#cw: discussed non-consensual touching

[starrierknight]

𝟎𝟐𝟕. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝❟ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡

You don’t work or play by the rules. So what if that’s unfair? This is a dog-eat-dog world, and the losers get left behind.

MASTERLIST | KINKTOBER 23' | AO3

wc— 4.4k

Pairing— femme fatale!dom!gn!reader x CEO!sub!nanami

cws/tags— dub-con, blackmail (non-consensual filming), sadistic & manipulative reader, reader is gn but has the femme fatale personality, handjob, denied orgasm, very dialogue heavy, petnames (“mister”—it’s ironic, I swear), seduction, porn w/ plot, nanami is def ooc but we move

Stepping into Nanami Kento’s office, you were greeted by an aura of opulence. Mahogany desks and leather chairs exude sophistication. Sunlight filtered through expansive windows, casting a warm glow on plush carpets. A massive desk stood at the centre, impeccably organised with high-tech gadgets. Bookshelves held volumes on leadership and success. A cosy seating area boasted a plush sofa for informal discussions. Crystal decanters held aged spirits atop a sideboard. The atmosphere is both commanding and comfortable, a reflection of power and accomplishment, much like the CEO himself.

“You're late,” Nanami said, his voice monotone. 

His words slid out with the click-clack of his keyboard, his gaze fixed on the screen as he typed away. You stepped into the room, the gentle swish of your clothing brushing the air as you approached.

“I'm not late,” you responded, your voice a composed counterpoint to his. “You’re just early.”

The subtle rustle of paper on the desk danced beneath the weight of your words. A faint huff of a sigh escaped him, a sound as controlled as his meticulously timed schedule. Disciplined. Unflappable. A smile ghosted across Nanami's lips, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“You're my personal assistant,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of authority, “and I'm the CEO, ergo, I am always on time.”

"My, my," you remarked playfully, "Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today."

You glided across the expanse of the office, the soft rustle of your steps harmonizing with the gentle fluttering of a neatly organised stack of colour-coded papers as you set them down in a tray. A wry smile tugged at his lips.

"You're well aware that my patience for idle chatter is limited, and yet you persist in indulging in it," his voice rippled, a controlled undertone of exasperation tracing each syllable.

A subtle sigh slipped from your lips, and you found yourself easing against the edge of his desk, a connection between you and the polished surface. His fingers danced across the keyboard, a symphony of clicks and clacks that held his full attention, leaving you in the periphery.

"Any luck in your pursuit of the elusive mole?" Your words held a touch of frustration, "It's as if the leaks are gaining a life of their own, more persistent with each passing day."

In response, Nanami emitted a contemplative hum, a low note that resonated like distant thunder. "No luck so far," he mused, his voice a steady rhythm. "I’m having the matter investigated."

“You keep saying that, but nothing’s changed. You’re no closer to finding them, are you?” you spoke with a hint of weariness.

"That's classified information," he responded absentmindedly, his attention still tethered to the computer.

A wisp of frustration danced through your tone, like a fleeting shadow cast by a cloud passing over the sun. “I’m your personal assistant. I work for this company. Don’t you think I should know?” 

"No," his response fell with the weight of finality, a single syllable that seemed to close the door on any further discussion. “Oh, and please rearrange my appointments and schedule them to be spread out over next week. Make sure they’re at quieter times,” Nanami's voice rolled out, a desert breeze carrying his words with a touch of dryness. 

His instructions hung in the air, like a solitary tumbleweed drifting through the vast expanse of conversation. Tense. Stiff.

“Right. Of course, I’ll handle that,” you said with a tight smile.

✦•···················•✦•···················•✦

As you stepped into Nanami's office once again, the day's familiarity seemed to have taken a toll on him. The air felt different, thick with a weariness that hung around him like a heavy shroud. Unlike his usual poised stance, he now slouched in his chair—an uncommon sight that hinted at the cracks beneath his composed exterior. His blazer lay discarded, and his tie now hung in a relaxed loop, an admission of defeat.

"Hey, mister?" your voice was a gentle note, carrying with it a touch of casual familiarity.

A low, almost exasperated groan rumbled from his throat. "I've reminded you before not to address me like that," he muttered, his response laced with a note of resigned annoyance.

Your lips curved into a playful smile as you ventured further into the office, a glimmer of mischief dancing in your eyes. "You know, deep down, you don't mind it."

A heavy sigh accompanied his response, a mixture of exasperation and resignation. "I assure you, I do indeed mind it."

Your retort danced through the air like, a sing-song lilt that brushed against his ears. "Oh, but I beg to differ. It's just one of those little things that make our interactions all the more interesting, mister."

A grumbled complaint slipped from his lips, a muttered protest that bore the weight of his vexation. Your soft laughter swirled in response, a ripple of amusement. Despite his discontent, there was a subtle warmth in the air, a familiarity that seemed to soften the edges of his irritation.

Taking purposeful steps, you approached his desk with an air of ease, your movements a graceful choreography as you began to tidy the scattered papers, pens, and stationery that lay strewn across its surface. You leaned your phone against a stack of folders, propping it up. The soft clinks and rustles of objects finding their proper places formed a familiar symphony of order being restored.

Seated now on the edge of his desk, your presence became the focal point of the room as you regarded him with a tilt of your head. Your gaze held a mixture of intrigue and amusement, a silent reminder that amidst the rigors of his role, a moment of reprieve was found in your interactions.

“You’re looking a little worse for wear. Is something the matter?”

Nanami’s response was a heavy exhalation that held a burden of weariness too profound to be carried by mere words.

"Another breach occurred not long ago," his words carried the weight of a confession, spoken with a tinge of resignation. His eyes remained closed, a refuge from the world's chaos that seemed to press upon him relentlessly. "This time, it's worse. The most sensitive data yet has been exposed to the public. PR is grappling with the fallout, and Finance is in utter disarray."

"And so soon after the last one," you murmured, the words gentle. “You look tired, mister. Have you been taking care of yourself?”

He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers, a gesture of both fatigue and frustration, and at last, his eyes lifted to meet your gaze. Even from a distance, the telltale shadows under his eyes were evident, testimony to the toll his responsibilities had exacted.

"Don’t call me that," his voice emerged rough and worn. Exhausted.

Undeterred, your inquiry persisted, soft yet insistent. "So, tell me—have you been caring for yourself?"

A moment of stillness hung in the air, punctuated by the weight of unspoken thoughts. Then, his reply emerged, a sentence that bore the weight of conviction. "My primary duty is to safeguard the company."

A playful glint sparked in your eyes, and your expression shifted into a mockingly stern glare. You smoothly slid off the edge of the desk, your movements fluid and graceful, as you began a deliberate saunter towards his side of the desk. With each step, a subtle sway graced your hips, a movement that was both confident and teasing in nature. The air seemed to carry a touch of lightheartedness, a momentary diversion from the weight of the situation at hand.

A theatrical tsk escaped your lips, carrying with it a sense of exaggerated disappointment to playfully scold him. "Oh dear, dear mister. Letting yourself go to ruins is simply unacceptable. As your ever-watchful PA, I can't stand by and let you suffer."

With purposeful steps, you rounded the desk, your movements fluid and deliberate. The air seemed to hold a hint of anticipation, a quiet thrill woven into the atmosphere.

As you stood behind his chair, your hands found their way to his shoulders, their presence an assertion of care. Your touch was confident, fingers dancing with practiced skill as they worked to knead away the knots of tension that had taken residence in his muscles. He stiffened beneath your touch, a reflexive reaction to the unfamiliar sensation, yet your assurance seemed to melt the resistance away. While surprise lingered in the air, there was also a sense of yielding, a quiet acceptance of the relief you offered.

Nanami's words carried a note of reluctance, a protest against the unexpected intrusion of your care. "I didn't ask for this," his voice murmured, a touch of reservation threading through his words.

A knowing smile curved your lips, your fingers working with practiced ease as you continued to knead away the knots in his shoulders. "You didn't need to ask," you replied smoothly, your tone carrying a touch of reassurance that seemed to seep into the very air around you.

A brief silence settled between you, punctuated by the rhythm of your touch. Then his voice emerged once more, a murmur tinged with both realization and resignation. "You're my PA."

"And what does PA stand for?"

His reply held a touch of understanding, a recognition that seemed to settle the matter. "Personal assistant."

"Exactly," you whispered, “I’m your personal assistant.”

You let the silence hang in the air. Your hands continued their gentle ministrations, the cotton fabric of his shirt crinkling beneath your fingertips. As your fingers traversed the landscape of his shoulders, they encountered the subtle contours and defined edges of a physique sculpted by discipline.

Time seemed to melt, a river that flowed at its own unhurried pace. Slowly, the tension in him began to yield, a reluctant surrender that mirrored the reluctant acceptance in his posture. The weight of his responsibilities seemed to wane, at least momentarily, under the soothing spell of your touch.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, a melodic note that floated through the air as your hands continued their soothing dance. 

"You really ought to take better care of yourself, mister," your words held a touch of playful admonishment, a reminder woven with concern. "Your muscles are like a stone wall."

The response that came was curt, his voice carrying a note of irritation as he pushed back against your insistence. "I'm fine, and I've asked you not to address me that way."

"How many nights have you found yourself working overtime again?" Your question hung in the air like a gentle nudge, an invitation for him to acknowledge the reality of his situation.

A pause, and then his voice emerged, a touch gruff yet revealing of the underlying truth. "It doesn't matter."

A note of knowing crept into your voice, “Doesn’t matter? You hate working overtime.”

"I'm the CEO, and I must prioritize what's in the best interest of the company, regardless of the personal cost."

A contemplative hum escaped your lips as your skilled fingers traveled to his neck, where tension seemed to have found another stronghold. His reaction was a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, his gaze meeting yours with a furrowed brow and a hesitant parting of his lips that hinted at a forthcoming objection, yet it remained unspoken.

The soothing pressure of your fingers worked its magic, coaxing the knots to unravel beneath your touch. As you continued your massage, a question emerged from your lips, gentle yet probing. "So, if you don't take care of yourself, then who takes care of you?"

Nanami’s response held an air of stubborn independence, a declaration of self-sufficiency against the encroachment of care. "I'm an adult. I don't need anyone to look after me."

Your voice dipped to a murmur, a whisper that seemed to bridge the gap between you and him, and your warm breath brushed across the nape of his neck. "Who takes care of you?" you repeated, your words a gentle caress against his skin.

His response, however, was unwavering, a declaration that seemed to echo with an unyielding determination. "I take care of myself.”

A playful smirk curved your lips as your fingers wove through the strands of his sleek, blond hair, a gesture that seemed to stir a reaction deep within him. His breath caught in his throat, a shuddering exhale that betrayed the impact of your touch.

“Some things are better done by yourself… some things.”

You leaned in closer, your presence enveloping him as the back of Nanami’s head nestled against your chest. The warmth of your body radiated against his back as your skilled fingers continued their massage, now tracing delicate patterns across his scalp. Your nails grazed along the tender areas, setting off a cascade of sensations that seemed to quicken his breath. 

The combination of your sinuous touch and the implications woven into your words created a heady tension in the room. His heart responded with an erratic beat, a rhythm that threatened to betray the carefully impassive expression he wore. Yet, he remained composed, a façade of control in the face of the enticing distraction you presented.

“Is it hard?”

His breath hitched, and he coughed. “P-Pardon?”

You let out a soft, knowing laugh. Leaning closer, your lips brushed the delicate shell of his ear, your words a sultry whisper that set his skin ablaze. “Being CEO. Is it hard, Kento?” you murmured, uttering his name with a familiarity that had been absent for far too long.

It was as if a barrier had crumbled, a threshold crossed, and the effect was electrifying. The weight of his name on your lips seemed to hang in the air like a revelation. After a year of playful nicknames—of godforbidden “mister”—and dances around formality, this simple act held a weight of significance. Oh, his name had never sounded so sweet in his entire life.

With an effortful composure, he replied, his voice carrying a veneer of forced calmness. "It's perfectly within my control."

The sound of your voice, the proximity of your breath, seemed to amplify the tension in the room. He closed his eyes, as if seeking refuge from the turmoil that swirled within him, struggling to steady his breathing.

But your words, like a siren's song, continued their subtle seduction. "Stressed, Kento?" you purred, the name a velvet caress against his ear.

As your hands slid down, tracing the contours of his neck and finding their way to the concealed muscles beneath his shirt, his heart quickened its rhythm. A smile, hidden from his view, danced upon your lips, a sign of the satisfaction you derived from the effect you had on him. You pressed a kiss upon the sensitive skin just below one of his earlobes, a gesture that sent a shiver through him. The tension in the room seemed to thicken, the air electrified by an unspoken desire.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered.

“You want me to,” you murmured back, “And you want it badly.”

Your hands continued their exploratory journey, tracing a path of tantalizing sensation down his chest, each touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. They ventured lower, gliding over the firm expanse of his abdomen, mapping the contours of his physique. 

As your fingers descended further, they encountered the defined muscles of his thighs, your touch igniting a web of sensations that seemed to pulse through his body. He remained still, his breathing now increasing, his body responding to the magnetic allure of your touch. The room pulsed with a charged energy, begging to be acknowledged.

His hands closed around your wrists, putting a halt to the tantalizing journey of your hands, but they didn't push you away. The tension in the room hung thick, a precarious balance between restraint and desire.

"This is a workplace," Kento protested, his voice carrying a note of caution.

A playful spark danced in your eyes as you retorted, your words dripping with a seductive undertone. "Who says this won’t be for work?"

With a tantalizing grace, you lowered your head and pressed your lips to his neck once more, trailing kisses along the warm, sensitive skin. Your tongue and teeth teased over the surface, each movement a deliberate exploration that sent a shiver of longing through him.

“Oh, c’mon. You know you want it. I can feel it—you sure as hell can. Why deny yourself the satisfaction?” you murmured into his ear.

You lightly bit his neck and he gasped, his heart skipping a beat, and his grip on your wrists faltered. You took the opportunity to slide your hands to his thighs again, caressing the inner and most sensitive parts. He made some noise of desire in the back of his throat, his breathing growing ragged.

A low, sultry chuckle accompanied your whispered words, the sound a velvet invitation that seemed to stir the air around you. 

"Don't be coy," you murmured into his ear, your voice a honey-like whisper that washed over him. "You want this as much as I do, Kento. I can feel it, and so can you. Why deny yourself the satisfaction?"

Your teeth grazed his neck lightly, a tantalizing nip that sent a shiver coursing through him. His grip on your wrists faltered, and you seized the opportunity, your hands slipping back to the sensitive terrain of his thighs. Your touch was delicate yet insistent, caressing the innermost and most sensitive parts. A guttural sound of desire escaped him, a primal expression of longing that mingled with his ragged breathing. The office walls seemed to close in around you, as if the world outside had ceased to exist, and it was just you and Kento’s desire.

A low, tormented groan escaped him as his eyes fell shut, his internal struggle evident in the furrow of his brow. “This is so wrong.”

Your voice was a velvet caress as you posed your question, a tempting proposition that seemed to hang in the air like a forbidden fruit. "Is pleasure so wrong, Kento?" you purred, "Don't you deserve this?"

Desire ignited like a blazing fire, consuming every trace of resistance that had remained. As your dominant hand found its way to the growing bulge concealed by the fabric of his trousers, he couldn't help but release a breathy groan. His hips, almost imperceptibly, moved in response, a subconscious plea for more. Desire coursed white-hot through him, pooling between his thighs.

His hoarse mumble was a plea, a desperate attempt to reassert control in the face of mounting desire. "You should stop," he rasped, his voice trembling with a mixture of longing and restraint.

Your laughter, low and seductive, rippled through the air, brushing against his ear and sending shivers cascading down his spine. 

"You don't want me to stop," you countered, your words a teasing assertion that seemed to strip away the last shreds of his resistance.

Kento's hands gripped the armrests of his chair with a desperate intensity, his knuckles whitening as he fought to maintain his grasp on composure in the face of overwhelming temptation.

Your words were a siren's call, a sultry enticement that seemed to draw him deeper into the vortex of desire. "C'mon now," you coaxed, your voice a velvet temptation, "You want me to touch you, to make a mess of you, to take care of you like no one else ever has."

With a confident touch, you rubbed the growing bulge between his thighs more firmly, causing his breath to hitch and a shuddering groan to escape his lips.

His voice emerged, a whisper of uncertainty and longing. "Y-You'll take care of me?"

You met his vulnerability with a promise that dripped with seductive allure. "Yes," you affirmed, your words a whispered caress, "Like no one else ever has."

Or will… You smirked.

As you unzipped the fly of his trousers and began to tug them down his strong thighs, Kento obediently lifted his hips to assist you in the tantalizing descent. The anticipation in the room was palpable, the air thick with desire.

The hard, throbbing length beneath the thin fabric of his boxers was damp along a certain path, evidence of his heightened arousal. Your finger pressed against the dampness, and Kento hissed sharply through his teeth. It was as if a current of electricity shot through every nerve in his body, pooling at the base of his spine, aching need pulsating within his throbbing cock.

With a tantalizingly deliberate movement, you pushed his boxers away, unveiling the long, aching length of his erection as it sprung free from its confinements. His breath caught in his throat at the sudden sensation of freedom and your touch.

One of your hands ventured down his body, seeking the source of his arousal, and you began to stroke him with a measured pace that balanced comfort and intensity. A deep, throaty moan escaped him, and he couldn't help but push his hips forward ever so slightly, a silent plea for more, tempered by the fear that you might pull away if he was too insistent.

His eyes remained shut, his body leaning into you as if seeking the reassuring pressure of your chest against his back. Every stroke of your hand sent waves of pleasure rippling through him, building an exquisite tension that threatened to tip him over the edge.

Your words dripped with wicked allure, a sultry taunt that sent shivers of desire racing through him. "You can't even deny how badly you need this," you cooed, a wicked smirk gracing your lips, your voice a seductive melody.

“Please…”

A guttural plea escaped him, his voice strained with longing as he groaned, his brow furrowing in desperation. Beads of perspiration formed on his skin, glistening in the office light.

Your touch was a maddening tease, the soft pad of your thumb tantalizingly swiping across the aching head of his cock. It was a taste of what you could do, a whisper of the pleasure you could elicit, the gentle pressure of your fingers a torment that electrified his sensitive length.

Kento's breathing grew more ragged, his body quivering with anticipation and desire. Every stroke of your thumb sent jolts of pleasure coursing through him, a tantalizing promise of the ecstasy that lay just beyond reach.

His hips bucked urgently into your hand, a desperate quest for the all-consuming release that eluded him. A guttural moan erupted from his lips, echoing through the room, and you silenced it with your free hand, your fingers pressed against his lips. In his ear, you whispered teasing, shushing sounds, a sensuous torment that only served to stoke the flames of his desire.

The tension in the room was palpable, a relentless crescendo of longing that seemed to spiral upward with each passing moment. His body quivered with anticipation, his heart raced, and he could feel the precipice of his orgasm looming ever closer.

"You know," you breathed, "I've waited a long time for this moment."

As if to emphasize your words, you slowed the pace of your hand, your touch a slow, torturous caress that seemed to drive him to the brink. He groaned in response, his head hanging low, his hips stubbornly seeking the pleasure that danced just beyond his reach. The room seemed to hum with desire. 

In the throes of ecstasy, just as the climax threatened to wash over him, you removed your hand with cruel precision, a disdainful gesture as you wiped it casually on the shoulder of his expensive shirt. Kento all but cried out at the sudden loss of sensation, his whole body shuddering in response.

He groaned in frustration, his eyes filled with pleading confusion as he looked at you, the desperate desire still flickering in their depths. The room seemed to hang in a suspended moment, a tableau of torment and longing that left him on the brink of fulfillment, yet denied the release he so craved.

Your laughter, low and sardonic, filled the room, a taunting echo that seemed to reverberate in the air. With a saunter, you circled around his chair, moving to his desk and retrieving your phone, which had been propped up against a stack of folders. The video on the screen was ended, freezing the moment of his desperate longing.

"Quite the performance, Kento," you taunted, your words a playful mockery that laced with satisfaction. 

The boundaries of the office had been breached, and the power dynamics had shifted in a way that left no room for doubt—you openly held the upper hand.

With a bold flourish, you lifted your phone high, turning the volume up to ensure every nuance of the recorded encounter could be heard. You skipped through selected sections of the video, each moment meticulously chosen to capture the essence of the temptation and desire that had unfolded within the confines of the office.

As the video played, the room seemed to resonate with the sounds of his seduction, his pleas, his moans—each intimate detail laid bare for him to witness. There was no avoiding it; the evidence was undeniable, and it hung in the air. 

His chest rose and fell with the turmoil of emotions, and a betrayed expression contorted his typically composed features. The question escaped his lips like a lament, a whispered plea for understanding: “Why?”

Your posture exuded an air of casual indifference as you leaned against his desk, a playful tilt to your head that underscored your enjoyment of his discomfort. His question seemed to hang in the air, unanswered, as you chose to focus on the task at hand.

"So, Kento," you murmured, your tone a seductive tease, "What should I leak next: more of the company's closely guarded data, or this scorching little video?" 

A mixture of disbelief and regret tainted his muttered words. "How... H-How could you?"

Your laughter was a sharp retort, a mocking response to his question. "How could I? Oh, Kento, you're so fucking naїve."

His gulp was audible, his voice barely above a whisper as he ventured, "How much is it you want, exactly? What's your price?"

A sly grin curled upon your lips as you leaned closer, your words dripping with seductive allure. "I want everything you can give me."

a/n: he (effectively) lost his job by getting a handjob LOL. poor guy. jokes, idc, this was written out of spite. Happy Kinktober :3

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

[syoddeye]

spoils

poly 141....sort of x reader 1.2k words lightly edited cw: kidnapping, non-consensual touching not my most creative title, apologies 2024/04/01 Update: This series is now Poly141! x transmasc!Reader.

"You'll be joining us tonight."  

A decree, not an invitation. Not something to be refused or challenged, like the man who proclaimed it.

When you emerge from the forced bath, freshly washed and groomed by the hands of insistent strangers, your clothes are gone. The ones they left are ridiculous. Nothing you would ever wear. The material, the fastenings, the embellishments - impractical, flimsy, made to be torn away. You note the many warnings that comprise the ensemble.

Unwieldy, draping fabric. It skims the floor, requiring you to hitch it up to walk steady.

No footwear. Difficult to run on gravel and dirt on bare feet, should you make it that far.

Layers of noisy, dangling necklaces and bracelets. Might as well wear a bell with a collar.

Mute, placid faces escort you to the dining hall. A silence falls over the crowded table, stretching from one end of the grand space to the other. Your reception is mixed. Uncertainty, hatred, disinterest - unbridled want, being the most disturbing. 

A man near the head of the table, hair cut into a mohawk, menaces you with a grin you feel scraping against your ribs. Across from him, another man, the one who found you, is more surreptitious with his interest, smirking, hiding teeth no doubt as sharp as his companion's.

A hand at your back nudges. You take measured steps toward him, helming the table with a pleased, smug smile. Your skin still sings from earlier, your first escape attempt, radiating with each inch you cross.

As you draw nearer, you falter. There is no chair left for you. Your eyes flick up, finally meeting his, and your stomach churns with realization. His eyes crease in amusement, and he leans back to pat a thigh.

The expectation is unmistakable, and it is nearly enough to send you screaming and shrieking from the room despite the futility. 

A silent order, degrading and humiliating. 

Swallowing hard, you lift your chin to continue your slow march, but the sudden movement of the mohawked man makes you jerk to the side, giving an even wider berth to the row of men. He turns in his seat to rake his eyes up your figure, licking his lip when he makes it to your face. The masked man beside him reaches over, grabs the lech by the neck, and corrects him, muttering some scolding.

You hesitate in front of your intended seat. The blue eyes of your captor are too blithesome for the circumstances. Though, he has reason to celebrate. You turn and reluctantly sit, barely putting weight on his limb, only for a broad hand to pull you further onto the meat of his thigh, settling you by snaking an arm to belt you in place.

Dozens of witnesses watch you wince and hiss as he adjusts you again, closer to the table. The hand of the arm bracing you slips into an open slit of the clothes you wear, one you hadn't known existed, and digs into your plush thigh. His hand is cold and makes you shiver.

You know he feels your trembling and twitching with your back to his chest as you register every one of his subtle movements. His excitement.

With a gesture, dinner and conversation resume. For most of the table, it was as if you weren't even there.

"Pour for us," John purrs into your ear, nosing your temple as he grabbed a short glass, indicating a decanter within reach.

It takes effort to calm your shaking hand. Leaning forward slightly, unable to avoid pushing your bottom against John's leg firmly, you lift the decanter and ignore the quiet groan behind you. The man who scruffed his associate watches like a hawk.  

The meal proceeds. John's focus returns to some discussion with the man who found you – Kyle, you learn – regarding some operation or directive. When you shift, seeking comfort for your abused skin, John's grip pulses meanly.

"Eat," He whispers when you don't touch the food. There's only one plate in front of you, and you assumed it was for John. But at his command, you take a fork and eat. Each bite is a mechanical function, each swallow from fear instead of hunger.

Eventually, John plucks a piece of food off the shared plate and offers it directly to your lips. He tests you with a bit of bread first, pushing it firmly to your closed mouth when it refuses to open, then presses it to your tongue. It's awkward and uncomfortable, his fingers lingering, hooking over your bottom lip. You set the fork down after he feeds you three times. It sickens you, the relief you feel when you squeeze his arm when you hit your limit, full and finished, and he stops. 

"So well behaved now," John muses aloud. "Just needed a little care and a meal." Quiet laughter rumbles in crude agreement among the men closest to him. "To think we almost ransomed you. Too pretty a thing to give back, I think."

You lift your face, chest tightening, and find three sets of eyes staring back. One at a time, they slip past you to John. His head ducks, mouth pressing to your cheek. "S'pose I ought to share the spoils…What about Kyle? He usually keeps his hands to himself."

Kyle's eyes narrow and his fingers curl tight around his glass.

"Could give MacTavish a turn. He leaves teeth marks though." 

The man with the mohawk simpers, nose flaring. He sets a thick arm on the table and leans toward you, fork in hand.

A frightened whimper crawls up your throat, and without thinking, you press back into John, whose hand squeezes your thigh. You feel his chuckle before you hear it.

"No? Too scary? Simon's not much better…" 

The last man, a beast in black, sits as still as a statue. However, his eyes, two black pits, bore into you, and the fabric of his mask shifts when you don't immediately look away.

John's hand slides out of your clothes to your waist, seemingly preparing you to transfer to Simon, and you scramble, grabbing at his arm, protest caught in your mouth.

"No?" John rumbles with feigned surprise, the return of his rapacious grip underscoring it. His hand glides down to the curve of your ass. "Want to stay with me, pet?"

You are not about to give him the satisfaction of an answer, even if it's obvious. You fix your eyes to the plate of scraps, afraid to look at the rest of the table that, like you, has gone silent.

John kisses the crown of your head. "Quiet thing. We'll go upstairs soon, and I'll make up for earlier." He taps the side of your thigh hard enough to agitate the sore flesh.

You bite back your dissent. No point. 

The meal resumes with dessert, and you lick the cream from his finger, suffering his whispered praises. His subordinates openly stare. You can't say for certain if any of them are more palatable than another, but you can't bring yourself to regret your 'choice'.

After all, the devil you know is better than the ones you don't.

[solarmorrigan]

May I request a thrupple for the angst quote prompt?

“Please I just… really need space right now.”

With ChissyxStevexEddie. If not the thrupple then a pair of your choice from those three characters.

Hello! I'm sorry, I didn't quite manage to work Chrissy into this one. Honestly, this particular fill argued with me so much I'm kind of glad I even got Eddie and Steve in there. I hope this is okay, anyway!

[post-S3 Steddie AU; CW: Deals with the aftermath of torture, heavily discusses non-consensual touching (not inherently sexual, not between Eddie and Steve), contains the theme of trying to help someone through trauma. This is very soft, though, I promise]

Angsty-ish Prompt List

-

The Steve Harrington who comes home to Eddie from the hospital on the fifth of July is not the same one who had kissed him goodbye before his shift at that shitty ice cream parlor two days prior.

He’s still Eddie’s Steve, of course he is, but he’s also – he’s withdrawn, and he’s jumpy, and he’s so, so hurt.

Eddie had seen the aftermath of that fight with Hargrove (who hadn’t? Though Eddie had even had the privilege of watching the last of the bruises fade from up close as he and Steve became friends), but this is worse. Eddie can’t articulate how at first, but it is.

At least back in November, Steve had been able to talk about how he’d gotten his injuries; this time, he has to hide behind some fucked up cover story – because bull-fucking-shit had he gotten hurt by falling debris in a freak mall fire.

Debris hadn’t left marks like fucking boot prints on Steve’s back and chest. It hadn’t bruised and rubbed his wrists red and raw. It hadn’t left the distinct shape of fingers in purple and blue, wrapped around his arms on both sides.

Eddie had tried exactly once to address this, when he’d first seen the extent of the damage hidden under Steve’s shirt. He’d tried to demand answers, tried to get out of Steve who had laid their fucking hands on him, but Steve had gone grey under his bruises and shook his head.

“It was a fire, Eddie. Nothing else. I need you to understand that,” Steve had said, more serious than Eddie had ever heard him, his one good eye wide with urgent anxiety – with something almost like fear. “It was just a fire.”

Eddie hasn’t brought it up again.

It makes him burn to know that someone had done this to Steve and that he can’t do a goddamn thing about it. It makes him want to scream, it makes him want to find whoever had been responsible and make them hurt, but more than anything–

More than anything, it terrifies him.

Because this Steve is different – his Steve is different now, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do.

It scares him to see Steve slinking around the trailer like it isn’t his home (more of a home than his parents’ house has ever been). It scares him when he forgets that Steve’s left is his bad side and that if he comes up on him too fast, he’ll startle the shit out of him. It scares him that Steve has a bad side. It scares him when he reaches for him, unthinkingly going for the contact that Steve has always been so hungry for, has been so comforted by in the past, and instead Steve flinches away.

Eddie has never really had to take care of someone else, and he feels like he’s fucking it up at every turn. He feels like he’s hurting Steve even more, that he’s no better than whoever did this to him, no better than Billy fucking Hargrove, no better than Steve’s parents; he’s afraid he’s going to ruin things, break Steve beyond repair, because he doesn’t know how to care for this new version of him.

The only thing that gives him hope that he isn’t doing too badly is the fact that Steve is staying. He still wants to be in Eddie’s company, still reaches out sometimes and tentatively slides his hand over Eddie’s while they’re watching TV together, still shares Eddie’s bed at night. He’s been stubbornly insisting that he’s fine, he’s fine, he just needs time to heal, but beyond a refusal to admit that anything is wrong, he still trusts Eddie to help when he’s not at his best.

Of course, no matter what he says, Steve isn’t actually fine, and even if that weren’t made apparent just by looking at him, it becomes abundantly clear when the lights go out and they lie down to sleep – when the nightmares hit.

Sometimes, they’re small things: quickened breath and inaudible murmuring, furrowed brows that eventually smooth out as Steve is released back into deeper, more peaceful sleep.

Sometimes, though, they’re loud and sharp and violent.

Sometimes, like tonight.

Steve is half twisted in the sheets, struggling in a way his broken ribs really can’t afford, arms flailing and jerking as he tries to fight something off, as he mutters no and stop and please. Eddie sort of wants to cry, thinking about what could be making Steve beg, but more than anything he wants to wake Steve up.

He shakes him by the shoulder, dodging the jerk of his arm, and hopes he can call louder than whatever’s going on in Steve’s head.

“Steve. Steve, c’mon, wake up,” Eddie shakes Steve again and Steve jerks away with a wounded noise. “It’s just a nightmare, baby, come on. Steve!”

Steve’s eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, like he’s been holding his breath, but his gaze is still hazy. He’s awake, but he isn’t present, and he immediately starts shoving at Eddie’s hands, trying to scoot away on the bed.

“No, no, get off– get off me!” he shouts, managing to make it as far as the edge of the bed before the tangle of the sheets holds him in place.

“Steve it’s– it’s just me, it’s Eddie, it was a nightmare, you’re–” as reassuring as Eddie is trying to be, he can’t help the distressed crack in his voice. “Baby, you’re safe, I fucking swear.”

Finally, Steve stops struggling. He lies against the mattress for a moment, breathing heavily, before he ventures a small, “Eddie?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m right here,” Eddie promises.

He shuffles closer on his knees, reaching out for Steve, hoping to comfort or soothe or ground or something, but Steve flinches away, tossing up an arm to halt Eddie in his tracks with a quickly barked, “No.”

“Steve,” Eddie breathes out, and he doesn’t mean to sound so fucking broken, but he should be the one person Steve is never afraid of, and he’s fucking that up.

“I… Please, I just…” Steve stutters out, still catching his breath, trying to sit himself up against the wall that the head of the bed is pressed to, “…really need space right now. Just– just leave me alone for a while.”

And all at once, even if Eddie knows nothing else, he knows that isn’t right.

“I don’t think you should be alone right now, sweetheart.”

Steve, now propped up against the wall, lets his head hang with a heavy sigh. “Eddie…”

“No, look, I’m not–” Eddie scrambles off the bed and moves across the small room, until he’s got his back to the opposite wall. “I’m not gonna touch you, I’ll stay over here, you don’t even have to look at me, but I’m not going to leave you by yourself.”

Steve had never wanted to be left alone when things were bad before. When he was alone, his anxiety would consume him; without the anchor of another person, it would carry him away, and Eddie is certain the same thing will happen now if he leaves Steve to deal with the aftermath of his nightmare in solitude.

For a long moment, Steve stares at him, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears in the low light of the bedroom, but he eventually looks away again. He says nothing, just curling in on himself in a way that must be hell on his ribs as he leans back against the wall, and Eddie takes that as the best permission he’s going to get.

He slides down the wall and sits on the floor, his knees pulled up in front of him in a loose mirror of Steve’s position. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, but he’s there, and he has to believe that’s worth something.

It startles him when, some thirty minutes in (probably the longest Eddie’s ever been able to sit in silence without something to occupy him), Steve speaks.

“I can still feel their hands on me.”

His voice is a quiet rasp, but the words hit Eddie like hailstones. He wants to ask who, he wants to demand what, but he knows if he says anything now, Steve will clam up, so Eddie keeps his mouth shut, and he waits.

“Even before they– before they started hitting me.” Steve isn’t looking at Eddie, instead addressing the wall, gaze distant and unblinking. “They grabbed me and… searched me, cuffed me, they kept – putting their hands on my face, grabbing my hair, and I couldn’t…”

Couldn’t stop them.

Eddie feels a little sick.

Steve is quiet for so long after that that Eddie begins to wonder if he should say something, but Steve breaks the silence before he has to figure out what.

“Out of everything, I don’t know why that… why that left the biggest impression, but I–” he breaks off, turning and finally looking at Eddie. “I want to feel you again, but any time someone touches me, I can only see them.”

Eddie doesn’t think he’s going to survive this. His heart is going to fucking break.

He needs to do something, he needs to help, and maybe he has no clue what he’s doing, but this is his Steve, and he has to try.

Slowly, Eddie levers himself up off the floor and moves towards the door, where he hits the switch for the overhead lights, making the entire room go bright.

Steve winces at the sudden change, turning a wary look on Eddie as he approaches the bed.

“Eddie, what…”

“Just– just trust me. Let me try,” Eddie says, soft and earnest, holding Steve’s gaze as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Please?”

It takes a long moment, but Steve gives a hesitant nod, and Eddie scoots closer. He leaves space between them, still, but he gets close enough that he could reach out and take Steve’s hands – which is exactly what he intends to do.

“Look at me,” Eddie says, quiet and firm. “Just look at me, nowhere else.”

Steve does as he’s told, and Eddie manages a smirk.

“Just pretend I’m the most interesting thing in the room,” he tries to tease. “Like there’s nothing else you’d ever wanna look at.”

“Don’t have to pretend,” Steve murmurs, eyes locked on Eddie’s face, and Eddie’s smile melts into something more genuine.

“There you are,” he says softly.

He reaches for Steve’s hands, and slowly, Steve unwraps them from where he’s been clutching firm around his legs, and lets Eddie touch him.

His hands are cold in spite of the summer heat that invades the trailer no matter how hard their crappy little air conditioner works, and they’re trembling slightly, but Steve doesn’t pull back. He stares right at Eddie and holds on.

Eddie brings one hand up, cradled in his own, and presses a gentle kiss to the knuckles. The bruises there have already faded (their presence had been the least distressing out of all the damage; Eddie likes knowing that Steve had at least gotten a few hits in), but he attends carefully to each knuckle, anyway. He kisses the back of Steve’s hand, feeling a little like a courtly lord from one of his own campaigns. Steve is starting to look at him like he might be one.

The bruises around Steve’s wrists are taking longer to heal; the damage is deeper, and the colors still paint livid rainbow circles on his skin (his face is going to take longer, still; Steve says the doctor told him he’d lucked out with a minor fracture to his orbital bone that will heal on its own with time. Eddie looks at the discoloration there and feels like he has some choice words for the doctor). Eddie moves his attention up, brushing his lips featherlight across the top of Steve’s wrist before turning his hand over and paying the same devotion to the underside.

“Eddie…” Steve breathes, and Eddie presses one last kiss to the palm of Steve’s hand.

“It’s me,” Eddie promises, bringing Steve’s other hand up now. “Watch me, sweetheart, it’s just me.”

He keeps eye contact as he lavishes Steve’s left hand with the same attention he’d given the right, and it occurs to him that he’s been inside the boy in front of him, but this is somehow the most intimate thing they’ve ever done.

Eddie doesn’t move beyond Steve’s wrists, doesn’t push any more than he already has, and Steve’s eyes are still on him by the time he finishes, wide and soft and glassy.

“Okay?” Eddie asks softly, dropping his hands to hold both of Steve’s in his lap.

Slowly, Steve nods. He looks away at last, turning his eyes to their joined hands, and tightens his fingers until he’s holding onto Eddie properly.

They sit like that for a long time, quiet and close, until Eddie can feel himself flagging and he can see Steve’s eyelids drooping.

“Let’s try to get some more sleep,” Eddie says around a stifled yawn. “You do need your beauty rest, after all.”

Steve laughs, a little huff of a thing, and casts a quick glance up at Eddie. “Can– can we leave the light on?” He rushes the words out, like he hates to even ask, but Eddie only nods.

“Whatever you need, Steve,” he promises – and he means it.

Maybe he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but he’s not going anywhere until he figures it out.

And when Steve settles down beside him in bed, and scooches just close enough that their arms are pressed together, Eddie figures maybe he’s not doing too badly, after all.

[paingoes]

Destroyer

Medical Conference

hi guys um. i cant stop writing destroyer. i swear ill figure out a system to organize these “bonus” chapters soon i promise i promise

delta is eighteen in this but the chapter delves into abuse he experienced when he was a child so cw for that

(Content: living weapon whumpee, lab whump, medical whump, put on display, dehumanization, conditioning, noncon drugging, needles, non-consensual/nonsexual nudity, noncon touching, physical abuse, emotional whump, angst, child abuse, child death mention, parental whump?)

~

“I forgot, sir,” Delta tried weakly. He knew as soon as he said it that he should’ve just kept quiet.

“No, you didn’t. You’re going to lie about it as well?” Dr.Martino shut down the attempt, focusing his attention back to the device.

Delta laid down unmoving against the steel table as the scanner searched over him. It gave him mild electric shocks each time it passed. Of course, he hadn’t been looking forward to the diagnostic tests. But he hadn’t been trying to get out of it entirely. That wouldn’t have worked. He only wanted more time to psych himself up for it. Too long, apparently. He’d had to be collected for it. It’d been a bad note to start on.

The rest of the exam went on in silence, without anymore mention of his avoidance. As Delta redressed, he thought he might’ve been off the hook for it. Dr.Martino was fumbling though his desk drawers like he’d already left. 

He produced two unopened packs of pencils from inside the desk. Delta deflated a little bit. 

Delta took the pencils and arranged them in two rows along the floor, lined up flush against one another. Gingerly, he kneeled down on top of them.

“Hands behind your back,” the doctor said, leaning back in his chair.

Already there. He knew the drill. He lowered his head, silently counting. No longer than twenty minutes, usually. No fewer than ten.

When he looked up again, Martino was leaning back against the table, flipping through a folder.

“The ISCEM conference is coming up in a month,” he said offhandedly, as if this would mean something to him.

“Okay?” Delta answered, more in confusion than anything else. He hadn’t meant for it to be disrespectful. 

Nevertheless, Dr.Martino’s shoe pressed down against his calf, driving the pencils further into his skin. 

“Yes, sir,” he quickly corrected himself. The pressure disappeared. The pain stayed where it was.

“You were probably too young to remember the last one, weren’t you?” Dr.Martino sighed.

“Yes, sir.” He didn’t really think about it. He was pretty distracted by the numbness traveling down his legs.

“Well, put it on your calendar. Don’t want you forgetting again.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He didn’t have a calendar.

~

“Mention the steady-state thing we discussed. I have files on it, I - is it too late to make a copy? I will. And if you could just please pass along a message for me, I would be ever so grateful,” Simon went on, fumbling through his own briefcase, trying to give what he could. Dr.Martino took the reports from him, flipping them around to see the equations he’d scribbled onto the back.

“You’re not coming? Sir?” Delta added the “sir” on as an afterthought, conscious of the doctor’s presence. Simon himself rarely demanded such formalities.

“Don’t interrupt,” Dr.Martino snapped, more tense than usual. But Simon obliged him, stepping a little closer.

“Not my scene.” Simon patted his head. It was soft, but Delta reflexively flinched away from any hands that drew too near to his face. 

Something on the desk beeped. The transit had rafted up. 

Delta held his wrists up easily as Martino presented the cuffs. They were psychic tech, meant to restrict his powers more than the collar already did. Presumably some kind of safety measure. He felt his world going flat as they clicked into place, all his spatial awareness reduced to a single field of view. The effect was extremely disorienting. He nearly fell over getting off of the table.

~

He’d mostly evened out by the time they’d gotten to the hotel. He sat idly against the chair he’d been placed in, watching the doctor unpack. Everything in the room was the same shade of beige. 

It seemed like they should’ve been able to go. Martino abruptly produce a vial from the bag. Delta recognized it as a sedative. He inserted the syringe into it, drawing it back up.

“I’ll behave, sir,” Delta offered. He eyed the needle warily; he’d usually have been given something in the way of warning.

Martino shook his head. He took a firm grip of Delta’s arm.

“Believe me, this is for your own good.”

Delta tensed his arm up, holding still as the needle entered him. Something cold shot into his veins. It took a long time for the chamber to empty. 

~

It hit him before they even reached the elevator. He clung to Martino’s arm, needing something to brace himself against, however briefly. Martino assured him he wouldn’t have to stand for long. They moved backstage at the panel. Delta nearly collapsed into the fold-up chair.

The cuffs were briefly removed as he was given the medical gown to wear. His hands moved slower than he would’ve liked, but he was able to put it on. It tied along the front, leaving much of his chest exposed.

Dr.Martino took a minute to make sure it was fitted correctly. He cursed, noticing for the first time the visible boot print against the side of Delta’s ribs. 

“Great. They’re going to think I beat you.”

You do beat me, Delta thought. Not as much as he used to. Not as much as Paris. But Martino still hit him. 

The doctor felt over the bruise with his hand, reigniting the pain. Delta winced. It was recent — still tender. The sedative helped a bit. All his thoughts were coming to him in a haze.

There was nothing that could be done to cover it, so apparently they were just going to ignore it. The cuffs came back on around his wrists. He led Delta out onto the platform regardless, sitting him up against the stool. It was had a back to it, luckily. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay upright without it. He’d been trained enough not to slouch or to look so outwardly high, but it was definitely a struggle to maintain neutrality. He kept his head down. It was the safest, the easiest to maintain for a long period. People gradually filed in. Though he was used to being put on display, the sterility and lack of decorum in this new space made the whole thing feel all the more jarring. It all felt far away, though.

His eyes closed without meaning to. When he tuned back in, Dr.Martino was droning on. He recognized some of the words. He would’ve recognized more if he wasn’t drugged. It was a talk about internal power generation. Conduits. There was a hand on his shoulder. Delta stood up from the chair. The gown was pulled down a bit from his shoulders.

Martino pressed the multimeter to his collarbones, watching the number climb until it broke. He pulled it away before it could burn up completely. He pressed a thin disk up against Delta’s chest, where it held there. It was some kind of controller. A thin arc of electricity emerged from it without any conscious intention on his part. More appeared, each of them branching away from his body like a plasma ball. The effect was immediate; that familiar fear crept into the eyes of the audience. 

It cut all at once. The disk was removed. Delta sat back down on the chair, pulling the gown back up over himself. 

The lights darkened. Behind him, a clip show began to play. He didn’t need to look back. He’d seen it plenty of times. Different explosions, annihilations, destructions. All his own work. He could recount each of them to the second. It played for a long time.

For some reason, they clapped when it was over.

~

“Sorry — do you mind if I look at it?” 

Delta opened his eyes again, sensing the it in question. He tensed up. 

He hated being touched. The moderator stripped the gown back again. He felt the electric pulse still going about Delta’s clavicle. His hands traveled around the collar. 

“I’m biomedical by trade,” the man explained, tapping at the gold, “This is custom, yes? When was it made?”

“The model’s about five years old. It gets updated about once a year.”

“Incredible. I see some scarring, though.”

Delta shivered as the fingers traced the burn scars by his neck, a bit on his trapezius. They were in the shape of a Lichtenberg figure.

“That seems non-optimal?”

“Those actually predate the collar. They’re a natural result of it overextending itself during an exercise. The restrictor works as a stopgap to prevent that kind of burnout.”

Though he’d expected it, it still jarred Delta just how easily Martino slipped back into calling him it.

Another scientist approached. She slid up to Martino, shaking his hand eagerly.

“Oh, darling.” He embraced her. She grinned, readjusting her jacket as they pulled away.

“Danny, it’s been ages. How are the girls?” Her nails clicked together.

Danny. The girls. Martino actually had a family. Not that he ever saw them. He had daughters. They’d been kids, the one and only time Delta had ever met them. They had to be in their twenties by now. 

“Brats, the lot of them. They’re smart, though. Smarter than I was at their age.”

“Well, that’s not saying much.”

Delta was not surprised when her hands traveled onto him. He barely flinched this time. But he hadn’t expected her to speak to him.

“Oh, and look at you. You’re all grown up now, huh?” 

She gripped his chin in between her fingers, studying his face. The touch wasn’t harsh, nor was it gentle.

“You probably don’t remember me.”

That was correct. Her face was vaguely familiar, but he could find no memories to attach to it.

“He’s a bit distant at the moment. You’ll have to forgive him,” Martino answered for him.

She released her grip, turning her attention back to the doctor. Even in his current state, it didn’t take him long to put it together. She’d been one of the teachers at the Institute. He wondered how many of them were wandering around out there now. Most of them. Dr.Martino had been the only one to retain some semblance of his position. All the other administrators had been cast away just the same as the students.

He had forgotten nearly every one of their names.

~

Martino packed up the last of the day’s display materials, arranging all of it back into the suitcase. It’d been a success, as far as these things go. He’d revealed all he could without breaching the terms of his contract. All the real science was under a strict NDA. It was nice to catch up with some colleagues, though. It was healthy to be off of a spaceship every once in a while.

He tugged Delta’s sleeve, pulling him up from the plastic chair. He took a minute to undo the cuffs; he’d thought they were an excessive measure to begin with and they had prevented any real show of power. Delta rubbed idly at the marks they had left there.

They made their way back up to the hotel room. The drug had not yet worn off; Delta still stumbled a bit when he walked. He’d redressed himself in a thick hoodie, trying to keep out the chill from the overactive AC or perhaps just trying to hide. 

The door opened. Martino dropped his suitcase onto the bed. Presumably out of habit, Delta lowered himself to the floor, kneeling there. Waiting for instructions, as if he could have followed them. Martino scoffed. 

“You can sit on the bed. I booked a double room for a reason.”

He watched the whole minute it took for his words to sink in. The way it took even longer for Delta to actually rise, blearily climbing up onto the mattress. His hands gripped searchingly across the blanket, pulling up the edges like he needed something to hold onto.

Martino ignored him. He moved to the far side of the room and opened the door to the balcony. The city skyline was clearly visible just down the road. The lights from it shone brighter than the stars from space. Martino produced one of the foreign cigarettes from its packet. The ember burned in the dark night. It was all quiet.

“What was I like when I was little?”

He turned to look at Delta. The kid was drugged out of his mind. He might’ve given him too much.

Dr.Martino took a long drag. He rarely smoked, so used to the endless sterility that he would not so much as dirty the air. But tonight was a rare night.

“What were you like?” He ashed the cigarette, turning back to look at the night skyline. “I don’t remember.”

Delta looked down, disappointed. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Martino sighed, losing the battle.

“…You were quiet. Same as you are now. You mostly kept to yourself.”

He gave no visible reaction.

“You didn’t get along so well with the other kids,” Martino admitted, some disdain entering his voice. 

Delta looked up. His expression was totally blank.

“Why do you hate me?” he asked.

It was manipulative, and self-pitying in a way that did not flatter him. Martino put the cigarette out. He stepped back into the room.

Delta shrank back a bit. The doctor looked him over. His eyes had dimmed some, no doubt due to the sedative. His hands were unbloodied. Just looking at him, no one would have know what he’d done. Martino remembered the sound of bones snapping and the bodies out in the yard. He remembered the expression Delta had worn the first time he’d killed — as blank and unfeeling as the one he wore now. He did hate him, he supposed. He’d never been his favorite. All his favorites had been buried a long time ago.

He didn’t say that. He remembered his lines — and he cursed himself for ever diverging from them, even for a second. He would correct it now.

“There is no you.”

Delta opened his mouth as if to object, then thought better of it. Good.

“No more talking tonight,” Martino said.

Delta nodded, laying down onto the mattress. He fell asleep with all the lights on.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @pigeonwhumps

[goodomensafterdark]

Feature Fic Fursday - Bathing/Washing

FFF - Feature Fic Fursday!

This is a special day of the week: fic recs Thursday (pronounced à la Française)!

Each week, we will browse the Good Omens After Dark official AO3 collection, choose a tag and promote the fics that are featured in it!

Have a tag idea for the next week? Comment it!

Have other fic recs, or your own fic would qualify for the tag? Reblog and throw in the link!

Tag of the week: Bathing/Washing

Coming Home - A Choose Your Own Adventure Story brought to you by the GOAD Writers Guild!

We are not biased at all pushing it up first on this week’s FFF.

Writers are: Aerenii, AngelZash, anna_bird, Calico, cheeseplants, cordsycords, crowleyscardigan, domesticated_cryptid, DoonaRose, ElysiumLeo (The_Nerd_Alert), fishey_me, FuzzyGoblin, GaiasEyes, hakunahistata, harlotofgod, IneffablyRuined, kiripin, Kotias, LemonTart, Letha, Mrs_Cake_Is_Here, NooRose93, PaperclipNinja, polychrome, SecretlyWingedPhantom (NoraStVincent), sixbynine, startledplatypus, Transplantedmate, whatareyou42, Wingsofopal, y2bs, Zin_Lynn

Rating: Explicit

Genres: choose your own sexy times.

Word count: 117,216 words

Chapter count: 201 chapters (complete)

Summary: Having thwarted yet another attempt at ending the world, Aziraphale and Crowley are, in fact, ready to have sex now. Just how successful their sex shall be depends on the discerning decision-making of you, dear reader…

More than thirty authors combine to bring you over one hundred possible ways that the first night at the South Downs cottage might play out. Aziraphale and Crowley - and you - will embark on a thrilling voyage of self-discovery from which no one will emerge unchanged.

Someone is Calling Him Shoreward by harlotofgod

Comes with a podfic by Nosferatini!

Rating: Explicit

Genres: This is a ghost story.

Word count: 61,467 words

Chapter count: 13 chapters (complete)

Summary: “There’s a storm coming.” The stranger’s words are torn neatly away by the wind like India paper from a Bible, but Crowley reads them on his lips. No shit, he thinks. He nods and shoves his freezing hands deeper into his pockets as icy rain stings his cheeks. Silly idea, wandering up here as the black, roiling clouds coursed towards the shore. The waves are white-tipped and boiling, and any sounds not snatched up by the wind are swiftly claimed by the steady rumble of seawater crashing against indifferent cliffs below.

A Bathhouse Pretense by Doonarose

Rating: Explicit

Genres: smut

Word count: 17,837 words

Chapter count: 2 chapters (complete)

Summary: Aziraphale seeks Crowley out in 38 BC Rome, finding him in a bathhouse which just so happens to be hosting an orgy. Aziraphale is there to discuss upcoming celestial business, Crowley is there for a good time, but when a certain demon happens to drop by, it gives them an (admittedly flimsy) excuse to get close, and then closer still. First time sex in the back corner bath, canon compliant, much edging, feelings and filth.

The Queen’s Burden by OneDapperCat

Rating: Explicit

Genres: smut, angst

Word count: 34,101 words

Chapter count: 14 chapters (complete)

Summary: While Aziraphale is out of town, Crowley decides to exact some vigilante justice on a particularly detestable human. A curious Lucifer is drawn out from Hell, and decides it’s time Aziraphale and Crowley play a game with him; a game which threatens to separate the couple forever.  CW: dubious consent, non-con drug use, emotional abuse, physical assault, non-consensual touching, body dysmorphia, mentions of past non-con.

A Covenant of Temptation by Yes_its_unholy

Rating: Not Rated

Genres: priest AU

Word count: 13,408 words

Chapter count: 3 chapters (to be completed)

Summary: “I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed by thee or laid aside for thee, exalted for thee or brought low for thee. Let me be full, let me be empty. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal. And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.” 

In which a naive bookseller is seduced by a vicar who is used to getting what he wants.

The Pickled Angel by Depressedpenguin2

Rating: Explicit

Genres: Crack

Word count: 1,298 words

Chapter count: one-shot

Summary: Crack- fic based on an inside joke in the after dark writers chat.

Alphabet by Depressedpenguin2

Rating: Explicit

Genres: smut

Word count: 30,000 words

Chapter count: 26 chapters (complete)

Summary: Smutty Alphabet for our ineffable husbands.

Steamy April Showers by mellow_cello_charm

Rating: Explicit

Genres: smut

Word count: 3,969 words

Chapter count: one-shot

Summary: The South Downs, spring. ---------------- “Have a shower? Together?”

There were two wine glasses on the coffee table. Next to them, an empty bottle of Chateau Lafite 1875, and a plate with crumbs. The fire was still going strong, of course, and it was dark and rainy outside, of course.

Crowley stretched across the sofa like a cat with a plan. “You deserve it, angel. We deserve it. After such an arduous week. All those meetings with the Street Traders Association—”

Aziraphale groaned. “Yes, I suppose. But we don’t need baths. I can just miracle away all traces of the London smell.”

“ ‘Course you can, but that’s no fun. We don’t need any of this.” Crowley waved his hand at their cottagey surroundings. “Or food, or wine, or y’know, what we did earlier today.”

Aziraphale blushed and smiled.

“I beg to differ on your last point.” ---------------- It's an awfully rainy day, but that doesn't stop Crowley and Aziraphale from enjoying themselves around their new home.

You and I by ASouthernPansie (Dykotomy)

Rating: Explicit

Genres: smut

Word count: 4,654 words

Chapter count: one-shot

Summary: Takes place just after the end of season 3. Another Apocalypse averted, Heaven and Hell have left the building and indeed the galaxy, and the ineffable duo finally got to have some Us Time. And then some more.

* * *

“You… we… your mouth… ngk…” Crowley materialises black silk pyjamas onto himself, with a charming crimson trim, feeling self-conscious beside the fully-dressed angel.“…You were in me.”

“Yes dear. A few times. And you in me. You seemed to like it.”

give ourselves one more chance by crowleyscardigan

Rating: Explicit

Genres: smut

Word count: 9,164 words

Chapter count: 2 chapters (complete)

Summary: Pressed against the wall by a very not-nice demon three days before the world is scheduled to end, Aziraphale makes a bold move. The result is rather… nice.

They were safe by Transplantedmate

Rating: Explicit

Genres: fluff and smut

Word count: 4,444 words

Chapter count: one-shot

Summary: Soft domestic fluff and smut, set after all is resolved in season 3. The ineffables deserve a break and so do we all. Set right after Christmas.

Featuring: mentions of ducks, hair grooming as a love language, bathtub fluff, bathtub spice, somewhat emotional sex.

The Stars Are Brightly Shining by milk_teeth421

Rating: Explicit

Genres: fluff, angst with a happy ending

Word count: 31,917 words

Chapter count: 11 chapters (complete)

Summary: Crowley thought about the night of the Christ child’s birth now as he stood on the sidewalk, anxiously playing with the ribbon on top of the small gift. It hadn't been December on that night thousands of years ago, and it certainly hadn't been snowing in that Satan forsaken desert. But the biggest difference between that night and now, for Crowley at least, was that he still had ages to go before he realised what Aziraphale meant to him. They still had centuries ahead of them to dance around each other - denying their association, denying The Arrangement, denying their feelings for one another. That night in Bethlehem, neither one of them could have imagined what their relationship was going to become, or how badly they would hurt one another some 2,000 years later.

A post season 2 fic with a Christmas twist

In Motion by sixbynine

Rating: Explicit

Genres: fluff and smut

Word count: 19,632 words

Chapter count: 8 chapters (complete)

Part 1 of the series In Motion

Summary: Crowley can't help himself from looking at things he shouldn't. Or putting his foot firmly in his mouth when apologising for it.

Or

Aziraphale tries his hand at poetry, Crowley was never meant to find it. Let alone respond!

That’s all, folks!!

*sweats in having to change the meme again very soon*

[the-liars-art]

Between Claws

CW nsfw, consensual torture, asphyxiation, drug use, non-negotiated everything

Written on a whim, it’s a mess. The idea came from a discord discussion and I’ve come up with many thoughts afterwards.

Using his primarch admin access, Konrad locks Sevatar inside his own armor.

Sevatar’s power armor has stopped responding to any of his commands. He’s grounded and isolated in his own armor, surrounded by the darkness of his sleeping quarters and the echoing beat of his own hearts.

He could have failed the primarch in some way to earn the sanction, but he has no idea what exactly did he do. Sometimes father just feels like it. The Night Haunter rarely explains himself, especially for such a trivial matter as Sevatar’s chastisement.

Unable to remove any armor, his red gauntlets are within view whenever he moves and looks around. They are a striking reminder of what happened that gave his primarch enough reason to disregard him altogether, if not ending him then and there. After all, he deserves all there is to know about punishment.

He never truly took in the power primarchs had over their Astartes until these nights, locked out of everything except his own mind. He can’t even unseal his helm in the relative safety and absolute privacy of his sleeping quarters on the Nightfall. His door remains unlocked, but he’s forbidden from touching it. No one would be there to fetch him either. His brothers have been told that First Captain Sevatar is reflecting on his wrongs. He hasn’t had any skin-to-skin contact for weeks, including with himself. He’s cut off from the legion’s vox network, blind to the fleet status, unreachable except when his master opens their private link.

Physically he’s had much worse, but this is new. He can’t tell if the Night Haunter is playful or simply angry.

He will wake up to a needle in the back of his neck when Konrad deems he’s slept long enough. He lacks energy intake. His interface ports are sore. His bones hurt from the withdrawal of ceramite powder and other chemicals in standard rations of solid food. Can’t even talk to the walls because his speakers are turned off. The armor keeps track of everything his body does with and without his permission.

There’s an itch inside his guts once he thought about how his vitals and the hormone levels in his blood are on display for the primarch.

The awareness of it makes him tense and his secondary heart slowly comes to life, but it’s not an unwanted feeling at all. The primarch watches over everything, his brilliantly dark mind counting Sevatar’s heartbeats as he works on the tedious business of everyone else with little interest. He reads Sevatar’s body like it were a book, or his worn-out cartomancy deck, flipping through it with a practiced, majestic hand. The thought made the tiny graphs in the corner of Sevatar’s retina display pulse and dance in little spiky waves.

He’s denied an explanation but asks for none. The knowledge of how much longer the punishment lasts never mattered. He supposes his father is having fun tweaking the armor system at the other end of the ship.

The Night Haunter has tried everything Sevatar can imagine, and invented so much more he’s able to do to him through the control terminals and dataslates in his habitual seclusion.

Sevatar usually considers asphyxiation a dull experience, but when his primarch inflicts it upon him it’s the closest thing to an orgasm that he’s allowed to feel during his chastisement. With the air circulation system shut down and protective protocols against intrusive xeno atmosphere activated, his air flow is cut off completely.

The first few minutes passes easily. He holds his breath and sits them through. But minutes in is where it feels the worst, with all his senses desperately trying to locate the threat of what’s suffocating him, finding nothing except the merciless coverage of his power armor and the familiar surroundings of his room. Later, he’s clawing and thrashing at himself and the floor, realizing how much he craves the Night Haunter’s marble claws around his throat instead of this sealed little chamber of void. The primarch only lets him go when it begins to risk triggering his Sus-an membrane. Before that, he monitors Sevatar’s vitals, listening to those desperate gasps and heaves into the thinning air, lifting his robes to touch himself under his obsidian desk. Sometimes he groans loud enough for the vox to pick up the sound and transmit to Sevatar’s end.

The combat drugs injections were fun as well. The aftermath leaves Sevatar shivering in a mess of his own sweat while he’s pinned to the floor, immobile in the grip of powered ceramite screwed into his own bones, bodyglove drenched and clung to his rash hot skin. His cock swells and hardens against armor, aching for the slightest touch. He lets out a noise and bites into his lip. His hearts are pounding and he can feel the stimulant-induced urge to move and fight getting tapped in his own veins. After long tormenting hours, he collapses onto himself. The vox in his helm buzzes and brings a low laugh directly into his ears.

A spontaneous release of dopamine sweeps through him. It’s natural to feel proud, he assures himself, since the primarch is accordingly entertained.

That’s all. Good for Konrad. Cats love meat in a can.

[transhualians]

just realized I never made an intro post for this blog so hello hello friends! 💞🫶

I go by many names, but you can call me lee! this blog is for my selfshipping content. I post a variety of different content, both SFW and NSFW, and I do post problematic fiction (and believe that everyone has the right to do the same), but all of it is tagged, so it is avoidable. if you don't like my content, that's okay! simply close this blog or block me. everything I discuss here is fictional and if you condone any dead dove topics in real life, block me.

I'm a xie lian (tgcf) fictive, and I occasionally refer to canon xie lian in first person. I'm in a traumagenic system but I support endogenic systems.

the f/o that I will talk about 95% of the time is hua cheng (I have a couple others that I am not comfortable sharing publically for anonymity reasons). please do not follow if you post about him in a romantic/sexual tone.

DDDNE/potentially triggering topics will be tagged (see taglist below). dead dove topics I will talk about frequently include noncon, stalking, kidnapping, etc. also I am exclusively sub so pretty much all of my NSFW imagines will read as sub reader :'D

I'm not super picky about my DNI. TERFs/radfem and any other kind of bigot can fuck off, pro-transID/radqueer do not follow. Minors are free to interact with my SFW posts, NOT my NSFW posts. You don't even have to be explicitly pro/comship to follow, I just ask that you be respectful.

Taglist and extra info below the cut:

For clarification, I support all of the following:

- pro/comship, anti-harassment, anti-censorship, etc.

- endogenic systems and syscourse-neutral systems

- anti-contact paraphiles

I do NOT support the following:

- pro-contact paraphiles/radqueer

- pro transID

- radfems, TERFs, anti-sex work, etc.

- transmedicalism and exclusion of non-harmful queer identities (by harmful, I mean identities which actively and objectively hurt or intend to hurt others [ie. pro-contact MAPs], or identities that appropriate topics or identities that you do not have inherent experience with or feel the real-world consequences of [ie. transracial or transdisabled identities].)

- heavily anti-endogenic systems/supporters

Taglist

feel free to hide/block any tags that make you uncomfortable! tumblr has that wonderful feature for a reason! /gen

organizational

-f/o imagines (general f/o scenarios)

-discourse (contains discourse and/or possibly controversial topics)

-🍁.info (mostly my sexuality-related special interest posting :])

-🍁.reblog (reblogged from someone else)

-🍁.mine (my own post)

-🍁.positivity (positive content, mainly about kink/proship)

-🍁.personal (personal topics/posts, not applicable to almost everyone like f/o imagines)

content-related

-tw noncon (explicitly non-consensual sex)

-tw dubcon (dubiously-consensual sex)

-tw underage (reader is imagined as underage [SIDE NOTE: actual minors get the hell off my blog])

-tw kidnapping (reader is kidnapped)

-tw stalking (reader is stalked)

-cw yandere

-tw abuse (psychological abuse and/or toxic behavior depicted *not physical. for that see below)

-tw violence (descriptions of verbal or physical violence)

-tw gore (graphic descriptions of violence, blood, and/or bodily harm)

-safe sane consensual (no dead dove topics are touched on in this post)

tags will be added as needed.

thank you for reading!💞🫶

[sixty-silver-wishes]

So I need to talk about my "Caligari" interpretations in a long-form ADHD ramble

If you've seen my blog, you're probably aware I am Completely Normal about the 1920 film "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari." And this is one of those films that has been analyzed to hell and back, so if you're a dork like me, you've probably heard these interpretations in some form or another before. But I really want to talk about the angle in which I see it, and I hope I can bring something new to the table here. Again, this is just my own interpretation, and if you interpret it differently, that's completely fine! I'd be curious to hear your comments though; I love discussing this film. So the first thing about this film I want to point out is that to me, the main theme is trauma. (This will obviously be discussed at length in this post, so CW for themes of this and abuse, including in the psychological and sexual sense.) There's certainly something to be said in the parallels between the specific traumas of the postwar era and the plotline and characters, but I want to specifically talk about this theme from a psychological perspective, as opposed to a historical one. (If you're interested in some other analyses that go more in depth when it comes to the aftermath of WWI, I can recommend those in "The many faces of Weimar cinema: Rediscovering Germany's filmic legacy," edited by Christian Rogowski.)

So, one thing I noticed is especially prominent is the theme of projection. Francis, of course, is mentally insane, and casts his fellow inmates at the asylum in various roles in the story of the film. At the most obvious level, he is projecting his own psychological pain onto these other people, assigning them various roles that, outside his mind, they do not play, at least in the same way he envisions them. Like in his mind, Jane seems to show some attraction to Francis, but denies him, believing herself to be a queen unable to reciprocate his feelings. "Caligari" is the asylum director both inside and outside of Francis' mind, although outside of it, his intentions are left to interpretation, as opposed to being clearly malevolent. And like in Francis' mind, "Cesare" does not seem to possess any agency, but is decidedly less of a threat.

What's really interesting about the character of Cesare is that projection and trauma seem to take on multiple layers with him. Francis sees this "blank slate" character holding the flowers at the end as a threat, and within his mind, Cesare takes on a dual role of both an aggressor and a victim, both by the plot and by the way he's filmed. This can draw interpretive parallels in how some people who have experienced trauma may see themselves; both self-loathing and self-pity are common responses to surviving a traumatic event, particularly abuse (which Cesare is clearly implied to have undergone; Caligari's journals imply non-consensual experimentation to bring him to a state in which he is able to "commit acts abhorrent to him". Plus he literally keeps him in a box). When we find out that Caligari's goal of controlling him is to "become Caligari," it becomes clear that he is projecting his own desires onto Cesare, going as far as to rename him in order to suit his own desires and completely erase whatever identity he may have had. We never get to know "Cesare's" original name, adding to the idea that this character only exists to be a vessel for whatever Caligari (and by extension, Francis) needs him to be.

From another interpretive angle, we see an abusive homosocial relationship bordering on eroticism between him and Caligari, who, in addition to violating his body and mind by controlling him without his consent, frequently touches him while he's asleep, and feeds him in an unconscious state. He completely transforms him in order to suit his own desires, despite the fact that, according to his own journals, murder would be "abhorrent" to Cesare in a waking state. This method of complete control and obsession with "becoming Caligari" highlights an interesting aspect that can be interpreted from Caligari's character, which is insecurity, which he may deflect through dominance over others, whatever form it may take.

There's much to be said about the character of Caligari and insecurity, and surprisingly, I don't think I've seen this interpretation analyzed too often. When we first see him, Caligari is ridiculed by the town clerk, whom he later sends Cesare to kill. He maintains a degree of authority as the asylum director, wielding power over people who aren't in the mental capacity to oppose him (Cesare included). The idea of "becoming Caligari" may very well appeal to someone insecure with violent tendencies, as in this position, he has the power to kill anyone he wants, albeit indirectly, and through the use of controlling someone else. (Side note- I haven't been able to find if this was intentional or not, but with his hat on, Krauss' Caligari is pretty much exactly as tall as Veidt's Cesare. If it was intentional, this was a brilliant costume design choice, as it implies how desperate he is for complete control, to the point of pettiness.)

While much has been said about Caligari and authority, and what Francis' mental state implies on the matter, it should be said that the asylum director doesn't know what's going on in Francis' head, even when he says he knows how to "cure" him. This might also imply that even if he is a benevolent authority figure he's still at best incompetent when it comes to "curing" Francis, which I believe contradicts the interpretation that the film is pro-authority through use of the frame story.

Speaking of authority, many of the central characters are in paradoxical positions in which they simultaneously possess and lack it. While Francis imagines himself to be a rebel against authority (the director/Caligari), in his mind, he has the police and Jane's father on his side. Jane, meanwhile, imagines herself to be in a position of authority as a queen, but cannot "follow the path of her heart," and is in a primarily passive position in Francis' mind. Caligari must show deference to the town clerk, but even he is subject, ironically, to Cesare's ability to play that role. If he doesn't have a "Cesare," he can't "become Caligari," and therefore is dependent on him.

So, I haven't talked about Alan yet. What's interesting about Alan (if you don't watch the sinful dumpster fire that is the 2005 version) is that despite being the catalyst to the story and of extreme importance to Francis, we don't see him in the asylum at all. Some people interpret Alan as someone from Francis' past, even possibly someone he killed (leading Francis to the asylum in the first place), but I think Alan's innocence, death, and role as the catalyst of the story may lead him to be interpreted as a manifestation of Francis' own innocence before a traumatic event. Alan's questioning when he's going to die is often regarded as rather odd, but considering how traumatic events can sometimes be associated with flashbulb memories, Alan receiving a specific time of how long he has to live may line up with the concept of the specific details of this trauma being burned into Francis' mind. It's also interesting that Caligari/Cesare specifically target both Alan and Jane, the two people Francis cares about. However, in the asylum, it's revealed that Francis' close relationships with both Alan and Jane are not present; Jane, while perhaps confessing her love, rejects him, and Alan is nowhere to be seen.

The last thing I want to bring this tangent to is whatever was going on in the kidnapping scene. There's a lot of interpretations here too because it's not exactly clear what's going on here, but I have a few takes on it. So, the main interpretation I keep seeing is that Cesare doesn't kill Jane because he's romantically and/or sexually attracted to her, which opens up plenty of consequential interpretations assuming that's the case, particularly about him exerting sexual violence. To be honest, that interpretation doesn't sit right with me, considering how, as I said earlier, he himself seems to undergo something akin to sexual abuse, if not literally so. There can, of course, be interpretations of how the cycle of abuse may lead victims to perpetrate abuse themselves, and that Cesare himself was projecting his own trauma in this scene onto someone else who was as vulnerable as he was, but I think this scene can be interpreted in a number of different ways that don’t necessarily lead to this conclusion. For one, his refusal to kill Jane is the only time we see Cesare exhibit any form of free will or defiance. However, kidnapping her may not have been a conscious choice, as he startles when she wakes up; he may have had a moment approaching lucidity and was thrown back into a conditioned state. Either way, the most intriguing thing about this scene is that it demonstrated that, at least in Francis' mind, Cesare is capable of conscious thought and the ability to defy orders (as well as a basic understanding of mortality). This adds a degree of dimension to this otherwise extremely static character, signifying that, in the world of Francis' delusion, he could hypothetically recover from whatever state Caligari brought him into. I also feel that interpreting his refusal to kill as a conscious decision, rather than a biological impulse of attraction (that, granted, not all of us feel), allows for the potential of him to be an actual character with an identity, rather than just a vessel, is simply more intriguing, as it implies he would be capable of conscious thought and therefore character development. (I may also be projecting my dislike of the trope where sexual attraction makes one “human” as an asexual person, but I digress.) Furthermore, I also fond it interesting to interpret him as acting out of empathy; both he and Jane are primarily placed in passive roles, but are also punished by the narrative for attempting autonomy. Jane goes to investigate her father’s disappearance and take an active role in the story, which leads to her getting kidnapped, and Cesare is able to defy orders to the point of refusing to kill, but this results in him getting hunted down by a mob and collapsing- if not dead (Caligari doesn’t even check for a pulse when his body is brought in!), then unconscious, possibly from overexhaustion.

So, those are (most of) my thoughts. I have a lot more, but this post is long enough as it is. I'd be interested to hear your own!

[porno-4-pyros]

cw sexual assault (i am discussing an odd positive breakthrough i made recently regarding my own sexual assault that i want to get out of my head and share with another person so don't read if that'll be triggering/squicky to you) - kirby please don't read this you will likely be triggered by it

I ended up seeing a porn video (it was consensually made, this wasn't a filming of someone being assaulted, it was like a full film set) showing the type of scenario i was repeatedly sexually assaulted in and surprisingly I'm not super triggered by it but i weirdly feel validated by it. like I've been excusing it in my head for years that it wasn't that bad because of xyz or it wasn't actually sexual assault and im just being dramatic or whatever, but seeing such a similar situation played out in front of me like is the first time I've been able to objectively look at myself and really know that what happened was fucked up and that shouldntve happened.

like if it wasn't for this CNC porn video i unintentionally landed on, i wouldn't have made the connection that while i ""consented"", it was extremely dubious consent and therefore wasn't really consent at all. the characters in the video should've had their boundaries respected and not been forced into stripping and being touched with extremely dubious consent. they shouldn't have been pressured or threatened when saying no. it doesn't matter that it wasn't penetrative nor oral rape, it was deeply unconsenual and traumatic and fucked up.

god what the hell, what happened to me was so fucked up. i can really confidently say that i was repeatedly sexually assaulted now, and that it was so goddamn fucked up. i can't wait to be able to cut those people out of my life entirely forever. it's a family member that caused it which is why it's difficult. god that makes it even more fucked up. what the hell.

I'm so glad I stumbled upon this cnc porno that i generally avoid. genuinely i hate how puritanical people can be about wanting to erase all porn but especially the weird kinky non-vanilla shit. i would genuinely have never seen a graphic portrayal of someone sexually coerced and assaulted like how i was with their saying "no" ignored otherwise. and it was something i didn't know i desperately needed. afaik that was like a film set in a country where porn is legal and has protections and such so i just hope no one in it was coerced into making the film. i often get squicked out by CNC porn & erotica but that was so necessary for me.

[on-stained-glass-wings]

☕️ + Mohg

(Oh boy. I had a feeling this was coming.)

TW/CW: Discussion of kidnapping; discussion of non-consensual touching; discussion of non-consensual body modification; discussion of child grooming; discussion of trauma.

Miquella's smile was tight and his golden eyes darkened under the weight of decades of torment. A fine tremor seized his hands, and he was quick to grab his skirts to still them, although he soon grew white-knuckled from the strength of his grip. His chest stilled, then stuttered, and then he took a quick, little breath as the need for air involuntarily came upon him.

" I pity him." Miquella muttered, his voice flat and hollow even to his own ears. " I do, truly, despite the revulsion that seizes me whenever I hear his name or smell the metallic tang of blood. I cannot..." He stuttered, licked his suddenly dry lips, and pressed on. " I clearly cannot hide that I remain greatly affected by his actions to this day, and yet...things such as abuse can be cyclical, can they not? Abandoned by Mother in the sewers just for being born, Mohg was alone and uneducated, and the Formless Mother--sensing an opportunity for an unwitting pawn--offered him love and sunk her honeyed talons into his heart. If his beloved 'mother' so formed him into her image, and no one and nothing has shown him the error of such an act, then it is reasonable that he would not see the violation of doing the same to me."

" You do not have to forgive him." Malenia said. While Miquella was doing his best to blunt his reaction, Malenia let her rage and sorrow play freely on her face, with flaring nostrils and lips gone white from being pressed so tightly together. The cords of her neck were snapped as taught as sail rigging, and yet the hand with which she stroked Miquella's hand contained nothing but gentleness and love. " You may understand what led him to commit his atrocity against you, but that does not mean you have to forgive it. You have no obligation to grant mercy."

" I know, Malenia. You have told me such many times before, and I see the logic behind your words." Despite Malenia's attempt to sound cross, the way he melted into her touch belied his true sentiment, and he subconsciously shifted himself until he was pressed against her side. " Yet I cannot help how I feel, and you know my heart, sister; it is hard for me to hold onto anger when it comes to anything but you. Do I feel disgust towards him? Yes. Am I repulsed by the mere mention of his name? Also yes. Yet I...he makes me tired, Malenia. All I feel is pity, disgust, and fatigue."

" And fear." Malenia whispered, voice wavering almost imperceptibly. Miquella shook his head, and--despite being in front of an audience--moved to lay his head in her lap. Some things never changed, even though he now had the body and brain of one in their mid to late tens.

" No. No fear, sister." Miquella muttered, lifting his head up and allowing Malenia to slide her prosthetic arm beneath it as a pillow. The stiff weight was strangely comforting, as was the flesh and blood hand rhythmically stroking his hair, and the God of Abundance--despite the lingering heaviness in his gaze--couldn't help but smile at her familiar ministrations. " Not so long as you are at my side."

The breath stuttered in Malenia's chest, but she made no move to reply, simply kissing Miquella on his exposed temple as his eyelids fluttered shut, the emotional exhaustion of discussing Mohg taking its toll. Sensing his fatigue, the younger twin simply hummed and stroked his hair, waiting until the elder twin was well and truly asleep before speaking again.

" Miquella was supposed to be safe here." Malenia whispered, and even though her eyes were sealed shut by rot scars, it was impossible to not hear the tears clinging to the edges of her voice. " The deepest part of the Haligtree, our hidden sanctuary, our home--the one place in the world aside from Caria Manor where we felt safe. He was supposed to be safe here. It was the only reason I felt comfortable enough to march to Caelid, and while I was gone, that fetid, foul little rat...that spineless, simpering little coward...he took my brother away. He stole his godhood, his body, his very security. He violated him--violated our home!"

Malenia had to abruptly stop and swallow the impending scream of rage before it could escape. Her left hand trembled as it stroked Miquella's cheek.

" Dear Miquella has horrible night terrors on nights where he is too tired to explore the dreams of others." The goddess rasped. " He dreams of being bathed in blood--so much blood that he chokes on it in his sleep. He dreams of that fetid little rat cooing words in his ears and melting himself into his...into his very body. His very blood. All while Miquella was unable to voice his objection or escape. Mohg claimed to love my brother, but all he loved was the idea of him--the fantasy of having a pretty, perfect, golden god that he could raise to be the perfect spouse! I do not care how our mother wronged him as a child. I do not care that he was victimized by the Formless Mother the same way he victimized Miquella. I care that my brother cries in the night, and picks his skin, and scrambles away in panic when a stranger so much as innocently touches his shoulder to get his attention! I..."

Another pause. Another swallow. Another deep breath. Miquella shifted in his sleep, muttering something intelligible, and Malenia quickly soothed him back into stillness.

"...yet I am glad Miquella insisted I let him live." Malenia admitted, and the expression on her face was almost sadistic, cruel little smile and all. " For death is too easy an escape for such a mealworm. One day, when Miquella has ascended to full godhood, he will banish all the Outer Gods from the Lands Between...including Mohg's precious Formless Mother. With her will go his power, his authority, his position, and everything upon which he has built his life and identity. His whole sense of self will come tumbling down like a house of cards. I can think of no more horrifying punishment for one like Luminary Mohg. May he wither and rot.”

[glimmeringtwilight]

OVERLOADED

Spontaneous Childe fic written feverishly in like three hours. Not edited; I have work tomorrow so I'll edit it once I'm home. Enjoy. The continuation to this fic is here.

CW: Graphic depictions of violence, minor character death, non-consensual touching, yandere behavior. Childe being Childe.

Word Count: 1.8k

You taste blood. 

Everything aches. Your body is no doubt littered with various bruises and scrapes. 

Still, you force yourself to sit up, hissing at the sharp pain lancing through you with the movement. Archons, you just want to sleep. To lie back down, close your eyes, and let unconsciousness soothe the ache of your body. 

But you can’t. Boots come into your vision just as you force yourself back to your feet, haggard eyes meeting gleeful ocean blue ones. 

The harbinger before you looks much like the cat that caught the canary, and the smug satisfaction on his face pisses you off. 

“Wipe that fucking smile off your face before I do it for you.” 

Normally, you’d never speak to another person like this, much less a fatui harbinger. But you’re already in too deep. Grabbing a shovel and digging doesn’t mean anything now, does it? 

Childe’s smile grows. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

You should have just stayed home. You should have listened to the nagging feeling in your gut that told you to not go out, instead of shrugging on your coat and heading out into the cold night to get yourself a drink. 

Maybe if you’d done that, you wouldn’t have seen something you shouldn’t. Wouldn’t have stumbled across the harbinger and his lackeys discussing something not meant for your ears, what sounded like a plan to endanger Liyue Harbor and bait Rex Lapis (but isn’t he dead?) out of hiding. Wouldn’t have stepped on a fucking branch (just your luck), alerting them to your presence. 

Wrong place, wrong time.

You were a fool to think you stood a chance. When the agents charged you, you’d reacted in kind, vision flaring to life and polearm springing to your fingertips. They went down easy, and you wondered if their boss– Childe, you remember seeing him around that shady bank the Fatui run– would be the same. 

He wasn’t. 

The horrible rumors you’d heard about him, from unfortunate victims of the Northland Bank (well. The ones who didn’t mysteriously vanish without a trace), were true. He had a smile on his face the whole time, as he deflected blow after blow. 

He was giddy. Thrilled to fight you. You were sure he must be getting his rocks off to this. Freak. 

And with the way he hardly seems out of breath, when you've been exchanging blows for what feels like hours but was probably only a few minutes, you know he was going easy on you. Drawing it out. Playing with his food. Cold dread settles low in your stomach and festers there. 

“You really did a number on my agents, you know? I’m not sure they’re still alive anymore.” Childe’s voice is conversational, cheerful as he says this. Like he’s talking about the weather. 

You swallow back bile and refuse to dwell on it. You don’t even glance toward the crumpled bodies of the two agents you’d downed. The smell of charred flesh stings your nose.

“You don’t care? Wow, you’re ruthless, aren’t you?” He laughs. “Regardless… You’re out of your depth, here. You can always surrender. I promise I’ll be gentle.” 

You summon pyro to your polearm, the tip of the weapon igniting in a brilliant orange. He takes on a defensive stance, smile faltering slightly. It spurs you on. 

“So you have some fight in you yet. Give it your all, killer.” The nickname rolls off his tongue like a poisonous barb. You suck in a breath through your teeth, willing back the pain, and leap into the air. 

Heat licks at your heels as your vision propels you higher, and you feel frozen for a second as your momentum slowly shifts and you begin to fall. Ocean eyes meet yours. You tighten your grip on your spear and aim for his throat, fire crackling in the air as you plunge down like a meteor. 

There’s a flicker of purple. You don’t even get the chance to dodge, electro coursing through your veins, the overloaded reaction sending you flying back. 

Your back slams against something hard. You hear a pop as you bounce off the boulder you’d slammed into and onto the ground. White hot pain lances through your shoulder, and you think you scream. You’re not sure. Your ears are ringing, vision blurry and nerves overloaded with pain. 

Lingering electro dances across your skin, plucking playfully at your muscles as you twitch from both pain and the elemental reaction. 

“-okay?” He’s saying something to you. It feels like you’ve been dunked underwater, pulled into the ocean by a riptide. His voice is distant and muddy beneath the turbulent waves. 

“... too rough-” A hand slides underneath your shoulder blades, and you whimper at the sheer, oversensitive pain from the simple touch. It hurts. Nothing has ever hurt this bad. You feel like the hand touching you is burning, hotter than your vision could ever hope to replicate. 

When he shushes you, other arm hooking around your knees, you settle. There’s a muffled praise that follows, demeaning, like he’s talking to a dog, and you want to claw out his stupid blue eyes. 

You don’t get the chance. Black spots fill your vision, growing and growing until it’s all you see. There’s a muffled heartbeat at your ear, an unfamiliar melody in the other, and both work in tandem alongside your pain to drag you into unwilling sleep. 

When you wake up, you’re in your own bed. 

A nightmare, you think. And then the pain catches up to you. 

Everything aches. You feel like you’ve been run over by a train, nerves still fried to oblivion (though bearable, at least, now), and the brush of cool sheets against fevered skin feels as refreshing as it is overwhelming. 

“Oh, you’re awake? Good. I was beginning to think that I’d killed you.” Childe’s voice grates against your ears and you try not to flinch, turning your head to peer at him. He’s on the other side of the room, back turned to you as he fiddles with the picture on your dresser of you and your late fiancé. 

You watch as he takes the back off the frame, slipping the photograph out and pocketing it casually. You open your mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a weak croak.

Childe turns to face you, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed. Like he lives here. “You must be parched. Here, let me help.”

You expect him to leave and return with a glass of water, but no. Instead, Childe approaches you, moving to sit on the edge of your bed and lifting you slightly by the shoulders to prop you up. Your quiet hiss of pain makes him smile. 

You’re about to ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but a thumb pressing past your lips and something cold and wet sliding into your mouth kills the words on your tongue. It takes you a few seconds too many to realize it’s water, he’s using his vision for this, and the excess water dribbling down your chin is what snaps you back to reality. 

You swallow involuntarily. He smiles and looks like he’s about to say something infuriating, so you cut him off and bite down on his thumb. Hard. 

The taste of copper on your tongue makes you gag and pull back. He doesn’t let you. Childe grips your jaw firmly and pins your tongue under his thumb, smearing the fresh wound against it as a manic smile lights up his face. 

The look in his eyes scares you. Wild and manic, but still as hollow as they’ve been, devoid of light like every time you’ve seen them. He looks excited, hungry, and you feel much like meat on a hook in front of a starving wolf. 

A firm hand against your chest stops you when you jolt forward, trying to push him off you so you can get away. His thumb finally, finally, slips out of your mouth, and he lays his weight on top of your chest as you gag. 

The motion agitates your injuries. You realize he must have patched you up, when his hand instead brushes against your bandaged shoulder. The pain isn’t as sharp as it should be– did he use his vision to heal you, too?– but it still aches enough for you to wince when the gentle touch turns firm. 

“Easy, killer. I just wanna talk.” You hate that fucking nickname. He knows this. You wish he didn’t. 

“Then talk.” You spit. Your voice is still hoarse, still quiet. You’re still thirsty, but you’re not going to invite him to force water down your throat again. 

Childe chuckles, and you sigh in relief when he stops laying his weight on top of you, instead planting his elbows beside your head to cage you in. This position is worse. You hate it, and you have how boyish and cute he looks like this, betrayed only by the hollowness in his eyes, devoid of light. 

“I have a proposition for you. Something to help you out of this… situation.” You don’t say anything, and he takes it as a sign to continue. “I can’t exactly let you go, so you can run around, spilling valuable fatui secrets…” 

He brushes a gloved hand against your chin, expression suddenly carefully blank. You don’t like where this is going. 

“The fatui could use someone like you. With a little training, you’d rise through the ranks quick. Who knows, maybe you’ll someday be an even match for me…” 

“No.”

Childe looks unbothered. In fact, he looks pleased. Like he wanted you to refuse. “Then I have another offer.”

“What, you kill me?” 

Childe laughs at that, pulling away so he’s no longer invading your personal space. He still hovers, still too close for comfort, but the distance gives you relief. “No! I’m not a monster.”

You must be making a face, because he laughs again, raising his hands concedingly. “Okay, okay. Maybe I am. But I have no interest in killing you, don’t worry.” You’re worrying. “If you won’t join the fatui… Well. I have space in my home for you. Or would you rather stay here? It’s a little small, but I’m sure I can make it work.”

Cold dread fills your veins. “I’m married.” It’s a flimsy excuse, paper thin. 

“Are you?” And his eyes flit down to the necklace you’re wearing, holding both your ring and- and… 

You bite back the hot and angry tears that threaten to rise. You won’t give him the reaction. You won’t give him the satisfaction. “Go crawl back into whatever moldy abyssal pit you crawled out of, and die there.” 

He laughs, and his eyes glint. “You’re not far off the mark there…” He doesn’t elaborate at your confused look. “Mmmbut.”

Childe moves to straddle your hips, leaning down once more to cage you in again. “It wasn’t a request.” He smiles serenely at the horror in your eyes. “You should have taken me up on my first offer. But I don’t mind. I think we’ll both enjoy this arrangement better.” 

When he leans down to kiss you, you feel his tongue swipe his blood from your lips. 

“Yes, this is much better.”

[merakiui]

(cw: yandere, n/sfw implications, female reader, manipulation, obsession, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, abuse of power, brief mention of non-consensual touching, mention of non-con)

Thinking about a darling who works at Mostro Lounge and Azul comes to you with a business proposal. Lately the idea of themed cafés has been quite popular, and even though there’s already a classy theme at his establishment he figures it wouldn’t hurt to take a risk and try something new. Plus, it’ll definitely get the students talking. And gossip leads to curiosity, which eventually leads to foot traffic. He’ll even make it a limited event so that curious customers will have no choice but to come within the time period before the atmosphere of that specific theme is gone forever.

It doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Even Jade and Floyd seem eager about it, with the latter seeming way more enthusiastic in comparison to his reserved twin. You’re not sure why he’s discussing this in private with you. Shouldn’t the other staff be here for this meeting, too? It seems important… But apparently Azul’s already told them about his plans. He has a very special role for you, one that only you can fulfill, which is why he needed to speak to you one-on-one like this. For Mostro Lounge’s very first special theme: a maid and butler café! And he has just the outfit for you.

You politely decline at first. Of course you would after seeing the short, frilly skirt and the heart-shaped cut in the chest area. What’s more is that it comes with cat ears and a cute little tail and a choker with a bell on it. For one, the outfit is too revealing and it probably goes against the dress code. You’d never hear the end of it from someone like Riddle or any of the professors. Azul chuckles at your flustered expression. The twins are just as amused. “What’s wrong? Why don’t you want to wear it? You’d look really cute, you know. You’d be like the lounge’s adorable kitty mascot.” As if that’ll actually change your mind.

Azul plays his role well. He knows just when to frown ever so slightly so that his disappointment isn’t laid on too thick. He tells you he was hoping you’d be willing to try this out, but he understands if it’s out of your comfort zone. However, keep in mind that this is a uniform for the Mostro Lounge, not for NRC. Your work and student lives are kept separate, after all. When that doesn’t land, he asks if you have any suggestions for a different theme or if there’s a compromise you’d like to work out.

Without realizing it, you end up agreeing to go through with it after Azul explains more thoroughly. It’s only for two weeks and during that time Azul’s agreed to raise your pay. You just need to accept the outfit and the role and it’ll be a done deal! He’s so very kind, after all, and so willing to work with you on your terms. Although if you know anything about Azul you’ll find that it’s never truly on your terms. Floyd is quick to offer to help you put the maid dress on, to which you decline at once. He pouts about it, but all it takes is a hushed reminder from Jade and his carefree mood is restored. You miss the predatory glint in their eyes when you agree to the plan.

How difficult can two weeks be? It’ll be over before you know it, right?

It’s humiliating, especially when Floyd pokes fun at you or tries to playfully tug your skirt up. And it’s even more humiliating when your friends visit the lounge, having heard about Azul’s new ploy at attracting more business. At least more students are coming, so this endeavor ended up being successful. Although you really wish the lounge would go back to its usual theme soon. It’s way too annoying having to call Ace and Grim ‘master.’ They’re having too much fun ordering you around. It feels like Jade’s the only sensible one here. He usually steps in when some students try to get handsy or are making obscene requests. You’re grateful that he’s here to remind the students that they aren’t allowed to touch the staff and that they ought to be respectful.

But it’s only two weeks. It’s not like this is permanent. If you can just bear the embarrassment and catcalls for two weeks, you’ll be back in your regular uniform and the entire thing will be behind you. You can throw the maid costume away and be done with it.

You force the humiliation to the side in favor of doing your best. The last thing you need is to fail miserably and then have Azul on your tail for ‘poor customer service.’ So you suck it up and act like a cute, innocent maid who welcomes the master home with a sincere smile. And the students eat it up. It becomes so busy throughout your shifts that you always end up dragging yourself back to your lodging, exhausted and yearning for sleep. Azul seems to enjoy putting you on the closing shifts because for the past three days all you’ve had are closing hours. It wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t dying to get out of the costume.

Jade and Floyd always stay behind to help you. Azul probably asked them to, but you’re glad they’re here to keep you company nonetheless. During work hours they can’t really enjoy observing you, but when it’s during closing they can look all they want and not be interrupted by an annoying customer. Floyd’s a menace about it. He’ll ‘accidentally’ knock things on the floor and when you bend down to pick it up the twins stare at your ass and thighs and legs and literally anywhere else that the skirt fails to cover. What they would do to have you bent over one of the tables…

You make quick work of everything in your own desperate rush, which is quite impressive. Floyd remarks that it seems like you’re in a hurry to leave. :( don’t you enjoy being here with them? Why not stay a while longer and chat? There’s no harm in that now, is there? But you’re already filling out your time card and putting it away. Oh well. There’s always next time. For the next two weeks, they’ll be treated to the sight of you all dressed up.

One of these nights you’ll find yourself cornered. After all, you’re still in the presence of ocean predators. It’s a fight for survival in the sea and they can’t possibly let you be snatched away by some land animal.

Azul doesn’t need to take any candid photos of you. All it takes is one look at you from Cater and the Heartslabyul member is snapping all sorts of photos and selfies at different angles. Most of them are posted on Magicam, thus fueling all sorts of fantasies amongst the student body. And Azul gets to casually save them for his own use. It really is a win-win. He’s glad you were so easily convinced otherwise he’d really have to negotiate. Putting you on closing shifts gives him plenty of opportunities to call you into his VIP room and talk. Not about work. Not about school. About you and the stuff that happens in your life. What things were like before you came here. About plans for the future. About love and relationships.

Although he hasn’t actually done that yet. He’s not embarrassed or anything, certainly not. He just…doesn’t know what to say. When he isn’t scheming or talking with that silver tongue of his to make deals, he’s thinking lots about you. About what he might say to you if given the chance. About what he might want to do to you if it were just you and him. He really is head over heels, so much so that it’s irritating that so many eyes get to look at those photos of you on Cater’s Magicam account. Only he should be able to look at you when you’re dressed in that way. And it’s even more irritating when customers whistle at you and say all sorts of vulgar things. You aren’t just some toy or pet. You’re more than that. Their love isn’t even love. It’s cheap lust that’s only good for getting them off when they have nothing else to get off to.

Azul just doesn’t see you in that way. There’s more to you than the unable-to-use-magic human who was called to Twisted Wonderland and now can’t leave. There’s more to you, who works at the lounge and is so cheerful whenever you interact with customers. The you who greets him and the twins in the hallway even though his reputation is quite fearsome. The you who tugs your skirt down whenever Floyd tries to lift it, glaring at him and raising a threatening fist. The you who breathes a sigh of relief whenever Jade shows up to help you. The you who is just so perfect and natural.

Like the sea he grew up in, there are many depths to you. And he wants to know all of them. He will know all of them. When you’re his, you’ll know all of his depth as well. Not all at once, of course. But it’s only fair if you get to know him as well as he knows you. For now he’s stuck in his own infatuation and self-doubt, only able to admire you from afar. Never truly able to dispose of this simple acquaintanceship.

He’ll think of something, as will Jade and Floyd. The three of them know very well that the slightest hesitation could spell doom in the dark depths of the Coral Sea. At the very least, he can enjoy you in the maid outfit. <3 It really was a good idea after all.

[beels-burger-babe]

Angst Masterlist

It's okay. We all need a good painful fic every now then. Feel your feels, and enjoy these fics where I continuously hurt MC.

There And Back Again: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Epilogue - PODFIC on AO3 Summary: What if MC hadn’t been seen by everyone after watching their death and went back to their original timeline??

TW: Spoilers for Lesson 16, Mentions of Murder and Violence, Trauma, and Panic Attacks/PTSD

Fool Me Twice: Part 1, Part 2 Summary: A month after the Solomon incident, MC goes missing again. The brothers try to remain calm and not to overreact this time and wait for their human to return. Only, something isn’t quite right. TW: ANGST! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! Kidnapping, Vomiting, Descriptions of immense pain, gore/injuries, torture

A Little Voice Told Me: Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3 Summary: Words hurt and leave their scars. MC learns this the hard way after hearing some not-so-nice whispers about them while on a date with Beel. How are they supposed to be the partner of the seven lords of the Devildom when they just don’t measure up? Ft. Poly!MC

A Pain You’ll Soon Regret: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,  Summary: MC and the demon lords get in a fight resulting in MC leaving. They planned on going to Purgatory Hall until things cool off, but they never quite make it there. Ft. Poly!MC TW: Heavy Angst, Violence, I don’t know what to tag this, but there is a pretty nasty verbal fight, Gore/Injury

The Five Times Mammon Did Something For The Others: Summary: ( And the one time the others did something for him.)  Without his brothers even realizing it, Mammon has gone out of his way time and time again to make sure that they are safe, happy, and healthy, and yet no one ever seems to do the same for him. Hell, no one even thanks him for it.

It’s Got To Be Me: Summary: The brothers and MC wake up in a room with no exits or furniture. Only a pressure platform in a corner and a sign that reads “All of you may leave, when you choose one who will stay.” TW: Heavy angst, implied drugging, talk and discussion of self-sacrifice, anxiety/panic attacks, brothers fighting,

Come Back To Me Summary: Summary: As MC is sent to go back in time and find answers for Diavolo, the brothers are left to wait for their return. Time ticks by and the pact holders grow more anxious until things go dreadfully wrong.

CW: Heavy Angst, descriptions of pain, injuries, and suffocation/choking, character death, GRIEF, Scratching at arms (Mammon)

Tired Summary: MC is having a bad day, but the brothers are there to try and make it a little easier.

CW: Depression and touch starvation

Something's Off Summary: MC starts acting weird and the brothers are determined to figure out why

CW: Drugging/Brainwashing (Love potion), non-consensual relationship, Violence/Torture (? I think it counts as torture)

Time And Time Again: Summary: Barbatos loves MC. He has loved them for nearly as long as he has known. He goes back and relives every second that he can with them, over and over again. But, after experiencing a time line so many times, one begins to notice certain patterns — MC getting hurt, for example. And after one too many times, he decides that he can't stand idle by any longer. *Spoilers up to Lesson 16*

Changing Behaviours: Summary: Something has MC shaken to their very core. The brothers can see it, but they don't know how to help. CW: Paranoia, Mentions of past abusive relationships, very brief implied suicide (of a background character), thoughts of murder,

[batrogers]

LINK, PRINCE CONSORT Hyrule Warriors, [Tri Force Heroes]

[From my original Linkverse, That Broken Promise]

GENDER: Male ([undecided gender at birth]) PRONOUNS: He/Him HEIGHT: 5'6" AGE: 25 HEALTH: Deaf (acquired at 17), severe PTSD

WEAPONS: Magical Sword, Hylian Shield ITEMS: Hookshot, Ocarina of Time, several potions SPELLS: None

Prince joined the Hylian army in the face of the oncoming army of monsters from the witch in the Valley of Seers. He was discovered to have the triforce of courage the same day Zelda and the Castle was lost, and fought under Impa as her protege through their world touching so many eras besides their own. Other heroes fell through by various kinds of accident, but eventually, after Cia’s defeat and Ganondorf’s full return and transformation, they were all returned to their rightful place. Afterwards, once his family returned and some awkward conversations were had about him lying about his age to join the Hylian army, Prince travelled to give Zelda and himself space to recover and found himself stranded in a country whose Princess was cursed by an evil witch. With the aid of two other heroes past their own quests, they are victorious and all return safely home.

Prince vacillates between gregarious and somber, depending on his comfort and the situation he’s in. He often appears outgoing regardless of how he actually feels. He is passionate about working with Zelda to restore Hyrule to its former glory, although he would much rather do it without the burden of his reputation as Hero and General of the War. Much of his time, like hers, is spent on paperwork and meetings now although he hasn’t let his old skill fade. He is happiest when he’s physically active.

Prince does not speak, is literate in several languages, and uses mostly fluent sign language. Glossed as BSL.

Prince is bisexual but very selective about who he allows to touch him. He struggled with boundaries in the past, and still hasn’t fully recovered confidence in his ability to enforce them with others.

CURRENT MEDIA: [Note: some of Prince's backstory fics have different gender & race headcanons. As they are meant to also be standalone pieces, I will not be updating them to match however events and relationships remain largely the same and are still relevant.] Reflections of an Unfamiliar Face, rated T for mature themes Eclipse of the Moon, Series, rated E for sex, consensual and non. Who Hurt You, rated G, discussion of trauma All My Fault (I Failed You), rated T, torture aftermath Dulce et Decorum Est, rated E for porn Mine, rated M for discussion of sex, including past assault Half-Conscious, rated G, cw for near-drowning

The First Broken Promise, rated T Running the Switch, rated T, trypanophobia warning Overflow, rated M for mature themes Don't Be So Gentle, M to E rated short fiction Echoes, rated G

Songs from the playlist for Prince: Battlefield, by Svrcina People I Don't Like, by UPSAHL Great! Big! Party! by eyeamki Drunk Dazed, by ENHYPHEN Remember Them, by Jorge Rivera Harrans

[earlgreydream]

villain.

| draco malfoy x reader / theo nott x reader | smut | angst |

anon requested. smutty draco x y/n where they’ve been dating for months or years and draco cheated on her 

cw: infidelity, sadism, branding, non-consensual voyeurism (revenge)

a/n: this request was a lot, it was long, and it made me FEEL THINGS

The alcohol burned going down.

The bass echoed in your feet as music blared from speakers, sweaty bodies moving and grinding against one another, just mere feet away. You were disgusted by the scene before you.

Where was your lover?

“Y/N!” A drunk friend called your name.

An empty smile crossed your face. You tipped the glass back, swallowing the rest of its contents. You needed it.

“Have you seen him?” You called over the music, practically shouting in your friend’s ear.

“Seen whooo?” They giggled, fingers clutching the glittering material of your dress. It felt like nothing on your body, you felt naked.

“Draco!” You spat, shoving them off when they shook their head no.

Annoyance was all too familiar, wrapping around you like a well-known friend. Fuck.

You slithered through the party, your eyes darting everywhere, searching for a head of white-blonde hair. Your efforts proved futile.

“Are you looking for Draco?” Blaise’s dark hand caught yours, grabbing your attention.

“Yes!” Finally, some help.

“I saw him go off to his room,” he pointed to the hallway off of the common room.

Blaise’s eyes were full of terrible pity, and you felt your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach.

No.

“Can I get you a drink?” He tried to stop you.

“No, get off of me.”

You pushed your way through dancing bodies and wandering hands of drunk boys. Your heels clicked on the black marble floors of the common room, drowned out by the music.

Your mind was far disconnected from your body, and you felt like something small amongst a crowd that suffocated you. Adrenaline kicked in, and you freed yourself from the teenagers, escaping hungry grasps.

Every step you took filled you with dread. It decayed your insides, poisoning your heart and your mind and weighing your feet down. Your ears were ringing, and you could barely hear the deafening music, or your friends calling for you to rejoin them on a couch nearby. Your lungs couldn’t properly draw in oxygen, and the edges of your mind began to prickle with delirium.

You were running on adrenaline.

You practically tripped over your own feet as you tore down the hall, halting as your fingers came into contact with a wooden door. Your fist closed around an iron handle, but doubt made you hesitate.

You had an instant where you considered turning around, going back to the party and forgetting about all of this. Ignoring the whispers of gossip, and silencing the rumors, pretending like this never happened. You could leave this doorway, leave and stay blissfully unaware before it was too late.

No.

Leaders don’t doubt themselves.

You’d made it this far, there was no sense to let your bravery falter now. You gripped the handle, twisting and throwing the door open. The action happened in an instant, and all at once, you couldn’t take it back.

Reality came crashing down on you.

Every fear you had suddenly became tangible. It was very real, unfolding in front of you, and you were powerless to stop it. Every ounce of doubt vanished from your mind, replaced with horrible certainty.

Your body froze. Ice shot down your spine, and spread through your skin in gripping tendrils. The adrenaline halted suddenly, and your heart stopped racing. Your mind snapped back to consciousness. Sharp, unforgiving sanity burst through you in one horrible, violent instant.

Draco Malfoy, your boyfriend of four years, was buried deep inside the cunt of Pansy Parkinson, your roommate and best friend.

Sick, deranged laughter rose in your throat and escaped from your lips.

The party still echoed under your feet, reminding you there were so many people close by. You wondered if they knew. You decided it didn’t matter, the only people who you would’ve believed it from were in front of you, fornicating in infidelity.

“Y/N!” Your name left Pansy in a scream.

At least she seemed ashamed, hurrying to pull the sheets— your sheets— to cover her breasts. Draco didn’t even have the decency to end his rough thrusts from behind, even as one of her hands went out to swat him away.

Cold, silver eyes glared back at you.

“Are you going to leave, or do you care to stay and watch?” Draco’s tone was impatient, dismissive.

His words tasted metallic, like blood and poison.

“Do you feel guilty?”

Draco mistook your tone for amusement. You didn’t cry, and you didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe. From his point of view, you just watched the situation unfold in eerie calmness.

Most girls would have screamed. Most girls would have sobbed and begged for validation, or run away at the very least.

You were not most girls. Draco knew you were something far worse.

You were dangerous and severe.

Your eyes glittered with something dark and terrible. It sent a shudder through him, and powerful doubt ripped all of the air from his lungs.

Do you feel guilty?

“No. I grew bored with you, I don’t regret this, Pansy’s a good fuck.” Draco’s voice masked his insecurity, but you saw directly through the cracking shell, staring directly at the truth.

Your gaze locked with Pansy’s. Her fear twisted in your own stomach, igniting your nerves like electricity. Draco’s movements faltered.

A terrible stillness settled over the room. For a moment, none of you moved, the ice inside of you spreading over everything.

In slytherin, you do what is necessary.

The voice echoed in the back of your mind, grounding you in your crumbling reality.

Do what is necessary.

A malicious idea crossed your mind with a depraved smile.

“I can be redeemed of boredom,” you said simply.

Your tone unnerved Draco. The stillness and certainty was suffocating. Every lingering doubt was annihilated, along with your trust and love for Draco and Pansy.

You didn’t expect the grief to feel so relieving.

The light caught the sparkles of your dress, glittering as the thin fabric moved on your body as you walked out the door. It slammed shut behind you, sealing the room shut with its sin inside.

“What have we done?” Pansy asked Draco.

Weak girls doubted themselves.

You were many things, but never weak. Your feet carried you back to the party. It was still in full, excited swing, as if horrible sins weren’t being committed, as if trust wasn’t being desecrated.

The depraved smile remained on your face.

You were freed from doubt, they were freed from lies. It was always easier to know who your enemies were, even when they were your lovers and your friends.

The cruelty glittering in your eyes, and the sick smile on your face confirmed to everyone that you knew. Blaise wouldn’t meet your gaze. He knew, and he’d led you to them.

“How long, Zabini?”

“A couple of months.” He shifted uneasily.

Your laughter struck fear in his heart. You were quickly coming to terms with your lover’s infidelity, and it ignited something inside of you.

Wrath tasted sweet on your lips, and you breathed it into your lungs like oxygen.

Blaise expected you to be hysterical, but this was far more calculated, far more dangerous.

There was one person left who was loyal to you, and he was leaning against a marble pillar, a glass of fire whiskey at his lips.

“Theo,” you approached the brunette, greeted with a smile and a sultry gaze.

“I need you.”

“Anything,” he answered with absolute sincerity.

“Draco is unfaithful, and I want to get revenge.”

Theo’s fingers slipped in yours, and he brought your hand to his lips. His dark gaze glittered with deviance, catching you as you tumbled.

“You’ve come to the right person.”

Draco was sickened. You attended classes with him, and took your usual seat beside him to eat in the great hall. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed. Blaise, and the few others who knew about his side habit, were uneasy with your reaction. All except for Theo.

Ever since you’d began dating Draco four years ago, he’d been terribly jealous of Theo. Whenever the brunette was around, Draco was openly affectionate with you, growing possessive and territorial. He didn’t imagine it would ever be used against him, but you could turn anything into a weapon.

You weren’t one to be underestimated.

The boys talked about an upcoming quidditch match, the Slytherin team being led by Malfoy. Theo calmly discussed strategy with him, as if he hadn’t sided with you in the betrayal. Draco was too trusting of the brunette. 

Your hand slid up Draco’s back, your fingers threading in the hair at the base of his neck. He forced himself not to flinch, keeping his voice even. A hand dropped to your thigh, and you sipped the drink in front of you. Your nails were sharp on Draco’s neck, a veiled threat that made his skin crawl. 

“I want to show you just how interesting I can be,” you whispered in his ear.

His silver gaze moved to you, watching as you stood and swung your legs over the bench. You cradled his hand in your face, giving him a cold smile before pressing a bitter kiss to his mouth. 

You left the great hall, descending into Draco’s prefect dorm. Eyes trailed after you as you moved through the common room with grace. Pansy watched you disappear into his bedroom, pain spreading through her chest. 

You changed into black lace and silk, leaning on the armoire as he entered. The heavy door shut behind him, and his hands went to his tie, tearing it from his body. His silver gaze admired your body, and he began to wonder why he’d chosen Pansy over you, realizing his mistake. 

“What is this?” Draco dared to ask. 

“Boredom can be cured, Malfoy. You may be willing to toss me aside, but you know that I’m a better match for you. I’m the pureblood your parents pray ends up in your bed.” You pointed out, and he swallowed, unable to argue.

“Let me seduce you,” your hands smoothed over the clean white shirt that adorned his fair chest. 

He watched you touch him, your fingers undoing buttons and pushing the fabric off of his shoulders. He slipped out of the rest of his clothes, pulling on the tie of your robe.

You let him skim his filthy hand down your body, malice simmering inside of you. Your silk joined his clothes on the floor, and you led him to the bed, pushing him down on his back. You straddled his waist, settling down on his lap and lightly running your nails up his chest. 

You tasted poison on your tongue, and a vicious heat spread through your limbs.

Your hands slid up his arms, trapping his wrists at the headboard. Draco didn’t struggle as silk ties wrapped around his wrists, and you secured his hands to the wrought iron bars. Your sweet smile turned insidious, and icy fear paralyzed Draco. 

“Y/N-”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” You snapped, sliding off of his body like a viper. Your feet were on either side of his hips as you stood over the terrified blonde, and you considered kicking him in the ribs. He opened his mouth, but it fell shut with your dangerous look. 

You stepped off of the bed, and Draco thought you were going to leave him naked, tied to the bed. It didn’t matter, Pansy would be around in a few hours to free him. 

Draco’s fear heightened when you opened the door without dressing, his stomach dropping when another person entered the dorm. 

“Theo?” he croaked. 

His body jolted as the door slammed shut, the lock clicking in place and securing your privacy. Your venomous laughter rattled Draco’s spine, and you walked to the edge of the bed, standing before him. 

“Y/N, you need to let me go. Theo, untie me!” The panic in his voice fueled the fire of your wrath, and you smirked at how pathetic he looked. 

“I don’t need to do anything! I owe you nothing, you weak little bitch. Beg me.” 

He stared at you in disbelief, and Theo watched you. The room was buzzing with intense ferocity, your rage pouring off of you in waves and drowning everything in its path. 

You were going to get revenge, and it was going to be sweet. 

Draco’s will was strong, but it was no match for yours. Theo slid his tie off of his neck, but Draco was too focused on you to notice. You were entirely focused on emasculating Draco, determined to make him feel as pathetic and weak as you saw him. 

“Please untie me. I’ll do anything, I’ll break it off with Pansy, I’ll do whatever you want, but just untie me, please.” The desperation was clear in his voice, fear edging in his tone.

“No,” you answered coldly, and he jerked his wrists, the silk digging into his flawless skin. A frightened sigh escaped him, and he turned to Theo desperately. Theo tossed his own clothing aside, and Draco shook his head.

“No, no, Y/N, not with Theo!” Draco protested. 

You turned away from the blonde and pulled Theo against you, his tongue invading your mouth in a rough, forceful kiss. Draco yanked on the bonds, jealous fury burning through him as he watched Theo’s hands explore your body, grabbing and touching you in places that only he did. 

“You are going to lay there, helpless, weak, and pathetic. You are going to watch your best friend fuck me, and you’re going to stay tied up and powerless.”

A noise rose in Draco’s throat, and your hands gripped the sheets at the end of the mattress, bending over and facing Draco. The remaining lace was ripped from your body, and you shot Draco a sadistic smile. 

“You’re going to pay for this.”

“Open your mouth again, and I’ll force it shut.”

You stood up as Theo slammed you from behind, gripping the posts of the bed. Your fingers gripped the etched iron, and memories of having your wrists restrained on experimental nights came flooding back. 

Exhilarated screams left your lips, Theo filling in you in perfect ways, in ways Draco never could. 

“He’s so much better than you. You’ve been holding me back, Draco!”

Silver eyes were wet, delighting your cruelty. Your sharp laughter burned his ears, and his skin was raw from struggling. He watched the scene in front of him, knowing exactly how you felt, but Draco was weak enough to drown in it. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” he choked out as he watched Theo circle your clit in expert, practiced touches. Draco shook his head, watching his best friend, his teammate, and his partner come deep inside of you. He watched it drip down your thighs, your ecstatic, pornographic screams pounding in his head, echoing off of the walls as your own orgasm shattered through you. Theo shared your vengeful pleasure as he watched Draco fall apart. 

Your limbs were trembling as you stood up all the way, leaning back into Theo. You stared at Draco, furthering his shame and misery, twisting like a sickness in your chest. The poison of revenge was addicting, pumping through your veins like blood and filling your heart. 

“Y/N, I’m sorry, I’m so-” 

You lunged at the boy, your fingers closing around his throat, kneeling on top of him like he was your prey. 

“Draco, I will never forgive you!” you hissed venomously.

Theo was gone, leaving the two of you alone, leaving no witness to whatever crime of passion you were about to commit. The thirst for blood was thick on your tongue, the hunger for revenge making you violent. 

Draco screamed as your wand burned letters into his skin in thick, black ink. You drew back, admiring your initials that were now branded onto the inside of his hip, left by your hatred. His chest heaved as he watched you in horror, making your lips curve into a sadistic smile. 

“I own you.”

You left him restrained, knowing someone would find him eventually as the door closed behind you. Your heart was racing, all of your nerves buzzing from the adrenaline. 

Leaders don’t doubt themselves. Do what is necessary.

Pansy walked past, and you grabbed her black hair, yanking her back against the wall, pinning her to the cold stone with your own body. 

“If you ever touch what is mine again, I’ll rip every pretty hair from your head, and I will have you begging for death!” You seethed, yanking hard on her locks, tearing a terrorized whimper from her. 

“Got it?”

“Yes!” 

You threw her down and spun on your heel, leaving her shaking. Her scream echoed through the common room when she found Draco, and a sinful smirk adorned your face. 

You found you had a taste for wrath, and a talent for violence.

[scribeoffate]

a cat among animals

We both probably saw this coming.

Cat! boy Scott. It just needs to happen. And I am here for it.

It's not super risque but Ima do a cut just in case. cw: non-graphic discussions of sex, light consensual humiliation play

This is a story about Stiles convincing Scott that he would look absolutely adorable as a cat! boy. Theo seconds this notion.

Scott is not as easy a sell on this as they expected.

"Look I got little paws," Stiles says, holding out gray and white fur-covered gloves.

"The collar comes with a bell," Theo is way more into this than Scott (or Stiles) expected.

Eventually, they get Scott into the cat! boy costume. He's not that hard a sell. And he's as adorable as expected. The little gray ears on the top of his head. The tail coming out of the matching, skimpy little shorts Theo found. Scott even wears the booties and paws.

Stiles and Theo are both very pleased when they wrap the finishing touch- the black leather collar complete with a gold bell around his neck.

"Well," Scott says after they've been staring for an uncomfortably long time. "Aren't either of you going to fuck me?"

Stiles licks his lips. Theo growls.

Stiles elbows Theo. "Not until after a long walk around the block," Stiles says, holding out a matching leash. "We're not animals."

"Speak for yourself," Theo adds.