#at the edge of god’s tomb

[honeyglas]

This house is empty. All its inhabitants are buried.

Silly strahd dnd au where you find out that a previous reincarnation of you is buried in this massive manor and also your previous lovers are stalking you slowly through the dark hallways. Be careful

[svenghouly]

Ianthe “I have boundaries” Tridentarius, fears merging her soul with her sister whyyyyy YOU COWARD

[lady-harrowhark]

you know, the one thing i will give john some credit for in terms of arranging the whole Great Lyctor Bake Off is that as far as strategy goes, bringing in the heirs of the Houses was actually pretty slick.

nabbing the heirs specifically means that the existing power structures remain in place for the time being. the current system’s not entirely under his thumb (case in point: the Sixth) but it doesn’t throw the entire empire into chaos the way simultaneously yoinking every House leader would. if the heirs die? bummer, but life goes on.

but if the heirs ascend? john suddenly has super-powered nepotism babies perfectly positioned to take the reins of their respective Houses and keep them within his reach.

[marlini]

if I actually have to go to fucking hertfordshire to see how high this hypothetical effigy would have set on the tomb chest -

[lokisgoodgirl]

loki stuffing your panties into ur mouth to keep u quiet while fucking u in the empty throne room !!!

Don't mind if I do. 😎🩲 Ps. I HC that Asgardians don't really do underwear, so we have something else instead.🧤

Throne

Warnings: Smut/ Soft dom! King! Loki/ Gagging/ Breeding kink elements. I've been off work this afternoon so rattled this out, apols for any snaffoos - I'm in a bubbly mood today so fancied some filth. w/c 750 A link to my masterlist is here

Loki’s angular face is all sharpness and shadows in the gloom of a hundred torches lining the wall.

“Closer,” he orders, and you obey. Your eyes flicker penitently from the floor, pinning on his as you climb the steps. His leather-gloved fingers toy leisurely with the strap around his hips; the pop of metal buttons echoing. Everyone else is at the feast, and the throne room has never looked more beautiful: like a glittering, golden tomb. This isn’t what you expected when the king slipped you a note in the great hall ��� but now you’re here, you can’t imagine it being anything else.

“Closer,” he says again.

One corner of his mouth curls. You gasp as he reaches out, pulling you to his lap in one harsh movement and the iron meat of his bound cock slams against your clit. Loki’s hands run covetously up your thighs, pushing the chiffon dress around your hips. “Ore and blood,” he breathes, slipping a finger between your folds and thrumming against your clit. "I've wanted you all night. Hel's fire, you have no conception of how much." A strangled moan scrapes from your throat, and immediately the free hand not making lazy circles on your cunt is pressed to your mouth. “Quiet,” he warns gruffly. The god’s hair is glossy in torchlight; tangled with a sheen like magpie wings. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Use your hands. Quickly.” You grasp against his crotch, sliding a hand inside his leathers and curling around what lies within. Your eyes widen, and Loki’s amused expression twists to pleasure as your grip tightens. He's as hard as the marble pillars. “Gods, how I’ve wanted this,” he says breathlessly as you shift up and hover over the tip. “Say it?” you beg, brushing the head of his legendary cock against your slit. “Please…”

Pearls of sweat glisten on Loki’s forehead, and he looks up beneath those dark lashes, his bottom teeth jutting forward as he tries to restrain himself from thrusting into you like the sexual beast he is. “I command you to fuck the king, as you were born to do,” he drawls with all the regal arrogance you’d requested. Your slippery pussy edges down the god’s length, meeting the root with a filthy growl from his throat. Loki’s hands fly to the arms of the throne, and you’re sure his knuckles are whitening beneath those slutty leather gloves as you begin to rock against him. Your groans sound like music in the empty hall; bouncing between pillars of marble like mockingjay song. “Quiet,” he grits, brows peaking. “You’ll alert…a-alert the guards.” You tighten around his cock in response and give an insolent, echoing whine of pleasure. Without another word Loki brings his hands together and peels one tight, leather glove in front of your face. You follow his movements as he plucks the tips of his fingers: one, by one, by one. “Don’t…fucking…stop,” he enunciates slowly – and a thrill of dangerous desire swells in your lower belly. His face is clouded with manufactured disdain as you moan again, squeezing around the fat, sensitive tip before sinking to the base with a rattle of his name.

It’s interrupted by Loki’s fingers flying to your jaw; stuffing the leather glove inside your open mouth. You choke on nothing, eyes wide and cunt throbbing.

“There. The perfect angle for me to fuck you full of myself: here where you belong…me on my throne, and you on yours.” Loki’s eyes blaze as his grip moves to your ass, pulling you flush to his chest; buried against your cleavage and thrusting so deep you think you might shatter. “When the king tells you to keep your voice down, he means it,” Loki whispers hot in your ear. He releases a disgustingly gravelled rasp of pleasure as his one gloveless hand tangles in your hair. It pulls gently while the other guides your hips: leather sticking to the sweat misting your skin.

A muffled moan of understand is all you can muster as Loki’s cock stretches you; his pubic hair tugging your clit; an orgasm so powerful welling between your thighs you could swear the throne was trembling. The leather stuffed between your lips tastes warm; oak-birch undertones of his natural scent making you dizzy. Even if you both screamed your orgasms to the old gods, the guards won’t come, they know better than that. And he knows it, too.

“Where better for my glorious wife to conceive a future king than on my throne,” Loki growls, his voice beginning to break as it comes undone. His mind, too. And as he does, unhinged and bucking everything he has inside your heat – so do you.

The glove isn’t enough to stifle the cry of his name in your throat - it never is.

-----

👑❤️x Tags in comments as per.

[sprachgitter]

on storytelling and repetition

“...the secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won’t. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn’t. And yet you want to know again.”

— Arundhati Roy on Indian mythology and folklore, in God of Small Things (1997)

“It was only once – once – that an audience went to see Romeo and Juliet, and hoped they might live happily ever after. You can bet that the word soon went around the playhouses: they don’t get out of that tomb alive. But every time it’s been played, every night, every show, we stand with Romeo at the Capulets’ monument. We know: when he breaks into the tomb, he will see Juliet asleep, and believe she is dead. We know he will be dead himself before he knows better. But every time, we are on the edge of our seats, holding out our knowledge like a present we can’t give him.”

— Hilary Mantel on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, in “Can These Bones Live?”, Reith Lecture, 2017

“So what makes this poem mnemonic is not just repetition. Rather, it’s the fact that with repetition, the repeated phrase grows more and more questionable. I’ve remembered “Come on now, boys” because, with every new repetition, it seems to offer more exasperation than encouragement, more doubt than assertion. I remembered this refrain because it kept me wondering about what it meant, which is to say, it kept me wondering about the kind of future it predicted. What is mnemonic about this repetition is not the reader’s ability to remember it, but that the phrase itself remembers something about the people it addresses; it remembers violence. Repetition, then, is not only a demonstration of something that keeps recurring: an endless supply of new generations of cruel boys with sweaty fists. It is also about our inability to stop this repetition: the established cycles of repetition are like spells and there’s no anti-spell to stop them from happening. The more we repeat, the less power we have over the words and the more power the words have over us. Poetic repetition is about the potency of language and the impotence of its speakers. In our care, language is futile and change is impossible.”

— Valzhyna Mort on Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko, in “FACE – FACE – FACE: A Poet Under the Spell of Loss”, The Poetry Society Annual Lecture, 2021

[shayberri789]

My theory on the NtN ending:

Cassiopeia wasn't the only one to betray Jod thousands of years ago. She wasn't the only one to see that what Jod was doing was wrong and put plans in place to deal with it.

Anastasia the first almost had perfect lyctorhood and watched her God kill her cavalier in front of her so she couldn't do it. Maybe she really would have died. Maybe she would have gone the paul route. Maybe she would have survived and Samael would still be around. But he was killed in front of her and she had no say in it.

Alecto was odd, and a little dangerous, but she's the soul of the earth and if Jod could kill the most important person to Anastasia of course he could kill the thing who loved humanity so much she gave them power over life and death.

And when the Lyctors were convincing him to kill his pet revenent beast, the pin point of his greatest sin and a being in constant pain and hurt, maybe Anastasia, the one left behind, the one maybe magicked to silence through a sewn tongue, cursed jaw, felt sympathy and kinship with Alecto. Maybe she knew Jod would never truly kill Alecto. Maybe she was the first person in hundreds if not thousands and millions of years to look at Alecto with compassion and actually say "I will help you if only you tell me how". Maybe she made a promise to protect Alecto, maybe she made a promise to look after her while she sleeps. Maybe she made a promise that one day she'd come and wake Alecto up and they'd solve things together. Maybe one day they can undo what John did and maybe Alecto can have peace, finally, one day. And maybe Alecto swore that for the debt of waking her again she would do anything for Anastasia, any one thing, if Anastasia woke her up in a time when things could change.

But by the time Anastasia, frail with her necromancer build and squirreled away at the edge of the solar system, started reaching old age she realized it was too soon to wake her up. Too soon to send her into the lyctor viper pit again, not while Anastasia was so weak. So she tasks her daughter with guarding the tomb. "This door must stay shut until the day comes when the emperor must die" she says, and her daughter repeats this to her son, and so on and so forth until the body in the locked tomb becomes Armageddon. Not locked away for her own protection, not awaiting the day for the tomb keeper to wake her up and try again, not awaiting the day when the nine houses get to restart. No, she's the greatest enemy of god, she must be locked away lest she start Armageddon, locked away for the protection of the emperor and their duties to her tomb an icon for devotion.

But the bloodwards hold for 10000 years and one day the curse of silence will be lifted from the jaw of the ninth house tomb keeper, and the oath to Alecto is preserved in the Anastasian bloodline. And the daughter of the tomb keeper has awakened the monster once again

[asthedeathoflight]

John makes me fucking crazy because like. Hes God, right? But he's also a millennial who lived in the era of Twitch. He KNOWS who God is. Depending on circumstance hes probably read at least some of the bible (i think he mentions having gone to Catholic school?) so like. All of this jesus shit thats going on? He knows. He gets it.

He is literally a capricious god of fire and brimstone, punishing humanity for a generations-ago original sin, absolutely refusing to forgive. He IS the old testament God right now. Kill-your-children-for-me God. And to some degree I'm sure he knew that, but hes got other things on his mind. Like the aforementioned revenge. Its probably not top of the list to consider the biblical implications of destroying planets and evaporating people.

And then. This God. Who will not forgive. Who refuses to shed his blood. Looks into the eyes of a girl conceived through a miracle, his own flesh and blood, and she /has already died for humanity/. It already happened. Its Holy Saturday. He wasnt ready to forgive, but she was. She was and she did in the very salt water that he abandoned in search of vengeance. And those gold eyes look up at him from her personal tomb and he must understand that here, at the edge of the known universe, his very own brand of personal aestheticism has come to /bite him in the ass./

Oh, you wanted to be God? Here's Jesus. She's already dead. Good luck.

Christ, I'd be on a bender too.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

Sad ideas now 😞

S/O is dying, whether from old age, illness, or injury. Near the end, S/O offers their SOUL to their Skeleton in hopes that they will always be together.

How will skeletons react to the offer?

Undertale Sans - He's flattered and touched but he could never. That would mean keeping his S/O in a state between life and death, not dead but not alive either. He studied souls too much to know the soul can still feel pain and could never inflict that on his S/O. Of course, he doesn't tell them that, Sans being Sans. He simply refuses the soul when it's time, gently pushing it back into his S/O's chest. He wants to be sure they're at peace.

Undertale Papyrus - He accepts immediately, not realizing the consequences. He regrets it later as Papyrus is with his S/O but can still feel their pain after they die. He feels bad he didn't let go, thinking he was just selfish and that now you're going to suffer for a long time because of him. Thank god his brother is a soul ex-scientist who is very observant and can tell Papyrus is really not doing well in the next few months after his S/O is gone. Sans will help his S/O's soul to be extracted and he let Papyrus push it back into your tomb, so you can rest for real now.

Underswap Sans - He tells his S/O he will, but that's a lie. Blue is still young, and he has at least three centuries ahead of this. Linking himself to soul means he will never be able to soul bond with anyone else. Even if he loves his S/O very much, he's realistic. He's going to need to move on at some point and he could never knowing his S/O is still here. That's the end of your story, and he regrets it a lot, but that's not his end and he needs to think of his future too.

Underswap Papyrus - He tells you not to worry about that, as he lies down next to you. Honey doesn't need your soul. As soon as he felt your soul starting to break, his own soul slowly started to fall down. He knows he doesn't have long left. When you're gone, he's gone too. He's fine with that. He could never live 300 more years without you. He's there until the end and beyond.

Underfell Sans - He tells his S/O he will, and he will really do it. Despite all of his flaws, Red is extremely loyal. He will have one partner in his life until the end, no more. Letting you go is hard enough already, it actually comforts him to know a part of you will stay with him. Red needs that to move on. He'll be fine eventually.

Underfell Papyrus - That's something common for Fell monsters. Edge never agreed to do it before, but you're too special. He promises on his honor that he will keep your soul safe and he will keep his word. He still feels horrible absorbing your soul, but at least he feels less devastated than what he should be.

Horrortale Sans - Naaah. He's an old dude and he's tired. He doesn't need your soul if he's going with you. What's the point to keep going? He doesn't want to stay there another century, he's fine with quitting his job sooner. To life and death, right?

Horrortale Papyrus - No. He could never take another soul. He swears long ago he wouldn't do it again. He still remembers being able to feel the distress of the souls he had to capture for Undyne, confused after they died and terrified, and he could never do that again with someone he cared about. He wants to be sure you're at peace.

Swapfell Sans - He gently refuses straight and explains that he knows that souls can still have a sort of consciousness after death, including the feeling of being dead, and he could never do that. He understands your gesture and that you're worried for him, and he assures you that he will be fine. He's not going to give up and he's going to be fine eventually. That's a big lie, as Nox is definitely not going to be okay after that, but you don't need to know that. You have enough to worry about already.

Swapfell Papyrus - So you can prevent him from pranking more people by guilting him? Hell no. He's joking about this to not tell you that it's actually not something you want and a fate way worse than just death. He'll be fine, don't worry about him. He has thick skin. He's going to cheer you to the end. He has time to be upset after that.

Fellswap Gold Sans - It's very tempting you know. With a human soul comes a lot of power and he could use that to his great plan and all... But that doesn't feel right. He tells you that he is flattered but that if he wants to take down the Royal Family he'll feel much better killing a random human outside. Then he realizes maybe you tried to give him your soul as some act of love or something and that perhaps you didn't need to know he planned to kill another human. Hum... If he takes your soul, you promise you won't judge him? God dammit, Wine.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He's already heartbroken, but that is just the last blow. Coffee breaks down, screaming he doesn't want you to go because he's not sure how he will move on without you. He promise to keep your soul safe so you two can stay together, but that doesn't make him feel better at all. He's terrified of losing you.

[bao3bei4]

BLESSED BE THEY WHOSE LIVES DO NOT TASTE OF EVIL

BUT IF SOME GOD SHAKES YOUR HOUSE

RUIN ARRIVES

RUIN DOES NOT LEAVE

IT COMES TOLLING OVER THE GENERATIONS

IT COMES ROLLING THE BLACK NIGHT SALT UP FROM THE OCEAN FLOOR

AND ALL YOUR THRASHED COASTS GROAN

anne carson, antigonick

panting like a dog at the edge of your bed is a tian guan ci fu fanfiction written by ao3 user bloodletter. it follows he xuan, a side character in the original work, for sixty thousand odd words and over two hundred years. it is very good. it has some hefty cws, though, check them out. but on the whole it’s a funny and pleasant fic. 

you can read this without having read the fic yet. consider it an advertisement with mild spoilers.

let’s begin with a short story about graves: two brothers fight each other for the throne. one is buried a hero; one rots a rebel. their sister decides that the latter ought to be buried as well anyway, against the king’s edict. she is entombed alive as punishment. 

some other things happen too, but they’re not important. i tell you this story, the story of antigone, not because or maybe not simply because she is oedipus’ daughter and she therefore might be as psychically central as her father, but because panting is also a story about duty, remains, and being entombed alive. and it seems to ask the question, in its own way, what might happen to antigone if she hadn’t killed herself, but encased in her tomb, festered, rotted, into a shape beyond a girl, beyond a human? 

when we release antigone from her tomb, what do we see? 

we turn, actually, to zizek here briefly. he makes the salient point that being “not dead” and “undead” are two totally separate things. as he phrases it: 

the ‘undead’ are neither alive nor dead, they are precisely the monstrous ‘living dead.’ and the same goes for ‘inhuman’: ‘he is not human’ is not the same as ‘he is inhuman’... [the inhuman is] marked by a terrifying excess which, although it negates what we understand as ‘humanity,’ is inherent to being-human.

so rather than being inhuman, we might call a ghost extrahuman. they have a surplus of humanity, overfilling overflowing from them. the ghost is simply too alive to categorize. at the heart of being human, is something very very strange.

now i am going to give you a long quote. and it is not because i am lazy but because it is just that good. and i’m a little lazy. so here’s avery gordon: 

if haunting describes how that which appears to be not there is often a seething presence, acting on and often meddling with taken-for-granted realities, the ghost is just the sign, or the empirical evidence if you like, that tells you a haunting is taking place. the ghost is not simply a dead or a missing person, but a social figure, and investigating it can lead to that dense site where history and subjectivity make social life. the ghost or the apparition is one form by which something lost, or barely visible, or seemingly not there to our supposedly well-trained eyes, makes itself known or apparent to us, in its own way, of course. the way of the ghost is haunting, and haunting is a very particular way of knowing what has happened or is happening.

ghosts, then, have an epistemology all their own. they are a way of seeing what is not there, an absence. antigone is not alive. what might she say anyway? what might she want? 

we know, from freud, that ghosts are a projection of our ill will against the dead. we wanted them dead, on some level, and so they reproach us in their un-death. this is why so many ghosts have grievances; we have grievances against them in turn. 

it is perversely surprising, therefore, that he xuan might become a ghost. shi wudu has no grievance with he xuan; he sees only necessity. but panting brings he xuan to life by shi wudu’s hand. 

The man’s hand hovers in the air, and though cast in shadow, it sees uncertainty play out on his face. The companion calls from the doorway, “Oi, Shui-xiong, are we done here?” The first man gazes at the urn for a moment longer, and then turns away. Nods curtly. “We’re done.”

this is the name that animates he xuan; it is shi wudu’s ambivalent last visit, in my view, that catalyzes the whole thing. his fear that it is, in fact, not done, that sets in motion the events that bring about his demise. 

i’m going to tell you a ghost story. 水鬼 are a type of ghost. they live in rivers and streams and they are the remnants of people who died by drowning. be careful on the water: if they pull a living person in, they can finally be reincarnated. isn’t that beautiful? revenge brings you peace. i’m sure it’s that simple. 

these are the kinds of ghosts he xuan eats: “No one had to teach him how to do it. When the first time came, an instinctual part of him knew how to proceed.” but the more he eats and he eats the more he turns into a constellation of hunger. 

A hairline fracture within him widens, opening up that black chasm where the things he swallows are made room for. It spreads out to the border of him, turning him inside-out, until nothing remains except that lustful emptiness. Perhaps nothing more than that nothingness ever existed; in those feverish moments, his humanity feels like nothing so much as a wistful dream of better days that never were.

is it cannibalism for he xuan to eat a shuigui? a human? another god? or is it simply doing as was done unto him? 

lu xun writes in diary of a madman: 

the eater of human flesh is my elder brother! i am the younger brother of an eater of human flesh! i myself will be eaten by others, but none the less i am the younger brother of an eater of human flesh!

but so too did he write: 

wanting to eat men, at the same time afraid of being eaten themselves, they all look at each other with the deepest suspicion. . . . how comfortable life would be for them if they could rid themselves of such obsessions and go to work, walk, eat and sleep at ease. they have only this one step to take. yet fathers and sons, husbands and wives, brothers, friends, teachers and students, sworn enemies and even strangers, have all joined in this conspiracy, discouraging and preventing each other from taking this step.

lu xun is, of course, critiquing tradition—the “madman” sees cannibalism all around him, even in the classics he was taught. the cannibal has this in common with the ghost — they are the allegedly primitive ways of knowing that outlived the logics of capitalist modernity. the law, the state, the family, all of it bursting with this repressed violence. freud writes: “From the idea of ‘homelike,’ ‘belonging to the house,’ the further idea is developed of something withdrawn from the eyes of strangers, something concealed, secret.”

marx was no stranger to ghosts. he was of course intimate with the specter of communism, but even more than that, he writes: “the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.” the bodies we have eaten return to us. and derrida contended with this problem, describing the ways in which, quoting hamlet, “the time is out of joint,” or rather, history is disordered. the past is made present, ghosts caught forever in-between by injustices and disruptions, necessitating a new way to describe something that is and is not actually present. fredric jameson describes hauntology as derrida’s “mocking” answer to the question of if “tangible certainty and solidity corresponds to ontology... how to describe what literally undermines it and shakes our belief?”

whatever. big shock. what IF law and order were violent. i think they made a show about that. i am trying to move here, from the individual undead to the collective undead. what if it is not merely us that are undead in the world of unliving, but the world which has in fact already ended? 

before he xuan dies, (in this fic) he xuan is raped. i want to read this eschatologically: 

He’s not sure he’s ever been less of a person than this; despite all of the indignity and toil that came before, he was at least always working towards something. Like a feral dog, his purpose has become bare survival. He needs to survive long enough to serve the end of his time, and then someone will pay. 

okay before i go any further i want to give into my semi-medicated anxiety disorder. in fear of misreadings: i am not saying that any of this applies to all survivors of rape. i am making a claim about how he xuan sees and conducts himself, as a malevolent undead avatar of revenge. 

anyway: panting is a story about living past the end of the world. it follows an undead protagonist living past the end of her normal life, her life, her world, and who indeed lives beyond the limits of the original story, veering even into epilogue. this sexual violence heralds the apocalypse, and razes what-has-been to the ground. let us consider he xuan’s initial new form as a ghost: “It can’t touch anything, but neither can it be touched. It is, and it is not.” 

rape and death are a de-gendering process for he xuan. what is left afterward is the idea that mourning can be constitutive of gender. 

he xuan clings to masculinity as obligation: “It wasn’t enough for my parents to die on my behalf? I should do away with their son, too?” but bloodletter also makes new possibilities explicit as well. 

He Xuan’s true body is a weathered vessel for the memory of people he is still trying to do right by, in his way. As much as it might presently seem otherwise. He must fashion new flesh for the shameful pleasures of the dark.

and those new feminine bodies? 

The body itself is an assemblage of women she has seen and been. The form that He Xuan took on with Hua Cheng is too ghastly for polite company, so as Ming Yi she concedes to look more like a goddess.

it is not so simple as masculinity = death and femininity = possibility, by the way. it’s more complicated than that. NOT to personally equate femininity with reproductive capacity, but it’s worth talking about how ming yi’s implicit equivocation of the two through her new undead capabilities has a gender kaleidoscopic effect. 

after all, the earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb; what is her burying grave, that is her womb. or whatever. it’s a truism at this point. is it feminine to be dead? anyway, he xuan echoes that shakespeare line: 

He Xuan has been inside mines before, in her role as the false Earth Master, and she always dislikes them, despite the comforting quality of their thick darkness. The bottom of the sea is just as black, but while underwater, He Xuan may move in endless directions. Here, she is pressed in on on all sides, and can’t help but think of the true Ming Yi, imprisoned in Ghost City.

womb and tomb, indeed. he xuan builds herself a womb/tomb to return to: 

He Xuan thinks of the manor, encompassing them on all sides. Still, solemn, cavernous. A place where the living have never trod, and any who might come to enter its depths are hers to claim.

central to the fic is the idea of circlusion, or the antonym of penetration. to encompass, to surround, to squeeze, to engulf, to circlude. my god the fisting scene. or consider this quote: 

For her own part, He Xuan dreams of Shi Qingxuan, devoured. If Shi Qingxuan were another dead thing, like herself, the temptation would be too great to resist, and then at least He Xuan could contain her: suspended in eternal digestion and assimilated into the slipstream of selves that He Xuan may drag her fingers through as she pleases, and which never disturb her otherwise.

anyway, this succession of wombs/tombs provides new form for he xuan’s gender and indeed catharsis: 

The thought that a man could look at her and want to shove something in her cunt makes her want to laugh: go ahead, go and try it; plumb those depths, where only death awaits you.

consider the cunt that gives death, not life, but is itself life. anyway. look, to sum all this up, the point i am trying to make is that grief is something that can be so trans to me. she is standing in the wreckage of her old life. and you don’t move on, you move around the shape of the loss, until you are warped and whole containing the seed/husk of yourself. 

remember poor antigone? what if instead of being buried, she was reborn? what if she ate and she ate her way free, until she was no longer human, but more than human, and the world ended around her, but she kept unliving until there was nothing left but GORGEOUS T4T SEX?????? and also there was a really good huaxuan fwb subplot that i didn’t even talk about because i got caught up in the fever of he xuan dramatics??? that’s what panting like a dog at the edge of your bed is about. in my opinion. you should read it. 

[hotaru-no-yume]

loyalty to the raging tempest

CW: This contains spoilers from the new archon quest. Read at your own discretion.

"You can start a new life here if you want to."

The God of Wisdom's words echo in your mind as you watch your Lord's unmoving figure on the hospital bed. You saw his fall, from the proud and cruel harbinger to a lifeless puppet who had its heart taken away. With Scaramouche's defeat and the Fatui branding you a traitor for refusing to return with the Doctor, you had nowhere else to go… until the Dendro Archon offered you sanctuary in her region.

"Gravedigger… You will regret this." The Doctor spits with the promise of your death.

"I'm sure the matra would be willing to take you in. Creating a final resting place for the dead is also necessary." In contrast, the Dendro Archon's kindness promised protection.

She was right. Under her watchful gaze, no one will be able to lay a hand on you in Sumeru. You can leave everything behind; even the pitiful puppet in front of you. Truthfully, Scaramouche was an awful person. No one in the Fatui liked him and your colleagues would often give you pitying looks once you got summoned to his side. You've lost count of how many times you were punished for not following his orders perfectly.

But still, for some reason, you can't leave him alone. Perhaps it's because of the way he looked at you when you first met. The look of recognition, fury, and something else. You remember him looming over you, staring at your dirt-covered body - the result of digging tirelessly in the cold mornings of Snezhnaya, all in an effort to create a tomb for a soldier you hardly know. Once you lock eyes, you see a raging tempest and you wonder what he's seeing when he looks at you.

"Pitiful. What's with that look in your eyes? Are you merely a doll who knows nothing more than to roll around in the dirt? Perhaps I should call you a rat."

You nod, but that seemed to make him angrier. As insulting as his words are, you really don't know anything else. In a distant memory, you see the blurry faces of your mother and father, hear their whispers of your duties and how it is important to create a final resting place, you remember the old shovel they handed you before you dug your first grave and the sight of their backs as they left for a mission and never returned.

You feel his attack before you see it. Your vision glows and you parry the blade of electro he sends towards you. You get thrown back, and you feel the air get knocked out of your lungs as you slam into a tree.

"...Good. It seems you're not entirely hopeless."

You stand up on shaky legs, tensing as he steps closer and closer. He scoffs as you raise your weapon defensively. He probably thought fighting you was mere child's play.

"Work under me. I'm sure I can find some use for a little rat like you."

And he did find some use for you. Before you knew it, you became his right hand… or maybe "errand runner" was a better description for your job. "The Balladeer's Servant", others would whisper behind your back as they see you tailing the Harbinger's figure. You were at his beck and call and usually the one that bears the brunt of his anger (or as you like to call it in your head - his temper tantrums.) It was exhausting work; trying to keep up with his demands.

But sometimes, you would see the eye of the storm. He was calm in those times, his voice losing the sharp edge it always seemed to have - like a storm temporarily diminishing into a gentle, soothing rain.

"What are you looking at? …The cherry trees?"

He hums, tipping his hat up as he stares at the lush pink trees, not minding the rain of petals falling on him due to the strong gust of wind. You think that he looks very beautiful.

"I don't need anything. Just stay there and don't make a sound."

You watch him collapse in pain after enduring the Doctor's experiments. Regardless of his protests, you help him get settled on his bed. You silently question why he doesn't see himself as a human. After all, he feels pain and suffering, just like everyone else.

Your current situation reminded you of those quiet nights with only the candle light to keep you company. But instead of seeing your Lord's eyes open the next day, he's been asleep for more than two months. Just as you think he's never going to wake up, he stirs from his slumber one morning, jolting you awake.

"...My Lord?" You call, making his pretty eyes focus on you.

"You're still here?" He mutters in disbelief, like he expected you to be gone from his side.

"Why wouldn't I be? I pledged loyalty to you, didn't I?"

Your honest words stun him into silence. He narrows his eyes, looking for a lie, a hint of deception and desire for personal gain.

He finds none. Just an honest fool that he picked up from the dirt littered with flowers and concrete.

"Idiot."

.

.

.

"̵͉̐̈́S̷͍̜̓c̶̱͎̈ặ̸̪̕r̴͚͎̉̍ă̵̤m̴̻̃̀ö̴̤̣́̈́u̷͍̙̽c̷͓̘͠h̷͈̟̉̀ė̸̗"̷͚͍͒̚ ̶̲̈ǎ̸̲͋ń̶͖̥̐d̷͉̒ ̴̤͍͗̀"̸̬̳̈K̴̤̤͝ả̵̰̈͜b̶̦̱͝u̶͖͚͋ķ̷͆̀ì̵̦̙̓m̸͓̥̑ô̸̠̥͝ṉ̴̦̀͆o̶͖̘͑́"̵̟͂ ̸͖̆̀ͅw̷͕͆̊ǐ̶̺̮l̷̦͋̅l̴͔̹̈́ ̴̫͗̾ç̵̖͋́ẽ̶̯̺ả̸͎̒ş̴̪͒e̶̳̼̍ ̵͍̱̿t̸̬̍̀ọ̸̩̒̍ ̶̻̯̿̚e̷̤̎̚x̵̼͗ì̷͉͈s̴̯̈̈t̸̡̻́.̸̬̏

.

.

.

"Do you… do you remember him?"

A floating fairy that carried the scent of stars asked you as she gestured to the man in blue. Four pairs of eyes stare at you in anticipation as you gaze at the man with a frown. He crosses his arms as he waits for your answer. You weren't expecting this strange turn of events at all. Your life was finally becoming peaceful under the kindness of the Dendro Archon. She gave you a home and a place to work. You needed nothing more. And yet, you feel like things are about to go upside down again with the presence of this strange man.

"I'm sorry. I don't know him." You said. Their gazes turn uneasy and the man in blue's neutral expression breaks for a moment.

"...But I feel like I should." You added, stepping forward to get a closer look. Not expecting the close proximity, he flinches and moves back, as if electrocuted.

"How dare-!"

"What's your name?" You ask, not paying attention to the spark of anger and embarrassment that appeared in his eyes.

"...Give me one." He says with a sigh.

"Pardon?" Did this familiar stranger really ask you to name him?

"How fascinating…" The Dendro Archon mumbles, placing a hand on her chin as she regards you with curious eyes. "Their memories were definitely erased… but somehow, the connection you formed with them was so strong that it resisted the data deletion process. There is a saying that the heart and mind are two separate things. In this case, the mind may have forgotten, but the feeling is still there. It seems you've garnered someone's loyalty regardless of your lack of divinity."

"...I suppose that's enough." The man in blue looks away, tipping his hat over his eyes.

"Well? Have you thought of a name yet?" He addresses you and you find yourself at the center of attention once again. They were actually serious about naming him…

"How about…"

The man in blue closes his eyes. You think you see the corner of his lips twitch upwards into a small smile.

[honeyglas]

New butch dropped. Definitely not doomed by the narrative

[readerthatreadsss]

𝙎𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙚 | 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙘 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧

Pairing: Marc Spector X Fem! reader

Summary: You and Marc had been working together on a mission for the gods you were both in service to. And when Konshu and Isis have a disagreement, naturally their avatars would too. Only, this time, your argument leads to something much more...eventful.

Warnings [18+ activities]: Mentions of the Egyptian Gods, arguing, swearing, brief physical fight (shoving each other and him pinning you to the wall), SMUT, P in V sex, Porn with a drizzle of plot, pet names (sunshine, baby, sweetheart), dom! reader (mostly), switch!Marc, degradation with some praise kink if you squint, choking, unprotected sex (wrap your willy before you fuck her silly), oral sex (m and f receiving), handjob, edging (m receiving), face riding, fingering, rough sex, etc cause I got carried away lmao.

Word count: 4.5k+ (I'm not sorry cause this is some of my best work fr)

(not my gif but I wish he was mines)

"Shut the hell up!"

"Oh fuck you, Spector!"

Isis and Konshu stood behind you and Marc, both sharing looks of annoyance at your bickering.

You and Marc had been working together under the advisory of your Gods for the past two months. And about half of that time was spent on you and Marc arguing.

Of course, Konshu and Isis disagreed with each other occasionally, but once you two caught wind of it, it was merely a spark added to the powder keg that was your and Marc's partnership. You used the smallest point of disagreement to fuel explosive arguments that often drifted away from the initial point.

Now, the initial point of disagreement was whether or not the two of you should venture to Arthur Harrow's London village and steal the scarab that led to Ammit's tomb.

Of course, Marc and Konshu wanted to. But you and Isis thought it to be an irrational idea that could lead to your deaths, seeing as Marc couldn't keep a hold on his alter.

"If Steven comes back to the surface at the wrong point, he could get us killed, Marc!" you argued, already having met Steven on a separate accidental occasion.

"That won't happen. I have him under control, worry about your own problems," the dark-haired mercenary spat from across the room, venom lacing his every word.

"My own problems?"

You angrily walked over to where he was packing his stuff for his departure.

"Yeah, your own fucking problems."

Marc began moving to meet you in the middle of the room, throwing his open duffel bag to the floor in frustration.

"Well, right now, my fucking problem is the fact that you're so damn eager to get this over with that you're not using your head, Marc!" you shouted, your voice bouncing off the walls of your spacious apartment, "I'm not letting you get us killed, I don't give a shit how experienced Konshu says you are."

Marc scoffed, a stupid smirk airing its way onto his clean-shaven face. "And how the hell would that happen, huh, Y/L/N? How would my plan get us killed?"

You resisted the urge to smack the smirk off his perfect face- no, not perfect. Admitting that Marc Spector had a perfect face was admitting to yourself that in your spare time you had been observing him and had been quite fond of what you've seen.

And you wouldn't give the lonely-and possibly horny- part of your brain that satisfaction.

"Because we have no fucking clue what we're walking into!" you bellowed, "Right now, Harrow has no idea that we know what he's up to. So if we just strut into his village and try and steal the scarab, which will most likely lead to us having to fight his guards and showing our faces, we'll be giving ourselves away AND on his home turf too."

Tense silence passed between the both of you as Marc took in and analyzed your words.

You placed your arms on your hips, waiting for a response from the angry mercenary.

You were surprised, however, when you caught his brown eyes briefly drift down to your lips. The glance was no longer than a second, but with your job, you couldn't miss something that minuscule even if you tried.

"You're wrong," he lowly countered after a few more seconds.

You sharply exhaled, now feeling your ears burn a bright red from anger. "What?" you seethed, daring to take a step closer to Marc.

Konshu and Isis sent each other knowing glances before disappearing together, leaving you two alone in the barely furnished apartment.

"You heard me, sunshine," Marc taunted you, knowing that you hated when he used that nickname, "We're going with my plan."

"Don't call me that."

Marc walked forward and came to a stop before you, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Or else what?" he whispered as his surprisingly pleasant scent invaded your senses.

Before you could slip and give in to the part of you that wanted to lean forward and kiss his plump red lips, you extended one of your arms and shoved him away from you. "Kiss my ass, Spector."

You immediately regret your choice of words.

"I bet you'd like that," he raised a brow at you.

You would. You most certainly would. Not that you'd ever admit it out loud.

"I wonder what your ex-wife would think about you saying stuff like this to women you work with."

The smirk immediately disappeared from his face. It was replaced with a look that could freeze hell twenty times over. And you couldn't help but smirk at the sight of it.

"You bitch," Marc seethed.

"What? You didn't think I'd find out, did you? Turns out being related to a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent has its perks," you grinned triumphantly, "You couldn't even keep your marriage stable, I don't know why I ever expected anything different for this mission."

At this, you could almost see steam fly out of Marc's ears. His eyes were nearly red when he lunged forward and wrapped both his hands around your neck. Before you could respond, the curly-haired merc slammed you against your own living room wall continuing to squeeze the air out of your lungs.

Marc panted as his face hovered above your own, merely inches between your lips, allowing his cool breath to fan over your face.

"Shut. Up," he lowly growled through gritted teeth. His tone could've convinced anyone that he was angry and boiling with rage, but in his eyes, you could see something else:

Lust.

Your constant insults and threats were driving him crazy in a way he never thought he could enjoy until now.

You smirked maniacally up at him, the lack of airflow shooting straight between your legs. "You keep choking me like this, I might end up making a mess on my own floors, Spector," you whispered.

"Go ahead, do it, you fucking slut," he spat.

You may have been desperately horny, but in no universe would you let anyone talk to you like that and get away with it.

Not for free anyways...

So you skillfully grabbed each of his hands and ripped them off your throat before extending your own hands and wrapping them around Marc's neck. His eyes widened in surprise as you switched your positions, making sure to slam him harshly against the wall.

"If we're gonna do this," you began, panting from your own arousal, "you don't get to be in charge, Spector," you leaned close enough for your lips to graze his earlobe, "I do."

You grabbed his ear in between your lips and gently nipped it, gaining a groan from the man. You'd never imagine him to be this submissive, especially not this fast, but it seems there's a lot you didn't know about Marc Spector.

"Look at you," you harshly whispered, your lips trailing down his sharp jawline, "groaning like a bitch in heat and I barely touched you."

Marc sharply inhaled while you sucked marks onto his stubbled jaw. He could barely concentrate long enough to snap back at your remark.

You used your free hand to slide up beneath the incredibly tight t-shirt he had been wearing and couldn't help but smile at the shiver that your touch sent through his body.

"You like when I touch you like this?" you cooed with pouty lips, intentionally taunting him, "You like the way my hands feel right...here?" your hand traveled further south with your words. A strangled groan sounded from his throat when you briefly palmed his growing erection through his tight jeans.

You could see him fighting his instincts to overpower you and take back control as you pressed chaste kisses on the corner of his mouth.

Soon enough, he gained back focus and brought a hand forward to grip your waist through the tank top you had been wearing. He used his hold on you to pull you flush against him in an attempt to relieve the tension in his jeans.

The sheer strength in his grip made your mouth briefly snap open and a low moan escaped your lips.

Now it was Marc's turn to smirk at you.

But you wouldn't give up the reigns that easily.

You quickly freed yourself from his hold and took a few steps back.

Marc's chest heaved as he watched you with furrowed brows, buzzing with curiosity and possibly excitement about your next moves.

A small grin soon found its way onto your face. Taking care to make a show of your movements, you slowly lifted your arms to remove your top.

Marc's dilated brown eyes followed your every move.

Once your shirt and bra were removed, you were left topless gaining a ravenous stare from Marc.

Not giving him a chance to pounce, you turned around and walked towards the soft couch on the other side of the room.

Marc followed behind you eagerly, all the while appreciating the view of you from behind, (something he had caught himself doing many times before.)

"Take off your clothes and sit down, Spector," you commanded him with a sure yet airy tone. Marc was shocked to find himself quickly obeying your orders, but with eyes like yours and a voice like that, you'd be able to get him to lift up a planet with ease.

It took Marc mere seconds to do what you asked. You followed suit by removing the rest of your clothes except your underwear.

The brunette man sat in the center of your couch with his arms splayed across the back, looking up at you with a cool expression on his face. But his eyes betrayed his true eagerness.

You took a few steps forward to meet him and carefully positioned yourself to straddle his naked legs.

The moment your skin met his, Marc sharply inhaled and brought his hands to grab your ass cheeks.

"Somebody's eager," you taunted as you began to torturously grind your clothed front against his firm member.

"I can feel your wetness through your panties, sweetheart. You want this as much as I do."

He had a point there.

You then brought your hands up his toned abdomen and at rest on each side of his neck before leaning in to press your breasts against his chest.

"Well, then," you softly spoke, "let's get on with it."

An unseen force pulled your lips crashing down against Marc's soon after. Your teeth and tongue clashed deliciously, neither of you being able to get enough.

You felt him rub his large palms against the smooth skin of your bare waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You rocked your covered pussy particularly hard against Marc's pulsing erection. This gained you a low moan from him, which you took as an opportunity to shove your tongue in between his wet lips, deepening the already heated kiss.

Your hands tangled within Marc's hair, your mouths continuing to move in a perfect dance, before you felt a sharp sting against your ass.

This gained Marc an impressed yelp from your lips. "Stop teasing," he scowled.

You couldn't help but laugh at the desperation in his tone. "I'll do whatever the fuck I want, Marc Spector," you smiled, your fingers lightly swiping over his swollen lips.

It was almost as if you were in a dream sequence when you looked down at the adonis of a man beneath you. His chocolate eyes were fully locked onto yours while he gripped your hips with the force of a thousand suns. You were positive it would leave bruises the next day but you couldn't care less. His defined chest and arms glistened with a light sheen of sweat, and you suddenly felt the urge to lick them.

"Like what you see, sunshine?" he smiled up at you, trying to hide the fact that he had been taking in your features and was in awe of them as well.

"Hmm mhm," you confessed, "Let me show you just how much," you said, starting to slide off Marc's lap and onto your knees before him.

"Hey," he called out in an attempt to stop you, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to." You were surprised to hear that his tone was genuine.

But it just made you want to suck his cock even more.

"I really want to," you nodded with a teasing grin.

"Besides, I would never pass up the opportunity to hear you groaning and twitching like a little bitch, Spector," you taunted him as you softly gripped the base of his large dick. You were almost scared by his girth and length, never having been with a man with anything close to it before, but you did not allow your face to betray your shock.

"Is that a challenge?" Marc referenced your teasing.

"Sure, why not," you shrugged.

Marc made himself comfortable and rested his hands behind his head with a pleasant smile. He could tell from your expression that you were intimidated by his size and that made his grin grow wider.

You made sure to hold eye contact with him as you slowly licked up the small pool of precum that had gathered around his tip. You held back a moan at how good he tasted

His resolve nearly broke the moment your tongue touched him.

You wasted no time and wrapped your eager lips around nearly half of Marc's length, catching him by surprise.

"Fuck!" he sharply groaned at the sudden motion.

You quickly removed your mouth from around him. "Would you like me to stop?" you asked, damn well knowing the answer.

"Absolutely the fuck not," Marc panted. He then brought one of his hands to rest in your hair and guided your lips back to his throbbing cock.

But you immediately slapped away his hand. "Keep your hands to yourself or I will put my clothes back on and go to bed," you lied, wanting to establish even more control over him.

"You wouldn't fucking dare," Marc quickly sat up.

"You're right, I wouldn't," you didn't spare another second before attaching your lips back onto Marc's cock.

This time you were determined to unravel him even more, so you began to bob your head up and down on his length. Drool soon ran down the side of your lips as you were barely able to fit Marc's cock into your mouth, and you were nowhere near the base.

But he was still losing it.

From the side of your eye, you could see Marc gripping your couch harshly, taking deep and controlled breaths.

You decided to make things even harder.

Releasing his cock from the onslaught of your mouth, you slid back up onto the couch and resorted to using your hand to cover more ground.

As your hand gripped Marc's cock and began to stroke, you kissed along the side of his neck, causing him to swallow harshly in an attempt to hold himself back.

"Come on Marc, let go," you whispered as you quickened your hand's jerking pace, "I know you want to," you added before licking a stripe below his ear.

You were driving Marc insane. And he could barely form words to let you know it, but you could see it.

Your hand began to work Marc's cock even faster while you continued to litter his neck with kisses and bruises, causing his breathing to pick up. He began thrusting his hips upwards to meet your downward jerking, desperate for more friction and release.

"Cum for me, Marc," you urged him before turning his head towards you for a deep kiss on his lips.

"You're too fucking good at this, Y/N," he softly groaned, taking care to hold your stare.

"I'm good at a lot of other things too," you grinned.

The sounds of your hand jerking off Marc's cock echoed in your apartment as tides of pleasure coursed through him.

"Fuck I'm gonna-"

But Marc couldn't finish his sentence because at that moment you swiftly removed your hand from around his dick.

"What the hell?" he complained.

"Oh, I'm sorry were you really gonna cum before me?" you tilted your head.

Marc's eyes narrowed in your direction, his sharp jaw clenching in annoyance at your denial of his orgasm.

"This is my house, Marc, I come first," you held back a giggle at your double entendre.

You were elated to see Marc grow even more eager at your words.

Before you knew it, you felt your body be dragged from the arm of the couch and into the middle, and your legs pushed open soon after. The tear of cloth sounded through the room when Marc swiftly removed your panties and threw them to the side.

A moan slipped from your lips as you watched Marc wet his lips and then his fingers. This man was sex on legs.

"Oh fuck," you groaned when he leaned down and licked a stripe up your dripping pussy.

Your moans grew sloppier as he began to eat you like a man starved while massaging your clit with his fingers.

"Yes, oh God, yes don't stop Marc," you panted, your hands soon finding their way into Marc's messy curls.

He slowly inserted two fingers into your hole. "You're so fucking tight, sunshine," Marc commented as he skillfully used his fingers to pleasure you.

"Keep going," you replied before bringing his head back into your pussy.

But Marc surprised you once again when he removed his hands and mouth from you completely and picked you up, as if you were nothing more than a feather, and carried you to where your large bed lay in the corner of the room.

You giggled once he dropped you onto the soft mattress, watching him slide above you. He wore a gorgeous smile on his face as he held you in place and pushed a strand of hair away from your face.

His stare was so meaningful and intimidating that you found yourself blushing.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he softly spoke.

"So are you," you found yourself replying with a smile, and meaning it.

Marc leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. But this time, the kiss was softer and more gentle.

You found yourself enjoying the intimate act more than you expected and leaned into the kiss. A foreign feeling bubbled in your stomach as you continued to kiss Marc.

But you soon felt him pulling away.

Not long after, however, you felt something smooth and wet against your breasts.

You opened your eyes to see him sucking one of your perked nipples into his mouth while his free hand played with the other. Your body tinged with pleasure as Marc switched between your tits, even lightly nipping at your nipples a few times.

All the while his eyes never left yours.

You reached down and ran your hand through his hair, which was now moistened with sweat. "I want to sit on that pretty face of yours," you suddenly suggested.

"You read my mind baby."

You both quickly moved into the proper positions, with your body hovering above his hungry mouth. He roughly gripped your thighs and looked up at you through his thick lashes.

"Tap on my legs if I'm suffocating you," you softly told him, "I'd rather you not die before I get to fuck you."

Marc, however, was not the least bit concerned and harshly pulled you down onto his lips.

"Shit!" you loudly squealed as his tongue immediately went back to work on your clit.

You soon gripped his head and began rocking back on forth on his mouth.

The mercenary moaned his approval at your movements which shot straight through your pussy and made you gasp.

"I'm gonna cum already, fuck," your chest heaved.

Marc's hand moved up to squeeze your ass as you picked up speed, riding his face even harder.

You grew worried about him running out of air beneath you and slowly tried to lift yourself up, but Marc's grip on your butt kept you in place.

He wouldn't mind dying like this, he thought to himself.

Your moans grew high pitched and Marc's tongue moved at a more rapid pace initiating your orgasm.

The repeated brush of his perfectly pointy nose against your clit was all it took for that dam to break.

"Holy fuck-" you slammed a hand over your mouth to hold back a scream as you came all over Marc's mouth.

He had no issue swallowing every bit of your slick that he could, holding you upright while your legs quivered on the sides of his head.

A few seconds passed and you realized that Marc was fully prepared to continue devouring your cunt despite the severe orgasm that rocked you.

"Ease up, soldier," you giggled down at him, forcing your legs free of his hands.

"You taste fantastic, sunshine," he finally relented. You moved over to lay by his side, trying not to get lost in the way he looked at you.

"You eat pussy like a demon," you both laughed, your hand caressing the side of his face.

Marc wrapped a hand around your waist and pulled you in for a kiss.

He swallowed the moan that left you as your own taste flooded your senses.

His kisses were intoxicating.

Marc slowly shifted to hover over your body, not yet breaking the sloppy kiss.

But you caught his shoulder and shoved him onto his back before positioning yourself on his lap. "Uh, uh," you smirked, leaning down to press a wet kiss to his neck.

Marc used one hand to smack your ass while the other lined his painfully hard cock with your entrance. "You gonna let me fuck you, or what?" he grinned up at you, his gruff tone and rough accent making you wetter.

You shut him up promptly by reaching around and gripping his dick, gaining a deep groan from him. You then slowly guided him into your soaking cunt, loudly moaning from the stretch.

It was initially painful but with Marc pressing kisses to your neck and whispering praises in your ears, the pain disappeared quickly.

"There you go baby," he slowly guided your hips up and down his length.

Your shared moans echoed all throughout your room as you began riding Marc's cock even faster.

By now, he was fully inside you and with every thrust, he hit your g-spot perfectly.

"You feel so good around me sunshine," Marc wrapped his arms around your back, cradling you closer to his chest.

His words caused you to briefly clench around him which only drove him to fuck up into you harder.

But then you used all your strength to push him flat onto his back before diving down to wrap your hands around his neck.

Marc was grinning like a maniac as you choked him while bouncing on his cock.

He never thought he'd enjoy being controlled but seeing you take what you want, and use him just the way you want, made his head spin.

Freeing himself from your grip on his neck, Marc secured his hold on you and switched your positions.

Your eyes widened as Marc was now on top of you, smirking while his hands found their way around your neck. "My turn," he whispered before ramming his fat cock into your sopping hole.

"Marc! Fuck!" you loudly moaned, pleasure attacking you in waves as Marc set a brutal pace inside you. That coupled with the lack of air from his grip around your neck had your orgasm slamming into you.

"Cum on my cock baby, I got you," he talked you through it.

Marc then used one hand and reached down to skillfully rub your clit, hoping to push you farther over the edge.

You felt tears of pleasure spring from your eyes as Marc's relentless pounding and his fingers prolonged your orgasm into another one.

He eased the pressure on your neck and slowed his thrusts before leaning down to kiss where your tears met your cheek.

"You're doing so good for me sunshine, keep going," he grinned, using a hand to wipe away the layer of sweat that formed on your forehead.

You took a deep breath and grinned up at him. "That was fucking intense," you panted, your legs still twitching as Marc began slowly rocking into you again.

"Well don't slow down on my account," you urged him.

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest at your demand. But things took a turn when he pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach.

Marc held both your hands behind your back with a vice grip as he fucked his length back into your sex.

"Fuck yes, harder Marc," you shouted.

Marc pulled your upper body to his chest with both arms and pounded into you with fury.

"This is what you wanted right?" he sneered into your ears, maintaining his thrusts.

"Yes, yes, God, yes-" you babbled.

His pace eventually grew sloppy, telling you he was reaching his own orgasm soon.

You turned your head to see his brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to hold back. "It's okay Marc," you kissed beneath his earlobe, "I need you to cum inside me, lemme feel you."

Marc's breathing began to pick up at your plea. "Shit," he panted and thrust into you one more time. The force with which he fucked into you was enough to garner another orgasm from you instantaneously.

A pathetic whine left your lips as you felt his cock twitch before painting your walls with his warm cum.

He pressed a chaste kiss to your shoulder as you both came down from your highs. Marc slowly withdrew from your heat with a satisfied groan. He then guided you to carefully lie down.

Spent from the day's activity, you complied and tried to rid your mind of its haze.

You managed to catch the sight of Marc walking into your bathroom and couldn't fight the smile that appeared when he returned with a damp rag.

"You didn't have to do that for me," you said as he gently spread your sore legs and used the rag to clean the remnants of him.

"Why do you refuse to let people take care of you?" he smiled with furrowed brows, continuing to clean between your legs.

"No, you buffoon," you rolled your eyes, "I was going to go pee anyways, so you're literally wasting your time."

"Oh."

You laughed at his dumbfounded expression. "Thanks though," you quickly kissed his forehead before making your way to the bathroom.

And then it was his turn to laugh when you stumbled into the closest wall in an attempt to walk normally.

His laughs continued despite your protests but he stood and approached your crumpled figure.

"Need a hand, sunshine?" he teased you.

You glared up at him through your lashes and reluctantly accepted his help.

"Didn't I tell you to stop calling me that?" you raised a brow as he guided you to your bathroom.

"You didn't seem to mind it when I was fucking your brains out, sunshine."

A/N: I started this in June and finally finished it even tho it's fucking December LMAO

Remember to comment, like, and reblog! And feel free to send in more requests! ( to my dom!Peter Parker request, I'm making it happen I promise)

[ghostinthegallery]

Quick drabble, for distraction purposes

Szarekh & Orikan (Szarekh/Imotekh mentioned)

Orikan swore this was the last summons would ever answer from the Silent King.

The king’s command protocols had yet to remove themselves from his mind. Szarekh had declared they would do so, but only once they had all entered their sleep. Part of Orikan feared he would awaken and still feel the dreadful impulse to obey, but deep down he knew that Szarekh was many things—arrogant, foolish, full of hubris—but he was not a liar. 

Orikan translated down to the surface of a moon orbiting Mandragora. The entrance of a modest tomb complex stood before him. He passed the carved with glyphs of protection and rest that would have once adorned a tomb of a dead necrontyr. Specifically a dead military necrontyr.

This was a soldier’s grave.

Orikan passed rows of warriors and immortals already at rest, though they stood as if they could fight at any moment. Orikan was amongst the last of his kind to enter his stasis. He was still running calculations, trying to ensure no damage would come from the drift of planets and stars while the Sautekh slept. A vital duty, if one he might be tempted to…use to his advantage.

His metal feet hit the stone floor with eerie clicks. A tomb spyder scanned him and evidently decided he was no threat. Orikan continued to the inner sanctum, which held a single sarcophagus. A simple, blackstone coffin, barely embellished with silver and bronze. Orikan’s tail flicked in annoyance.

The greatest general of the necrons deserved better than a box.

Imotekh the Stormlord already lay still in his tomb. Orikan could see his face through clear glass. His oculars were dark, but the tomb hummed with the power emitted from the stasis device keeping him alive. 

A shape moved in the shadows. It was not another canoptek as Orikan had frist thought. The shape was tall, lean. Green light glinted off of bronze necrodermis.

Orikan bowed, hating the treacherous body in which the star gods had trapped him for yielding to the urge so quickly.

“Hail, Silent King.” His vocal actuator likewise betrayed him and spoke the greeting.

Szarekh waved his fingers and Orikan rose, as if an invisible hand had ceased pressing on his back.

“What do you want?” Orikan said with as few glyphs of respect as his engrams would allow.

Szarekh did not speak. The bastard hardly ever did. He barely paid Orikan any mind at all. He stepped forward, reached out his hand, and placed it on the side of Imotekh’s tomb.

“I thank you for coming, master astromancer.”

Orikan huffed. Szarekh had done something like this in fleshtimes as well. Writing when he wanted to make his words known, but did not want to take on the hekatic weight of speech. Orikan had always thought of it as cheating.

“I come at your command,” Orikan replied, with all the venom he could muster.

Szarekh nodded, continuing to run his fingers along the edge of the Stormlord’s coffin. His touch was tender, and even Orikan could sense a longing in the Silent King’s oculars.

“I request a favor of you, Diviner.”

Now Orikan was surprised. Kings did not make requests. They spoke their will into existence and their lessers scrambled to ensure reality matched their vision. Orikan kept waiting for the compulsion to listen and obey that the c’tan had programmed into his mind, but it never came.

“What…do you want?” he asked.

Szarekh let out a static sigh. “Imotekh…will he awaken?”

“Imotekh?” Orikan shook his head. “Why would he not—”

He stopped himself. Obviously there were many reasons one might not awaken. Mechanical failures were barely a concern, and Orikan had already read the movements of the stars. Their tombs were hidden from the Old One’s science experiments—orkoids and aeldar. The only true risk was…

“You fear a rival will destroy him?”

Szarekh nodded once. Immediately Orikan’s neural buffer flooded with questions. What rivals? From within the dynasty? Surely no noble would be stupid enough to destroy the Sautekh’s greatest weapon. More likely an outsider would desire to kill the general while he slept. That would weaken them immediately. Then again, necrons were as petty as the necontye had been. Imotekh had angered enough people in his time. Orikan could imagine so many cowards going out of their way to kill the Stormlord while they had the chance

“Why do you care?” Orikan demanded. “What business is it of yours? Nemesor Imotekh has spoken out against you more than any other necron.”

The general had never disobeyed directly, but he had questioned Szarekh’s strategies in the War in Heaven. He’d made his opinion of Szarekh’s Great Sleep clear. Orikan hated to admit it, but he admired Imotekh for that. And he did not hand out his admiration easily.

Apparently he wasn’t alone.

Szarekh was staring at the general’s sleeping face. Orikan had been terrible at reading expressions back when they had proper faces, instead of unmoving deathmasks. He was even worse at it now. But the sorrow in the room was palpable. An interstitial presence Orikan could not deny. Szarekh’s reget and desire permeated the tomb like a miasma, which left Orikan even more confused.

“My exile begins soon. I will never see him again, but please, Diviner, make sure that he wakes up.” 

Before Orikan could respond, green light covered the Silent King. He vanished, leaving his hand upon Imotekh’s sarcophagus until the moment he disappeared.

Orikan shook his head and ran a diagnostic on his engrams. He was half-sure he’d hallucinated all that. But no. He had not. Szarekh had just asked him to guard the sleeping soldier’s tomb.

Not that he’d waited for Orikan to agree. He almost marched out of the place to spite the ruler, but instead he sat down and crossed his legs. He expanded his chest as if he were taking a meditative breath. The cosmos opened themselves to him, like a mother opening their arms to a child.

It took him time to untangle the threads of potential. What he found took him aback. Imotekh would not wake. He would be killed as he slept. Orikan could not see by whom. It kept changing every time he looked. A phoenix lord, a rival noble, someone within the Sautekh, someone after revenge, even creatures Orikan did not even recognize.

And in every future he saw, the Silent King mourned. It was bitter and desperate, and even the echo dug icy claws into Orikan’s core. Almost enough to make him scream with the need to weep when he no longer had tears.

Orikan cast that aside. He did not care if Szarekh got upset over a dead sandborn. However, Orikan did care about the Sautekh dynasty. He had tethered himself to it and therefore needed the noble house to succeed. 

Not to mention he would rather live in a universe with Imotekh than without. Their nobles were worse than useless. The Stormlord was the true power. Orikan had so few people he respected. It would be a shame to lose one. 

So he began to weave his own tapestry of causality. And in this tapestry, Imotekh arose in flux-soaked glory. Violence, darkness, conquering tides of silver. All the price for dragging the soldier from the jaws of his fate. 

Orikan swore this was the last order he would ever obey from the Silent King.

[banamine-bananime]

can you fucking imagine being so high on norepinephrine you’re practically on another plane of existence because it’s finally the moment you’re making a break for it trying to finally finish off the murderer who’s been lying in wait for you to get too desperate in the desert tomb temple you’ve sealed yourself in alone for months and some friends you have really mixed feelings about showed up long after you pretty much gave up hope anyone was listening to your distress calls and you kinda never thought you’d see them again or maybe never see anyone again except the guys trying to kill you and now oh wow suddenly there are actual real physical people !! to see and talk to and touch !! but you’re now experiencing the weirdest collision between your past and present and also as surreally nostalgic and euphoric as it is to see them again they’re also just about the most stressful people that could possibly have turned up because oh my god no you have to keep these people from causing disaster on top of managing everything else holy shit fuck your job fuck your life and also uh you’re Not Dealing With This Right Now but they’re telling you your best friend you kinda had insane unresolved tension with is dead but also he’s here but also he doesn’t know who you - and only you - are but also he was never alive in the traditional sense but that’s different somehow apparently now he’s Dead-dead but you’re talking to him again so what the fuck are they talking about and fuck fuck fuck this ct asshole has you cornered on the edge of a fucking roof with a gun you’re about to die and you’re going down swinging and - holy shit holy shit holy shit that guy you had unresolved sexual tension with who came back from the dead just fucking swooped in and saved you by fucking disintegrating that guy UM OKAY THAT’S KINDA -

and then he says

without a shred of irony

“My name is Leonard Church... AND YOU WILL FEAR MY LASER FACE!!!”

like i’d have been fucking gone. neck broke by emotional whiplash and passed out from the terrifying speed of blood rushing away from my genitalia.

[ornii]

I didn’t realize how much people liked the Clark Kent Smallville X Wednesday Crossover. So I have to do a Part 2! Where you can read here!

The God Among Men, Part 2

(Y/n) and Wednesday continue to stare at each other. (Y/n)’s concentration breaks and he plummets from the sky to a loud bang on the ground, Wednesday quickly puts her string down and rushes to the balcony’s edge to see his fate. She peers over the railing and was surprised to see (Y/n) sitting up, rubbing his back.

“Ow..” he said, a fall that height should cause serious damage to the body but it looks like it did nothing to him. (Y/n) realizes just how bad this looks, his attention turns upward to Wednesday.

“Umm, Sorry!” He yells, before standing up to run away out of embarrassment. He hoped that this would be a singular mishap and leave it at that, unfortunately this is Wednesday Addams, and nothing is singular with her. (Y/n) unfortunately shared a chemistry class together so avoiding her was useless. The next morning was more than awkward, he kept his eyes locked on Miss Thornhill to avoid Wednesdays side eye. When class ends almost like a blur he’s already trying to get to the quad to lose Wednesday, getting round a corner he breathed a sigh of relief. Until Wednesday comes almost out of nowhere and pins him to the wall. Granted he towers over her at 5’11, her 5’1 absolutely intimidating stature wasn’t something the Kansas boy was used to.

“So, we have a peeping Tom in our midsts.” She keeps that cold, deathstare.

“No! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to, I was just listening to your music and I, got too close..” he sheepishly keeps his eyes from locking on hers.

“They’d expel you for what you’ve done, but.. I’ll consider looking the other way..” she said, his eyes slowly locked with hers. “For your undying service..”

“Undying Service? That, seems a bit extreme doesn’t it? Why not something more, mild?” He asks awkwardly.

“I don’t do mild. Either take my offer or be shipped away to a juvenile prison.”

“.. okay, fine.” He relents, Wednesday wasn’t your typical mean girl, she wasn’t mean she was, cold, Unnerving, probably dead too. But she knew how to use people to her advantage, no matter how pure hearted they are. “What do you want me to do?” (Y/n) asks, Wednesday steps back, letting him have his own personal space finally.

“Nothing. Yet. But I will call upon you, one day… it’s in your best interest to not forget our arrangement.” She gives one last threat before leaving like a shadow, (Y/n) let’s put a sigh, hoping that this will be quickly put to an end. Little did he know it was very, far from over.

“Why am I doing this?” (Y/n) walks though the cemetery with Wednesday, who’s ignoring his crying and whining.

“Because you swore an oath of Fealty.”

“No, no I didn’t.” He replies, “I’m being blackmailed.

“Same thing.” She retorts. They stop at a large tomb, “this, open it.” She said. (Y/n) looks at her.

“That’s it?”

“I can come up with more for you to do..” Wednesday ponders

“No no this is fine, I just expected, more.”

“More? It’s an ancient Crackstone tomb sealed for hundreds of years. I had to recruit someone who decipher the password to open it.” She says, (Y/n) simply turns his head to the door and concentrates, she watches red gleam from his eyes. She was stunned by the beam of intense heat that cut though the stone wall, he creates a shape hole and it begins to collapse. She steps back to avoid being crushed, (Y/n) so calmly lifted his hand, it hits his palm and didn’t move an inch, Wednesday watches in shock as he casually tosses the door to the side.

“So, we keep going?” He asks Her, Wednesday didn’t know what to say.

“Y-yes, let’s.” She said and walked into the Tomb, the cold decrepit place smelled of death. A lingering smirk crept along her face. (Y/n) felt the stench of death and he follows the girl around. Staring at the spot on the back of her head.

“So, what are you here for?” He asks her; who begins to look around the tomb.

“Do you remember Rowan?”

“The guy you said was murdered and who randomly appeared fine the next day?” He replies sarcastically. Wednesday morning chores his quip and searches the interior for any inscribing.

“Point is, It’s my belief that Rowan was killed, and the one you saw was a fake, someone meant to keep up appearances. It would be tragic to hear that a student was murdered here. Bad press and all that.” Wednesday explains, (Y/n) rubs his chin.

“Well when I used my X-ray vision, everything seemed fine with him.”

“X-ray Vision?” Wednesday Asks.

“Yeah, let’s me see though walls, rocks, inside the human body, no lead though.” He adds in.

“So it allows you to see though clothes as well.”

“Uh, Yeah?” He replies, and quickly makes the assessment of what Wednesday was thinking. “I didn’t use it on you. I promise.” He said, Wednesday stares daggers into his eyes and sees he’s genuine about it, and drops the conversation.

“Point is, I had a, vision.. Crackstone putting innocent lives to the stake. Nevermore lives, like you and I.” Wednesday looks over to multiple inscriptions over the tomb.

“So my theory lead to the serial killer and the knee covering up the murders. They aren’t working together, but they’re covering up third killings to avoid more scrutiny from the public.” She explains, reading a tombstone.

“So, they’re letting this killer get away because they don’t want the public to freak out?”

“So to speak, from what the Principal tried to infer to me, it’s all ridiculous And self serving for Jericho.”

“… You’re right.” He said, Wednesday wasn’t used to hearing someone actually agree with her.

“It’s wrong, covering up the truth to make life easier, just makes the people who know it hate it even more.” (Y/n) walks over to Wednesday, their height difference was profound as she had to almost look up to him.

“If you’re searching for the truth. I want to help, I’m not as smart as you I’ll admit but I’ll do my best.” He says, Wednesday, even if she didn’t act like it, appreciated the gesture. The two exit the tomb and Wednesday dusts herself off.

“As much as I enjoy the decrepit and cold ambiance, I hate getting my clothes with cobwebs.

“I could blow it off for you.”

“If your breath could freeze me to death like you said, I’d rather not.” She says, (Y/n) checks his watch.

“It’s nearing 3, we’ll be late for class.” (Y/n)

“And Weems would have my head for being late.” Wednesday said, grumbling. (Y/n) offers his hand, Wednesday looks at it and then back up to him.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I despise human contact, especially yours.”

“Wednesday, if we want to find this Killer we have to stay in Weems Good graces, so put your big girl Stockings on and take my hand!” He said with much more serious flare. Wednesday reluctantly sighs.

“Fine, just do what’s necessary—“ Before she could properly warn him, he swept her off her feet like the Prince Charming he is, and leaped, flying into the air. The sudden shift in air and temperature caught Wednesday off guard, she looked down, seeing the cemetery and the entire Nevermore grounds before her.

Height was always something she never truly appreciated until now, being able to see, everything, changed that. (Y/n) held her close as he searched for the Mathematics and Murder class. Finding the door he slowly descends down. Wednesday’s eyes went to his face as he kept them on the ground, he descended from the sky as if he was a god among men, landing calmly on the Quad he lets her go, still having his arm around her waist to keep her balance.

“Feeling okay?” He asks.

“Get your hand from around me before you lose it.” She demands, (Y/n) quickly moved, “Sorry.” He said, Wednesday said nothing and simply walked to class, she didn’t look back at him, either out of anger or embarrassment. (Y/n) shook his head and went to his. It seems this agreement could be much more than Wednesday herself could have asked for.