#holi boni!

[haoyyuan]

e. La baronesa obtuvo lo que merecía.

deslealtad de baronesa le había dolido aún cuando era nuevo en el clan. ' sí, obtuvo lo que se merecía. ' era una traidora después de todo, quizá tendrían que haberla juzgado de otra manera antes de asesinarla. ' a veces la sed de poder es mas grande que tus principios hacía la gente que creyó en ti. ' se imaginaba que así había sido comprada por el príncipe. su naturaleza humana desconfiada se seguía manteniendo en su cabeza y esto hacía que no creyera en nadie, solo en su sire. ' ¿tú participaste en la cacería? ' le entró la duda de si algunos otros clanes se unieron después de la fiesta clandestina. @maigawa

[rocketrouquine]

I’m going feral. Nay, I ascended.

[jonstarks]

when you start questioning your life choices after you spend two hours rides on your motorbike during heavy traffic on monday morning

[4unnyr0se]

❥ tsukishima plays the waiting game - part two

warnings: post-timeskip tsukki!, fem! reader, unrequited love(?), rough sex, doggy style, grinding, hickeys, spanking, unprotected sex, degrading, tsukki and his bandaged hands, he's an asshole but we love him in this house

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 970

Not only were you gorgeous, Tsukishima thought you were good conversation as well. You brought up news articles from several weeks ago and made incredibly compelling points and criticisms. He rarely got to speak intellectually with someone about things he read. Yamaguchi didn’t read what Tsukishima did, and his teammates weren’t really the brightest bulbs (especially Mad Dog.)

The two of you sat at his desk and ate a pizza, and you were eating considerably messier. He smirked and chuckled at your untidiness, often wiping crumbs or sauce from the corner of your lips. Your perfect, plump lips shone with strawberry gloss. 

God, he really fucking liked you. 

He couldn’t take it anymore, you were just too pretty. Pretty, smart, and not afraid to humble him. Tsukishima liked that. He pushed his lips against yours, unsure of what to do. He had never kissed anyone before. Tsukishima never wanted to until you slapped him across the face that May afternoon. You giggled into the kiss, sitting in his lap and cupping his blushing cheeks with your delicate hands. You guided him through the kiss, ensuring the tempo was right. He got the hang of it quickly enough, as he did with most things. 

Tsukishima took control quickly, grasping onto your hips to pull you further into his lap. The pressure from his strong hands caused you to grind down onto his strong and muscular thighs, the sensational friction causing you to moan into his mouth. He took this opportunity to slip his tongue past your teeth, exploring your mouth briefly before pulling away, a thin string of salvia connecting your lips.

The middle blocker had the biggest smirk on his handsome face. His golden eyes were filled with desire and sinister ideas. Tsukishima easily picked you up, tossing you onto his neatly made bed. He didn’t look like it, but Tsukishima was incredibly strong and muscular. Playing D2 volleyball yielded incredible physical results.

You squealed in joy as you landed on his fluffy comforter, quickly being silenced as Tsukishima crushed his lips on yours once more, pulling down the neckline of your tank top so your breasts would spill out. God, they were so fucking pretty to him. His calloused hands massaged the supple mounts whilst he kissed you so passionately, his taped thumb rolling over your nipples. Tsukishima’s chapped lips trailed down your neck, peppering the sensitive skin in kisses before landing on the spot just above the clavicle, his mouth unforgiving as he sucked a violent purple circle onto the flesh. He relished in your soft moans, adoring the feeling of your legs wrapping around his thin waist. Were you really that greedy? That was so fucking hot. So greedy, greedy for him and his touch. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He purred in your ear, his hands slipping past your jeans to massage against your clothed core. You were dripping; he felt it on his bony fingers. “Fuck, you’re so filthy for me.” He groaned, taking off your jeans and panties within seconds. Tsukishima took off his pants and boxers in tow, his girthy length slapping onto his stomach. He grinned smugly as he saw your pupils shrink upon seeing how big he was, were you afraid of him? That was so fucking hot, holy shit. He needed you. Tsukishima needed to bury himself inside your sobbing cunt. 

Tsukishima’s fingers plunged into you, bullying your cunt open. The tape on his fingers created a new sensation that you’ve never felt before. His ministrations in your core were calculated and desperate, finding that perfect spot within seconds. His taped thumb rubbed against your throbbing clit, soaking his digits in your slick. “Fuck!” you cried out, your hair forming a halo around your head. “T-Tsuki!”

“Hm? I can’t hear you, pretty girl. Speak up.” His voice was dripping with mockery. He tore his fingers out of your core, despite the fact you were sucking him inside like a vortex. “You want me to fuck you, is that it?” He grabbed onto your jaw and forced you to meet his gaze, his fingers squeezing your jawbone snugly. “Beg for it.”

“P-please fuck me Tsuki! Wanted you for so long, p-please!”

That was all Tsukishima needed before he flipped you over, ass on the air and on display for him. His hand guided his girthy length in, hissing as you imprisoned his cock so well. God, how were you this tight? He just fucked you with his fingers. “God, you’re tight. Fucking how?”

His hands grasped onto your hips as he fucked you mercilessly, the sound of his balls filling his dorm room accompanied by your wanton moans. Tsukishima’s calloused hands smacked the fat of your ass, squeezing the flesh in his large palm. “All fucking mine,” he grunted out, feeling your walls tightening around his cock. “You’re close, aren’t you? Good fucking slut, cum on this cock. Fucking cum on this cock, shit.” He grunted, feeling his own climax approach.

And you came, you came on his cock so fucking hard you thought you would black out from the sheer amount of euphoria coursing in your veins. You let out the most beautiful and pathetic cry that sent Tsukishima over the edge, spilling himself inside you.

“God,” he grunted, pulling himself out to be greeted with the sight of his seed spilling out of you, beautifully running down your thighs. “I wanted to do that since you smacked me.” 

You flipped yourself over on the bed and smiled at him, rubbing your ass to cushion yourself. “Me too, I know that’s kind of silly.”

“Shut up,” he kissed your cheek, blushing at the affection.

“You seriously just fucked me and you’re blushing over a cheek kiss?” you giggled, rubbing the back of his bandaged hand. “That’s adorable.”

“I’m kicking you out.”

“Wait no-”

part 2!! hope u guys enjoy hehe

[serpentface]

The (now extinct) utosai, the last of the great lacetors.

Lacetors are a clade of warmblooded reptiles that fill niches as large grazers. The only genera surviving in the contemporary are relatively small (averaging about the size of cattle), but many older species grew bigger than elephants. Utosai were the last remaining members of this branch, dwindling towards extinction as their once vast grasslands experienced rapid desertification over a period of a mere few millenia, becoming the massive, mostly uninhabitable desert region colloquially known as the Deadlands.

They would historically live in herds consisting of one male, several (sometimes dozens of) females, and their associated young, which would migrate vast distances to follow seasonal rains. Males would fight each other to gain control of their mates or tempt away singular females, with young males roaming in bachelor herds. As reliable grasslands grew sparser, these herds grew much smaller, with the last remaining utosai being found largely as small bands of females and lone, wandering males that would opportunistically mate when they were lucky enough to find each other.

Utosai had very thick scaly skin that folds in plates, in part a vestigial defense mechanism against large predators that had LONG vanished. Like many other lacetor, they had partly bony facial pads that grew large and colorful in males as display features. Their tremendous curving horns served predominantly as additional display features, while the smaller, jutting horns partly figured into intraspecies combat, with males standing side by side and front to back and swinging these horns at each other in ritualized combat behavior.

These horns were clearly of value to the people who once inhabited the same ranges as utosai, as their ivory figured heavily into their craftwork and holy objects and can be found near-ubiquitously in the burials of high ranking people in the east interior Deadlands. These surviving utosai ivory artifacts are of tremendous value, with the mere prospect of obtaining them tempting many graverobbers and other such wealth-seekers into the remains of ancient human settlements (a mostly futile and often deadly task, most accessible tombs have already been plundered and those still left in peace are hidden deeply beneath the sands).

Utosai lasted far longer than many of their counterparts, surviving on (and trapped within) dwindling patches of coastal grassland fed by ocean rains, too isolated within stretches of desert for any chance of migration to grasslands further from the equator. These last fragmentary populations were discovered by traders and treasure seekers sponsored by the early 2nd Burri empire, with many hatchling utosai being taken back overseas hundreds of miles north. It is unknown when the last wild utosai died, but all but the tiniest fragments of their coastal grasslands are gone and the great beasts are nowhere to be found.

The captive animals were bred in Bur and eventually produced a relatively large (and heavily inbred) population, probably maxing out at around 1000 individuals. They were never truly domesticated but could be made tame and well accommodated to handling, which eventually developed into their use as mounts, forming an elite cavalry unit used in warfare. A war utosai was outfitted with a shielded tower upon its back from which archers could fire from height, and would be driven by a rider on its neck. Their use was functionally similar to irl war elephants, being utilized for intimidation, to scatter enemy formations, and to lead (or break) charges. These were the largest animals that most people would have ever seen, and were often reckoned as nigh-invulnerable. The utosai was heavily used in Bur's wars of conquest, and became an esteemed animal emblematic of the second Burri empire's might.

Very few consistently effective counters to the war utosai were discovered during the duration of their use. One very famous, very successful counter was used by the pre-Wardi Ephenni tribe in its war of independence against the second Burri empire (which was already beginning to collapse). The province of Ephennos was of key import to the empire as a breadbasket, being highly fertile lands and providing much of the grain that sustained the empire. A cavalry of ten utosai (a VERY excessive number against a less well-trained, less well-armed group of soldiers) was brought overseas to assist in crushing dissent and were devastating in battle, with only two of the ten being killed in three years of protracted warfare.

In an act of cleverness, desperation, or both, a trio of khait were covered in pitch and set ablaze, and spurred into hurtling towards the bulls in the utosai cavalry. The utosai panicked and fled, trampling many Burri soldiers in the process and utterly destroying their formations, with three of the eight utosai falling onto their sides (weighed down by their towers) and killed by Ephenni soldiers. This allowed for victory in battle, and this victory ultimately turned the tide in favor of the kingdom of Ephennos and its eventual independence. A motif of three khait wreathed in flames is still widely used in this region and as emblematic of Ephenni heritage (who, while broadly assimilated into Wardi nationality, still retain a sense of individual identity, and pride in their city-state being a center of power and birthplace of kings within Imperial Wardin).

The use of utosai in warfare dwindled after the discovery of this fairly effective counter. They were no longer reckoned as nearly invulnerable, and the great cost of transporting and feeding these animals became increasingly inviable. Captive breeding began to dwindle along with their use in warfare. The last utosai were lost, killed, or slowly died off in the Burri wilderness during and after the empire's tumultuous collapse. Some folklore describes hidden populations surviving in some wilder areas- there are several places in Bur where people claim to sometimes see the silhouettes of these great beasts against the horizon, and the rural parts of Ephennos are rumored to have a few of them (perhaps descendants of the surviving war utosai, perhaps their ghosts). Otherwise, they are lost to the world.

[tojisun]

https://x.com/joincosmic/status/1738333868724572356?s=61

this is so Simon coded omgoshhh

!! nsfw - minors dni

p link! STARED AT THIS BUG-EYED?? AYOOWANFHEHD no yea that is so simon im gonna screammmm xp

just. you have always had a thing for hands and arms. the arms is obvious, you know, with the tattoos or the scars or, and especially, the veins. but the hands? this one is a whole lot trickier to explain – how do you even begin to tell people that you fixate on the way the fingers could look bony and ridged, or how the palms are often calloused and rough, or how a knot tightens in your stomach when you see split knuckles?

perhaps the actual reason as to why you like hands is because of what they entailed – control. strength. power.

dominance.

those that simon does too well.

his hold tightens around your neck where his palm lays flat along your throat, feeling the way it quivers with your every moan. his thick fingers spread your folds apart, teasing along your slit and your labia, and then pinching your erect clit, before plunging deep in your cunt.

he crooks his fingers just right, prodding against your gummy walls, forcing more of the sticky wet mess to gush out of you. and all you could do was sob your moans, unable to escape the crescendo of your pleasure; unable to thrash from where he continues to pin you with his bigger and stronger body.

you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum now. your overstimulation has long ebbed into another rising euphoria, the flames of your desire racing from the tips of your toes to the synapses on the base of your neck. you feel so exposed to simon; so vulnerable to his promise of making you feel good.

he listens to every hitch on your voice. every whimper. every moan. and his hands, his glorious and thick and strong hands, shift the way they touch you as though feeding off of your pleasure. he is still so gentle even as he tightens his hand around your throat, the other increasing its pace as it fingers you. as it fucks you.

your hips lift from his lap, your abdomen clenched as another crashing wave of your pleasure licks up and threatens to spill over. simon senses it because of course he does – he has been so attuned to your reactions; so endearingly focused on the hitches of your breath and the tightening of your pussy.

he presses a kiss on the valley of your shoulders. “jus’ one more f’r me, sweetheart,” he says.

you garble out a reply, you think. a mixture of yes-es and too much’s and simon.

simonsimonsimon-!

this one was. holy shit. just. im actually so speechless im-

[semperamans]

clo i need to know your thoughts on cal, johnny and benny all falling for the same, sweet local girl! <3 love ya xoxo

suse how could you do this to me :( currently trying not to scream cry and throw up in the coffee shop :( this somehow turned into jealous!danny? dunno how! kinda long, so ya gotta read more xo

benny says your name like it's this sacred thing and danny knows he's in for a treat. the sun grows weary as she dips beneath the tree line, but danny is unyielding; bony forearms braced on the tops of his thighs, microphone edging just a bit closer to his pondering interviewee. benny blows a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth, watching as it mingles with the cotton candy clouds and it's hard, danny thinks, to be around benny because everything he does is so damn picturesque. he's filled more than three rolls of film with just benny and yeah, he's gotta be mindful because film isn't cheap and he's broke but there's something about the way benny looks; leather cut laying just so over his shirtless form, white levis baggy from age, speckled with either dirt or blood, he doesn't know, and he's just so cool that it's impossible to resist. danny snaps a quick picture, scolds himself as the ticker tells him he's got four shots left, then turns his chin to watch as benny plucks the near-extinguished cigarette from between his teeth, flicking it into the grass. "what'dya wanna know about her?" "well," danny shifts in the creaky lawnchair, "y'know, i've talked to the guys and they, uh, they say she's the best thing that's happened to the club. girls are sayin' it too, n'not just cus she made you nasty bastards start washing your hands." benny is chuckling, pillowy lips damp from the swipe of his tongue. "so what is it about her?" danny asks then waits and waits and waits as benny sits, per usual, in silence. and, okay, maybe this isn't going as well as danny hoped and now he's scrambling, throwing haphazard sentences around his brain, but then benny is speaking and holy shit he's speaking. danny has never heard him say more than fifteen words but now he's a leaky faucet "she's good - everythin' about her - doesn't have a mean bone in her body, y'know? gave all've us a chance, gave me a chance." benny shakes his head as though he still can't believe it then stops, turning his head at the faint sound of the screendoor closing and there you are in a pair of cutoff overalls, hair pulled back with a crocheted bandana and danny can see it, the whole angelic thing. you pay neither of them any mind, tending instead to the flowers 'round the porch. your little yellow watering can is cute and danny can see the fondness constricting the base of benny's throat. "think m'biased." benny says, turning back to face danny. "but 've said it once and i'll say it till they throw me in the ground: she's heaven sent. an' i hope imma good enough man to see her again when i get where i'm goin'." danny leaves with a rekindled belief in love and hopes that maybe one day he’ll be lucky enough to be loved the way benny is.

it's been three weeks since benny's interview and danny can't help but notice things. he carries this leather notebook around - jotting down names and places and tape numbers - but the page he keeps coming back to is one he scribbled across a few days ago. the thing about benny's girl is that she isn't just benny's girl. he's circled it three times for good measure because benny's girl doesn't just belong to benny - sure, maybe in the ways it matters - but every single soul adores her; lights up when she walks in and it sure is a sight to see fifty or so bikers grinning and stumbling over their own feet for this girl who looks like she couldn't harm a fuckin' fly. if she had a male equivalent danny reckons it would be cal. cal with a personality as warm as fire, who talks to everyone, and cracks jokes, and is unabashedly himself. but cal has a temper and it shows during a run to akron. danny is interviewing zipco when he hears the commotion then suddenly everyone is stampeding toward two swinging figures and he knows this is where he steps back. it's a full-on brawl now and zipco sure as shit wasn't going to stay and yap while there was chaos amuck, so danny plops down, lights a cigarette and waits. "s'guy called her a bitch," cal says and danny almost jumps out of his fuckin' skin. where did the sun go? he scrambles to a sitting position, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth and smacking the record button on his cassette recorder. "what?" "some fuckin' prick called her a bitch." cal's got a handful of ice cubes pressed to his busted jaw and because the man knows no personal space a bloody mix has dripped onto danny's pant leg. "her?" danny's not following but the beat up boy tips his head and danny should've known. it's you. of course it's you. "not gonna let nobody talk to her like that. i don't take too kindly for no one talkin' ill to a lady, but 'specially her. s'the most fucked up shit you can do." that's when danny realizes that cal has it too. it's the same look benny had when you came out of the house - that dumb, lovesick gaze - but cal's is laced with longing and danny actually feels bad for him. "she sure is something." he says, testing the waters. he's out of cigarettes so his nimble fingers pluck a handful of grass from beside his boot. "sure is." cal takes a seat, reaching behind danny to grab the jug of strong-smelling alcohol. "never met anyone like 'er. been everywhere; hell to fuckin' Houston, never met a girl like her before." he takes a deep swig, grimaces, then swallows. "benny sure is lucky, ain't he?" danny says, peering under his lashes at the golden-haired boy and he laughs. "we're all lucky. she's the sweetest of the sunflowers, man. she's like the fuckin' sun. least she is to me - to us." poor bastard, danny thinks. poor infatuated bastard.

"where ya gonna be sittin', baby?" "with johnny." "good girl, c'mere gimmie a kiss." danny's at the bar nursing a beer and a hangover and probably a concussion and you know what? this kinda talk doesn't phase him anymore. he's used to it by now; sure he doesn't know the rules, but it's none of his business anyway and in his four months with the club he's learned, above all else, that bikers are fuckin' weird. still danny finds you, watches as benny grabs your chin bringing you up up up onto your tiptoes before planting delicate kisses onto your giggling mouth. "you go see 'em." it's a whisper and danny's not trying to eavesdrop but he finds himself leaning closer. "looks like he needs some cheerin' up." and maybe danny is still invested because he turns, following you as you float over to johnny's table where he's hunched over an intimidating stack of papers. you say something, but your sweet voice is too quiet over the racket and danny cares so he stands, goes over to the pinball machine, but doesn't turn it on. "hi, pretty." johnny reaches over, takes your hand, tugs you closer and you giggle, bracing your hands on his broad shoulders and this is different. none of the other guys put their hands on you - just benny, just benny because he's yours and you're his but johnny does it so naturally danny knows he's done it before. "what's goin' on, old man?" your voice drips nothing but affection and johnny smiles around his cigarette and launches into club dues and the upcoming springfield run and the dwindling bail fund and danny starts losing interest; his feet are going numb and there's only so much longer he can stand there pretending to fucking play pinball before someone catches on but then you're on johnny's lap and yeah this never happens. danny has seen benny beat the dog shit out of a guy for even suggesting that you sit next to him but now here you are, balanced on one of johnny's broad thighs, spinning his wedding band around and around his finger and benny sees, fucking smiles at the sight, and drops his head, lining up his next shot at the pool table. danny realizes you're talking and running your hand up and down johnny's arm as you validate his feelings and strategize fundraising plans and promise to bake some of your infamous strawberry shortcake bites. johnny's promised hand lays so delicately upon your cheek danny thinks he may kiss you but thank fuck he doesn't because danny'd surely blow his cover and a load in his pants because, okay, yeah, he gets it. knows now why everyone loves you, has started to catch feelings of his own but he's not johnny or benny and he'll never be able to touch you the way he wants so he guesses he'll join the ranks with cal as just another distant admirer. just another love struck bastard.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin - chapter three

of rage and ruin series

chapter three

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.3k

summary: you cannot escape the call of the moon.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, allusions to/threats of torture, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), depiction of injury, body horror, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, viewer discretion is advised, menstruation, slow burn

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Joel knows he’s a coward. He knows he’s making your life harder by staying wolfed out. 

But the thing is, he just can’t be fucked to care. He wants to. He wants to want to, anyway. But he didn’t ask to suddenly be responsible for the emotional well-being of some random fucking omega.

He was pretty sure there was no right move, anyway. You’re scared of him; you’re scared of the wolf. You’re scared. 

As you should be.

Not of him, no, but of this life. This life that has been his reality for the last three years. Now it’s yours, too. 

And fuck, if that thought doesn’t make his stomach clench and his chest draw tight. You don’t deserve this. He, arguably, deserves some of it. But not you. 

No, not you. He can tell. He can tell you’re so soft, on the outside and the inside. Not soft in the way that you’d give easily beneath his teeth, though that’s true as well. But too fucking soft to have been living in the goddamn apocalypse, let alone here. With him.

Here, which, as far as he can tell, is an abandoned high school turned raider camp. There are a lot more of them than he ever sees. Certainly, they all know about the beast in the belly of their home, but it’s only ever the same small group that takes him out or comes down into the sublevel. 

They’ve taken you away again. After his failed attempt at playing human, you’d stayed curled and cold in your cage for a day, and then they swept you off again to the room across the hall.

He tries, oh, he tries to ignore you. To forget that you’re there, that you’re so close, that the concrete cannot keep your scent from him or the throb of your heart or the salt of your sweat from the air. 

He fails miserably, of course. Strokes his cock daily, sometimes twice, to the sweet smell of you, to the way your pulse races when you hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his seed splattering against the drain. The way your own slick spreads and leaves him salivating. 

Until, one day, it doesn’t. One day, as the moon lazily waxes, drawing more and more of the wolf out to play, he wakes up to a new wave of sharp metal, and your essence is cut with a flood of bitter salt, not unlike the time last winter when one of his molars cracked and the abscess burst and he had to let them pull it from his mouth without giving into the urge to snap down around the bony wrist and condemn himself to death by dental infection. 

You’re woken by your new least favorite sound—the haunting howl of your neighbor. The timbre usually fills you with terror, but today, oh fuck, today, you can’t fucking take it.

You groan, crawling out from where you’d been curled up under the bench that had been protecting you from the horrible fluorescent lights. It did nothing for the ache in your lower back, or the ache in your neck, or the ache, well, everywhere. 

And you feel it. Hot and sticky. Not that you’re surprised, given the state of the rest of your body. Before you can muster up the will to care, the room spins, the tug in your navel moves up, and last night’s broth ends up back in the bowl it came in. Mostly. 

The howl comes again, longer, seemingly endless. At least, until you groan again and mutter, “shut up.” 

He does.

You freeze.

“Can you hear me?” you say just as quietly.

There’s a quiet whine.

“Holy shit.” 

You feel a fresh gush of heat between your thighs, and he howls in a way you can only call mournful. 

You ignore him in favor of figuring something out. There’s no good option in this room. You pull down your soiled panties and set them on the ground to sit, leaning up against the frigid tile wall in a corner where, hopefully, some of your dignity will be maintained when they come in and out with food. 

He howls a little more insistently this time.

“Look, please stop. I have such a fucking migraine,” you whisper with your head in your hands. 

He falls quiet and stays that way for a while. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to put two and two together, but he whines or howls each time fresh blood leaks out.

When it hits you, you freeze, heart scattering as you first assume that his noises are hungry. Once you calm, though, you know, somehow, that isn’t the case. Something—and you really don’t want to think too hard about it—tells you it’s concern. 

“Can you smell it?” you ask hesitantly.

He whines again, and you hear just the slightest change in his pitch and inflection. 

You’ve got to be fucking losing your mind. You’re talking to a wolf. 

Only… you’re not, really. Right? Unless you hallucinated it in fear-borne delirium, he was a man for about ten minutes. 

A man who said he wouldn’t hurt you.

Yeah, right. 

He whines again softly, and you scowl.

“It’s my period,” you say, feeling stupider by the minute. 

But he makes a loud huff of a sigh, and then the room across the hall goes quiet.

When they bring you back to the cage, there’s no man. Not a hint of him. Only the wolf. And they’ve tired of acclimating you, of letting you cower in the corner of the cage. 

With delicate gloved hands (who the fuck manicures their nails in the apocalypse, Cheryl!?), your rope is swapped for a shiny pair of handcuffs, the chain of which is clipped to the front of the cage. You’re stuck on your knees, hands in front of you. 

You consider clasping them and praying to your new lunar goddess for mercy. But there won’t be any. She can’t control her change any more than he can control his. 

You’re all beholden to your nature, now. 

He notices immediately, stalking over on all fours, ambling with his back hunched and teeth bared.

You flinch and close your eyes just before he slobbers on your wrist.

When you force yourself to look, you find him crouched, snout shoved up to the bars, and the long coil of his tongue flopped out. He’s lapping at the raw rope burn, and even though it’s wet and thick and disgusting, you don’t hate it. 

There’s something almost soothing about it. His saliva is a cool balm on the inflamed flesh.

So you just stare. He doesn’t stare back, though. His murky eyes stay fixed on the wounds, and he growls in warning when you shift almost out of his reach. 

So you hold still, a tugging in your sternum urging you to sit. Stay. Obey. 

Later, you’d think about how unnaturally natural it all felt. The way he seemed to lasso you in with those big brown eyes and the way you fell silent when he growled. The way your body moved as if through water back into his reach. 

The way you sit still for hours and let a creature more monster than man taste you in a way that should not be intimate, and yet, the slick pooling between your legs seems to disagree. The rough slip of his tongue on your raw flesh, the pleasant tingle his saliva leaves behind—it sits just on the right side of painful, the slight sting and then cooling relief stirring feelings you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. 

His eyes go as black as a cove whose lighthouse has long burnt out. And as the smallest whimper of a moan slips from your lips, you dash yourself upon the rocky cliffside. 

There’s one moment where you think he’s going to follow you into the depths. One long, fertile moment that’s over in a flash despite the way it gives him time to chew you up and spit you out. 

He’s on the other side of the room before you know it, blinking stupidly with your mouth hanging open. 

Oh, god. You can’t even turn your back and hide your face, cuffed as you are. He takes pity and doesn’t look at you. 

Tommy Miller had seen a lot of shit in his life. Between his stint overseas, his tendency to stick his head into dangerous situations, and the fucking apocalypse, he’s seen—and done—terrifying and disturbing things. 

Watching his brother turn into a storybook monster? Well, that takes the spot of the second worst thing he’s ever had to remember. 

Laura, the woman in the woods, the woman he’d made a widow, had warned them. The turn, she said, would never be easy. But the first time? The first time would break anyone’s heart.

There was no way to know how he’d be. Some of the alphas, she’d whispered, lost themselves. The wolf was stronger and drowned the man. 

Tommy wasn’t worried about that. Not with Joel.

No, it would have been better, maybe. There was a chance he wouldn’t have remembered it, wouldn't have remembered the agony and fear, had he been buried in his own body for the night. 

They’d chained him up in Laura’s basement. Tess had gone back into the QZ, keeping up with deals they had to deliver on. So Tommy was alone in the mildew with his big brother manacled to the cement wall. 

That was hard enough. 

As the sun set and the moon rose, fat and ethereal, Joel whimpered. 

Tommy set down the shotgun to get up.

“Don’t,” Joel snapped. “Do not put down that fuckin’ gun.”

“Jesus,” Tommy sighed and sat back down. He should have known his martyr of a brother was about to go off on a self-sacrificing soliloquy, but somehow, he was still caught off guard when Joel spoke again.

“I mean it, Tommy. First sign this isn’t going to hold me, you shoot,” Joel was saying when Tommy realized what he was going on about.

“Oh, shut up, Joel,” he groaned.

Joel was not going to shut up, actually, until that choice was taken away from him. The first in a lifetime of so many choices that would fall away, slip from his grasp and leave him tethered to someone else’s will. 

Something snapped inside of him. It burned like a motherfucker, and he grunted. Tommy made to stand up again, brows creased, and a hand outstretched, but when Joel tried to scold him, the only sound was a snarl. Ferocious and rough, with teeth too big and a crinkling, stretching snout. 

Tommy’s scent spiked sharp, and Joel won. His instincts tamped down the wolf’s aggression. He may as well have been staked in the heart for putting that fear on his brother’s face. 

When his limbs were done stretching, his spine snapping, his—oh, lord— his hair growing, he settled on four legs. 

Mine, he thought vaguely when he looked at Tommy, blinking his shiny brown eyes at the small man and ignoring him. He was too distracted by the thunderous mutiny of his achingly empty stomach. His eyes flicked once again to Tommy, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m not gonna be very tasty,” Tommy said wryly.

The monstrosity that was his brother, now, snorted and rolled its eyes. Tommy couldn’t stop it, couldn’t swallow down the laugh that bubbled up. It was a little unsteady, maybe, but he felt he was entitled to a little hysteria, given the circumstances.

“You can understand me,” he said. 

The creature stared at him blankly. It was like he could hear Joel saying no shit. 

Tommy scratched the back of his neck and took in the full, grotesque thing before him. “It’s fuckin’ weird, man.”

And that was it. It was that easy. 

As long as Tommy was around, Joel was still Joel, even when he was the Wolf. They were one symbiotic creature balanced on the pillar of their baby brother, guided by the inherent protective instincts that drove both man and beast. 

But he still wouldn’t return to Boston. Wouldn’t risk it, wouldn’t play games with Tess’ life. He wished he could say it had been to protect all the innocent people around him, but he had long since been that kind of man and was even less so, now that he wasn’t really a man. (This was a sentiment Tommy took issue with, but Joel had always been his own worst critic.) 

It would have been easy, he thought, to slip into place at Laura’s. To fill the gap they left behind that night. To soak in her sweet scent and raise another man’s children as his own. But easy didn’t matter, and in the end, he returned to the little cabin in the woods where Tess and Tommy would cycle in and out with the ebb and flow of the trades. He kept to himself, he kept quiet, and he kept his killing to the creatures of the forest (okay, and the stray raider, but really, that wasn’t so different than his life before). 

And then they came for him.

When you are returned to the cell, your cage is missing. It’s gone. There’s just an empty rectangle of dirt outlining where it used to live, like a flag. An abandoned roadside sign. No safe haven.  

The lackey, a Jim Morrison lookalike—if Jim Morrison had survived the apocalypse, shaved his head, and never skipped leg day—shoves you into the room with no kindness, watching as you stumble and catch yourself on the wall. The door clangs and clicks, chased by the clunky thump of the heavy bolt, and you look around in bewilderment. 

It’s empty. For now. 

They didn’t even leave your little fucked up mattress, so the only place to sit that isn’t the dirty, broken floor is his bed. And there’s no way in hell. You’re not fucking stupid. He’s superpowered and something of a man, but he’s still a territorial creature. 

Also. With the amount that he jerks off, you can only imagine the mattress has the qualities of a saturated sponge and would ooze if you put pressure on it. Unfortunately, this mental image doesn’t trigger your gag reflex but instead a horrible intrusive thought. 

You want to roll around on it. You want to kneel down on his mattress with your ass in the air and your face pressed in to suffocate yourself with his rich scent. It gnaws at your spine like a dog with a bone. 

Ouch. Too apt a metaphor. You retreat to the corner that formerly held your cage and sit with your back against the wall and knees drawn up, like you’re still trying to fit in its invisible confines. 

When the door opens again, you stop breathing. But it’s not the monster that enters. 

It’s the man. 

His only response to what Cheryl is saying is a nasty sneer; his lip curled enough to expose a much blunter canine than you’re used to seeing him sport. He knows you’re there, of course. But he doesn’t look at you; just scrubs a hand over his beard as the door shuts behind him.

You resume drawing shallow breaths, as if afraid to startle him with too sharp a sound. But the tension in his corded muscles tells you he’s already on edge, waiting. Waiting for you to do something. Anything. 

It’s the first real look at him you have, terrified as you were before. His nose twitches like he’s about to sneeze, and you realize with no small horror that the sticky slick is leaking from your core again. 

Your traitorous body doesn’t care that he’s terrifying most of the time. Because right now? Oh, right now… 

He’s still dripping from being hosed off, his dark hair slicked back and eyes shining under the sickening fluorescent lights. His body is solid— heavy. You think about how it’d feel pressing down on you, and another gush of fluid has your cheeks burning. 

He’s thick and veiny and covered in hair—and you haven’t even looked at his cock, yet. There’s a soft layer of fat over his abdomen, betraying the relative safety he lives in despite the constant danger. You kind of want to lick it, to trace your tongue up the path of hair to his chest.

You very carefully do not look at his cock, but as you’re taking in the breadth of his meaty thighs, he turns just so, and you get an eyeful of it anyway.

You’d like to get more than an eyeful.

Oh, Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?

He sits down on his ass on the mattress and pulls the sad excuse for a pillow over his lap. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he grunts. “Not used to havin’ a stranger around.”

You stare. You hadn’t expected him to talk to you, given how well it went last time. Why aren’t you more afraid? Why aren’t you hyperventilating, crying, pissing yourself in terror? 

Somehow, you believed him last time. And you do now, when he repeats it. 

“Ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he says quietly. 

And all you can do is stare. Finally, you wrench your gaze away and stare down at the ground. He’s staring at the wall, both of you trying to give the other a sense of privacy that simply does not exist here. 

You know his eyes lingered for just a moment on your breasts, where the frigid air of the sublevel has your nipples hardened and pushing against the thin sports bra. He dragged his eyes away like it hurt not to look.

“Okay,” you say after it becomes clear he’s waiting for a response. 

“Alright,” he says, just as gruffly. 

The silence is humid, sliding sticky across your skin. You try not to look at the naked man across the room, but you can’t quite keep your eyes to yourself. ��So… what are you?” you finally ask, wincing as you do. What a dumb fucking thing to ask.

“I’m an alpha,” he says, like it was a dumb fucking thing to have been asked. 

“Cool,” you say quietly. “That clears up absolutely nothing,” you mutter, forgetting that he can apparently hear you across the hall and through two steel doors, so the little room isn’t likely to be an issue.

He raises an eyebrow. “Whoever bit you didn’t tell you anything, huh?”

“Whoever bit me? ” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, which you think is a little rude, actually. “Yeah, you know. With teeth.” He pauses. “Wait. You’re from one of the test groups, ain’t’cha?”

“You mean the vaccine tests? Yeah.” 

“Nobody told you what it means? Any of it?” 

“I’ve heard people say alpha before,” you say defensively, even though you know you’re defenseless. “And I’m an omega, or whatever.”

“Yeah, that’s about right,” he said. He scratches his beard again and regards you. “Shit, so you really don’t know a damn thing, do ya?” 

You burn hot. “Guess not.” 

“Ain’t your fault,” he says with a lackadaisical wave of his hand. But he doesn’t offer any explanations, either. 

Great. Glad we had this talk. You keep your thoughts to yourself this time and clam up otherwise, resting your head where your arms are folded on your knees. The air is chilly where the slick is drying on your panties, and you shiver a little.

“You’re cold,” he says, his brows pinched together and disdain in his eyes.

“No shit,” you mutter.

He sighs. “Thought you’d run hot, too.”

“Thought you knew everything.”

He rolls his eyes and then heaves a weary sigh, as if your ignorance is a burden he must bear. “Fine. I’ll tell ya what I know. What do you want to know first?”

“How about your name?” You raise your eyebrow. 

His head jerks back a little, eyes widening by a few degrees, before relaxing almost imperceptibly. He takes a moment, an uncomfortably long moment, where his eyes narrow and one corner of his lips twists. Like it hurts him, somehow, to think about.

“It’s… Joel.” 

next chapter

[meiluu]

Leon S. Kennedy NSFW Drabble

Plagas!Leon/ Reader(AFAB) *not edited*

cw: SMUT 18+ MDNI

He needed you like he needed air, you were precious- irreplaceable. You were the best thing that ever happened to him and you were the biggest motivator to come back home while he was on his mission in Spain. Death had its bony fingers wrapped tight around him and it was only after he ripped apart Saddler and all of his little minions with their own ‘holy body’ did he finally feel deaths grasp loosen. Leon felt a surge of satisfaction at how he was able to resist Saddlers tries at controlling him, it brought him absolute joy watching as his face twisted up in confusion and anger at how Leon was stronger than him. But none of that mattered, all that mattered was seeing you in what felt like an eternity had passed. Leon had gotten the chance to clean and change his clothes, holding his duffle in his left hand he saw your car pull up into the airport parking. His whole body buzzed in a mixture of excitement and anticipation to what was to come.

Your intoxicating smell filled the air around him, and your sweet whimpers of pleasure were nothing short of a symphony to his ears. God you were so beautiful like this. Covered in his marks along with his cum smearing the insides of your thighs. He had done a good job fucking you dumb, reduced to nothing but moaning mess. This was the perfect opportunity to change you. Leaning down while still keeping his pace of his cock bullying into your cunt, he lets his canines elongate. Finding the spot where your neck and shoulder meet he sinks his teeth in as he feels the walls of your cunt squeezing and quivering around him as you orgasm for the umpteenth time tonight. A shocked cry of pain mixing with pleasure falls from your lips as Leon pushes parts of his plaga into you. A moment passes before he’s satisfied with his work, pulling back he can already see the faint black veins spreading from where he bit you. His own veins darken in response to yours his body trying to call out to yours- even though the process has just begun. “So beautiful, my good girl.” Voice rough with lust, his hands begin to massage and comfort your body while his once burning kisses now turn to soft loving one’s gently worshipping your tired body. Hopefully your transition will be quick- he couldn’t wait to see all of the changes that the plaga will bring to you.

This is kind of a continuation/ alternate version of my other plagas!leon Drabble lol, i am obsessed with this concept. I may write another Drabble that’s actually a continuation of this one, but that is tbd

[redflagshipwriter]

Halfa Cass ch 10 pt 2

masterpost

Gotham was a closed fist that night, tense and ready. Black Bat gleefully swung out to match it.

Before they even left the batcave, Barbara Eyes called in to tell them that there was a hostage situation. Black Bat and Robin cleared out the civilians trapped in the building while Batman riddled the SillyMan. Batdad was still glowering at the truck to take SillyMan back to Arkham when a fire broke out in an apartment complex.

Sad.

Robin was too little to drag grown people out of windows, so he worked triage as Black Bat evacuated residents and hunted for pet cats. The fire trucks arrived. The blaze went out, but the building was still dangerous. Black Bat kept an ear open and paid attention to Robin through comms as she made sure everyone was out into the night air. He found the people with carbon monoxide poisoning and he gave strict instructions and he said, “Move! You, when the ambulance arrives, call for an AED.”

Black Bat moved.

The chihuahua in her equipment pouch quavered and shook, because he didn’t know that Robin was too 8-years-old to administer the correct pounds of force for CPR. The cat clinging to her front yowled a war cry and dug 20 toes into Cass’s armor. Good cat. They all went down the outside of the building together to where Robin was starting CPR. He glanced up at Black Bat as she arrived. Rhythm? Perfect. Depth? Not enough.

Again, Robin is small. Human body is the limit. Weighs about 50 pounds. Baby birds have light bones.

“Trade,” she said tersely. “Cat.” The dog was secure enough.

Robin professionally took the cat and Black Bat did chest compressions. An old man wailed, hands in his thin hair. The old lady laid there on the cement in a sooty house coat with bony, bare feet. Air puffed out meaninglessly with the lung massages. Robin leaned forward to do the breaths, cat held against his chest and cradled carefully with one hand. 

Black Bat focused. Bone in the chest cracked under her hands. She grimaced, the expression hidden under her mask. If only she could reach in and directly massage the heart. She would give it the squeeze that would bring grandma smokey lungs back and the old man would stop crying, crying, crying–

Her hand slipped.

She stopped.

Black Bat looked at it. Her wrist was poking out of the victim’s chest. No blood, no broken skin, no force. Strange feeling, like being in fog and jello. She flexed her hand carefully and it brushed through bone and veins.

“How convenient,” said Robin. “Can you apply direct stimulation?”

She felt for the heart. Found the depth. Wanted it. Yes! Black Bat grasped carefully, butterfly-gentle.

It worked! Holy shit! Black Bat laughed incredulously. “Moving!” she said. 

Robin held his hand up to check for breath. “She’s breathing,” he reported, so pleased. We did it. We have done the only thing that matters.  He had? No curiosity as to how she had done this. She had big sister powers, that was how. Haha, Robin. So cute.

The man started to pray, little things like “Thank you, sweet lord, thank you, thank you.”

Black Bat stood up, looking around for something soft and warm. The lady had bare feet. She would be cold.

Fortunately, she saw the blue lights of the first ambulance arrive. She waved it over. A line of others were right behind it. The people who Robin had arranged for triage reported for treatment.

“I request that you do not speak of this,” Robin said tersely to the old man. Good bird. “It would be very inconvenient for Black Bat if the criminal element understood her full capacity. I, in turn, would make life very inconvenient for you-”

“Have a good night,” Black Bat interrupted. She reeled Robin away, found someone who knew the dog, and barely remembered that Robin had to give the cat back as well. Once this was done, they went back on patrol. Cass felt like she was in a dream. Maybe? Maybe being a dead little girl was a good thing.

There was a carjacker working busy-bee, there was a mean man shoving his boyfriend into a wall outside a club, there were a dozen little fights. They should have been too busy to deviate from patrol. But Cass felt a restlessness in her chest to go back, back to the mechanic. More than before, she felt full of strange energy and possessiveness. This was her Gotham. It was her territory. Pretty mechanic girls can’t go put magic guns on her street: it is rude. 

So Black Bat stopped in a private place to consult with Robin, using talking hands. No voice: no Batdad weighing in.

Robin agreed.

Yes! 

They went. 

If it was anything like the other night, Miss Jacqueline would be asleep on her couch. They would sneaky in and loom until she woke up. Then, they would fight.

Or talk. Whichever.

[ginnysgraffiti]

OMG Lee from bones and all clit play ONLY plzzzz im begging

I LOVE LEE'S REQUESTS-

needy lee, fingering, dirty thoughts, 18+

&. LEE x yn

it was early morning.

the rear windows of the van let a dim and sleepy light pass through the already boiling glass.

you moaned something when you realized the total presence of your boyfriend sprawled over you.

your soft sighs filled the car as your sleepy lee kissed up and down your neck, leaving his reddish marks here and there. everything that starts as an innocent walking up with him always turns out to be a physical mess.

maybe it was his eater-thing or just his habit.

"mmmh...you are so beautiful." he growled, sucking on the part between your neck and shoulder.

his voice was way deeper in the early morning.

you threaded your fingers through his soft red-brown curls and he chuckled.

his whole chest throbbed.

he was actually shirtless, without mentioning he always sleeps shirtless, but it took you a moment to realise.

"you always have to touch me, hm?" he asked, teasing you with his dumb ass smirk.

you smiled as he looked at you, leaving a kiss on your lips before he dipped into your neck again. his hand slid down the waistband of your pajama pants and your breath hitched as his bony tattooed fingers began to move into your still covered nether regions.

his hands were your religion.

no going back.

"already so wet, hm?" he whispered deeply in your ear.

he quickly slid your pants down your legs and smirked when he saw the black silk panties you were wearing.

"are they just for me baby?" lee asked, eyes sparkling.

you blushed and nodded as he rubbed your clit through your underwear, you arched your back at the contact.

he was a fucking god doing that.

les kissed your chest, sliding your underwear down, running his finger up and down your folds.

his expression said it all.

he dipped a finger in and you moaned at the sensation.

you could feel your liquids going down his fingers as you squirmed and that made you even wetter.

you know he would have licked them.

as always.

your boyfriend kissed your lips as he began to pump in and out at a slow pace.

holy fuck.

when you let out a guttural moan, an animalistic smirk appeared on his face. he curled his fingers upwards, making you gasp.

"does my dirty baby like it?" churches.

you nodded helplessly and he added a second finger, curling both of them quickly, pushing them both into you. you grabbed his strong shoulders as he pressed kisses to your jaw, sliding in a third.

all his back muscles had contracted slowly, you could feel his nerves.

"you're doing so well for me." he whispered deeply.

lee hit your g-spot, making you come in a complete mess.

your legs were shaking, but he sensed something when he stepped out.

shit.

you looked up at lee, whose eyes were wide in shock.

he pulled his dripping hand away, licking his fingers in front of you, and smirked when he realized what had happened.

you blushed in embarrassment as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours.

"i want you to do it on my cock now."

apparently breakfast could wait.

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 2 || Masterlist || Chapter 4

Chapter Summary: After finding his debts you decide to take matters into your own hands...what a terrible decision...

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Historical Typical Sexism, Debts, Domestic Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Blackmail.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes:

★For those of you possibly turning around and saying “£290 is nothing for all of what Sherlock has bought”

...I’ll remind you this is set in 1890 and so since then inflation has risen greatly...

★So for the modern reader I must insist to explain that £290 in England is now worth £30,671...

★And for my American readers that would be $38,948

★And for my Australian readers that would be $58,490

★Basically...Sherlock Holmes is a material gorl 💅

Inspiring Song: "Ghiribizzi" by Paganini

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

7:35am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You wobbled onto your feet as Mrs Hudson entered the apartment with a scowl... probably because of something Sherlock said to her in passing the stairs.

The old crow’s frown spirited away when she noticed you were awake and outside of your bedroom.

She smiled warmly in fact and bid you a good morning. You returned the expression as she came and collected the breakfast plates.

Your fingers trailed over the countless of papers on the table and the sleek wood of his violin.

Shuffling through each parchment and a sigh drawled from your lips.

“Mrs Hudson,” you hummed as she passed you, “I request you show me the expenses of the household purse.”

It was a common duty of a wife nowadays to keep track of all home expenses.

She paused and her eyes widened, her mouth flapped open and closed quickly again. Her teeth grimaced and her bony finger wagged, “I am afraid my dear, they are in Mr Holmes bedroom, and as I said yesterday, he can be an incredibly private person.”

His bedroom? Oh yes...he kept it locked. But by god you needed to get to the bottom of this theory you were building in your mind. You were married and a married couple shouldn’t withhold secrets.

“I am his wife, I am the second close thing to the holy trinity in his life now,” you snorted softly as you collected all the papers on the table and made a neat single pile, “I will see the documents and understand his predicament.”

“And which predicament may that be?” the housekeeper inquired as she laid down a fresh virgin cup to pour scolding tea from the hot teapot.

“Enola mentioned something about debts,” You clutched the front of your dressing gown to contain some decorum while you sat back down and gestured to the chair beside you for her to sit in as well, “his foul dismissal of my presence suggests not only disdain of our union but in addition a set of a secrecy and disfavour I will not permit in my marriage.”

You needed to know exactly how much debt he was in. You were willing to part some of your dowry to pay for it if you could. His aggression was surely caused by the stress of these debt...if you could lift them off his shoulders, mayhaps he would be kinder, gentle and respectful.

She passed you the cup and saucer while she took to pouring herself a cup. The elder woman smiled giddily.

You were pleased that there was no judgement of your modesty before her. It was a fine change compared to your strictly grandmother who would berate you if you dared leave your bedroom under dressed.

The elder cradled her cup and lowered it carefully, clearing her throat, “Mrs Holmes...”

You blinked...you believed you had asked her to not call you by your new name, out of friendliness.

“Mrs Hudson?” you queerly answered.

“Before your marriage,” her lip curled inward and her fingers lightly tapped her cup, she looked to the tea and quickly glanced up at you, “The detective entertained himself in some...appalling activities. I think it best not to open those locked pasts for your own sake.”

Appalling activities...in a world of proprietary that could mean anything...you did have your thoughts...you were only surprised that the notorious detective would risk tainting his reputation with some illicit practice.

You swallowed dryly before sipping lightly at the tea. You licked your lips and sighed shaking your head, “Speak plainly Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh please,” She prayed mortifyingly, “I daren’t repeat it.”

It wasn’t difficult to see the pink rising in the pale wrinkled face of Mrs Hudson.

You leant over the table and used small tongs to pick up a sugar cube and clenched your jaw. You wouldn’t play in another game of riddles, especially not with a elder woman with a privacy for embarrassing details. The sugar fell into the cup with a soft plop in the awkward silence, a ticking of the clock caught in your ear.

“Tell me or leave Mrs Hudson,” you pinched the papers on the desk , “I have documents to find and unless your words hold any meaning, do not bore me with unheard gossip.”

Her beady blue eyes under her spectacles fluttered, her lips parted at your stern tone. She inhaled deeply and looked around the room before leaning in closer to you.

She said in a hushed whisper, “My dear girl, your husband is a whore mongering, drug addicted gambler.”

Now that was a surprise to hear fall from her wrinkled lips. You pinched your forehead and rubbed thoughtfully. How would you handle this type of man?

You glanced at her with a small grin.

“Was- Mrs Hudson,” You corrected, tapping the table with your knuckle, “I will not allow such boyish whims into my marriage,” you wagged your finger at her and flashed her a devious smile, “He shall need to divorce me if he wishes to continue such behaviours, it might be harder for me to remarry but I trust not a single woman would last longer than me as his wife.”

A small laugh came out of the woman who gave you a dramatic military salute, she grinned and chortled, “Well, I admire your determination, but however will you enter his chambers? He has the only key.”

Your chest deflated, she was right. How would you? You chewed the inside of your cheek and looked over your shoulder to look at the closed bedroom door on the far side of the wall beside your own.

You slowly pushed up to your feet again and trapesed back to your bedroom, “Mrs Hudson, wherever did you put my hat box?”

The elderly woman put down her cup and swayed inside to follow you, she pointed to above the wardrobe. Standing on your toes you palmed the box down and laid it on your unmade bed.

Mrs Hudson was opening up your wardrobe and peeling through your hanging hooks of dresses and coats.

“My dear, surely you’re not intending to go outside in your frail condition?” she muttered as she trailed a fresh chemise over her arm.

Shaking your head you jerked you chin, “No Mrs Hudson, indoors I will remain.” Your hand clenched your lower belly with a hiss as a nasty cramp prevailed, “I don’t recall entirely but I believe a doctor was here last night, said I have begun my menses for this month.”

“I can see dearest,” Mrs Hudson hummed, pinching at your dressing gown...you had bled through it. A wet crimson patch stained the white cotton. You balked and flushed.

“Best get it off now,” Mrs Hudson winked, pulling it back and off your naked shoulders, “I’ll make you some packing.”

You shuddered and gasped at how forward your housekeeper was presenting. Respectfully speaking, you wondered if Mrs Hudson had been a ladies maid in her earlier years before her own marriage.

You tiptoed to the water basin on the vanity and squeezed the clean cloth inside of it. You cleaned the red and burgundy chunks and stream between your thighs. Your washed your hands back in the water and faced Mrs Hudson sheepishly. She smiled and pulled the chemise over your head.

“Let me roll some packing,” she said, pulling a bandage from the top drawer of the vanity and folded it into a flat palm of thickened fabric.

You shoved it up against your intimate flesh and squeezed your thighs together tightly.

Mrs Hudson then found a sanitary apron in the same drawer and helped tie it behind your back.

“Mrs Hudson you are a fine woman of elegance and saintly kindness,” you exhaled, “Thank you.”

“I remember when I was a freshly married girl,” She clucked happily, “My dear friend was a constant visitor and helped me with these things. Mr Hudson grew very jealous of our time together,” she sighed, “Now, do you require a corset my dear?”

You shook your head and plucked your fingers, “I shan’t accept any visitors, and in my sickly state it would be kinder to leave it be if I should make a mess of my inconvenience.”

If your stomach threw up from the stress of your internal curse, you didn’t want to wash through the delicate fabrics of your whale bone undergarments.

You found a loose blouse and black skirt to pull and button onto your body. You pulled up a pair of stockings.

You sat on the bed as Mrs Hudson buttoned your shoes up with a hook. As the kind older woman did this gradually with her small fingers and greying eyes, you pulled the lid of your hat box away.

You pulled out a long metal stick...

A sharp hat pin.

“There we are, all done and ready for the day!” the housekeeper announced, rising to her feet.

You rose up with her and smiled, “Please Mrs Hudson, might I burden you with making another pot of tea?”

She beamed and nodded.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

08:45am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You were grunting on your knees before Sherlock’s locked door. Your hat pin jammed into the key hole. The tip of your tongue stuck out the corner of your lips as you shuffled the metal and tried to carefully listen to the locking of the inner gears.

Little did anyone know...this little talent you learnt on your own... Breaking into your grandfathers wine cellar was not a overexerting task when you were fifteen. It wasn’t a desire to rebel, rather a desire to educate yourself...you wanted to be seen as intelligent and knew your wines.

It wasn’t too long before you came to hate the bitter taste...and then found your grandfather’s rum drum.

When he found you, he didn’t not strike you and decided the headache you received in the morning was punishment enough for your sinful deed. And for a whole week he made you drink a cup of the stuff every night, to teach you why alcoholism was not befitting for a lady...

You smirked at the memory. Perhaps it was unorthodox. But it was kinder than a lashing or earful from your grandmother.

It was just one of many secrets between the both of you.

The loud click and sliding of the last inner lock made your eyes sparkle. As you twisted the handle the door peeled open with a awful squeak.

“My lord, what a mess!” you gasped.

The room was in a disarray. A smell of mould and death hit your nose. You gagged and felt your belly churn.

There was cigar burns in the rug, papers, news papers and books thrown about. There were plates that were piled up in the corner on a desk and there was a dirt dried mud trails...

The curtains were stained and the dust was unbelievable. When your finger ran along a small stand beside the door your finger came back looking pitch black with the soot.

You sat back and stood up. Piece by piece you picked up all the papers and went to his filing cabinet drawer, it was empty! Of course it was empty, all the contents had been tossed about, decorating the room messily.

You fingered the massive haul of papers and sighed, you would need to organise them all...

Taking them back out to the dining table you started to arrange piles of parchment stacks. Receipts, paid and unpaid, by date and purchases. Your eyes catered to the numbers, you fetched a notebook to tally the expenses and sighed, cupping your mouth every so often at his choices of spending.

You were so caught up in your own thoughts and game of pounds, shillings and pence, you hadn’t heard the return of Mrs Hudson with a fresh pot and tea set.

“Dear me,” she said clicking her tongue and shaking her head, “It looks like you’ve got your work cut out! Now what’s all this?” She asked picking up a receipt off a pile.

Rolling your shoulders back she smiled proudly at the organisation of affairs. You gestured to the individual sheet stacks.

“Ah sings Den, Cocaine Tooth Drops, Black Shag Tobacco, gambling...prostitutes,” you chewed your lip worriedly as you glance back at the small note book you write on with a blunt pencil, “He has wracked up a wicked sum...”

The housekeeper put the receipt back and sat beside you after pouring you another warm tea, this time she added the sugar cube for you and stirred.

“How much?” She whispered looking over the thick almost book like mountains of papers.

Since the new year began...Sherlock had designed quite the irresponsible money expenses and debts...

£5.65 for the Opium Den experience.

£3.25 for the Cocaine drops

£10.41 for the tobacco.

£120.78 for the overall gambling.

£150.33 for his Mayfair Row whores to Madam Adler.

Total: £290.42....

You felt your lips tighten, your belly squeezed. You paled and frailly held the cup to your lips, softly blowing and softly stating, “Perhaps that number I will keep to myself Mrs Hudson,” you pushed a pile close to her and tapped at the top, “Be not alarmed however, he seems to dedicate his rent responsibly to you.”

She chortled and shook her head, “Oh I don’t mind that, I trust him to,” her eyes narrowed at the

Mayfair receipts, “I just never liked the company he brought home.”

Your eyes widened and it was like air had been stolen and kicked from your lungs, “He brought...” you choked, shutting your eyes, “Those...those women back here?”

She grit her teeth and finished her tea, “Yes, they leave like newborn foals with wobbly legs.”

When Mrs Hudson caught your worrisome eyes she gasped and tapped your hand softly, “Forgive me, I needn’t provide details.”

You pursed your lips disapprovingly before conceiting, “As much as it is wounding to hear, it is unavoidable,” you sighed and poured yourself another tea, “As his wife it is best I know everything about my husband and if he is to keep secrets from me,” you shrugged, “However shall I be a decent partner?”

Mrs Hudson put her cup aside demurely and leant closer to you. Still in her hushed tones, ashamed of the secrets she was sharing...but her eyes were full of excitement, perhaps this gossip was something she needed off her conscious.

“I would hear them in the night, screaming...I thought he was killing them,” more colour was flushing back into her face. A rosy hue dusted her nose and cheeks, “I am thankful every time when I would see them leave with smiles on their faces.”

You sat back in your chair abruptly and looked at her curiously, “Screaming and smiles?” You whispered under your breath, “How peculiar.”

It wasn’t possible. Did he hurt those prostitutes like how he had done to you? How did they walk away with smiles? Was it because he paid them? Not even you could think how to muster a smile after experiencing such awful tortures.

“I thought perhaps, he did what he had done onto you my dear...but when I saw the blood and your lack of pleasantry, well, I can confidently say-”

You slapped your cup on the saucers hard enough for a loud clatter, you said tightly, “Mrs Hudson I’d very much prefer to forget yesterdays events, if you don’t mind...please do not refer back to them.”

The mention caused a spike of pain inside you, reminding you where he stuck his hot selfish poker.

The elder woman grew quiet for a moment. She looked off at the window in the distance and then down at her cup.

She nodded and tried to share a soft smile, “Apologies for any offence.”

A stab of guilt panged in your chest, you hadn’t mean to be so rude to her. Your nerves were in a terrible mood. In a moment you would be happy and then the next you would feel worrisome and hungry. Perhaps you might’ve grown to be afflicted by the disease of Hysteria?

Oh Hysteria, what a terrible condition...you dreaded the thought of need to go for a medical massage. One of your female cousins had been to one and her description made it sound both enlightening and frightful. In fact she said it felt like she had died and gone to heaven and returned.

All of which made you scared beyond belief.

“None received,” you pat her hand and brought her palm to your lips, “You are a kind Christian and for that I say god bless you Mrs Hudson.”

She smiled warmly and stole a soft kiss to your cheek, all was forgiven between your temper.

“Oh my dear, I must additionally confess,” she stunningly proclaimed, “Sherlock doesn’t attend church.”

Your brows rose, “What?” You snorted through a laugh, unable to comprehend her truth, “Don’t be ridiculous, what upstanding gentleman doesn’t attend church?”

You giggled and cheerfully wiped a tear away, your sanity returned when her face had remained stone solid. She did not find it funny and you realised finally it was because in fact not a joke...

You glanced over the papers...back to the number on your notebook...ah of course...no god fearing man could sin so easily...waste away fortune so carelessly and spend it on unnecessary frivolous activities.

“I think that might be the answer to your own question. The Doctor Watson wrote his newspaper articles and depicted him London’s hero. He can be truly a godless man. Frankly I believe he’s a sadist.”

You tilted your head at her and drank some of your tea.

You hummed and held a finger to your lip in thought, “Yet you said those women had smiles on their faces when they left?”

Mrs Hudson shook her head curtly and smirked, “Well I think I’d smile too with the amount he probably pays them.”

Laying your elbow on the table with your chin on your head you looked at the brothel papers, “You are right...they are over priced...Mayfair Row...they’re quality...but nonetheless still he pays them far too much.”

Your husband was an exuberant tipper when it wasn’t his money. Mayfair Row...you hadn’t been inside the Dove club where Sherlock spent most the wealth...but you knew the average price of a whore...it took you back to a time...many, many years ago...back when you believed you had a mother that loved you...back when seeing a naked man behave like an animal writhing on-top of her was your normal life. Where you mimicked the actions with your cloth doll that you carried everywhere. You tried to remember the name of that doll....Susie? Harriet? God only remembers now.

They weren’t pleasant memories...the stench of mud, the screaming of women, the yelling if men, the bite of hunger and the itch of lice in your hair and fleas covering your clothes.

You shuddered. Thank god you still did not live with her anymore. It was the only life you knew in those days but suffering is suffering and you amazed you how long you survived in such conditions.

The elderly woman looked into the pot and sighed at the low level of tea.

“I am surprised you know so much about them,” she casually noted, glancing back at you.

You realised how strange you must’ve sounded...you heart began to race. You grimaced, annoyed at yourself for being so relaxed you lost thought of your own words.

“Call it a terrible interest Mrs Hudson,” you licked your bottom lip and lied, “I was a reader of Josephine Butler’s work on her dismantlement of child sex work.”

She nodded slowly, clearly Mrs Hudson had no idea who Mrs Butler was...you felt a twinge of agitation for the uneducated.

You tapped your fingers nervously on your cup again and off handedly asked “Do you know if there are anymore receipts I might find Mrs Hudson?”

“No idea I’m afraid,” Mrs Hudson said as she noticed your cup was finally empty. She collected the tea set items and placed them on the tray. You turned in your seat and looked back at Sherlocks open door, there was still so much mess. You shook your head.

Before the housekeeper left you touched her arm.

“Please fetch me a broom and cloth and clean water.”

She followed your gaze at his room and warmly cupped your face, “Dear, perhaps you should lay in bed for a while, you shouldn’t be working so perilously in this physical state.”

You smiled and held her hand, rising out of the chair. You walked back to his room and called over your shoulder, “I would rather clean my husband’s hovel. No wonder he’s a beast considering he lives like one.”

You could hear Mrs Hudson cackling behind you as she went back down stairs only to return with your requested items after a while.

A clean room might clear his head, calm his woes.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

12:23pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

After hours of sweeping, dusting, mopping, washing and organising Sherlock’s room you tiredly flopped back on his mattress and yawn.

At this rate you considered a small nap was required. Except you knew yourself, you knew if you stopped your progress you’d be discouraged to finish.

There was one last thing to organise after folding and hanging all his clothes. At the foot of Sherlock’s bed was a large chest. It could be easily mistaken for an ottoman. Maybe they’re would be more debt documents or clothing in there.

You crawled down and climbed off his bed to crouch beside the chest. You clicked the latches open and lifted the lid slowly.

Inside were sinister objects...you gasped...too shocked to even close the chest. Rope, shackles, knives, long thin sticks, a riding crop, a whip, a bridle you knew deep down was too small for a horse and meant for a human...smaller boxes with printed words....rectal dilators and hysterical paroxysm vibrating aid. And the illustrations...

There was a book you were reading...you weren’t really thinking, you were just curious of the horrid that might follow within...

Men and women, all nude, illustrations and photos of them performing elaborate sexual deviancy. Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat. Between your legs the buzz of arousal enlightened to your belly.

There was a woman who was tied up in ropes in star like patterns being mounted by a man who held a riding crop in his hand. You paled thinking he was beating this poor woman...and as you read the words, it was discovered she enjoyed this...took pleasure in the agony??

It was very confusing for you to read such hypocrisy.

Who would enjoy being hurt like this?

And as you read more and more, the deeper into this strange arousal you sunk into.

There was a illustration on a woman holding her lover’s intimate member in her mouth. And another where the same lover was licking with a long snake like tongue at her clitoris.

Your thighs squeezed tight and you groaned as a cramp rippled through your body down to your knees.

Hearing your name on your housekeepers lips tore you away from the novel. You threw the book back inside the chest and shut it hard. You felt short of breath and grasped the wood of his canopy to stay stable before leaving his chambers.

You told yourself that it was wrong to be looking at such art and imagery of lust. A part of you however desired to peak back inside...curiosity was your master and chastity your mistress. So who would you listen to first?

Your eyes fluttered shut.

You met the elderly woman out in the sitting room where she was dusting at the unlit fireplace mantle... She was moving little trinkets and photos.

Within the centre of the mantle stand was a frame containing your own portrait. You had the image taken at a tintype shop over a year ago. You stood beside Mrs Hudson as you took in the reflection of yourself. You smiled at how brilliant it captured your likeness. You were still confused how it worked, something about sand and light...your grandfather stood aside that day and said he would be sending the image to his son to remind him of you, his daughter...you were embarrassed to say the least but dared not argue with his wisdom.

Well it seems your father didn’t get the photo...or perhaps he send it back. Now Sherlock had it in his ownership.

She smiled at you and ran a hand softly down your back and said, “I just wanted to ask if you liked mutton dear, I hope to cook some this evening for dinner.”

You smiled with relief, you told her, “I am ever grateful for any food you provide my husband and I, thankyou Mrs Holmes.”

The elderly woman eyes widened with joy. She turned on her heel, taking the bucket and cloth with her.

You looked over at the table covered in receipts she had kindly left untouched.

“Mrs Hudson,” You called after her as you stepped hastily over to a side board bureau and began to write up a cheque, “is there any chance you will be attending the bank today?”

Facing you she pat the door handle and exclaimed, “No, however I can stop by if you need me to, I am officially in need to buy some fresh mutton from the butcher.”

You smiled at her cheery attitude. You filled out the numbers and printed the expenses. You tore it away from the book and held it out to her.

“Fantastic...here. Take this.”

The housekeeper stepped closer and raced her eyes over the cheque. Her eyes blew up wide at the price you had written out.

“I don’t quite understand...” she shakily stated.

You sighed and clapped your hands as you went to finally sit down on the lounging chaise. It wasn’t hard to admit you needed the rest with how your head spun. You were dizzy and it was possibly from all the cleaning you had conducted and dust you had inhaled.

“Sherlock needs to be rid of these debts and I need to rid of his temper...my dowry Mrs Hudson I pray brings me peace.”

Yes, you were sure of it. Your very expensive dowry...you were going to pay the debt off and help your husband become less of an animal. Perhaps you might convince him to attend church.

“Mrs Holmes,” your housekeeper stammered, “I would advise you hold onto this...please...you cannot just-”

You cut her off dignifiedly, “Mrs Hudson, this cheque card will enter the bank whether by your hand or mine. And before you have insisted I rest. So please if you care enough for me, you shall hand it in on my behalf.”

Her face was flushed and her eyes shut tight. She shook her head disapprovingly while muttering

“Very well dear girl, I hope you know what you are doing.”

Out Mrs Hudson went, and down you went. Your face pressed into a cushion. With your eyes fluttering shut, you feel back into the darkness and peacefully slept, listening to the wafting sounds of Baker Street flow from Sherlock’s bedroom window.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:00pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Sherlock still had not returned home from his morning flee. As Mrs Hudson laid out a plate of roast and potatoes with gravy she assured you that Sherlock had a habit of staying out for hours. Whether for a case or his own pleasures and addiction.

On the table in front of you was the paper bank statement, it accounted that the cheque had been entered and applied to the debts.

Now the Sherlock Holmes was a debt free man...

After you finished your dinner, Mrs Hudson kindly helped remove your shoes and change your bedding. You were redressed in a night gown and over your shoulders a warm dressing gown.

You now only wore a sanitary apron to protect yourself from your blood.

All his paid debt receipts were in a folder, you stared at that manilla folder smugly. Your left it on the table as you went to inspect the book shelves on the far wall near the entrance of the home.

You looked at the many novels on the shelves, now some of them being the ones brought over from your grandparents estate. On quick flicking through pages you found most of them being related to science, language and anatomy. Glancing back at Sherlocks open door, you thought about the book in the chest. That was more than just an anatomy book...

You squeezed your side, you were feeling a spike in temperature and a shortness in breath reimagining those images...those words.

It wasn’t the smut novella Fanny Hill, but it stoked fires inside you much like it. You knew it was something you probably shouldn’t have come across, because you shouldn’t have been inside his room, touching his belongings.

You had to. It smelt like something had died.

You prayed this would sort him out. You could only hope that the years ahead would not be so testing.

You had a list of mental rules. You may be his wife and beneath his status, however you would not just stand back and watch him act a fool and fall victim to further ridicule in society. You would not sink in the same boat again. You were excluded from many balls as a teen when some wicked foul mouth girl had revealed the secrecy of your parentage.

Your step mother was only eleven years older than you, so really...there was no possibility of pretending to be her child. Everyone in high society of they knew you, knew what you were. And because they knew you were treated like a unspeakable burden and unwanted pet at parties.

It wasn’t a mystery to you why you started playing the role of a wallflower at only fifteen.

You refused to allow Sherlock to bring you to such shame in society.

The heavy foot steps outside the close door alerted you to an approach made by someone other than Mrs Hudson.

With the loud snap of the handle and click of the lock, in entered a breathless giant. Sherlock.

He tore off his hat and coat and only after hanging the items on the rack by the door did he acknowledge you with a small nod, “Mrs Holmes,” he bid. Under his arm you noticed was a paper wrapped package.

You heard him march through the house towards the middle room and heard him swear under his breath, follows by a repetitive “no no no.”

You heard him frantically skid around the carpets and floor boards of his own room. He was tearing open and slamming drawers and wardrobe doors.

“What the hell have you done! What have you-?”

Storming out of his room, you gasped at how his face reddened and he continued shouting, but thankfully not at you. He raced to the front door and tore it open screaming down the stairwell,

“Where are you woman!? Mrs Hudson! You shrivelled cow!”

You slapped the book in your hands shut, regarding him disdainfully, “Our housekeeper is not to be rewarded by your insults.”

The turn around he made was slow as realisation came to his heated face. The snarl was replaced by a begrudged sneer as he scoffed, pointing his finger sharply back in the direction of the bedrooms, “...You did this destruction?”

“Destruction?” You whispered. What destruction had you done?

As he approached, you unconsciously took a step back and nervously licked your bottom lip. You felt air being pulled from you as he towered above and stabbed you beneath a invasive gaze.

His darkened eyes looked across the light material of your nightwear. His fingers tugged the book out of hands and pushed it back into the shelving where it belonged.

You decided you needed to stand firmer against him, You craned your head back and stared up at him.

“H-hardly...I have organised. Cleaned.” You took another step back and felt the wood of the display cabinet behind you dig into your waist.

“By subject,” you felt his body press up against you, what the hell was he doing? Trying to intimidate you? You were hardly dressed compared to his full clad attire. It scared you. He looked formidable, like he was going to tear you limb from limb, his nostrils flared. Your insides jumped and that buzzing feeling ran through your lower half. God...why did this of all things arouse you?

Your throat felt shaky, “then- then ah numerical dated followed by alphabetically.”

You glance him over and blinked at the red spot on his chest, was it ink? No, ink isn’t so dark....under Sherlock’s jaw was a scratch, a slight discolouration to his skin and under his hair curl on his forehead as another mark.

He leant down and pressed his mouth to your ear, “Do not ever enter my chambers or touch my belongings without my permission again.” It was a mix between a whisper, an disciplining snarl, and a lusty moan.

It left your knees feeling bloodless. Your own eyes shut closed at the hot breath that breathed into your lobe and hair.

As he pulled back, he stood away and for the first few moments you needed to remember how to control your breathing.

He looked over the dining room table and slid the thick folder closer to himself.

“And what is this?” he asked you.

“Your debts,” You swallowed and wiped your palm across your forehead, a trail of sweat drenched your hand, “Paid for.”

He smirked and shook his head, “Mycroft.”

“No,” you bluntly said, smoothing your hands down your dress to rid of the wrinkles that rose up. Seeing how your nipples had hardened beneath your nightgown you pulled the dressing gown tighter around you and crossed your arms protectively over your chest.

You looked at his body hunched over the table and blinked at the white marks over the edges of his dark navy suit jacket. It looked like flour...except flour had a tendency to clump. His nails were also clean of any baking incredibly. But his finger pads on the wooden table left little faint prints...

“You?” he chuckled condescendingly.

You nodded, “Yes.”

His laughter quickly fell away, his head snapped up fully to look at you, his brows knitted together,

“Why?”

His lips settled into a frown.

He put his hands on his hips, a power play...he was trying to show confidence, dominance...perhaps in response to your arms folded over your chest.

It would’ve been good to just tell him the truth, but to explain it to him would be impossible. You chose to simplify the answer...

“Easement on your consciousness?” You offered dryly. It wasn’t a total like, the less stress, the more relaxing and kindness....right?

His mouth twisted into a snarl, “Why you insufferable little-”

“Where did you go today?,” you pondered, cutting him off from finishing his insult, “A school?”

He jerked back slightly, he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, he took a deep breath and cupped his hands behind his back, “Excuse me?”

Good, he was calmer now.

This time you took to action...you stepped forward and sighed solemnly pinching one of his vest buttons.

“Chalk, on your cuffs. You smell like sweat in a teenage boy rather than a man. You’ve also had a scuffle with someone much shorter than you from the marks on your neck. Your shirt has a speck of what I believe is blood and the button is loosen,” you pinched and ripped it from the shirt and it’s faint loose thread.

“Fret not...” you smirked and pat his chest, “I will mend it should you ask.”

His hands came around and squeezed your forearms, his head moved back a little. He was perplexed...a light upturn in his lips revealed his sudden amusement.

He lifted a hand up and gently touched your face. He was breathing in a controlled state. You felt the intimacy of his closeness without fear of his wrath.

“No...” he drawled, “I was at Scotland yard. A poor deduction...” his thumb ran across your chin, “dear wife.”

You felt your heart pick up as his soft hand touched your face, you tried looking away from his staring eyes. Sherlock’s edged closer to your lips.

“Poor deduction but I am not stupid,” you consoled.

His lips broke into a wider smile revealing his teeth, he chuckled, “...I beg to differ.”

He moved abruptly back and fled to escape to his rooms. You knew his intention perfectly and chased after him, emphasising, “You had almost three hundred pounds in debt Sherlock. I at least know how to wisely spend my money.”

He spun on his heel and snapped at you, pointing harshly at your chest, “oh ho! Playing this game then are we? With your dowry gone, you have nothing left. I’d hardly call paying off my debts which were none of your concern, wise spending.”

You grabbed his finger and announced softer, serious and less aggressive, “Indeed, which is why I implore you to cease all further transactions in regards to your addictions.”

“Do not patronise me wife,” He scoffed and rolled his eyes tried tearing his hand away but your grip on his index finger tightened and the both of your grunted.

You grit your teeth at him, “Do not patronise me husband.”

He sighed and wiggled his finger from out of your hand.

He dusted his hands on his waist coat and huffed. He peered at you with a mischievous gaze.

“My debts...they included my friends...yes? From Mayfair?”

Oh that was cruel indeed. Mentioning those women when you were married to him. You wouldn’t dare let him threaten you over them.

You fought the urge to hit him and stomp your foot. You turned away from him and quickly composed yourself. Hastily you plucked some matches from the small box ontop of the fireplace mantel. You struck a small flame and tossed it into the fire place where you discarded some old newspapers as kindling.

“Yes,” you admitted tightly, “I know about your scandalous behaviours and forbid you from consorting in that demonstration again.”

He pushed passed you and unbuttoned his jacket and vest fully. He draped them over the back of one of the lounges, he pulled up his trousers slightly as he sat down.

He chuckled, “You forbid me?”

You glared at him and shot back up off the floor. You squeezed your eyes tightly as you firmly dictated, “I am the only woman to ever receive you carnally from now on.”

He smirked and spread his legs wide, folding his arms on his chest. He jerked his chin up at you and clicked his tongue, “I don’t believe you know what that means. Believe me little lamb, my fidelity is that last thing you’ll desire...or did you not learn from yesterday?”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head.

“I stand by what I mean Sherlock. You will not commit adultery while married to me,” you snapped. You wanted control, this would not be taken from you if you could help it.

“Or what?” He laughed, he then condescendingly moaned, “You’ll tell my big brother?”

As he went back to his smug chuckling you clenched your fists and stood over him. You weren’t thinking straight. Only a red shade cast in your eyes. You grabbed his collar and tugged him hard, spitting down at him with full anger as you threatened, “...Or I will kill you.”

He stopped laughing but didn’t stop his smug smiling. His hands came up and grabbed yours, prying them from his shirt.

“Barely been forty eight hours of wedded bliss and you desire to murder me. Ha! I now owe John five pounds,” he looked down at your chest which you realised was hanging in a uncompromising position. He could see right down your chest practically to your third rib with your lack of supporting chemise. Sherlock tongued the inside of his cheek and hummed, “My word.”

You gasped with horror and attempted to rip away from his hold, you grunted gruffly, “You are a pig Sherlock Holmes!”

He pulled you forcefully downwards and made your knees buckle. Your chest fell into his and you both hissed at the impact of crushing into each other.

Lewdly his hot wet tongue licked its way from your neck up to your earlobe while his hands pushed your thighs up to straddle over him, his fingers sharply stabbed into your backside under the night gown.

“You have absolutely no clue to what I am little Lamb.”

You tried pushing off him immediately, and felt his arm wrap around your waist and trap you against him.

Your legs so wildly spread and pressed against his trousers made you feel like you were riding on a horse.

Despite the plethora of farm animals you could compare in his and your name, you had both your wrists this caught in his one hand.

“Go on,” he chuckled as you struggled against him, “Tell me how you would do it...,” he taunted,

“How would you kill the great Sherlock Holmes, London’s finest Detective?”

You shrieked as you felt crushed under his baring arm, “I can think of many ways!”

“Well go on,” he smugly waited with raised brows, “Tell me.”

Your eyes rolled and you whined when he dug his nails into your wrists.

“I’ll push you down the stairs!”

He barked with laughter and shook his head, “You cannot be sure the fall would kill me, perhaps I might be paralysed, with many broken bones, but no no, I also don’t think you have the strength to push me around anywhere, look at you right now.”

“Fine!” you yelled, “Ill stab you with a knife!”

“Ah a violent approach, but what of the blood?” He grabbed your hip and moved you to grind your centre down on a lump in his trousers, “Why, even those idiots in Scotland Yard would figure out it was you; blood staining the clothes, carpet and blood beneath your nails, and where would you ever be able to hide the weapon?”

“Sherlock! Let me go or I’ll poison your tea!” you whined terribly.

He bit his lip and shook his head at you, “Oh dear Mrs Holmes, it’s possibly the most common death among an unhappy married couple. Wives are known to favour poison greatly.”

You heaved as you tried to catch your breath. You fell forward a little. Your sweaty forehead touched his.

“Please,” you whined, “let me go. All I want is you to be a civilised man and honour our marriage bed.”

He looked down at your parted lips. He looked back at your chest and shut his eyes.

“You want me to give up my whores Mrs Holmes?”

You gulped and nodded, “Of course.”

When he opened those blue orbs with the brown flecks, he whispered, “I promise to forsake them...if...”

“If?” you stammered and narrowed your eyes.

“Hush!” He reprimanded, “I promise to forsake my whores on Mayfair Row...If I can have my whore of Baker Street.”

Before you and time to reply and question what he even meant, he stood up and tossed you onto the floor. Sherlock crawled over you and pinned your flailing hands above your hand.

“You want to please me, please your husband, Mrs Holmes?” he gasped as his other hand went groping and squeezing around your soft body.

You weakly nodded, your head rested on the floor trying to get back the breath he knocked from you when he pushed you down.

You hissed softly, “Please, you’re hurting me.”

His hands loosened but held you trapped to the floor.

His lips danced over your cheek, “Then you will need to perform like a whore for me.”

A sobbing cry ripped front our chest, unsure of his real intention you quickly jumped to the conclusion of his implications.

You choked and shook your head, “No! I am not going to become a prostitute!”

He cackled at your fearful cry.

“No, this body belongs to me,” he said as he pinched the strings of your night gown and pushed the material away to show off your bare breasts.

His lips wrapped around your right nipples and sucked hard, tickling you with his tongue tip. Tears started to well in your face. You didn’t understand what he was implying to do to you. It tickled and felt so warm.

You were scared. You knew some men of the world were evil. Evil husband’s that pimped out the women they married. You couldn’t imagine being so intimate with another person. You couldn’t imagine succumbing to the agony you received the night before by Sherlock’s hand.

Kicking your feet across the rug and tried pushing your body from under him. He grunted as your nipple left his lips. He pressed the hand hard on your hip and affirmed, “Keep still, little lamb.”

“Sherlock,” you started to beg on a whimper, “Please, stop! You are frightening me, you’re h-hurting me!”

He looked down at you, his hair falling slightly on your head. His smile wavered as he took note of your tears and wobbling lips.

His gaze softened along with his voice, “...be completely honest with me.”

You nodded desperately, “I will, I will!”

“Did you look in the trunk at the foot of my bed?”

The chest full of explicit items and torture devices.

Your eyes squeezed tight and you exhaled, “I did.”

He smirked and let you go completely, standing up and held his hand to assist you too. When you were finally upright, he pinched your exposed nipple. You shrieked.

“I am a man Y/N, I have needs. I expect you to fulfil them earnestly if you desire I abandon my charity to Mayfair.”

You tried pushing his hand back and covering your breasts with the dressing gown. He smirked and shook his head at you, “No, no, let me see them.”

The silence was vile. The crackling of the fire place was the only ambience that showed attendance.

You couldn’t do it. It was wrong to be so exposed beyond the bedroom.

He waited and when you showed no sign of showing him, he sighed and nodded, “Very well, good night Mrs Holmes, I will call upon my friend Irene.”

He walked around you and journeyed to his open bedroom door.

As if all colour drained from your face you feverishly held out a hand and quickly called, “Wait, please! Look!”

You all but chased him into his own bedroom. He snapped his head in your direction. You stood in the centre space between his bed and the door.

He raised a brow and watched almost unimpressed as your trembling fingers shed your dressing gown and pulled the neckline of your night gown open...there he could finally observe your luscious breasts.

“Why Mrs Holmes,” he mused, sitting on his bed and peeling his cravat off his neck, “Your teats are exposed, careful,” he sarcastically warned, “One might mistake you for a slut.” You felt breathless and curled your lips inside.

You couldn’t believe it, you were letting him hurt you in a new way. You were letting him bully you. It wasn’t right and you desperately hated it, but what else was there except to let him defile and destroy your holy vows?

“Is that a sanitary apron on your waist?” he question, pointing at the lump under your gown.

You nodded, “I am still bleeding husband...”

“Do you know what that means?” Sherlock said unbuttoning his shirt.

Your licked your lips, folding your arms behind your back you tried hard to not cover yourself,

“My body is extinguishing my mental illnesses.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes, “Your medical knowledge is dated, but that is not what I implied...I meant that you should come to your knees and perform fellatio.”

Your eyes widened...fellatio was such a naughty word to hear let alone say. It was the type of practise in the book in his chest. Oral sex. Seeing the woman hold her male companions member appeared lewd and distasteful.

You hadn’t thought of ever doing it yourself, it served no purpose in procreation with god.

Flustered and shy, you cupped your hands over your face to think.

Sherlock’s voice was softer this time. He wasn’t mocking you as he explained, “I will not force you to do this Y/N, you do not have to if you do not want to.”

You shook your head and scowled at him from your hands, “But I do! I don’t want you to ever lay with a woman other than me! I am-“ you choked on some on coming tears, “I am your wife Sherlock, please...promise me if I do this you won’t lay with another woman.”

He unbuckled his trousers and sighed, “Then get on your knees,” he pulled out his semi hard rod, “and kiss your husbands cock.”

You looked over your shoulder at his door and then back at him.

Would you do this? Humiliate yourself in promise of keeping his vows loyally to you?

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[eminemily05]

Peaceful Mornings

Welcome, everyone, to my obligatory every couple months fanfic posting. Just so everyone knows I’m still alive.

This is an Ink x Reader rewrite from 2018 (Holy Shit), and I’m excited to get this revamped version out to some of you

It’s just straight fluff, hopefully on brand

There’s also a bit of French, so here are the translations:

Mon chef-d’œuvre - My masterpiece

Mon prisme - My prism

Without further ado, the story. It’s gender neutral, at a nice 1.7k words. I hope you all enjoy~

Soft sunbeams leaked past the cream colored curtains. Dust dancing through the shards. Birds sang and called softly from within their trees, enjoying their early mornings without so much of a care. A bed creaked slightly in the otherwise quiet room. The sound of fabric rustling together followed with a gentle groan of movement and life.

Quiet breaths slipped past your lips as you readjusted yourself in a sleep-filled manner. The covers slipped from your body slightly, prompting a whine as the room’s cold air nipped at your skin. Reaching out for any warmth lingering on your skin. You tried to scoot away to something warmer. Curling up, your head bumped slightly against something solid. The object bounced slightly with a silent laugh as your face screwed into one of confusion.

A gentle hand combed over your head, soft skeletal touches pushing you into a relaxed state once more. Your face unscrewed and became peaceful once more. They hummed, stopping as you moved to press into the touch. You couldn’t help the whine that left your throat. You were enjoying that, damnit. Your quiet protest was only met with an equally quiet snicker.

After a couple minutes, they finally spoke up. A teasing coo filled your ears as they seemed to lean in closer.

”Come onnnn, it's time to get upppp” An incessant poking began against your shoulder, prompting a grunt from your sleeping form. Trying to swat the touch away, you moved to roll on your other side. To try and get away from the playful needling. A hand on your arm easily prevented your escape.

“Aww, don’t be like that,” the poking moved up to your cheek, continuing its steady movement without fault. “You can’t sleep foreverrrr.”

You tried, to no avail, to bury your face into the pillow under your head to escape the next round of poking. A tired groan, followed by a loud yawn, signaled your waking consciousness. You blinked quickly, working your eyesight into focus as your brain booted itself to a sense of awareness. Flinching slightly as light flooded your vision.

So much for sleeping in…

A glare was shot at the innocent mask of the skeleton in front of you. Eye lights trailed on your face as he smiled without a shred of remorse. How dare he wake you up so early with the gall to look innocent.

”You wake me up like that again, and I’m tossing your bony ass to the streets.” You huffed, stretching out. “Don’t think I won’t, Ink.”

That innocent look morphed into a smug expression. He was lucky you were too tired to wipe it off that skull of his. And he was fully aware of that fact, too.

Smug little shit.

He snickered, bony arms wrapping around the softness of your waist. A tug and you were pulled against his loosely clothed body. Gentle nuzzles were pressed against your temple. Soft purrs vibrated his ribs and arms, pulling you in close with a slight smile.

Huh. He was being shockingly sweet this mornin-

“I figured it would be bed-er to cover-se with you than Broomie.” The words were mumbled against your skin, a smirk growing at his own wordplay. Snickers were hidden against your shoulder, though they threatened to spill easily,

Welp, there goes the wonderful moment.

Your silence was enough to cause the skeleton a moment of confusion. Thinking you had fallen back asleep, he let out a sound of surprise as a pillow was thrown against his skull. A loud snort followed from under the plush object.

”It’s too early for your puns, damnit!” You growled, with no true malice. “Pack your bags funny bone, you’re living on the streets.”

A loud whine was your response. Oh boy.

“No! Mon chef-d’œuvre! Don’t leave meeee!!!” A hand shot out, phalanges wrapping tight around the skin of your forearm. The pillow lifted, revealing a (somehow) pouting expression. Blurred eye lights enhancing the ‘sad’ emotion he was feeling.

Was that a tear shape, for crying out loud?

You centered a flick to his nose aperture. The pouting instantly melted into one of giggling and snorts. Very cute giggling and snorts.

Aw, hell. You couldn’t truly stay mad at him…

As long as he didn’t dump any more random buckets of paint on you. That was a grudge you could hold for days. You didn’t let him forget that either.

Content he had been thoroughly scolded, you settled down next to him. Your arms wrapped around his covered rib cage, head settling against the rising and falling of his sternum. Once his laughing had died down, he returned the gesture. Skeleton kisses pressed against the top of your head in apology. He would definitely forget about this come the evening time.

You both stayed there for a couple minutes, your brain booting to full consciousness. When you had finally felt awake enough you glanced up at Ink. But he wasn’t looking back at you. Instead, his eye lights were blurred around the edges, flickering slightly to indicate his blinking. He was completely focused on the wall, but you knew full well he was more focused on his own thoughts.

A serious expression dug into his features, surprising you. He could switch moods so drastically, not that it was anything new at this point in your life with him. He did it more times in a day than you could count on your hand. That didn’t keep it from constantly managing to surprise you. No matter how much it happened.

You grabbed his arm carefully, pulling it close as he stayed unwavering. Tracing the patterned swirls of his gray forearm, a shudder of his lights caught your attention. Then a shudder through his body. A flicker, new set of eye lights, and a turn of his head redirected his attention back to you.

He tilted his skull.

”…What were we doing…?” He asked, confused.

Humming, you intertwined your fingers with his skeletal ones.

”Well I was just about to get up, if you’d like to join me.” You softly explained, working to gently guide his thoughts.

Ink constantly did that, forgetting simple moments. But, you never held that against him. We all get mixed up then and again.

The artist gave you a broad smile, fangs peeking out slightly. The only warning you got before you were snatched from the warm covers.

”You don’t have to ask me twice!” He shot out of bed with newfound excitement, picking you up with ease (despite his much shorter stature). You couldn’t help but yelp in surprise as you’re hauled out of your room, gripping tight to his white shirt.

“Hey!” You laugh slightly as he bounds for the kitchen, “Don’t get too excited, you’re cooking breakfast this morning!”

He did not appreciate that, demonstrated by his mood doing an instant 180. You felt the groan rattling through his body before it slipped past his teeth. Smirking, you poked the black stain on his cheek. “Did you think I’d let you off the hook so easily for waking me up?”

He huffed and pretended to drop you, letting you squeal before quickly catching you. He was such a sore loser sometimes. That big ol’ baby.

You poked his cheek again. And again. And again.

Now he wasn’t gonna answer? What was he, 5?

”Inkkkk,” you whined, looping your arms around his neck. “Don’t be pouty. These are the consequences of your actions.”

Did...Did he just turn his nose up at you? He absolutely did.

Two could play at that game. You mumbled out, ”Fine then….I guess I’ll make breakfast…on my own…and work tirelessly…after being woken up so early…” A faux sigh of resignation followed your words.

There, the trap was laid. This is where he would pity you. Bundle you up in blankets and coo as he pleaded that, ‘No! You don’t need to! I’ll cook it for us.’ It was the perfect plan.

”You’ll cook breakfast? Oh, perfect, Mon prisme!” He gave you a beaming smile.

…damnit…

You groaned and rested your head against his chest. He wasn’t supposed to just give up like that! Ink was supposed to take up the task for himself so you wouldn't be made to cook. So much for convincing him.

“You’re lucky I can’t stay mad at you..”

A brightly colored tongue poked out from his mouth, expressing his cheeky expression. Wait a minute-

He knew full well what he was doing! Bastard!

Resigning to your fate, you let him place you down in front of the stove. As you moved around to grab ingredients, he made himself comfortable at the dining table. Ink hummed a soft tune, letting his sockets slide closed.

You peeked over your shoulder and smiled at the sight. The soft scent of cooking food filled the kitchen. Most times, you didn’t get to spend a day with Ink, never mind even waking up with him. He would usually be out, doing what he does best. Spreading creative inspiration, fighting the forces of evil, (you had told him he sounded like some cliche hero when he told you that. He was not pleased with that), and taking care of his art projects.

As much as you played being annoyed, you couldn’t be more happy. You can’t take any second for granted with his visits. So, you’d cook breakfast this one time and pay no mind. Even if that ‘one time’ was practically every time.

Grabbing two plates, you began to set food when bony arms wrapped around your waist. The skeleton practically purred as he buried his nose aperture against your back. A silent ‘thank you’ for your efforts, you supposed.Though, you’d already forgiven him for his cheeky attitude and turning the tables on you. You reached down and patted a hand against one of his. His grip tightened slightly.

You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“How about after this, we go lay back down? Or, we could go outside and relax in the grass.” You handed him a plate, adding, “As long as it isn’t too hot.”

He pulled himself away from your back, looking up at you. A soft expression coated his features, pink themed eye lights flickering.

”As long as you agree to be in a painting.”

Blushing slightly, you cleared your throat. It wasn’t a rare request from him, but it still got you flustered every time.

”Alright.” You mumbled. He instantly perked, taking the plate with a nuzzle to your cheek.

”Merci, my Muse!”

Ink better thank his lucky stars you were too flustered to chase him with the spatula in your hand. That flirt.

What ever were you ever going to do with him…

[officialjudgeclaudefrollo]

My love for you has been my Eternal Damnation.

The shackles don't bound me, these chains isn't what's holding me back.

'Tis you who have been the sole reason of my suffering. 'Tis you who have been keeping me awake at night.

You.

As the day rose, so did the crowd's cheer.

They clap, shout, lust on you as you circle through them in an eternal dance.

I never had intentions to know who you are.

But they called you "Esmeralda".

Your eyes looked like it. You're as beautiful as it. You're the embodiment of that jewel.

The same deep green stone I've kept in my ring, on my bony looking hands, the same jewel that reflects the color of your beautiful eyes. The name that highly speaks of you.

As the day sinks, so did my eyes. But my soul is trapped as awake as if it was the early bright day.

So I stood up still and looked by the fireplace.

It was warm. It was bright. It was somewhat comforting... Until it was not.

It was searing. It was burning me. It was hot.

Hot as the sun shining in the noon; It's an hour that you chose to dance.

It's burning like my growing desire that I do not wish to have— I never wished to have.

It's searing my soul, it's searing my skin. It's tearing up my flesh. It's too much. Too... Much...

“H-help me, Maria.”

My pious mouth immediately spoke of your ridiculously disgusting yet addictive name. My hands craved for the bosoms that you richly have. Your black locks that I am desperate to smell. My eyes are seeing you dancing and entrancing me by the burning flames.

My body wants you naked and close to my very proximity.

“E-esmeralda!!”

“Ahhhh!! Esmeralda!!”

Your devilish laughs grew loudly as my voice did. It was maddening, sickening, terrifyingly good. I can't stop. I won't stop.

“I LOVE YOU, ESMERALDA.”

The next thing I knew is I was on the floor. I woke up as if I died.

I felt the disgust upon myself seeping on my bloodstream. I felt the aching of my body. I felt high.

I am a sinner in the hands of an angry God.

I am a sinner.

My feet felt dragging as I headed to punish my own flesh. One whip after the other, my sinful mouth uttered a solemn prayer.

“Hail Mary full of grace...”

One.

“The Lord is with you.”

Two.

“Blessed are you among women.”

Three.

“And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

Four.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

Five.

“Pray for us sinners.”

Six.

“Now and at the hour of our death.”

Driiiip... Seven!

“Amen.”

[sparkles-and-trash]

dabihawks smut’n fluff 👀💦

Dabi just wanted to be fucked, goddamn it.

He wanted to be grabbed roughly and slammed against the headboard while getting sneered and growled at.

That’s why he picked Hawks to do this with in the first place, because he expected the hatefuck of the century.

Well, that was a part of it at least.

So why, dear holy fuck why, was he currently being held, firmly sure, but with so much tenderness it made his head spin?

Why was Hawks rolling his hips slowly and intensly while gazing down at him with his stupidly beautiful honey golden eyes, pupils blown huge and wild, affection and attraction shining trough clearer than Dabi had ever been viewed with before?

It’s all too much in an entirely new way, and all Dabi can so is lie there and take it.

The worst part is that afterwards, Dabi feels himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind that happening again.

This time however, he comes prepared.

He lets Hawks kiss him intensly and desperatly, allows him to caress his body with care and wonder, even lets himself look into those golden eyes for a few more seconds than strictly necessary.

But when they move on to the main event, Dabi quickly flips them over and climbs into Hawks lap before the pretty bird knows what hits him.

The blond sits under him with his back against the bedrest, his wings lax and spread behind him, looking up at Dabi like he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, eyes glimmering, freckle dusted cheeks pink and mouth slightly agape in wonder.

Maybe this wasn’t as good of an idea as Dabi had first thought, but fuck it if he was gonna back down.

So he lowers himself onto Hawks, throws his head back with a loud groans as he does, and to his joy he feels Hawks’ taloned hands grip his hips so hard he dares hoping for a bruise or two.

When he’s bottomed out Dabi tips his head forward again, and the second his own electric blue eyes meets the hero’s golden ones, he knows he’s done for.

This time Dabi doesn’t mind the eyecontact.

He doesn’t mind the intensity in Hawks’ eyes, the fondness in his hands as they grip his own bony hips tightly, or the broken whines the hero lets out as they merge into one once again.

In fact, when Hawks’ wings starts to trembles as Dabi’s hips starts to speed up, he finds himself unable to stop from reaching out and gently touching them, threadinf his hands trough the soft, but deadly feathers that trembles so beautifully.

He cherishes it as he hears his pretty little bird start letting out chirps and coo’s in time with Dabi’s own moans and whimpers of pleasure, and he thrives as Hawks’ mouth hovers over the junction where his shoulder and neck connects.

He knows he won’t bite him, not there, not now, he knows what that would mean to his bird brain, but against all his previous judgements and denials, Dabi finds himself thinking that somewhere in the future, he might not mind the idea of it very much at all.

Somehow they reach their climax together, at the same time, and it’s honestly the best Dabi can ever remember feeling, ever.

It intense, it’s incredible, it’s all consuming; it’s them.

It’s everything now, and Dabi is both thrilled and terrified to see where they will go from here.

[serpentface]

Four culturally significant aquatic birds in Imperial Wardin- the skimmer gull, the albatross, the reed duck, and the hespaean.

The skimmer gull is a small seabird, distinguished by bright red beaks and a single, trailing tail plume. These are sacred and beloved animals with a long history of symbiosis with local fishers. They will intentionally attract the attention of fishermen, bringing them to shoals of fish that are too deep below the surface for the birds to reach. They then will snatch fish fleeing or caught in the nets, and will often be directly fed by their human assistants in an act of gratitude. They benefit tremendously from their sacred status and a taboo against killing or harming them, and can become absolute food-stealing menaces in seaside towns and cities.

The albatross is a seasonal visitor to the region, with this population migrating to small rocky islands in the White Sea to breed. The specific species occurring in this region is on the smaller side, and has a pale pink beak and soft orange legs. Albatrosses are common characters in regional animal folktales (usually as foolish, romantic types), and sometimes appear in tales as shapeshifters, usually turning into young women who have tumultuous affairs with lonely sailors.

Skimmer gulls and albatross are the most sacred animals of Pelennaumache, the face of God which looks upon the ocean, the winds, storms, maritime trade, fisheries, and broader concepts of luck and the infliction and deflection of curses. Killing either of these birds is considered to bring about disastrous bad luck (unless in the context of a proper sacrifice, most commonly in rites to bless ships and/or sailors with good winds and against ill fortune). The eggs of skimmer-gulls are free game and considered delicacies, while the preciousness of the albatross' single egg clutch is recognized and their consumption is generally discouraged (this isn't to say it doesn't happen).

Feathers of rightly sacrificed albatross and skimmer gulls are minor holy relics (ESPECIALLY gull tail plumes), and considered to be the ultimate good luck charm. The fortuitous find of a shed feather can also impart good luck and can be very valuable (the birds are sometimes poached for their feathers, though fears of the consequences are enough that this poaching is limited in scope). You will often see wealthier people wearing the feathers in hats and headdress, and any seafaring vessel worth its salt should have at least one aboard.

Both birds are evoked in the apotropaic Skimmer-Woman motif (in practice it generally has albatross characteristics, though is sometimes depicted with the tail plume of the gull).

The hespaean is a very unusual bird with two distinct species native to the region, one found exclusively in the western Black river system and its estuaries, and one found in the eastern Brilla and Kannethod river systems. They have very small pointed teeth in their bills, a trait virtually unknown outside of the flightless, beakless classes of birds (most prominently qilik). Their wings are vestigial and virtually nonexistent (with only two bony spurs remaining). These birds are almost exclusively aquatic and do not normally emerge onto land (they cannot walk upright at all, and must push themselves on their bellies). The legs of the Black river hespean develop blue pigmentation from their diet (the brighter the blue, the better fed and healthier the bird), which are waved above the surface during elaborate courtship displays. Both species are known for their haunting, warbling cries (very much like a loon, but more of a howling noise that develops into a shrill warble).

Hespaean build their nests in dense beds of reeds or small, vegetation-heavy river islands that provide some protection from predators. They raise their young during the height of the dry season (when more nesting surfaces are available and they can feed their young with more concentrated fish populations), which is an image of hope and resiliency during harsh dry times and the promise of the river's eventual bounty.

It is known that hespaean used to be caught as chicks and raised to help people catch fish (with ropes around their necks to prevent them from swallowing their catch). This practice is now very rare in the Imperial Wardi cultural sphere (mostly still practiced by the Wogan people along the Kannethod river, to whom these birds are also venerated animals) and has been largely replaced with the import of domesticated cormorants from the Lowlands to the southeast (which are more easily trained and can Usually be trusted not to attempt to swallow their catch).

These birds require large rivers that flow year round and have healthy, dense fish stocks. The population is in decline and they are now relatively rare, largely due to development and overfishing around rivers (and on a much larger timescale, the region becoming drier and water levels more irregular, and their competition with more versatile freshwater tiviit).

The reed duck is a migratory freshwater duck whose coming heralds the beginning of the wet season. They come to mate along rivers and wetlands during the final stretches of the dry season, timing their eggs to hatch with the rise in water levels and growth of the vegetation and insects they feed on. They have striking red-brown and gray plumage and very little sexual dimorphism (though the male is somewhat brighter in color and the flesh around the bill turns bright red during the breeding season).

Reed ducks are not domesticated, but some populations are semi-tamed and encouraged to return to certain sites to breed (the riverside temple to Anaemache in Ephennos attracts a massive flock of the ducks every wet season, continually blessing it with their presence and coating its grounds in droppings), and these stocks are the primary source of sacrificial ducks and coveted shed feathers.

Hespaean and reed ducks are the most sacred animals of Anaemache, the Face of God which looks upon freshwater (particularly rivers), rains, seasonal flooding, fertile earth/seasonal fertility, and wild plant life.

The hespaean is representative of Anaemache as the River Itself and the river as a provider of fish. This association comes down to their all-seasons presence in the rivers, and their population density being a signal of a healthy, well-flowing river with good fish stocks. Lands adjacent to hespean territory is often the most reliable and bountiful for human subsistence.

The reed duck in particular is the most venerated sacred animal of Anaemache, as representatives of Anaemache as a Face of seasonal fertility. Its coming announces the return of the rains and seasonal flooding that the region's agriculture relies on, and their cycle of fertility closely matches the cycles of the rivers and that of the earth itself (with their new life emerging with rains, flooding, and new vegetation in the wet season). There is no prohibition on hunting reed ducks (though proper rites and respect are expected for a sacred animal), and their meat and eggs is said to support female fertility and a healthy pregnancy.