#cruel intentions snippet

[butmakeitgayblog]

may i— [starts vibrating in a very calm and collected way] may i ask how that spanking in cruel intentions go?

'Green?'

You stare at the message with a cheshire grin that you haven't been able to wipe off since 37th and Park.

The ride home left you just a little bit giddy because, good fucking god, you love this woman. Even more so when she's trying to play rough because she's kind of terrible at being demanding. With you, anyway. Even when she's out for blood she always lets you keep one hand securely on the reins, and something about that knowledge, that power she gives you, feels so fucking hot.

And truth be told you'd kinda known you were in trouble since the moment you'd woken up.

If you're being entirely honest with yourself, there were signs since this morning when she'd kissed you goodbye. Just sweet enough to completely and utterly fuck your makeup.

If you're being even more honest with yourself, which you personally loath to be, the idea that she was pissed off at you for your loss of control the night before enough to seek vengeance kind of got you off...

But yeah, the signs had been there. Her curt dismal of your offer to fuck her before work as she'd rolled out of bed to shower alone. The one word answers when you'd asked what she wanted to do for dinner. The resounding silence when you'd asked her how her meetings were going, and the follow up inquiring if she needed anything. She hadn't answered a single one. But she'd made sure you'd seen that she'd read them, and that sick little piece of you had hoped it'd all meant something.

Which is exactly why you practically squeak in delight as you type out your answer.

'Emerald'

'Chartreuse.'

'Hunter, Absinthe, Viridian, my love. And all the shades that make up your gorgeous, breathtaking eyes'

You practically cackle at the middle finger emoji she immediately sends back.

And send a quick pic of your tits cupped in a new bit of lace as a meager peace offering.

Her reply takes several moments, and you're about to ask if she'd started the fun without you, when the three dots mercifully pop up again.

'Keep that on.'

'Everything else can go.'

You've almost tossed your phone aside when her final text comes through.

'And, Darling? I suggest you don't test me on this one.'

Fuck, you really do love her.

It feels like an eternity before you hear the distinct click of her heels on the heated hardwood floor of your apartment. It's enough to kick your heartrate up a few million notches as you scoot down further into the mountain of pillows on your bed. You drape an arm above the fan of your hair and the other low on your belly, legs crossed oh-so-demurely at the ankles because you're a classy goddamn lady after all.

The double doors to your bedroom pop open with her usual grandiose flair and her face is all shades of a hot bitch on a mission.

She stops short at the sight of you. Eyes tracing the stretched out length of you. Mapping the landscape from your tits still cupped in your pretty new bra, to the starkly naked expanse of you the rest of the way down.

The way her gaze darkens makes your thighs squeeze together in an attempt to quell the sudden ache.

"Well. Don't you look comfy."

"Hey, baby." You twirl a lock of blonde hair innocently between your fingers and wriggle your toes against the sheets because you're just so happy to see her. "Have a nice day at work?"

Her eyes snap back up to your face.

You love it when she actively has to remind herself that she's supposed to be mad at you.

She doesn't answer, and that's okay. You weren't expecting one to begin with. Instead she walks over to the edge of the bed and waits, looming over you like a statue. And of course you play your part of the dutiful, doting wife. Slinking up onto your knees, fingers trailing along the lapels of her suit jacket until you have enough leverage to slip it free. You mindlessly toss it in a heap on the floor without ever breaking her gaze, smoothing your hands over her chest, up her neck, gathering her hair to lay over one shoulder.

"These look amazing on you," you whisper with a light snap of one of her suspenders, biting your lip around the pleased little smile that you really can't seem to help. "You know what they do to me."

That infuriating flick of her brow owns your ass by this point in your marriage. And what's worse, the little shit absolutely knows it.

She holds your eyes and thumbs off the suspenders one at a time to hang loose at her hips, deftly undoing the buttons of her shirt to pull the material free, and all you can do is watch. You quite literally have to swallow with the way your mouth sudden fills with saliva at the sight of her standing there like that. All wild curls and perfect little tits wrapped in black scraps of lace. Face far too hard, too commanding, too lethal (in your not at all humble opinion) for a woman with such pouty, fuckable lips.

Your eyes drop to those fingers that start undoing the belted buckle to her suit pants. She unzips them, lets them fall slack, only the generous curve of her hips and thighs managing to hold them up. And you can just make out... can just manage to see—

"Fuck, Lex." You lick your lips at the hint of perfectly manicured curls that peek out from beneath. "Seriously?"

Only your wife would dare to go pantieless in a three thousand dollar suit.

She hums and reaches out to card her fingers through your hair. "Unfortunately, someone made sure I was too sensitive to wear my usual set."

The accusing lilt of her words makes you smile.

Because... Guilty as charged.

You'd known as you'd sunk your teeth into the plumpness of her ass the night before that anything too tight against the skin would be out. You'd seen the suit she'd picked for the next day and lost her head with her despite it. Had let go and marked her up so pretty it'd been a wonder she could sit in her office chair at all. You sway a bit just remembering her moans. All her hisses and quiet yelps. The way she'd jumped at a few particularly punishing scrapes of your teeth before grinding her clit harder against the mattress. You'd left her ass so bruised and beautiful it truly was like an art piece.

It wasn't your fault she gets off on wearing skin-tight garters and lingerie under all of her fancy business suits.

Her hands slip down and cup the back of your neck as she steps in and roughly kisses the smirk off your face. All teeth and tongue and bites to your lips that taste just a but like a reprimand, but really they just leave you gasping in moans into her mouth. You hold her wrists as she kisses you like she's been thinking about it all, like she's pouring every bit of her anger and devotion into with filthly swipes of her tongue.

It's only when pulls back with a wet pop that you can manage to suck in a few desperate breathes.

"I love you." She whispers it against your lips so gently you feel it more than hear it. And you kind of adore that she can't help breaking character just to be soft for you.

You also know this is her way of giving you one final chance of backing out.

But after waiting for this for the better part of the afternoon? Seriously. Fuck that.

So you whisper your own words of devotion and flick your tongue at the little divot that splits her supple bottom lip, feeling the way her hands fist tighter in your hair in acceptance of your answer.

She kisses you again, something softer, entirely sweeter.

The way she leans up to peck your beauty mark before pulling away feels sinister.

And you know you're right when her hands start to drag you downward, guiding to lay on the bed, her touch firm and unyielding in how they tug at your scalp until you're scrambling to lay propped on your elbows. You're a half second away from asking what the hell it is that she's doing, when she removes one hand just to shove her pants down her legs a bit further.

Fuck.

You can smell her you're so close. Can scent the tangy richness of her arousal that clings to the swollen lips of her slit. It makes your head spin to know she's getting off on this as much as you are. You glance up to see her watching you. To see that severe line of her jaw hanging open as the fingers still threaded on your hair fist tighter.

You already knew what she going to do, but that certainly doesn't stop you from letting loose an obscene moan when guides your face right where she wants you. It's a bitch to hold eye contact in this position as she tilts her hips forward, watching you with eyes half-lidded with lust. You open for her obediently, letting her press her cunt to your lips. Lick forward and let her use you for her own selfish pleasure. Work to kiss and suck away the strings of wetness that coat the hood of her clit, as she gasps and rubs shamelessly against the lapping of your tongue.

The fingers in your hair clench with every roll of her hips as you lick into her and feel the way she drips down your chin. Her lips twitch with a smile as she watches you. Something predatory and dark as she fucks herself messily on your mouth. You do your best to match her rhythm, moving with every rock of her hips and feeling her clit pulse against the flick of your tongue. You let your moans rock through her and revel in the way her eyes flutter and roll, sucking harder as she pets your cheek with only her fingertips.

She lets her head tip back when you wrap your lips around her and suck. "That's my girl. Just like that."

You didn't think you were the one in this relationship with a praise kink, but after this... you kinda don't know...

Her breaths turn heavy and her stare is primal as she ruts and builds against your tongue. The thick swip of her eyeliner only adds to the feeling that you're being used by this woman gone feral. Because you love it when she just takes from you. Uses you however she wants.

When she reminds you exactly who owns you.

Because these are the glimpses of the Lexa that existed before you two were you two. The pieces of herself you'd spent years only getting to hear in obscene moans that bled through your bedroom walls. This is the Lexa that always fucked rough and left her conquests a needy, sweat soaked mess. This is the Lexa who takes what she wants, and doesn't give one single fuck, and you really don't get a chance to see this version of your wife nearly often enough.

And just when you feel her thighs start to quiver with how hard you're gonna make her come...

She yanks her hips away from your touch.

What... in the actual... fuck—

"Aw," she breathes in a valiant attempt at composure. The shake in her voice gives her away. "Did you honestly think it was going to be that easy?"

She leans down until she's eye-level with the world class scowl you're sending her way, and gives your hair gentle, reprimanding tug.

"After the shit you pulled last night? Making me come is the least of your worries."

She drops a peck your nose and releases you with a toothy twist of her grin, and she doesn't even spare you the courtesy of watching you petulantly swipe away the blot her chapstick. In fact, she doesn't pay any attention to you at all as she goes about giving herself a look in the mirror beside your table, only pausing long enough to run fingers through her hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it.

It's a beautifully hopeless vain dream of hers that you hope she never, ever achieves. The wild mess of her hair is at least... one eighth? of the reason you love her.

You sigh and rest your chin in your palm.

Math never was your subject.

The click of her heels sound like gunshots as she wanders over to her side of the bed on trembling legs and casually pulls the third drawer open from the top. She ingores as you shift to follow her. Crawling on hands and knees like her lovesick puppy, and it doesn't escape your attention that her slick still sits heavy on your lips and chin.

You gladly breathe her scent in with every quickened breath.

You wait patiently and watch her rifle through the contents of her goodie drawer. Stopping to pick up that little riding crop that makes your heartbeat pick up, and roll it between those ungodly, beautiful fingers... only to gingerly set it aside with a dismissive hum.

The whine claws its way out of your throat before you can even realize you've fucked up.

Her head snaps to you at the sound, face hard and eyes wide. Blown pupils shining with a delicious threat of murder.

"Fucking excuse you?" she whispers, her voice the crack of a whip now.

It's all instinct that makes you make go soft. Supple. Submissive, in how you relax into the sheets and bare yourself to her completely. You stretch out flat on your belly and flick your hair back from your face, so innocent looking it has to be hilarious, and you almost purr at the way her eyes turn glassy as she looks at you.

Like you're once again her good girl. To have and to hold. Like you're her own little slice of everything sugar and spice, contained in one oh-so-pliant body.

"Nothing, baby." You wiggle your ass just for good measure. "Just ready for you to touch me."

And oh, losing that battle will most certainly be worth winning the war if her face is anything to go by. Because she melts soft around the edges. Lips curling into an angelic smile. Serene and eternally gentle, the sweet living picture of the kind of girl most would dream about taking home to their mother.

She breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief that would probably sound harmless to an amateur ear.

But you? You know your wife far better than that by now.

"That's exactly what I was hoping to hear."

She goes right back to her rummaging, shifting aside this and that, before letting out a triumph, "Ah, here we are," and producing a shiny new bottle of.... baby oil?

You really can't help the way you frown as she wiggles it in the air like it's some kind of special prize. When you'd spent the day picturing all of the potential twists in her plans for retribution, the one thing you certainly hadn't envisioned was...

Well.

That.

"You look disappointed. That hurts my feelings." She pops her bottom lip out in a frown despite looking entirely too pleased with herself for your comfort.

You're just about to reassure her with a lie that 'no! Of course you're not!', when she gracefully pushes down the pants that still cling to her thighs until they pool at her feet and allow her to step out.

Her fingers snap and then she shoos you to move with nothing more than a lazy flick of wrist. It's almost embarrassing how quickly you roll out of her way as she climbs onto the bed. She looks so prim and proper with her legs tucked neatly beneath herself, as though readying herself for prayer, with her heeled feet just hanging off of the bed as she settles on bended knees.

"Oh that's cute," she laughs when you immediately try to straddle her lap, stopping you dead in your tracks with a palm against your chest. All traces of niceness fall away from her face as you pout and consider giving in to your inner brat. "What did I say about testing me?"

Her words fall like a slap. Flat and demanding. Because in the distracting onslaught of that face and that hair and, god, that fucking body mixed with the sweet tangy taste of her slick still fresh on your tongue, you had, indeed, forgot.

You'd forgotten this was her vengeance.

Both her reward and her reprisal.

You'd forgotten this was her goddamn payback for letting you having quite so much fun.

Fuck.

Better women than you probably wouldn't feel quite so turned on from watching her take a second to get everything ready. The way she fluffs a pillow and places it beside her as a 'thoughtful' place for you to rest your head, makes you hate how your wife can manage to turn beating your ass into such a production.

(That's a lie. You fucking love it.)

You take the hand she offers to keep you steady when she motions her hand across her lap as though to say, "Well, go on then." Send her one final pout when she chastely kisses you, and you have to bite your lip to quell the groan that aches in your throat as you drape yourself across her legs.

It feels like Christmas and your birthday all rolled into one.

"See. That wasn't so hard, darling," she coos, her hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. Her fingers slip over the swell of your ass and gently kneed the skin there. "I don't know why you have to make things so difficult."

You snort and shoot her a look over your shoulder. "Oh like you're one to fucking talk."

She clicks her tongue in disapproval. "Attitude. If you can't shut that pretty little mouth of yours, I'll have to fill it with something else."

The pulse of arousal that rocks through you is enough to have you clenching around nothing. You know she feels the shiver that zips down your spine and the way your thighs squeeze to relieve the ache.

Not that you'd ever admit to any of it.

"Is that a threat?"

"More like a promise."

"Now who's the savage?"

Her smile's razor sharp when she blows you a kiss. "We are what we are."

You mourn the loss of her fingers rubbing circles over the lower dip of your back, but all your arguments die on your lips at the click of the bottle being opened. She doesn't waste any time shoving your head back forward, not letting you watch - only feel - when she tips the cool liquid over your skin. You jump at the chill of it which makes her laugh because she's a bitch, but a merciful one at least, thankfully. Because the next second her hands are back on you, warming the oil up as she spreads it across your skin. Massaging it over your ass, over and between the tops of your thighs, curling her palms around your hips to cover every inch. Her nails scrape gently across your back and ribs, leaving warm patterns of red in their wake, looping infinities that you'll hopefully be admiring tomorrow.

Your muscles relax until you're liquid. Until you're so loose and hazy under her touch that you think this wouldn't be an entirely bad way to nap.

She leans over your shoulder. Face nothing but angelic softness that radiates an distinct eerie calm.

Her eyes flit back and forth between yours as she watches you laze on her borrowed pillow, aand the way she looks at you with so much unfiltered love makes your heart pound.

"Take a deep breathe for me, darling."

Oh.

You guess she's ready to start now.

Your do as you're told and let your eyes fall closed, taking in a slow, deep pull of her perfume. The blow of her hand against the slick of your ass cheek makes you jump, makes you yelp as you strain against the fingers that suddenly wrap tight around your throat.

You know she's watching you closely in the quiet that follows. Know she's gauging every twist and twitch of your face. The second smack smarts more than the first, which somehow surpises you, and it pulls a filthy moan from deep in your chest.

This isn't your first time letting her spank you as "punishment" and with the luck of the devil, it certainly won't be your last. But, fuck, the oil adds an extra sting to every blow of her hand that you hadn't expected; it has writhing in her grasp within seconds. She aims her hits all over your ass. Never lets you know where the next one will be as she hums her little sounds of approval.

Lifting up just enough to turn your head to look back, you nearly come at the sight of her watching you. Seeing how her eyes sparkle, hooded and dark as they rove the length of you, fluttering as she lands another slap that makes your ass ripple.

The fingers around your throat squeeze in perfectly timed intervals with every spank. Stealing your breathe away when you rock forward on the particularly ruthless slaps. It's more possessive than anything, not even coming close to actually keeping you from breathing, but fuck all does it still manage to make your head spin whenever you feel her grip tighten. She bites her lips to swallow her moans. Chokes them down so she can hear your sounds better as she spanks more searing heat all over your ass and trembling thighs.

Your chest grows tight each time she takes a break. Each time she slows down just to let the ache linger. Letting her palm and fingers trace the battered skin that feels deliciously on fire. You squirm at the tickle and the burn of her touch, fighting the urge to rut shamelessly against the thighs under your waist, but she pins your hips firmly in place with queitly commanded, "Behave."

There's just something about the way Lexa always takes her time with you. The way she knows exactly what to do to make you shudder and break. It's in how she massages the reddened cheeks of your ass one at a time, as though this is how she always intends to worship you.

Another spank is hard enough that you feel it thrum all the way to your clit. It feels so good it has you biting her pillow to stifle your yell, but that just earns you another one. She wants to hear your every moan. Every yelp. Every needy sob of ecstasy. And god help you. You're weak for her. You've never been good at denying her anything.

Your entire body shivers when her touch trails down the cleft of your ass and slips through the mess between your thighs. "You're so wet," she breathes in a light, throaty rush as her fingers slide along the length of your slit. "I think you might be enjoying this a little too much."

Her fingers bump the base of your clit and you nearly buck right out of her grip. "Oh fuck, yes, baby."

You can practically feel her smile at that. "Who knew my wife was such a little slut."

Hearing such filth from Lexa's lips will never fail to make you needy, you're sure of it, because there's just something so goddamn addicting about it coming from such a normally prim and proper mouth. She's eloquent in her everyday life, often stoic to a fault, but when she's fucking you like this you love that all bets are off.

It makes your eyes roll back in your head because fuck yes you are her desperate little slut, and you really, really need her to remind you of that sometimes.

She rips another moan from your chest when her fingers pull back and slap the length of your slit. "I can feel you getting even wetter," she laughs and roughly massages away the sting. "So fucking predictable."

You're sure your face burns as red as your ass at the way you rut your hips back into the touch. "Fuck off, Lexa."

All the little smartass does is laugh at you and spreads you open just to watch you drip.

Sweat pools at the base of your back when you rise onto your elbows, feeling the hand at your neck slip down to shove aside your bra and cup your breast. She pinches your nipples until they're hard enough to ache, stopping only long enough to lick the pads of her fingers before tugging them in alternating strokes while you whimper.

The hand between your legs never stops moving. Only teases you until you feel like you might pop. Coaxing out more dribbles of your slick and dragging it down to brush feather-light circles around the very tip of your clit.

You give yourself over to her entirely, give her exactly what she wants, letting your moans flow out of you in obscene trails and hisses. You know she loves it when you're loud, always says she could come just from listening to you getting fucked, and right now you'll do anything to convince her that you deserve to get off.

You jog your hips on her next sweep up and nearly cry out when she takes pity on you, feeling the tips of those gorgeous fingers stroke against the tight ring of your entrance with purpose, like she understand exactly what you need. You spread your legs further in supplication. Press your tits further into her hand. Wiggle your ass and send her a smile to let her know you're ready to take whatever she's got planned for you next.

What you don't expect to feel is another spank cracked right across the flat of your ass, the blinding spark of pain catching you by surpise before she sinks two fingers deep inside you without a single word of warning.

The shock of being so full sends you toppling face first into the pillow, heat zapping along the skin of your ass cheeks as she fucks you from behind. You fist the sheets and clench around her fingers, helplessly suckling her thrusts in deepest, and you give up any hope of every breathing normal again. You moan so fucking loud each time her fingers bottom out you're sure the damn doorman can hear it.

Her fingers scissor and twist just to make you feel the stretch. Each time you start to feel the embers of your climax ignite she changes the rhythm, alternating between slow, smooth strokes and fucking you so roughly your legs shake. The oil and slick dripping out around her fingers makes the most delicious sounds each time she thrusts.

And you love knowing just how much this is getting her off. Love hearing all her coos of "Good girl" and how you're taking your punishment so well. Love hearing the wet slaps of her palm against your clit and feeling the vibrations carry you higher.

Because her spanks lack the fire from before, more sound and squeezing than anything at this point, as she works to wring out just as much pleasure from you as she did pain. Her moans meld with yours each time she sinks back in and feels your walls grip at her fingers to keep her seated inside. Mercifully she seems to hear you. Seems to understand how desperately you need this game to be over. Seems to twitch with the exact same need to come as you do.

'Fuckin' bottom...'

The thought comes and goes when you feel her teeth sink into the swell of your ass, her fingers curling over and over against that sweet little spot inside of you. Her thumb rubbing slippery circles over your clit and she tugs your nipple just right.

She has you coming around her fingers in seconds.

The pulses of your climax slams through you in pleasured waves as she strokes your inner walls all the way through it. Even the tight clamp of your thighs around her wrist doesn't stop her, doesn't change the way she curls her fingers and presses tight against your clit. Your walls ripple around her strokes. Spilling enough to feel it drip down your thighs. You come hard enough for it to almost be painful, but in the most delicious of ways, and you kind of think you may have blacked out for a minute.

The next thing you know you're laid flat on the bed, or at least that's what you think. You're fairly sure the lump of her legs is no longer half-holding you up on all fours. But you can't really feel any piece of your own body, save for the burning across your ass and thighs.

So, who the hell knows.

You drift in the haze of post-orgasm bliss. Boneless. Careless. Just a puddle of come and white noise. It takes several minutes for you to come back to your senses. Or maybe it's a year.

Again. Who the hell knows.

All you do know is that the next thing you feel is the tickle of her fingernails gently scraping patterns across the length of your shoulders. It's a feat to pry one eye open - the one not buried in the downy fluff of her pillow - just to see a galaxy of green staring back.

The sight makes your lips tug up into a lazy smile. Because now she's just your Lexa again.

"You gonna survive?"

You grunt and manage to flop onto your side. "Jury's still out."

That you earns you a pride sweetened kiss.

She hears your hiss at the feel of the bedsheets rubbing against your ass like they're made of sandpaper, but it only makes the little shit smile wider. Your pout does the trick, and then she's scooting as close as she can get, pressing a kiss to your forehead to soothe you. This whole marriage thing really is too easy.

"You need anything?" she asks in the queit aftermath, arm drapped over your waist, fingers still looping neverending circuits along your spine.

You're not one who ever needs much aftercare, always feeling content in the safety of your wife's arms, so you shake your head against the pillow to let her know, "Maybe later. Right now I'm okay."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. I'm sure." You hum and nudge your leg between hers, because right now all you want is to feel closer. And when a thought suddenly occurs to you, you can't hell but chuckle and let your eyes blow wide. "You really went for it with the whole 'slut' thing this time."

Her teeth bite down on the plumpness of her bottom lip, and you don't think she could look any cuter than she does in this moment. She wiggles herself tighter against your chest. "I know."

"You're such a fiend."

"Aw, poor darling. Did it hurt your delicate feelings?"

"Yes," you say, and fail to hold back the ridiculous wattage of your smile. Because the truth is if you could rewind time and record it as your ringtone, you absolutely would. "Terribly. You should kiss it and make it all better."

She raises herself up to lean on an elbow and looks so lovingly down at. "Oh, Clarke... I'm not even close to finished with you yet."

Your hips cant at the silent promise for more punishment despite feeling so thoroughly spent. It thrills you every bit as much as it fills you with dread because you know she'll make good on it. The bruises that already litter your backside prove it. Your ass is on fire and your bones feel like they're made of gelatinous goo, and you know that look on her face means you're not going to be sitting right anytime soon.

She kisses your cheek, your chin, licks her way up your jaw, niddles filthy little promises to the lobe of your ear. Her hand nudges for you to roll onto your belly because she doesn't seem to understand that you're nothing but a puddle of come, oil, and goo. "Lexa."

"I think it's only fair, love," she hums, already painting strips of arousal along the curve of your hip. "What with all you put me through today, darling, you can't say I don't owe you. Unless... Unless you're saying you're tapping out? Because I could always just go and take care of myself—"

You laugh comes out more as a snort as you stop her from rolling away, just like she knew that you'd do. A sigh is all you have to brace yourself for the pain that you know is sure to follow, and hope she's still worked up enough to come with only a few punishing ruts.

Her smile can only be described as wolfish and predatory as you gasp out a breath when she pats your backside approvingly. The sting makes you bow into the bed and shoot her look of death.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a sadistic bitch?"

She shrugs and leans in to kiss the scowl from your lips, and straddles your ass because, after all, she owns you. "Once or twice. But you love me anyway."

God help you. You do.

[gabessquishytum]

Hello my beloved, your alpha dream buys out omega hob's debts has triggered my ANGST brain, so please enjoy this snippet I wrote for you and anon at 2am <3

--------------------------

“I'm interested.”

“In what?” Hob snaps. “Seeing how far low you can bring me?” 

“No I—“ 

“Then what is it then?” Hob interrupts, his cheeks flushed red with anger. “Is it curiosity? Is my family's financial standing a—a charity project for you?”

Morpheus opens his mouth to protest again but then he stops, remembering that yes, he had been curious about how Hob would react to the idea of Morpheus being the new owner of all his debts. He had wanted to know just how much more to Hob there was beyond the outward appearance of a fortune seeking omega. 

But Hob had exceeded even Morpheus's wildest expectations, and now the alpha realizes he wants Hob Gadling for his own.

Morpheus's silence to Hob's question lasts a beat too long, however, and Hob scoffs, turning away from him to leave the room. Morpheus's alpha instincts kick in then, his inner screaming no no no do not leave you cannot go.

Morpheus grabs Hob's arm, stilling him for the moment, and then he speaks the truth that has been lodged inside his chest since the very first day they met.

“You,” he says with every ounce of truth he can muster. I'm interested in you.”

Hob stares down at where Morpheus has taken hold of him, then flicks his eyes back up to meet the alpha's gaze, searching. Morpheus stares back into those fierce, hazelnut brown eyes, ready to declare his intent court and then—

And then Hob barks out a laugh, before he shakes himself free of Morpheus’s grasp. When the omega next meets his gaze, his expression is cool and closed off.

“I understand that for men of means such as yourself, this may seem like a game to you, but this,” he gestures between them angrily, “this is far too cruel of a joke for my tastes, Lord Morpheus. Good day.”

And with that, Hob Gadling storms out of the room, and takes all the oxygen in the room with him.

SEIYA I AM YELLING. THIS IS A DELIGHT.

Seriously, you write rejection and miscommunication SO well, the words truly grab at my heart and squeeze it. I love the way you dangle hope in front of us only to snatch it away 😍😍

If this turns into a full fic I will be absolutely feral, but I promise I'll be equally feral just re-reading this snippet and marinating in the angst!!!!

[scrollypoly]

Alex Kister has made a response to the document made by Ven

The link to the document. PLEASE READ THIS DOCUMENT BEFORE SPREADING FALSE CLAIMS

Alright this is a much more concise and well written document than Ven's was, so ill be brief. Im also gonna strike out my neutrality for this, because after reading Ven's document and seeing the behavior of the accusers on tumblr, I have lost what little belief in this document that i had and belief it was made in poor faith to slander and condemn Alex on false claims.

First, the important claims. Alex did not groom anyone. In fact, Alex says that Ven and DB are older than Alex, and Ven's statements of them being in their 29s corroborates this, as Alex is only 20 years old. Stop spreading misinfo that Alex is a pedophile or a groomer

Alex hits every point that Ven makes in their document and talks through them all. He talks only briefly for how Ven went through their prior relationship, just enough to acknowledge that it wasn't a healthy relationship and that Ven also had some responsibility in how the relationship went down, especially around the miscommunication between the two of them. These miscommunications would later come up in DB's relationship with Alex as well. It is not Alex's responsibility to see through others when they communicate that things are fine when they are not. It is up to the other party to properly communicate their feelings and any problems they may be having in the relationship. Even in the screenshots from Ven's document, we see clearly that when Ven or DB express any discomfort about something, Alex apologizes and backpedals. This is good and normal behavior.

Alex also discusses Ven's intentions with this document

Literally all of this could have been solved privately and been so much better for everyone. I acknowledge and respect that Ven and DB were hurt by their relationships with Alex, but a relationship is a private matter, and problems in that relationship should be respectfully handled between those in the relationship. This document was cruel, exposing Alex's sexual discussions to the public, outting his identity as a transgender person, and slandering him with little regard for the truth or hearing his side of the interactions. This matter should have been handled privately.

One of the things i acknowledged Alex being in the wrong for in my post on Ven's document was suicide baiting. I'll let this snippet in his document speak for itself. I am undecided on how i feel about the interaction, but this gives very important insight to it.

Alex also speaks and gives more context and information about his relationship with DB. As stated earlier, DB was also older than Alex. Alex did not groom DB. The same problems with miscommunication Alex had with Ven can also be discussed here. DB was in a consenting relationship with Alex and as Alex shows, responded in kind to Alex's advances and even advanced the relationship further on my own. From Alex's perspective in this document, it looks like he and DB had a comfortable consenting relationship that was suddenly retracted by DB. If DB was uncomfortable with anything in this relationship, they should have spoken up and discussed it with Alex.

All in all, Ven's document already had a lot of flaws, and Alex's response points out many more flaws that I didn't initially see as well. Please note this response is only to Ven's document, and does not acknowledge the other allegations made by donut, mitcha, or any of the others. I assume Alex will also talk about those, I will wait and see before discussing those allegations further.

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

Could we maybe get like snippets or blurb about Hector having a wife w/ him when he goes to join dracula’s generals? And maybe she’s really kind to dracula and then it turns out she’s pregnant and reminds him of his late wife? Does it change his plans or maybe he decides to protect her/hector more so than the other humans?

TW: Some Domestic Violence, Mentions of Pregnancy, Talks of Abortion 

It was a stormy, rainy night when a set of voices roused the young woman from her reading. For too long, she had a habit of getting lost in a text, be it fiction or fact, and losing herself to the words on the page, paying no mind to the reality around her. 

It had become an even more frequent habit now that she was banished from her previous life, her artisan skills not being needed as frequently in her new home as she would have liked. Then again, it was not the worst of fates. Had she stayed in her family home, her life would have most certainly been cut short. Here, she was safe. Here, she was… well… almost loved.

The man of the house, the one who agreed to let her stay, was a peculiar one. He appeared rather simple unless you spoke to him on certain subjects: necromancy and animals, his two favorites. 

His work was deviant. The young woman would go as far as to say it indubitably delved into the supernatural. Contrarily, it was his very association with the supernatural that drew her to him in the beginning. 

Hearing what sounded like an unfamiliar voice, the young woman closed the book she was reading and placed it on the small wooden table in front of her. Looking down fondly, she gave the sleeping reanimated cat in her lap a few gentle pets before scooping them up and moving them onto the bed. 

Yes, reinstilling the life of a dear feline friend may not seem worth a lifetime of isolation to some, but those simply did not understand the grand nature of the bond between cat and owner. The strange man of the house had brought her dear pet back to her, and despite what her fellow townspeople and own family thought, to her it was worth the duration of servitude she would no doubt be forced to continue in the man’s presence. 

Said man was not overly cruel, although he did have a fair temper. His understanding of certain situations was rather naive, yet wholesome all the same. 

As the two young people spent time near one another, the strange man and the young woman’s relationship grew. It blossomed from acquaintances to friends, and eventually to lovers, and understandably so. Their position to one another, in agreement with the man’s proximity to such strange magic, made it so they only had each other to rely on for interaction, for company, for… intimacy. 

Of course, their first few instances of sex left much to be desired, if the older village women’s stories were anything to go on, but it mattered not to her. The strange man was gentle. He never once made a move to force himself upon her. And despite the woman’s own lack of experience, he always assured her, he was quite pleased about her efforts to please him. As far as they were concerned, they were officially a marital couple. Although they did not share rings or papers officiating their status as such, their entwined futures were enough to reassure the other of their intentions. 

It certainly wasn’t the life the young woman had planned for herself as a little girl, but it was a life, therefore, it was good enough. 

Hector, as peculiar as he was, was good enough for her. 

And on the subject of Hector…

The young woman walked down the short corridor from their quaint shared bedroom to the main room of the house which Hector used for his rituals. It was very delicate magic, he once explained, so it could not be tampered with. The young woman didn’t mind. She came from a family of four, who all shared a single bed and a single rented room within a dwelling. Therefore, sharing a private bedroom within a private house with only one other person was very much a luxury, as far as she was concerned. 

“Hector? Is that you?” Her soft voice asked, clearly curious. “I thought I heard voices.” 

Appearing around the curve the young woman made her presence known, clothed in a simple muted dress, and old-yellowed apron. Her eyes were bright and clear, a direct contrast to the dark and dingy walls surrounding her person. Everything about her seemed too bright, too kind, too merciful to be inside the same home as a devil forgemaster, but there she was, clear as day. 

In front of her, Hector shifted, clearly apologetic about his new wife’s timing. Not more than two long strides from him stood Lord Dracula, the king of vampires, and Hector’s respected friend. Mere seconds before her arrival, Dracula had informed Hector about the death of his own, very human wife. 

Shuffling over to the young woman, Hector stood between the two strangers: his much older friend, and his new one, hoping to break some of the ambiguous unease between the two. 

“Master Dracula,” Hector addressed the towering vampire in the room, “This is (Y/N). She’s my-” 

“Friend” 

“Wife.” 

The young woman huffed, a slight blush rising to your cheeks. “Yes, ‘wife’, is what I meant to say. I’m, uh, still getting used to that,” she admitted bashfully.  

After looking into the unfriendly gaze of Hector’s guest, the woman lowered her head, trying desperately to shrink herself under the vampire’s irate aura. 

“I’m so sorry,” Hector repeated. “That you’ve lost your wife at a time when I’ve found mine.” 

The woman’s bright, curious eyes turned back up. “Lost?” 

“They killed her.” A deep, grave voice came from the behemoth of a man. “The stupid humans.” 

The woman’s face contorted as a wave of sorrow rushed over her. “I… I am so sorry. That’s awful.” 

Her condolences seemed to hang in the air, suffocating her more than the previous silence or Dracula’s gaze did. Taking the hint, the woman excused herself, retracing her steps back to the bedroom. 

“I apologize for the intrusion. I’ll leave the two of you alone.” 

━━◈◈◈━━

“I cannot believe you’re even considering this.” Already in their shared bed, the young woman lay there under the covers, her arms crossed defiantly. 

“I don’t see why you’re so upset.” Across the small room, Hector worked to scrub off the blood and muck from his arms with a rag and a bucket of salted water. “He says it’s going to be a cull, a reduction in numbers, that’s all.” Grabbing a second towel, he dabbed his arms dry before moving to join his wife in bed. 

“It’s genocide, Hector,” his wife spoke, her voice more urgent this time. “He is asking you to help commit genocide against your own people!” 

Hector scoffed, his brows furrowed. “My own people cast me out, treated me like filth, and now, you ask me to have mercy for them?” There was a venomous edge to his voice his wife had never heard before. 

Trying to rectify the conversation, the young woman swallowed harshly before continuing: “I know they were awful to you. I know they hurt you, and I know you didn’t deserve any of it.” 

Hector sighed as he lay down beside his wife. Soothingly, (Y/N) began massaging soft circles into his scalp, waiting for the man to fall deeper into relaxation. 

“I know you’re a good man Hector, and I am forever grateful for all that you’ve done for me. But this, this plan, it cannot end well. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone.” 

With a jolt, one of Hector’s hands shot out, latching onto his wife’s hand, abruptly stopping her massage efforts. “I don’t want to have this conversation again,” he sneered. “I am going to help Dracula with his plan, and you’ll have no choice but to come with me. I am your husband and you are my wife. That is all there’s to be said on the subject.” 

Just as suddenly as he grabbed her hand, Hector released it and turned over, facing away from his wife, before blowing out the last candle on their bedside table so the two of them could sleep. 

Frozen in shock, and unable to move, (Y/N) lay there on her back, afraid to even breathe heavily, lest Hector turn back over and speak such harsh words to her again. Her wrist stung where he squeezed it, and the position it landed in was anything but comfortable, but she dared not shift it. Laying there, concentrating on both the ache in her wrist and her breathing, the young woman stared up at the pitch-black ceiling over their shared home before the exhaustion was too much to bear, and sleep overcame her. 

━━◈◈◈━━

The move to the castle was silent. The young woman dared not speak lest she voice a contradictory opinion. Hector stayed silent as he simply had nothing else to say. 

Dracula’s castle was beyond daunting. The structure appeared as if it were plucked directly out of hell: dark, and foreboding, with jagged architecture that seemed to change within a blink of an eye. The entire building housed an almost unbearable energy- one of decimation and total grief. It did not feel like the birthplace of some grand war plan, it felt more like society’s tomb. 

Of course, (Y/N) could not say as much to her spouse, now that he was fully invested in aiding Dracula’s army. His forge was already set up within the castle, a molten hearth at the ready to create any instrument Hector would require in his efforts. 

A little week into their stay, Hector emerged victorious from his forge, claiming he had made a perfectly balanced hammer, a tool that would enable him to forge night creatures at an unprecedented rate. He boasted to a very proud, but equally concerned (Y/N), how so few devil forgemasters ever made it to this phase of power. 

Of course, his private proclamations made it all the more humorous when Isaac, another specially chosen devil forgemaster of Dracula showed up at the castle. Isaac, a much more stoic and disciplined man than Hector, used a blade, a red glowing dagger of sorts to create his night creatures. With a slice of the knife, Isaac could accomplish what it took Hector several hammer strikes to do. 

The young woman held her tongue but secretly relished the indignity Hector must have initially felt upon meeting his colleague. Then again, whatever victory she felt was short-lived, as she too got the impression that Isaac cared as equally little for her as he did Hector. 

Isaac became the least of her worries, however, when Dracula’s other generals and his vampire generals arrived one by one at his castle. 

Each time Dracula introduced Isaac and Hector as his devil forgemasters, and her as Hector’s wife, she felt their red eyes sizing the young woman up like a piece of meat. Thankfully, Dracula made it clear that his three human guests were not to be harmed, and his dominion over the vampire generals was enough to keep them away from her. 

Well, most of them anyway. Godbrand, a Viking vampire, was a different story entirely. 

“I still don’t get what you see in the guy,” Godbrand questioned as he followed her down one of the castle’s many corridors. “I mean, sure, he can make night creatures, but he’s not a fighter. Hell, he’s barely a man! With his heart bleeding for all those little mistreated pets of his.” 

She walked faster, doing her best not to spill the contents of the tray she was carrying. “Be that as it may,” she kept her voice curt, “Hector is my husband, and I am his wife. I made a promise.” 

“Promises can be broken. I mean, it’s,” Godbrand emphasized his ‘s’es in between his slurred-sounding words. “Ss’not like you’re really married. Hector brought back your dead cat, as this deformed creature. That’s not exactly a wedding ceremony.” 

The young woman rolled her eyes. “And what constitutes a marriage ritual where you’re from? A fight to the death?” 

Godbrand chuckled. “You know, you may be the first human I don’t find fucking boring.” 

The young woman grimaced, as she backed into a doorway, pushing open a heavy study door with her body. “Oh Godbrand,” she turned to enter the room, “If only I could say the same for you.” 

Letting the door shut softly behind her, she ignored Godbrand’s continued grumblings. She had much more important matters to tend to. 

Taking the two bowls of seeds off her tray, she placed them in new shallow dishes on her testing table. She then picked up the lidded cup, placing its cap to the side. She poured out a small amount of yellow liquid onto one of the bowls that contained new seeds as well as onto the bowl containing seeds from days before. 

Placing the now empty cup back down on the tray, the young woman sighed. The older seeds were indeed beginning to sprout from their dishes, and to make matters worse, her monthly cycle was late. On all fronts, the message was clear: she was with child. 

“Shit.” 

━━◈◈◈━━

The young woman took a deep breath before knocking gently on Dracula’s door. She knew it was foolish for her to approach the man herself, but she found she could not face Hector, not after she discovered the truth of her condition. If she were to even look Hector in the eyes at the present moment, she feared all her composure would shatter, leaving her a sorry, sobbing mess in his arms. 

Oh, his arms! How she longed to be in his arms once more. How she wished for a nighttime of conversation that used to follow their moments of shared pleasure. Now it was brief, still existent but wholly impersonal. The act was there, and all the motions were followed, but thanks to her line of continued questioning about Dracula and his intended efforts, Hector was often in no mood to sleep in the same bed as her, much less hold a conversation with her following a round of passion. 

It just had all unraveled so fast. 

It was on the anniversary of Dracula’s poor wife’s death when the first group of night creatures and vampire soldiers were released upon Targovieste. They spread out like a plague in the night, their howls hinting at what was only the beginning of all the unthinkable horrors they would unleash. 

Before she knew it, the words were coming out of her mouth faster than her mind could think them, her new hormones no doubt adding fuel to the fire. “Traitor!” She had called him. “A child believing himself to be God, punishing the sins of man!” 

In her fury, she could not control the veracity with which she spoke. The only thing that stopped her from berating Hector further was the sharp sting of an open palm slapped against her cheek. Stunned into silence and knocked to the ground, the young woman looked up at an equally shocked Hector through teary, blurred vision. 

“I…” Hector started, almost at as much of a loss for words as she was. “I am so sorry, I…” he trailed off. He couldn’t finish his apology. How could he? When he was uncertain as to whether he even meant it. 

Thankfully, Hector had the sense to leave his wife alone to wallow, and wail without his scrutiny, at the very least, allowing her the dignity to mourn the death of whatever they once shared, alone. 

The test she had run confirmed her worst fears shortly after that. There was no mistaking it. The man who had forsaken his own species, the man who she once loved, the man who struck her down, was going to be the father of her child. That was unless she decided to do something else about it. 

She knew Dracula himself possessed great knowledge. She also knew his late wife was a healer. No, even better, a doctor. Surely, she would have some collection of remedies and treatments on the subject. If she had heard correctly, Lisa Tepes was also a mother herself. 

Recalling that fact, she shuddered. The thought of housing a human baby made her insides crawl, she didn’t even wish to begin to imagine what carrying a half-vampire child to term must be like. Perhaps, she mused, Dracula would be willing to speak on the subject, barring that he didn't strike her down for her insolence first. 

“Master Dracula?” She asked as she pushed open the door to his study a sliver. “Permission to enter?” 

With a loud sigh, the older vampire relented. “Granted.” 

As the young woman entered, she was shocked to find such a large empty room. In the middle, sat Dracula in a large chair, and before him was a fireplace. Off to the side, there was a desk, with a portrait of the vampire lord’s late gorgeous wife above it. But aside from that, the room was sparsely decorated. It certainly did not feel like the study of a vampire lord. And in the middle of it all, sat a large, very disinterested, and downcast Master Dracula. 

“What is it now? Have you come to make your case on behalf of the rest of humanity? Beg me to spare their souls?” His words were serious but his tone was largely indifferent. 

“I see Hector’s spoken to you,” the young woman fiddled her fingers, shamefully. “ I must admit, my position has not changed. Nor has Hector’s. But no,” she settled for clasping her hands together, “That is not what I wish to speak to you about. 

Dracula raised a brow, telling her to carry on in her explanation. 

“I was wondering if you knew how I might go about procuring these items,” fishing out a parchment from her apron pocket, the young woman shakily extended her hand out to him. 

Taking the paper much gentler than she expected, the vampire lord began to read the written list himself, his expression remaining unreadable. “Birthwort, yarrow, barberry, honey, and yue?”

“Yes,” the young woman confirmed. “I wasn’t certain if you had any here. I understand your late wife was a physician and that she learned much of what she knew from you. I thought perhaps some of these herbs would already be gathered and dried in storage within the castle.” 

“Does Hector know?” Dracula finally turned his attention to the young woman as he asked. 

Caught red-handed, the young woman looked down to the floor as she shook her head, hot embarrassed tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “No,” she finally admitted. “I cannot bring myself to tell him.” 

“You intend to keep this from him?” 

“Why?” The young woman spoke up, louder than before. “Do you think I am denying him his right to inheritance? That I am betraying my wifely duties if I do not consult him first?” 

“The decision concerns him as well.” 

“The hell it does!” The rage that had been brewing in her stomach all this time once again found its way to her throat. “It’s my body that will be forced to endure the changes. It’s my body that will risk its life in childbirth. It’s my heart…” She clutched her chest as she spoke, her angry tears now falling freely.  “...That will break when the child I have worked so hard to carry into this world is slaughtered right in front of me by a night creature of his own father’s making.” 

Breaking into silent sobs, the woman shook her head, condemning her outburst of emotion. 

From his chair Dracula said nothing. His irritation at her intrusion slowly faded away as he watched the formerly spirited young woman break down into tears. 

Dracula turned his gaze away, looking over to the portrait of his wife as he recalled how conflicted he felt upon learning Lisa was pregnant. Despite his wife’s optimism and joy, he could not help but feel afraid for what lay ahead. Dhampir pregnancies were uncommon, and highly dangerous, especially in cases where the mother was human. He would have been more than ready to aid Lisa in terminating the pregnancy had she asked, only she hadn’t. Just short of eight months later, Adrian was born. It might very well have been both the most terrifying and the most joyous day of Vlad’s immortal life. 

If Lisa was ever scared, she did not show it. Perhaps she knew she could not be scared, as Vlad would be fearful enough for the both of them. It was an entirely different situation than the one present before him now. Lisa and he were very much in love, and they had years of practice communicating with one another. Hector and his wife’s marriage was fresh. And in many ways, Hector was still a child, naive to the real world around him. 

Not to mention, Hector’s wife did have a point. Dracula intended to end the human race, as well as the vampire race. No humanoids would be left on the planet once he was done with it. That included Hector and her, as well as any future children they might manage to have. It was only a matter of time. Hector did not know that, but she did. Which is precisely why she came to him. 

How terrifying, he mused, it must have been to knock on his door and beg for an abortifacient, knowing full well he intended to kill all those like you sooner than later. How terrifying it must be to live in a castle surrounded by vampires, the undead, always hungry parasites, and have no choice but to hide behind an immature man who could not yet see the forest for the trees? 

Perhaps the great lord Dracula did feel a semblance of pity for the young woman, if only for a moment. 

On the far side of the study, the young woman managed to compose herself for the most part. She rubbed her eyes free of any tears and wiped her nose of any snot, only sniffling on occasion. “I apologize,” she began. “For my interruption and my… outburst.” 

Dracula said nothing as he slowly stood to his impressive full height, nearly reaching the ceiling of the room they were in. 

Suddenly struck by how close she was to such a powerful creature, the woman pushed herself against the farthest wall, trying to increase the space between her and the vampire lord. 

“Do you wish to have this child?” He asked her. 

“Only if I know they are never to suffer.” 

Dracula gave a dry chuckle at her response. 

Huffing, the woman smiled bashfully. “Yes, I suppose it sounds rather silly when said out loud. But it is the truth.” 

“Suffering,” Dracula began, “Is not unique to the human condition.” 

“Nor the vampire one I suppose.” 

Dracula’s eyes softened upon hearing her words. “No,” he finally agreed. “No, it is not.” 

The two of them stood suspended within the silence that followed for a great deal of time. Or rather, perhaps it merely felt like a great deal of time because it was one of the few sentences uttered out of pure unadulterated truth between them. Either way, neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. They simply stood in each other’s company, occasionally making eye contact. 

Although she found she quite enjoyed the comfortable silence as opposed to the oppressive kind that seemed to consume her in her previous conversations with Dracula, the young woman still found she had a pressing question on her mind. As such, she was the one to eventually break the silence. 

 “Do you think Hector would make a good father?” The young woman enquired, feeling much more impervious in her position to ask questions. 

Dracula stayed silent. 

She nodded solemnly. “That’s what I thought.” Her move to leave was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floor behind her. 

“Dracula, sir?” She asked through sniffles. 

“Come,” he said, leading her out of her office. “There is something I wish to show you.” 

━━◈◈◈━━

The castle was beyond enormous, there was no way around that. If one did not have a map of the grounds, or a guide to show them the way, it was amazingly simple to become lost in its maze of hallways and ever-changing corridors that seemed to spawn out of nowhere and vanish just as quickly as they came. It did not seem possible for a building to change and shift on its own, but, then again, it did not seem possible for a building to move from city to city in its entirety within the blink of an eye. 

For the most part, the castle had settled once Dracula’s vampire generals and their troops arrived. It would have been too complicated to educate them all on the shifting nature of the castle, so Dracula demanded it cease. Even with the castle’s internal architecture remaining consistent, navigating the halls remained challenging. Especially for the lesser intelligent vampire spawn and the easily overwhelmed human partner of a devil forgemaster. 

Dracula watched from the corridor as the young woman flitted about the apothecary room, taking breaks in between her searching various cabinets to look down at notes that no doubt once belonged to his wife. Lisa was always interested in aiding the other women of Wallachia, and she had a fondness for the maternal edge of medicine. Briefly, Dracula recalled the first time he had shown Lisa this room. Admittedly, Lisa’s reaction was quite similar to the one Hector’s wife was having now: full of not just awe, but determination as well. As it had mostly been frequented by his late wife during her time within the castle, it had been left alone to gather dust and cobwebs for the past several years or so. Still, if there was any lab or apothecary within Dracula’s home that had the processed herbs she was looking for, it was this particular room. 

He led Hector’s wife there after their previous encounter, granting her his permission to take anything she found that she’d need. It was uncharacteristically generous of him to offer, but it did not make the young woman as pleased as she thought she’d be. This was what she wanted, right? To be rid of this child? Or was it possible she wished for something else? 

Bitterly, Dracula knew it was not the child, but the circumstances, the young woman was considering aborting. She could not promise them a future, much less any degree of safety, so she was ending things before the pain became too great to do so. It was odd. The argument could be made that she was acting out of self-preservation, then again, it sounded as if the young woman knew her death was already imminent. To end this child’s life before it began was not an act of selfishness on her part, but an act of mercy. Despite the grief Dracula could see it caused her, this young woman was determined to prevent her child from seeing the horrors the world, his world, was capable of producing. It was selfless. It… It did not make sense. 

Humans were selfish creatures, greedy, and cruel for sport. They thought only of themselves and anyone who dared show kindness or intelligence was cast out or killed. They did not deserve the teachings of his wife, who worked so hard to provide for their ill. They did not deserve Wallachia, nor did they deserve any part of the world. Their species was a plague, a never-ending mistake. They would not learn even if he gave them centuries more. They had to go and yet… 

Before the last sunset, Dracula would not have cared how the humans suffered and died. Nor did he care about the vampires, who would inevitably turn on each other, once they were finally faced with starvation. All that mattered was their death- all of their deaths. 

Then why was it that Lord Vlad Dracula Tepes could not think of anything but birth? 

He had shown Hector’s wife what she asked for, he had given her the materials needed to prevent such a birth. Granted, it was what she had asked for. One favor for a selfless thing. 

Perhaps… a long-since silent voice of reason in the back of Dracula’s mind spoke up… Perhaps there is hope for humanity yet? Maybe the good few, the intelligent, the brave, and the honorable could be… salvaged from this genocide? Perhaps what was needed was a true cull after all? 

Seated once again in his study, Dracula gazed into the flames of the fireplace. He would need to make plans to speak with all his Generals tomorrow. 

The war, as they knew it, was about to change. 

A/N: Ahhhh! Why is it so longgggg? Forgive me for getting carried away. But to answer your question, I do think there’s a sliver of hope Dracula would be swayed not to stop or anything, but maybe to shift his plans to allow a select, approved few humans to survive. No idea how’d that’d be implemented or how the Generals would respond (prob not well lol.) But that’s sort of my line of thinking. I also believe he’d be even more encouraging for Hector and Isacc to become friends. For Sources, check out these super cool links: Medieval ‘Pregnancy Tests’: (x) And this really cool on medieval abortion/menstruation remedies: (x) And As always, if you liked it, please REBLOG! 

And please consider donating to my Kofi!

[endwersed]

WIP Mon(Weds)day

Tagged by my amazing moots @dear-massacre & @hedwig221b ❤️

I'm in full-time editing mode with posting a chapter a week for my ABO AU: the poets are right. So, here's a maybe-not-so-little snippet from the upcoming chapter 3!

-

“You left,” Derek says.

“Didn’t think you’d notice,” Stiles replies evenly. “You were busy, weren’t you?”

A sound of frustration rumbles up from Derek’s chest. His jaw works around it for a moment as he stares across the length of the room.

“I said I’d be back,” he says quietly.

Something snaps inside of Stiles with that. He pushes himself roughly up, the bends of his elbows digging into the mattress below, and his face is caught up, screwed up, in this all-out sneer, his breath trembling on its way out of him as the sheets bunch within the tight balls of his fists.

“Oh, sure,” he spits. “So you wanted me to just hang around and wait for you to be done talking with your fucking girlfriend?"

“Okay,” Derek says quickly, one step closer, two palms going up into the air. “That’s not even – no. Jennifer is not my girlfriend.”

Stiles laughs; a short, harsh bark of it. He lifts a hand to smack the heel of his palm against his forehead, a manic sort of smile clinging to his mouth as he pushes up further to swing his legs around, standing from the bed and moving quickly over to Derek’s stilled form.

“My bad,” he snaps, jabbing a finger into Derek’s chest. “Not your girlfriend. Your betrothed.”

“She’s not my anything,” Derek insists, almost a growl of it as he drops his hands back down to his sides. “I don’t even – Stiles, I swear to you, I don’t even like her.”

Stiles scoffs nastily, pulling his hand back from Derek to cross his arms over his chest, his nails scoring into the skin at his exposed wrists where they peek out from the fastened cuffs of his shirt. He twists his head to look away from Derek, to stare at the wall next to him instead. Anywhere is better than being forced to see that open, pleading, lying face.

“That’s not the story your guest gave me,” Stiles says.

“I don’t give a fuck what anyone else said!” Derek practically shouts. “I mean, fuck – yes, my mom wants us to be together, but... but Jennifer... she is a cruel, spiteful person. I don’t want her like that, I will never want her like that. No matter what anyone else thinks, it will never happen.”

Blinking around the sharp burning behind his eyes, Stiles desperately wills any tears to hold back, to not fall right now, not where Derek can see them. There is no way he will be able to move fast enough to swipe them gone, no way he will catch them before the stains track hotly down his cheeks. Not with Derek so close to him, not with Derek staring at him this intently.

All at once, the fight leaves him. His chest feels cracked open, his heart beating sluggishly behind its sharp ridges. There isn’t anything here to fight for, and he knows that, knows that deep down in the part of himself that Laura has so desperately been trying to make him forget with each day he spends here, with every moment he spends with Derek.

He and Derek – they are who they are. A human and a werewolf. A story that can never happen.

“Just... go back to your party,” he says quietly, eyes flicking down to the ground. “It’s your birthday. You can’t just go missing.”

“No,” Derek says, sharp and instant as he takes a stupid step closer. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until you believe me.”

Stiles uses every last bit of strength within him to keep staring resolutely down. His eyes still sting as he blinks at the floor below their feet, his mouth parted around too loud, too shallow, too shaky breaths. The seconds pass in silence, and he refuses to look up, he refuses to look at Derek’s face, and he so wishes that he could truly want Derek to turn around and walk right back out of that door.

“I don’t care,” he lies, even knowing his heart will betray that to Derek’s ears. “Just – leave me alone, Derek. I don’t fucking care.”

For a moment, Derek says nothing. For a moment, Stiles thinks that perhaps he has won, perhaps he has been victorious in this contest where nobody really comes out on top, and Derek will leave, will go back to his party, his people, his Jennifer, and Stiles will be alone, will be given all the time and space he needs to shed this impossible mindset that Laura has been so cruelly bleeding into him.

But then – a finger hooks beneath his chin. Gentle, and firm, slowly lifting his face, dragging his gaze from the floor, forcing him to look up, forcing him to meet Derek’s wide, pale, desperate eyes.

“You do care,” Derek says.

-

No pressure tags 🤗 @lucky-bishop @patolemus @raisesomehale @renmackree @violetfairydust

[hottpinkpenguin]

Until My Bones Have Turned to Leaves - Ch.2

Joe Liebgott (BoB) X Fem!SoldierReader Part 2 of ? | Part 1 here! WC: 1808 Warnings: depictions of war; cursing; not proofread; non-canon Taglist: @imafckingbitch @aliciax3 @needf0rspeed

You saw it all in slow motion. In the cold, dark night, Pvt Jackson yanked the pin out of his grenade, the soft metallic click a familiar sound to your ears. He recoiled his arm to throw the grenade into the open window of the building. You could hear snippets of guttural German from inside, including a man’s brittle laughter, and the clinking of cutlery. They’re eating, you thought with a pang something almost like pity. In a few instants, they’d be dead.  

Jackson’s grenade left his hand, sailing through the night in a graceful arc. It soared over the fence surrounding the building and leapt through the glass-less window into the inviting lamplight of the room beyond. For a split second, no one noticed. The Germans kept talking, the patrol outside held their breath, and the grenade landed with an ominous clunk. 

In the same instant that the Germans inside let out a cry of surprise, Pvt Jackson was moving. Too soon, your instincts screamed. You grabbed clumsily at the back of his jacket, but the cold made your fingers feeble and fumbly. The fabric slipped through your grasp. He kept moving forward, mounting the small set of stairs in front of the door to the immediate right of where his grenade had only just disappeared. He confidently kicked the door in, warm light spilling into the night air outside.

You lunged forward with the intention of wrapping your arms around Jackson to prevent him from kicking in the door before his grenade detonated. You managed the first part of your plan - got your arms wrapped around his wiry torso - but his momentum carried the both of you forward. 

You heard Bull yell behind you, a garbled mix of “wait!” and “no!” 

The grenade detonated a heartbeat later. Jackson absorbed the explosion in full, but you felt the bite of shrapnel and heat on your hands and forearms where they snaked around the front of his chest. Both of you were thrown backwards. He landed heavily on the top step of the entryway, but your feet slipped on the icy stone, and then air. For a moment, you were suspended. Somewhere beside you, Bull’s booming voice. You heard a gunshot, then another. 

You collided with the frozen ground, a sharp lighting rod of pain ripping up your back. Your head snapped backwards against the earth, and all turned to black… 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

“Patrol’s back.”

Joe’s lip curled at Hoobler’s idiotic observation. 

“Gee, Hoob, you don’t say.” Everyone ignored the sarcastic bite in Joe’s voice. The men were on their feet, shuffling quickly to the street outside in search of the returning patrol. Joe hadn’t moved from the dust-ridden armchair he’d sunk into shortly after dinner. His neck ached and there was a pounding headache forming behind his eyes. No one in Easy Company was a stranger to the risks of warfare at this point, but the stakes of this patrol, after everything they’d endured in Bastogne, was a cruel knife-twist to the ribs. Nobody in Easy wanted to be in that patrol, but they hated being left behind even more. At least when they were all together, they could look out for each other. Pack mentality, Joe heard Lt. Speirs call it. The drive to move as one, fight as a unit, protect each other. This patrol had separated them, splintered off a small group to face danger alone. And now, as if proving the mens’ suspicions, something had gone wrong.

In the street outside on Easy’s side of the river, the distant sound of agony shattered the quiet of the pre-dawn dark. Someone was injured. Someone - maybe more than one - might be dead. Those who’d been left to wait followed the anguished cries of their Company-mate through the empty streets. 

It didn’t take long to find the source of the wails. Joe, along with about a dozen others, honed in on a barn at the end of a narrow street running east-to-west through Haguenau. Joe was practically sprinting towards it, the sounds of screaming getting louder. Who is it? He didn’t recognize the voice, and for some reason his heart locked up in terror. A few meters ahead of him, he saw Malarkey duck into the barn. 

Joe got there, stepped into the quickly filling room and took in the scene. Most of the patrol members were there, clustered around Pvt Jackson writhing in pain and moaning. Doc Roe was bent over Jackson’s head and chest, murmuring quietly and smoothing the man’s hair down against his forehead in a gentle, almost maternal gesture. Joe felt a sudden burn in his eyes as his throat closed up. They’d all served with Eugene Roe long enough to read his body language. If he was barking orders at the others to ‘give me some of your morphine’ or ‘hold him down’ or anything of the sort, or if he was digging around in a bullet wound or tightening a tourniquet until his patient was screaming bloody murder, chances are the soldier could pull through. But times like this - when Doc’s voice went quiet and he stopped barking orders and his touch got gentle - meant something differently entirely. Joe wondered if Pvt Jackson knew it the way that everyone gathered in the room did. There was an eerie hush on the growing crowd, a hollow sadness in their eyes. Not the first body they’d seen, and far from the last. But this one felt wasteful in a way other deaths hadn’t. 

After a few minutes, Jackson’s cries of agony turned to unintelligible moans. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, his muscles relaxed in a way that wasn’t natural to any living thing. His eyes dulled and Doc Roe stopped stroking the man’s head. And that was that. Pvt Eugene Jackson died in agony surrounded by moldy hay and sad faces in a French town that was little more than a crossroads. A few of the men swore under their breath and ducked out of the stifling barn into the dark night outside. Joe thought to do the same, but as he ducked around Malarkey towards the door his eyes landed on Bull Randleman. Bull’s mouth was puckered into a line that threatened to turn down at the edges, his telltale cigar hanging limply from his lips. His eyes were trained on Pvt Jackson but misty, like his thoughts were elsewhere. 

The realization hit Joe like a freight train. There was more than just grief over Jackson clinging to the eyes of the men from the returned patrol. There was an empty, bombed out quality to their stares, like they were all wrapped so tightly in their own thoughts they’d suffocate. Joe hadn’t caught it before, but he did now. He was in a room full of men for the first time since you’d joined Easy outside of Nijmegen, just before Bastogne. You were gone.

“Jesus Christ, Bull.” Randleman looked disoriented for a second before his eyes found Joe’s, his gaze coming into focus as if his thoughts had to travel thousands of miles to come back to Haguenau. 

“Where the fuck is she?” Joe’s voice broke on the last syllable of his question. A few of the others who’d joined the returning patrol looked on in varying states of comprehension at the unfolding exchange. The rest of the room was silent, all eyes glued on Liebgott and Randleman. 

“I… I’m sorry, Joe. She, she took a grenade. Jackson’s grenade.” Bull’s voice sounded small and pinched. Webster, who’d served as the interpreter on the patrol, laid a hand on Bull’s shoulder as if to steady him. Bull squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of your head ricocheting off the ground like you were a ragdoll. 

“Where, Bull.” Joe felt like he was about to vibrate apart into a million pieces. Not only had this piece of shit patrol gotten one of their own killed, but they’d left someone behind. A goddamn woman, no less. You. The Angel of Bastogne. Joe had been - and continued to be - the first to decry your presence as unnatural at the Front. He stood by his feelings on that point. But he’d sooner put the barrel of his M1 down his throat and pull the trigger than consider leaving you behind in this muddy, wasteland of a crossroads. Joe knew it as deeply as he knew his own heartbeat. 

Bull just shook his head slowly and sadly. “I’m sorry, Joe. I’m sorry.” He kept repeating it, over and over again. 

“She dead?” Joe challenged, stepping towards Bull with half a mind to punch him. The air in the barn froze as a dozen men held their breath, waiting on the answer. Bull crumpled at the question, choking out a single sob as he hid his face behind a hand. The sight made Joe’s bones feel brittle like porcelain, and he blanched. His anger fizzled, turning dangerously in the direction of desperation. You couldn’t be… dead?

It was Webster who answered after a few long moments. “No. Likely not. Just concussed.”

The silence in the air deepened for a heartbeat as everyone processed Webster’s answer. The cold fist of dread in Joe’s chest burst open into black rage.

“You left her?! You fuckers left her for the Germans?! Fucking left her in the mud?! What’s wrong with you?! Fuck!” 

Unable to keep his fury compressed to words, Joe turned and struck out with his leg at a rusted out bucket that lay discarded near his feet. The bucket flew through the air and hit the planks of the barn with a crunchy thwack before clattering to the hard packed ground beneath. The clamor earned Joe some chastising from his Company-mates, a few of them grousing about ‘sound discipline’. Joe ignored them and stalked out of the barn, his hands balled into fists at his side and his vision starting to go white. His mind reeled between memories of you darting from one foxhole to the next beneath the explosions of pinewood and snow in Bastogne to snapshots of your body bent at an unnatural angle and your face plastered in the half-frozen mud on the German side of the Moder river. 

Joe’s body took him back to the house where he’d last seen you on autopilot. His hands put his gear and pack on, cleaned his rifle, and stocked up on ammo and grenades. The pale whisper of a pink dawn was peeking over the horizon when an empty-eyed Randleman and a stony-faced Webster joined him in a beeline due-east through the streets, headed towards the banks of the river and, on the other side, German-controlled territory. All the while, Joe’s mind teetered on a single, incontestable fact: if you were out there, Joe would find you. And God help any man who stood in his way.

**more to come!! stay tuned and let me know if you want to be tagged

[ihatealimore]

Vampire AU Snippet

"I'm not here for your amusement," Kurapika retorts coldly, despite the doubts beginning to cloud his mind, "You've been preying on humans, and as a vampire, I can only assume you're responsible for numerous deaths. And even if that isn't the case... Just by being what you are... It's my duty to eliminate your kind."

She rolls her eyes dramatically at his words, "Oh, the humanity!" She exclaims mockingly before her expression turns serious again, "You know, for someone so intent on killing me, you talk too much."

"Perhaps," He admits, the sharp end of his Judgement chain just inches away from her chest, "But it was necessary to gauge your intentions. Any last words?"

The vampire tilts her head, raising an eyebrow at his question, "Just one. Are you truly okay with killing someone who's innocent?" She pauses for effect before adding in a quiet voice, "...Someone who doesn't even feed on humans?"

His chain wavers slightly at her words, his eyes searching hers for any hint of deceit, "That doesn't change what you are."

"Oh, so it's what I am that bothers you?" She shoots back with a dark chuckle, "Not my alleged crimes but simply the fact that I'm different from you? Interesting."

"It's not about being different," He argues, maintaining a level tone despite the rising tension, "It's about posing a potential threat to humanity."

"And who decides what a 'potential threat' is?" She questions him, her tone laced with curiosity, "You? The ones who have decided to hunt us down just because we're different?"

"No," Kurapika responds, his voice echoing throughout the cabin, "It's decided by those who have suffered at the hands of your kind... And it's carried out by hunters like me."

She lets out a sigh, shaking her head slowly, "How noble of you," She drawls out sarcastically, "But tell me, hunter, do all those who suffer truly seek revenge or is it just people like you?"

"It's not about revenge," His chains tighten around her as he retorts, "It's about justice."

"Justice, revenge... They're just two sides of the same coin," She counters, her voice steady, "But if you truly believe in your cause, then do what you must."

The hunter remains silent for a moment, his resolve wavering slightly as he contemplates her words. He feels torn between his duty and the doubt that has steadily creeped into his mind.

With a deep breath, he finally asks in a quiet voice, "Are you... Truly innocent?"

Her lips curl into a bitter smile at his question, "As innocent as one can be in this cruel world," She answers honestly.

[invalidstories]

Helooo!

I read your snippet of the Villain’s Lair” and I really loved it!

I was wondering if you could please continue that! It’s really interesting and I’d love to read that again!

Thank you!

Have a great day! Don’t forget to keep yourself hydrated!🤍👍

Villain's Lair (Part 2)

Thank you for reminding me to pay attention to my neglected water bottle. 🥰 I'm really glad you like the snippet, here is part 2 of it. I don't know if this is exactly what you looking for but I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, disownment, mentions of being neglected, past trauma, violence, restraints

Part 1

In the dimly lit alley behind the rundown building, Villain gently lowered the henchman's child to the ground, their small frame trembling with fear. The child's tear-streaked face tugged at Villain's heartstrings, reminding them of their lost innocence.

"Everything is alright, little one," Villain murmured softly, crouching down to meet the child's gaze. "You're safe now. We'll stay here until your father comes for you."

The child nodded, clutching onto Villain's hand with trembling fingers. The moment didn't last long as Villain spotted the other villain hurtling towards them, with a dangerous smile playing at their lips. With a reassuring squeeze of the child's hand, they straightened up, their mind already racing ahead to the next task at hand.

Villain prepared to confront their enemy, they braced themselves, ready to fight the other villain in a desperate bid to protect the child and their secrets.

But before Villain could move, a figure darted forward with speed, intercepting the threat with a swift, well-placed blow to the head. The other villain crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"Villain?" the voice spoke, surprise evident in their voice.

Startled, Villain squinted to see Hero standing at the entrance, their expression a mix of surprise and suspicion. The villain's muscles tensed, ready to defend themselves against the hero's attack.

But to their surprise, Hero made no move to attack. Instead, they approached cautiously. "What are you doing here?" Hero demanded.

Villain hesitated, weighing their options. Should they reveal their true intentions to Hero, or stick to their carefully constructed facade? They decided to be honest, as Hero already knew about the child.

"I was just dropping off henchman's child," Villain replied, their tone guarded. "Making sure they're safe."

Hero turned to face Villain, their gaze piercing. "Enough games, Villain," they said with a firm voice. "You just pulled up a new version of yourself from the past few days and decided that it is perfectly normal. People don't change overnight."

Villain sighed, "You're acting like we're best friends now, and you've known me for so long that you know what I'm like. Why does it concern you, you should probably be concerned about how regularly you wash your dirty suit."

"Number one, I wash my very clean suit every day," Hero scofted. "I just want to know what's really going on, and what's driving you to do all of this?" They asked.

Villain hesitated, caught off guard by the concern in Hero's voice. For a moment they considered brushing off the inquiry with a dismissive remark, but something in Hero's gaze gave them pause.

With a heavy sigh, Villain relented, their shoulders slumping in resignation. "It's... kind of complicated, and you probably won't believe me," they began, their voice tinged with regret. "You see, this started before I became the villain."

As Villain recounted their past to Hero, the weight of their childhood burdens seemed to grow heavier with each word. "I was forced into this life," they confessed, their voice wavering. "My parents were cruel and abusive, pushing me into a world of crime even though I didn't want to. You'd find it funny that I wanted to become a doctor."

Hero's heart ached at the sympathy, trying to understand the depth of pain and suffering that Villain had endured. They listened carefully as Villain described the beatings and the threats that were a part of the harsh environment of their upbringing.

"My parents disowned me when I was still a teenager," Villain continued, their voice laced with bitterness. "They saw me as nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded, and I was cast out into the streets with nothing to my name."

Villain told them how they found solace in the only world they knew, the world of crime and villainy. It was a familiar territory to them, and all they have ever known.

"But as I continued, I realized that I didn't want to continue the cycle of violence and abuse that had defined my life," Villain confessed, "I wanted to make a difference, and ensure that others didn't suffer the same fate."

Driven by a newfound purpose, Villain took it upon themselves to protect those who were vulnerable and powerless, such as children of their henchmen. They couldn't change the past, but they could shape the future, ensuring that no child would be forced into a life of crime and despair as they had been.

"And so, I did what I can to help them. I may still be known as a villain, that's probably all I'll ever be, but at least these kids will have a choice," Villain explained, their voice tinged with sadness as they glanced at the child.

As Villain finished their story, Hero felt embarrassed, "I... I always thought you were just a ruthless murderer," Hero admitted, "And so cold, always so... unfeeling."

"It's reasonable," they replied, their voice measured. "That's the image I've been trying to create over the years – it's how I protect myself from being betrayed or attacked."

Hero nodded. "I'm sorry," they murmured, "I should have realized that."

The criminal didn't reply, or meet their gaze. Villain's expression was neutral again, transforming them into their former self except for the hand holding the child's.

The silence was interrupted by a soft groan from the shadows. Turning, they saw the other villain they had subdued moments ago beginning to stir.

"We should tie them up before they wake," Hero suggested.

Villain nodded in agreement, their cold demeanor returning as they approached the unconscious villain. They bound the villain's hands and feet, ensuring they posed no immediate threat.

As looked at the villain tying knots, Hero couldn't help but think back to the conversation they had with Villain. "This one," Hero began cautiously, "they mentioned something about knowing that you were trying to keep the children of your henchmen out of your activities. And that's why they were after the child."

Villain paused. "I suspected as much," they replied, their voice quiet.

Hero's mind raced with possibilities. "We need to find out who else knows about this," they said, gesturing at the unconscious villain, "And I'll bring him back to the headquarters."

Villain nodded in agreement, their expression changing into something unreadable.

As they separated in different ways, they learned that despite their differences, they were united in their desire to protect the innocent and ensure a better future for those who hadn't been so lucky.

"The past cannot be changed. The future is yet in your power."

Masterlist

[stormsthatrage]

Short snippet from the Prisoner AU (where the Winter War goes worse, Ichigo time-travels back, Ichigo immediately finds and kills Aizen, and then the Gotei 13 takes this Vice-Captain-killing Ryoka into custody):

Kisuke’s sandals clack on the hard stone — a loud, repetitive, intentional sound — as he approaches from behind.

He circles around the chair Ichigo is chained to, and crouches in front of him.

He smiles.

It is a smile that Ichigo recognizes. But he has never, not once, been on this side of it before.

(Ichigo has seen Kisuke smile this smile at Aizen. At the Gotei 13 lord who petitioned to have the Visored executed. At Ichigo’s father, once, when Ichigo came to the Shoten with a bruise that wasn’t from sparring.)

It’s a cold smile. Cruel, sharp. Void of empathy, in the eyes. A glimpse of leashed madness, made manifest in an expression.

Ichigo’s eyes drift away from it, go to the windowless stone walls. He can’t look at it. Not when seeing it had always made Ichigo feel safe, before. Made him feel protected. Not when all it does is make him feel terribly, terribly numb, now.

... There’s something almost funny, in how they both lose with that smile on the chessboard.

Because Ichigo knows he’s supposed to be scared, seeing it. But all it does is remind him that there is nothing left to fear. The two worst things Kisuke could possibly do to Ichigo, he has already done.

(His lifeblood, pumping out beneath Ichigo’s fingers, despite how hard he presses. A whispered apology, fingers coated hot-and-sticky-crimson brushing against Ichigo’s cheek. His skin growing cold. Benihime, beautiful red light fading.)

(His face, so young and free of scars, free of recognition. Benihime, drawn and humming with bloodlust, turned towards Ichigo. His eyes, staring at Ichigo without any warmth, as Ichigo sits next to Aizen’s cooling corpse.)

“Hello,” Kisuke says, voice crooning. A cat, playing with a mouse.

Too much time with Yoruichi, Ichigo thinks, and then lets himself drift.

_______

Reminder that in this AU Ichigo is under Kaien and the Shiba's protection. There is no actual torture that happens, it's just intense verbal interrogation. And then Aizen's illusions start to unravel, people realize Ichigo saved them, and the comfort part of the angst and hurt/comfort kicks in.

[sleeping-sirens]

moonflower ☽︎ choi beomgyu

pairing : beomgyu x fem reader.

genre : college!au, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers!au, sunshine (beomgyu) x grumpy (reader)!au, romance, fluff.

summary : sleep is your enemy, but only at night. when the light of day starts beaming, it only means it’s time for you to befriend sleep for the time being. not only is your sleeping schedule very messed up, but you’re also behind on so many lectures. it’s a mess but in the midst of it all, a light shines unexpectedly in your life. and you welcome it with open arms.

warnings : a lot of fluff, maybe?? reader is very grumpy at first but becomes soft later, lots of flufff idkkk i’m still in the process of writing it :(

a/n : i’ve been having this idea since i started biasing beomgyu. and because i struggle with insomnia ever since i could remember. so i decided to start my own comfort beomgyu one-shot that i wanted to share on here, maybe it could bring someone comfort as well.

i’ll insert a snippet of it and if it gets attention and people like it, i’ll make sure to work hard on it.

[…

the guy senses your torment and your loud silence rings like a deafening siren in his ears. his chest suddenly feels on fire and he blames himself for maybe, just maybe crossing his limits with you.

maybe he shouldn’t have woken you up. he shouldn’t have bothered you. and he drowns in guilt. “i’m sorry.” he articulates, shying away behind his long fringe.

“how about you write on my notebook?” you blurt out. you couldn’t see him like that. you can’t be so cruel on him. he only had good intentions. it’s clear, in his doe eyes, in his soft voice.

“i-really?” he turns to you. and the sun shines on his face. he looks very angelic. your heart drops and bounces back to its place.

“yes. you seem interested in this class and i just want to sleep. you don’t have your notebook but i have mine. 1 plus 1, equals?”

“two,” he smiles. his smile shines so bright, the sun would be jealous.

…]

a/n : let’s see how that goes 🥹 if you like it and want to be added to the tag list for this fic, lemme know 🫶����💘

[bunnakit]

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 (you are here)

Wooyoung nearly sobbed at the intense wave of pleasure that washed over him, body writhing in the ebbing tide. His voice choked out of him, eliciting a deep and fond chuckle from above. He hated how warm San’s laugh was for how very cruel he was being. 

“Sannie please for the love of God move.” He begged, trying to kick out one of his legs only to have it pinned to the lumpy mattress, leaving Wooyoung reluctantly spread open. His cock leaked against his stomach and he couldn't help but think ‘Me too, buddy.’ 

San leaned down, pressing their lips together with lazy, lingering kisses. He was such a juxtaposition of unwavering strength and endless tenderness. He knew Choi San was one of a kind and he was so lucky to have met him that fateful rainy night. He’d never find anyone like him again. 

“Why don't you ask nicely?” San smirked against his jaw and he couldn't help but roll his eyes. 

“San if you don't fucking move I’m going to book the biggest, meanest bastard for your next fi-ah!” Breath swept into his lungs in a harsh gasp, expelled in a low and pathetic whine. It wasn't that San was the biggest he’d ever slept with - he was average, maybe above - it was that every movement was done with so much intent. He rolled his hips, gave teasing touches, and panted crude compliments all for nothing more than the satisfaction of his lover. 

It had been a night a lot like this, blowing off steam from an unsatisfying fight that San felt he won too quickly, when the revelation had struck Wooyoung. He had watched San then as he did now, the concentrated furrow of his brow, the clench of his jaw to stave off his own orgasm until he knew his lover was unequivocally satisfied. All of it came to the same conclusion Wooyoung drew in the current moment; He was unbearably in love with Choi San. 

“Why are you crying, jagi?” San’s movements stilled as he lifted his calloused palm, cupping his cheek gently.

Wooyoung blinked slowly, unaware of when the tears had begun to streak down his face but he could feel them carving tracks backwards. He kept his gaze on San, opening his mouth to speak but a cold tear dipped uncomfortably into his ear. He blinked and when he opened his eyes he welcomed a new cresting tide of tears. 

He was back here, in the almost clinical bedroom in the corner of a house that had never felt like home. His eyes burned with tears and he knew he’d been crying for much longer than the brief snippet in his dream. He stumbled to his feet and tread into the bathroom, grimacing at the image staring back at him in the mirror. His long hair was a mess, greasy and in disarray, and his eyes were nearly swollen with how puffy they were. 

Wooyoung ducked his head, splashing icy water on his face several times. He was so tired of crying, so fucking tired of it, and yet he couldn't stop. Every single morning he woke up and pressed a cold compress to his eyelids until he resembled something close to human again. He ignored that step today, turning off the sink just to turn on the shower. 

He wanted to wallow, to stay in bed all day and cry himself to sleep again, to rot in his silk sheets on his stupidly expensive mattress. He craved a lumpy mattress permeated in the smell of cologne, sweat, sex, and San. It was so tempting to fall back under the covers and shut out the world but he knew, as much as he hated it, that San would never want to see him like this. And somehow that was enough. 

Wooyoung finished his shower quickly, wrapping a towel around his waist and going through his skin care routine that had way more steps than even made sense. He finished rubbing in his moisturizer before he opened the drawer beside him. Multiple watches in a variety of styles lined the inside, save for a vacant spot in the very center. 

His heart dropped through his feet, thrashing and writhing somewhere on his heated bathroom floor. 

Where is it? 

I put it here, didn't I?

My nightstand- Not here. 

The dresser-

No, no, no, nononono- Where is it?! 

His breath came in a rapid staccato, unsustainable and painful. He didn't really care if he ever breathed again, not if he’d truly lost Sannie’s watch. He needed it, needed to feel close to him in the only way he was allowed now. 

“Where is it?” He gasped, black spots dancing at the edge of his vision just before he heard a door open in the main section of his apartment. He yanked on a pair of sweatpants left hanging over a bedpost before stumbling out into his living space. 

“Hyunsoo-ssi, have you seen my watch? The silver one with the big dial-”

“Oh, that atrocity.” He tsked and dread mixed with something else, something sticky and molten, bubbled in Wooyoung’s stomach. “I cleaned out all your old designs for this year’s collection,” He passed a judgemental eye to the sweats hanging off his hips. “Though it seems I might have missed some.” 

Again, Wooyoung didn't feel when the tears started. He could only feel the cold streaks left in their wake as his skin grew impossibly warm. His fingers curled into his palms, nails pressing indents into the soft flesh. 

“And where are they now?” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes closed as those black dots appeared in his periphery again. He felt wound tight, a coiled spring ready to snap - or perhaps a leopard, crouched low in wait for one wrong move, one little -

“I threw them out. Don't worry, Wooyoung-ssi, this year's designs are much-” 

He hadn't made a decision to throw the salt lamp across the room. Wooyoung hadn't even been aware he was holding it until it left his fingertips, hurtling towards the wall with an impressive amount of speed. His nostrils flared as the drywall crumbled and shards of the salt block scattered around his floor. He opened his eyes, vision tinted red as his eyes locked on his father's assistant. 

Wooyoung hated himself for it, hated the way it reminded him of his childhood, but he took a sick thrill in the fear that washed over Hyunsoo’s face. Good. “Get out.” He croaked, voice hoarse with barely restrained screams. 

There was a spot on the rug in his father's office, a deep brown and an odd wobbly shape. Spilled coffee, his father had said, knocked over by one of his visiting business partners who Wooyoung could barely remember. He understood now what that stain really was. 

His mouth flooded with spit the moment Hyunsoo closed the door behind him and Wooyoung had only a moment to sprint to his kitchen sink, more grateful than ever for his open floor plan as he slid to a stop on the tile just in time to eject the contents of his stomach into the shiny silver basin. He’d barely eaten the night before, something his stomach hadn't thanked him for, but at least it was a benefit to him now as he had very little to offer up. Snot and tears spilled down the lower half of his face and he groaned, using the spray nozzle on his faucet to rinse both the sink and his face. 

Wooyoung slammed the tap to shut it off before sliding down to the floor, back pressed against the uncomfortable grooves of the cabinet behind him and knees tucked to his chest. He tucked his forehead against them, the moisture dripping from his hair soaking the knee of his sweats. One hand lifted, rubbing a slow circle over the left side of his chest. 

His last connection to San, gone with something as simple as a careless - or perhaps malicious - act of service. The hickeys had long faded from his sternum, the scent of San’s cologne no longer clung to the clothes he'd worn that night. The watch had been all he had left to prove that he had been lucky enough to have been known - been loved - by Choi San. 

Wooyoung felt the rhythmic thumping against his fingers, an undeniable sign that blood still pumped through his veins. His heart was there, it was still there, so why did his chest feel so hollow? He wanted to thrash, to wail, to make sure the world could hear the pain that scraped his insides raw. Instead, he cried silently, vacant gaze locked on the mangled hole in the wall, lamp cord dangling down to the floor. 

Crying had never gotten him anything but a scolding so he had learned a long time ago to keep silent. 

When Wooyoung looked at himself in the mirror again the next morning another grimace spread over his face but this time accompanied by a nauseating twist in his gut. He lifted his hand to brush through his hair, twisting his fingers around the too-short strands and tugging until he felt a light sting at his scalp. It looked as wrong as he felt but he had an image to maintain now - Father’s perfect puppet. 

The image nearly made him sick, not from an attractiveness standpoint, but rather he missed who he was before. He missed San carding his fingers through his hair as he sang to him softly, half drunk but full of love. He missed San gripping with his fingers close to Wooyoung’s scalp, tilting his head back to press open-mouthed kisses against his neck. He missed San rolling over onto his hair in the middle of the night, coaxing him back to sleep with hushed apologies. 

He had hoped it would feel cleansing but instead it felt like a final goodbye to the man he could have had and the man he could have become.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Jumping in on the CI appreciation. The dynamic is just so fun and deceptively beautiful as messed up as they are. You are a great writer and have a unique way of captivating a reader. Kudos and much success however you choose to pursue your talent! Speaking of… have you written or plan on writing that blowout fight scene (post hospital release) where Lexa draws the proverbial line so to say?

CI fight 😈

///////////////////////

This is the stupidest you've ever felt in your life.

Which is saying a lot, considering the sheer amount of reckless and dumb shit you have done.

But this absolutely takes the cake you decide as your hired nurse wheels you into your lounge room, the sheets already turned back on your couch-turned-makeshift bed and the mountain of your wife's borrowed pillows that are already fluffed to within an inch of their goddamn life.

Your hip kills every time you try to stand on it and your back feels like it'd gone one too many rounds with a baseball bat, and thanks to the four fractured bones in your wrist, you can't even deal with it on your own with the use of a crutch or cane. So instead, you hang on to this fucking stranger and woddle over like a toddler, sweating through all three herculean steps it takes until you can sink down into the godsend that is your new recovery zone.

You wave her off with your good arm once she gets you settled. Tell her you're fine and to stop fucking hovering because you didn't even really need a nurse to move in with you to begin with.

But your wife had insisted and left no room for argument, and well... You're not very good at telling her no when she's upset.

So here the hell you are.

Your grousing is hushed by the sweeter notes of your wife's voice when she comes trailing in behind you with that familiar sharp clicking of her heels.

She apologizes for your lack of manners and tells RN Whats-her-name she can go get settled in the guest room that she'd already showed her - you suppose she must have gotten the grand tour at some point while you were still laid up in the hospital.

Ass out in a gown and perpetually high as a kite.

Not your finest point in life.

Not the lowest either.

At least the drugs made it a good time...

Your temple throbs when your 'guest' excuses herself and snaps the doors shut behind her, making you groan and reach to rub at the bandage taped to the side of your head.

Fingers quicker than yours catch you before you can do any damage.

"Don't," Lexa warns you in a whisper more gently than you had expected, considering she's had to remind you three times already today.

You murmur your sorries and pout because it hurts, but can't help but breathe lighter when she slips into the space between your legs.

Rather than settling in your lap as you'd foolishly hoped for, she perches on the edge of the coffee table instead. She smells so good and her gorgeous face is so serene when she gets comfortable and looks at you dead in the eye.

But then she folds her fingers together and she leans her elbows on her knees, and you already know you're in for some kind of ass chewing.

Fantastic.

She levels you with that 'wife look' she gets. The one that tells you that she means business.

Nobody warned you about that when you'd agreed to this whole 'marriage' thing.

"So," she breathes, only pausing to lick her kissable lips, "Welcome home, Darling."

You snort a laugh through your nose that still hurts where it's swollen but the good drugs kinda help you not care. "Thanks for having me, babe. Nice place you got here," you say in sarcasm-dipped words.

She merely hums and gives you a narrow-eyed grin that feels sexy and distinctly lethal.

"Yes. I've missed you in it. I've missed having you here. With me."

That softens you. Lulls you into a false sense of security.

"I missed you too, baby."

"Good. Then," she says in a quick breath that sounds not unlike ripping off a bandaid. "I wanted you to know that I've taken the liberty of finding a buyer. Well, a few of them, really. All predictably salivating over the collection. But I supposed it'd be appropriate that we talk about the logistics of this before moving forward. I'm open to deferring to your expertise in this field when it came to numbers because, frankly, I'm more than willing to just give the fucking things away. So, we should talk about this."

You smile, because you're an idiot, and you think it's hilarious that she's talking to you like one of her clients. But you also smile because you're a little high off your medicine, and she's really just so pretty, and because not one word of that made any sense.

"What's... 'this'? What're you— Talk about the logistics of what?"

"Selling your cars," she answers with an easy nod, like it absolutely should've been obvious.

The silence that rings through the apartment feels loud in your ears... before you burst out laughing right in her face.

"What?" you choke out and chuckle, because you must've heard that wrong. "What are you talking about?"

"Just what I said, my love." She reaches out boops the tip of your nose with a patronizingly scrunched smile. "You know I don't like repeating myself."

"That's cute, Lexa," you titter and swipe at the hand that's already so far out of reach.

"Oh I'm not kidding, Clarke."

"Okay. And I'm not selling my cars."

"No, actually, you are."

You scoff and use the shoulder that isn't currently trussed up in a sling to push you hair off your neck so you can see her better. Or... something.

Because all you really see is the calm of her smile. Those eyes that are sharp. Hollow. Unyielding. And if you'd looked beyond the swell of anger that suddenly bursts through your chest, you might've seen the whispered-smoke of terror that hid in their depths.

But you do not.

Instead you focus all of your righteous indignation and stubbornness that burns white hot. You give a derisive laugh, and shake your head, and level her with a cold stare of your own.

Making sure she hears your every word, loud and clear.

"No. The fuck. I am not."

It almost feels like victory when her smile falls away.

"Clarke," she says with a deathly click to your name, "I want those deathtraps gone."

"Lexa—"

"I don't care."

"Lexa—"

"Stop saying my name, because whatever comes after it, I promise you, I do not care."

"Well I don't really fucking care either," you spit just to get a rise out of her, "because I'm not doing it, and I don't give shit what you say, Alexandria."

Her jaw ticks to the side as her eyes flash with hellfire.

She hates that name and you know it but right now you just want her to be every bit as angry as you are.

"Okay," she says so quiet you barely hear her over the hammering of your heart as she pushes on her knees to stand up and hovers over you for a moment.

And you think it's a victory because it feels like a victory...

Until it does not.

Because she just nods.

And keeps nodding.

Just this slow up and down of her head, her eyes empty and her face cold, but not in the way that you fell in love with.

This only fills your chest with dread.

So it's a shock when she straddles your hips, planting one knee on each side and sinks down to sit in your lap. Her weight is comforting after your stay in the hospital, if not a little painful in the way it twinges your fucked up leg. But you don't even let yourself flinch because God you've missed this. You've missed her, and her scent, and the way she practically drapes herself over you.

Your good arm wraps around her waist and digs fingertips into the soft dip of her spine, pulling her flush against you. You soak up the flutter of her lashes at the feel of your breasts pressing against hers; the way she fidgets not to grind down like her body's muscle memory is obviously screaming at her to do.

Instead she stares at you through those dark hooded eyes, now so beautifully filled with emotions that make your heart pound out a more pleasant rhythm than before.

"I love you, Clarke," she says. Whispers.

And your breath catches in your chest.

Same as it does each time she says those words, so fleeting and so rare as they are that they pierce straight through the mushiest parts of your heart. Because you know she loves you. You know it in every single thing she does. But there's just... It's just... Nothing will ever rival these moments when she lets them slip out, so unguarded and vulnerable with you.

And really... that should've been a warning.

"And I love you, pretty girl," you whisper right back instead, grinning as she preens under the praise, so lost in her beautiful face you don't even remember there exists a world beyond her.

You watch her throat dip in a thick swallow, her hands smoothing up the length of your neck. She cups your cheeks as her eyes trace every line of your face... as if she were committing this moment to memory.

She shakes her head. Sadly.

"I adore you," she says again, softer still and with more conviction. "Everything. I adore everything about you, Clarke. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my entire life. And I'm always going to love you, no matter what."

When she kisses you then, in that moment, it's possibly the softest, purest thing you have ever known. She kisses you like it's the only thing she needs in this world and you hope she knows it's the same for you. Because her lips pillow and give under every caress of your lips, and her tongue slipping against yours feels like the only home you've ever known. It's one kiss among thousands you've shared. But you know you'll think of this one for years to come, and honestly if fighting gets you loving like this then you should really make a mental note to call her by her birth name more often...

She breaks the kiss with a sigh, and a shuddering breath against your lips.

"I love you. So, so much... I just want you to always remember that."

You barely have time to blink out of your haze when she extracts herself from your arms and your lap and your lips, and stands up on shakey legs.

She lets out a deep breath and smooths her hands along the front herself, rigidly primping herself free of any creases you might've left.

Her chin rises in that regal arch as she looks down at you and nods once again.

"I'll have our lawyer draw up the divorce papers in the morning."

Your hand snaps out when she turns to leave and catches her shirt cuff before you even have time to think, gritting your teeth to try and bite back the sudden shock of pain that slices up your arm and explodes through your shoulder.

"Wait, what the fuck did you just say?" you practically yelp.

Her icy glare drops to the hand that holds her, jaw flexing as she watches how bad you tremble.

"Let go of me."

"Uh, no—"

"If you don't," she cuts in, enunciating with lethal precision, "I'll have to rip my arm away, and that will hurt you more, and I don't want that. Now stop acting like a child, and let go of me."

You grit your teeth and fist her cuff harder through the cold sweat of pain. "I guess you'll have to hurt me then, because I'm not letting go until you repeat what the hell you just said."

"You heard me perfectly well, my love."

"No, I don't think I did."

"Then you'll figure it out tomorrow, won't you."

You let out a strangled sound and collapse back on the couch - both from the pain and the sheer terror ripping through you. "Lexa, what is this? What are you playing at? Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not playing at anything, I'm telling you that I'm not doing this with you ever again, Clarke," she says in her crisp business voice. "The hospitals. The sitting at your bedside. The wondering if you're ever going to be able to paint again. Watching you limp around for weeks, just to turn around and do it again. I'm done."

You roll your eyes at her dramatics. "Oh my god, are serious? It was just an accident—"

"One that could've killed you."

"It wasn't even my fault."

"That's not the point," she nearly growls, all fire and fangs. "This is your third accident in four fucking years. I can't keep doing this."

"And what exactly is 'this'?"

"Waiting around to lose you!"

Your ears ring at the volume of her shout.

You swallow as she takes a moment collect herself.

Feel the lump grow in your throat as she mindlessly fiddles with the diamond on her finger.

You know it's a habit that calms her when she's feeling particularly out of control. A tick she picked up and never seemed to kick somewhere around the third year you were married.

"I trusted you," she starts again, sounding calmer. Less shaken, but still frayed at the edges. "I told how I feel about you. I told you I wouldn't— Couldn't... survive without you."

"So your solution is to divorce me now?" you scoff. "Tell me, how does that makes sense?"

"Because I have loved exactly two people in my life, Clarke... And this way? At least I won't have to bury one of them."

It's like a bucket of goddamn ice water has just been upturned over your head.

You can't help but stare at her, dumbfounded.

Because you are... so fucking stupid.

Your heart twists and it pounds and for a split second you wonder if you're having a heart attack, or if maybe this is what they mean when they talk about broken heart syndrome. Because nothing has ever hurt this bad. Nothing has ever devastated you as much this tidal wave of guilt. Nothing has ever scared you; made you feel this kind of shame so deep in your bones.

And when she drops her hands like she's given up and turns toward the door, you almost feel like you're going to throw up with the way your stomach clenches in a fresh wave of terrified dread. You want nothing more than to pop up and run over to her and explain and just fix this, but your hip and your leg and you just—You just...

You did this.

You did all of this.

"Okay," you damn near yell, sounding distinctly like a wounded animal to your own ears.

She pulls to a stop and snaps back around, "Okay, what?"

"I said... okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll fucking get rid of them," you bite right back again, desperate and annoyed and shaking so badly it's making your shoulder ache.

She stares at you, placid and unmoved.

"All of them?"

You grit your jaw and blow a breath out. "All of them... The dangerous ones at least."

She clicks her tongue and starts to turn away when you yell—

"You have to compromise with me here!"

She wheels back around with thunder in her eyes and a snarl already twisting her lips.

You know you have never needed to talk faster in your life.

"The ones that aren't street legal, they're gone, okay? Nothing that is actually dangerous stays. But I'm not getting rid of the ones that are perfectly safe, and, Lexa, I'm not getting rid of my grandfather's car. It's the only thing I have from my fucked up family that means anything to me, and it's mine, and it's not fair of you to even consider making me get rid of it."

"You hate that fucking thing—"

"I don't hate it, I love that car! That car changed my life! That car got me you."

You watch the rage bleed out of her as she slumps at the shoulders.

She runs a hand through the controlled chaos of her hair.

"That car did not get you me, Clarke," she strains out in a sigh, sounding tired and beautifully frail. "We're married because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Because I fell in love with you. Because I'm in love with you."

It makes your heart squeeze tight all over again.

"Maybe, but you wanted that car before you ever wanted me—"

"That is not true," she cuts you off in a hush of a whisper.

She stares at you with eyes clouded with devastation and hurt, and for the life of you, you don't know how to fix it.

You never seem to know how to...

The air between you feels frozen for a long moment before she seems to make up her mind about something all at once.

She shakes her head as she crosses the room in quick, elegant strides and drops to her knees right in front of you.

"Listen to me," she says, and tenderly - so tenderly - takes your least injured hand and folds it into her own. "There are so many things I regret about my life. But making that bet, and losing it, are not included. Half of the reason I ever even wanted that car to begin with was because of how attracted to you I was whenever I saw you in it."

Your scoff is loud enough to give your concussion addled brain another headache. "You are such a liar, Lexa."

Your belly swoops when she flits that damn eyebrow up in challenge.

"While I appreciate your assessment of my moral virtues," she practically purrs, "on this, darling, you happen to be wrong... All that windswept blonde hair? The way you looked like you owned everyone and everything in those shaders that you'd so carelessly slip down before pulling away?"

You wonder if you even still have those sunglasses as she bites her lip and lets her eyes run the length of you.

You'll have to check the next time you can walk properly.

Maybe have them make a reappearance at your next brunch date.

Just for old time's sake.

The hand holding yours squeezes gently.

"You were so damn cocky. The way you'd throw that thing in park and hop out. You'd just toss your keys at the doorman like you didn't care about anything. I hated it so much," she laughs with a rueful grin that slips into something entirely more fond. "And yet I could never seem to make myself stop staring at you, darling."

Even after all these years of marriage, the thought of younger her having wanted younger you...

You shift at the throb that weakly pulses between your thighs.

"So... You made the bet because... you thought I was sexy in my car?"

"I made the bet because I thought you were entirely too full of yourself," she corrects, "which I still believe. But I wanted the car because I'd envisioned getting fucked in it more times than I could count."

God you love it when she gets vulgar.

She reaches up and brushes a curl away from your forehead.

"It just took me a little while longer to realize that the person I had been imagining fucking me was - annoyingly - very much you."

You know your smile is kind of dopey right now rather than the teasing slope that you're aiming for, but later when you look back on this moment, you'll definitely blame it on the drugs.

"So our marriage is based off you wanting me to top you in my grandfather's car?"

Her faces pulls up in distaste. "No. It's based off the fact that you are—"

She pauses and exhales something from deep in her chest, her eyes closing under the weight of whatever it is she's feeling as she finally trembles out,

"That you are everything to me."

You really really really kind of hate that you're injured in that moment, because when she opens her eyes they glisten with a lovely wet sheen. And you just want nothing more than to scoop her up and hold her in your arms. Because it's where she belongs. It's where she's always been meant to be...

"You're everything to me too, baby," you say because she is and she should know it, and you really need to remember to say it more often. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Lexa, I didn't— I didn't mean to..."

She nods when you can't find the words and kisses the bruised ridge of your knuckles.

Rests her forehead there for a moment as though in prayer.

When she looks at you again she's already pulled herself back together.

That's part of why you love her so much.

Always unbreakable.

Except... when it comes to you.

You have no idea what to do with that knowledge, but you know you'd give up anything just to keep it.

And you love her so much that it makes you smile. It makes you smile, because you just want to see her smile at you again. Always.

"Hey," you say, tossing in a lazy wink because you know she hates it. "You totally had a crush on me."

She rolls her eyes. "You're an idiot."

"You had a cuh-ruuuuush on me."

"Clarke. I am married to you—"

"Still," you snort. "Loser."

Her sigh of resignation is so weary it fills your heart close to bursting with how much love you have for this woman.

Because she doesn't fight you on that. Just leans her forehead against yours and nods, kissing your lips soft enough to not make the cut on them bleed again. Her nose brushes against yours in a sweet moment of aching tenderness, and when she pulls back to look at you beneath the fall of her lashes, the whole world is once again nothing but her.

"We'll go through each one together," she says somewhere between a question and a statement.

You nod in agreement, just to be safe.

"Anything remotely questionable, goes."

You heave a sigh but dutifully nod again.

"That means anything without the right mirrors, or proper turning signals. Engines that might blow up for no reason. Anything that was recalled decades ago. Anything with brakes that have a habit of failing... Anything that doesn't have fucking seat belts."

As her list grows you mentally tick off a good two-thirds of your collection.

You glance at her lips and remember how they feel against yours first thing in the morning, and simply nod again.

"Fine. But also? You can't just start threatening divorce every time you want me to do something, you know," you murmur still, because while you're compromising here... you really feel the need to remind her that she's not domesticating you or anything.

She doesn't seem remotely affected by your pout when she just shrugs and grins and leans forward.

You feel distinctly like a puppy on a leash when she pecks a placating kiss to your lips.

And then another to the tip of your nose.

"We'll see."

[k-s-morgan]

hii, there’s something that’s been on my mind since the last chapter. When Tom slapped Harry, there was an immediate tension imbued into the scene. Was this intentional? I saw some other comments expressing kinda the same thought, like waiting for the other shoe to drop, yet it was hardly touched upon. As Harry says a slap is not much compared to cursing him, so I figured this anticlimax was just a case of readers applying real-world lenses to fiction. though after the latest snippet I’m unsure

Hi! Oh, rest assured that this abusive element of their relationship is carefully planned and it will have its repercussions and resolution.

Tom is a person who uses a variety of tactics. He's extremely smart and perceptive, so he looks for a unique approach to everyone. Slowly, gradually, he lures his victims into a web of abuse that they are unable to leave willingly. Look at his followers: they adore him and cling to him even though he humiliates them, dehumanizes them, treats them like servants, and is often cruel or downright violent. These followers are all powerful and more or less educated individuals who would have never thought they'd agree to be treated like this - but the shift in their relationship with Tom happened so gradually that they turned into lapdogs without realizing it. They are ready to fight to death for his attention.

Harry is different, and Tom knows it. He understands that the approach he uses on his followers would not work in this situation: Harry is not interested in the same things, he rebels against authority, and if pushed, he's going to push back.

So Tom chose another way. He's testing the boundaries, observing how far he can bend Harry, what he can do to him until it becomes too much. He decided to mix his abuse with his actually-genuine feeling of care - and it worked.

Harry is vulnerable to people who care about him. If Tom tortured him, duelled him, he would have responded. But these little violent acts just leave him in stupor because it's something new, and worse, it happens at the background of affection.

When Tom slapped Harry, it was because he was jealous of the attention Harry could potentially give to someone else; he also used Harry's anger to help him understand his magic better. When he broke his finger, it was because he was angry at Harry's refusal to stand up for himself. Tom is specifically allowing himself to get violent in the moments where he shows care to Harry, and this confuses Harry and makes his responses apathetic. He truly doesn't know what to do with it - he understands it's wrong, but it doesn't seem like that big of a deal after everything he lived through; it doesn't feel like something relevant when he knows what Tom is actually capable of, and a part of him is even flattered because it's proof that he's affecting Tom and that he means something to him. Harry doesn't know what an appropriate reaction should be here, and he doesn't want to blow things out of proportion when they are making progress.

This is how abusive relationships are often born. Little by little, one act of violence or restriction after another. Harry is going to get entangled in Tom's seductive web of abuse just like his followers, but unlike them, sooner or later, he'll snap out of it, and he'll fight back. And sooner or later, Tom will understand that he can't have the relationship he wants with Harry if he keeps resorting to his old tricks.

[slytherizz]

Snippet - Arranged Marriage WIP

If you sent me an Ask requesting an arranged marriage fic ages ago…I am working on it and I’m sorry it’s taking so long! Im actually really excited about your ask and I have so many ideas it’s just finding time to finish it - 💚

Sebastian is almost certain he’d been on the receiving end of a lethal confundus charm. Either that or he was at present suffering a massive life altering haemorrhage. Somewhere amongst the sun deceptively warming his cheeks, the familiar groan of the dragon bones anchored above them, as it tilted its great head in greeting when they'd arrived. Hecate's office, full of mysterious tombs and the lingering scent of smoke. Ash trampled so tightly into the grooves in the floorboards he doubted even the house elves could pry out the smell.

He’d gotten too comfortable. No. Down right complacent as of late and now his psyche in a riotous act of self-preservation was giving him a blistering slap back into reality.

Pull yourself together.

Sebastian dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palm. He hissed, a sharp pain as he broke the skin. Felt the blood prickle hot against his sweat slicked palms as it beaded along the thin wound. Uncomfortable. Stinging. And far, far too real.

“What-?” he managed to croak around a lump in his throat. Praying to Merlin that if this wasn’t a dream it was some elaborate and albeit cruel practical joke.

“Spousal Privileges,” Hecat repeated.

Sebastian choked violently on his own saliva. The wind knocked out of him by a patient and vindictive phantom.

“What this means is you couldn’t be forced to give a testimony or surrender any memories pertaining to anything to do with Mr Sallow. With your sisters still missing, the only people who know what really happened in that catacomb are the two of you. If you can’t be forced to corroborate this theory that’s the way it stays,” his professor continued, unmoved by the blood draining rapidly from his face.

Her eyes were fixed intently on Hecat refusing to meet Sebastian’s panicked eye. He shifted in his seat towards her. Turning between her and their professor.

Waiting. A heartbeat and then more passed. Mounting up until it became a deafening drum in his ears.

He wanted her to laugh. Let it loose the dangerous tension mounting with every second this insanity stretched on for. Most pathetically of all - he wanted her to save him. Cling to some sense of normalcy, her stability by his side whilst the rest of him was spiraling out of control.

She was uncharacteristically still in her chair. Her fist clenched so tightly in the pleats of her skirt her knuckles blanched white. A half finished braid she’d been fiddling with behind her ear hung abandoned.

“Why now? It’s been years since…” she asked, with a measured tone Sebastian felt the situation did not warrant.

Sparing him a glance which did little to put him at ease. If anything the serious crease to her brow set him on edge.

Sebastian was unravelling. The thread he’d used to stitch back together a semblance of a life was pulling apart at an alarming rate. And the only two people who had any hope of holding him back together were entertaining this insanity.

“Some of Miss Sallow’s effects were uncovered at the former Feldcroft residence. It seems no one had tended to the home since your Uncle passed…unexpectedly. My contact at the Ministry informs me that there's only one Auror pushing for those memories. Sergeant Tuttle. Old guard. Worked closely with your uncle when they were both juniors in the department. The rest are happy to let Solomon’s memory remain as it has been for the past two years - the heroic final act protecting his young charges from a horde of uncontrollable inferi… personally am inclined to agree.”

Hecate’s already thin lips pulled so tight they almost entirely disappeared. Her inscrutable brown eyes peeling back the curtain seeing far beyond the truth to the crux of him, weighing his mettle.

But what he had been was careless. Sebastian supposed he could argue that . He’d been too eager to turn his back on that hovel that had never been his home. Knowing Anne was not there it had seemed rather pointless. No one had touched the wards in over a year. Perhaps when he’d boxed up his feelings and shoved them away. In his desperation to move past what he had done, he didn’t consider the possibility that there were others out there who, unlike him, may not want to move on so hastily from Solomon's death.

Anne certainly hadn’t.

“With you two being so close, this is the cleanest option-”

“I don’t bloody care about clean!” Sebastian broke from his stupor. Fist slamming on the table rattling the spoon from where it rested against his saucer. “We need the other options. What are they?”

“Perhaps I should rephrase,” Hecat said sharply. “This is your only option. And you’d do well not to leap to such dramatics if you want this to work, Mr Sallow. In particular I’d advise against taking such a tone with me.”

Sebastian didn’t care. He’d already geared up to argue back against this preposterous idea when she cut him off.

“We’ll do it.”

Sebastian choked again, head snapping to look at her. “You can’t be serious!”

She simply glared back at him, as if he wasn’t the only reasonable person left in the room. “I’ve kept you out of Azkaban this long-“

Their professor cleared her throat, having little patience for the argument that was beginning to unfold.

“I’d choose your words more carefully in front of an audience but I admire the passion. If you want this to succeed you’ll have to make them believe this. Believe you. You can’t cast any doubt on the reason for any of it. A young couple, so in love they simply cannot wait to be married.”

[firstprincehornyramblings]

Several Sentence Sunday

HELLO, I'm working on a fic that I'm having so much fun with right now so I'm getting myself together to post a WIP snippet. Thank you bunches to @captainjunglegym for the tag that reminded me to do it. Have a snippet from a firstprince WIP loosely based on Cruel Intentions; featuring a popular lacrosse captain Alex, who takes a bet to 'break in' the prettiest shy blond sweetheart on campus who doesn't date at all:

Henry heaved a heavy sigh at that, “I have not known peace since you spoke to me, Alexander.” “Gotta pull out the government name, huh?” the brunette laughed, “Am I really that bad? I’m taking you for really good Italian, by the way. You like pasta?” “Are you taking me to Olive Garden?” There was a pause, silence, for at least a minute as the two walked arm in arm. Alex was looking over at the blond, a much softer, almost expectant look on his face in contrast to Henry’s stern expression. “When you’re there you’re family?” Alex offered. “Perhaps not the best tagline for a date,” the Henry looked back to the other man as he said it. There was a soft smile on his lips, clearly his idea of a joke. A joke, Alex could work with a joke, he was good at jokes. “Yeah, well you know, all the inbreeding in the royal family I thought it might remind you of being back in London. Just thinking of your happiness, really.” “Oh, fuck right off!” Henry laughed.

no pressure tags to literally everyone but also : @doublecheekedkinard @taste-thewaste @softboynick @bigassbowlingballhead @eusuntgratie

[lovesick-joey]

I want to yap about my dc ocs because I can't keep them in my mind forever and I have to be annoying about it. so here's a post dedicated to them

▾ Sneakers / Crusader Cat

OVERVIEW ▸ Sneakers is a heroic stray cat who gained powers after an encounter with a sorceress. He lives in Gotham City and is a protector to other stray critters inhabiting in the crime-ridden place. He has three wives; Queen, Bun Bun, and Loretta and has a total of 8 kids. He is a part-time member of the Justice League and a full-time member of the Legion of Super-Pets. Humans call him Crusader Cat.

DIRECTORY ▸ Extended Info ⇀ @sneakers-crusadercat (RP account)

▾ Eugene Amsel / Golden Condor

OVERVIEW ▸ Eugene Amsel was once a former member of a cult (unnamed), but after it's fall he became a notorious vigilante from Gotham City going by the name of Golden Condor. On command, he had the ability to instill fear into his enemies just by touching them or being near them. His methods of fighting crime were cruel and brutal, and he lacked the empathy to give mercy. He will make a person's life hell if they go against him. He was a member of the Justice League and was in an on-and-off relationship with Batman. He is currently deceased.

DIRECTORY ▸ Extended Info ⇀ TGCS

▾ Chauncey the Green Lantern cat

OVERVIEW ▸ Chauncey was a stray living in the streets of Jump City. He endured many challenges as he grew up, and after a near-death experience with saving a life, the Guardians granted him a place in the Green Lantern Corps. He was eventually adopted by Noelle Jonas and gained two dog siblings named Jumper and Duke. He is a close friend of Sneakers.

DIRECTORY ▸ N/A / STBA

▾ Shrub / Super-kitten

OVERVIEW ▸ A highly intelligent, shape-shifting alien who takes the form of a small kitten. His origins are unknown and so are his intentions. He is close friends with Sneakers and Chauncey, who are presumably the cause for his preferred form. While he can speak many languages, he prefers not to. He lives in the sewers of Gotham City.

DIRECTORY ▸ N/A / STBA

▾ Cleo / Rascal

OVERVIEW ▸ A six-year-old vigilante with superpowers in which the origins of getting them are unknown. She has superhuman reflexes and enchanted hearing that ables her to hear things in frequencies an average human can't. She can generate and manipulate electricity. She can also summon lightning, though this depends on how excited and hyper she gets. It is uncertain where she came from, as she doesn’t have biological parents nor other family members. She currently lives in Central City where she resides in a local hospital which she calls home. The staff serve as her found family.

DIRECTORY ▸ N/A / STBA

now moving onto ocs that I haven't made art for, or expanded on their lore yet!

▾ Conroy

OVERVIEW ▸ Conroy is a 7-year-old boy who was an experiment by Lex Luthor. He was created using the DNA of half the founding members of the Justice League; Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, Green Lantern, The Flash, and Aquaman. This makes him very powerful, as he had inherited their abilities and powers. Lex created Conroy with the purpose to obliterate the Justice League. However, Conroy had rebelled against him and escaped from his control. (Note: in the universe he's set in, he replaces Kon-El. Kon-El does not exist.)

DIRECTORY ▸ N/A / STBA

▾ Gospel

OVERVIEW ▸ He was once a man named Joshua Rock, a poacher who hunted down animals for trophies and for the fun of it. Now he is a wolf-like creature who resides in forests, swearing to protect it's inhabitants. He stays far away from society and could only remember snippets of his original life as a human. He comes out at night from time to time to watch humans, and though he comes across as frightening, he is quite peaceful if him or wildlife aren't bothered. He is an ally of Swamp Thing.

DIRECTORY ▸ N/A / STBA

▾ Nora Halsa

OVERVIEW ▸ Nora is a 12-year-old girl who grew up in a lab. Her father was the head of the lab and he had experimented with her as soon as her mother passed away, resulting in Nora having strange powers and abilities. She has telekinesis and could summon sharp shards of glass to protect herself and others, she also has healing capabilities. She has albinism. She is insecure, empathetic, and a people-pleaser.

DIRECTORY ▸ N/A / STBA