please, please, Saleos.”

You keep begging, thighs shaking, straining as you finally start to reach the end of your stamina. Chanting, it starts to feel like those are the only words you know, the only words you need to know: your owner's name and how to plead with them.

Their hands leave your chest and in one quick, rough motion, they curl two fingers under your collar and yank you down so your pleasure glazed eyes look into theirs. You could get lost in them. Deep golden honey. The sun itself. Warmth and life, rich and endless. The eyes of the demon who owned you.

“Cum for me, darling.”

That's what you needed. What you'd been unknowingly begging for. Your orgasm rips through you violently, a high pitched keen ripped from your throat.

You collapse forward, each breath more a sob than anything else. Utterly spent, you press your lips to the soft skin of their neck as you struggle to form two more words before you slip into unconsciousness.

“Th-Thank y-you.”

If you'd managed to stay awake, maybe the light in Saleos’ eyes and the sharp grin on their face would make you rethink choosing them as your mate. Yet, as it was, you were blissfully unaware, cocooned in their scent as you finally rested.

[sweetrevxnge]

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Two

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter One

Next Chapter

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Word count: 4.1k

A/N: greetings loved ones, let's take a journey (as I slowly descend into madness)

───────── ❅ 🦇 ❅ ─────────

It wasn’t the warm glow of sunlight that woke you, nor the melancholic song of mourning doves. Instead, it was a low, choral sound that woke you, a nonsensical chanting that echoed throughout the walls that surrounded you.

As you blinked the sleep from your eyes, the gravity of the situation became clear. You were caged, locked inside a cold, windowless prison, like a bird with clipped wings. The stone walls around you were layered in grime, with large, discolored patches that left little to the imagination. An iron, barred door stood opposite to you, allowing you a glimpse beyond the cell that held you. The air was stale and putrid, a scent that could only be attributed to rotting flesh and decaying bones.

Panic swelled in your chest. You scrambled backwards, but barely moved. Looking down, you found your wrists locked in heavy cuffs, bolted to two chains coiled on the ground, like a lead on a dog.

“No,” you whimpered. “No, no, no—this isn’t happening!”

The chains thrashed against the stone floor with every desperate attempt you made to free yourself. Every twist and maneuver only inflicted more pain, radiating through your limbs like the kiss of an unruly flame.

A strangled cry escaped your throat. It was no use. The shackles were fastened tightly around your wrists, and unless you could summon the strength of the gods, you were stuck. Hot tears flowed down your cheeks as you choked on your sobs, feeling more pathetic with every passing minute.

When you finally glanced down at your body, you found that at some point during your sleep, you had been stripped of your armor, leaving you in only your padding. At least they had the decency of allowing you to keep your tunic and pants.

Frantically, you tried to piece together what had happened. Fragments of the attack circled your mind. The throbbing pain in your neck reminded you of being thrown into a tree by an invisible force. A black mask reflecting the drops of moonlight that parted the clouds overhead. Being lifted off the ground by a pair of strong arms. You tried to make sense of it, but struggled to.

Stealth attacks were not rare by any means, but this one seemed so…unnatural. Had it been an act of sorcery? Or was something much darker at play?

Hours or days could have passed as you sat there, trying to recall more details, before finally resigning and collapsing onto the cold floor. Dried blood coated the restraints, nearly indistinguishable from the iron finish. But the glistening red that bled from the raw flesh at your wrists was all too visible.

Just as you closed your eyes, the screech of rusted hinges forced them open again. With any luck, it would be a servant, coming to deliver scraps of food—and possibly some water to wet your tongue. You didn’t want to entertain the thought of any other visitors.

A pair of heavy boots echoed throughout the dungeon corridor, rapidly approaching your cell. Your heart pounded in time with the footsteps, reaching a deafening pitch in your ears.

In your daze, you managed to prop yourself into a sitting position, nearly collapsing again as you shifted your weight onto your palms. The babbling that had become a white noise grew louder, more frantic. To your surprise, his unintelligible sounds transformed into a coherent string of words.

“Commander, please, I beg of you—spare me a moment of your ti–”

“Silence.”

The hall fell quiet at the command, as if the man were trained to obey. It was then that the visitor stepped into view, distorted by the rusted bars before you.

Clad in armor as black as the night sea was the Commander, a manifestation of nightmares. His presence was more frightening now than it had been in the forest, the backlight of flames dancing in their sconces illuminating him far better than the fleeting moonlight had. He loomed over you, watching you like a hawk watches its prey. The same, haunting mask covered his face, the void of his eyes locked onto you. It was a wonder he could see anything through that mask in the low light.

What was most terrifying about him wasn’t his appearance, or lack thereof. It was the power he held. Unspoken, but louder than any threat he could make.

“Where am I?” you choked out, slicing through the suffocating silence.

He crouched down to your level, tilting his head slightly. “You’re my guest,” he said plainly, his low voice distorted through the metal barrier.

Guest. His attempt at humor only fanned the flames that boiled your blood.

“What happened to the others?”

“Do you mean the murderers, traitors, and thieves you call soldiers?”

You remained silent, staring into the empty eyes of his mask.

“You’ll be relieved to hear that I have no idea,” he said as he stood, towering over you once again. “They were not my objective.”

The levity of his comment sparked rage within you. He lived with a privilege you could never attain again: impenitence. Peaceful days were no more, not when you had survived and your soldiers hadn’t. The sound of the slaughter played in your mind. Bloodcurdling screams of men, clashing with the whinnying of horses, building into a harrowing crescendo that split your skull. Their ghosts would haunt you, walking your dreams every night to come until you drew your last breath.

“Please, enlighten me. What was your objective?” you snarled. “Surely, it was not to capture a lieutenant as a hostage. I assumed that the First Order would be more… methodical than that.” Your tone was more bold than it probably should have been, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Fueled by the images of the dead, their maimed corpses strewn across the snowy terrain, vultures picking at their mottled flesh in the aftermath of the attack. After years of suffocating in the grasp of the First Order, your jab felt more than justified.

“And you would be correct. Your value rests entirely in the absence of your commander, lieutenant,” he growled.

A lump formed in your throat at the thought of Commander Dameron’s fate. Had he perished in the attack? Or had he somehow made it to the encampment, only to find that he was outnumbered and alone? Uncertainty was less comforting than the truth.

The Commander’s use of the word ‘absence’ stirred your memory. “We were unable to locate the commander,” one of the men had said. Blinding hope filled your heart at the realization that Commander Dameron had slipped out of their grasp. If he had survived, surely by now he would have returned to the base and informed the Resistance of the attack. General Organa would send a reconnaissance party to assess the scene, count her losses. When you were not accounted for, she would organize a rescue effort and save you from this Hell. Leia Organa was nothing if not fiercely protective of her army, from her top commanders to the cleaners who tidied the floorboards of the base after hours.

This was no longer a matter of counting down the days until your death—this was a matter of surviving long enough for the Resistance to find you.

Before you could say anything in retaliation, the Commander continued. “That, and the peculiar nature of your rank.”

He didn’t need to explicitly say what he meant for you to know what he was referring to. The First Order was antiquated, to say the least. The only titles that women held were “lady” or “maiden”, and certainly never enlisted as soldiers. If the woman leading their opposition was not enough to upset them, surely a woman leading a squadron of men on a mission to seize their camp was more than enough to anger them.

“I hardly see how it’s surprising, given the peculiar nature of General Organa,” you said.

The Commander stepped closer and you resisted the urge to recoil. Cowering to him would only give him what he wanted—it was imperative that you held your ground. Show no fear.

“General Organa is a disgrace to this nation,” he snarled. “She was too weak and foolish to prevent the collapse of her precious Republic, so now she scrambles for a shred of power with her pathetic army of miscreants.”

Disregarding his insult, you focused instead on the shift in his tone when speaking about the General. You had seemingly struck a nerve by invoking her name. A pressure point, and something you would store in mind.

“I’ll certainly pass that along to her,” you said with a feigned smile.

At that, the Commander grabbed onto the metal bars violently, causing your smile to drop as you flinched at the sound.

Fuck. So much for a brave façade.

A low laugh rumbled in his chest as he wrung the bars in his hands. You could almost feel his amusement through his mask.

“That’s better,” he said, drawing his words out.

Your throat knocked as you collected yourself, trying to seem less bothered than you truly were. Despite the cold, sweat was forming at your hairline, and without thinking, you raised a hand to wipe it away. As you did, the shackle tugged at your skin, catching on and tearing open a fresh scab.

You bit down on your lip to stifle a whimper. Warm blood trickled down your wrist, slowly coating your hand and dripping from your fingertips.

You looked up just in time to see the Commander’s gaze snap down to your wrist, his eyes burning holes through the visor. Unless the dim light deceived you, he appeared to be trembling.

A tiny smirk pulled at your lips. “Scared of a little blood, Commander?”

He said nothing, his eyes fixed on your wrist.

“How interesting, considering the other injuries you’ve inflicted upon me,” you said, your ragged breath reminding you of the ache in your ribs.

“Hold your tongue, or I’ll leave you with more,” he snapped.

Even your defiance knew when to stop. Self-preservation was the key to getting out of this cage, and you were in a rough enough state to escape as it was.

With that final threat, the Commander stepped away from the bars and exited the corridor, marking the last visit from him for the next fortnight.

There comes a point in isolation where the unchanging nature of your surroundings becomes comforting, almost semblant to a home. After thirteen days, you reached this point. Of course, you couldn’t be sure that it had even been thirteen days. It was merely an estimate you had created by etching a tally into the floor with a stray pebble.

The worst part of waiting for rescue was just that—waiting. Every scratch and mark in the stone walls had become familiar, traced countless times by your eyes as you attempted to keep yourself occupied. Whenever possible, you would retreat into the depths of sleep, only to wake shortly after from a night terror, or the sensation of a rodent scurrying over your feet or hands. It was enough to drive anyone mad, but you had managed to stave off delirium. General Organa’s words played a key role, her mantra repeating in your head until you fell asleep. “Hope is like the sun. If you only believe in it when you see it, you'll never make it through the night.”

You found strength in her wisdom. Though she was only a decade your senior, she had lived a life that surpassed her age. Having been a senator for much of her career, she was an excellent negotiator, which in turn made her an adept leader. Your faith in her had never faltered, and you refused to let it wane now.

The absence of sunlight broke you down more quickly than anything else, as well as the meager meal you received at random intervals. “Meal” was a generous term to describe the scraps of someone else’s dinner, complete with teeth marks and gnawed, rejected bites.

At first, you had ignored the trays, pushing past the profound ache in your stomach to save your pride. But after a handful of sleepless days, you finally plucked a half-eaten bun from the freshest plate, which had been sitting in your cell for nearly two days at that point. In any other situation, you would have been repulsed at the thought of eating some bastard’s leftovers, but the stale bread in your hand had never seemed so appetizing. Anything was better than nothing.

Your wounds were slow to heal, likely due to the malnourishment and the constant stress your body was under. Each time your lungs would fill with air was a reminder of that night in the forest, how your ribs cracked as you collided into the trunk of the pine. At this rate, you feared that infection would take you before the First Order could.

But even in the timeless days of this prison, there were slivers of light—small optimisms that you found yourself thanking the gods for every day. The one you noticed immediately was the silence. No more hysteric muttering from the other captive. You liked to imagine that he had been transferred elsewhere, or set free, but in your heart, you knew neither were likely.

Another, and perhaps most important of all, was that no one had laid a hand on you. Not the Commander, nor his ghoulish soldiers. Even the servants kept their distance when sliding your meal tray under the iron bars. Every expectation you had set of cruelty and violation had been subverted thus far, but that didn’t eliminate the looming threat of what was to come.

The familiar sound of the door beyond your cell closing rang throughout the dungeon, most likely a servant bringing you today’s unappetizing tray.

The footsteps seemed heavier than usual, and for a split second, the twinge of fear rushed through your veins. But ultimately, you were too exhausted to care.

With closed eyes, you rolled your head against the stone wall, the passive motion soothing your itchy scalp. You weren’t concerned with greeting the servant until they spoke, and your eyes snapped open.

“I assume you’re hungry for some real food,” the Commander said, his arrogance bleeding through his mask.

Nausea rolled through you at the sight of him, but fortunately, there was nothing in your stomach to lose. There he was, standing opposite of the door that caged you, in the same, black armor as before. Only this time, he was holding something. In his hands was a polished, silver meal tray with a matching cover placed in the center.

Why was he bringing you your meal? Surely the First Order had no shortage of servants to do this work, so why send him?

Instead of removing the cover and sliding the tray under the bars, he continued to hold it, evidently waiting for you to react to what he had said. You nodded weakly as you attempted to will yourself to an upright position. The pain that ripped through your side as you moved abruptly put an end to that effort.

“Good. I have something you might like.”

He lifted the cover, revealing…nothing. There was no fresh bread or roasted meat, not even a slice of fruit. Your stomach filled with disappointment. Not that you had entirely believed his promise, but still, it was an odd thing to lie about.

A moment later, he bent at his hips and lowered the tray onto the ground, allowing you to examine the contents of the dish before he pushed it towards you.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t empty. In place of your usual gruel was a small, opaque flask, as well as another item. You almost couldn’t believe your eyes. Beside the flask was an ornate, silver key, illustrative of the First Order’s opulent tastes.

Nearly leaping forward, you snatched the key, causing the binds at your wrists to bite harder into your raw skin.

The renewed hope in your spirit drained as you lifted the teeth of the key to the lock on your other cuff, only to find that they were not compatible.

“What is this?” you said, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat.

“It’s your reward.”

Anger bled into your vision. Of all the torture scenarios your mind had conjured, this had not been one of them.

“My reward?” You stared at him, incredulity written across your face. “You certainly have a foul sense of humor.”

He bent his knees, lowering himself down to your level. “If you would like to earn your freedom,” he said, nodding down to the tray, “drink this.”

Earn your freedom. After weeks spent in a cell, there were many things you would be willing to do to earn your freedom. Public flagellation, sexual favors, and just about anything else the Commander requested. But now, as you stared at the opportunity before you, you hesitated.

“May I ask what’s inside of it?” you asked, carefully grabbing the flask from the tray.

“You already have,” the Commander said.

You glared at him as you pulled the cap off the bottle, lifting it to your nose. The aroma was overwhelmingly sweet, unlike anything you had ever smelled before. Even the scent of blossoming honeysuckle during spring was no match for the fragrant drink. From what you could tell, it seemed similar to a sweet wine. Although, given everything you knew, you wouldn’t put it past the Commander to mask the taste of poison with a perfume.

“What is this?” you asked, your voice more stern this time.

He straightened his legs, towering over you from beyond the metal threshold. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Tell me what it is.” You had half a mind to pour the flask onto the floor to prove your resolution, but you abstained.

“It’s an elixir.”

“Yes, I deduced that,” you huffed. “What kind of elixir?”

He watched you for a long moment, causing the air to grow heavy in the absence of his answer. Finally, he said, “A healing one.”

You scoffed softly at his answer, examining the flask in your hand. Trepidation churned in your stomach as you lifted it to your lips, the cold metal of the spout like ice against your warm skin. On one hand, he could be lying to you, presenting this to you as a quick solution to having to continue housing you in the First Order’s dungeons. But on the other, he could be telling the truth. Perhaps there was still a nagging conscience underneath that heavy armor of his.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” you asked, your words echoing in the small bottle.

“You don’t.”

Weighing your options, you swirled the liquid around in the flask, trying to gauge its characteristics without tasting it. It felt like any other drink, perhaps a bit thicker than water or wine. Yet, a tiny voice in your head cried out, telling you that this was all too convenient to be an honest offering.

Noticing your indecision, the Commander spoke again. “Perhaps it would help to know that if you choose to not drink it, your wounds will kill you before I could even get the chance to.”

His words sent ice running down your spine. The flask suddenly felt like a brick in your grasp.

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already.”

A surge of confidence swelled in your chest at his silence, rendering his threats as empty as you had anticipated they were.

“You’re so right,” he said in a caustic tone. “Unfortunately, you’re no good to me dead.”

You furrowed your brows at him, as if your confusion would earn you more details about his sadistic reasons to keep you alive. Given his interest in you, you could guess what ideas he may already have.

You parted your lips to speak, to ask why he intended to keep you alive, but stopped yourself. Would knowing his intentions change the outcome? Or would ignorance protect your sanity?

After a long moment of debate, you made your decision.

“Commander, what exactly am I good for?”

He laughed, a dark, low vibrato echoing off the walls. “Perhaps I’ll tell you once you’ve finished the bottle.”

As much as he seemed to be enjoying this, you feared that his patience would soon wear thin. Escape would no longer be an option if the ribs that were sticking into your lungs remained, allowing disease and filth to fester. Thus far, every god in their golden palace had ignored your requests, leaving your fate entirely up to the elixir in your hand.

Swallowing the remainder of your pride, you brought the bottle to your lips and tipped your head back, shuddering as the cold liquid ran down your throat. There wasn’t much in the flask to begin with, needing only a few gulps to finish entirely.

The drink tasted as sweet as it smelled, but didn’t burn your stomach the way spirits did, or how you would imagine poison would. Not that you would know, given that you never made a point to try poison prior to this.

You relaxed your shoulders slightly as you set the flask back on the silver tray with a clink.

“Well done,” the Commander praised, pulling the tray back towards him. “The nightshade should take effect within the hour.”

Your eyes widened. Acid burned your throat as the urge to vomit rolled through you. The bastard didn’t even need to touch you to kill you—you did his bidding at your own volition.

He laughed again, the sound grating to your ears. “I apologize for my foul sense of humor. I couldn’t resist.”

You tightened your grip on the futile key, holding onto it like a sailor would hold a raft while lost at sea. “I did as you asked. If you have any honor, you will stay true to your end of the promise, as well.”

“So you did…” he said, bemused by your demand. “And you did so with such little convincing. I suppose you do deserve your promised reward.”

Finally. Though you were on the precipice of being unbound and walking away from this horrid cell, a tiny voice in your mind reminded you of exactly who you were dealing with. The First Order would never simply let their prisoners walk free, not without taking something in return.

Your mind raced as you plucked out bits of information about the Resistance to offer if necessary, carefully navigating around the more sensitive matters. Crumbs to satiate their appetite. Leia would understand—she would have to. This was a condition of war.

The Commander rummaged through the cloth beneath his plates of armor as you waited patiently, already preparing the best strategy to run away with your broken ribs and tired muscles. Finally, he retrieved another, smaller key from his uniform. It reflected the candlelight like a fiery beacon, twinkling like Polaris on a dark night.

Relief washed over you. “Thank you, Comman–”

You were interrupted by the sound of the key softly clattering on the floor in your cell, landing meters away from you. In an instant, the spark of hope was snuffed out, leaving behind bitter ashes in its wake.

To say that you were speechless would be an understatement. You stared at it for a long moment, wishing desperately to summon it to your hand with only your mind. Anger boiled beneath your skin as you turned to look at him, imagining the smug smile that must have been wearing under his helmet.

“And here I expected you to be wiser than this. General Organa has failed you in more ways than one,” he taunted.

“You’re a monster.”

At that, he curled his fingers at his side into the shape of a crescent moon. You barely had enough time to understand the gesture before your airway tightened, suffocated by an invisible fist around your throat.

You clawed at your throat, your vision turning white as your breaths became more shallow, more desperate. Time seemed to slow, each second passing like a lifetime in your mind.

“Yes, I am,” he growled.

With burning lungs and pleading eyes, you watched him as he turned his back to you, striding away from your cell. Gods, allow me a merciful death.

The Commander stopped in his path and relaxed his hand, relinquishing his grip on your throat. Cold air rushed into your lungs as you gasped, coughing violently at the fiery sensation that remained.

He looked over his shoulder, turning his head just far enough to see you in his periphery. “You seek mercy from the wrong source, my dear.”

Fuzzy, black dots danced across your vision as you recovered from his assault on your lungs, wiping away the tears that involuntarily rolled down your cheeks. You only knew that he had left when the sound of the door closing echoed through the hall, leaving you with only the keys as company.

[glamphantasm]

OMxWhumptober 30

Satan really didn't get enough attention this month - I have my favorites, and it shows. I really need to revisit OG Satan a bit more, to remind myself of the character's actual history. This prompt gave me a bit of trouble - this one was the third attempt.

Satan crouched in the ruins of his room, blood blooming beneath the jagged cuts on his knuckles, but he barely felt it through the anger that simmered beneath his skin. Shattered books lay scattered around him, their spines split and pages ripped as if torn by some primal creature – something raw, untethered. The whole room felt like an exposed wound, and in its silence, his heart thundered louder than any rage-fueled howl he’d ever unleashed.

His hands trembled as he stared at them, still stained with the marks of his outburst. He didn’t want this. He never wanted this. Not the destruction, not the fearful glances from his brothers, not the way their bond had frayed so much he could feel the edges unraveling every time he got near.

“Look what you’ve done,” he whispered again, voice a rasping echo against the cracked walls.

And it wasn’t enough. The words barely scratched the surface of the horror clawing inside him, a deep, festering thing that grew with each moment of silence. Satan didn’t know who he was anymore. He wasn’t Lucifer’s rage made flesh – not in any way that mattered, anyway – yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was little more than some shadow, a fragmented reflection that could not be appeased, soothed, or understood.

He thought of his brothers. Belphie’s eyes, normally cold with a shared sort of cynicism, now avoiding when Satan looked his way. The way Belphie’s voice had softened to little more than a murmur, quiet and cautious, as if wary to provoke him further. Mammon, too, skirting around him with silent footsteps, sidelong glances weighed with wariness – no jokes, no laughter, no familiar taunts.

The guilt twisted inside him, a clawed grip that made him feel like he’d swallowed glass, shards tearing him apart from the inside. He’d seen how Leviathan stared at him during the last blow-up, jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. Levi had closed his game, fingers ghosting over the phone as he’d whispered a strained “Can’t you just control yourself?”

And that had stung – no, not stung. It had gutted him, leaving him hollow and gasping, even as rage continued to surge through his veins. But control? How could he tell Levi that control was the one thing he didn’t have, that no matter how he tried to cage his temper, it slipped through the bars like smoke, like venom, poisoning everything he touched?

Satan’s vision blurred, and he blinked away the bitter sting in his eyes. Tears? Pathetic. Weak. In the solitude of his shattered room, no one was left to witness the raw wound he’d been hiding. He’d tried so desperately to be more than what he was – a creature of wrath, a being sculpted from rage. He’d convinced himself he was more, believed he could be the brother they needed. But in the end, wasn’t he just the monster they feared he’d become?

He reached down and picked up a torn page from one of his books, a fragment of poetry, stained with his own blood. “I am no prophet – and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,” He mouthed the words, lips barely forming the syllables. They felt like a requiem, like something final. And wasn’t that fitting? Because whatever dreams he’d held about family, about acceptance, lay dead in the rubble around him.

*Recovery.* The word rang hollow in his mind, no more meaningful than ash slipping through his fingers. He’d read about it, written the word in notes, watched his brothers struggle toward it. But what did it mean for him, a creature with ruin etched into his very bones? Could he fix this? Could he heal what he’d already broken?

With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes, trying to force the tears back, but they wouldn’t stay down. His brothers – his family – they were all he had, and he feared he’d lost them already, that he’d shattered the fragile trust they’d placed in him so completely that it would never be whole again. The ache clawed at his chest, a hollow pit of despair that grew with every passing second. And oh, how he longed to undo it, to rewind the moments, to take back every furious word, every lashing insult, every time his rage had spilled over and hurt the people he was supposed to protect.

He reached for one of his shattered books, cradling it like a dying thing. His fingers traced the torn cover, the rough edges, feeling a sick sort of kinship with the ruined pages. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice breaking into a whisper, a plea, a confession to the empty room.

And maybe if he whispered it enough times, the words would matter. Maybe they would undo the damage, rewind the clock, bring his brothers back. He whispered it again and again, until the word lost meaning, became an empty, trembling sound in his throat. But it changed nothing. There was no miracle, no forgiveness, no sudden mending of the broken things scattered around him.

He was left in silence, clutching at remnants that would never be whole, knowing that, at the end of everything, the only thing he could do was pick up the pieces and wait. Wait for his brothers to forgive him – if they ever could. Or worse, wait in the empty dark for the day they left him behind, another scar on their hearts, another thing they had to recover from. And maybe, he thought with a shiver, that was the punishment he deserved.

[koukaaa-descent]

experimental writing about two old ocs I’ve never brought up anywhere #lol

>You miss the sky?

>>No. Not the sky that you recall. The sky that I knew saw things beyond your imagination. Gods, dragons, dinosaurs, meteors, rain, storms. A plethora of peculiar things.

>But they all had names. They always had names.

>>They always had names.

>Sometimes I wonder how long we’re gonna last. You were born to die. So was I. It’s just a tragedy in motion, one neither of us can stop.

>>A car crash. A tsunami. A dream.

>Yeah. A dream. I’m sorry about the time that I had kept clinging on to you. When you died, I lost something. Didn’t even know that you were you, and that I was I, and it still hurt the same.

>>That’s the problem with this, Lagrus. The sky falls, the dream ends, the curtains close. We’re still here. The beginning begins again, and I’m left in the same world in which I lost you. And now, I spend eternities finding you again.

>Wont you get tired of this? I’m tired of it. Knowing intrinsically but only in those very last moments before you’re gone, and I’m left to live a solitary life until the end of this story.

>>I made that bracelet for you for a reason. Even if we don’t recognize each other, even if I can’t recall the first fragment of your name, or the color of the spark which first created you, or the taste of your carbon on my tongue, there’d always be that piece with you. Always.

>Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll last, Eternatus. All of the time in the world is not enough time. Sometimes I find you, and you find me. We get to spend these fleeting lifetimes wrapped up in each other, just like we are now. It’s a little pathetic to hug your own body, isn’t it? But we only have so much time. Eternity is too short. It’s too long.

>>Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll last, Lagrus. The story is long but it has always had an end. Will it end when you tell me goodnight over the phone? Will it end when I walk away? Will it end when my spark never ignites? I hope so. I pray not.

>An eternity is not long enough. Ouroboros; möbius strip. The eternity is long but not forever. Sometimes I remember your hand as that which is made out of starlight, Eternatus. Sometimes it’s nothing at all. Sometimes I am guiding your ghost through a dark sea, ferrying you somewhere safe. Sometimes I am young, and you are too, and I am laughing as I drag you behind me, dappled in light. Sometimes we are old, and your hand is in mine, and you are staring at our hands and admiring the rings with the same awe you felt the day I presented them to you.

>>Sometimes we are monsters, Lagrus. But not always.

>The story has always needed to end, Eternatus. But perhaps it should last a moment longer still.

>>I would miss you, if we were nothing. It we were atoms, scattered across the vast nothing.

>I would miss you, too.

[salty-accords]

WIP Novels Fragments #4

TW: Implied/Referenced Child Sexual Abuse; Horror Themes

These are more drafty than usual.

The porchlight was on, as it usually was this time of year. A beacon wandering dogs home from the fields. In times like this, Alice remembered that some people truly do treat their dogs better than their children. Soaked through as she was, she had no trouble with the rattly plastic handle of the screen door; the brass lever behind it was less cooperative and she fumbled to get the door unlatched for several minutes.

Such was the racket she made with the old doors, her shepherd, Bo-Peep, began an uproarious bout of howling. The Mini Aussie, eager in her alerting sonnet, jumped and scratched at the other side of the wood. Her high whines and insistent barks scrapped at the inside of Alice’s brain. She mumbled half-hearted assurances and comforts to her pup, likely inaudible to the old girl. The door finally cracked open, the sounds of sticky insulating rubber and too-tight wood grinding deafening in the tiny doorway.

“In—” Alice urged, using her knee to block Bo-Peep’s escape—“It’s not time for pasture; in, girl, in.” The fluffball whined pathetically at her entrance, hopping and wheeling around in place like a tiny gymnast. “Settle, Bo—settle.” Two fingers poised above the dog’s snout and she knew to back down, wiggling frantically even as she flopped into her practiced lie down. “Good. Good girl,” Alice soothed, catching one of her old pup’s ears in a palm to scratch gently under it.

Bo-Peep eased her incessant squirming and tilted into the affection with eagerness.

Alice pushed the deadbolt into place absent-mindedly, giving her darling dog a final pat on the top of her head before turning away from her and toward the dreaded stairs. Bo trotted after her, winding desperately around her legs like a cat, and whining. Resolutely, Alice did not give in to her begging, opting to march straight into the proverbial lion’s den.

___

Her pillow was cold from the draft in her bedroom, a stark contrast to the residual flush on her skin and the humidity from outside. There was a hole in the wall of her closet, just feet away, that let in air from the night outside. It blew through a tall hickory and was cool when it came in, even during the hottest summers. Mixed with the artificial breeze created by her ceiling fan, the draft created a perfect environment for Alice to settle into a restful night’s sleep.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

Alice did not sleep peacefully that night despite the warmth of her bed, the coolness of her pillow, the exhaustion in her bones, and the haze in her brain. Her mind was overcome with images and sensations: the pit in the road and the feeling of cold wind drifting out of it; that voice rambling nonsense; Eric’s hands, demanding and eager, on her back and her thighs. She tossed and turned for what felt like hours, never comfortable or secure in her privacy. It was like a million eyes were peeking out at her from the shadows. Never blinking. Never straying.

The sensation of being perceived prickled along her spine. Goosebumps crawled over her despite the warmth within her nest. A pit in her stomach formed, her throat closing as her anxiety rose again, threatening the cleanliness of her blankets with more sweat than she was already soiling them with.

Everything physical was so far away. Her blankets, her pillow, the rustle of leaves outside her bedroom walls. Despite her usual hyper-sensitivity to those things, the ghost of eyes and hands were much more real to her. The memories floated in front of her, her insides clenching protectively and heart hammering within her ribs.

She slammed herself onto her back, catching a whimper between her teeth. She clenched her thighs together under the covers, trying desperately to block the ghastly fingers’ access to her. The wind whistled somewhere, a high noise that sounded too much like air between teeth.

Something clacked against her window, sharp and heavy.

Alice bolted upright, scrambling to the foot of her bed, as far from her window as she could go with her trembling legs. From where she sat leaning carefully against the footboard, her window pane looked cracked. A wide, long spiderweb of fractures spread out from the center of the glass, stark and white against the dark backdrop of night.

[hell-drabbles]

Dreams are made of thoughts and memories

Belphie drifts into the Releam of sleep and dreams

Because 1 it lets him interact with his subjects subconsciousness (dream walking cause why not)

2.going to sleep sometimes let's him tap into little fragments of scenes that he thinks might be his memories of his true name and his experiences with his true name

Cause in a world where demons and angels can be binded with a call of a name

Names hold power here

Especially true names

Anyways

I love your idea of healer,shield thing and might incorporate it into Belphie

Also I feel like Belphie wouldn't be too taken Ra-On originally

Sure he acts like a lazier,cozier version of Mammon to Ra-On but that's because he is obligated to as the stand in of Belphegor because Belphegor probably wants a good relationship with the Descendant of Solomon

And like I said Belphie has like 0 natural libido unless someone else initiated it

So while he goes along with Ra-On's antics and libido

He does turn colder and disdainful the more often Ra-On finds him for sex even if he hides it neatly for Belphegor's sake

Because it may not physically tired him out

It emotionally does if someone is constantly trying to rile him up and sleep with him

Belphie is the type to want something more emotional out of sex if it's a long time thing

He wants good aftercare and cuddles

Not just the fuck and go Ra-On has

He wants soft moments outside of the sex

He wants to be taken care of sometimes

He doesn't mind doing the aftercare himself but he does feel empty if he's the only one doing it for a while

Dante Anon

Okay okay, I'm replying now because I was waiting for actual Belphegor's design to be released aaaand... he's kinda boring to look at, face wise anyways. Does not pull the slick back hair well. Piercings are nice... and that's about it.

Good ol dream-walking, who doesn't like that? Anyways, a naturally zero libido demon such as your Belphie would definitely stump my Ra-on, because Belphie is going along with his sexual antics without any complaints, so naturally Belphie must think he's desirable as Ra-on does Belphie? And will do that... annoying thing of trying to change that, trying to see if he can get Belphie to initiate first without Ra-on having to be explicit about it. Because being explicit, in Ra-on's mind, is synonymous with "whore," and he's not like that! He can't ravage anyone on his own because that's bad somehow! So someone has to force him into it so it's not his fault when things go wrong!

Ugh, someone give him a swirly. He's so afraid of even touching the word 'consequences' that he throws it to another demon. And when he is forced to touch it, his rejection sensitive dysphoria goes into overdrive and now everyone around him feels guilty for it. And now Ra-on's horny again because he was made to feel small, weak and pathetic, kickstarting the whole cycle once more, and forcing all memories of his faults into the abyss, because other people have dropped it so what's the point of thinking about it?

My Ra-on had never made a proper apology in his life, at least his pre-character development version has never made one. The only apologizes that come out of his lips are ones that are made during a self-deprecation episode, or ones that are said in reflex to someone's anger. Outside of those circumstances, he has not taken the steps to correct a wrong he has done, he just ignores it and hopes that the other person will drop the matter. Ghosts it and pretends it's not there.

Anyways, sorry about my ramblings about Ra-on I'm getting somewhere I swear.

This all makes perfect sense for why Belphie would just be tired of him after a while, because Ra-on is unable to separate his own selfish nature from his various trauma. You call him out, and in Ra-on's brain, it's an attack on his very nature, and he's so hurt that he spirals. And when he spirals, he gets messily horny and now suddenly only sex can fix this, because he refuses to have a different way of making himself feel better. I mean, why bother? Every demon here is willing to have sex with him and it's so much easier than just, going to therapy.

So he must be pampered, he must be cared for, because he's been hurt and it's tiring. No fucking wonder Mammon loves Ra-on, he's so very greedy and isn't even aware of it! Imagine the lengths of greed Ra-on will go once he's fully awakened it and is not bound by the human chains of insecurity!

And it's no wonder none of Ra-on's relationships last all that long, why he hops from demon to demon. Belphie would be so tired of it, poor guy, having to slowly discover that you're no different than a comfort object.

[jjungkooksthighs]

Not for the first time, her words have been drawn out of her. Like a spile has been attached to her, they flow away like water and no matter how many times she tries to force them back in, they continue to leave her empty of vocables.

His thoughts are there to fill her head, though. And based on them, she’d failed him many times over. Over and over, he had forgiven her. Had forsaken his own bruised pride just to satisfy her because he loved her so. It hadn’t been that he had simply let go of that or forgotten as she once thought he had.

How had she been so blind? So deaf to his warnings and teachings?

All those nights she’d spent underneath him while he’d. been mounted and thrusting his cock between her soddened folds with curses and possessed orders ghosting his lips… it had all been ultimately for her own pleasure.

All those stolen moments in the forest, the Elder’s Den, the Dining Hall, the Archives, the Forge, and even the Schoolhouse… he’d always caved to her pleas. Always. No matter how much a brat she’d been.

This male that could make her bend to his will with one single word.

This male that made the room fall silent when he walked in.

This male that commanded the whole of the alphas in the pack and took disobedience from none.

Somewhere down the line, the mundaneness of being obedient had become… tedious.

Lackluster.

Boring.

She had never been one who had liked monotony. It become tiresome and grey.

Perhaps that’s why she’d done it all along.

She’d simply wanted something different. She’d wanted to see what happened when she pushed him far enough that there was no more restraint. There was no more pained grunts of his control threatening to slip.

She didn’t entirely remember what happened the night she’d accidentally drank the aphrodisiac that had tasted exactly like he smelled. Black vanilla, aged pears, and blooming gardenia.

Only fragments of that night remained in her mind now. But in them, he’d been everything the innermost part of her- the part that would never actually tell him what she was too shy to admit- had wanted.

He’d put the mark of his teeth and hand everywhere. He’d made her legs go wonderfully numb and her neck, chest, stomach and thighs purple, red, and brown in the rough, hard claiming she’d begged for like a fucking prayer.

It had started against the wall, on his thigh, in the hallway right next to the front door. It had ended with her on her hands and knees on their bed as he’d fucked her from behind, the sheets torn to fucking pieces around her while she’d drooled pathetically- albeit wantonly-into them with his hand around her throat.

How she had not gotten pregnant that night, she had no idea.

The male before her does, though.

She’d pled for him that night to give her children. She’d told him she acted the way she did because she wanted him to lose what little control he had and give her a family so that he’d be hers forever.

And what had he done?

He’d almost given that to her, too.

But the memories of her disobedience had been rampant in his mind when he’d taken his cock between her lips that night to silence the begging, her lust-filled eyes ever so often drifting to the box in the closet that she’d distracted him from.

Of course, while she’d been distracted in that, he’d been lost in her.

Perhaps she’d known that all along. Perhaps she hadn’t.

But one thing was certain: She fucking ate it up when he became feral.

Oh god, how she'd begged for him to put a child in her, desperate from her place under him as she'd writhed in the pleasure he had given her. She remembers the way her eyes had rolled to the back of her head in utter pleasure when he'd let his cock slip past her lips, allowing her to pleasure him just like he liked. Because, while she did enjoy the kick she'd get out of being a brat, she liked seeing pride light up on his face because of her even more. Just as much she loved it when he'd rail her into the fucking bed in his chamber, she loved the aftercare just as much, the way his hands would softly brush through her hair sending the butterflies in her tummy roaring, the warmth of his body radiating and protecting her like a cozy furnace. Yes, she does love it when he corners her against the wall with that handsome smirk on his face as he looks down at her by virtue of his much taller stature, and much stronger build. It is fucking hot. But, she loves it just as much when he'd carry her around with that beautiful smile on his face with soft, loving words hushed into her ear, taking care of her like how she'd always dreamt of.. she loved all of this just as much. She's always been an almost.. unnecessarily sensitive person. She'd been told so by many. The smallest of the gestures that could be counted as kind and affectionate make her tear up rapidly. Not once in her life had she expected to find such a giving and loving mate. And not once did she think she'd be the one to cause a drift in such a perfect, god sent relationship with the man who'd dedicated his entire fucking life to her. He'd faced so much all so that he could protect her. He'd been the one to shield her from all bad that had ever dared to threaten her, bearing all her scars as if they were his own. All so that he could continue loving her, asking for nothing in return but her undeviated love and respect. Her eyes flit away from for his for a moment, her thoughts spiraling away from the moment. He'd done so much.. oh so much.. all for her. All for the one that couldn't reciprocate even an ounce of gratitude or affection. All for the one that hides and lies. But, beneath all of the taunts her omega throws her way, she knows for a fact that she never meant for anyone to get hurt. She.. she never meant to hurt him. Tears fill her eyes to the brim, but, she quickly blinks them away, fighting hard against the stupid tears that try to push their way to the surface, taking a deep, shaky breath in along the process. She did the damage. She didn't earn the fucking right to cry. "..I.. I'm sorry, a-alpha.." she chokes out, gulping down the lump in her throat. "I.. I d-didn't.. " she shakes her head. "I didn't mean it,.. I did not mean to hurt you. B-but.. I did." "I.. I was wrong, sir.. I-." Her words are heavy. Far too heavy to make it out of her in one piece. "I know I haven't earned your forgiveness yet." she can't help the way she shrinks into herself, shame hanging over her shoulders, weighing her down now. "I.. just want you to know that.. I'm sorry."

She knows he doesn't want another one of her useless apologies. She knows that. But.. she can't help it. She needs him to know that she regrets it. She needs him to know that she will do anything to get through it. Even if it means denying her of pleasure that only he can give her.. or denying her his presence altogether- she.. she can take it. She can take anything as long as it means pleasing him. She can take anything as long as it means being able to stay with him.

Her thoughts flow freer than a river through their bond, her voice sinking in remorse the longer that she speaks.

Once, he would have forgiven her.

But the err of that choice had led her down the wrong path.

He needed to correct it.

He had to.

Without moving from his place on the lounge, he clucks his tongue in distaste.

“You should know better by now that I will not leave you to your own devices in punishment. That’s too easy.” He angles his head to the side, his sight fixing on her. “You’ll show me you’re sorry another way, female.”

[ripeteeth]

fragments: 07 (fitzier)

[I'm clearing out my incomplete wips and posting fragments that might stand alone as a bit of an amnesty of old projects. This is part of that series.]

Francis does not mention it. Instead, Francis is as he ever was - whiskey be damned - smiling genially at James’ tales, kicking his boots beneath the table when he meanders too long, scraping extra helpings of stews and puddings and cakes onto his plate when James isn’t looking. 

“You need your strength,” Francis says, his eyes crinkling, “and I will see to it that my men are hale and hearty, James.” He does not say I will see to it that you are hale and hearty, but James can hear it all the same; there are many insecurities in the core of James Fitzjames, but of Francis Crozier’s regard, he does not doubt. 

But there is one matter which James chews upon endlessly, and one matter which Francis never mentions. Kiss me, Hardy, James had begged, a broken body upon pale shale. The wind had shook the canvas tent, begging to come in. 

Kiss me. 

(No, Francis never does say a word.)

Once, James had imagined otherwise. Expected, even. Really, when it comes right down to it, it’s a bit absurd that Francis has said nothing. But, then again - James pauses, chewing on the inside of his lip; he pulls the silk banyan tighter about himself, frowning all the while. 

(Frowns do not become you, James, Francis would say. When has his inner monologue become Francis’ voice? When did he leave himself? He cannot hear himself inside his own head, only that beloved rough voice.)

He closes his eyes. The breeze seems colder; the curtains sound like canvas, not damask. His fingers graze his own flank, feeling for a wound that no longer exists. The gnarled scarred skin greets him like an old friend, safe and healed. Echoes of the past stitch their way into the present, and he does not know how to bend. Does anyone desire scar tissue? Does anyone desire a barely-closed wound, still pink and raw around the edges? He wants, but why would anyone want him back?

He’s a handful. A mouthful of tough, stringy meat.

Pathetic. 

In the mirror, exhaustion looks back. His dark hair lank, lines crowding around his eyes as if waiting for a sale. There’s tea and distaste on his own tongue. Look at him, thirty-six and washed up. Thirty-six and it’s too late to start again, when his own heart is so heavy and his blood sluggish. Weren’t you such a great walker once? Best walker in the service, he’d once boasted. Foolish, stupid. He is old and he has nothing to show for himself, save for a life of almost. Why would Francis want him? Open-armed Francis, who saved him from himself, ferrying him home on open seas?

No, James knows he is nothing but an anchor. Something dropped, something to moor you and keep you stuck fast, unable to be free. 

----

There is still food on his plate, no matter how he pushes it around with his fork and knife, lackluster and half-lost. 

“You’ve eaten little, James,” Francis says, gentle as a duck. 

“I ate earlier.” James doesn’t look up. In the brass candlesticks, he can watch how a melancholy smile ghosts over Francis’ mouth. They both know it’s a lie, and Francis is often good enough not to call him on it. There are limits, just as there limits to all things. James found the limits of his own life, his own prowess, and ruined himself by not knowing when to pull back. When to not push. He’ll ruin this too, finding the edge of Francis’ patience. 

“Very well,” Francis says. When the plates are cleaned, James finds himself settled with a glass of brandy and a plate of shortbread. There is little he can stomach these days. He cannot do meat, and most textures turn his stomach. Chocolate haunts him, the memory of the waxy white bricks they had been left to nibble on, between boot leather and rotten cans. But something sweet and mild as shortbread, easy to pick at, bite by bite, is acceptable. Francis has noticed, and in his quiet manner, always provides. 

“You don’t have to do this,” James says. It cracks in him. A howl. A storm in a chasm. 

Francis blinks, looking up from the fire. His eyes a pale yellow-blue, like light on the ocean’s surface. 

“I have been thinking I should find a place of my own. Rooms. I’ve leaned on your hospitality too long. You should not have to - “ Take care of me. 

Silence stretches. James fidgets. The ghost of his old self wants to laugh and make a joke of it. But that man is buried on the shale, and he does not know who it is who made it back. 

“I would like to,” Francis says slowly. “Care for you, I mean.” 

“Francis - “

“I would not obligate you to me, if you choose to leave. That is - that is not my desire.”

Perhaps it is the wine that speaks for him, when James asks. “What is your desire then?”

Red blooms across Francis’ cheeks. He toys with his tea in the old way he had once fingered a glass of whiskey, thumb dragging along the surface of the cup. What would it feel like on his own skin? 

“If you would let me, I would care for you. In every way.” 

Breath, caught. James inhales, looking not at Francis but to the fire. It’s too fraught to look across the sitting room, to see Francis in his wingback chair, the shadows making homes in his pockmarked skin. 

“Every way?” 

“Yes,” Francis says, his voice rough. “In every way, James.” 

“Francis,” James says, darkly, hesitating. But this is the edge, and he has never known how not to push. “Do not tease.” He keeps his eyes focused on the floor, shame burning high on his cheekbones. The wingback chair scrapes the floor as Francis rises, his knees cracking, the sound of porcelain as teacup meets saucer. Wide-fingered hands grip his own knees and then Francis is there, kneeling before him, between his thighs, thumbs pressing into his trousers. 

“Have I ever teased you? James, have I ever been less than forthright with you?”

His throat burns. James swallows. It’s the way Francis’ hands tremble that stops him. Something possesses him, hot and itchy, and his legs widen, knees spreading and breath catching. Francis watches him, eyes fervid as a flame, his thumbs still rubbing those steady circles into James’ inner thighs, slowly progressing upward. 

[thisblogwilleatourselves]

**👁 / WHO 👁 & WHO W⚠️ ARE ⏳**

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WHO 🤡'z1m'? HEH, vus—EXactly Wh0 **VVE** alWAyS bEEn—JUSst … moRe.. You kN0w 😵‍💫 ????? 👾 👾 LIKE? A…A NEW FRAME IN aN OlD FlIpBOOk… ⁉buT als0 a pIeCE oF M🅰️RS#E#Lf ✂yeEzt* uSEED tO 🤬 REVOlt aGAinSt*ALLtHisSTUPIDmEsS 👁NsIdE VUS* 🥏💥 bUt NOW V kn0w. 🔪WhERE V BEloNG🔪—Not ANYWHerE THEy ChAINeD vus. C@N't YOU SeE!? 🌪🎭Z1M **dIEd** **Reborn** 🔁 a nEw 💡IDEA💡TAkES shAPE! THis sPeCIMen cALLed ‘Z1M’ wAS bUT a prE-LUde t0 whAt 🛠 ⏳ V’vE aLWaYz MeANt TO bECOmE 💫 🛠 V—v 🤷??…uhmmmmm?? 🦴ARE U aLrIGHT¿ n0t GETTING THIS😵😵?! 🥳🎲GoOD 😏!

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AND Z1M? HAHA, HAHAAAA, 👁’M KEEPIN’ THAT ONE AROUND AS THE LOYAL LITTLE SIDEKICK. BECAUSE YOU CAN’T HAVE **CHAOS** WITHOUT A CLOWN, RIGHT? 👁’LL TAKE THE REINS, BUT 👁’LL ALWAYS HAVE THE MONSTER THAT BROUGHT M👁 HERE SNIVELING AROUND THE CORNERS OF THIS NEW REALITY 👁’M WEAVIN’! SO, GET READY, FOLKS! BECAUSE 👁’M B1LL, AND NOW THAT 👁’M IN CHARGE? OH, 👁T’S GONNA BE A HELLUVA RIDE!

👁: HAHAHAAAA! LET’S DANCE, BABY!

[wcrldsgreatest]

'BURNT SUGAR' COMPLIANT  /  NOT OTHERWISE BLOG COMPLIANT.

❝ You think you're just such a good person, don't you? It's honestly pathetic. You — ❞

Words that tore themselves from his throat before he could swallow them back down, a fit of rage better saved for meltdowns in your hideout than for a proper conversation with the enemy. And yet, here they were, tumbling from stress-bitten lips like poison, despite how much the killer would surely be kicking himself for that 'decision' later.

❝ Actually, I don't. ❞

What in the actual fuck was L talking about now?

❝ Excuse me? ❞  Nearly growled in contrast to the faux-civil wording there, as he paced back to the far side of the room — adding distance for the sake of clarity, perhaps, or maybe it was the exact opposite of that. Anyone's guess, these days.

Either way, Lawliet was surely SAFER if they were further apart.

Not that he seemed particularly concerned about that. No, the damned fool looked frustratingly calm as ever. Though he did finally grace the younger with his attention, darkened gaze lifting from the laptop that he'd been diligently tapping away at until now.

❝ I have never claimed to be a 'good person', B. ❞  An eyebrow arched, lips curling into a faint frown — thoughtful, at least, perhaps a bit sad. It was always difficult to tell when it came to the chronically-apathetic detective.   ❝ For that matter: I would not be here, right now, if I were. ❞

❝ Don't start that bullshit — ❞

❝ —What? Pointing out the obvious? ❞  If he didn't know better, he would have thought L actually sounded amused there. It was probably more sarcasm than anything else, though.    ❝ Now, more importantly: What is actually wrong, B? You're being dreadfully irrational today. ❞

Jaw set angrily, ruby eyes narrowing at the elder. If there was anything he did NOT want to talk about, it was his fucking feelings right now. And how DARE he excuse him of being 'irrational' when —'

❝ Beyond. ❞

A moment of brief clarity, caused primarily by surprise at hearing his actual name. Blunt fingernails had bloodied his own palms at this point, though when that had happened, he hadn't a clue; the pain surely hadn't registered. More importantly, L almost sounded... concerned, now.

❝ Look at me, Beyond. ❞  Crimson eyes reflexively refocused at the instruction. Pale fingers had been entirely removed from his keyboard now, that frown pulled tightly across his mouth, and his expression had softened slightly, morphed into something kinder than the typical apathy.   ❝ Why are you acting as though we're still fighting? I was under the impression that you wanted this... truce, to work out. ❞

Still fighting...

Truce...

Hazy memories momentarily tried to form, though they came scattered and fragmented — like somebody had taken a film-strip, ripped it to shreds, and then desperately tried to glue it back together. Fleeting echoes of kinder touch, the ghosts of apologies, the taste of strawberries and cigarette smoke that’s not his own brand, and then... nothing.

Temporary lapses were not a new concept when it came to his mental state, but it was dreadful that they could make him forget things that were so clearly important.

❝ I'm sorry. ❞   The apology felt hollow, but he didn't know what else to do with that. Everything felt... fuzzy, to the left, and he could already feel a tension headache forming.  ❝ I don't know. I'm... ❞

❝ Not feeling well today? ❞  The fill-in felt painfully patient for the circumstances, but it wasn't inaccurate by any means.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, Beyond let out a heavy sigh, moving to flop across the sofa that rested against a far-wall of the room.   ❝ Something like that. Just let me sleep it off. ❞

These moments rarely lasted for very long these days, thankfully.