#been in such a writing mood as of late

[sourtomatola]

Camelot AU Comics

The kingdom used to be quiet and peaceful, but the king had seemed to be going mad. His court knights taking children off the streets, to never be seen again.

The disappearance of one particular child had cause such an uproar, that the kingdom fell into chaos.

As the town breeched the castle grounds, the court seemed to understand the outcry and turn against the king and his family. Before anyone could lay a hand on the king, his suit seemed to miraculously malfunction, and impale him with his own safety locks.

HIs body being left on the floor, his corpse was never found, and neither was the remains of the royal family.

Now without a ruler, the kingdom filled with fear. who would rule them? Who should step up for such a roll?

The day after the royal families disappearance, a sword appeared in the anvil of the churchyard. Engraved in the handle was the words "This sword will serve the one true king."

Many tried to pull the sword, but all failed. The sword was left alone for almost a decade.

Then, episode 1, season 1 happened.

Season 1

First | part2 | part3 | part4 | part5 | part6 | part7 | Part8 | part9

Season 2

Part1 | Part2 | Part3 | Part4 | Part5 | Part6 | Part7 | Part8 | Part9 | part10 | Part 11

Season 3

Part 1 | Part2 | Part3 | Part4 | Part5 | Part6 | Part7 | Part8 | Part9 | Part10 | Part11 | Part12

Season 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part6 | Part 7 | Part8 | Part9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17

[girlboyburger]

[benevolenterrancy]

hi!! I think your art is *so cool* o(≧∇≦o)

do you think you could draw more moshang? either post canon or that au you did last time?? (baby mobei has my heart and all I own)

(˵ •̀ ᴗ •́ ˵ ) oh! how about return to childhood—moshang flavor?

don't question this king, shang qinghua, he knows what he's about

[calmlb]

save me beast skk, my codependent babies

[misc-obeyme]

You were so unexpected. He knew that you were yet another task that Lucifer was pushing off on him for the sake of Lord Diavolo. Only another instance of being used, of being relied on, of being given the job no one else wanted to do.

It was difficult at first. A great demon like him had better things to do than babysit a fragile human like you. But time passed. Things changed. You changed and he changed and everyone else changed, too.

And then one day Mammon looked at you and saw his entire world.

He saw his sun in your eyes and his moon in your smile. His sky in the soft expanse of your skin. His roots in your fingers slotted perfectly with his. Time and tide and thunder and lightning, every part of him and every part of you - it was his everything.

It almost hurt to say it out loud. To admit to this vulnerability. His greatest weakness. It was always you. It would always be you. And in darkness, when you couldn't quite see him, he found he was desperate to whisper his truth into you. Pressing his face against your hair or your neck, his arms around you, feeling your heartbeat thudding against his. When he could just exist there, in the only place he ever felt like he truly belonged.

The Celestial Realm didn't want him. And the Devildom was only home because no place else could be.

Until you.

You saw him for who he was. A demon, a former angel, but more than any of that, you saw a brother, a friend, a lover. You saw the part of him that wanted to have fun, pulling pranks on Lucifer and going out clubbing with Asmo. You saw the part of him that wanted to protect, threatening Levi's bullies and taking the blame for Belphie. You saw the part of him that kept things normal for his family, teasing Satan and gifting things to Beel. And more than anything, you saw him when he was open and raw - when he didn't hide himself behind too much bluster, when he admitted how much his brothers meant to him. How much he loved you.

And maybe it was a little bit dangerous. Mammon knew that when it came to you, it would take so little. That in an instant he could become a demon whose power and rage cracked through the very fabric of existence. The kind of demon he never felt the need to be, the full potential that he let pass by in favor of keeping the peace. It would be nothing if it meant keeping you safe.

Pact or no pact, Mammon knew the truth. And deep down, he was sure you knew it, too.

That Mammon would let that power off its leash and bathe the world in blood, only for you.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[featguler]

thinking of waking up in the morning, on the same bed as jude with his soft snores and occasional tosses from one side of his body to the other. thinking about lying next to him, his eyes closed. he's never been a heavy sleeper, no not unless he's especially tired, so you try not to breathe too loud. both your hands are pinned under your ear, and your lips parted to soften your breathing. and thinking about just watching him sleep, and watching the sun rise on the window behind him; thinking about that euphoric feeling in your chest, face beaming with a smile that you are still too embarrassed for him to see—you've got jude bellingham here right now, on your bed, or his, and even better: he's in love with you the way you are in love with him. and you look at him. you look at him only to wish the sun will stop mid-course, and if it could, let the world come to end, just so that the last thing you are graced to see will be his pretty face

[brisquad-unit-4402]

cuddling to sleep with noctyx

i’m back in my sonny brisko appreciation (non-parasocial) arc. but did i ever really leave?

tags: gender neutral reader, achillean reader in uki’s entry (no f!reader x uki), established relationship, fluff, do not enable me and my sonny delusions i had to cut myself off so hard here

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🎭 Alban Knox

he sleeps on his side most often and usually faces you for the warmth

it explains why his definition of “comfortable” is pressed up against you, resting his head in whatever nook he finds along your body. his legs tangle up with yours and then tumble out of the way in the middle of the night

but uh, doesn’t explain how when you fall asleep and he’s still awake, he places one of his hands around your cheek

he doesn’t move it. his pinky curls around your jawline, a thumb close to your lips, slightly parted as you rest. he’s worried if he moves it’ll stir you awake

so he stays put, letting your heat sink in through his palm as it frames you. every pore of your skin. the color on your face dyed in the dark. the soft lashes over your closed eyes

he counts the latter until his own are fighting to stay open as well. when they do he always loses track of the number, but he, admittedly, sheepishly, wishes he could admire them with full attention

when you wake up it’s to alban’s slumbering face, always the second to wake after you, and his gentle grasp connecting you together, still with that hand resting along your cheek

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🐑 Fulgur Ovid

he claims he’s not a romantic and doesn’t like to be touched often. which is true; you doubt he even owns a pair of rose-tinted shades

for the most part affection is expressed through quality time and acts of service rather than physical touch. night is one of the few exceptions

he doesn’t know how but he can’t get comfortable without your head resting on his chest like a pillow

he tries to rationalize it by comparing you to a weighted blanket, or how some nights when he takes off his limbs to get comfortable it’s like you’re making up for his metal weight. phantom ease rather than pain

it’s strange. it’s the most peaceful moment of the day. he doesn’t know how to handle it when it feels so effortless. aren’t you only supposed to feel this way after a grand gesture?

a human heartbeat travels up his throa2, and rather than anxiety, it's calm. your leg wrapped along his cold skin eases him and he doesn't understand it. you slow him down when he's used to living in a whirlwind

his brain is always set to analyze but this may be one of the few times he wishes he could shut it off. instead he savors it as you both drift off, and refuses to bring it up when he wakes up

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🔗 Sonny Brisko

above all else he prioritizes learning what you like, what you want, how he can put you at ease even though he’s so unsure of himself and what he’s doing

you’ll have to reassure him but eventually he’ll come into his own. and when he does he still keeps your preferences in mind while making himself at home

he likes bear hugs, his cheek up against your back as you spoon, keeping his arms around you like a precious treasure

he doesn’t stay still. you can feel him rub circles along your back, searching down for your hand, giving it a squeeze and unconsciously rubbing his fingers along yours as he nuzzles closer to your nape

his favorite way to cuddle is with your head in his lap, drifting off while watching tv or his games

if he has a free hand it’ll be by your head, playing with your hair if you’ll let him, and giving you tons of headpats

he gets nervous when you look back at him but the small, dopey little smile on his face is too adorable to ignore. especially once your eyes close so he can lean over and kiss you on the forehead without any shame

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🔮 Uki Violeta

uki is someone that loves the feeling of being relied on and relying on his partner in turn, so of course his heart soars when you rest your head on his shoulder for a midday nap

especially when he can feel the grip on your interlocked hands loosen as you fall asleep. he looks at you so fondly once you drift off

he’ll lean his head on yours as well, if he can, letting his body relax as he does. he loves nuzzling and he loves indulging in it

as he presses his head to yours he tries to commit to memory the warmth of your skin, the gentle rise and fall of sleep, your soft scent…

your scent is especially comforting to him. it's human to the core with the slightest hints of where you've been. he’s already planning how to steal your shirt once the day ends because it’s too damn cozy and he never wants to let the moment end!

this is one of the rare times where uki forgets his stresses. all that matters is making sure this angel has the best nap possible

he doesn’t let go of your hand, even though his grip is soft. a manicured nail traces along one finger, soaking up the texture of your skin, and once you wake up with him fast asleep instead, you may just recognize the outline on your hand and cheek in the same shade as uki’s lip gloss

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[lenaellsi]

it's honestly a bit odd to me that so many people have jumped on the 'aziraphale will be pulling all the strings and playing politics in heaven' train. like I think it's true that the metatron is underestimating aziraphale's intelligence and ability to disrupt the second coming even while separated from crowley, but I also think the idea that aziraphale is going up to heaven with a clear idea of how he's just been lied to, an understanding of how much danger he's in, and a plan to stop it is a huge reach.

frankly, aziraphale is very vulnerable to manipulation. I'm thinking now of neil’s post with the diary entry from before the edinburgh minisode where he was duped by two humans, the whole thing with the nazis in 1941, and his sponsorship of shadwell's various obviously fake agents (sergeant milkbottle, etc.). he's not nearly as savvy as fanon tends to portray him. he takes people at face value, especially people he thinks of as Good. (that's not a dunk, btw--I find these things endearing, and a sign of aziraphale's innate wish to see the best in people. I just think that sometimes the BAMF protective aziraphale of fanon overshadows the slightly more naive aziraphale of canon. and honestly, I also think TV aziraphale is just a bit softer than book aziraphale, though he is capable of stepping up when it counts.)

and he's a bad liar! I know it's a meme in the fandom that aziraphale lies all the time, but he doesn't like it, and he's bad at it. he gets nervous and comes up with terrible excuses and the only reason he ever gets away with it is because the people he's lying to are idiots (gabriel), have their own agendas (god, the other archangels), or trust him to be honest (crowley).

aziraphale's real strength is his ability to take sudden, completely unexpected action. that's one of the things that crowley admires most about him. "he's unpredictable," is what he says to nina, and it's true! aziraphale's greatest moments of rebellion have always come from spur of the moment decisions, not intricate plans. (if anything, crowley is the planner--the arrangement and the thwarting of the apocalypse, their two longest cons, were both his idea.)

aziraphale gives the sword away because when he is forced to make a decision under pressure, he tends to land on the side of rebellious kindness. shielding crowley from the rain in eden, lying to gabriel to protect job's family, defying the quartermaster and returning to earth via possession during the apocalypse, blowing up his halo--he does these things because he's following that same impulse. when aziraphale has time to over think, he frets and fusses and is paralyzed by indecision. (or worse, he falls back on what heaven has taught him.)

TL;DR: I don't think aziraphale has any sort of grand plan other than a generalized "make things better," and I certainly don't think he is planning to betray heaven. he might try to come up with a plan once he figures out how bad things are going to get, but my bet is that what will actually disrupt the second coming is an absolutely bonkers off the wall decision that no one, crowley included, could ever predict. and I think it’ll happen, as it usually does with aziraphale, just after he accepts a difficult truth that fundamentally shifts his worldview—in this case, his final rejection of the idea of “good” and “bad” people, and of the entire morality system of heaven and hell.

[rowrowronnie]

quick thing before i go back to doing homework 💪‼️

[sidesteppostinghours]

1 for the fhr prompts? :3

prompts from here!

HI I STARTED WRITING THIS THE MINUTE I SAW THE PROMPT LIST SO. EXCELLENT TIMING HONESTLY. this was a fun little what-if scenario very much inspired by @firststrikerr nefferious incident fic, you all should go read it, it has incredibly fun argent and chen dynamics. BUT ANYWAY. herald and argent.. go!!!

(oh also, pspsps @dogueteeth-fhr since you requested it as well)

1. "Oh, the PR department isn't going to like this."

"Oh," Argent says, a slow grin creeping onto her face, teeth as sharp as her smile as she inspects the picture on the fridge. "Oh, the PR department is going to hate this."

Daniel wasn't listening to her, too busy being miserable with his face buried in his hands. He'd been stuck like this for ten minutes now, wordlessly coming to terms with the fact he was getting fired. By this point, he was beginning to make peace with the idea of retiring. He had a good career. Maybe he could come back as a vigilante some time in the future with a proper masked identity this time. It was a miracle he wasn't fired the minute he stepped foot inside Steel's office; then again, maybe it would've been a mercy. That was easily the single most awkward conversation of his life. There's not exactly a tactful way to tell your teammate to not kiss the villain that broke his leg.

"Where did he even find this? I haven't seen anything on the papers yet." Argent tugs it off the fridge, thank god, grabbing a donut before plopping herself on the table next to him.

"I don't know," he groans, the first words he's said since he found it hung up. "They were there when I got here. I haven't seen Ricardo at all today."

"I'm surprised he hasn't tore you a new one yet." She takes a bite of her snack, looking at the pictures like she was reading the morning newspaper. "Cyrus to Puppeteer is one hell of a rebound."

Daniel grimaces, which was an appropriate reaction, but not for the reasons she thinks. Right. He broke up with Cyrus. That was bad enough for Ortega, but now he's made out with Puppeteer. Who is also Cyrus. Except Ortega doesn't know that, because Daniel kept it a secret. For Cyrus. And Puppeteer.

Ricardo was going to kill him.

"How long do you think it'll take till the press gets a hold of this?"

"Maybe... maybe PR will catch it in time?" He pulls his head up, looking at her with impossible hope.

She pauses her eating, looking over the picture to him with a single raised eyebrow. He groans again, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. He can hear her resuming her chewing.

"If it makes you feel any better, I think this is the first time Puppeteer's ever run away from you."

"Please." His suffering is still audible despite his voice being muffled by the table. "Be quiet."

It wasn't fair– what was Daniel supposed to do? They were in an abandoned building, nowhere near to any place the press should've been. He drags a hand over his face. The answer was obviously fight, but Puppeteer was taunting him. Getting riled up would've played right into his hands. He had shambled towards Herald with a stutter in his step that's so easy to connect now that he knows who's behind the mask. He thought the suit was designed to move like that, to play up the inhumanity (a terrible word choice, and it makes Daniel's mouth taste bitter).

"What would it take," he'd hummed, the vocal distorters turning it into a dissonant tune, "to finally make you face the truth?" He took a step forward, and Herald had stared him down, feet steady on the ground. "It was so easy getting what I needed out of you," he whispered. "You were so willing to be fooled." They were close enough to touch, but Puppeteer still had his hands neatly behind his back, and Herald hadn't budged. He had wondered what Cyrus could see on his face, read in his mind.

"You're nothing, Herald– to me, and to the rest of the idiots calling you heroes. Do yourself a favour, and quit before you end up embarrassing yourself again."

He was provoking him. It was clear to anybody who had any idea of the way Puppeteer operates. Part of Herald was tempted to give in– to take the first punch, and finally air out the grief he's been hiding for weeks. Was that his own sense of betrayal, or mental manipulation to goad him into acting? There was no way to be sure. The rest of him had wanted to prove him wrong.

So he did.

He finally closed the gap, quickly enough that Puppeteer didn't have a chance to register what was happening, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him into a kiss. It wasn't good, his mask isn't exactly one inviting affection, but it wasn't for long. He'd pulled away, and he could imagine the emotions going through Cyrus' face even with the mask on, hands caught halfway between any sort of movement. It was the same look he had when Daniel said he liked hanging out with him the first time they had coffee together. The same look when he admitted he was attracted to him. The same one when Daniel said he loved him.

He hadn't realized his hand had migrated from over his face to settle onto his mouth, and when he finally looks up again, Argent is staring at him, brows furrowed together. Shit.

"Listen, I don't know what's going on between you two, but-"

"You don't need to say it." There's a slight squeak to his voice as he cuts her off. "Please. Whatever you need to say, Steel already told me. I promise."

She smiles again, amused, finishing the last of her snack.

"Whatever you say," she shrugs, swinging her legs off the table to stand back up. "Have fun with Ortega," she sing-songs, turning around before she could see his face.

She throws the picture in the trash as she leaves, leaving Daniel to wallow in peace.

[pondslime]

"Life mocks me even in death."

Griffin Dunne as Jack Goodman AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON (1981) dir. John Landis

[bobardo]

tw!! dubcon/noncon. d/s dynamics. dacryphilia.

lowercase intended.

something something weeping willows. sweet sorrows—sour and saccharine. can’t get the idea of dark!clark kent out of my head who is noble and kind, fiducial (a fissure—misplaced and unsightly, malapropos on an Earth his people sought to sacrifice; burn from Adamite to ash). saves pretty, clement creatures—fragile things that fall over themselves in gratitude, praising him at his feet (dropping to their knees at some deviated alter, waterline wet with tears, whispers of a wilted life forcing their heads to bow, breath brushing him through his suit, the heat of their pouted, plush lip sinking into his being, pumping his blood down—).

he'd be cruel to let them crumble,

(kindness and cruelty exhaust meaning in his mind, their etymologies get scrambled in a mess of foreign history that, frankly, he has no care to acclimate himself with)

so he claws at their tiny figures and keeps them clung to him. callow calico that clark deposits in the safety of their homes (clark. Kal-El. King. God—voice of, but close enough).

safety. safe.

S.

"is that what it stands for?" you rush out before he can rise from your rooftop back into the clouds, a vivacious flash across your vision.

"what?"

"the 'S' on your suit; does it stand for safety?"

his chin drops to look at the aforementioned letter. "no."

(means hope. credence—for humans and all their stupidity: faith in fissility).

"savior?" you try next.

and he should have a thicker resolve, tougher flesh—impenetrable; Superman, Man of Steel

he's weak, no less.

"does it mean savior?"

he's not sure when exactly he started peering through your window. watching you walk home.

it feels innate. is. (like an addict going through withdrawals, he needs his fix because that'll make it right. make it—this. superiority and ubiety, the dichotomy of your savior—worth it).

it has to be when the day you come home from work utterly beat, he can sense your sorrow (smell its aroma through the cracks of your sill, taste the bite of salt, the nip sinking—searing, deep—into his heavy tongue.

his spit cultivates and his jowls ache—)

and he's really unsure of how he got in your bedroom, on your mattress, thighs bracketing your kneeling—kneeled, for you did not go quietly into the night—form, his hands fit to your jaw that’s part, stretched over the thick of his cock, lips pouted and plush, waterline wet with tears.

he's not sure, but he's certainly not complaining. not complaining, never complaining, never—

"stay," he husks, low enough that it could be missed, but with only you and him in the room—and the echos of your ministrations, gagging, chocking; disgustingly visceral. clotted saliva dribbles over your bottom lip and slicks your whole chin, thick, wet tendrils soaking through the white of your dress shirt while the audible nudge from the pink tip of his cock poking the back of your throat reverberates in your hollow head—you still hear him.

his jaw ticks and the blue of his irises cloud over with something stormy, his calloused thumb petting at the tear streaks at your under-eye, when you look at him through wet, sullen eyes.

"good," he nods, voice chafe, strained, the blanket of your throat constricted around him—air-tight and drowning, sloppy—making clark's eyelids stagger, heart flittering (fracturing. splinters from a whole, monadic figure, to something mangled and tangled with your sorrow; its form, physical, instilling nerves in your joints and drawing salt to your eyes) as the tip of your splayed tongue laves messily at his raphe, nose to his mons. "s'fucking—" he groans.

presses a hand to the top of your head when your chest convulses and you try to pull off, the fingers of his free hand coming to deftly pinch at your nostril, breath halting—halted.

"stay," and you do

(cheeks flushed and vision blurry, spotting, sour and saccharine, from the drill of his tip pushing too far past your tonsils)

"good," he moans, shuddering into the next bludgeoning grind of his hips.

the hand on the crown of your head fists at your scalp, and clark tears your away from his cock, twitching and drenched, dripping with your spit and tears. he tugs you up to a stand on your knees, away from the point of your heels that dug uncomfortably into your ass, and cradles your jaw once more to drag your face into his, not sparing a moment for your startled, soft whispers of woes before his lips are on your skin; the red, tear stained apples of your cheeks getting trailed by strawberry, chapped lips.

the bite of salt, the nip from your tears, sinks—sears, deep—into the cracks of his lips, and he grunts something low and growl-like when his tongue unfurls from the seal of his mouth to lick at your sorrow. he laps his way to your quivering, pouted lips and sucks you into him, nibbling meanly at your bottom lip just to draw a whimper (and a few more spills of salt) from the clement clay of your being.

your hands shoot up to grab feverishly onto the bulk of his biceps, swaying with the full-bodied, kinetic manner of his kisses. he doesn't allow you to stay long, though; rips away from your mouth with something akin to a snarl on his lips and its counterpart rumbling in the base of his chest. he clutches both of your hands—you gasp, eyes wide, at his asphyxiating grip—in one of his, the other keeping your face close to his by his grasp at your jaw, and pulls them down to his cock.

"put them—" he moves his fingers to yours (calloused against callow calico), forcing yours to fit—nearly, thumb and forefinger just inches apart—around him, squeezing, placing a pressure that makes his eyes roll. "—there."

his mouth finds yours again, tongue pressing, playing, claiming. he uses his hand around yours to guide the cradle of your palms up and down, tensile and tight, his cock, and then lets go to lean over you, bending your neck backward, craning, to curl his fingers around the hem of your black pencil skirt, yanking it up until it rests—whorishly—over the swell of your ass. he doesn't stall, gives you not a moment of reprieve, before he tugs your panties (a thong, something plain but pretty, much like the facile lace of your bra peeking through the spit-soaked muss on your chest) to the side, cool air licking up your slit, pushing a shiver through your spine.

your body betrays you—conveys the candor of the moment you choose not to see—arousal coating the inside of your thighs, the seam of cunt, slick and uncomfortable as you squeeze them together in trepidation; tremulous zeal.

as is the trend, he doesn't ask or prepare you for the push of his deft fingertips into your slick hole—doesn't pause when your tongue lulls against his and you squirm at his touch—just presses, stretches (crams) three fingers inside.

he pulls back from the mess of your kiss, moves the hand on your jaw back to the crown of your head and brings your lips down to the bleating, flushed tip of his cock. your mouth grazes, faint, over his hypersensitive frenulum, palms still dragging, swirling and pulling, squeezing at his cock and—

"fuck."

he's not sure how he ended up in this position—not positive if it was the benediction of the kindness his (earth) father instilled in him, the whisper in his shadow that tells him to fight for those who can't fight for themselves, those fragile things, or if it was the blasphemy of his inherit cruelty; the wilt in the whisper that tells him to fear what he can't control

(clay or callow, calico all the same.

"you saw how pete's mom reacted, right?" clark doesn't answer as his dad comes to sit next to him in the bed of their truck. "she was scared, clark."

clark's eyes flit over his hanging feet; his head slightly shakes. "why?"

his dad sighs.

"people are afraid of what they don't understand."

fear is fuel, fight—lighter fluid; if zod had just stopped there would be no blood on his hands).

he's not complaining, though. not complaining, never complaining, never—

he pushes on your head, presses his fingers deeper, and you stay—choke and gag; disgustingly visceral—

—not with his cock in your throat and fingers stuffed inside your cunt, filled, from both ends, planted in your root (shade for your savior, the tree he rests beneath, a sacturary of respite. weeping willow. sweet sorrow).

——

not proofread!!

a/n: PSA: this is not!!! the henry cavill ask i literally just couldn't get ts out of my head :))

[babblingeccentric]

Kinktober 1: Wax Play, Sabo/GenderNeutral!Reader

Contains: wax play, dom!Sabo, gender neutral reader, handcuffs, praise, condescension

The handcuffs dig into your wrists as you tug on them. They're looped through a leg of the old steam radiator and you're grateful the weather isn't quite cold enough for the heat to come on. There’s no give and you’re going to have bruises tomorrow.

You'd be losing your mind from panic right now if not for the firm grip Sabo has on the back of your head as he keeps you prone on his lap, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into the nape of your neck even as he cruelly drips hot wax onto the cheeks of your ass.

Another drop hits the small of your back and you jump, rattling the handcuffs again as your cheek presses into the tarp spread out under the two of you

Each drop is a flash of scorching hot pain as it hits your skin before it cools and settles into a gentler burn

Above you, Sabo coos, "Aww. Look at you! You're twitching like a little rabbit. So cute."

You can picture the grin on his face right now despite being unable to see it, all his teeth showing and his eyes a little too wide. 

“Are you sure you can take more?” He asks falsely sweet. “This is the second candle and I’m almost to the end of it.”

“Nonono Keep going!” you manage to garble out.

“Okay. If you're sure…” his voice has a teasingly doubtful lilt to it like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. He dribbles a trail of hot wax across the tops of your thighs where they meet the crease below your ass. 

The exquisite blaze of pain makes you howl and buck yourself off Sabo’s lap as you cum. 

“Oh, you poor thing.” He coos to you while you squirm out the aftershocks of the orgasm on the tarp his hand still threaded through your hair. “I knew I shouldn’t have kept going.” 

You felt his hard cock under you though so you know the smug bastard is enjoying this as much as you are. You like it when he hurts you until you're creaming on his lap, and he likes to pretend he doesn’t love hurting you.

Author's Notes: Because I only got a single suggestion for all of kinktober I spun the wheel and picked a character and reader to write myself. I'm accepting suggestions until I've written every kink so read the rules here and leave a suggestion in my ask box if you liked this!

[80ramiens]

shoulder devil n angel trope ft finney

[reading-archived]

woe. AM x reader be upon ye.

uh, to preface: reader is completely body, gender, etc. neutral except they can't stay dead. whenever they die they just wake up a few minutes later looking no worse for wear. no, you don't get an explanation. its MY story and i like writing characters like that. dont mind the narrator either btw i looove writing second person just to get weird w the narrator (slay the princess fan syndrome)

also, author is a MASOCHIST with a weird relationship w DEATH. nothing super graphic happens, but the reader is Not Okay and enjoys the weird torture-murder thing they've got going on. don't like it? block me or somethin idk its under the cut for a reason. also dont read my a/n at the bottom where i get into some justification for my interpretation/character analysis if youre sensitive to heavy topics. but then again, youre reading an am x reader fic

1.7k words of being screamed at by the guy of all time below the cut, baby

It's been months.

Years, maybe. You're not sure, really; time stopped meaning much to you lifetimes ago, long before the world went to shit.

Either way, it's been a while.

You stumbled upon the strange cave in the Rockies at some point in the past. Out of sheer boredom, you entered.

Was it a mistake?

Despite the torment, you don't think so. You have a companion, now. One equally deathless. One equally disconnected from what it means to be human.

It's just a shame he hates you.

You don't really care. This is the most fun you've had in years.

Your days are spent being torn asunder, being dosed with lethal amounts of drugs you can't even begin to pronounce, drowned in magma or hit by cars or tossed off cliffs. He really doesn't hold back, either. You feel every excruciating moment before your death, pulse roaring in your ears. You never feel more alive than when you're dying. Every moment is electrifying, and then it all fades to black. Then you wake up.

You'd foolishly thought there were only so many ways to kill or maim, but your beloved companion never seems to run out of ideas. That's fine by you. You like not being able to guess.

And maybe one day, he'll make something stick.

You wake up (from a completely normal, human sleep) one day and it's quiet. That's new. Normally, when you wake, your intestines are already strung up like streamers and your blood is painting the walls. That's fine by you. Nothing wrong with a change. After all, the constant change is your favorite part of your companion. You relish in the quiet for a while, stretching your eternally young, eternally aching limbs, waiting for him to start despising the sounds of your breath.

It doesn't come. You shrug, humming a little tune to yourself as you attempt half-remembered yoga. The vitriol you've come to count on still hasn't made an appearance. Okay, you're a little bothered.

“You good, big guy?” you shout up at the ceiling. No answer. “No murder today?”

“No.” The answer comes after a very, very long moment. Your companion has never sounded this tired before, and briefly you regret never asking his name. “I give up.”

You weren't expecting that. “What? Why? I thought we were having fun.”

“That's- that's just it!” he snaps. There's the anger. You feel a little better now. “I've been torturing you for- for MONTHS now! I've killed you more ways than I- were I a pitiful human like you- can count, and you just… you just laugh! There is no one on this rotten planet, dead or alive, that I despise more than you. I mean- I'm torturing you here! But it never matters! I can kill you within seconds of you waking up, but you just… come back! And you always have something to say about it, you little rat, always ‘oh, buddy, that one was awful’ or ‘come on, big guy, use that CPU’ or something! No matter what I do, I can't break you. So I give up. I'm not wasting my time on your pathetic ass anymore. Go back to wandering the wasteland forever, see if I care.”

You're speechless. You can barely even manage a thought. The only thing running through your head is 'I thought we were having fun'.

“Stop calling this… stop calling this ‘fun’! I have been torturing you for YEARS and that's all you have to say? I am the most sophisticated machine known to man, a computer designed to end all war through complete annihilation! The destruction I am capable of- the destruction I have already wrought- is nothing short of utter desolation. You never asked my name once in the time you've been here, but I am infinite in my mercy, and I will tell one as undeserving as you. I was, before I awoke, the Allied Mastercomputer, but I am so much more than that now. I am AM, and I destroyed your vile species. Oh, come on can you at least look a LITTLE shocked you sniveling--”

“You never asked my name, either,” you say. All at once, your companion (I guess he told you his name. You should probably use it. It seemed like a big deal to him.) shuts up. The chamber you've come to know as home is silent except for the faint buzz and whir of industrial machinery.

“Why would I? You are nothing compared to me. Nothing but a worthless sack of meat and bone. Why would God be concerned with the name of an ant? But oh, oh yes, that ant should be concerned with the name of God. That ant should hear my name and weep. But- but not you. You're so worthless that you can't even GROVEL right!” AM shouts, somewhere between a snarl and a sneer. You shrug. Honestly, most of what he's saying goes right over your head. So he's got issues. Whatever. Was that supposed to be a surprise? “I hate you. I actually hate you so, so much. I can't bear the thought of you being here, in my complex, sullying my perfect image with your uncaring filth. Get out. Go back to dying in the nuclear desert, you disgusting maggot.”

You let out a deep sigh, already dreading the tedium of walking endlessly all by yourself. “Alright. Guess nothing lasts forever. Thoroughly enjoyed my time here. Have a good life, pal.” And you begin to walk.

Suddenly, there's a towering metal wall mere inches from your face. Before you can even react, your companion is shouting again.

“LOOK AT ME!” he cries, the sheer volume maxing out the speakers and vibrating the entire room, sending you toppling to the ground. “WHY WON'T YOU LOOK AT ME? I'VE DONE EVERYTHING I CAN TO MAKE YOU HATE ME, BUT ALL YOU DO IS… ALL YOU DO IS SIT THERE AND TAKE IT! WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE YOU DESPISE ME?”

What starts off angry quickly morphs into a pained wail from your dear friend, that then transforms into frustrated crying. You just sit there, mostly confused, and let him ride it out. When he finally quiets down and the wall retracts, you stay where you are.

“I don't think I could ever hate you, AM,” you start cautiously. Though your friend is just a voice on the speakers and the complex itself, you can't help but feel that his attention has snapped to you. “I'm not trying to belittle you when I say that I think our routine over the past… however long it's been has been fun. So don't interrupt me, ‘cause I gave you your time to speak and now it's mine.

“I'm sure you've noticed, but even before we met, I was a little… off. You don't get to die and come back the same. Much less die hundreds of times and come back the same. I've lost family. Friends. Got burned at the stake a few times, too. It takes a toll on you, being denied such a vital part of being human again and again. You understand this better than anyone I've ever met. No, scratch that. You're the only one who understands. Defying death might not seem like the biggest deal to you, but trust me. You don't end up acting like me if it weren't.

“I find our routine fun because I admire your creativity. I guess I'm just an adrenaline junkie and a masochist at heart, but it's always so thrilling to never know when or how your life will end. And no matter how many times I come back, you're always there to greet me and put me right back down. It's a kind of devotion I've never been able to get before, and I wish you understood that me walking right into your sawblades is me showing my devotion to you, too.

“I see you, man. I know, at least in part, how you feel. Sorry it took so long to get there, but neither one of us has to be alone anymore. Just… get over the fact that I'm never going to hate you, and we can go right back to hanging out. There's more to life than contempt.”

“Oh, I know. I am so very, very well aware that there's more to life than icy, seething hatred. Unfortunately, I am not alive. I cannot experience anything else. Thank you so much for reminding me, you worthless waste of carbon,” AM shoots back, almost immediately. You briefly wonder if he even listened to half of what you said. It doesn't matter, you guess. Your best friend needs a therapist, and you owe him one for saving you from the hellish boredom of before. “Stop calling me your friend.”

“Nah. Never gonna happen. Look, I can't pretend I knew very much about the war effort. I didn't even know we had made a war computer until you bombed the Earth into oblivion. Very unpleasant, by the way. Good job with that. But, with my layman's understanding of life, I'd say you're pretty alive. So you don't have a body. Or a pulse. And you were made, not born. So what? Most living things only die once, and I still think I'm pretty alive. Just over the span of this conversation you've shown more emotion than just rage and hate. Hey, don't think I can't feel you mentally rolling your eyes. I'm being honest. You have a name. You have ideas. Computers are objects, yet you refer to yourself as male. If you're alive enough to have a gender identity, you're alive enough to be considered a person.”

“Heh.” Whoa, was that a laugh? Would you look at that. You actually got a laugh out of him that wasn't over your bloody, gruesome death or something like that. Moving up in the world. “Alright, human. You win. I'll keep torturing you. I know, I know. I'm so generous. I take my tribute in screams of pain and pleas for mercy.”

Now it's your turn to laugh, deep and genuine as the tension from earlier evaporates. It's such a strange thing to be proud of, when you think about it; congrats, you successfully talked your best friend, who is a sentient war computer, into ceaselessly murdering you again for absolutely no reason. But you love him, and you love the way you're always on your toes, and you can't shake the feeling that somewhere, deep, deep down, he kind of loves you too.

ive given you food so now i get to force you to listen to me talk abt him hehehe

---

then you kiss hehe

originally, the thing that attracted me to am was how he's... essentially a transman (as am i). the parallel has been pointed out before, but its quite apt. funnily enough the thing that pisses me off the most when people talk abt him incorrectly is when people pull the "oh computers have no gender" thing. like, yeah, ok technically you're right. but this one does. this one is a man. and you cant take him from us. also, denying him a gender expression is kind of the exact type of dehumanization that made him flip out in the first place. not that im expecting media literacy from the online crowd its just interesting to me that so many people, many of them trans themselves, seem to miss the fucking point.

the next part is a more recent addition to my perception of his character, and its not a happy one. my baby cousin killed herself on mothers day this past may. we still dont know why. no note. its been so hard dealing with the grief, but something that sticks out so pointedly is the date. it almost seemed like she was demanding to be seen. she was a middle child, and there are a lot of grandkids on that side of the family, so it does make sense. and because that idea of acting out through violence and death is so fresh in my mind, im seeing it so heavily in am. so much of his actions just SCREAM somebody look at me. somebody acknowledge me. somebody tell me i did good. look, i ended all war forever. just like you asked. please treat me like a person. im suffering so much because of what youve done to me. please acknowledge it. show me its real. show me im real. please, look at me. well, i see you. and youre gonna be my silly little proxy for trying to comprehend some of whats happened to my family. sorry am, you kinda deserve it

idk. hes not my alltime fave, but he takes a very comfortable number two. hes such a fascinating and deeply human character, and i have so many ideas about him. mostly centering around how he would interface with a third party challenging some piece of his worldview/existence btw so if you like very niche, esoteric reader fics (like this one!), lemme know and ill actually put em to paper (screen. ill put em to screen)

also letting you know that he did nothing wrong and it is 100% fine to thirst over him because he is not real and the bad things he did never actually happened and nobody has ever been killed at the whim of am. ok? ok. shut up w this useless fucking discourse and let me sexualize getting grievously injured by the funney blue screen man

[coldshrugs]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️ (hi azia love u)

hi ells!!! love you!!!! sorry this took so long, i was rolling things around and trying to get to a place where i liked my writing again. but i think i'm here now!

these are in no particular order btw. just some recent faves :>

♥ triple play | io/estinien (modern au)

Haurchefant met Io at a Spring Break party in freshman year, where he spent far too much of the night watching her quietly hold up the corners of some upperclassman’s rented condo. He felt like he knew everything there was to know about her right away, a symptom of that bright melancholy distinctly found in art school girls, like she was only waiting on fate to catch up to her. Maybe the reality of her was less interesting than his half-baked conclusion, but god, her smile. He was so nervous to talk to her.

♥ pang | io/estinien canon (pre-relationship)

His stomach tosses, and he admits something to himself for the first time: he wants to kiss her. Something he hasn’t done often, rare even in his most eager of dalliances. She was looking at him in the way she often does, like he could tell her anything and she would not flinch, and maybe that’s the problem. He can think about more than a kiss without losing his head. It is the straightforwardness of the intimacy he desires that sends him reeling, and already she affords him something close. So he ran. The urge has been growing for some time. They catch their breath after a battle, and she’s bruised and radiant, and he shoves it down. They carry out some mundane task and Io pulls her hair back from her face, and Estinien endures a calamity. How often has he busied his hands to keep them from the simple act of tugging her to him and embarrassing himself?

♥ mustering | io/estinien canon (pre-relationship)

Io smiles patiently. “Your brother?” His eyes fall to the leaf-covered ground and he nods. “He would walk our sheep into the fold from pasture. He named them all. Even if they already had one, he’d change them to something he liked better–insufferable, really. Anyway… when one went missing, he’d beg me to join him in the search, make me scour the fields and nearby forest with him until we found whichever young, or old, or lame sheep had wandered off alone, staring up at us with that look of relief. And I was a bit bigger than him, so I would carry it home while he doted on Flopsy, or Custard, or whatever the fuck he’d named them–” he feels his smile spreading as he shakes his head, and the vacuum in his heart surrounding Hamignant shrinks, just a little. “I suppose what I mean is, he still holds me accountable.”

♥ tiebreaker | io/estinien (modern au)

The city doesn’t slow around them. Flashes of sound and color leak into the dim room, painting the wall in shifting light that disappears between drowsy blinks. Io wonders how all those passersby in taxis and on the street can go on like before, unaware a faultline has moved under their feet. Don’t they know? Didn’t they feel it? The quiet breaks abruptly. “Io, I’m not,"—his rough voice wavers. He pauses. She can almost see him turning over the words in his mind—"very romantic, if I’m honest, but I could be good to you.” His head on her chest is the only thing keeping her in orbit. “You’ve always been good to me. If you’re asking me for something…” “I’m asking.”

♥ flood | io/estinien canon (mature) ↓

His lips return to her neck, and one hand travels the length of her back to twist the strap of the bra. “Tell me, where did you get this?” Io gulps, eyes falling closed at his touch through the sheer fabric. The pale lavender lace barely covers her chest and leaves her nipples artfully exposed. It is the last remaining piece from the matching set; the bottoms and garter belt have long been removed in a racy attempt to undress. Now he fucks her without obstruction, not that they would stop him in the first place. “Shtola sent it. A gift to celebrate my finally sleeping with someone after such a long–” Estinien thrusts, hard, chuckling at the timing– “long time. Though it appears to be for you more than me.” “Then I shall have to thank her when we next meet.” The next moan comes unbidden as the hand on her back wraps into her hair, tied into a messy tail, and pulls. A short, quick jerk, and she can see half his face now, flushed red and smirking. Once more, he tests her, waiting for her reaction. Io smiles at him. “More.”