#crimson memories object show

[maxphilippa]

Object ocs I have, part 1/?

Uhhh these are for an small thing I have.

I spent too much time painting this lol.

[charliemwrites]

хозяин

Nobody. You wish it weren’t so apt. But he’s not a person, not anything of Earth.

Content: Dub-Con, Biting, Scratching, Exhibitionism, Possessive Behavior, Toxic Behavior

You must have pissed something off in a past life. Or they’re planning on giving you something really good in the next one. Because this… this is too much. He’s too much.

We are exactly right for you, khozyain.

It’s not just the taste of leather and oil on the back of your tongue each morning. Or the crimson smears on your sheets before bed. You could live with the shit sleep, the centuries of foreign memories, and the occasional hankering for raw meat that thins your appetite to nothing.

“You’re KorTac’s best operative?”

It’s a question you’ve heard a dozen times before – and will likely hear a dozen times more. The criticism is valid. You’re not an imposing figure; nothing impressive about you. Look more like a child in a Halloween costume than anything resembling a soldier. The question never bothers you because the unofficial title is as ill-fitting as the gun strapped to your thigh.

It’s not you they need to worry about bothering.

“We are. Problem, soldat?”

“There’s no problem, Nikto,” you answer in Sebastian Krueger’s place.

No, Krueger is too busy wondering where the big, dark figure behind your shoulder just came from. He could have sworn you stepped out of the transport alone. In broad daylight, no less. (That doesn’t mean there aren’t shadows.)

Nikto grunts, nearly tripping you with how closely he walks, toes of his boots nipping at the heels of yours. A stride twice the length of your own but doggedly following, not leading.

“Thought there was only one ‘a ya,” Declan O’Conor muses.

“Paperwork issue,” you lie, smiling.

Nikto grunts, pressing into your back as you stop in front of your temporary captain. You have to brace against his oppressive weight, feel yourself flush a bit when you don’t quite manage.

“Who’re you, then?” Declan asks, eyes on your shadow.

“Nikto,” comes the gruff reply.

Nobody.

You wish it weren’t so apt.

But he’s not a person, not anything of Earth. You don’t know if he ever was; he never gives you a straight answer when you pluck up the courage (or frustration) to ask. Last time, he told you that if he ever wanted to feel human, he’d just be inside you. (You’d flushed, didn’t know if he meant in your mind, where he often takes up unwanted residence, or… elsewhere. Couldn’t make yourself ask him to clarify, afraid of the answer. Jumped whenever he touched you for a week.)

You don’t know the exact bounds of this pact either. He listens to you only sometimes. When it suits him – or when it least suits you. And you’re not immune to his cruelty either, as the bruises and bitemarks and scratches can attest. Nothing like the romanticized crossroads deals you see in tv shows and movies.

Truthfully, you’re not even sure if he’s a punishment for you or if you’re a reward for him. What’s that line you read online once? Dog heaven is squirrel hell. Did he make a deal with you, or did he make a deal with something else, and you’re just collateral?

You never bother to ask. He’ll just click his forked tongue and tell you that it won’t get rid of him either way. The worst part is that he’ll be right. You’re pretty sure the Christian God as you know Him has nothing to do with any of this.

The mission doesn’t matter, not really. You only listen for objectives. Whoever needs killing, whatever information needs gathering, wherever the hostages are. The rest is all useless extra, so much noise to Nikto, not even listening. He’s too busy bullying his way between your thighs, sinking his teeth into the meat through your cargos.

You’re never sure if he’s visible or the other operatives just avoid looking at him in these moments. Regardless, you flush and kick at him when his jaw locks too hard. It’ll bruise livid and ugly, and he’ll fuck the head of his cock into the aching ring of teeth prints left behind.

He’s insistent when the briefing is over, riled up by the promise of bloodshed. Pushy and growling, nearly snapping through his “mask” as he herds you like a rabid shepherd to your temporary quarters.

He fucks you in the doorway though, using one thick arm to bounce you like a personal fleshlight. The other keeps your jaw forced open so he can spit and lick into your mouth, obscene and filthy.

You push and squirm, but he just laughs that awful, maniacal rattle and grinds your clit into his pelvis. Until you start to mean it when you whimper “no” and “stop.” It always makes him cum so hard that you taste ichor in the back of your throat.

It’s too much to hope that you’ll eat in the mess hall uninterrupted. Nikto’s presence attracts the worst, and Krueger is compelled to pick at the weakness you exude. It’s no question that he’s a bigger, stronger, meaner beast than you. But like a dying soldier left to scream in the field, there’s a muzzle hidden out of sight, awaiting whatever is lured in – for mercy or to feast.

Krueger takes the seat across from you, one of his boots landing heavy and threatening on top of yours. You eat quietly, picking at your mashed potatoes and rubbery chicken. Listen to him jab and jeer.

Nikto is there but he’s not. He’s laughing in your ear at all the true but derisive things Krueger is taunting you with. All the sins he boasts of and the reactions he takes as proof of your inadequacy for the assignment you’ve been brought for. It would hurt more of you didn’t know it was true – and if your nerves weren’t rattling.

There’s a line, always a line. Some fault hidden beneath the surface that you don’t see until the ground splits and swallows up the unfortunate soul above.

This time, it’s a comment about how much more useful you’d be as a cockwarmer.

The plastic fork is an inch from his eye by the time you finish blinking.

“Nikto, stop!”

It snaps in his tight fist – but stops. Krueger hasn’t even processed how close he was to losing half his sight before you’re yanking Nikto back by the straps. He’s growling, snarling, half-crazed over a comment he’s made himself. You abandon your mostly full tray and the table altogether, putting all your weight and strength into dragging him from the cafeteria.

“Calm down, that’s enough!” you shout over the animalistic sounds ripping from his throat.

He turns on you instead. Pins you to the wall just outside, in full view of anyone passing on their way to dinner.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he’s chanting. Ripping through your pants (that’s the second pair this week) and thrusting against the seam of your ass. Already leaking precum from an obsidian tip at the small of your back, the corpse-pale base nestled between your cheeks. If he had the coordination through the frenzy, he’d stuff it into you dry and tight. As it is, it’s all he can do to buck against you, fingers digging divots into the cement wall, dust raining down on your face.

Mine, mine, mine, he chants inside your skull in languages known and unknown. You’re leaking through your underwear, too overwhelmed and bewildered to be anything but turned on. Fear is synonymous with attraction, those two wires soldered together and circuited to your pussy.

Copper fills your nose, warmth drips down your lips. Nikto scents it like a hound, yanks your head back to lap at the blood, groaning into your mouth.

Yours, yours, yours as his cock splutters against your spine, too hot. Tingly, almost caustic. You can barely breathe and he’s hauling you over one big shoulder, scooping your slick to prod at the hole he was just grinding against.

Us as you’re pinned with nowhere to go and no voice to praise or protest. In a room darker than a void. Suspended on an endless continuum of pleasure and pain, phantom claws raking your skin and phantom mouths filling whatever holes his cock isn’t occupying.

Sometimes you wonder if the plural “we” and “us” he tends to use is in reference to you and him, or…

The mission is going to be a success, it always is. You separate from the rest of the KorTac squad, shooing Nikto’s hands out from under your shirt. The claw marks still sting; the sooner you can get out of tac gear, the better.

He cracks his neck as the two of you approach the infil point. It sounds like snapping bone. A crescent moon carves into the night sky, sharp enough to cut yourself on.

“Is it time, khozyain?”

Those cajoling whispers caress your ears again. To let him run rampant, to let him fill your bath with blood. He’d be a scourge on the earth if you let him, a one-man apocalypse. The death of the world for a slip of the tongue.

Your hold on his leash is so tight that it’s imprinted past the skin, down into muscle. But on nights like tonight, for things like this… you let out the lead.

“Stay clear of Point B,” you remind into your com.

“Roger,” all others agree.

If they know what’s good for them, they’ll abide by the plan like holy writ. Not even you can promise their lives if they stray.

Shadow looms behind you, grows with each beat of your heart, spills over your shoulders, threads down your arms. You don’t dare glance at the inhuman head hovering right by yours, the maw parting for vicious, pearlescent teeth and pooling saliva. Hungry. Starving.

“Nikto.”

A rolling, ravenous churr vibrates through your skull. The lowest windows of your target begin to crack.

“Hunt.”

[diejager]

New Ownership

Pairing: Dark!Krueger + König x doll!reader

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, possessive behaviour, magic?, death, heartbreak, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.2k

You used to watch people awe at you, expressing their shock, incredulous and pleasing, under the protection of your owner —your creator. You were an object of emotion; of melancholy. You were a life size doll made of porcelain and wax, of hohair and glass eyes, painted in the richest pigments and dressed in the finest fabrics, you were the epitome of treasure in your time. A doll made with utmost care and tenderness to heal a wounded heart. 

Your creator was a doll maker, building every doll with a special kind of affection, be it for his collection or for a client, he always loved his dolls. He made as much as he gave, the single joy of his life was the present his late-wife gave him, a daughter to call his own, someone soft and living unlike the cold bisque of his creations. You were a present for her coming-of-age, a mimicry of her person, made with love for the adoration he had for his daughter, and sadness for seeing her grow up and leave, to start a new life without him. Every stroke was perfection and every detail was imperfection, you were perfectly imperfect, a mirror to a human.

You were made as an object to remember him by once she left to live with her fiance, painted in the last moments before he saw her off. He dressed you up in a pretty dress, a voluptuous crimson for the passion and a deep black for the end of he past and the start of a new beginning. He made you into what he saw his sweet, precious daughter as, a dream that he was ecstatic to gift, but she was in an accident the week before her celebration. She died of it, passing in writhing pain and tearful agony. It broke the man who lived to care. Your tender creator who lived to love and give.

He drowned in the throes of sorrow and agony, paraliysed by his own fears and torn apart by his nightmares, and left the house you once loved to rot and waste away just as he was. Sobbing nights and depressing mornings, you were unable to do anything but watch as he spent his days rotting, his skin sinking, his hair outgrow and his complexity pale unhealthily, yet he still cared for you. Your creator —your father cleaned you, dressed you and incased you in a thin layer of wax and gel to protect you from the changing times. 

You gave him solace, something to live for after he closed his quaint shop and became a hermit, crazed and lonely, having nothing but you to talk to and spend his shortening time with. You wished you could tell him how much you cared, how much you shared his sorrows or how saddened you were to see him like this. And like his daughter, your father passed away, heartbroken and lonely, leaving you to watch over his cooling body dissolving in his bed. All the wasted years, spent seated in your chair, unmoving and unliving, never being able to reach out to him to show him how much you loved him. Life, however, ran its course, uncaring of any kind of self-sought fury or self-given agony, you were just a doll given conscience and memory. 

You were picked up by a relative, estranged and distant from yours. He was German, or Austrian from the rough tone he used, a deep growl as he appraised you, rough fingers caressing your face like he was admiring you. He was, this wasn’t admiration in his eyes, you knew it, that sick and twisted gleam in his brown eyes, it was obsession. It was a perverted kind of adoration, it made you fear what he would do to you.

And these fears, these demons that clung to your peripheral, weren’t unfounded, weren’t an illusion your conscience made up to fill the void in your empty core. You were carefully stuffed in a box, stored safely during the long move from your small town in Germany to a place in Austria, locked away in a loud and dark place and only brought out to be placed in another cage of gold. 

He laid you in a pentagram of sorts, a crooked thing painted in a dark red and terrifying runes that promised nothing but evil. He enacted this… ritual that would affect you in some way, his low chants and hisses while he stared you down with hungry eyes once he stripped you of all clothes, lathering your porcelain with markings. He scared you more, knowing that he had this planned out, and that he wasn’t alone. 

There was a shadow of a giant behind him, a man heads taller than most with cold eyes peeking through a fabric to gaze at you. He had broad shoulders and thick arms, seemingly swallowing the corner he stood from. He took up a lot of your attention, ripped between the chanting man and him from your chair, placed perfectly at the center of this ritualistic circle. You were a show to the giant and a project to your new owner, a spectacle to watch unravel and writhe in pain.

It hurt. Why did this hurt? Your skin tingled, an annoyance that grew to a boiling agony, this sacrilegious magic reworking your imperfect body to fit one of his whims. You shook in your chair, the red sinking into your skin, lining the inside of your precious porcelain with runes as your fingers and toes flexed, limbs jerking from the information overload on your new nerves, synapses snapping into place and building a circuit of sensitive system. You could blink and you could cry, tears springing from your fluttering lashes, lips trembling before you screamed, a shrill cry that wailed out of your lungs. 

Your chest burned, it felt heavy with an erratic pulse, beat after beat slamming into your calcified ribs, warm fat and strained muscles. You felt like you were drowning, your throat clogged with something sick and dying after you shriek, acidic to your tongue. It stole the air from your lungs and you had to fill it back, the nagging urge to do so. Your chest expanded with your first breath, it hurt - it burned, but you didn’t drown - but it seamed the first seed of life within you. 

You slumped forward, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the last words he uttered passed through your mind, a searing memory forever imprinted in your conscience. You fell into warm arms, a soothing warmth unlike the boiling pit of magma that raged over you, embracing you with a quiet coo from the man who brought you to life. He hoisted you up, wrapping an arm under your knees and another firmly pressing your naked chest to his. Yours limbs were strangers to you, new and uncanny that you couldn’t move or control just yet. You limply laying your head in the crook of his neck, burying your nose in a green veil smelling strongly of musk and metal, your legs too weak and arms too tense like a newly born fawn.

“Besorg mir etwas, um sie zu bedecken, König”

“Ja, bin gleich wiener da..”

“Welcome to the living, Rehkitz.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[disease]

"UNTITLED" // 2007 YOSHITOMO NARA 奈良 美智 [coloured pencil on coloured paper | 16 ½ x 11 5/8"]

With her short cropped hair, dark green dress and rebellious energy, the girl in Untitled (2007) emits the youthful defiance that has come to typify works by Yoshitomo Nara. [...]

"He is widely celebrated for his paintings and coloured pencil drawings of juvenile, cartoonish characters with large gazing eyes and endearing personalities. They inhabit imagined and insouciant paper worlds, brandish absurd objects and props—knives, sprouts, cigarettes, and electric guitars—and express a wide range of capricious, childlike emotion. Stern and somewhat sulky, our subject hovers in indeterminate space. She stands upon a Japanese flag with her small feet positioned perfectly over its crimson sun. Emblazoned around her miniature figure are the words ‘Up Yours!’, and, ‘All the Nations!’. As an advocate of peace, questions of nationhood, conflict and world politics weave through Nara’s art in such pithy phrases and symbols. Exhibited at the Centro de Arte Contemporáneo de Málaga—the first show of the artist’s work in Spain in 2007-2008—the present work was one of twenty coloured pencil drawings hung along the final wall of the gallery.

Born in 1959 in Japan’s rural Aomori Prefecture, Nara’s youth was marked by his country’s rapid post-war economic development and an influx of Western pop-culture, from Disney animation to punk and rock and roll. The artist expresses heartfelt nostalgia for the retro media—record-sleeves and comic books—that offered escapism from an otherwise solitary childhood. ‘Of course if you think back to the ’70s,’ he says, ‘information moved very differently. There was no Internet obviously and even the release date of albums in Japan could be delayed as much as six months … I would just sit there, listen to the music, look at the art on the cover and I think I really developed my imagination through that’ (N. Hegert, ‘Interview with Yoshitomo Nara,’ Artslant, 18 September 2010). This sensitivity to the worn, tactile quality of objects is triumphant in his art today and distinguishes him from the likes of Takashi Murakami and his Superflat movement. Untitled bears the enlivening traces of artist’s hand, present in the rough ‘outside-the-line’ scribbles that imply the girl’s messy hair. Bracketed with Nara’s unfiltered, handwritten text, the image feels distinctly personal, like a secret note exchanged between friends.

As early as his time at Aichi Prefectural University of Fine Arts in the 1980s, Nara began to draw onto envelopes, cardboard, and scraps of found paper. He continued these explorations at the prestigious Kunstakademie Düsseldorf where, under the tutorship of German Neo-Expressionist painter A. R. Penck, he was encouraged to work fluidly between painting and drawing. ‘I [loved] to draw every day and the scrawled sketches, never shown to anybody, started piling up’, Nara has said. ‘Like journal entries reflecting the events of each day, they sometimes intersected [with] memories from the past. My little everyday world became a trigger for the imagination, and I learned to develop and capture the imagery that arose’ (Y. Nara, ‘Nobody’s Fool’, in N. Miyamura and S. Suzuki (eds.), Yoshitomo Nara: The Complete Works, Volume 1: Paintings, Sculptures, Editions, Photographs 1984-2010, San Francisco 2011, p. 43). Mischievous, cute, and quietly ferocious, the present work attests to the enduring appeal of Nara’s little rebels." — via Christie's

[esamastation]

Shizuroth, part twenty five

Previous parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four

Warning for some implied medical horror in this one.

-

"... Welp. Now, I don't like saying I told you so - but I totally told you so," Reno points out, pointing at the screen - frozen on the very final frame just before Sephiroth destroyed the cameras. "I absolutely told Tseng this would happen."

"No one was injured," Rude points out, shifting through papers.

"That we know of! SOLDIER closed ranks real quick," Reno hums, shuffling through security feeds. They captured the flight of the technicians and the Department Head of Shinra Science from the scene of the ongoing incident, but after that, it's hard to say. There's a bunch of SOLDIERs literally in the way, blocking the view to the virtual training room with their bodies. They'd allowed no one but other SOLDIERs into the floor since.

Sephiroth is still there, as are the SOLDIERs, and unbeknownst to everyone else in the building, they have a damn situation on their hands. A potential rebellion situation.

"So," Reno says, rocking back and forth in his chair. "Sephiroth gets over-overdosed, flatlines, is brought back, loses his memory. Shinra Medical lets him go because that's what they do. He acts funny. Actually takes time off. Makes buncha random purchases. Puts on a shirt. Seems, for about a day, like a normal human being. He even gets takeout!"

"Mn," Rude agrees.

"The Crimson Commander takes him out, they do some shopping, probably have a heart to heart, make it into a few gossip columns," Reno continues, picking up the latest copy of Midgar Mail - Sephiroth sitting shotgun in Genesis' convertible and looking irritated had made the front page. "... Who are now absolutely convinced that our two Elites are romantically involved."

"A natural conclusion," Rude comments without looking at him.

"And so sad for poor Hewley, who's been in love with Rhapsodos since they were kids, according to this," Reno hums, giving the magazine a little flip. "The lives of SOLDIER First Classes are truly full of struggle."

"Mn."

Reno throws the magazine on the desk. "So, Sephiroth has a nice day, feels all normal, and the next morning he decides to go do some training, as SOLDIERs do," he continues, rewinding the video back. "He does some funky magic sword stuff for a bit, and then, boom, Professor Hojo launches a Behemoth at his ass. And Sephiroth proceeds to absolutely lose his shit."

Rude looks up. "I'd call that reasonable cause," he comments. "For a panic attack, if nothing else."

"Yeah, especially if the poor schmuck can't even remember what a Behemoth is," Reno scoffs and leans back, crossing his hands behind his head as he peers up at the ceiling vents. "So now we have a totally sane Department Head who was almost killed by his own son, two traumatised lab techs, a whole lot of SOLDIERs on high alert, an entire floor that's barricaded itself… and no eyes on Sephiroth and no idea what his status is."

"That about sums it up," Rude agrees and turns a page.

Reno glances at him, frowning. "You are not even listening, are you? What are you reading?"

"List of all the non-classified medical procedures Sephiroth has gone through," Rude answers. "The annotations by Professor Hojo are… interesting."

Reno blinks and then grabs the file from his hands. He takes a moment to skim through it before landing on what Rude has been reading. "Subject shows improved humour, will continue to administer preventive care - that doesn't seem too weird?"

"The two previous reports," Rude explains and Reno leafs back. "Reading between the lines, Sephiroth objected to an operation, and was assigned another immediately after," Rude adds. "I'm no physician, but I didn't see anaesthetic in the medicine list."

Reno frowns, reading the files more closely. "Exploratory surgery? Wait, wait, wait. What? Sephiroth showed a bit of an attitude and as punishment Hojo did open surgery on him without anaesthesia?"

"That's my reading of it also."

"Holy shit, that guy's life sucks," Reno says and then takes another look. "The poor fuck was seventeen?"

"There was a similar operation when he was nineteen," Rude adds. "For similar reasons."

"So it's a fucking pattern," Reno mutters. "Damn. No wonder they wrestled the SOLDIER program out of Hojo's total control as soon as they could."

Rude hums in agreement. "I thought it might shed light on what Professor Hojo's reaction to this might be."

Reno's face falls. "Fuck," he says emphatically. 

Now, he doesn't have much sympathy for SOLDIER, they willingly signed up to all the bullshit they went through - plus, when SOLDIER went off the beaten path it was Turks who had to clean their crap up. Sephiroth is a bit different, the poor asshole was born into the life, but that doesn't mean he has anything to do with Turks. At least not unless he made himself their business - and usually he didn't. And that was good! Live and let the freaks live, Reno was more than happy with that.

But this… yeah.

The idea of Sephiroth who had already lost it once being subjected to his crazy father's idea of discipline - probably while on company property, full of all these squishy and vulnerable company people! - did not appeal to him. Tseng was right - life at Shinra would be so much easier if the Science Department stopped treating the SOLDIER like their personal playthings and seen them for what they are.

Really fucking dangerous human weapons. With all the bullshit that came with it.

Rude looks at him levelly and then takes off his sunglasses in order to clean them - sure sign of how stressed he is. "How do you want to play this?"

"Preferably from another continent?" Reno asks a bit incredulously and then thinks about it. "Yeah, actually, that sounds about right! You have Deusericus' location?"

Rude checks his PHS. "Logs put him in his office," he says.

"Great, good, wonderful," Reno bounces to his feet, taking out his own PHS, hitting the speed dial. "Let's go. Hey, Tseng!"

"Reno," comes very tiredly through the hand held. "Please tell me you have eyes on Sephiroth."

"I have his rough location - still on floor 49, with just about every SOLDIER sitting between him and the elevator. No idea what's going on in there, but he's not moved from the training room yet. What about Hewley and Rhapsodos, what's their status?"

"Out on missions - Deusericus has recalled both of them."

"Excellent," Reno says, hurrying for the elevators. "What say we punt this whole mess speedily to Wutai before the good Professor decides to poke at the already sparkling bomb in our midst?"

Tseng sighs. "What?"

Reno explains their conclusions about what they should expect from Hojo. "And if today is any indication as to how the current Sephiroth reacts to Hojo's style of child rearing and discipline… well, I wouldn't like to see the Science Department afterwards! Or the building." Or the entirety of Midgar, for that matter.

He's seen Sephiroth's stats - there's not much they could throw in the guy's way to stop him.

"I see," Tseng says over the line, and it sounds like he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I think it might be best if Sephiroth vacated the premises as soon as possible."

"My thinking exactly, boss."

"Very well. I'll arrange a transport," Tseng says. "You'll deal with getting him there?"

Cheers, boss, well done throwing him under the bus! But as it happens, yes. "Heading off to pay Director Deusericus a visit now," Reno says while Rude punches in the floor number. "Here's hoping the SOLDIERs are willing and able to wrangle Sephiroth into a plane."

"Here's hoping," Tseng agrees and then, damningly, adds, "Call me once you get to Wutai," and hangs up.

Aw, shit.

Reno looks at Rude. "Ever been to Wutai?"

"... No?"

"It's wet, miserable, and full of bugs."

Rude sighs. "I'll pack accordingly."

-

Yep, Sephiroth's existence has nothing at all to do with any Turk, nope.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Covetous.

Commissioned by the very lovely, very patient @elsecrytt.

Pairing: Yandere!Satan x Reader x Yandere!Diavolo (+Lucifer) [Obey Me].

Word Count: 5.0k.

TW: N0n/C0n, AFAB!Reader, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Biting/Marking, Mentions of Blood, Degradation, Disturbing Themes, and Slight Infantilization.

You were not entirely sure how you got yourself into this situation.

Vaguely, in the flickering shadows of something much more horrific, you could remember the taste of bitter tea in a secluded nook of the House of Lamentation’s library, feel the remnants of braided rope and cutting ribbon against the skin of your wrists and ankles, but that was it – the ghosts of memories you’d already lost to the darkest corners of your mind.

The present was much clearer, albeit still shrouded in a thick haze. You knew, objectively, that you were currently sitting on the edge of a very large, very lavish bed – canopied by translucent red lace and spilling over with silk sheets and hand-embroidered pillows and delicately crocheted quilts. You were leaning against a wooden bedpost, your body slack and unresponsive, but you did your best to hold yourself upright, to keep your eyes open and your jaw locked in place. If Lucifer saw you in such a disheveled state, the lecture would’ve been endless, accompanied by plenty of anecdotes about his own all-overcoming, all-overwhelming resilience. You loved him, but he’d never been the most sympathetic lover. Poise and presentation were always his first priorities, his only priorities. If you didn’t live up to those expectations, then he couldn’t be bothered to expend the energy it would take to live with you.

You blinked once, then twice, trying not to drift any further than you already had. You were in Diavolo’s castle. That, you knew had to be true, because only a castle would have so much gold, so much silver, so much of everything luxurious and everything expensive and then a little more, just to make sure you got the point. The gold-leafed tendrils of a massive chandelier twisted and writhed in every direction above your head, ornaments of silver and bronze adorning every available surface fit to house a testament to his regal status. The only source of light was the smoldering hearth – left unattended, reduced to ashes and a few blocks of lingering charcoal. It took your eyes longer than it should’ve to adjust to the dim lighting, for your mind to recall that waking up in a strange room with a strange taste lingering on the back of your tongue was rarely ever something to be taken in stride. With a feeling of exhausted paranoia and mounting anxiety, you made more of an active effort to investigate your surroundings, but it didn’t take you very long to find something that made you wish you hadn’t.

On a rug made from the skin of some unholy creature you didn’t recognize, Diavolo and Satan were posed together, intertwined in a manner as unfamiliar as the fur they were lying on top of. Satan was on his knees, kneeling and shirtless, his blonde hair slicked back with sweat and a ruddy flush spread across his pale skin. Diavolo, for his part, was prostrated before him, his chest pressed into the floor and his legs folded painfully tight underneath him. A ragged scrap of crimson silk was wrapped around the lower half of his face, lodging itself between his teeth and cutting into his sculpted cheeks, but his hands remained unbound, locked behind the small of his back due to no restraints other than that of his own determination, a show made more impressive by the long, open cuts that’d been carved into the flesh of his back, lining either side of his spine like crudely drawn tally-marks. They were ugly things – tattered and bloody, layered over one another, some fresh and others little more than faded scars. You knew demons could heal themselves faster than humans were able to, but you couldn’t recall how quickly, whether or not Diavolo’s strength would play a factor in how much time it would take for him to piece himself back together. You didn’t know which reality you preferred: that Diavolo could heal himself and the cruelty was simply coming more swiftly than he could undo, or that this had been going on long enough for the scars to just be scars, for the violence to just be violence.

Either way, the source of the abuse was easy enough to find. In his right hand, Satan held a spiked whip, short enough to be used at close-range but not so cropped as to limit its effectiveness. Neither seemed to have noticed you yet, or if they did, they didn’t mind an unwilling voyeur. With no sense of hesitancy, of reluctance, Satan raised his whip, his hand flexing around the leather-bound grip before he brought it down, striking Diavolo with a sharp crack. In response, Diavolo offered a stifled hiss, an arched back, a new line of ragged skin and a thin, almost imperceptible trail of blood flowing from the newly inflicted injury and onto the fur rug. It was far from a compromise, but Satan seemed content, letting out an airy chuckle as he brought up a hand, tracing his fingertips over the open gash before bringing them to his lips, taking his time to swab every drop of deep scarlet away with his tongue. “Such a desperate little whore,” he muttered, barely audible from your position. “You’d do anything to deserve to bow before me, wouldn’t you?”

There was a muffled groan, as much of a nod as could be given by a man lying face-down on the floor. He tried to do something. To sit up or to simply reposition himself, it was difficult to tell, but Satan saw fit to put an end to it either way. In a fraction of the time it might’ve taken the eye to blink, his hand was on Diavolo’s shoulder, shoving him back into the fur with the kind of hair-trigger hostility you couldn’t say you’d ever seen mastered by anyone but Satan. “Did I say you could—”

You must’ve shifted, knocked against the bedpost, inhaled just a little too deeply, because before he could finish, Satan snapped in your direction, eyes wide and pupils narrowed into slits. A barbed tail flicked behind him, winding into itself before straightening once again, but Satan appeared composed – caught off-guard, sure, but otherwise unaffected. A languid grin came to rest over his lips, and slowly, almost as if he was trying not to startle you, he straightened his back, pulling away from Diavolo and receiving a muffled whine by way of protest. “I was starting to think you’d never wake up,” he called, speaking more loudly than he really had to in the confinement of the crowded bedroom. There was a nudge to Diavolo’s shoulder, a drum of pointed fingertips against skin torn raw. “Look who’s decided to join us.”

When Diavolo failed to move, Satan added, “Rise, Diavolo. You have my permission.”

With a short delay, he obeyed, unlocking his hands from behind his back and pushing himself upward, every motion stiff and jerky. He was less precise than Satan, as relaxed as his counterpart was intense. When he looked at you, he did so idly, allowing his eyes to rake over your body, over your posture, a smile slowly tugging at the corners of his mouth as his gaze rose to meet yours. Despite the blood staining his back, the open cuts that only stretched wider every time he moved, he didn’t seem to be in agony, didn’t seem to notice the way you cringed as a string of sympathetic aches raced down the length of your spine. “They really are so cute, all dolled up like that,” he muttered, making no effort to address you. “And look – they don’t even mind the robe.”

You glanced into yourself and found that, true to his words, you were wearing a robe you didn't recognize – black and velvet and lined with golden thread. The collar was loose-fitting, deep, falling to your navel before a sloppily tied belt cut it off, and the hem barely reached your mid-thigh. You couldn’t remember what you’d been wearing before, if you’d still been in your uniform or something more casual, but you didn’t think you owned anything this ornate - anything you hadn’t borrowed from Lucifer, at least. You didn’t think that, if you did have a reason to dress yourself in a robe that might’ve been worth a year’s worth of your rent back in the human realm, you’d actively choose not to wear anything underneath it.

You opened your mouth, planning to ask where it’d come from, how you’d gotten into it, for someone to tell you that the most obvious answer was not the correct one, but your voice seemed to falter before it could ever make it past your lips. You tried again, but found your head pounding, your eyes fluttering shut as you buckled into yourself. Satan only chuckled, never taking his eyes off of you as he pushed himself to his feet and came to stand at the foot of Diavolo’s bed, less than an arm’s length away. He bent at the waist, coming to loom just above you – as one would when they were preparing to talk to a small child, or explain something very simple to someone who had a very, very hard time understanding relatively straightforward concepts. “How do you feel, kitten?”

Again, you tried to say something, but it died on your tongue, drained you of your energy before you could so much as attempt to spit anything out. You let your head lull forward, but Satan only cooed, bringing up a hand to run his fingers through your hair, combing it away from your face. “I thought so. We lost you for quite a while.” His tone matched his posture – just as patronizing. The others could talk down to you, sometimes, whether it was Mammon’s bragging or Asmo’s oblivious ego or, as much as it hurt to admit, Lucifer’s ever-present condescension, but Satan was usually more willing to put himself on your level, to treat you more or less like he treated everyone else. Granted, he treated everyone like they were below him, but still. You’d learned to take what you could get, since you came to the Devildom. “Can you stand?”

Shakily, you forced yourself to nod, to grapple at the bedpost as you pulled yourself to your feet. You made it a second, maybe two before your legs began to shake, your knees buckling under your weight and sending you crumbling onto the floor. He let you fall, only watching on as you crashed into the hardwood. He left you there, too, if only long enough to stare on as you shrunk into yourself. His gaze alone was piercing, prying, intense enough to make you feel like something very small and very clumsy. Like something very overwhelmed in the face of a larger, stronger predator.

Rather than helping you up, he glanced over his shoulder, towards Diavolo – now sitting cross-legged, observing contentedly. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he started, his eyes catching on what was left of the dull firelight. “that you’re being far too mean to the poor thing. It’s not their fault your potions tend to veer towards the experimental side.”

“I only used a few drops. It wasn’t anything even a low-ranking demon couldn't have walked off.” He paused, clicking his tongue and he turned his attention back to you. “Oh, but you’re not a demon at all, are you? It’s easy to forget how far his standards have fallen.”

He bent down, offering you a hand. When you failed to take it, he took you by the scruff of your robe, instead, hauling you up and off of the floor completely when you threatened to crumble once again. Roughly, unceremoniously, you were thrown over his shoulder and carried not to Diavolo’s fur, but the plain wood in front of the hearth, where the shadows seemed to twist and ebb with wills of their own and you could still feel heat radiating from the pile of leftover ashes in waves. There was a disapproving hum, the hollow sound of bare feet against the floor, and before Satan could throw you down, a plush comforter freshly pulled from the mattress was laid on the ground where you were bound to land, soon wrapped around your shoulders while you were still too startled to feel anything but slightly irritated by the sensation of the fabric against your skin. It was still hard to linger on more than one thing at a time, to minimize the lapse between cause and effect. Not so much to think, but to link one thought to another. Satan, lurking and out of character, and Diavolo, smooth and simpering and too self-satified, weren’t doing much to help.

Satan came to kneel behind you, pulling you towards him until your back was pressed into his chest and you were lying between his open legs. Diavolo, meanwhile, settled in front of you, leaning forward and taking up your thighs in his hands. If you felt small in front of Satan, Diavolo made you feel like nothing, an insect held in the palm of a giant. It took no effort at all for him to spread your legs apart, to throw them over his shoulders and latch onto the inside of your left thigh. You let out a whine of protest, but Satan only hushed you, letting one of his arms fall around your midriff to better pin you in place as Diavolo worked. You couldn’t thrash, couldn’t resist in any way, but he seemed prepared for you to try, to want you to try. Knowing him, he wouldn’t consider it a night well-spent until he found a chance to prove how willing he was to take what he wanted from you.

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but there was only so much you could do to stop yourself from squirming as Diavolo trailed upward, as he latched onto your clit, suckling gently on the sensitive bud. Your mind was numb, but your body felt like an exposed nerve, all fickle electricity and probing pinpricks and unprotected tissue vulnerable to outside influence. Diavolo exploited that, lapping over your slit in long, lethargic stripes. There was a lazy fervor to it; passion, enthusiasm, but the type that was better expressed through slow movements and repetitive pleasure than any kind of haste. Diavolo’s disposition didn’t help. As composed as always, content to leave you discontent, a reptilian tail swaying idly at the base of his spine in time with the strokes of his tongue against your cunt.

His mouth was so hot, too, pure warmth sapping from his flesh and seeping underneath yours, leaving you melting on his tongue every time he found a new pattern to trace into your entrance, a new way to tease your clit. You struggled weakly in Satan’s hold, your hands shooting to his forearm and, when that obviously proved to be useless, to Diavolo’s horns, if only to try and shove him off of you, or pull him closer, or something else entirely. You weren’t sure. You didn’t know what you wanted, what you were allowed to want when you could barely put one thought behind another. You didn’t know if it mattered whether you wanted it or not, especially when neither Satan nor Diavolo had seemed to care enough to ask.

Either way, your hips bucked into Diavolo’s mouth involuntarily, your body simultaneously fighting to get away from the sensation and aching to sink further into it. If Lucifer saw you like that – oh, god, you could practically see the disdain written across his expression, disgust poorly disguised behind a patronizing mask more demeaning than the initial offense. He might attempt to say something to you, to assure you that it’s not your fault humans fall so easily to temptation, to promise that he’ll still love you even if you are a filthy animal, a weak soul suspectable to even the smallest hint of persuasion. He was prone to falling into similar mantras when he was the temptation you were falling to, when he was holding you on his lap and splitting you open on his fingers. In the moment, it was easy enough to tell yourself that it was just dirty talk, nothing worth taking to heart, but things that weren’t worth taking to heart wouldn't hurt so much when they resurfaced, wouldn’t coil in the pit of your stomach and gnaw at the back of your throat. It wouldn’t feel so akin to how Satan was looking at you, now, the blunt-pointed malice hidden just behind his eyes. It wouldn’t—

Fuck. It’d been a mistake to take your attention off of Diavolo, to let yourself drift so far from your agony’s point of origin. He’d lost interest in teasing and moved on to something more satisfying, grinding his nose against your clit while he fucked you open with his tongue. You let out a strangled whine, but that only seemed to spur Satan forward, his hold growing tighter as he reached forward, running his fingers through Diavolo’s hair. When Diavolo attempted to lean into his touch, Satan’s grip turned iron-clad, clamping down and forcing him to bury his face even deeper between your legs. You let out a sharp cry, but Satan didn’t seem to mind, only chuckling as he propped his chin on your shoulder. “He’s cute, isn’t he?” Satan muttered, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Always so desperate to please. You’d never think a prince would be so easily broken down.”

He made it sound like this was something unwilling, something Diavolo had been lured and coaxed and led into by Satan’s own careful guidance. From what you could see, he’d thrown himself into his degradation with enthusiasm, and Satan’s abasement only seemed to add to his excitement, his apparent need to eat you out like some wild, starving beast. In a fraction of a second, his hands had shot to your hips, pinning you down as he found a steady pace, as he finally started working towards your climax in earnest. It only took a few minutes, a few seconds before you were clenching your eyes shut, gritting your teeth and biting your tongue just to choke back the pathetic noises that threatened to spill past your lips.

Even that was an exercise in futility. Your thighs were already clenching shut around his head, your nails biting into the calloused bone of his horns as your back arched. It was almost cruel – how many times he was willing to trace his tongue around the base of your clit, how long he tried to string out your climax, only letting you rest once tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes, once your broken mewls had stretched and rose into something more akin to pained whines. Even then, It took him long, agonizing seconds to lift his head, to flaunt his slick-soaked chin and pull back far enough to break the tendril of saliva that still connected him to your drooling pussy. He blinked several times, in an almost trance-like state, then seeming to come back into his own consciousness, he flashed a grin towards Satan, not quite as cocky as he was praise-hungry and too unabashed to care if you knew it.

But, Satan didn’t chide him, didn’t respond with any of his usually hostile apathy. Rather, he offered an airy laugh, letting go of your waist just in time for Diavolo to infest the space he’d left vacant, wrapping his arms around your waist as his mouth crashed into yours, his tongue forcing its way past your lips before you could think to brace yourself. When you looked past the initial collision, he was surprisingly gentle, raking his tongue over yours, forcing you to taste yourself on him. By the time he pulled away, you were panting, dizzy, barely able to hold yourself upright. That didn’t stop him from taking you by the hips, though, manhandling your body until you were straddling Satan’s waist, until your exposed cunt was pressed against the thin leather of his pants. You could practically feel his cock pulsing through the fabric. A tight knot formed in the back of your throat, another somewhere deep in your core. You weren’t sure what it meant, but you knew you wanted to get rid of it – however you were even supposed to do that.

Diavolo lingered behind you, his hands remaining on your hips as his lips drifted to the column of your throat, then your shoulder. For whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was able to settle on any particular spot. “What’s he like? In bed, I mean.”

Satan pursed his lips. “I thought we agreed not to talk about him.”

“You broke the rule first. Don’t think I missed that comment about a certain someone’s standards.” You felt warm breath fan over your shoulder, his easy smile coming to rest against your skin. “Just give us a little something. I’m curious.”

Satan huffed, rolling his eyes as his attention fell to his lap. While he preoccupied himself, rolling his hips against yours as he worked to undo the few barriers still restraining his cock, Diavolo went on, clearly undeterred. “I bet puts on such a show. He really does have such a soft heart, but he tries to act so callous – I can only imagine how tough he’d play at his most vulnerable.”

“As if. He’s a bleeding heart and everybody knows it.” His hands on your sides, his body shifting underneath yours. After gesturing for Diavolo to get out of the way, he laid you onto your back, remaining between your legs. “He cries when you touch him, doesn't he?”

It took you a second to realize who he was talking about, another for an achingly familiar bitter taste to spread over your tongue. “He’s mean.”

It slipped out before you realized you’d found your voice, before you could dampen the mawkish immaturity in your tone. Satan’s eyes widened, and Diavolo let out a breath of a laugh. When you lapsed back into silence, silently cursing yourself for being so careless, Diavolo encouraged you, taking your limp hand in his and squeezing softly. “He’s mean to you, pet?”

Satan was undoing the sash of your robe, now, melodically pushing the material off of your chest, letting it pool on either side of your form. You let your head lull to the side, making a half-hearted effort to weigh your options, but you were already talking. You wanted to. You needed to get something out of this, even if you’d be fishing coals out of a hearth that’d long-since burnt through everything useful. “He’s… he’s not always fair.” And then, as Satan lowered his head, pointed teeth nipping at the skin of your collarbone. “He gets too rough.”

“That does sound like him.” He was doing it, again – ebbing into that patronizing tone. “He can be terribly insensitive.”

He took a moment to nudge his pants off of his hips, to free his—

Oh.

Oh.

If he’d gotten nothing else from Lucifer, he’d inherited his older brother’s cock.

His patience, too. Your panic must’ve been visible, because Satan seemed to take a certain joy in wrapping a fist around the overwhelming girth of his base, in lining up the flushed head of his cock with your dripping entrance. There was a slight pause as he positioned himself above you – his free hand planted next to your head, his chest only a breath from yours. “Tell us what he does to you, kitten.”

It wasn’t a request, but an order. You followed it without question, desperate to distract yourself, to put something between you and the sensation of his tip pressing into you. “H-He likes it when I’m—” Your voice cut out, the air catching in your throat as he started to thrust into you – really thrust into you, bottoming out in one steady stroke. Frantically, desperately, you babbled on, only half-aware of what you were actually saying. “He likes to tie me down, and—and he never stops when I ask him to. Sometimes, i—it feels like he's trying to—”

Finally, mercifully, your voice gave out, any will of your own you might’ve held onto forced out of you as his hips crashed into yours and he pressed into something very deep and very painful inside of you. Your gaze shot to Diavolo, your expression pleading for any help he’d be able to offer, but he only met your eyes, only fell back onto his folded legs and allowed a single hand to fall into his lap, wrapping around the base of his cock. It wasn’t quite heartbreak, but it was close.

It was nearly more than you could take

You looked away as quickly as you could, but the alternative wasn’t much better – Satan, above you, disheveled blonde hair framing his face, his lips slightly parted, his pupils blown wider than you’d ever seen them. He’d never been so— he’d never been so feral, so mindless, so desperate to reach something you didn’t know if you wanted to name. If he’d been trying to restrain himself, he wasn’t trying anymore. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he immediately fell into a near-violent rhythm, the force of his hips against yours enough to bruise.

It was more of a muted ache than any kind of pleasure – pressing into the walls of your cunt, beating at your cervix, leaving you balling at the comforter Diavolo had laid beneath your form, grappling for a scrap of stability. There was nothing to be found, of course, nor did Satan seem sympathetic to your search. If anything, he seemed dissatisfied, letting out a primal snarl as he pulled out of you completely and straightened his back. You didn’t have time to be grateful before his hands were on your hips, before you were being thrown onto your stomach, hauled onto your knees, and held there as he plunged back into you, bullying his cock into your overstimulated pussy. It was all you could do to cross your arms underneath your head, to hide your face within the self-made shelter. It was all you could do not to cry out. Knowing Satan, that only make this all so much worse.

But, Diavolo wasn’t so easily deterred. While Satan fucked into you, he moved in to claim unoccupied territory. Delicately, more so than you could trust, he took you by the chin, tilting your head back until you were staring up at him, until it was impossible to disguise the cracked mewls and jagged moans trickling from your lips. He was still jerking himself off – his strokes long and languid, making no effort to match Satan’s pace – and you half-expected him to push your head into his lap, to leave you choking on his cock until he and Satan had both gotten their fill. But, his true intentions were nearly more painful than anything you would’ve been able to dredge out of the shadowed alcoves of your mind. Lowering himself to your height, he moved to kiss you, but seemed to falter, only coming close enough for his lips to ghost over your own as he spoke.

“I thought about killing you, you know,” he muttered, taking your glossy eyes and soft, airy noises as ample proof of acknowledgment. “He would’ve been upset, but he can only stay mad for so long. A human life is already so short, a few stolen years wouldn’t really matter.”

He was quiet for a long moment, but eventually, there was a sigh, a slight shake of his head. “You’re lucky that you’re as precious to them as you are. If you weren’t, I might’ve snuffed you out before you had a chance to borrow under his skin.”

Before you could so much as think about responding, his mouth was on yours and he was kissing you violently, holding you steady as his teeth clashed against yours, as you felt his tongue invade your mouth and a throaty groan reverberate against your lips. Distantly, you were aware of Satan’s barbed tail wrapping around your thigh, of a deep growl somewhere in the distance, and then his teeth were digging into the meat of your shoulder, not as much of a love bite as it was a primal attempt to tear off a piece of you.

There was another to the curve of your neck, not quite as brutal but twice as deep, and another to the soft junction between your jaw and your throat, too high and too visible to be easily hidden. Diavolo held on for as long as he could, but you were pulled from his grasp and dragged into Satan’s sadistic embrace, forced into a kiss as clumsy as it was blood-soaked. Pointed fangs tore into your lower lip, a bruising soreness forming around the corners of your mouth, but none of it could block out the agony of his cock twitching inside of you, of his pace stuttering before falling into something chaotic and disorganized and euphoric. He bent your own body to his will, your knees nearly buckling as he fucked into you with a renewed strength, as your cunt clenched involuntarily around him and fed into his ego-driven pleasure. His mouth remained locked against yours as he reached his climax and brought you to yours with wild, feral thrusts – filling you with something warm and vile while you were unable to tell yourself you hated it.

The moment he broke away from you, you collapsed into yourself, your strength long-spent and your stamina depleted to nothing. Diavolo clicked his tongue, and more out of reflex than genuine curiosity, you looked toward him, raising your head just enough to meet his eyes. A mistake, obviously. You felt it before you could realize what was happening – smoldering and wet, thick ropes of cum soon strung over your face and chest, clinging to your skin like the remnants of some awful parasite. He was still smiling. Satan, too, when you thought to pay attention to the lips tracing over your burning skin, following the curve of your spine before finally, finally drawing back from you, pulling away just far enough for you to pretend they'd never been there at all.

Diavolo did the same, breaking into a dull simper. “Poor thing,” he cooed, reaching out to cup your cheek. “Should I ask Barbatos to run a bath?”

“That won’t be necessary.” You could hear him push himself to his feet, beginning towards the bedroom door.

“It's been so long since we've invited my brother to spend time with us. Wouldn't it be cruel to leave him out again?”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Memories rekindled in the snow

Pairing: Melkor x Mairon

Themes: Soft / NSFW

Warnings: Kissing

Wordcount: 1.1K words

Summary: Melkor takes Mairon outside the walls of Angband to show him something that had been found.

A/n: This was inspired by this beautiful peice of Melkor and Mairon by @jreizen

Minors DNI | 18+

“Come, precious,” Melkor said, and he offered his arm. The assembly was at an end, and there was something he desired to show his companion. “There is something I wish for you to see.”

Mairon let him lead him out of the council room and through the many vaulted halls and dark-stoned passages of Angband. Balrogs bowed their heads out of respect as they walked by, their whips aflame. Thralls bearing the brand of their new masters scurried away from them, shaking in fright, as did the orcs. It was still overwhelming for Mairon. The Maia may have pledged himself to his master and his love long before the making of the world, but he knew little of the new realm he was learning to call home. He had once served Aulë, toiled alongside him in the Great Forge, and broke bread with him and his lady in Almaren, but now he was here, in the land aptly named Dor-na-Daerachas, and he had seen little of it until now. His duties had been that many, and when he was not occupied with his many labors, he was content to find rest in the arms of his master.

Mairon glanced at him. Melkor was his companion first, and his master besides. And he was resplendent in the furs and brilliant blue robes that he had garbed himself in. For his own part, Mairon garbed himself in fine, thick robes made to his measure. They had been a gift from his master. Crimson robes to bring out the crimson of his hair, Melkor had said, and Mairon had not failed to repay him with proper gratitude.  

“Already Angband is a different place,” Melkor observed, pleased with all that he saw. He rested his free hand over Mairon’s arm and squeezed it gently. “Everything is as it should be, and it is all thanks to you, precious.”

Mairon felt a flash of pleasure. Melkor was not one to offer sincere praise freely, and when he did, Mairon treasured it.

“I am pleased that you are satisfied with the changes fashioned by my imagining, my lord.” Mairon creased his brow in disgust when new elven prisoners were led past them and down an artfully concealed flight of steps leading to the thralls’ quarters deep within the bowels of the fortress.

Weak, he thought scornfully, and pitiful. Forever needing their betters to save them. Still, Mairon did not wholly object to their arrival. More elves meant more thralls. More thralls meant more hands to aid him, whether those who possessed such hands wished to aid him or not.

“Where are you taking me, my lord?” He asked when Melkor commanded that the thick iron gate half again as tall as the tallest Balrog, be opened. Cave trolls, large and brawny, grunted and tugged down on heavy chains that rattled and clinked as the gate was raised. As it rose higher and higher, whistling gusts of icy wind swept in from the world beyond, bringing with them snow that settled all over the floor and the benches and seats of the cavernous receiving hall. A nearby sentry cracked her whip and rasped out an order. Thralls rushed to and fro to clean the hall and set it to rights once again. Mairon, a being who only ever delighted in heat and flames, was ill at ease when he felt the uncommon chill lingering in the air.

“Do not fret, precious,” Melkor, having sensed the Maia’s discomfort, made haste to reassure him. “The ice and snow and cold of the lands beyond those walls are but trifles to those like us. Now come. We must not tarry.”

“Lead the way, my lord.”

The world beyond the high walls of Angband was covered in snow. It lay thick over stone and soil, and it shimmered in the dim light of the stars. The further they walked, the snow appeared all the whiter and the stars became even clearer, for the soot and gray, acrid smoke of Angband’s many furnaces did not spread this far. The creations of Varda above burned brightly now, lighting the way ahead for them.

“Here we are, precious.” Melkor led him into a thicket of snow-covered spruce and pine. Mairon did not understand. Why did his master bring him here?

“The orcs found this place. They wanted to cut these trees for wood,” his master explained, guiding him to the very center of the starlit grove. “I commanded otherwise. We consummated our bond in a place such as this; do you not remember?”

Of course, he remembered. It was just before Melkor devised the great towers of ice for Illuin and Ormal, the two lamps created by Aulë’s hands. The thicket of trees they lost themselves may not have had snow, but it looked and smelled much the same.

“We raced around the trees.” Mairon reached out and touched the bark of the nearest tree, its branches. The scent brought with it a flood of many memories, all of them happy ones. He smiled. “And then you caught me, and then kissed me. We cleaved to each other right there on the forest floor, in spirit and flesh, both. You were quite gentle then.”

Melkor furrowed his brow in confusion and tried to think of any time that he may have gone too far or been too rough. “Am I not gentle now?”

“You are, my lord. More than.” 

“Good.” Relieved, Melkor reached for him, sweeping him into his arms and kissing him the way he always did: with a great deal of warmth and need. And he was uncertain of what was more glorious: the soft sound he heard before he kissed or the sweet sigh that followed. Mairon shivered against him, though not from the cold. His master caressed his cheek, cradling him like he was made of some fine substance that could easily shatter when not touched with great care.  And then his master, craving to feel flesh against flesh, loosened his hold and moved his hand to undo the clasps of his robes with skillful fingers.  

“Yes, precious?” He whispered, pausing midway. 

Mairon, his mind clouded with lust that was both raw and insatiable, let go of any reservations he may have had about the cold and took a step back. He removed his cloak and spread it beside him on the snow before he did the same for Melkor’s, pulling the fur-lined mantle off his master’s shoulders and placing it over his own. Then he bid him to lay down on it. Melkor did what was asked of him, letting out a soft, drawn-out groan when the Maia sat astride his hips and his weight came to rest over the cradle of his hips. He still looked up at him, awaiting an answer.

He did not have to wait long to receive it.

“Yes, my lord. My answer is yes.” Mairon framed his master’s face in his hands, and then leaned down to kiss him.  

tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil

[multifandomthoughts]

AFAB READER WITH SHE/HER PRONOUNS

TW: Swearing

Her back straining, she grunts as she carries her basket down, plopping it down with a thud. It’s laundry day, and with all the adventures she’s had with the Strawhats, she needs a fresh clean load of laundry.

It seems that Zoro had the same idea too, albeit for different reasons. See, he’s been having a little bit of a problem as of late, and the only way to cover up the problem is to repeatedly douse his linens in detergent.

Looking over at his predicament, she grins to herself. “Have an exciting night recently?” She asks teasingly. The swordsman tries to hide a blush and turns the other way. “The chaos that happens in the men’s bunks isn’t anything for you to worry about. And before that I had been working out so…”

His voice trails off as she notices how his face begins to burn. “Could it possibly be that you’ve noticed something that you’re interested in? Or have you just used your sword as a bedtime partner?” Zoro grits his teeth and takes the basket of dry clothes out of the room in a huff, leaving her to laugh to herself at how easily she seems to have hit the nail on the head while she loads her own clothes into the washing machine.

A day or two pass in quite quickly, which is to say chaotic and overwhelming, so the incident is almost out of her memory when Zoro comes into the kitchen for breakfast in what look like a snugly comfortable pair of pants. Stretching her arms above her head and accidentally raising her own shirt to show her tummy, she greets the swordsman as cheerfully as she can for this hour of the morning. “Good morning, Zoro!”

He looks her way for only a moment before turning away with a blush. “Yeah, morning…” She can’t imagine what’s got him so bothered, but in checking to see if he’s got some bruise dampening his mood she sees his pants are bulging in the front far more than before, and it becomes her turn to go crimson noticing that. She recovers her composure quickly though, and as they sit to eat she fixes him with a cheshire cat grin. “Excited for breakfast, huh?”

“Yeah….heard the god damn cook is making a plate just for you….” He mumbles. “I don’t care about that.” She states, matter of factly. “What I care about, is why you won’t look me straight in the face. Ever since our little laundry room encounter, all you’ve done is cower and look away, hm?” Before Zoro can even begin to think to respond, a loud thud graces the table.

A buffet-style plate of food, arranged by professional hands draws her attention. Things from apples, to strawberries, to chocolate and fish. Seems like typical food to her, but to him it means more. Gulping and turning bright red, he goes to make his leave. “I’m not feeling too hot, can we have this conversation later?”

She wants to object, but he leaves just as everyone else enters the kitchen for breakfast, and the intention gets lost in the chaos. She’s forced to wait until after the meal, but when she does get the chance to look for him he’s not hard to find. Since he’s not immediately visible napping on the deck, he’s got to be up in the gym.

“They’re coming to get you Zoro…” She bellows, her voice echoing through the gym pavilion. As if on cue, he sprints out with his swords at the ready. “Alright, where’s the enemy?” She chuckles heartily, leaning against the glass panes of the window. “Your feelings clearly. I can see how they make you act around me. You don’t do a good job of hiding them, and they’re going to eat you alive.”

The green haired man turns red realizing what she’s done to him, especially embarrassed that he had taken a ruse about invading opponents so seriously. “S-shut up! I’m in complete control of my emotional state, I don’t have anything threatening to wreck me or whatever you’re saying.”

She smirks, letting out a widemouthed chuckle. “I see the way you look at me. The past few times we’ve interacted, you’ve either run away or have had something sexual in nature on your mind. Normally you’d be one to ignore it, but when it’s me…”

Zoro scoffs and turns away, clearly to hide his continuing blush. “You sound like the fucking cook. My first priorities are to my training and my captain, I don’t get caught up in crushes or lust or anything like that.” She presses her lips together in annoyance in the face of his staunch denial. It was deeply personal, but if she needs to get him to have a breakthrough she’ll go there… “Then what about when you popped a boner as soon as you saw me this morning? Trying to say that was just some coincidence?” “That was absolutely nothing, it was left over from waking up.”

“Okay, if you say so.” She shrugs and goes to pull off her shirt. If she’s in the gym, she might as well use the equipment in there. A sports bra and shorts is normal workout attire, so when she notices Zoro looking away, she knows she’s caught him in a lie. “What’s wrong? You’re not usually this modest if the other girls are sunbathing, or when Nami has a bikini top on every day? And I’m sure you don’t have a problem with me using the gym, Franky didn’t build it just for you to use.”

“I…uh….” He stammers. She had all the information she needed. Now all there was to do was to tease him. Seductively walking towards him, she traces his muscles, watching him tense up and shiver at the newfound touch. “I just want to get strong like you, and have bulging… powerful… hot muscles like these…” she mutters, her voice getting more provocative by the word until she’s practically moaning. Then almost as soon as she’s laid it on thick, she backs away and starts stretching to warm up. Facing away from him, she makes a point of bending over to touch her toes and stick her ass in his direction.

Zoro just can’t take it anymore: he pulls her to him, his chest against her back. His throbbing cock against her butt. He could feel his temperature rise higher, and his heart beat faster. He hopes that this is warranted, and that he wasn’t mixing signals up.

The giggle rippling through her chest and shaking her whole body against him is a pretty fair sign he wasn’t wrong. “Now there’s a good boy taking action….” she coos, craning her neck back to look up at him. “And just as excited as I thought too. Any words to match that body language?” She reaches up to run her fingers through his short green hair as if enjoying the feeling of blades of grass.

“I think I love you….and you make me so horny…” Blunt and awkward, the words spill from his lips like too big a swig of sake. Without another word, he crashes her lips into hers, delivering one of the most uncoordinated and sloppy kisses he can, nearly biting her tongue.

She doesn’t fare too much better, talking the talk well but flustered to try and follow through, and her attempt to return the kiss is awkward and clumsy too. This angle isn’t working at all, so she has to pull his hands off of her and turn around to face him. Now her chest is pressed to his, only thin layers of fabric separating her breasts from his pecs. “Been hoping you’d tell me that… Really, both of those things. Now do you wanna show it with just our lips, or should we get a REAL workout going? I know which I’d prefer…”

Strong fingers digging beneath the waistband of her shorts is a pretty clear sign which he’s choosing, and she giggles as she helps him tug them down her thighs to pool at her ankles before stepping out of them. Turning to face him, she makes a playfully annoyed face. “Now you’re too overdressed. Don’t worry, I’ll fix that.” With that promise, she yanks his pants and boxers down in one fell swoop, now seeing his throbbing erection with her own eyes.

“Looks like someone has been waiting a while for that….you’re already dripping for me..” Zoro, embarrassed enough to keep a straight face, but horny enough that blood rushes up to his face. A flick of her hand on his cock, and he howls with delight. A filthy grin erupts on her face as she tightens her grip, moving up and down. So painstakingly and slowly that he breathes through gritted teeth as he stares hungrily down at her. “If you know how long I’ve waited for this, why do you have to go so slow?” He demands with a hitch in his voice that could mistaken for a whimper, but a man like him would definitely never whimper or whine like that, thank you very much. She smirks back up at him and gives another arduous pump up and down the length of his shaft, letting her head droop down closer to his tip. Was she planning to combine the handjob with a blowjob? Even she isn’t sure just yet.

To his surprise, it was a fake out. Strong hands grip his shoulders as she hoists herself on top of him, sliding him into a her. A cackle erupts from her lips as he stays silent, before a large moan rips from his throat. Really, the laugh is to hide how much she wants to moan as well, unbelievably pleased by the sudden sensation of being filled by his cock. It’s hot and throbbing, and just so damn big. Her hands squeeze his shoulders a little tighter, and she leans forward to press her forehead to his. “You’ve had wet dreams about this exact moment, right? Well guess what, big guy… so have I.”

With that she crashes her lips back to his for another kiss, mostly to try and suppress her own squeals of pleasure as she moves her hips to start riding Zoro.

As he bucks into her, gasps and moans come from both parties as she caresses the skin between his neck and his face, admiring that devilish smirk. Everything she’s ever wanted is laid out in front of her, and she’s taking full advantage of it. Clearly, this is a match made in Heaven.

Their hips meet over and over in what becomes a smooth rhythm between partners in perfect synch. He holds her by the hips for leverage, though takes full advantage of this to also grope and squeeze her asscheeks for added stimulation on her end.

“Agh! Fuck, I need you so badly Zoro! I need you to keep fucking me!” She whines as her confident persona melts in the face of all this pleasure. “Is that a demand or a request?” He stops for a second, hoping to get her to beg.

“Please Zoro, I want you so much, why’d you stop?” She spits. “I won’t answer unless you answer my question.” He retorts. “It was a request to please keep fucking me!” “Well then, your wish is my command” he says as he fucks her with as much power and might that he can muster.

She moans with every thrust, bouncing her hips to meet his in desperation to get more pleasure and reach her orgasm. He’s not far from his either, and their hands are all over each other. Another minute passes before the tension in her core snaps and she comes apart in Zoro’s arms with a long needy cry. She cums hard, drenching his cock and tightening around it as her body is rocked by the pleasure. “AGH! ZORO!!”

That’s the last straw for the swordsman as well, and he hunches forward a bit to moan into your cleavage as he unleashes a hot load inside you. “Take it… take it all!”

Breathing heavily, bodies weak they collapse into each other. She nearly falls backwards and a yelp of surprise slips by her lips. Luckily, Zoro’s strong and firm arms catch her, pulling her off him as he slinks to the floor. “I guess….you were right.” He heaves. “I do have feelings for you…and this should be a thing going forward. At least, if that’s okay with you.”

She runs a hand over his pecs and abs, glistening with sweat, then pulls herself in closer to him. “This definitely needs to be a thing, handsome. You’re all mine now, and I’m yours.”

[othernicknameisgaslighter]

Chapter 1: Files

Masterlist - Next Chapter

__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________

Confidential Report on Human Experimentation: Super Soldier Serum Trial

Date: October 9th, 1947 

Location: Classified Facility, Sector 17  

Lead Scientist: Dr. Arnim Zola  

Subject ID: 004Z (Alias: “Subject Crimson”)

Objective

To test the efficacy of Super Soldier Serum B-13 (Alias: “SSSB13”) in significantly enhancing physical and cognitive abilities beyond natural limits. 

This report details the effects observed on one individual subjected to the serum in a controlled environment.

Subject Information

- Name: Classified

- Age: 29  

- Gender: Female  

- Height: 5’9”  

- Weight: 175 lbs (Pre-serum)  

- Medical History: Healthy, no pre-existing conditions, physically fit (military background). Psychological profile indicates average resilience to stress and trauma. 

Administration of Serum

- Dosage: 30ml injection, administered in two stages over a 48-hour period.

- Phase 1 (0-24 hours: Preliminary physical and neural enhancements.

- Phase 2 (24-48 hours): Stabilization and further augmentation of sensory and cognitive abilities.

Phase 1: Initial Effects (0-24 Hours)

Physical Changes:

- Muscle Mass: Noticeable increase in muscle density (+15% mass) within the first 6 hours.

- Strength: Strength tests indicated a 250% increase in raw lifting capacity, confirmed via standard load-bearing equipment. Subject Crimson lifted 700 lbs effortlessly by hour 12.

- Endurance: Cardiovascular endurance improved by 180% based on treadmill stress testing at hour 20.

Cognitive Changes:

- Reflexes: Reaction time dropped from 0.2 seconds to 0.03 seconds. Subject Crimson was able to dodge incoming projectiles.

- Neural Efficiency: Subject reported a heightened sense of awareness and perception, able to track movements in his peripheral vision with pinpoint accuracy. Neurological scans showed a 45% increase in synaptic firing rates.

---

Phase 2: Sensory and Cognitive Augmentation (24-48 Hours)

Sensory Enhancements:

- Vision: Subject Crimson reported enhanced visual acuity. Tests showed that her night vision had improved tenfold, and she could discern movement from over 1,000 feet in low-light conditions.

- Hearing: Subject detected frequencies up to 50 kHz, well beyond the human range, and accurately identified the source of faint noises within a 200-meter radius.

- Touch: Hyper-awareness of tactile sensations was observed. Subject could sense minute vibrations through solid objects.

Cognitive Enhancements:

- Problem Solving & Memory: The subject solved complex puzzles in record time. Long-term memory recall improved by 300%, allowing Subject Crimson to recite entire documents verbatim after one reading.

- Multi-tasking: Subject exhibited the ability to manage up to five different cognitive tasks simultaneously without error or loss of focus.

---

Post-Trial Monitoring

- Physical Stability: No signs of physical breakdown or adverse reactions have been detected. Vital signs remain in optimal ranges despite sustained extreme exertion.

---

Conclusion

The results of the SSSB13 trial on Subject Crimson have surpassed expectations, achieving a level of human enhancement previously deemed impossible. 

The subject now possesses physical strength, agility, enhanced sensory perception, and superior cognitive function. 

Long-term effects are still under observation, but preliminary data suggest that SSSB13 has the potential to redefine soldier capabilities.

Further experimentation will explore scalability, mass production, and ethical implications. Caution is advised in deployment to ensure control over enhanced subjects.

---

This report is classified and intended for authorized personnel only. Unauthorized distribution is a violation of Section 8b.

---  

Report Compiled by:  

Dr. Arnim Zola  

Project Midnight

[mangoshorthand]

No Hard Feelings- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch5

SUMMARY: You're Five's latest assassination target, but things don't go to plan and now he wants you as his fuckbuddy. Funny how what we want and what we need are rarely in line. (Five's physically aged up). Obvious smut warning but there's plot too, I swear! Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five- Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

In this chapter, Five takes a trip down memory lane whilst hiding something he took form you...and things start to get more complex than he'd thought.

Smut below. Proceed at your own risk

Chapter Five: Nice Girls Who Love to Act Kinky

“Master Five?”

Five was just about to creep up the attic stairs when Pogo stopped him. He turned around, trying his best to look innocent, arm clamped over the item hidden beneath his Academy blazer.

“Where have you been?”

Five bounced a little on the balls of his feet:

“Just…practicing spatial jumps in various weather conditions. It’s misty out there.”

“Hm.” Pogo was clearly unconvinced, “Did you obtain your father’s permission to leave the Academy?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” he said, attempting to style it out with pure brazenness.

“Then I’m sure you won’t object to me asking Sir Reginald about it?”

Five tried to hold his nerve.

“Not at all. Go ahead.”

Pogo’s brow lifted, silently giving Five a final chance. For a moment, he considered, and then the horror of his Dad finding out and probably humiliating him in front of all his siblings made him admit it.

“Okay,” Five said, looking at his feet again, “I didn’t ask. But it was really beneficial to my training.”

Pogo considered him.

“What are you holding under your uniform?”

“Nothing,” said Five, barely-broken voice wobbling and fists slowly curling lest he need to make a quick, blinked exit.

“Number Five…” said Pogo, warningly, “show me what you’re holding and I may think twice about telling your father.”

Five calculated. He needed to get out of here: and quickly. Ideally, nobody should see what he was holding, but it was better Pogo than Dad or his siblings. Looking down at the floor, he produced the magazine and handed it over, feeling his cheeks burn.

The chimp took one look and suppressed a smile with difficulty.

“How did you obtain this? This isn’t the sort of material that should be on sale to minors.”

Five mumbled, not meeting Pogo’s eye, “I…I put the money on the counter and blinked away with it before the guy saw me.”

Pogo sighed and handed it back, where Five stuffed it under his jacket again, hastily.

“I will turn a blind eye this time: but you should know that if I find this, or any other prohibited materials around the Academy, they will be confiscated and I will tell your father where they came from. Do I make myself clear?”

Five briefly met Pogo’s eyes before looking down at his shoes again,

“Yes, Pogo.”

“Very good. You are dismissed.”

The crimson teenager disappeared in a flash of blue. Pogo shook his head. It may be time he suggested to Sir Reginald that a course of sex education would be beneficial in the Academy.

Five knelt, head against the floor to look under his bed. There it was, still there, after all these years. He always hid the small pine box behind anything he could place in front of it. He smiled reminiscently at the sight, at the memory of the younger self who put it there. He’d lived over fifty years since then.

Reaching for it, he brought it out and wiped off the dust. Inside, sure enough, was the issue of Playboy he’d bought with what he imagined was stealth so long ago. He chuckled at the incredibly dated cover: three women in bikinis and platform heels posing in front of a pink background. If their charms hadn’t been appealing enough, the intriguing cover line ‘Nice Girls Who Love to Act Kinky’ made his young self a little too intrigued to leave this behind in the convenience store.

But he wasn’t here for a trip down memory lane. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out her panties and stowed them away in the box for future…inspection.

It struck him that he might now have reason to expand this rather meager private collection. 

As the weeks went on, Five unbuttoned around you, both physically and conversationally. 

He was a strange lover: never willing to be fully naked in front of you. He always left at least one item of clothing on, even if just a shirt worn open. He didn’t like unnecessary touches either, uncomfortable with you running your hands all over him. He never explicitly told you not to, but any time your fingers brushed his torso, arms or face, he was liable to take your wrists and firmly assert control. 

Scars criss-crossed his body. He didn’t invite questions, so you so far hadn’t asked about them, instead contenting yourself with memorizing them: mapping his body in your mind, letting your exploratory gaze do what your fingers longed to yet were prohibited from.

Physical affection was also quite firmly not on the table, loving words even less so. The best you got from him is a final kiss before he rolled off you; the only thing to reassure you that he didn’t really mean the demeaning things he said as he fucked you. 

Today, you didn’t even get that: after calling you a dumb slut just before he came, he now lay back, arms over his head and sweat glistening on his body. He took longer to catch his breath than might be usual, having done most of the athletics in tonight’s session. 

WIth a sigh, he briefly closed his eyes.

“Fuck, that was good.”

You could sense that he was mentally stirring himself to leave. It made you feel a little flutter of something, particularly after that little piece of degradation. Sure, it was hot, but the cold-light of post-coitus left you feeling something you couldn’t quite place.

“You want to do it again?” you asked.

He raised an eyebrow, eyeing you skeptically.

“Come on,” you probed, “don’t tell me you’re a one-and-done sort of guy.”

His mouth spasmed with something midway between amusement and disapproval.

“As flattering as it is that you can’t get enough, I can’t get it back up straight away. I just came pretty hard and I haven’t eaten. I need to be making tracks.”

“Well, okay,” you said, “but I’m at a conference on Tuesday so you’re going to have to wait an entire week to fuck me again. Don’t you want to make the most of it?”

He turned onto his side, wry amusement spreading his face in spite of himself.

“Can’t I come on Monday?”

“No. You came this Monday. We do alternate Mondays.”

“What’s the conference about,” he huffed, “innovative methods of being a tight-ass?”

“No, it’s about dealing with arrogant shitheads who can’t stick to their fuck-schedules.”

He suppressed a laugh with a hard look.

“Fuck-schedule? Sweet Jesus, what a boner-killing idea.”

You shrugged as if to say: what else would you call it?

Your expression perhaps reminding him that the oddly specific arrangement was of his making, his mouth twitched again, unable to keep a straight face.

He was beautiful when he smiled. They were always hard to extort, but the reward was worth the effort. 

He pondered, absent-mindedly sweeping his hair out of his eyes; a mannerism that already made your stomach flutter. He shifted slightly and you noticed another little scar above his left eyebrow. You reached out to run your finger across it, for the moment forgetting how strange he could be about touches like these.

He tensed, eyes meeting yours as your finger made contact with the scar. Noticing this, you raised your finger off his skin again, letting your eye contact speak the request. After a second or so, he lowered his head in acquiescence, presenting the scar more clearly to your eye. You placed your finger back down and felt the indentation of tissue.

“What happened?” you murmured.

“Of all the scars I have, why ask about that one?” he smiled uncomfortably, deflecting the question.

“I just…never noticed it before.”

You kept tracing the scar, liking how it felt to do this: happy to be free to touch even this tiny area of skin in a way that denoted care.

He watched you from beneath his lashes, your focus entirely on the scar. The corners of your mouth were turned down slightly, eyes filled with benign interest. Your touch was unlike other touches. It was cool…even soothing.

“It’s a long story,” he said, quietly, unsure why he was even telling you, “I got in a fight. My brother Viktor got jumped at an all-night gas station while I was sitting in the car.”

“Shit,”

“Yeah. He’s kinda small and I guess he looked like an easy target; this was at a time when we lost our powers for a while so it wasn’t either of our best work. There were two of them and one managed to hit my head off a dumpster.”

“Shit.” you said again, rubbing the pad of your thumb over it again, as if you might undo the pain with the caress.

Five let out a single exhale of laughter at your concern.

“Well, Viktor and I are still around and those guys ended up in the dumpster, so I’d call that a success.”

“Were you both okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Viktor had a split lip but it just needed ice.” 

As the rest of your hand threatened to cup his cheek, he sat up.

“How about I meet you back here in an hour or so? I’ll get some food and caffeine and then I’ll come back to deal with that greedy little pussy.”

Now it was your turn to raise your eyebrows. 

“I can go one better. Do you like Sri Lankan food?”

“I can’t say I’ve tried a great deal.”

“Well, I haven’t eaten either. I have an extra piece of fish marinated and ready to go into a kulambu sauce. Maybe with rice and a quick coconut sambal? Should take me twenty minutes, maximum.”

He considered you, lips thin and eyebrows lowered as if you offered him something suspect.

“You like to cook, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, a little nonplussed by his tone.

He hummed his acceptance of this apparently surprising notion and tilted his head to the side.

“Why not? Mind if I grab a coffee?”

He sat straight-backed on the couch as you cooked, finishing his coffee. After a couple of failed conversation starters, you instead put on the second half of a podcast on revenge and retributive justice to fill the silence. Five listened to it too, occasionally making a comment or answering one of your own, but he was too distracted to engage on a deeper level.

He was firmly just here for the sex, and the food really did smell good. This didn’t count as getting embroiled in your life…he just happened to be also eating here. 

It was natural that you touching him outside of a sexual context shouldn’t mess with him as much as it did when other people did it: a guy can’t help but get more comfortable with somebody’s fingers when they've been wrapped around the shaft of his dick several times over the past few weeks.

He just needed to be careful you didn’t get the wrong idea.

“Do you want some wine?” you asked, letting the rice steam as the pot bubbled on the stove. You turned off the podcast as you joined him on the couch. 

“Just a smidge,” he smiled, letting an edge of cold formality lace his manner.

“It might not be up to your exacting standards, Robert Parker. You can have red or white.”

He smiled fully in spite of his resolution, “White with fish, please.”

You handed him a glass and poured him a large Chardonnay. He winced on seeing the bottle but, seeming to realize that beggars couldn’t be choosers in this quality-wine desert of an apartment, held his tongue. He raised his glass to you from a distance and took a sip.

As he suspected, it tasted like shit.

You sat on the other end of the couch and folded your bare legs under you. Smalltalk wasn’t Five’s forte, and the stove timer told him they had at least ten minutes before the rice was cooked. 

When it became clear that Five wasn’t going to break the silence, you took the initiative:

“So, what do you do for fun?”

“You,” he said, deadpan.

“Seriously: you got any hobbies?”

He shrugged, “I read, I work, I tinker occasionally.”

“Yeah?”

“I got a 1970 Corvette Stingray; a present to myself a few years ago. She’s a beaut, but she needs a lot of work to keep her ticking over.”

You smiled gently. Here was the old man, plainly on view. 

“You’re a mechanic then?”

“Self taught,” he said, with a hint of pride in his voice, “I leave the bodywork to the professionals, but I know my way around an engine. I had to turn my hand to a lot of mechanical stuff in my time.”

“In the apocalypse, you mean?”

He stiffened. The apocalypse, although he’d told you about it in passing, was not an appropriate subject for discussion within the bounds of this relationship. This was getting too far into ‘getting-to-know-you’ territory.

Instead, he adopted the domineering persona that he was quickly learning drove you wild.

“I could talk about mechanics,” he said, very low, “but I’d rather talk about what I’m going to do to you after dinner.”

You had no objection to this. You untucked your legs and stretched them out so as to make them more visible to him, so he could follow your calves up to your thighs and maybe catch a glimpse of your panties under the short slip you pulled on to cook.

“Tell me then,” you said, voice kept carefully unconcerned.

He put down his wine and placed a hand on each of your ankles.

“Well, before I put these up on my shoulders and fuck you silly, I’m going to kiss and lick that cute little pussy until I get nice and hard.”

His fingers moved delicately up your shins.

“Then I’m going to make you come. Maybe once, maybe twice. Get you nice and relaxed. And then-”

He stroked his hands down the back of your thighs, coming to cup the parts of your ass cheeks not in contact with the couch cushion.

“I want to get you used to having fingers in your ass. If you’d be so kind?”

He met your eyes with raised, expectant brows -  the commanding look of a teacher: like a school principal addressing a difficult student on the cusp of a behavioral breakthrough. It was an expression that contrasted starkly with his youthful appearance. It made your stomach turn over pleasantly as you again got a glimpse of the man within. 

You played along with him. 

“If you’re gentle, Daddy.”

He rose to his knees and your legs fell open automatically. He positioned himself between them and leaned towards you, propping himself up on his arms.

“I’ll be so gentle.” he said, “I’m going to be so gentle to begin with. I’ll only go hard after I’ve turned you into a slut for it - until you’re practically begging me to pound you.”

His nose was only an inch from yours.

“It’s going to feel so good. Your tight little ass gripping every inch of me. Fuck.”

“You’d be the first,” you whispered, “I’ve never done it before.”

He made a noise deep in his throat, bringing one hand to stroke and squeeze your neck.

“I’m going to make it good for you. You’re such a good girl, saving your ass for Daddy.”

He leaned in and kissed you possessively, his hand still firm around your neck. He took your lower lip between his teeth and nipped it with force just beyond playful.

An unexpected fire ignited in your belly, and your hand leapt to his thick, sweet-smelling hair. You forced his lips harder into yours, and your tongue into his mouth. He froze slightly at your sudden, unexpected violence but quickly matched you. His tongue forced yours out of his mouth, pinning it and sliding his own as far down your throat as he could reach.

You pulled his hair, repositioning his head to give yourself an advantage. He allowed you to tongue him for a few seconds before fighting back again, wrenching your arms to your sides and pinning them with his knees. Using the weight of his body, he restrained you, your head pushed hard into the arm of the couch with a hand in your hair.

Now, you only had your tongue to resist him, so you fought his as if your life depended on it.

When he eventually broke the kiss, panting, he looked down on you with narrowed eyes. He chewed the inside of his cheek in a satisfied way.

“So you do have a bit of fight in you. I like that.”

“Yeah, sure I do,” you said, challengingly, “You want me to tell you what I’m going to do to you after dinner?

“I’m happy for you to make requests .” he said, imperiously, using the hand still in your hair to jerk your head for emphasis, “but you don’t tell me anything, little girl.”

You didn’t avert your eyes from his gaze, defiant now.

“I want to tease your nipples until they’re so hard it hurts. Then I want to rub your cock and make you ride your edge until you beg to come. Then, if you’re cute enough when I jerk you off, I’d let you fuck me.”

He froze, stared and then the stove timer beeped. 

He got off you, clearly a little overwrought.

You ate in silence, occasionally making eye contact and then looking away again. He finished his food first and tried not to watch you as you ate yours. Instead, he drank his wine, trying to ignore the huge, hard boner below his waistband.

The food was very tasty, but he’d hardly been in a state to appreciate the complex flavor profile. This damn girl…you attracted him more than he liked. He wished he could control it, but he was a slave to his cock when it came to you. When you said those things, a spark of fire in your eyes, he was absolutely sure he was about to paint the inside of his underwear for the first time since this body was fourteen. 

While he’d held off with difficulty, the boner still just wouldn’t quit. I felt it against his thigh even now. You made him ride his edge just in saying those dirty things. Bottoming was far from his preference (it had some unpleasant associations for him), but the body wanted it on occasion even when his mind got in the way.

When you finally put your fork down, he stood abruptly.

“Back to the bedroom?”

“Don’t you want to finish your wine?” you asked, an amused smile playing about your lips.

“No. It’s terrible.”

And he grabbed you by the front of your slip, blinked you to the bedroom and pushed you roughly onto the bed.

“Woah,” you said, reeling slightly from the unexpected sensation: dizziness, disorientation and a slight static-fizz lingering on your skin.

“It takes some getting used to,” he said, impatiently forcing your slip up to your waist and pulling your panties aside.

He knelt on the floor and lapped at your pussy, moaning in satisfaction at the come waiting there for him. Greedily, he licked up the wetness he created before dinner, combined with a hint of his own come from earlier.

He surfaced briefly, slipping two fingers inside you and pumping them softly.

“That tastes so good…you taste so fucking sweet.”

You arched your back into his face as he returned his tongue to your clit.

“Really go hard on my clit,” you whispered, lacing your fingers into his hair once more and putting him where you needed him. 

He upped the intensity, tongue faltering a little as it got used to performing the repetitive, concentrated tweaking motion that made you groan the loudest.

“Yes…fuck yes. Tongue me right there.”

He let out a noise of satisfied assent into your clit.

Eventually, slightly inexpertly, he made you come like this. The orgasm built as if from your toes, ripping through you mercilessly. It carried on and on, morphing in feel as he replaced his tired mouth with his fingers. Now, chin covered in the creamy evidence of your arousal, his mouth was free to mutter obscenities.

“Look at you. Still coming, huh? Just look at you. God, your ass is already twitching. Hell, with this wet pussy, I might not even need lube to begin with.”

“I want…I want,” you panted, trying to get out the words between waves of pleasure that made your hips pump and your teeth grit.

“What do you want, whore?” he said, moving his fingers as a faster clip, knowing he was making it even harder to talk. 

You cried out as a particularly intense spike of pleasure shot through you, curled toes finally releasing at the end of the long orgasm.

“S-stop!” you cried, pulling at his wrist. He withdrew slowly, a thick film of come coating his fingers.

“Was that good?” he asked.

“Yes,” you breathed “but now I want to edge you.”

“No.” he said, simply, “bend over. That’s it, face down, ass up and spread those cheeks.”

He climbed on the bed as you moved obediently into position, excited.

He grabbed lube from your bedside drawer, and then simply looked at you spread out before him; your wet, swollen pussy and the tight ass above it. 

“Wider” he said, huskily.

You pulled your asscheeks further apart, unconsciously sticking your ass out more in an effort to show yourself off more fully. 

You could feel his eyes on you, like laser vision cutting into you. You could feel his eyes eating up the sight of your pussy and asshole. Your cheeks burned, yet being spread for him like this was an intoxicating feeling. You thought you could be happy for him to look at you like this all day.

When a lubed finger gently stroked your hole, you hissed. 

“How does that feel?” he whispered, the hint of a smile in his voice.

“Dirty,” you answered, embarrassedly.

“Green dirty, or red dirty?”

“Green.” you whispered, and his lubed finger exerted the slightest pressure...

Afterwards, he thanked you for dinner and immediately said a hasty goodbye, leaving your apartment feeling empty and you strangely bereft.

Masterpost

Tiny tag list: (lmk if you want to join) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh

Alternatively, join me on A03.  Here is a link to the whole series

[goblininawig]

Red Dwarfcember: Presents

Summary: Lister scavenges gifts for his crewmates.

Prompt: Presents

Rating: T (no warnings)

Words: 1,239

A03 link or keep reading below.

Lister wanders through the refuse of ghosts long gone, scavenging another derelict vessel. This one, though, stands out from most he’s seen. Usually space vessels had seen commercial use of some sort, but this one was a billionaire’s private pleasure vessel. 

Unfortunately, he and his many companions seemed to prefer silk, so all of the beddings and clothing had fallen apart over time. The once-fresh food, neither canned nor irradiated, had long since rotted, even what had been in refrigeration units. There were no large stockpiles of supplies, either mechanical or medical. 

It seems that there isn’t actually much of anything worth salvaging. But Lister is going through all the rooms and storage spaces just once more. In case he missed something worthwhile. He doesn’t want to go back empty handed, especially since Rimmer and Holly’d already told him it was a waste of time. 

In the expansive kitchen, he paws through the objects beneath the sink. He’d ignored most of them before, after seeing that none of it was edible. But now, he looks more carefully, and selects a few likely-looking cleaning products and an unopened packet of sponges. He shoves them all in a duffel, and moves on.

In the master bedroom, he steps into the spacious closet, and sorts through the scraps of clothes, plucking ornate buttons off their rotting threads, and shoving them in his pockets. By the time he’s gone through all the piles, he’s got enough that they clink against each other as he walks.

At the back of the closet, he stands, swinging the duffel up on his shoulder. It hits the wall panel, knocking it loose. Curious, Lister peers into the dimly lit space. It seems to be a secret compartment. Putting his duffel back down, he pries the loose panel away. Lister kneels, and peers at the object inside what appears to be a hermetically sealed plexiglass display box.

“Oh, no smeggin’ way!” he exclaims to himself. 

Sat inside the box, on a plush crimson pillow, is a bicorne black beaver felt hat. A faded red, white, and blue cockade is affixed to the top right. It’s Napoleon Bonaparte’s hat. Right there for the taking. So take it, he does.

Back on Red Dwarf, Lister finds Kryten in the Drive Room. “Hey there, Krytes. Found ya somethin’.”

He unzips the duffel and pours out the cleaning products. They fall in a heap on the carpet. Lister drops the bag and scoops the bottles and packet of sponges up in his arms. Clumsily, he passes them over to Kryten. The mechanoid’s lipless mouth turned up into a smile.

“Oh, Mr. Lister, sir! I haven’t seen this brand of cleanser since I was on the Nova 5. This does bring back memories. Oh, thank you, sir!”

“No prob, Kryters,” Lister grins. “Enjoy.”

He leaves the duffel on the floor for Kryten to pick up, and returns to the trolley he left in the corridor. Lister pushes the trolley with the hermetically sealed box to the service lift. 

On the way, he spots the Cat, curled up on top of a vending machine, napping. He pulls the handfuls of buttons from his pockets and leaves them in a heap beside the Cat, for him to find when he wakes. Then he keeps on towards the lift.

Lister stops the trolley outside his sleeping quarters and enters to find Rimmer sat at the table with a magazine in front of him, a skutter beside him.

“No, no, no, you moronic mess of metal! Turn the other page! I’ve already read this one.”

Rimmer’s nostrils flare as the skutter makes a rude gesture with his clawed head. He kicks at it in frustration, but his projection, of course, phases right through the skutter, who takes this as its exit cue.

“Sorry to interrupt your fascinating day, Arnie,” Lister smirks, drawing Rimmer’s glare to him. He holds up his hands, placatingly, “I got something to show ya from that ship.”

“Why did you even bother, Listy?” Rimmer tuts, standing and striding closer. “The scans showed there wasn’t a smegging thing worth salvaging.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time Holly made a mistake, would it?” Lister returns cheerfully. “C’mon, this might make up for your toy soldiers.”

“I hardly think bringing that up will put you on my good side, squire…. Oh, my god,” Rimmer stops just outside the bunkroom, eyes locked on the tricorn hat in its case. “You didn’t – that couldn’t be – it isn’t –”

“Napoleon’s hat, yeah,” Lister taps the small museum-like information card affixed to the front of the case, which identifies the hat’s original owner, and dates the relic to 1815. 

Rimmer takes a knee. He shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle a whine of overwhelming fanboy glee. Then he gets up, jogs down to the end of the corridor and back again. He stops in front of the trolley, trembling with excitement. He phases one hand through the case, and mimics touching the black beaver felt. “I’m touching Napoleon’s tricorne!” he whispered. 

Lister rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. The poor smegger hasn’t been this excited since he mistook a garbage pod for an alien vessel.

Lister is starting to regret giving Rimmer the stupid hat. He’s become obsessed. He whined and fussed until Holly gave him the white and blue uniform worn to command the Grande Armée, complete with knee-high boots, golden epaulets and white waistcoat. He won’t let anyone else use the cinema, insisting that he’s got weeks worth of Napoleonic War documentaries to binge. And now, he’s found the git trying to actually put the thing on.

Of course, there’s no way for Rimmer to wear it, but he’s got four skutters holding the case above the chair he’s sat in. When they hold it steady, it looks, for a moment, as if the hat is actually on Rimmer’s head…above a pillow, surrounded by a large case, and likely not the grand effect the hologram had been hoping for.

“Hold it steady, you worthless mechanicals,” Rimmer snips, adjusting his white sash. “It was working there for a moment.

Lister draws a hand down his face. “Rimmer, this is low, even for you. You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a hat.”

Rimmer makes eye contact with him in the mirror. “I’ll have you know, miladdo –” he begins.

But then he stops, as one of the skutters loses hold of the case, causing it to swing wildly through Rimmer’s projection. Everything seems to move in slow-motion, but even still, Lister can’t get to the case before it crashes to the metal deck, breaking off a large corner. He watches, horrified, as the hermetic seal breaks, the felt is exposed to air for the first time in millions of years, and it disintegrates. Rimmer staggers to his feet. There’s a moment of utter silence, and then Rimmer starts to scream.

“You utterly smegging worthless skutters!” he hollers, face turning red. “I’ll see you all disassembled for this! You’ll be used for parts! You’ll never work on this ship again!”

Taking advantage of his frothing tirade, the skutters head for the door. Rimmer growls and rushes after them.

Left alone with the remains of the hat and case, Lister kicks it out of his way, and shrugs. “At least he  can’t blame this one on me.” He climbs up into his bunk, and settles in for a nice, quiet smoke.

[maxphilippa]

Redesigned two of my ocs for the CMWR verse! Cold Vanilla Brew and Blueberry Jam!

These two are step siblings! But their team is not complete just yet! There's one guy I have to redesign still!

Small info on them:

Cold Vanilla Brew: He/They pronouns, demiboy, bisexual. On his mid 30's. A fashion designer. Very strict and has high expectations for others, and is very known due to his work as well. Despite his cold personality and sharp looks, he's a very caring individual and very kind as well. He wants people to keep on trying and makes sure that they improve as well. His patience is infinite despite all odds. Blueberry Jam is his step brother.

Blueberry Jam: Any pronouns but mainly he/she, genderqueer, pan arospec. On her late 20's. An very passionate almost close to be forensic scientist, due to her starting a bit late. He's energetic and considerate, and takes details with a lot of consideration in mind. Blueberry Jam always carries around a butter knife with them in case something happens. Thinks about to moving back with Cold Vanilla Brew once he finishes his studies... however she found someone that is currently staying with him. Her interest is peak on this individual.

They're very close to eachother despite all of their struggles.

/nf !!!

[the-anime-man]

What if Sig got to the Tome of Sealing first? AKA Tomo AU

hi again tumblr, please dont expect a whole lot from this blog, once again, but, i wanted to post like a little basic thing about this au i've had since 2021 now that i'm back into puyo again,

this is an au that Heavily relies on bits of fanon and headcanon to make it work cuz canon is puyo puyo is very fucking wishy washy but essentially, what if sig had checked out the tome of sealing from the library before klug was able to? (sorry if this is a bit scatterbrained, im not good at organizing my thoughts much,,)

(also please dont mind some of the art, im like an ok artist at best and some of this shit is from 2 years ago as well)

so like, as the absolute fucking nerd i am, i made like an initial google doc on this thing outlining most of the shit im about to summarize here (that i might link if someone asks at some point i guess idk) as well as a fanfic, didnt finish that though, i got like through barely a chapter before i stopped and then i got into sam and max but that's unrelated to now

ANYWAYS, the au is as it sounds, sig goes to precise museum and, guided by the voice of the crimson soul, finds the tome of sealing and checks it out (much to akuma's chargin,,) and then he checks out the book again,,, and again,,,, and a gain,,,, (you see where this is going)

but uh, why is it called tomo au? see im being a little shitter here and i thought maybe the crimson soul's memory would be a little shot after spending ages in a book so they might not remember their name and sig is like "you're my friend now so i'm gonna call you friend/tomodachi" but then he's like "that's too long i'm gonna call you tomo instead" so they just go along with it, for future reference, anytime i mention the crimson soul i'm gonna be calling it Tomo

wow that's really fucking big sorry,

sig has an immense attachment to tomo from the get go btw, he's like, i wanna say like 8 or so when he first gets to the book, so besides the obvious literal halvsies soul connection there's that childhood connection as well,

side note: they can speak to each other cuz of that soul connection btw, it's my personal headcanon that after slug (canon strange klug/the crimson soul) can speak to anybody who they've possessed before as well as their other half, so in canon klug and sig can hear the book talk but in this au only sig can hear them

also, the reason why tomo doesn't attempt to take over sig right from the outset is A) they dunno where the unsealing objects are and B) sig is a child and uh, another part that i'm still trying to work the kinks through of is whether tomo decides to hold off on doing the fusion dance of their own volition or if because the cyan soul (which can speak to tomo, but only when sig is asleep cuz when sig is awake the cyan soul IS sig, nother headcanon sorry) decides it's too soon, they probably have memories of previous incarnations stored in there and know that eventually sig will start showing more demonic traits but not when he's baby

wow this is getting to be a lot but we're not even done cuz now i gotta talk about what this means about shit like fever 2 and such (y'know canon things and all)

boy tumblr just hates making images smaller nowadays huh,

so when sig starts showing signs of his heritage (i.e., a bit before fever 2 happens) tomo and sig start to hatch a plan to get tomo a body back! of course, tomo is omitting some things about how they're actually going to go into sig's body cuz at this point they've been together for a few years now and sig trusts tomo as like, a best friend i guess? something like that,

so sig is under the impression tomo is gonna be released and get their old body back and tomo is under the impression that as soon as the seal releases they'll enter sig's body, join back up with the cyan soul, and return to their original form,

so sig transfers over to amitie and klug's class, (tomo) overhears that lemres is coming into town with the items they need, and they steal the shit and head to the ruins to perform the unsealing

SPOILERS! shit goes wrong

ignore how shitty the ms paint art from a couple of years ago is, might change the hair to be more red in future art

for reasons (that i also need to workshop because to be honest originally it was a "whoever unseals it gets their soul swapped with whoever is trapped in the book" but like??? idk if that's how it should work when it comes to these two specifically), sig and tomo swap places instead of a fusion happening,

sucks balls for both of them cuz this is like the Last thing either of them wanted out of this tbh, sig obviously because well, trust got broken and ended up trapped til the artifacts are stolen (klug either swaps roles with amitie or sig, haven't figured that one out yet either) and tomo most certainly doesn't want sig trapped, as they wouldn't want anyone to experience the loneliness of being sealed away like they were (except klug, fuck klug specifically) (also the chronicles drama cd mentions that part of tomo's character in it so it works for my purposes)

this image wasn't necessarily specific to tomo au but i thought it would fit anyways, sorry it's a bit blurry my phone wouldnt focus on the damn thing properly

and after fever 2,,, i kind of dont have as clear of a story? or a plan? there's some tension between sig and tomo for at least a little while but sig eventually forgives them, as well i don't know how i would tackle something like sig's secret if at all?? but yeah that's the main shit to this au, sorry it's all so very long! this has been on my mind for a few weeks now and it was on my mind for months back in 2021, so i just have a lot i'm throwing out here into the wind, if you got this far: thanks so much for reading!

here's some bonus shit for getting to the end of the main shit:

tomo calls sig "little blue" sometimes, since he's yknow, younger than them and blue but calls the cyan soul their "other half"

if you couldn't tell from the first image, since sig has his bookbag, he carries tomo around in that, but if he's stopped somewhere he'll leave the book open next to him so tomo can see around (hard to see with the covers in the way)

sig was already probably ostricized for yknow, his autistic tendencies, the book did not help with that, but it gave him a trusted confidant :)

sig actually starts developing his demonic traits earlier than in canon due to his proximity to tomo, but not by much

klug has stolen the book before, both demon halves were not pleased with this and klug has not attempted to steal the book again

sig can supplement his own magic power with tomo's for an incredibly large boost, and tomo doesn't mind doing so, this gives sig almost the exact same amount of power as the full demon used to have and also changes his right eye to red

OH, both relevant to this au and my own interpretation: the full demon's name was wisteria, but neither sig nor tomo remember it until either are reminded of that

ok that's it go home now bye bye

[idv-news-boi]

//Rosalyn’s Offline { EVENT: 3N1GM4 Act 3}

'Dear Matriarch Camellia…'

"Found you!" A cheerful exclaims with victory. Cueing Specialist mode Kitty vessel successfully finding the object Specialist Hana was looking for and hands it to her. Who softly smiles at her in relief.

A doll that resembles Riddle Rosehearts- one that matches with the 4 dolls Hana has been holding. Carefully laid deep in the bed of crimson roses, hidden in one of the manor's gardens.

'Our stay has long overdue- I heard that the Rosalyn vessel has gone missing in involuntary circumstances… The pattern of an object going missing and once it's found----- it costs one person to go missing instead.'

Hana looks back from her messaging journal to see Kitty thanking Heifu a lot— surprisingly, they seem to get along so well despite just meeting recently.

'Would it be a loop? A coincidence?'

Hana then finishes wiring before grabbing her journal with her– she catches a glance of Chiaki passing by Heifu and Kitty, so she rushes her way to catch up to the group. Now finally holding by the hands with her dear red-handed friend before departing for the next byt last match.

'Whatever the less, I hope you search for the memories you're looking for…

Will suffice eventually.'

{Event// Twisted Reflection Completed}

__

'10 fishes in the tank… 3 died, 2 swam away, and 4 have drowned.'

Mira huffs, "Do i really have to say that all 10 are still in the tank..? Also, they don't drown– drowning means when being immersed in liquid after all! However, they can suffocate when fresh water does not contain enough dissolved oxygen – either as a result of eutrophication (an excess of nutrients) or droug-"

Axel can only glance at his partner and nods, quietly listening.

"...Right."

If Edward is here with, he would be saying that "everyone in the Dyanthus' group all know that since we all were forced to pass marine biology fair and square without wasting more time to explain"- but Axel is peaceful and calm enough to offer the biologist the patience during such strange situation.

The two intellectuals just found a riddle with the signature D.E…. Which is something they have known for quite some time due to demands from wanted posters; the 3N1GM4.

However- even feeling a small petal of Rosalyn's connection getting yanked out of them. They don't know that Enigma's questionable arrival at the manor is connected to her disappearance.

—

Everyone including Kitty was in the room. They eventually found the next riddle right from one of the kitchen cabinets. Edward adjusts his monocle before reading the note in his hand,

'Each morning I appear to lie at your feet. All day I will follow no matter how fast you run, yet I nearly perish in the midday sun.'

…

" …A shadow." Axel says.

Everyone quickly look behind them, even at one another—

Laurence looks behind, only to notice something.

"Ah, dudes??? Where's Akihiko-…?"

…

No response.

“Oh no, they got him now-“ Mira mutters in concern, but also in suspicion.

“I’m back-“

Everyone twists their heads to see Akihiko right next to Edward, holding a basket. They sign in relief.

“BLOODY-“ Edward starts- “Can you stop scaring me???”

“Oh- Gomenasai,,,” The Japanese apologizes, half confused as Eiji shows up next to Akihiko. “I was trying to bring back some snacks with Sage.””

“Oh! Thanks.” Laurence exclaims happy before taking an apple from Akihiko’s snack basket, “Yum,,,, I cannot starve but this juicy fruit is edible for me anyway-“

“Wait- where did you get that apple from…?” Angel asks, arching an eyebrow seeing at the apple.

“From the fridge,” Eiji starts, but then realizes something “Wait a minute,,, I remember the fridge was having a shortage of fruits- The only one who supplies them is Rosal-“

Right after Eiji says that, Edward faints, dropping the said fruit.

“…” Laurence goes silent, being the one who offered the apple instead, “…Oh sh*t.”

“HUH???” Kitty gasps. She kneels down to check up on the inventor as Eiji tries to find the pulse of the unconscious one.

“Oh- eh,,, he’s still breathing,” Eiji wafts at the apple, identifying that the chemical is not exactly too deadly “Yep- he just got drugged.”

“Oh geez,,,,” Kitty says as she sweats lightly, “That was close- I thought he was dead…”

“Should I-“ before Laurence could suggest as a joke, Angel stares back at the blonde gentleman in unamusement.

“No, don’t suggest that Disney kiss scene-“

“Pew,,, party pooper-“

“But anyway- This must be a trap that is trying to get in the way…” Angel explains, looking at the basket, “I think we shall not take anything from the fridge and get rid of it at all costs until we solve this problem- unless you want to fall into his plan…”

“Yeah, I can see that..-“

Akihiko sees the fruit and carefully picks it up, noticing something inside it through the bite taken.

“I think there’s a paper in this apple-“

“???”

Kitty hops towards Akihiko and unhesitatingly takes the paper out, making the Japanese nervously glance at the Italian-American chocolatier’s courageous action. She reads out loud with her cat smile.

'In 1613, a man was found dead with a cassette recorder in one hand and a gun in the other.

When the police came in, they immediately pressed the play button on the cassette.

He said "I have nothing else to live for. I can't go on," then the sound of a gunshot.

After listening to the cassette tape, the police knew that it was not a suicide, but a homicide.

How did they know?'

Laurence lifts his brow a bit, "the man shot himself while he was recording, how did he rewind the cassette tape?"

"So who murdered him..?" Angel asks, looking for more clues.

"Probably the police." Kitty starts, shrugging a bit as she’s a police officer herself. "The first ever police force in the world started from the period 1624-1664 in the Dutch era."

"... Cassette tapes were not even invented yet."

"So is the police, he must be from the future."

"... A time traveler."

Laurence starts, chuckling silently looking at the said unconscious inventor who’s carried by Eiji, "Oh Edward… What a coincidence-"

__

{Next Riddle}

'A wealthy man lived alone in a small cottage. Because he was in a wheelchair, he had everything delivered to his cottage.

The mailman was delivering mail one Thursday when he noticed that the front door was ajar. Through the opening he could see the man’s body lying in a pool of dried blood. When a police officer arrived, he surveyed the scene. On the porch were two bottles of warm milk, Monday’s newspaper, a catalog, flyers, and there was unopened mail in the mailbox. The police officer suspects it was foul play. Who does he suspect and why? P.S. Calico and Incognito cannot answer this, she knows too much-‘ Axel reads in his deep voice, silently looking at the pouty said chocolatier.

“How unfair,,~!” Kitty frowns.

"The police officer suspects the newspaper delivery person." Angel answers without doubt.

"Why..?" Mira asks, puzzled. She was really suspecting the milkman bc sometimes, milkmen are pretty sus, just like in the horror games/ih/j/ref

"The absence of Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s newspaper indicates that the delivery person knew no one was going to read it." Akihiko explains.

.

.

.

.

“Where’s Incognito?” Angel asks, noticing the unusual silence since the P.S. note-

—

"You're not a human, nor an animal," 3N1GM4 claims , "You're just like god… a goof and a sadist with no real man heart!"

The villain vessel pops in a few feet in front of the new reporter, who happens to be separated from the group for a bit as he was inspecting the halls for more clues. Only to bump into who he’s been looking for.

Huh… this is too easy to be true. Even if the said gangster is bringing a gun in hand.

As Laurence also points his sheriff gun at the villain, he is also bringing a smirk just as dark.

This cued the “dispute between gentlemen” to begin-

"No, sir." The blonde man politely doubts after only 10 minutes of aiming at the gangster while already making a number on the other, "I'm no god, nor a devil, nor a human… But I'm not a machine either… Not anymore."

Laurence's eyes trace around the room cautiously before continuing.

"I am a ✨ Prometheus,,✨ while you're just…. Some criminal mind with god complex."

As the blondie’s voice waves into silk in the start, it also falters through the end of it. His smile is not changing yet his half-lidded eyes have no need to use muscle for the other to imagine him rolling his own peepers smoothly.

Seeing the Reporter just mindlessly approaching Rosalyn, taking out some sticky sphere and placing it next to the lock.

“What are you- hey- no- don’t put it- STOP INSERTING THAT INTO MY MACHINE-“ Enigma warns.

Heck, Laurence does it anyway. Making the said sphere hack into the lock and releasing the unconscious but trembly doll. The American manages to catch her in time, before adjusting to a bridal style carry with one hand as he makes his way to the exit. Just that- 🧐

“YOU SON OF A-“ Before the villain can run in and lunge at the glasses man.

He couldn’t able to pull the trigger on his gun, so his face was met by a punch done with Laurence’s unoccupied hand.

“You shouldn’t take someone else’s doll, kiddo~”

___

“…So. You found her.” Angel squints as he sees Laurence coming back with a half-conscious Rosalyn.

“Yep~!♥️” Laurence optimistically responds before planting a small kiss on the pretty Puppeteer’s forehead, as if she was the reward he was looking for.

“And… him?”

“I managed to send the vessel back to the city.”

“Good,” Angel’s stressed features seem to soften, but still squinting from seeing the reporter’s unusual lovey dovey behavior, “Ew… Just get back to work-! I’ll take care of her.” He finally gets to carry his cousin away from any other men after all- back into his caring brother demeanor./ih

[jia-shen]

N°2: Photos, Memories, and Time

Caelus never expected the other to agree so quickly, especially without asking for more details before agreeing and yet—

It had now been a couple of weeks since Ying became Caelus’ unexpected roommate and so far had only been in one shoot. While the crimson haired man enjoyed having a consistent place to live at again, a part of him felt a tightening in his chest at knowing he’s technically freeloading off an old friend. If it was some random stranger then hey! but also- he’s not a teen anymore! He should be taking care of himself!

That's when it dawned on him.

Ying decided it was time he started looking into other places he could rent instead; sure, it might be too soon and rough at first, but it would be better than this gnawing guilt. Regardless, Ying needed to first let Caelus know about his plans when he’d see him at the studio. 

◈     ◈     ◈

So, as the crimson one had decided, before his second shoot ever was going to begin, Ying asked Caelus if they could have a word.

 “Oh yeah, what’s up?” the latter nonchalantly asked. 

As always, even though he wasn’t the one in the pictures, Caelus was dressed so stylishly; Ying was a tad envious about it. 

“I'm going to be moving out soon.”

Dumbfounded by the suddenness, Caelus’ eyes went wide, “What?! How?! Am I really paying you enough to live on your own already?” 

“Shouldn’t you know that? but no- anyway,  I'd most likely have a roommate, but I at least want to know it’s my place too.” 

“Yes, but—”

“And don’t even mention your place! I already know how much you pay for it.” Ying scoffed with an eye roll. 

Caelus seemed to be doubtful of the other’s sudden plans, having an unsatisfied look to his eyes, yet nevertheless gave words of encouragement; at worst, Ying could move back in, he thought. 

 “and at worst I’ll just go back to selling my ass whenever I’m not here!” Ying said with shameless glee. 

“Right…” the other said with an unsurprised sigh. “Now go back before I cut your pay!” the stylish man ordered with a snap of his fingers. 

◈     ◈     ◈

Today’s shoot was relatively easy, no need for aesthetic locations, times, or props, Caelus had decided his upcoming theme would be focusing on the monochrome, so the backdrop was white with a black stool as the only object in the shot, if it was there. Ying wondered if his hair being red would be a problem for the shoot, but didn’t bother asking. 

After a few takes, Caelus suddenly got a call and left the room for a moment. 

“Don’t look over at him, look at me!” the photographer reminded Ying, rather impatiently he would add. “and try not to be so stiff; loosen your shoulders a bit and tilt your head.” 

“I thought this was supposed to be stiff and formal?” the redhead wondered to himself, nevertheless he tried the best he could, even if he felt a little silly and anything but relaxed. 

A couple of minutes later and Caelus walked back in to observe, “Yes, yes! We need the clothes to fall nicely!” he chimed in.

 “Also we’re going to need to take more after this, close ups actually.”

“Why? What about the clothes?” Ying asked. 

“Noe called and she wants us to collab with her upcoming makeup collection, soooo! we’ll need to get nice shots for that too. Actually! What I really was thinking is to instead use two models for this collaboration, you know, show off more in less.” Caelus rambled on. You could hear the audible sigh of the only photographer there today. 

“And you expect us to take them all today? Do you even have the other model?” the photographer sneered. 

“Of course not! We’ll break up the shots in segments and don’t worry about the second model, I already have someone in mind!” Caelus confidently declared. “Oh, and lock up for me, kay Aiden? thanks~” he added, leaving the other two alone. 

“So.. you two are close?” Ying asked, filling the space left over with Caelus now gone. 

The photographer sighed before answering, “You could say that. We met in college and he’s been a pest ever since. He’s lucky I haven't kicked his ass.” The man said with a scoff at the end. 

“Hey, well— we’re done, right? Aiden was it?” Ying asked, stepping off the backdrop, the other answering with a nod. 

“Well.. since it’s just us now, how about I do a job for you?” he cooed, getting awfully close to Aiden, so much so the latter took a small step back instinctively. 

“Wait- wait! there’s no need!” Aiden exclaimed, scrambling to keep his pants up and on as Ying was already on his knees trying to unbuckle the photographer’s pants. 

“What's the problem? I get money and you get off?” Ying asked, finally prying the pants open.

“I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY!” he blurted out, much louder than expected. 

“What?” 

Immediately upon hearing those words, Ying let go of Aiden and stood back up, dusting off his knees. 

“What a waste. You should’ve said that sooner. Bye.” the crimson one said with a flick of his hair and a hand wave, leaving the other alone and in shock that that even happened. 

“What a loser, don’t they get paid well?” Ying wondered to himself as he exited the building. 

Since Caelus had already left without Ying, he would have to walk back home instead; he was lucky he had a copy of the key to his penthouse. If he hadn’t, Ying would rip Caelus a new one as soon as he got home. 

◈     ◈     ◈

Speaking of, living with Caelus was strange, being around an old friend naturally brought back memories, and remembrance was an unpleasant thing for Ying. It made his mind wander, wondering about how others from his past are doing now, such as his older brother, Korvin, the prodigy twins, Ivris and Mahira, and… the others… What are they all doing now? Ying wasn’t sure he even wanted to know the answer to that; what would knowing serve him anyway? 

and yet he couldn’t help but wonder a bit more; his brother probably started his own business, maybe even has a lovely wife now? Could he possibly be an uncle? The twins… knowing their backgrounds, they and all their siblings must be well off one way or another, either living off of their mom’s money or… oh right, she’s an actress now? ugh, who cares anyway?

Ying shook his head, throwing those thoughts away, none of that mattered. To think, in another life, maybe he could have lived amongst them. A part of their circle and not just as an accessory, which he was more than used to already. 

When Ying arrived home, Caelus was in the living room working away on his laptop in the conversation pit. 

“With how often you use those, I would think you really need them.” the redhead said to announce his arrival. Caelus gave a short laugh before looking up at the other, taking the glasses off. “You know how you said you wanted to find your own place?” he began. 

“Yeah?”

“Well, I asked around if anyone knew of a place that was open or needed a roommate and actually found one!”

“Really?!” Ying exclaimed, leaping onto the sofa to join Caelus; he was practically gushing with excitement. “Yeah! My sister-in-law is actually a super lenient landlord! Her places are pretty affordable and—”

“Wait, you have a sister-in-law now? Are you an uncle too?” the redhead asked, completely ignoring the actual subject of the conversation.

To  be honest, the man loved gossip, he loved knowing about the ins and outs of others’ lives, so much so he enjoyed indulging in the conversations aunties had about their kids and such when he went out places. 

“Yeah! Actually, I am. I have a niece, Maliah; she’s 10 this year.” With the mention of his niece, Caelus' entire demeanor warmed, as if he held an especially soft spot for her. This side of his friend really showed how old they were now. 

It stung a little, but as quick as it came, Ying brushed off the pinch in his chest. 

“Oh! So that explains the dolls in that one room of yours! Ah, I can't wait to meet her sometime.” Ying said with a smile. 

The conversation between the two men continued on from there, with Caelus telling Ying all sorts of events that happened in the past involving his brother’s family. It was amazing to listen to all that could happen in over ten years. It made Ying want to know more and ask more, including about the lives of their old friends, if Caelus even knew about them still, but it wasn’t the place nor time for that. 

“Oh god, I got sidetracked. Sorry- okay, okay. So, I think I could maybe arrange a walk-through sometime this week.” Caelus apologized. “It’s nowhere near as big as this one of course, but I'm sure you’ll… figure it out.” 

Ying’s eyes narrowed, “Is that a tinge of arrogance I sense?”

“But what about a roommate?” Ying asked. 

“No worries~ We’ll get it figured out okay? You just focus on doing your work properly tomorrow.” Caelus reminded him. 

“Please! I am a total pro!” the redhead boasted. 

The stylish man laughed at the other’s response. “Y’know? I’m glad I can help you out now” he admitted. 

“Hehe, yeah. Maybe this will actually work out for me...” Ying said, but it didn’t sound like he believed his own word much. 

“Right! Who knows~ maybe you’ll meet someone willing to give it all for you too.” Caelus said, trying to motivate the other a bit. 

Ying softly nodded. “Yeah… So! Tell me about that brother of yours, is he married~? Oh wait—”

[willdefied]

@grimflyer // event sc.

when wandering through these infernal mists, he'd initially thought that was bothersome enough -- being caught in another interdimensional displacement with little to assist him other than the clothes he wore made the matter. the ache in his bones screamed at him and longed for somewhere to sit down and rest - but his ever-vigilant paranoia made him leery of doing so. an adversary or hostile wildlife of some manner could easily use the mists to their advantage - a cloak hiding the dagger.

muttering under his breath about 'primitive worlds' and cursing his luck, he carefully stepped around the tree roots. ( this area was too neat and well-maintained to be a forest, from what he could gather - a garden or parkground of some kind? irrelevant. ) though he'd been cautious and deliberate with his steps through the uneven terrain, it was only a few moments after this that he nearly stumbled forward - a familiar, sickeningly soft voice creating ice in his veins. he could feel the asymmetrical eyes boring into him even before he registered what the voice of his 'brother' had even said.

' why can i not see your thoughts? '

the crimson-eyed clone whirled around to face his progenitor. ( ears twitching down reflexively, heart rate picking up, breath hitching in his throat. panic. ) knowing what to expect versus actually seeing the man who dominated his nightmares made him grit his teeth together in pain. his body always felt as if it were rebelling against him - but now it felt particularly like a cage, locking his legs in place and forcing him to confront prime.

" you are gone, " he hissed under his breath, voice dripping venom defensively. " what trickery is this?! " a clawed, shaky hand reached towards the nearest tree branch - snapping it off in one hand and brandishing it as a weapon. despite this, the ghost of prime smirked in belittling amusement. " i see now. you have given yourself a name. " sneering, his prime's hand drew closer - reaching for his throat. hordak's breaths turned shallow and rattled in his chest despite the ghost-image of his brother passing through him without contact. a hologram? it wasn't until now that he realized the phantom was outlined by several clones standing dutifully around him, closing in on hordak slowly.

' i MADE you in my image, but you have become an abomination! and so, you must be reborn -'

he braced himself, still very much under the impression that these ghosts could still harm him in some way, and closed his eyes. no, not again, not again --!

.... nothing came.

hesitantly opening his eyes, he was expecting to see the same nightmare incarnate - but the memories had vanished into the mist, as ephemeral as ever. his heart thundered in his ears, and hordak began to wheeze slightly as he struggled to catch his breath. opting to ignore the stinging in his eyes, he growled in anger. throwing the makeshift weapon in his hand in frustration and pain, the tree branch clattered against another object. hands balled into fists, he was so caught up in his barely-contained wrath that he only noticed the vague silhouette of another person through the mist at the last moment.

" -- who are you?! i demand that you show yourself! "