#like it loosens up each panel

[skeyewards]

imposter syndrome suck my sphincter!!!!!!!!!!!!

[cloudwisp]

Husband Wriothesley, who teases you for being a lightweight when you’ve only had one glass of wine during date night as he makes the journey back home with you on his back. You’re an adorable giggling mess, unable to contain your love and affection you reach around to smooch his cheek and playfully bite his shoulder because that’s what he does to you—words alone can’t express just how much you adore this man and you have to channel it through other means. He warns you that if you keep giving him bite marks he might just drop you and loosens his grip to make it seem so. He chuckles at the sound of you squealing as your arms and legs tighten around him and he readjusts his hold on you so you’re secured once more. He wonders how such a sweet thing like you can cause so much trouble. Not that he’s complaining, he actually finds it quite endearing.

Husband Wriothesley, who kneels down to help you slip on your heels after you’re dressed in a gown to attend the evening shows at the opera epiclese. You’re holding onto his shoulder for support while he moves with ease to slide your foot into your beautiful new pair of heels—his fingers gently wrapped around your ankle and thumb rubbing soft circles against the bone for a moment before he works on the other one. If only he could trail kisses up along your leg and inner thigh, but he supposes that will have to wait until later tonight unless he wants to get an earful from you about not wanting to be late. All your husband asks for in return is sweet kisses from you, when you both kissed plenty not even ten minutes ago but it seems he can’t get enough of his darling wife.

Husband Wriothesley, who begins to make drafts and plans for a summer house surrounded by greenery with breathtaking views on the first year of marriage. It’s a different kind of life compared to the apartments next to the bustling streets in Fontaine city, along with the Fortress also being your second home. He includes all the features you’d want in a dream home. Like a stargazing room with glass ceiling panels so you can admire the stars and moon at night. A secret library where you can hideout and bury your nose in books for hours on end, or even a beautiful porch on a wooden deck with cushioned chairs overlooking the verdant field where maybe someday you both can watch your children play together. Wriothesley is more than willing to give you everything you want and more in this lifetime and he always make sure each gift counts.

[suiana]

imagine sitting on a train, expecting a short ride but the ride just never ends. and no, it's not a 'the brakes are broken' scenario.

you were just taking a train to like, a nearby suburb to visit your friends like usual. everything was fine. all things were like what they normally were. ticketing station, the weird old man who tells you that they're watching you, and the cute highschool student who frequently tells you stories about his school life.

you board the train like usual, nothing out of the ordinary. you find an empty seat and put on your earphones. you decide you want a calm and soothing song that day. looking out of the window, you hum softly and anticipate what you and your friends are going to do.

that's when you realize you've seen that sign post two times already.

you nervously look around your surroundings, hoping to find someone else who's also realized what's going on.

but there's no one else in the carriage. oh, wait, actually no. you also have the highschool boy.

"hey kid, um, did you notice anything off? like uh-"

"hm? oh, it's you mx."

the boy's voice is deeper than usual as he continues looking out of the window. you frown at his reaction before trying to get an answer out of him again... only for him to turn and completely scare the shit out of you.

that. that was not the face of a human. not when his eyes were all black and curved into tiny moons. not when his lips were stretched so wide that he resembled the stupid 😄 emoji. not when his mouth looked like a bottomless pit of nothing that could swallow you alive. not when his skin was paper white and his body now elongated to look something like a sexy slenderman if that was even possible. not when he didn't resemble a human anymore.

"darling, what's wrong? you don't like my face? I'm really hurt."

his voice is deep as he continues staring at you from his seat. he makes no sign of movement, merely looking down at you with a tilt of his head before a soft giggle comes out.

what the shit? were you in a horror movie now?

screaming and falling onto the floor behind you, you shiver and try escaping. no, you had to leave. you couldn't die now!

scrambling to the help button, you try to get help. surely the technician could try and get help for you? you desperately press the help button, glancing warily at the high school boy that you were sure was actually a 6009 year old demon that decided to possess a body of a kid for the mere fun of it.

"huh? baby? what's up?"

baby? what? first darling, now baby? what's up with these men? you stare at the help panel before whimpering for help. unfortunately the male voice over the line only fills you with more dread.

"you wanna leave? no can do baby. don't worry, we'll take good care of you."

you don't like the way he said good. what the hell was that supposed to mean? for all you know it could mean imprison you in the train for the rest of your life!

"also I'm in the carriage beside Mr. Driver so if you wanna leave that weird shapeshifter beside you feel free to hop over."

beside... you?

you are suddenly hyperaware of every single thing around you and wait a second, why the hell did you feel a suspicious person breathing down your neck?

"leave my dear alone, you creep."

the air around you seems to loosen up as the weird shapeshifter demon backs up. damn, what good timing. you were just about to thank your saviour when the familiar feeling of dread returns, and even worse this time.

he was a handsome guy. tall, well dressed, and absolutely damn gorgeous. he was wearing all black, a black fedora on his head as he smiles at you with his pearly white teeth. reassurance. yet, you felt as though if you dared to disrespect him, your life would be over before you even knew it.

you stay rooted in your place, your mouth running dry as the male steps closer to you. each step of his felt like a step closer to death and... was it just you or were you feeling light headed now?

"i am afraid i cannot touch you, my dear. for your life will be drained with each fleeting touch. but i must say that it is good to finally meet you physically."

death.

you were so damn sure that the man in front of you right now was the grim reaper or maybe even death himself. your whole body was shaking at this point, his very presence making you feel as though an invisible force was pushing you down into the ground and squeezing you tight. it was hard to even breathe.

"ah, sorry. i forgot living beings are ever so fragile. my sincerest apologies, my dear."

just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, the driver's announcement makes you feel like you're about to throw up.

"welcome aboard the hell train, sweetheart. you are now on the line to ǝɹǝɥʍou. please enjoy the rest of your ride!"

shit, so you really were about to get stuck on this train forever.

[blueicequeen19]

Methods

Warnings: non-con, drugging, kidnapping, use of toys, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms, choking, throat training

My eyes water as I blink against the hardness of the single lightbulb in the mildew, scented shack I'm being kept in. It was dark when they grabbed me and it appears to be still dark outside judging by the chill in my bones from still being in my bikini. I curse myself for not listening to my brother when he told me not to go anywhere alone. I didn't think that applied to night surfing in my own backyard. I shift my weight from foot to foot, my wrists killing me from being tied together with scratchy rope and suspended above my head.

My brother will make them pay.

I will make them all pay.

"She lives." I turn towards the voice, my hands balling into fists as JJ Maybank steps into the light. I didn't notice him before but I quickly take in the black duffle bag on the small wooden table, a single chair, and a small folding bed.

"You sound disappointed." My voice cracks, my lips chapped and in need of water. I don't even sound like myself.

"More like relieved. I gave you a pretty high dose to knock you out. It would've sucked if I accidentally killed you." Bits and pieces of our altercation start to come back to me and I smirk over the sight of his busted lip. His face remains hard and his eyes stay narrowed. I know I'm in a bad situation and what this is all about but I can't find it in myself to care. If I die protecting my family then I do.

"You're awfully cocky for someone tied up." JJ bites out, stepping closer to glare down his nose at me. I try to seize the opportunity of his closeness but he's quicker, his ringed fingers wrapping around my throat and shoving my back against the wood paneling before I can attempt to headbutt him.

"Don't even think about it." JJ growls, tightening his grip to the point that my eyes water and my throat burns. I thrash against him, worried I'll pass out when he finally loosens his grip enough to let me suck in a rough breath.

"You.. might as.. well skip to... the torture because I w-won't.. talk." I spat, his hand still hot on my throat. His thumb strokes my pulse point as he leans into my neck, his musky cologne filling my head as he inhales deeply.

"You smell like a wet dog." JJ murmurs, his lips next to my ear. I jerk against his hold as his hand tightens around my throat again. "But there are other ways of getting someone to talk." His voice lowers to a sinister whisper that has panic settling deep in my bones.

"Not so mouthy now, are ya?" JJ taunts as he shoves his knee between mine and presses against my pussy, making me squirm and whimper.

"Girls like you who are used to being in control want nothing more than to be dominated. Tied up, held down, and fucked until they can't walk." I jerk against him, unable to speak from the tight grip on my throat as he moves his knee back and forth. I stare up at the ceiling, blinking back tears as heat floods my body and my pussy throbs with need.

"I can feel how hard your nipples are. Still don't want to talk?" JJ whispers, his lips grazing my cheek while his free hand tugs on the strings of my bikini. A scoff leaves my lips, giving him my answer and I feel him smile.

"I guess we'll play then." JJ suddenly steps back, removing all forms of himself from my skin and I suck in a breath as my pulse echoes in my ears. I watch as he shoves the table and chair closer than rummages through the duffle bag. His eyes light up when he holds up a pair of nipple clamps and I bear my teeth in warning.

"Let's start with these." JJ steps back in front of me but hesitates, almost like he's waiting for me to spill but I refuse. I glare at him as he tucks both of the bikini triangles to the side to reveal my painfully hard nipples. It's from the stimulation.

"These would look so much better pierced." I look away as he secures the clamps to each of my nipples, a chain connecting them in the middle, then he tightens them until tears fill my eyes.

"These are going to be so sore tomorrow." JJ chuckles, returning to the duffle bag. My nipples are on fire and I have to take several breaths to calm myself while he searches for whatever it is he wants next. They almost hurt more than my wrists. But I don't care what he does to me now. He'll have no choice but to let me go eventually. People will come looking.

When his bright blue eyes find mine and his lips tip up into a mischievous smirk, I know he's found what he's looking for. Whatever it is, he's able to conceal in the palm of his hand as he steps back in front of me.

"Are you dripping yet?" JJ purrs, his free hand pulling the ties free on my bikini bottoms. They fall to the floor, leaving me bare for him.

"Fuck you." I spat, clamping my legs closed. He tugs on the chain between my nipples and I cry out, my legs immediately opening again.

"Let's start with this." He holds up a small pink vibrator with a string attached that is almost shaped like an egg. He presses it to my lips but I seal them shut until he tugs on the chain again and my lips part on a cry. JJ shoves the toy past my teeth, making me taste the silicone as he forces it in and out of my mouth.

"Suck on it. You want it wet." JJ demands, his eyes dark with desire. I do as he says, staring up at the ceiling as the droll starts to drip down my chin. When he yanks it from my mouth, followed by a string of saliva, he spins me around to face the wall before I can protest.

"What are--." My words trail off with a startled yelp as he yanks my hips back and spreads my cheeks.

"Wait--wait--!" I cry as he squats down behind me.

"Ready to talk?" JJ asks, looking up at me with hard eyes. I bite my lip, refusing to give in as I shake my head.

The toy is pressed to my hole and he slowly starts to push it inside me. Burning pain practically blinds me and I cry out, fearing the pain will never end when it finally does.

“Now?” He asks, sliding his hand between my thighs and chuckling by what he finds. I hate him. HATE. HIM. I'm shaking and sweating from the fullness, my clit throbbing in tune with my heart rate. I feel him move then the thing comes to life, vibrating inside me.

A choked moan leaves my lips as he forces me to turn and face him again. The vibrations are low enough to be irritating but not enough to get me close to an orgasm yet I can’t stop my legs from shaking. His expression is mocking, like he’s trying not to laugh as I whimper and squirm in front of him. I hate him even more.

“I bet you’ve never had anyone back there before, have you?” JJ taunts, smiling as he taps something on his phone and the vibrations increase. A startled noice slips past my lips and I quickly clamp them shut, glaring daggers back at him. He pockets his phone and grabs my hips, yanking me against his chest. Pain shoots through me from the pressure against my abused nipples but I refuse to make a sound.

“I’m going to fill all your holes if you don’t talk.” His voice lowering in warning as he speaks in my ear. I lift up on my toes, the buzzing driving me crazy with need. I wonder if I can cum without any vaginal penetration or clit stimulation. I’m teetering on the ledge as his warm hands start to slide up and down my waist in an almost soothing manner. The light touches raise the hairs on my arms and send sparks up my spine.

“I hate you.” I growl through clenched teeth, my pussy pulsing almost painfully as his hands start to drift lower but never giving me what I need.

“And I want to hate fuck you.” JJ murmurs back, the tip of his tongue suddenly sliding along my neck and making me whimper. I can’t focus. There’s too much stimulation. A finger brushes over my clit, making my hips buck and a loud moan escapes me.

“Please..” The word slips out of me before I can stop it. I try to lean into his touch but he withdraws, resorting to light touches that have me squeezing my eyes shut.

“Squeeze your legs together.” JJ demands, stepping back and unbuttoning his tented cargo shorts. I’m burning with anticipation as I watch him free his painfully hard cock and stroke himself a few times. I’m too busy watching him that I fail to listen so he steps forward and yanks on the chain connecting my nipples, making me cry out and tears spill.

“Last chance to talk. I get wanting to be strong for your brother but he’d sell you out in a heartbeat. You have to know that.” JJ growls, the heat of his cock burning against my stomach. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak anymore. I’m blinded by desire and know that I’d end up begging him to fuck me.

“How do you think this is going to go?” JJ reaches between us to guide his cock between my thighs and through my slick wetness. My eyes threaten to close as he moves in and out between my lips without slipping inside.

“What will he think when I send him a video of you begging me to fuck you? Will he cut his losses or try to find you?” I shake my head, whimpering as I roll my hips to meet his movements. I’ve never ached to be filled so badly in my life.

“You’re awfully wet for someone who hates me.” I try to turn my head away when suddenly the vibrations in my ass increase and I sob loudly, his hands tightening on my hips.

“I’d only have to put the tip in and you’d make a fucking mess all over both of us.” His pace increases as he thrusts his cock between my pussy lips.

“I can’t..” I’m shaking violently as I peer up into his bright blue eyes. Everything hurt and was buzzing with need.

“Tell me where your brother is and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll make you cum so hard you pass out.” I whimper when he leans in to kiss along my neck, the heat of his body burning me alive. I can’t think while his cock is being thrust between my thighs.

“I don’t need you to make me cum.” I bite out, glaring at him as I move my hips in time with his thrusts. JJ gives me a wicked grin before halting my movements with a firm grip on my hips. I growl in frustration as he steps back, dick swinging before he turns to rummage through the duffle back again. When he pulls out a wand vibrator the size of my forearm I nearly start sobbing.

“Wait.. JJ..”

“Start talking.” JJ growls, turning the wand on high and running it down my stomach towards my mound.

“I can’t tell you where he is because I don’t know where he is.” I cry, tearing filling my eyes as he stops less than an inch from my clit. I’m shaking uncontrollably. I can’t catch my breath. I need to cum so badly I can’t see straight.

“I don’t believe you.” His eyes are murderous as he moves the wand to my clit and I suck in a breath to scream when four of his fingers force their way in my mouth. The pleasure is so intense that it quickly turns painful. Tears fall as I gag around his fingers and he makes me cum so hard that everything goes black for a few seconds.

I lose track of how many times I cum. I’m practically convulsing and tears are streaming down my face while I gag around his fingers. My pussy is sore beyond anything I’ve ever felt. Not that I ever had experience before this.

“You need to work on that gag reflex.” JJ clicks his tongue, smirking at all the droll sliding down my chin as he forces his fingers to the back of my throat.

“A slut like you should be a pro by now.” JJ sneers, removing his fingers from my mouth and putting them in place of the wand. I’m fighting to catch my breath, my jaw aching as he toys with my labia, massaging and rolling the flesh between his fingers.

“I’m not a slut.” I pant, just as one of his fingers penetrates. His eyes narrow for a moment as he pushes in just a little deeper before they widen in disbelief.

“No fucking way.” JJ whispers, shaking his head with a smirk without withdrawing his finger.

“I told you.” I snap with what little strength I have left. My body was aching to be filled. I could tell with how crazed I felt from just his finger half inside me. I was seconds away from fucking myself on his hand.

“This just got a lot more fun.”

[thespnreferencedesk]

A Fic Writer's Guide to the 1967 Impala

Part 1 | Part 2: Interior

Click for the full-size, annotated versions of images! Unlabeled screenshots here; full user manual available here

Due to the number of different Impalas used for the show, Baby will have some minor differences between appearances. This guide points out a few of them. Luckily, these differences are minor and will likely never come up in any written works but fan-artists should still keep an eye out.

Now, buckle up. There's a lot to cover.

Baby’s interior color is SEM Color Coat #15093 “Lt Buckskin.” In real life, this color was not an option on the 1967 Impala and was achieved by spraying the existing interior vinyl with vinyl dye. However, 5.22 shows that this is the Impala’s original interior in the show’s universe, so Dean would have only had to use the vinyl dye to touch up during one of his rebuilds. In addition to the buckskin vinyl, Baby also has black bench seats, tan carpeting, chrome trim, and black accents on the wheel and dash.

Baby doesn’t have grab handles or a center dome light, though it does have two rectangular cabin lights over the backseat windows, each next to a hook. Whether or not these interior lights work depends in the episode. The headliner has horizontal stitching that breaks it up into six panels. Sam and Dean rarely use the sun visors, but we do see in 11.04 that they are mirrorless and can swivel up and down and pivot to shade the side windows.

Both the front and back seats are black vinyl (not leather) bench seats with no center consoles. The front bench is manually adjustable via a lever on the driver's side. The seat can slide forward and backward (seen in 10.12) and recline (seen in 1.01). Adjusting the front seat moves the entire bench, including the passenger.

Fun fact: One of the options available for the 1967 Impala was power operated front seats, something I didn't even have on my '07 Hyundai. Power windows were also available, but Baby has neither of these features.

Both the front and back benches are wide if not a bit short length-wise (note that Dean’s hips are basically the same width as the seat). A child could easily lay down completely, a small adult like Claire or Charlie would be a bit curled up, and Sam and Dean can lay out with their knees bent. It is also possible to crawl over the front seat into the backseat or pull someone from the front into the back as we see in 10.04. That said, the cabin roof is not very high (just barely clearing Sam’s head) so expect to hit your head on the roof while in someone’s lap or flailing around in a fight.

Despite seating up to six, there appear to only be four total seat belts. The Impala has adjustable lap belts in the front and back seat rather than modern three-point seatbelts, but Sam and Dean don’t wear them.

The lap belts consist of two parts, a belt with a buckle that sits in the middle of the front seat and a belt with an “eye” piece that retracts into a retractor on the side of the front seat bench. To fasten the seat belts, pull the eye belt all the way out of the retractor before clicking it into the buckle. Adjust the belt by pulling on the excess strap to tighten it, and lift on the buckle then pull the other section of the strap to loosen it. Unfasten the seat belt by pressing the button on top of the buckle.

Up front, Baby has a steering wheel, a black instrument cluster, chrome ignition and other switches, an ashtray, chrome mirror, aftermarket tape deck, Four Seasons factory air conditioner, glove box, adjustable air vents, and padded dashboard (to smack your head on since there are no airbags).

Two different types of door lock buttons are used in the cars on the show. The first are shaped like golf tees while the second are straight anti-theft locks. The anti-theft locks don't have a cap that allows the door to be unlocked with a coat hanger or something similar. Push down on the button to lock the doors and pull up to unlock.

All four doors have a vinyl armrest with a chrome door lever, but the front seat rests do not have ashtrays. There are two different window cranks. The smaller one on top controls the small triangular front window that swivels side to side while the larger one on bottom rolls the main window up and down. Clockwise is up, counter-clockwise is down. Sometimes the knobs on the cranks are buckskin and sometimes they are black which would have been the original color.

In the driver's footwell is a long rectangular gas pedal, short rectangular brake pedal, square parking brake pedal, and labeled parking release lever. The switch for the high beams is on the floor near the driver's right foot and is controlled by tapping. There are also tan rubber floor mats that vary in style but appear in 11.04 as two individual mats with diagonal grooves.

The glove box comes with a lock, and the key for this is separate from the key that opens the door and starts the ignition. When not locked, the glove box can be opened by pressing the button built into the lock cylinder.

Baby's steering wheel is stock with an aftermarket vinyl wrap cover. The correct center horn button for the Impala has a chrome outer ring, gold center ring, and silver inner circle with the Impala logo. Sometimes, such as in 11.04, it’s shown with a Caprice horn.

While the '67 Impala was available as a manual, Baby is an automatic (so no "shifting gears"). Its gear shift/PRNDL is mounted onto the right side of the steering column rather than in the center of the footwell. The indicator (reading "Park RNDL") is mounted at the base of the steering column, below the instrument cluster. To shift from Park to Drive, push down on the brakes then pull the shift lever towards you and pull it down three notches. Press down on the brakes then pull towards you and push up to go from Drive to Neutral (one notch), Reverse (two notches), and back to Park (three notches). To shift from Drive to Low, pull the lever towards you again and pull it down one notch.

For anyone who has not driven a car with a shift lever like this, I can only describe it as feeling alarmingly similar to an old-school lawn mower. Whenever Dean is made to drive another car, he might instinctively reach behind the wheel for the gearshift and find it's not there. Someone used to cars with a center console gear shift might do the same while driving Baby, just reaching for the space below the radio instead.

Also on the steering column are a hazard lights button below the gearshift and a turning signal lever on the left. To turn on the flashing hazard lights, push in the button and pull it back out to turn them off. Lift the turn signal lever to signal right and lower it for the left. Using light pressure causes the blinker to turn off and return to neutral when you release it. Pushing the lever all the way into one position or the other leaves the turn signal on until you turn the wheel back to neutral or manually move the lever.

On either side of the steering column, below the instrument cluster, are four knobs. From left to right, these are for the lights, wipers and washer fluid, the ignition, and a cigarette lighter.

All of the lights on the Impala are controlled by a single light switch knob (below, left). This knob has three different positions: pushed in, pulled out to the first click, and pulled all the way out to the third click. When the knob is pushed in, all lights in the car are off. Pulling the knob out to the first click turns on the parking lights. Pulling all the way out to the second click turns on the low beam (your "normal" brightness). While the knob is pulled out to either the first or second click, turn the knob to adjust the instrument and tail lights for driving in the dark.

The windshield wipers knob is to the right of the light switch. To turn on the wipers, twist the knob clockwise. The first notch is "low" and all the way to the right is "high." Press the knob once to dispense a measured amount of washer fluid or hold it down to keep dispensing until you let go. Pressing the washer button simultaneously turns the knob, so you'll need to turn the wipers back off after.

The ignition key switch is just to the right of the steering column. Once it's inserted, turn the key to the left while pushing in to turn on just the accessories like lights and the radio. To start the car, push down the brake pedal and turn it all the way to the right. As soon as the engine starts up, let go of the key. You don't need to have your foot on the brakes to start the engine. Once it's running, you can press the gas pedal to help prime the carburetor with an additional shot of fuel. Don't pump the gas pedal or you risk flooding the engine.

People born after 2000 might be unfamiliar with how to use a car's lighter. The knob is part of a removable piece, about two inches long. First, push the button in and hold it to heat it. After a few seconds, pull the whole piece out. Yes, it can easily get lost. Touch whatever you wish to burn to the glowing orange heating element inside the cylinder. The removable piece is what gets hot, not the plug. This is also where you plug in things like car chargers or Sam's iPod jack.

A recessed instrument cluster sits behind the wheel. The panel consists of three main displays with the left and right sides each having two smaller displays. From left to right, the three main displays are the fuel gauge, the speedometer, and an analog clock.

The fuel gauge does not default back to "E" when the engine is off and instead may land randomly somewhere on the dial. The speedometer has a listed top speed of 120 and also features the high beam indicator light as well as the mileage. The analog clock is set by pulling out the knob at the bottom of the clock, turning to set the correct time, and pushing the knob back in.

Of the smaller displays, the upper two are the left and right turn signal lights. The bottom left are the brake system warning light and the engine temperature light. The brake warning light lights up red when the parking brake is applied or while the brake pedal is pressed if there is low brake pressure. The engine temperature light comes on if the engine overheats. On the bottom right are the oil pressure light and the generator indicator light. The oil light comes on if the oil pressure is low, and the generator light comes on if there is an issue with the generating system. All four of these lights come on when starting the car, but should quickly go back out.

The air conditioning and vents are where a few more discrepancies between screen-used cars show up. The 1967 Impala came with several different heat and air options: nothing, a heater only, an optional AC unit mounted under the dash, a Four Seasons air conditioning system, or a fancy climate-controlled option.

Baby has the Four Seasons system, but many of the cars used for filming were not. Only the Impalas with the Four Seasons or the climate control came with the center dashboard vent and the circular air vents near the doors. For visual continuity on the show, production added fake vents to non-AC cars. What gives these cars away as being non-AC cars, however, is that these cars have kick panel air vents and two mounted silver knobs that control them. As a Four Seasons car, Baby should not have these vents or knobs but ultimately does on occasion.

The center dash vent is able to be adjusted up and down by the ridged wheels on the sides. The spherical vents are a ball style and can be turned to position them or spun like a globe to change the style of the vent opening (see below). Two leg vents are hidden underneath the dash and can be opened or closed by turning the outlet like a dial. So if Dean wanted cold air blown on his legs but not on his face while Sam wanted cold air on his legs but not his face, both brothers could open or close their own vents.

The vertical switch on the left of the AC control panel controls the fan. Up is low, the middle is medium, and down is high. There is no way to turn it off unless the entire system is off. To turn the entire system off, push the topmost horizontal lever all the way to the left. Turning this lever to "Vent" blows outside air without changing the temperature. Moving to "Cold" blows cold recirculated air, moving further right blows cooled outside air, warmer outside air, and then full heat.

The outlets lever controls airflow to the vents mentioned previously. Moving the lever to "Upper" sends air through the dash vents only, moving to "Lower" sends air to the hidden leg vents only, and setting it in between sends air through both.

To use the defrost to clear up foggy windows, make sure the outlets lever is set to "Lower" or somewhere in the middle then move the bottommost lever towards "De-Ice" until it's blowing as hard as you want. To really crank the defrost or for ice, set the outlets to "Lower" only then blast the fan and push the temperature all the way to "Hot."

Dean's tape deck is an Audiovox Rampage AV 2000 from the 1990s. The '67 Impala came standard with either an AM or AM/FM transistor radio. The AM had a rear adjustable antenna, but the fixed AM/FM antenna was on the front. Looking at Baby, we can gather that it originally had the AM/FM radio. To switch between AM and FM, you would slide the switch at the top of the radio. The push buttons could be used to set favorite stations. Note that Dean's tape deck does not have this feature, so he would have to memorize his favorite stations in certain regions or just search until he finds something.

The original radio was switched out at some point for the Audiovox, either by John or Dean. The knob on the left turns it on and controls the volume, and the knob on the left is tuning. The button on the top left switches between AM/FM, the button on the top right lets you switch between local and longer-distance stations, and the bottom button is both the eject and fast-forward Press in part-way to fast forward and all the way to eject. There is no rewind button. To rewind, flip the tape over, fast forward, then flip it back around.

Fun fact: The shot in 11.04 of Dean putting in the tape is re-used from 5.22, so both “Night Moves” and “Rock of Ages” are on Dean’s Kick It In The Ass mixtape.

Two aftermarket Hertz speakers are mounted in the rear package tray (though a different speaker can be seen in 4.06). Underneath the tray’s black carpet is where Sam and Dean carved their initials as children. The rear footwell is nearly flush with the rear bench, meaning there is no “underneath the backseat”. There is room, however, underneath the front bench for things to get lost. The rear footwell also has a tan rubber floor mat, and the one seen in 11.04 is one single piece rather than two.

Unlike the ones in the front seat, the rear door armrests each have a lidded ashtray. The rear doors each have a door lock button and a main window crank like the front seat doors. There are no air vents in the backseat, so the AC would need to be cranked to reach anyone back there, potentially freezing anyone up front in the process.

Some of the most important things inside of the Impala are the little personal touches it's accumulated over the years. There's the tape deck, of course, but also the initials carved into the package tray, the Lego bricks in the air vent, and Sam's plastic rifleman wedged in the ashtray. These elements are first seen in 5.22 where Chuck mentions that Dean puts them back every time he's had to rebuild the Impala. Seeing the army man through the window in 5.22 is also what allows Sam to take control of his body back from Lucifer, so both brothers are well aware that Baby's supposed "defects" actually make her even better.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - VI

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence, divider by animatedglittergraphics

6. creature of the night

In the back of the yellow taxi driven by the faithful Chas, John makes a point not to touch you. You are so heartbroken by the events of the past half hour that it does not even register that Chas is driving you somewhere other than your mutual apartment building, until you pull up in front of a dilapidated storefront declaring “BOWL, BOW, BOWL” on the neon sign. 

“What…?”

“My friend Beeman’s place. Somewhere to lay low,” John explains, throwing open the door of the cab.  

“Thanks, Chas,” you say, because John never seems to find it necessary to do so. 

“Sure, y/n,” answers the young man. “Hey John–” 

John slams the door shut on Chas’s question. 

“You’re so mean to him,” you sigh.  

He only answers that with a snort, coughing to the side. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” 

He leads you through the doors, and up some stairs to a living space above the bowling alley. It is long, with high ceilings, white subway tiles, and crumbling lead paint on the paneling. A bank of windows stretches all down the wall. 

It’s an interesting space, but the windows could be a problem for you, come dawn. 

“There’s a big closet in the other room,” he assures you, like he can read your mind. 

He directs you into a chair at a long table, and all business, starts loosening his tie. 

“John…wait.” 

“You don’t have time to wait. You look like shit, and his blood will contaminate your ability to fight him.” He cocks his head, looking down at you. “Unless you don’t plan on fighting him? You looked pretty cozy when I found you.” 

A thread of heat dances down that connection between you, and you pause with surprise as you recognize it for what it is. Jealousy? After the way he’s avoided you? Is he fucking kidding right now? 

“You look like shit,” you counter, and you realize it’s true. His skin is sallow; there are dark circles under his eyes. He was always slender, but now he borders on too thin. You know he doesn’t take care of himself, but this is beyond the usual abuse. Was he not sleeping or eating because of you? You think on what Wick said to you. He doesn’t look good. I won’t have to wait long for you. What the fuck did that mean? “Are you ok?” you demand, standing to examine him more closely. 

“I’m fine,” he grouses, backing away. 

You don’t believe him, and the two of you stand in the kitchen facing off with each other, both pissed, though you suspect, for different reasons. 

Somehow you know if you keep pushing him, John will just refuse to talk to you at all, stubborn bull of a man that he is. So you change tack, appealing to the know-it-all in him. 

“What…is he?” 

“John Wick is a hybrid,” Constantine explains matter of factly. “Half human, half vampire. Your perfect predator. They have to drink vampire blood to stay alive, and they can live a long time.”

“He drank my blood,” you admit, touching the marks at your throat that still have not healed. Usually such an injury would have sealed over by now. “But then…he gave me some back.” 

Constantine snorts. “Yeah, I saw that.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. 

“He said…I reminded him of someone he once knew.” 

“When you’ve lived as long as he has, probably everyone reminds you of someone,” John scoffs. 

“He slaughtered all of don Juan’s vampires, at Perla. Juan was going to hold me hostage to bait you. But then Wick came up the stairs, and…Jesus Christ. It was a massacre.” 

“Yeah. He does that.”

“Juan got away, and Wick…spared me.” 

“Spared you, huh? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

Your annoyance spikes. “You know, for someone who has been avoiding me like the plague, you sure seem to care about who I kiss!”

“You can makeout with whoever you want, sweetheart, I couldn’t care less. But what the hell were you doing at Perla?” 

His tone suggests he might feel otherwise.

“Hunting.” 

“At the Master’s own club? Are you kidding me?”   

For a moment you are taken aback, and then you really see red. “I didn’t know it was the Master’s club because you’ve never fucking told me anything, John!” Seething, you go on, “You didn’t have to fuck me. You didn’t have to feed me. But it would have been nice if you could have at least prepared me!”

In the end you are toe to toe, and points to John for not flinching while your eyes are flashing orange and your fangs are bared. 

“I tried,” he insists through his teeth, a lot more calmly than you. “But everytime I’m around you…”

You share blood and body fluids, is the short of it, and you know he’s not wrong.  

You let out a long breath, trying to calm down. The following inhale does not exactly help you; it’s all John, his yummy cologne and the scent of his skin and that beautiful essence coursing beneath it and jesus fucking christ no wonder he hates you. 

You retreat, turning your back on him, trying not to cry, trying not to yell, and trying not to tackle him to the floor to drink him down.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and you mean it. “I didn’t know how to control it.” You think about that golden thread between you, and the way don Juan taunted you, and the name slung so freely by the vampire hunter like it was an insult. Maybe you have an inkling of why John’s been avoiding you like the plague. “What did I do to you, John?”

“I know you didn’t mean to.” 

He sounds as miserable as you feel. 

“Mean to what?”

“You made me your creature, y/n. Familiar, human servant, famulus, bonded, thrall, Renfield. You want all the names for it?” 

You turn to look at him, your heart breaking all over again. “I just…liked you, John.” 

More than liked him, apparently, but you’d rather die than admit it now. 

He nods, suddenly very interested in a stain on the wall, his jaw clenching. “I liked you too,” he admits. “But this is…not good.” 

You feel that light inside you, that warmth that is a part of him, somehow, a part of you. You tug on it, and he can’t help but look at you then. “It feels good?” you say.

“Yeah.” He takes a step closer towards you. “But if I was damned before…” Another step. “I’m really fucked now.” 

You shake your head, at such a loss. What kind of a God would forsake his children so freely, if not a complete sadist? Isn’t he supposed to be all love and forgiveness?

“We’re not bad people, John.” 

“I know. It doesn’t matter. There are rules.” 

“You know, you’ve never told me…why you think you’re going to Hell?”

“Because when I was a teenager, and driven to despair living in an institution because of the things God gave me the gift to see…I killed myself. I spent two minutes in the fiery pit before they brought me back, but it was enough. It’s…pure agony, y/n, and it lasts for an eternity.” 

Your lip quivers as the magnitude of what he’s telling you sinks in. Growing up, Heaven and Hell were such abstractions to you. Something you suspected your parents threatened you with just to get you to behave. But hearing him say it like this…you believe him. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, John. Can it be undone? Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” 

Sadly, he just shakes his head. Does that mean it’s irreversible? With a heavy sigh he sits down in one of the kitchen chairs, pulling over his bottle of Ardbeg and splashing a couple fingers into a glass. He doesn’t offer you any–not that you’d want it, but still rude. You shouldn’t be surprised by now. “I admit I didn’t think you could even do it yet, you’re so new.” 

You think about the power the two of you called up, the last time you were together. You’ve always been fire together, even when you barely knew each other. Isn’t that worth something? How is that not something gifted by God, if indeed that motherfucker does exist?

“Are you ready now?” he asks, sounding resigned, pulling his collar aside again. 

You look away, because the sight of his bare throat affects you like a teenager with a PLAYBOY centerfold, making you flush all over. Jesus Christ, will you ever not want him so much? 

Even with your belly full of dhampir blood; his pulse calls to you with a siren’s song.

His heart beats for you, your deepest instincts whisper, even while your head knows it's all a wishful thought.

“I can find someone else, John. I’ve caused you so much trouble.” 

The sound he makes at the thought of you with someone else low in his throat is nearly a growl–but then ends in a violent cough.

You take a step closer. “Are you sick? Do you have the flu or something?”

He actually laughs at that–then coughs some more. “No, I don’t have the flu.” 

“Then what?” 

The bitter curl of lips he offers you hurts your heart. “The irony is, I’d probably be dead by now if not for you.” 

“What?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

“I’m dying, y/n. I’ve got cancer.” He spits the last word, as though he finds it utterly absurd, like an insult God has personally bestowed upon him.

You feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, a ringing in your ears like you were at ground zero of an explosion. Cancer? All the things this man has faced…and…he’s got fucking cancer? 

“How long have you known?” Your voice cracks with the effort to keep it all in.

“Not long.” 

“Prognosis?” you ask quietly, fearing the answer like the monster under the bed. 

“Not good.” When he sees your lip trembling he adds, “Please don’t fuss.” You don’t have much blood to spare, but you feel the sting of tears start to well in your eyes again. “And definitely don’t cry. Come on, y/n.” The admonition turns into a coughing fit. He turns his head, covering it with his sleeve. When he lowers his arm you see the stain of blood from his lips, and your heart hits rock bottom. 

“Oh my god. You should be in a hospital!” 

If you can sense so much, how did you miss this?

“Well…I’m kind of busy trying to save the world right now. Whatever Hell’s cooking up this time, it’s big. I can feel it. If I don’t stop it…nothing up here might matter anymore anyway.”

“Ok…what do we need to do?” 

He snorts. “We? Oh no. You’re staying out of it. I leave you unsupervised and you get tangled up with the Master of the City and the world’s most dangerous dhampir in one night?”

You clench your jaw, trying to hold it in. Your despair, and your frustration, because for someone so smart this man sure can be a fucking idiot. 

“John, you should be in treatment!”

He shrugs, paying you that rueful half smile that ties your heartstrings up in knots. It would be a full on grin for most people. You realize that he would fucking hate it if you started weeping all over him, but this form of expression of your grief for him is acceptable. This, he’s actually enjoying, the weird bastard. 

This man is going to be the death of you. 

You are on the verge of chewing him out when he tugs at that connection between you, and that golden coil inside you flares to life. You shudder, closing your eyes, hardly able to keep yourself from crawling into his lap. You’re trying not to be a horny mess in the middle of this serious discussion–and failing badly. 

“Feel that?” 

“What is it?” He has so much more experience with this metaphysical stuff than you. 

He chews on his answer for a long time, before finally admitting, “I’ve been doing some reading. I think…we’re bound.” 

“Bound how?” 

“Our life forces,” he tries to explain. “We can…feel each other. It’s how I found you tonight. I felt you calling me, I knew you were in trouble. And we make each other stronger. I think…you’re keeping me alive, for now, but I don’t know for how long. The cancer’s still getting worse, just…slower.” 

“You should have told me.” 

“I…didn’t know how,” he admits. Most people would have added, I’m sorry, but not John Constantine. 

You finally get up the courage to take another step closer, standing between his spread legs. You reach out to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the line of his dark hair around his ear. You should have noticed immediately that he was looking gaunt. His eyes close under your touch, a long sigh escaping him, and you sense how horrible it’s been for him to carry this burden all alone. Always so alone, your John, and mostly, by his own choice.  

“If you need money for chemo I’ll get it for you.” 

His lips twist with amusement at hearing that. “Yeah? You gonna rob a drug cartel for me, Miss Vigilante?” Such is the state of the American healthcare system, that such extremes might be necessary.

“That’s not a bad idea.” 

He laughs, then regrets it as the coughing takes over. “Jesus. I’m sorry,” you say, patting his shoulder.  

“This is why I can’t be around you,” he snarks deadpan. “I’ll lose a damn lung.” 

You sigh, unable to stop yourself from thinking about the woman you saw him with last night. 

“Does…Angela know?” 

He blinks at that. “No, why would she?”

“Isn’t she…your girlfriend?”

Again, he starts to laugh, then forces himself to be still, squeezing his eyes shut. “What? No, we just met.” His dark eyes are practically sparkling as he looks up at you now, unbearably smug. He thinks this is funny, and you are so not going to tell him you were ready to chew through the concrete of your apartment building after seeing them together. “She’s helping me with a case. Or I’m helping her. The demon half-breeds are up to something big. I think they’re after her.” 

“Oh.” You are the worst, because rather than sympathy for that poor woman, all you feel is relief. “I…that’s awful.” 

“Yeah. I warded her apartment while I’m trying to get to the bottom of it. If she stays put, she should be fine…in theory.” 

“Oh. That was…nice of you.”

You can tell John is fighting not to smirk at you. “Yeah, that's me.”

Annoyed by his cheek, you insist, “You like her though. I could tell.”

“She’s alright,” he answers, interested in a knot in the table suddenly.

“You want her. I guess I don’t blame you. She’s pretty cute.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“I’m dying, for one.”

“All humans are in the process of dying.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Just saying. Better not waste your time.” You're interested in the floor too, as you say this. The thought of him with another woman claws at your insides, but you try to handle it like an adult. 

“You trying to get rid of me now?”

“Did I ever have you?”

If you’d still had to breathe, you would have held your breath, waiting for his answer, yearning for some acknowledgement of what is between you. But he only shakes his head, at you or himself you’re not sure, pouring himself another drink.

Your heart sinks like a stone to the bottom of a cold, cold lake. 

“You trying to clear your dance card for John Wick?” 

“You mean Jardani?”

“Oh, Jardani?” he singsongs mockingly, fluttering his lashes. “No one’s called him that in this century.”

“Fine. Whatever his name is, the answer’s no. He scares the fuck out of me.” 

It’s mostly true, though maybe not for the right reasons. 

“You didn’t look too scared, in the alley together. You looked like you were going to eat each other.”

You kind of did exactly that, and you didn’t know it was possible to blush as a vampire, but goddammit there it is. Cherry red heat, blistering your cheeks and the tips of your ears. 

“I don’t have to take this from you,” you growl, turning to go, though where you have no idea. 

“Hey, wait.” He catches your hand in his, and you are reminded somehow of the last time you were together. You have the control not to throw him onto the floor this time, just looking at him from under your lashes. 

“I’ve been waiting, John,” you finally say, and there’s no accusation in it now. Just resignation. Because if what he says is true–you’ve got the time to wait, but he definitely doesn’t. It seems surreal, that he could actually be fatally ill.

He sighs, and you marvel at how much this man can convey with the expulsion of some air. Annoyance, and maybe even some regret.  “I warned you, when this whole thing started, that I’m not boyfriend material.”

Why does hearing him say that hurt so much? You feel the sting of tears again, but you don’t let them fall. “I never expected you to be my boyfriend, John.”

“Then what did you want from me?” 

He seems genuinely curious, maybe as confused about all this as you are, and looking down into his soulful dark eyes you realize you don’t actually have an answer. You have all these feelings for this man, all this emotion that feels like a goddamn electrical storm crackling inside you, and yet…what did you want from him? Chocolates? Flowers? Love poems? You fucking knew better than that. You weren’t going to date like a normal couple. You weren’t going to move in together or meet each other’s parents. “I don’t know,” you admit, sounding as surprised as you feel. “Just some acknowledgement, maybe, that I meant something to you. 

He lifts an eyebrow to that. “Okay. Consider it acknowledged.” 

Somehow, this doesn’t exactly satisfy you. Disgusted, more with yourself than him now, you try to retreat again, but he won’t let go of your hand. 

“I like you, y/n,” he says with emphasis, squeezing your palm like there’s something you’re supposed to be reading between the lines. “But I don’t have anything to offer you except a target on your back. I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.”

“Is that what you really think?”  

Does he hate himself so much?

“I know it, y/n.” 

You can’t help but think of the joy you’ve felt in his arms. The pleasure, and the triumph, and the utter elation. That is why you have chased him, you realize. Because in the fleeting moments in which you catch him–you feel like you’re on top of the world. No one else has ever come close to making you feel the way John Constantine does–and if you say any of this out loud you’re afraid he’ll roll his eyes and laugh at you. 

With his handsome face in your hand you lean down as though drawn by a string, hoping to show him how you feel instead. Can’t he feel it, through this connection between you? The way you adore him? You think you feel it start to glow, and if you can invoke that magic you shared before, then surely he’ll understand. Maybe he will value himself more, if he understands how precious he is to you. He watches your approach with parted lips, his eyes fixed on you. But at the last minute he turns his head, and you freeze with mortification for his rejection. 

“You’ve still got dhampir blood in your mouth,” he says quietly, not meeting your gaze. 

He’s not wrong, of course. You didn’t exactly have a chance to brush your fucking teeth–and maybe that is pretty gross. 

You disgust him. 

You are a bloodsucking creature of the night, and even if he’s dying inside, he’s a demon hunter to the bone. 

Why you ever thought he could love you, is anyone’s guess.

[immortalbumblebee]

The Sunken City

Chapter 2: Hidden Shadows

When I tell y'all that this chapter was already almost at 10k and THEN I WROTE A SMUT SCENE! Like this chapter is probably the longest I've written, it's a little insane.

But don't make me regret it! MINORS DNI PLEASE I'M SERIOUS

Again, this is a sequel series to City of Iron and Glass!

Masterlist

The moon hung low over Piltover’s shimmering harbor, its pale light fractured by ripples in the dark, inky water. The salty air mingled with the faint creak of moored ships, the rhythmic splash of distant waves, and the occasional muffled clink of metal from the nearby docks. Looming in the shadows, the warehouse stood like a sleeping titan—silent, yet alive with the hum of machinery within. Its walls of corrugated steel, weathered and streaked with rust, were dappled with golden light leaking through gaps in its panels. The glow pulsed faintly, flickering like the heartbeat of the city’s tireless industry.

At the edge of this industrial monolith, four young figures crouched in the shadows near the entrance. The air was thick with tension, every creak of wood or echo of a footstep setting their nerves alight. Silco, the leanest of the ragtag group, worked with practiced precision, his long, nimble fingers twisting a thin lockpick inside the heavy padlock that secured the warehouse doors. The faint clicks of tumblers turning echoed in the still night, each one a small victory, though far too slow for anyone’s comfort.

“Hurry!” Benzo hissed, his hand tightening and loosening around the crowbar strapped to his back. His restless energy was palpable, his foot tapping lightly against the ground as if he could speed up the process through sheer impatience.

Silco rolled his eyes, though his focus never wavered. “How about you shut up and let me work?” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp but low enough to avoid drawing attention.

Vander, crouched just behind them, shot Benzo a warning look. His broad frame was tense, his arms resting on his knees as he kept his eyes locked on the shadows around them. “Keep it down, both of you,” he rumbled, his voice a quiet growl that brooked no argument. “We’re too exposed out here.”

You, easily the smallest of the group, sat closest to the ground, your back pressed against a crate as your eyes flitted nervously between Silco’s meticulous work and the distant glow of a patrolling Enforcer’s lantern. Your bandana was pulled low over your face, but the faint sheen of sweat on your brow betrayed her unease. “We’re not exactly blending in,” you whispered, glancing at the dim light spilling from the nearest lamppost.

“Almost there,” Silco muttered, the tension in his voice betraying his usual calm. Another faint click echoed as he worked, and the lock inched closer to surrendering.

From somewhere further down the docks came the muffled bark of a guard dog, followed by the distant murmur of voices. The group froze for a heartbeat, their breath collectively catching as the sound carried across the water. Silco’s hands paused mid-turn, his jaw tightening.

“Hurry faster,” Benzo urged again, his tone sharper now, his hand gripping the crowbar so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Silco didn’t respond this time, his focus narrowing to the final tumbler. His fingers moved with deft precision, his eyes narrowing as he coaxed the mechanism into compliance. With a soft, triumphant click, the lock popped open, and he pulled it free with a small smirk. “Told you I’d get it,” he said, a trace of pride in his voice.

Vander was already on his feet, gesturing for the others to move. “Save the victory lap for later,” he muttered. “Let’s get inside before someone spots us.”

As the heavy metal door creaked open, the faint hum of machinery swelled, its vibrations mingling with the soft whisper of the harbor wind slipping through cracks in the warehouse walls. The four of you slipped inside like shadows, leaving the moonlit harbor and its watchful eyes behind. A heavy heave of Vander’s broad hands pushed the doors shut, sealing the group within. The clang of metal meeting metal echoed briefly before falling into a tense silence.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and steel, mingling with the faint tang of salt carried from the docks. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. Moonlight filtered through dirty, streaked windows high above, casting pale beams across the vast interior. The light fell in fragmented patterns, painting jagged lines on the walls and floor. The midnight darkness cloaked much of the space, obscuring the finer details, but what you could see was enough to make your pulse quicken.

Rows upon rows of wooden crates filled the space, stacked high and bound tightly with metal straps. Each bore the faint stenciled logo of a Piltovan arms manufacturer. One crate lay open nearby, its contents spilling out—a chaotic jumble of pistol parts, rifle barrels, and gleaming magazines. The metallic glint caught your eye, and you realized the sheer volume of weaponry around you could turn the tide of a hundred skirmishes.

Benzo was the first to move, his grin splitting wide as he bent over to inspect one of the open crates. “We could arm a whole militia with these!” he cackled, his voice echoing too loudly in the cavernous space. He reached into the crate and pulled out a box of armor-piercing bullets, the heavy rounds glinting in the faint light. He turned one over in his hand, holding it up as if admiring a rare gem. “These babies’ll punch right through an Enforcer helmet.”

Vander shot him a warning look but didn’t speak, his focus on scanning the warehouse for any signs of danger. His jaw was set, his frame tense as he stayed near the entrance, ready to spring into action if the need arose.

Silco is crouched a few feet away, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator searching for weak spots. His voice is quiet, but the edge is unmistakable. “Take what you can,” he says, “but pack light. We’ve still got to make it back across the bridge without getting caught.”

You nod silently, your fingers already working on the nearest crate. The cold bite of the crowbar in your hands feels grounding, a small comfort as you pry open the wooden lid with practiced ease. Inside, rows of pistol parts glint faintly in the moonlight, neatly stacked and pristine. You swallow hard. There’s enough firepower here to change everything for the Undercity—or destroy it.

Your hands move quickly, grabbing what you can fit into your satchel. Beside you, Benzo is stuffing bullets into his bag with reckless enthusiasm, muttering something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. You glance at him, wanting to tell him to slow down, but Silco beats you to it.

“This isn’t a game,” Silco snaps, his voice sharp and commanding. “One screw-up, and we’re all dead. Focus.”

Benzo huffs, but he lowers his voice. The tension in the room tightens like a noose, and you find yourself hyper-aware of every sound—the soft scrape of metal, the distant hum of machinery, and the muffled crunch of gravel outside the warehouse.

That sound makes your blood run cold. Gravel shifting. Footsteps? You freeze, your fingers hovering over the next crate as your heart thunders in your chest. You look up at Vander, who’s already gripping the wrench strapped to his back. His expression is unreadable, but his body language screams alert.

Your stomach churns as you glance at Silco. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see a flicker of something that looks like worry. Then his face hardens. “Move faster,” he whispers, the urgency in his tone making your hands tremble as you shove more ammunition into your bag.

Every sound seems louder now—the rustle of fabric, the creak of wood, the faint clang of metal. You force yourself to keep going, your breath coming in shallow bursts. The weight of the bullets in your bag feels heavier with every passing second, but you can’t stop.

You steal another glance toward the door, your mind racing. The crunch of gravel still echoes faintly in your ears, growing closer—or maybe that’s just your imagination. Either way, the oppressive weight of the dark warehouse feels like it’s closing in, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re running out of time.

***

The soft chime of the doorbell announces your arrival as you and Vander step into Benzo’s shop, the warm, cluttered air enveloping you instantly. Vander turns over his shoulder, giving Claggor a quick but firm look. “No one comes in,” he instructs, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Claggor hesitates, his boyish face creased with unease, but he nods curtly and takes a stance outside, glancing up and down the lane like a sentry.

Inside, the shop feels smaller than you remember, stuffed to the brim with shelves packed with all manner of shinies, baubles, and trinkets. Trinkets you know intimately—some of which had passed through your own hands, carefully engineered, polished, and sold to help keep the Undercity scraping by. The faint smell of old wood and machine oil lingers in the air, the hum of a small motor somewhere in the background adding to the charm.

At the counter, a much fuller Benzo is hunched over, studying some sort of gemstone. The years have thickened his frame, but his presence is still the same—equal parts gruff and reliable.

Tucked away in the far corner, working with quiet concentration, is a boy no older than twelve. His dark skin is dusted with oil smudges, and his silver-white hair glints in the dim light as he fiddles with the intricate inner workings of a battered grandfather clock.

Benzo doesn’t even look up as the two of you step inside. “We’re closed!” he barks, his gravelly voice filling the small space.

Vander doesn’t miss a beat. “Then open up!” he retorts, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a pint at the Last Drop.

“For good!” Benzo snaps back, finally lifting his head to glare at the two of you. “You can take your worthless junk elsewhere!”

Vander sighs loudly, one hand running over his thick beard in mock exasperation. “Just as well,” he mutters. “The owner’s the shittiest businessman I know.”

You can’t help the roll of your eyes as a heavy pause settles between them. The weight of the silence stretches for a moment before both men erupt into booming laughter, their voices filling the shop and breaking the tension like a hammer through glass.

The boy in the corner glances up briefly, his bright eyes flicking toward the commotion before returning to the clock’s delicate gears with a faint smirk of his own.

Stepping over to the counter, you offer Benzo a familiar smile, one he can’t help but return despite his gruff demeanor. “Hello, old man,” you greet, your tone light but warm, the playful jab carrying years of friendship behind it.

Benzo snorts, leaning back from his hunched position and crossing his thick arms over his chest. “You’re no spring chicken yourself these days, fishie,” he shoots back, a twinkle of amusement in his sharp eyes. The nickname pulls an exasperated chuckle from you, one you’ve grown used to over the years.

Before you can retort, Benzo’s attention snaps to the corner of the room, where the boy with silver-white hair is still elbow-deep in the inner workings of the grandfather clock. “Ekko!” Benzo barks, his voice carrying that unmistakable tone of authority. “What’s going on with that thing? You plan on fixing it or marrying it?”

The boy glances back over his shoulder, a small wrench clutched in his oil-smudged hand. His expression is focused but calm, the kind of cool confidence that only comes from doing this sort of work a hundred times over. “Give me a few seconds,” Ekko replies evenly, turning back to the intricate gears in front of him. “The cannon pinion’s still busted.”

You resist the urge to walk over and help, your fingers twitching at your sides as you watch Ekko work with precise, careful movements. It’s a familiar instinct, but you remind yourself that the boy doesn’t need your intervention. He’s got it under control—he always does.

You think back to when Ekko had first come into your lives, a scrappy war orphan whose parents’ names were lost to the chaos. You hadn’t known them, but you didn’t need to; their absence was written in the boy’s cautious eyes and the way he clung to survival like it was the only thing he had left. You and Vander had talked long into the night about what to do. You’d already been stretched thin, barely keeping your own heads above water, but the idea of turning him away was unthinkable.

Even then, Ekko had stood out. A genius young lad, his sharp mind and boundless curiosity shone brighter than the glittering spires of Piltover’s skyline. His talent was undeniable—academy-worthy, some might have said. Not that you put much faith in that pompous institution of classist elites. Still, his eye for engineering and science had been like nothing you’d ever seen before. Except maybe in Viktor, that sickly boy from Zaun who had somehow clawed his way up to become Councilman Heimerdinger’s assistant.

But before you could make a decision, Benzo had beaten you to the punch. “Let me have the youngin’,” he’d said, practically begging as he crouched down to Ekko’s level. The boy had been barely three at the time, small and wide-eyed, clinging to a makeshift toy he’d cobbled together from scraps. “I’ll make something great outta him, just you wait.”

You’d been skeptical, of course. Benzo wasn’t exactly known for his parenting skills, and the thought of leaving a child in his care had made your stomach twist. But Vander had seen something you hadn’t, nodding quietly and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll do right by him,” Vander had said, and for all your doubts, you’d trusted his judgment.

And somehow, Benzo had kept his word. Over the years, he’d molded Ekko into something extraordinary—not just a boy who could survive but one who could thrive, even in the harsh realities of the Undercity. He’d taught him not just the mechanics of machines but the mechanics of life itself: how to navigate its moving parts, how to fix what was broken, and how to know when something was beyond repair.

Still, as you watch Ekko now, focused and calm as he works on the clock, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride—and maybe a little ache of what-ifs. He could’ve been under your roof, learning from you, growing with you and Vander. But he’s happy here, in his own way. And maybe that’s all that matters.

“Finish it later!” Benzo barked, “The grown-ups need a word.”

Ekko voiced his complaints, grumbling under his breath about wanting to keep working, but Benzo waved him off with a flick of his hand. “Time to pack it in, kid. Go on, out you go,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. Reluctantly, Ekko gathered his milk crate of tools, muttering something about the clock being “practically done anyway.”

As he shuffled out the door, Claggor greeted him cheerfully, his wide grin immediately brightening the boy’s scowl. You watched through the window as the two exchanged a few words before disappearing around the corner, leaving the shop quiet except for the faint hum of machinery and the creak of settling shelves.

Benzo turned his attention back to Vander the moment the door clicked shut, his brow furrowing in mild annoyance. “You’re early,” he grumbled, leaning on the counter and giving Vander a pointed look. “My guys are still out rounding up this month’s collections. Won’t have the numbers until next—” His words were abruptly cut off as Vander hoisted the burlap sack from his shoulder and dumped its contents onto the counter with a dull thud. The bag fell away, spilling a jumble of items across the wooden surface. A pair of garden clippers. Mylo’s battered earhorn. A few well-worn switchblades. A tangled mess of mundane gadgets that looked more like the detritus of a street vendor’s stall than anything of value. Benzo let out a breath. “Why are you two muckin' about with this?”

You leaned a hip against the counter, crossing your arms as you watched Vander with an amused smirk. He didn’t respond right away, instead taking his time to spread the items out, turning one of the switchblades over in his hand as if examining it for the first time.

Benzo lets out a snort of laughter, the sound rough and hollow. “Yeah, me and half the Undercity,” he mutters, shaking his head as if the weight of the news is too much to shake off.

Vander sighs for real this time, the kind of sigh that seems to pull the air from his lungs and leave him momentarily deflated. He slumps, his shoulders heavy as the burden of the situation presses down. You watch him for a moment, your fingers instinctively reaching for a cigarette from the pack in your pocket. You flick it between your lips, lighting it with a practiced motion, the ember catching the flame before you draw in a steady breath.

“How could they be so stupid?” you mutter through a cloud of smoke, the frustration bleeding through your words.

“They were just trying to do what they thought was right,” you remind him, your voice softer now, thoughtful. “Lady knows we did the same when we were their age.”

Vander’s eyes narrow, the dark circles under them deepening. “It’s Vi…” he mutters, his voice tinged with exasperation. “She throws herself at trouble wherever she can find some. I can’t watch her do it anymore.”

You glance over at Benzo, who’s leaning back against the counter with his arms folded, watching the two of you with a kind of detached curiosity. His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—an odd mix of understanding and cynicism.

“Eh, they’re growing up, Vander,” Benzo hums, as if this whole mess were just another part of the dance. “Looking to write their own stories, carve their own place. You can’t protect them forever.”

Vander doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, grab something solid to anchor him against the weight of those words. You can feel the heaviness of the room, the sense that the conversation has turned into something bigger, something unavoidable.

"Someone was following them."

Your head immediately perks up at the words, your senses sharpening. "What?" you ask, your voice tight with sudden alertness.

Benzo lets out a low chortle, clearly enjoying the way you’ve reacted. "Whole lot of someones, from what I heard," he adds with a wicked grin, clearly reveling in the tension of the moment.

Vander shakes his head, his expression hardening. "Not Enforcers," he mutters, as if the very thought of Piltover’s law enforcement being involved would somehow be a lesser blow.

"Someone on our side?" you ask, the curiosity edging out your annoyance. "Who?"

Benzo’s gaze shifts, the playfulness draining from his face as he leans forward, the gravity of his next words settling over the room. "There’s worse things than Enforcers out there."

Vander’s gaze darkens at that, his fingers subconsciously running along the leather cast that envelops his arm. The faint scrape of his thumb against the material is almost inaudible, but it speaks volumes—memories, the kind you never quite forget. His eyes flicker briefly to his cast, the weight of past encounters pressing down on him.

"We all know that," Vander says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding, of history too painful to erase. The room grows heavier, as if the very air itself has thickened with the unspoken truths. You glance at Vander, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

Benzo seems to sense the shift in the mood, his playful tone turning into something more serious. "Whoever's been tailing them, they aren’t just looking to knock some heads around for fun. There’s intent behind it. And that kind of target’s dangerous."

Your gaze hardens as your mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle. "So, what are we supposed to do about it?" you ask, your voice sharper than you intended, frustration creeping in. "Just tell them to lay low? You know they won’t like that."

Benzo huffs, shaking his head. "Don’t have much of a choice, I reckon," he mutters, his tone gruff but resigned. He extends his hand toward you, and without a word, you offer him a drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light of the shop.

He takes it without hesitation, inhaling deeply before passing the cigarette back to you, his gaze flicking down to the counter. The moment hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding.

Without breaking the silence, Benzo’s hand ducks under the counter, rummaging around for a moment before emerging with a large glass container. The amber liquid inside catches the light in a way that almost makes it look warm, like liquid gold.

"For now, though…" Benzo's voice softens slightly, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he places the bottle on the counter, "some liquid comfort to ease the struggle?"

Vander sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his pipe. The familiar ritual of filling it seems almost automatic. "You read my mind, old friend," he mutters, the weight of the situation settling in his bones.

You watch them both for a moment, the world outside the shop suddenly feeling distant, almost irrelevant. Benzo pops the cork with a satisfying thunk, and the rich smell of the liquor fills the air—warm, inviting, like an old friend. It’s a brief moment of comfort amidst the chaos, one that feels a little too fleeting.

As Benzo pours the liquid into two small glasses, you take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield against the unease gnawing at the edges of your mind. You don’t have a clear plan yet, no concrete steps to follow, but something tells you this won’t be the last time you’ll need a drink to get through the night.

Vander chuckles lowly, his fingers gently tapping the bowl of his pipe. "To the mess we’re about to clean up," he says, the humor in his voice barely masking the tension that lingers in the room.

You clink your glass against theirs, the sharp sound echoing through the small shop before silence settles back in, thick with anticipation. 

The moment was shattered by the sharp chime of the door opening, the cool night air sweeping into the shop like an unwelcome guest. The heavy thunk of boots against the worn floorboards followed, each step deliberate and echoing. You barely had time to react before the sharp chill running down your spine forced your shoulders to hunch. Your gaze hardened instinctively, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand.

Two uniformed Enforcers strode in, their presence slicing through the casual warmth of the room like a blade. Their faces were unreadable, save for the subtle tension in their postures and the way their eyes scanned the shop. Almost immediately, the younger of the two removed his air purifier, the smooth hiss of the device disconnecting was a reminder of everything you despised about Topsiders.

It wasn’t just the purifier—it was what it symbolized. It was their disdain for the Undercity, their belief that nothing here could ever be clean enough, pure enough, good enough. Vander had worked tirelessly to improve the air quality since he’d taken charge, striking uneasy deals with the Council to make life just a bit more bearable for those who called this place home. The upper levels had seen progress, but the mines remained a stubborn stain, a task unfinished. A promise unfulfilled.

But of course, nothing would ever be enough for the weak lungs of Piltover’s elite.

“Evening, friends!” Benzo greeted with a practiced smoothness, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that bordered on defiance. “Something I can help you with?”

The older of the two Enforcers stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Grayson. Time had not been kind to her, though she wore it with a quiet dignity. The streaks of silver in her hair and the fine lines around her eyes spoke to a decade of hardened resolve—of battles fought, lost, and somehow survived. Her gaze swept the shop lazily, but there was nothing casual about the way she took in every detail.

The younger one, though—he was different. You didn’t recognize him, and you didn’t like the sharpness in his eyes. He didn’t look at the shop; he looked at all of you, as if he were cataloging a list of things to hold against you. “Some trencher trash attacked one of the buildings in the Academy district, but you already knew that.”

Your teeth clenched at the term, your distaste barely hidden.

“We’re looking for the culprits,” Grayson said, her tone even but tired. She glanced around again, her eyes lingering on the counter, the shelves, and finally on Vander. She, like the rest of you, had aged in the past decade. Grey and white hairs sticking out at her temples, and the shadow of crows' feet framing her cold, but softened, eyes.

“Well, wasn’t us,” you muttered, your words carrying a deliberate edge as you lifted your glass and took a slow sip. The liquor burned slightly as it went down, but the warmth it left behind did little to chase away the growing tension in the room.

Grayson’s eyes shifted to you, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Didn’t think it was,” she said softly, her voice quieter than her companion’s but far more effective

“Got a description?” Vander asked smoothly, his voice steady and calm, giving nothing away. His neutral expression remained unreadable, but there was an unmistakable weight to his words—a quiet warning. The smoke from his pipe curled lazily into the air as he leaned forward ever so slightly, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.

The younger Enforcer, Marcus, bristled immediately, stepping in close to Vander, his posture stiff and aggressive. “Yeah,” he growled, his tone laced with venom. He leaned in threateningly, the move deliberate, an attempt to intimidate. “It’s exactly who you’re picturing in that thick head of yours.”

Your muscles tensed instinctively, your hand itching to grab the dagger concealed at your hip. The urge to intervene surged through you, but Vander’s calm demeanor held you back—for now.

Instead of reacting, Vander smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that only seemed to irritate Marcus further. He turned his head slightly to look at you and Benzo, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken humor. “You think my head is thick?” he asked lightly, the subtle challenge in his tone almost mocking.

Benzo shrugged with a casual ease that felt at odds with the tension in the room. “Eh, just past the average,” he replied, his tone deliberately blasé.

Vander’s gaze shifted to you, and in that single look, he gave you a silent command: Stand down. His expression was calm, but the unyielding steel in his eyes left no room for argument.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders as you offered him a small, wry smile. “But just as handsome,” you quipped, your voice light, though your body remained coiled like a spring, ready to act if needed.

Marcus, however, was far from amused. His frustration bubbled over as he snapped, “Listen, you shady son of a—”

“Marcus.” Grayson’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. The authority in her tone left no room for debate, and Marcus immediately stiffened, his jaw tightening as he turned to look at her.

Grayson didn’t even flinch, her calm, piercing gaze fixed on him. “How about you take a walk?” she suggested, the words polite but unmistakably firm.

Marcus hesitated, clearly reluctant to back down, but after a beat, he scoffed and turned toward the door. His boots stomped against the floorboards as he exited, muttering under his breath.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Grayson let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s new,” she said, almost apologetically. “Doesn’t know when to pipe down.”

Vander lets out a long, weary sigh, the cool and collected facade he’d held so carefully starting to crumble. His shoulders slump, and he hunches over his drink, his large hands wrapped around the glass as if it’s the only thing grounding him. “Some things are the same topside and bottom,” he mutters, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion.

Grayson steps closer, her boots scuffing softly against the floorboards. She stops beside you, offering a curt nod that you return in kind. There’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, a shared weariness from years of dealing with the same unending cycle. Without a word, you extend your glass to her in an unspoken offer.

She hesitates for only a moment before accepting, her fingers brushing against yours briefly as she takes the glass. She raises it to her lips, taking a measured sip. The amber liquid burns its way down her throat, and she winces slightly, but her expression remains grim.

“You know this crossed a line upstairs,” Grayson says, her tone cutting through the quiet like a knife. She sets the glass back on the counter with a soft clink, her sharp eyes fixed on Vander. “Right?”

Vander doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the drink in his hands. “Was anyone hurt?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Grayson’s lips press into a thin line. She exhales through her nose, glancing away briefly as if to compose herself. “A building was blown to bits,” she says finally, her words deliberate, heavy with implication. She swallows hard, her throat still stinging from the drink. “What do you think?”

The weight of her words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Vander’s jaw tightens, and his fingers flex around the glass, but he says nothing for a long moment. His silence speaks volumes, though—an acknowledgment of the consequences that are already spiraling beyond anyone’s control.

You watch them both, feeling the tension pull tighter with every second. The lines between right and wrong, between survival and destruction, have never been more blurred. 

“Those who did this will be dealt with,” Vander says, his voice low and resolute, but there’s a faint tremor beneath the surface, like a man trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. You don’t like how much it sounds like a plea.

Grayson straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That workshop belonged to the Kirammans,” she says, her words measured and deliberate. The name strikes a chord, and you immediately recognize it—the influential family tied to one of the council members. The same councilor who had supported the air quality initiative that Vander had fought so hard for.

Grayson continues, her voice hardening. “Do you know what kind of equipment they had in there? Cutting-edge prototypes, tools worth more than half the Undercity combined. This place”—she gestures vaguely around the shop—“looks like a candy store compared to what they lost. The Council isn’t just angry; they need to make an example of someone. People need to feel safe.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as a bitter laugh escapes your lips. “You mean Piltover needs to feel safe,” you say sharply, your words dripping with contempt.

Grayson’s head snaps toward you, her eyes narrowing in warning, but she doesn’t bite. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Vander, the weight of her attention bearing down on him like a hammer. “We had a deal, Vander,” she reminds him, her voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “You keep your people off my streets, and I stay out of your business.” She leans in, her tone softening just slightly, almost as if she’s pleading. “Give me a name. We’ll handle it quietly. No one will know you were involved.”

Vander exhales heavily, his broad shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of the situation. The stress rolls off him in waves, palpable even to you. He shakes his head slowly, his jaw tightening as he finally meets Grayson’s gaze. “I can’t do that.”

Grayson’s hand slams down onto the counter with a sharp crack, making you flinch. “You don’t seem to grasp how serious this is,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her composure cracks, revealing the urgency and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “If I don’t put someone behind bars tonight, the next time I come down here, I’ll have an army of Enforcers with me.” She leans forward, her face mere inches from Vander’s. “And we both know how that’ll go.”

The shop falls into a heavy silence, the weight of her threat settling over the room like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, Grayson,” Vander says finally, his voice quiet but unyielding. “We don’t give up our own people.”

For a moment, Grayson stares at him, her jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding. Then she straightens, her expression hardening into the steely mask of an Enforcer doing her job. “You’re making a mistake, Vander,” she says, her tone cold and formal now.

You straighten, pulling your glass closer back to you. “I think it’s time you go, Captain.” Her cold eyes move from you, linger on Vander, then back to you. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and strides out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind her with a sharp chime.

The silence that follows is deafening, and for a long moment, no one speaks. You glance at Vander, but his face is unreadable, his eyes fixed on the door as if he can still see her retreating form.

“Hope you know what you’re doing,” Benzo mutters, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no hiding the worry in his tone.

Vander doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at the door, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.

***

As you stepped back over the threshold, the sounds and smell of home filled your senses. Inside, the bar was dimly lit, the faint smell of spilled ale and old wood mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the Underground’s air. It was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening, save for the faint creaks of the rafters and the occasional drip of condensation from the exposed pipes above.

Claggor trailed behind, his young face a mask of determination that couldn’t quite hide the fatigue in his eyes. His boots scuffed against the worn floorboards as he stifled a yawn, glancing toward you for a moment before looking away.

You gave him a small, tired smile and placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him into a side-hug. “Go on, sweetheart,” you said softly. “You’ve done enough for one night. Get some rest.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Vander, who nodded in agreement. “You heard her,” Vander said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “We’ll take it from here.”

Claggor gave a slight nod, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “Goodnight,” he mumbled before heading toward the back door. The sound of his footsteps faded as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving you and Vander alone in the quiet bar.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you glanced around the space. The chairs were scattered haphazardly, the tables sticky with the remnants of spilled drinks. Behind the counter, a few empty glasses glinted in the low light, waiting to be washed. You immediately walked over to the bar, grabbing your rags and spray bottles as you prepared to clean the expanse of tables. Silently, for a moment, Vander watched you.

“I know you hate working with her,” he says. His voice is quiet, hushed, wary of any overhearing little voices.

You pause mid-spray, the rag in your hand frozen against the tabletop. For a moment, you don’t turn to face him, letting the silence hang between you like the damp air of the Lanes. Slowly, you straighten, glancing over your shoulder at Vander. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow gives him away.

“It’s not about liking or hating her,” you say, turning back to the table and scrubbing at a stubborn stain. Your voice is matching his, hushed, calm, measured. “It’s about what she represents. What they all represent.”

He lets out a low grunt, a sound that could mean agreement, frustration, or both. “We’ve been over this, Love. We don’t have a choice.”

You can’t help but scoff. “You think I don’t know that?” More scrubbing. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it, when she comes in here, making orders. Like we’re her lackies. Like she doesn’t respect us,” you look back at him over your shoulder, “wasn’t too long ago she was throwing you in Stillwater.”

“She’s trying to help,” he says, stepping closer. His voice is softer now. “Just like us.”

You glance up at him, rag poised over the table. “Is she? Or is she just trying to keep the peace so Piltover doesn’t have to dirty its hands with another war?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves behind the bar, his large hands steady as he begins stacking glasses. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice quieter.

“It never is,” you reply, resuming your work. The rhythmic motion of cleaning gives you something to focus on, something to anchor you in the midst of your swirling thoughts. “But it doesn’t mean I have to trust her.”

Vander stops what he’s doing, leaning heavily against the counter. “You don’t have to trust her,” he says, meeting your gaze. “But you do have to work with her. For the kids. For all of us.”

You sigh, your movements slowing as his words sink in. “I know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” he agrees, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t.”

The room falls into silence again, save for the faint creak of the rafters and the soft scrape of your rag against the wood. Vander watches you for a moment longer before returning to his task, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling between you like a familiar, unwelcome guest.

The two of you continue to work in silence, but your mind is anything but. Every thought feels like a sharp edge, cutting deeper the longer you let it fester. You hate it—hate how the idea lingers in your mind like an unwelcome guest you can’t quite kick out. You know you have to say it, to release the weight pressing against your chest, even if it makes everything worse.

As you finish wiping down the individual tables, your feet instinctively carry you over to the old jukebox in the corner. You press a few buttons, the familiar crackle and hum signaling it’s come to life. A low, mellow tune begins to play, not loud enough to disrupt the peace but just enough to mask any prying ears that might be listening.

With a steadying breath, you turn and step toward the bar, your gaze finding Vander. He’s behind the counter, absentmindedly drying glasses, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that tells you he’s thinking about more than just the task at hand.

“Vander,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the music. He glances up, his eyes meeting yours, and you can feel the weight of everything unsaid between you.

“I’m just gonna say it once,” you begin, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that demands his full attention. “And then never again.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing the leather cast on his arm. The worn material feels rough under your touch, a stark reminder of what’s at stake. “There is someone we could hand over to Grayson.”

The moment the words leave your lips, you see it—the flash of betrayal, hurt, and anger in his eyes. It’s as though you’ve physically struck him, and for a moment, he just stares at you, as if willing you to take it back.

“Minnie,” he says, his voice low and warning, laced with disappointment.

You pull your hand back, holding both up in surrender. “I know,” you say quickly, trying to cut through the tension before it boils over. “I know. We don’t give up our own people.” You shrug, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “But you and I both know the kids being stalked today wasn’t some one-off incident.”

His jaw tightens, his broad shoulders squaring as if to brace himself against your words. You can see the fury in his expression, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles whiten. But beneath the anger, you see it—the flicker of conflict in his eyes, the hesitation he’s trying so hard to bury.

“I hate even thinking about it,” you admit, your voice quieter now, tinged with guilt. “But if it’s him or them…”

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and final. “We don’t give up our own people,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the only way this works. If we start turning on people, even him…” He shakes his head, his gaze burning into yours. “We lose everything. Trust. Loyalty. Unity. It all falls apart.”

You nod, swallowing hard as the weight of his words settles over you. “I know,” you whisper, the guilt in your chest twisting like a knife. “I know, Vander.”

For a moment, the silence returns, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the jukebox. Then, without a word, you make your way around the bar, stepping into his space. You take his hands in yours, the roughness of his skin grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I’m scared, Vander. For them.”

His hands tighten around yours, the calloused grip grounding you in a way only he can. For the first time tonight, some of the tension in his shoulders softens, and his gaze, though still heavy with the weight of his responsibilities, holds something warmer. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice low but steady. “But I need you to back me up here. If I don’t have you…” His voice trails off, as if saying it aloud would make it too real, too raw.

You nod, feeling the knot in your chest tighten. “I understand,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. His skin is rough, the stubble coarse beneath your palm, but the way he leans into your touch feels so vulnerable, so human. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, either. I’m sorry for even thinking it, for even saying it.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, his voice soft but resolute. “I understand. I don’t blame you for thinking it. Things are… complicated right now.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And thank you for not saying it with anyone else in the room.”

“Of course!” you reply instantly, your tone carrying a faint edge of indignation, though your lips quirk into a small, reassuring smile. “It’s you and me, Vander. Always.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, holding on to each other in the quiet safety of the empty bar. The jukebox hums softly in the background, its low melody a distant reminder of the chaos outside. But here, in this bubble of stillness, it feels like it’s just the two of you against the world, like it’s always been.

Vander’s hands shift slightly, his rough fingers brushing against the backs of yours in a way that feels almost reverent. His eyes meet yours, the familiar storm of conflict and determination softening into something deeper. The flicker of light from the bar catches in his gaze, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time has slowed, the weight of everything giving way to this single, fleeting moment.

Without thinking, you step closer, your breath mingling with his as the distance between you narrows. His calloused hand rises to cradle your face, his thumb tracing a line across your cheek. It’s such a gentle gesture for someone who carries the weight of the Undercity on his shoulders, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Minnie…” he murmurs, your name barely more than a whisper on his lips, filled with so much emotion it almost undoes you.

You don’t give him a chance to say more. Standing on your toes, you close the remaining space, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is fierce, filled with everything unspoken—fear, frustration, love, and the unshakable bond that has carried you both through every storm.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, as if letting go might shatter the fragile peace of this moment. You lose yourself in the warmth of him, in the way his lips move against yours, rough yet tender, commanding yet vulnerable. The rest of the world falls away—no Enforcers, no chembarons, no threats hanging over your heads. Just the two of you, anchored to each other.

When you finally break apart, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His hands linger on your waist, keeping you close. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, the silence filled with the quiet hum of the jukebox and the sound of your uneven breaths.

“I love you,” he says finally, his voice rough but steady, the words a promise, a declaration, a plea all at once.

“I love you too,” you whisper, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. It wasn’t just a repeat of the words you’d both said a million times, but rather, a promise. To him, to the life you’d created together, to the idea of your shared future together.

It started soft, tentative, like he was handling glass—terrified that one wrong move might shatter you. His lips brushed against yours with the kind of care you wouldn’t expect from a man who carried the weight of an entire city on his shoulders. The coarse itch of his beard against your skin grounded you, a quiet reminder of the ruggedness that hid the tenderness beneath. His hands settled on the small of your back, steady and secure, while his forehead pressed against yours, anchoring the moment.

The kiss was gentle but spoke volumes—every unspoken word, every hidden fear, and every promise he couldn’t quite put into words. It was restraint and love wrapped into one fragile moment.

But you wanted more. Needed more.

Your hand slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the coarse strands as you tugged gently. Just as you expected, Vander groaned softly, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deeper. His grip on your back tightened ever so slightly, betraying the restraint he was desperately trying to maintain.

Then, with a small, mischievous smile against his lips, you nipped at his bottom lip. The action was playful but bold, a silent plea for him to let go, to give in.

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes burned with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and something far more primal. For a second, the room seemed to hold its breath, and then his lips found yours again—this time with more urgency, more need.

The gentleness gave way to a deeper passion, his kisses more fervent, his hands gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you. Your own hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, pouring every ounce of your own feelings into the moment. The jukebox hummed in the background, but it was drowned out by the sound of your quickened breaths and the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

When he finally broke away, his breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against yours once more, eyes closed as though savoring the moment. His hands stayed firm on your waist, reluctant to let go.

“M’love,” he whispered, his voice husky, laced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “You drive me mad, you know that?”

You smirked, your thumb brushing over the lines of his jaw. “Good. Someone’s got to keep you in check.”

He chuckled softly, pressing another kiss—this one slower, softer, like a thank-you—against your lips before pulling you into a tight embrace. In the quiet safety of the bar, the world outside could wait a little longer.

Between kisses, his lips brush against yours as he breathes out a barely audible, “Bedroom?” His voice is low and ragged, the word almost lost in the heat of the moment.

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, the sound cutting through the intensity like a bright spark. “Kids are going to bed,” you remind him, your hands sliding from his hair to his broad shoulders, steadying yourself as the passion simmers between you. Your fingers dig gently into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the strength beneath. “Office,” you suggest, your tone playful yet laced with urgency.

The corner of his lips quirks upward in a smirk, and he doesn’t hesitate. In one swift, practiced motion, his hands lower to your waist, gripping you with a confidence born of years together. Effortlessly, he lifts you as though you weigh nothing at all, his strength so familiar yet no less thrilling.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, holding onto him as he shifts his grip to better support you. The intimacy of the motion, the way your bodies fit so perfectly together, sends a new rush of heat through you. You can feel the tension in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

Blindly, his steps take him around the bar, his focus entirely on you even as he navigates the dim room with ease. Your laughter echoes softly, a sweet contrast to the muffled hum of the jukebox in the background.

When he reaches the base of the stairs, he pauses for a split second, adjusting his grip as if savoring the closeness before beginning the ascent. Each step is deliberate but unhurried, the anticipation between you growing thicker with every passing second. You brush a kiss against the edge of his jaw, and he groans softly in response, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

“Someone’s enjoying this,” you murmur teasingly against his ear, unable to resist.

His response is a low chuckle, the vibrations resonating between you. “With you? Always,” he counters, his voice a mix of affection and heat. The words hang in the air, adding yet another layer to the smoldering intensity of the moment as the two of you disappear into the shadows of the upstairs office.

This moment, here, on the staircase. Those moments where you have someone safe, someone to come back to when the world outside was so harsh and unforgiving. It made your heart flip and your breath hitch in a way that felt as though it could shatter you, yet you leaned into it willingly. So few good things had been left here, in this city that tried to take everything from you, and you were impossibly grateful—achingly, desperately grateful—that Vander was still one of them.

“Something you want?” Vander’s voice pulled you from the spiral, his words gentle but teasing as his beard grazed your skin. One of his hands left the sanctuary of your hair, sliding down to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your jawline.

You met his gaze, your chest tightening at the warmth in his eyes, at the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I always want you,” you admitted, the words leaving you unfiltered, vulnerable, as raw as the feeling surging within you. It seemed to be all the incentive he needed. Without another word, Vander carried you up the stairs, each step slow and deliberate, as though savoring the anticipation. His office wasn’t anything grand—just a small, wooden room with a simple, scratched-up desk, its surface covered in scribbles and doodles from your youngest, a reminder of the life you’d built here amidst the chaos.

But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, none of that mattered. The world outside faded entirely as you felt your back press into the wooden paneling. Vander’s broad chest pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you, grounding you. Your legs stayed locked firmly around his waist, keeping him close, while your arms tightened around his shoulders, pulling him in as though letting go might make him disappear.

His lips found yours again, this time hungrier, more desperate. There was no hesitation in the way his hands slid up your sides, memorizing every curve, as though reassuring himself you were still here. And you needed him just as much—primal, all-consuming. Every inch of him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, earning you a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned into you, his strength overwhelming but never overbearing, as if even now, he was holding back just enough to keep you from breaking. But you didn’t want him to hold back—not now.

“Vander,” you breathed against his lips, your voice laced with urgency.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes darkened with an intensity that made your heart race. “I’m here,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours for a brief, grounding moment.

That moment was all too brief, though, as his lips returned to your neck, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin that made your breath hitch and your knees feel weak—even though you weren’t standing. His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring you to him as his movements became more insistent, more certain.

You tilted your head back, letting the tension of the day melt away under his touch, letting yourself get lost in him. Because in this moment, nothing else mattered. Not the threats, not the fears, not the looming uncertainty of tomorrow. He took hungry advantage to the access to your neck, nipping at the tender skin there, which in turn sent electric shock through and down your spine.

“Beautiful…” he whispered into your skin, “absolutely breath-taking.”

“Could say the same about you.” Your grin was large, breath quickening with every movement of his lips against the flesh of your neck. He pulled away only slightly, a mix of emotions on his face. 

“Even after all this time, Love?” He asked, his voice gravelly and heavy with feeling. His voice tinged with playful self-deprecation, though his smirk gave away the spark of mischief in his tone. “With the ‘dad-bod’, as you say, and the gray hair?”

“Always.” You affirm with a smile, leaning in so your lips were just a whisper away from his. “Especially with the dad-bod and the gray hair.” 

Your words made him chuckle, the sound deep and warm, but it quickly turned into a low growl as your fingers trailed down from his face, over his broad chest, and settled at his belt. You tugged at it deliberately, your lips curving into a smirk of your own. “Now, get those damn pants off and come here,” you commanded, your voice husky with need.

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped back just enough to comply, his hands placing you down onto your own feet to undo his belt with practiced ease. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” he rumbled, his tone equal parts amusement and desire.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you shot back, pulling our shirt over your head and leaning back against the door, watching him with a mixture of affection and anticipation.

He let the belt drop to the floor with a heavy clink, his hands now working the button and zipper as he shrugged out of his suspenders. “Oh, I love it,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes raked over you. “Almost as much as I love the thought of filling you.” His words sent a rush of warm blood through to your cheeks, even after all these years together. The air between you crackled with heat, the playful banter giving way to something far more intense as the space between you disappeared again. His pants hit the floor, and before you could quip back, his hands were on you—gripping your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. “And Gods, do I need to fill you.”

With a somewhat shaky hand on his chest, you gently pushed him towards his desk, his body easily and smoothly following your guiding as he found himself leaning against the wooden piece of furniture. 

“First,” you began, slowly falling to your knees in front of him, “let someone else take care of you for a change.”

You run your tongue slowly along his length, ensuring he’s well-lubricated and ready before diving into the real effort. Once satisfied, you let your lips glide from the base to the tip in one smooth motion, preparing him—not just physically, but teasingly, setting the tone. His sharp exhale of approval sends a wave of heat through you, a rush of endorphins mingling with your anticipation. That sound, that subtle reaction, only fuels your desire to push further, to see what other noises you can coax from him.

“Fuck,” he sighs as you start to really work, moving the hand at the base in tandem with your mouth as you begin to slowly bob your head up and down, your tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft. His breathing is already deeper, more measured, and he shifts lower, trying to tilt his hips further into your mouth. You could, honestly, listen to the sounds of his moan all day. 

Spitting into your hand, you used the combination of saliva and precum to begin pumping his cock while you eagerly took in the full view of the man above you.  Chest rising and falling in staggered breaths, Vander’s head was fallen back as he grips the edge of his desk with one hand and the other moves to your hair, carefully gathering it and holding the strands out of your face. 

“Bleedin’—fucking hell—” he choked out, his voice rough and raw as you lowered your head, taking him as deep as you could manage. His length felt heavy on your tongue, the warmth of him filling your mouth completely as you worked yourself closer to the base.

When the tip of him brushed against the back of your throat, the sound he let out shifted from a groan to something primal, a deep, guttural noise that sent a shiver down your spine. His reaction only fueled your determination, and you relished the way he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure.

You managed a couple of steady bobs, finding a rhythm, but that softness didn’t last long. His grip tightened, firm and commanding, as if his control had snapped entirely. He thrust into your mouth with a force that sent your head back slightly, his hips moving instinctively, hungrily, as though he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The sheer intensity of it left you breathless, but you braced yourself, meeting his pace with as much control as you could muster. This wasn’t just passion—it was raw, consuming need.

It wasn’t long until you felt a distinct pressure at the base of your skull, his hands-carefully with an edge of urgency-removing you from his shaft and lifting you to your feet. Dutifully, you obey, letting him guide you with a firm grasp on the strands of hair in his hand as he moves you back around, gently moving you atop the desk. Hurried hands rid you of your pants and underwear as you take your perch, and for a moment, the coolness of the wood felt unpleasant. But he’s quick to warm you with the heat emanating from his body as he stepped between your legs. 

“Gods, I love that mouth of yours.” He all but croons. His voice like butter to your ears and you have to physically try and focus your mind to not just fall to your knees for him all over again. His presence between your legs, however, keeps you present as he lines himself up to the warm, dripping slit between your legs. “But you know damn well which of your holes I prefer.”

You didn’t mean to let out the desperate whine that ripped from your throat. But as he slid into you, filling you so entirely, that whine turned into a breathless gasp. He took his time filling you, letting both of you fall whole-heartedly into the pleasure. His hands were moving, sliding up from your hips and along your sides to grasp your tits, busying himself to not get lost in the warmth of your cunt and how it seemed to take him perfectly.  But you were too busy to focus on his hands, suddenly flooded with the sense of feeling intensely full.  “Fuck…”

He shushed you gently, like a tender kiss to your hair as his hands continued to play with the mounds on your chest. “Hush my love, wouldn’t want the little ones to overhear.” His strong hands roam your body, caressing your curves possessively. He captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth as he presses his warm body against yours.

As he begins to move, you move your face into his chest, letting the soft muscle muffle your downright sinful sounds. Vander, however, continues to whisper into your ear, hands moving down to your hips. "Gods you feel so good…” he murmurs, “need that cunt so bad, all of you. Every damned inch.”

You’re clinging to him now, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as he thrusts in and out of you. Vander’s eyes watched you intently, concentrating on studying the way your body reacted to his thrusts, how you bounced and quivered with his movements, all while he became drunk on the very feeling of you.

Knowing you were both nearing your limits, his movements became even harder and faster, almost animalistic, as he fucked every thought out of your mind, your brain completely blank, pleasure becoming the only thing that occupied your thoughts. His body leaned into yours, forcing you to lay down across the surface of the now creaking desk, your face pressed into his shoulder as his hands traced over to your knees. Well-versed in this, you let your flexibility take over as he maneuvered you into a breeding press, his hips now thrusting into with reckless pleasure.

“Need to fill you, breed you.” He groaned into your skin, voice deep enough that the tone was enough to make your walls clench around him, in turn making him let out a wolf-like growl. “Yeah? You like that? Want me to breed you, love?” 

The two of you had discussed this so many times, both within the warmth of the bedroom and outside it. The thought of having your own child—your own little one to nurture, to love, and to watch grow—had always been a dream, but a complicated one. You had both agreed that another mouth to feed wasn’t something you could afford, not when the weight of raising the children you already had was such a burden. They were your joy, your reason for everything, yet the reality of your lives felt too fragile to invite another little one into it. There was also the truth of your years, the undeniable fact that time had a way of changing things. 

Didn’t stop the breeding kink from being hot as fuck, though.

“Gods, yes, please!” You cry out, trying desperately to not carry your volume too high. “Vander, please, I need it.” Your horny brain has fully taken over at this point. “I wanna feel it.”

“Cum for me, Love.” He grunts, droplets of sweat rolling down his body.  “I’m right there with you, just…fuck, please, I need to feel you cum around my cock.”

Your climax crashes into you at his words, and this obliterates him. Crumpling into a mess of guttural groans, Vander plunges into you one final time and Gods, it’s like you’re seeing the stars again.

As you both lay there, tangled in a chaotic blend of sweat and breathless sighs, your mind, hazy and clouded by desire, can only vaguely register the sensation of him trailing soft, tender kisses along the curve of your collarbones. Each gentle touch, each lingering kiss, sends a shiver through your body, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment as you struggle to catch your breath. Your arms instinctively move up, draping around his shoulders as you nestle deeper into the comfort of his warmth. The stillness of the moment is almost enough to make you forget the mess you’ll have to deal with soon, but it’s there, lingering at the back of your mind.

‘I… needed that,’ he admits softly, his voice low and filled with a quiet satisfaction. You can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes you, the sound light and playful.

‘No shit,’ you tease, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He lifts his head then, his eyes meeting yours with a kind of tenderness that makes your chest tighten. Without warning, he presses his lips to yours in a kiss that’s deep and heated, pulling a soft moan from your throat. The kiss leaves you breathless, the sensation of his mouth on yours stirring something within you that lingers even as the moment fades.

As he pulls away, Vander’s gaze has softened, his eyes tender and filled with a depth that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch as gentle as ever.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he speaks too loudly. You can feel the sincerity in his words, a truth that has been woven into the very fabric of your lives together.

You smile, the warmth in your chest spreading, and you press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too, Vander. More than you’ll ever know.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Nothing else matters, not the worries of tomorrow, not the world outside. There is only this—the soft exchange of love, shared in the stillness of your hearts.

He rests his forehead against yours, his breath slow and steady, matching the rhythm of your own. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of hearing you say that,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You chuckle softly, a sound that feels like it’s part of the warmth between you both. “Then I’ll say it every day, if I have to.”

And in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you and his heart laid bare, you know you’ve found your home.

[lunarthing159]

[ Gunshot, Rosette, & Canvas ]

A VSAU-AU Fanfiction For @rhapsoddity And Community.

Characters: Sheriff/Jimmy, Wither/Sausage, & Spectrum/Scott

Content Warnings: Detail of Injury, Non-Consensual Hypnosis, & Hot AU Men (Thanks Rhaps).

Extra Tag; @wilbygoesbrrrr Take Your Villain Saus Man

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Stillness.

It was all so still.. quiet.. tranquil..

Almost too much so for The Sheriff's tastes. This place is usually bustling with villains, or even simple criminals by this hour.. yet still.. nothing..

Heroes rarely ventured into the alleyways of this part of Empires City, it was labeled 'not of immediate concern' a long time ago and hasn't changed since. "Tch, figures." He would scoff under his breath at the thought. The whole job of heroes is to help people, and yet they ignore the areas that most need help. Typical, unfortunately.

Oh well, that means more work for The Sheriff to do instead. Hooray!..

Making his way from rooftop to rooftop using his lasso, Sheriff scoured his usual rounds, checking each and every alleyway for even the slightest motive. Even hours later, as he was already slowing down and yawning along the way, he kept searching.

He kept moving.

He kept slowing down.

He kept watching.

He kept yawning.

He kept looking.

He kept rubbing his eyes.

The Sheriff kept Searching

And the searching would seem to pay off.

A simple paper, tucked away in an alleyway corner. A letter, it would seem. The alley walls were lightly coated in city moss, adorned with glass panels & windows leaned onto the sides at the dead-end.

Bingo.

Sheriff decended down from atop the building, using his lasso for the first half and some ladders for the second. "There we go!" Picking up the paper, it read as follows;

To my newest accomplice,

I presume your travels have been well. As I last heard of you, all things are set on your end of our plan. The target has been found, we can begin stage two.

Turn around~

There was no time to react.

The moss along the alley walls came to life in an instant, rushing out towards the sheriff. There was no time to dodge. There was no time to flee. Within moments, he found himself bound within the vines, sprouted thorns digging into his clothes and skin.

And he knew exactly who was causing this.

"Hello there, little cowboy."

Wither. The Thorned Rosebush. The Garden of Decay. The Mania Flower.

He wore a scarlet red mask to cover his eyes and a shirt of the same hue, buttoned down just enough to where his upper chest was visible. He adorned a navy coat that flowed down to his knees with a collar that perfectly framed his medium-length brunette hair and beard. And his smile,,, one that terrified the souls of many, any, & all who have found themselves in his path and wake.

No matter his title to you, you only had one option,,, one chance of survival...

To Run.

Sheriff spent as little time as he could to collect his words, even as his body was thrown into the ground and his arms were bound above his head. He did his best to keep up his usual demeanor, to not showcase his fear,,, his terror. "Well hello there, I know I've shown myself to be a fan of ropes, but this is no way to showcase your own~"

"Oh?" Wither seemed to inquire, only stepping closer. Sheriff prayed the other didn't see the nervous gleam his eyes have no doubt obtained. "Then just how should I show you? Just how much would you like to see~?"

Oh. Oh Sheriff was in over his head. Wither kneeled right infront of him, not in some act of bowing, but as almost a tease, a taunt, a flaunt and display of the other's power in this situation. Sheriff darted his eyes around them, looking for any exit to this situation.

Sheriff let out a cry, the vines tightened, but only around his skin. The thorns dug deep into the flesh, drawing blood and loosening just enough to let him bleed. Dispite the many pains Sheriff has found himself in, he couldn't prevent tears welling up in his eyes. They were trapped there because of his mask, and the salt began to burn, bringing more tears to trap themselves.

"Adorable, do keep up the act, vigilant. Your suffering is delicious." Wither would taunt him, bringing a single finger to swipe across his cheek, causing another wound. Only a small slash, but it was all adding up to the pain Sheriff felt.

It was all too much, even for him,,, the act could be kept up no longer. "Stop,,," it felt so pathetic to beg, but he had no other choice. He couldn't try and writhe out, it would only dig the thorns farther into his arms, legs, & torso. He can only sustain so much damage and guarantee he can make it home. It's all he could do,,, all he could do was beg.

And Wither would only seem to grin wider at his suffering. Perhaps he actually did feed from pain? Who could say. "Don't you worry, I have no intentions to hurt you further. Keep your eyes open, Sheriff. It's time for stage 3~"

What?

And there it was, just outside his peripheral, endless colors began to warp where there was previously only darkness. The visuals creeped into his sight, coating the world around him in shifting and spiraling hues. There was nothing to stay latched on to. There was nothing to stay grounded to. There was nothing to stay focused on. It ate away at his focus, only intensifying every moment it stayed. And Sheriff knew exactly who was working together now.

"Hello there, Rosette~. It seems you've done your part rather well."

"no No NO-"

Not him, not them- anyone but Them.

But it was them. It was, in fact, Wither & Spectrum,,, working together... for... what? What would they need? What could they want? What,,, does Sheriff have to do with this? He,,, didn't know.

And somehow, that terror,,, it distracted him. The world around him began to shift, nothing stayed the same too long. He could hardly make out the walls of the alleyway anymore, only colors,,, endlessly shifting colors,,, endlessly moving colors,,, endlessly spiraling colors,,,

It was... mesmerizing, and any normal person would have fallen victim right here and now. But Sheriff wasn't normal, at least not like this. There had to be a way out, he had to stay strong-

Wither moved to be behind him, wrapping his arms around The Sheriff in a grapple almost adjacent to a hug. Sheriff struggled to not lean into this embrace. Spectrum made his way infront of The Sheriff, gently cupping the other's face within his palms. Sheriff desperately tried to avoid looking as deep as he could into such beautiful eyes. Both villains whispered words to The Sheriff, he tried not to listen, he couldn't hear them, he listened, he couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Hush, --wboy"

"J--- -isten"

"-o thin---g"

"Relax n--"

"D--'t str--gle"

"Fall~."

And fall he did, ever so simply. The colors coated his mind so easily, covering up any thought he may have had and preventing him from forming new ones. They kept swirling in his vision, trapping his mind within it's spirals, falling farther and farther down. All will of fight left his limbs, falling limp within the hold of the one behind him. The world and all in it seemed to fade away as he kept falling further away from it.

His mouth would stay gently open, no tension to keep his jaw closed. His eyes would lose focus, not looking at anything in particular as the world itself seemed to escape him. No thoughts to form, no form to fight, no fight to give. The Sheriff, He could only Be.

Mossy vines untangled themselves from his flesh, retreating back to their posts along the alley walls. Two grins faced the empty husk of a figure, as they knew their plan had succeeded. The bright magenta hue that overwhelmed a previous eye color spoke it all.

They just got a new little puppet~

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Ello! Thanks For Reading! Hope Y'all Enjoyed Your VSAU-AU Villain Yaoi Scosage / Toxic Flytrap Husbands Content :>

[mediumgayitalian]

“Halt!”

Across the common, three suspicious figures freeze, glance behind them, and then resume walking as casually as they can.

“I said halt! Do not move! Cease all function!”

Milling nervously towards each other, Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest pause, shifting the three massive cardboard boxes they hold each.

“Hi, Annabeth,” Will says, smiling innocently. Cecil and Lou Ellen match him, eyes wide, expressions angelic.

Annabeth stomps over to them, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She is entirely unmoved by the cherubic display in front of her. Nico stays right where he is, hidden by the shade of Cabin Eight.

“Explain yourselves,” Annabeth orders.

The three stooges exchange a look.

“Whatever do you mean,” Lou Ellen asks, shifting the boxes to free up her hand only to place it delicately over her chest. “Why, we are only helping our dear friend William —”

“Our dear, dear friend,” Cecil adds.

“— carry these many boxes of medical supplies, so as to lower his great burden —”

“Massive burden,” Will says sagely.

“— and free up his evening in order for him to spend his limited time with us, his most cherished friends.”

“Especially cherished,” Will and Cecil chorus together.

Unable to bite back a smile, Nico rolls his eyes so hard his skull hurts. They’re not even trying to not get caught, at this point.

Clearly agreeing, Annabeth scoffs. “Yeah, right. Boxes down, all three of you. You’re being detained for suspected illicit substances.”

“Annabeth!” Will cries, mock outraged, “after all I do for this camp, you would accuse me of being — illicit?! Me?! The outrage! The insult! The impugn, the —”

“Can it, Solace. Open the boxes.”

Huffing in perfect unison, the three of them carefully lower their boxes to the ground.

“Tape off.”

Intentionally slowly, they run a nail along the edge of the packing tape.

“Flaps open, guys, c’mon.”

With flourish, the trio fling open the thin cardboard panels. Inside each box is rows of bandages, packaged syringes, sterile bands, tongue compresses, and more that Nico can’t name.

“See?” says Cecil, gesturing grandly. “The shipment just came in from my dad.”

Annabeth’s eyes narrow. “Your dad is in a conference with the rest of the Olympians right now, Markowitz.”

“Well,” Cecil says, and then nothing else.

“He meant it in the royal sense,” Lou Ellen pipes up in his silence. Cecil nods frantically. “You know, ‘just’ as in, like, recently, as in this morning —”

“Do you three think I’m stupid —”

“It’s just medical supplies! You can look through them if you want —”

Even if they weren’t acting like criminals, Nico knows his friends. He knows his boyfriend, especially, and recognises that damn look on his face. He can also physically see Annabeth’s stress ulcer coming back.

Closing his eyes, Nico fades into Cabin Six’s shadow. It’s a quick jump, so the stretch is easy, and the darkness bows easily to his hold. He reappears silently behind the group, taking advantage of the setting sun, and darts out to grip Lou Ellen’s arm.

“Boo,” he whispers.

She shrieks at the top of her lungs, jumping three clean feet in the air. Coincidently, the boxes of medical supplies flicker, turning into a truly baffling amount of instant mashed potato boxes as her grip on the Mist loosens.

“I knew it!” Annabeth shouts.

On cue, all three doofuses turn to Nico, jeering and complaining about ‘ruining the fun’. Nico’s glare is ineffective on Doofus #1, but the other two can be cowed. He focuses on channelling the flames of hell to reflect in his eyes like his father showed him until they look away, muttering at the ground.

“We still don’t have any illicit substances,” Will insists, glaring right back. Nico sticks out his tongue. He crosses his eyes like a four year old. How immature, honestly. “So we’re just gonna take our stuff and —”

“Absolutely not, Golden Boy. Put that hand away.”

Wisely, Will draws slowly back from the boxes, tucking his hands in his pocket.

Annabeth stares, hard, at the three of them, flicking her dark eyes from the potatoes and back. The tips of her worn-out converse tap slowly on the packed grass, tip-tap-tip-tap, as they all squirm.

Understanding suddenly dawns on her.

“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, for the strawberry plants.”

They squirm harder.

“Oh, you godsdamn bitches.”

“It would’ve been really funny,” Cecil mumbles, staring at the ground. “Rain making the ground turn into a sea of mashed potatoes. Like Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs.”

“The only meatballs around here are the ones clogging up your skull!” Annabeth shouts, which doesn’t quite make sense but sounds clever coming from her anyway. “Who was gonna clean that up, huh? Magic?”

“I mean, probably,” Lou Ellen says, promptly shutting up at Annabeth’s glare.

“And you, Will! I cannot believe! Where is that responsibility you’re known for, huh?”

Will pouts. “I can be responsible and do fun things.”

“Fun, he says. I’m going to fucking kill you. The one day I’m left in charge, I cannot believe —”

“If it helps, it’s less about you and more about April Fools being tomorrow,” Cecil interjects tentatively. “Like, we were going to do this whether or not Chiron left.”

Annabeth glares darkly. “Of fucking course you were. It’s always you three, I swear to the gods. I should have known.”

“It’s honestly kind of embarrassing for you guys, stopped before you’re even started,” Nico adds. He smiles smugly at them, relishing in their rolled eyes and mocking hands. “Like, everyone expected this. You did this to yourselves, honestly.”

“Boo, you jag,” Lou Ellen protests. The other two knuckleheads joint in the booing, Will taking it an extra stop forward and blowing a raspberry, both thumbs pointing down. Nico responds with a bright grin and two middle fingers.

“Enough,” Annabeth says, rubbing her temples. “Extra chores, all three of you. Go help the cleaning harpies until sundown. And not another peep of complaint or I’ll have you on chores tomorrow, too.”

Without another glance at them, she turns around and walks away, muttering at least you caught it early at least you caught it early at least you caught it early over and over to herself.

“Pretty sure you guys have physical labour to do,” Nico says brightly when she disappears into the Big House. “I’d get started on that, if I were you.”

“Butthead,” Cecil mutters.

“Kiss-ass,” Lou Ellen agrees, making a face.

“Traitor,” Will whispers, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he walks past.

Nico watches them go, standing guard over the boxes in case they try to come back for them.

He can’t help but think that they all look a little too jovial for having their plans ruined before they even started.

[vilentia]

Falling Together (Part One)

Steve Rogers x reader

Part Two ->

Y/N Y/L/N stood at the foot of the Avengers Compound, her fingers clutching the strap of her satchel as she tilted her head back to take in the sight of it. The building was enormous, sleek, and modern, its glass façade gleaming under the late morning sun. Somewhere inside that fortress of technology and heroics was Tony Stark—her new boss, self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist. The compound was tucked away in upstate New York, surrounded by rolling green hills and dense forest. It looked nothing like the offices and lecture halls she had grown used to in Boston. A light wind ruffled her hair as she took a deep breath, trying to steady the slight tremor in her hands. It wasn’t every day you started a job working for the most famous team of superheroes in the world. Inside, the compound was even more impressive. The sleek design extended into the cavernous lobby, where polished floors reflected the sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hum of unseen machinery vibrated faintly beneath her feet, and the air was cool and faintly metallic, like stepping into the future. “Miss Y/L/N?”

Y/N turned to see a man in a neatly pressed suit approaching. He had the air of someone who could command a room without raising his voice. “I’m Happy Hogan,” he said, extending a hand. “Tony asked me to show you around. Welcome to the Compound.” “Thank you,” Y/N said, shaking his hand firmly. She didn’t want to seem nervous, even though her stomach was twisting itself into knots. Happy led her through a maze of corridors, each more futuristic than the last. Glass panels in the walls occasionally revealed glimpses of labs filled with glowing equipment, rows of computers, and the occasional blur of someone in a lab coat rushing by. “You’ll be working directly with Mr. Stark,” Happy explained as they walked. “He’s…unique, let’s put it that way. Keeps things exciting.” Y/N smiled, trying to hide her apprehension. “I’ll do my best to keep up.” Happy grinned. “Good luck with that.” The tour ended in an expansive common area that felt more like a high-end lounge than the headquarters of Earth’s mightiest heroes. Plush sofas were arranged around a massive screen on one wall, and a sleek kitchen with gleaming appliances occupied one corner. A balcony overlooked the sprawling grounds outside. Y/N’s eyes swept the room, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw him. Steve Rogers was sitting at the far end of the room, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he read from a tablet. Even seated, he exuded a quiet strength that was impossible to ignore. He looked up as they entered, his piercing blue eyes locking onto hers for a brief moment. Happy waved a hand in Steve’s direction. “That’s Captain America. He’s usually around if you need anything. Good guy, but don’t expect him to loosen up too much.” Y/N nodded, forcing herself to look away. She’d seen photos of him, of course—who hadn’t? But in person, he seemed larger than life. There was something about the way he carried himself, as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, and yet he bore it without complaint. “Welcome,” Steve said, his voice calm and steady. “Thank you,” Y/N managed, her voice betraying none of the butterflies in her stomach. Happy clapped his hands together. “All right, let’s get you settled in. Stark’s expecting you in the lab.”

Tony Stark turned out to be exactly as chaotic as Y/N had expected, though in a way that was almost endearing. He talked a mile a minute, his hands constantly in motion as he rattled off instructions, ideas, and the occasional sarcastic comment. “You’re my buffer now,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “When Fury calls, you answer. When Bruce needs a break, you tell him. And if Rogers starts complaining about outdated tech again, you let me know so I can conveniently disappear.” Y/N’s lips twitched into a smile. “Got it.” “And don’t let anyone fool you—this place looks like it runs smoothly, but it’s held together with duct tape and sheer willpower. You’re here to make sure it doesn’t all fall apart. No pressure.” “No pressure,” she repeated, hiding her nerves behind a confident smile. As the days turned into weeks, Y/N threw herself into her work with the determination that had earned her the job in the first place. She quickly became indispensable, organizing schedules, mediating conflicts, and learning to anticipate Tony’s needs before he voiced them. It wasn’t long before the other Avengers started to notice her, too. Natasha Romanoff was the first to comment on how smoothly things were running, while Bruce Banner quietly expressed his gratitude for the snacks Y/N kept stocked in the lab. Even Sam Wilson, ever the jokester, admitted she was a “solid addition to the team.” But it was Steve Rogers who intrigued her the most.

Y/N’s first real conversation with Steve happened by chance. She was in the kitchen late one evening, reheating leftovers after a long day. The compound was quiet, the usual hum of activity replaced by a peaceful stillness. She was startled when Steve walked in, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, a towel slung over his shoulder. His hair was damp, and he looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. “Sorry,” he said, pausing when he saw her. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” “You’re not,” she said quickly, stepping aside to make room. “Just grabbing a late dinner.” He nodded and moved to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the microwave. “You’re Stark’s new assistant, right?” Steve asked, breaking the silence. “That’s me,” Y/N said, turning to face him. “Y/N Y/L/N.” “Steve Rogers,” he said, offering a small smile. “I know,” she replied, her own smile soft but genuine. “Hard not to.” Steve chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Fair enough. How are you settling in?” “It’s…a lot,” she admitted. “But I like it. Everyone’s been welcoming.” “That’s good to hear,” he said. “This place can be overwhelming at first, but it grows on you.” The microwave beeped, and Y/N retrieved her plate, feeling slightly self-conscious under his steady gaze. “Well, I should let you eat,” Steve said, stepping back toward the door. “You don’t have to go,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean, if you’re hungry or something…” Steve hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks.” He grabbed an apple from the counter and joined her at the small table. They talked for over an hour, their conversation flowing easily despite the late hour. Y/N found herself laughing at his dry humor and sharing more about herself than she’d intended. Steve, for his part, was struck by how grounded she seemed. She wasn’t awed by his reputation or trying to impress him. She was just…herself. When they finally parted ways, Steve found himself smiling as he headed back to his room. There was something about Y/N Y/L/N that he couldn’t quite put into words.

Part Two ->

Masterlist

[deepdreamnights]

The Secret Origin of Wally ManMoth

Scans from TyrannoMax #26

Cocytus was one of the better-performing comic companies outside the big 2 in the 1970s before the whole company was bought out by Buzby-Spurlock Animation in the early 80s.

TyrannoMax was its biggest title, so almost everyone in the character stable teamed up with the Dinoids eventually.

Process under the fold.

TyrannMax is created via use of Dall-E 3 and Midjourney as pencilers, and me doing essentially everything else (writing, editing, inking, lettering, layout, etc.) DE is on most of the character art, MJ on backgrounds and select characters.

Each panel utilizes anywhere from one gen/prompt (for a handful of very simple head-shots) to around 20 for stuff like the DinoHydra action shot or the hero/villain showcase panels.

Once I know what I want for a page I lay out the rough dialog and panels, then start generating pics. Basic prompt format and a few examples:

, , , , comic panel by 1968, in the style of 1968

A portly 50 year old man, resembles Alan Hale Jr, jolly smile, wearing a tweed jacket, slacks, sandals, a fedora, sweatervest and a loosened ascot, full body character design, comic panel by Jack Kirby and Alex Toth 1968, in the style of 1968 Marvel comics

a mad scientist mid-transformation into a green anthro-tyrannosaurus, asymmetrical transformation, boils and growths, screaming/roaring, bald, portly, with round glasses. wearing a tattered lab coat, vest, slacks, tie. Comic panel by jack kirby and alex toth, 1968, in the style of vintage horror comics

Then I take the pics into PS, arrange and composite them, and then remove all the color. I don't tend to prompt for my final colors on characters and instead choose light tones I can easily extract. Why not just do B&W prompts? Style impact.

Then I start to re-ink over errors and details that don't match the mood I want, match line thicknesses over various elements, etc. Through this process I adjust dialog placement and panel arrangements, and do generally the things and editor and letterer would be up to.

Once I have the inks, flat colors, and the text on various layers, I do the weathering and compositing to simulate scans of a 1970s comic book. This is also where the deliberate flaws in coloring and print alignment are added for authenticity.

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Bar Daddy

I take immense pride in my bar. In just two years I've founded the classiest tavern in town, but I still like to bartend now and then. I can charm any patron with prompt service, good company, and the finest drinks.

I usually aim to give everyone a high-class experience, but I don't even bother trying to charm the man currently walking in.

He comes around every so often and completely disrupts the sophisticated atmosphere, dressing like a prostitute and loudly commenting on the gentlemen in the room. Needless to say, that gay idiot keeps coming back to drive away my paying customers, and each time I become a more and more short-tempered.

I feel my patience already wearing thin as he creeps over to me. "I told you not to come back here!" I growl under my breath.

"But this is the gayest bar in town," he whines back in return.

"This is the finest bar in town, so get out!"

Just before I explode in anger, this man begins batting his eyes. The gaze beneath those fluttering eyelids is intense. I feel the scowl on my face loosen as my arms fall limp. My whole posture seems to sag, and I can feel his mesmerizing power over me.

"You need to loosen up, mister," I hear him say, "You think this isn't a gay bar? Just look at yourself!"

My head obediently turns and glances in the mirror as he continues to whisper in my ear.

"You're happy to have gay men in here! This bar was founded on your own values, right? Masculinity, homosexuality, and promiscuity."

I suddenly realized he is right.

"Wow, I'm happy you're here, bud," I smile, already hoping I can give him the time of his life in my gay bar.

"Glad to be here, daddy, but don't tell me you've forgotten how you greet all your customers!"

I panic! I have no idea how he thinks I should greet my customers. Normally, I put on a charming smile and ask them what they'd like to drink, but I can already tell that isn't a good enough strategy for this new guy.

"A kiss, big-bear!" he laughs, "A sloppy, aggressive, wet kiss. You need to show your patrons who's in charge here or they'll get out of line."

That makes so much sense. I rush around the bar and grab the twink by the waist, forcing him close enough to plant a long smooch over his mouth. I'm overjoyed to see that my embrace has left him flustered and rock hard.

"What can I get you to drink, son?" I ask.

My voice feels lower. I don't remember being a baritone, and my body feels so much heavier. Maybe I've gained some weight, but it could just be the uniform I have on. Wearing nothing but an apron might just make me look thicker than I am. At least I'm lucky enough to be covered in body hair or else I'd be freezing in here!

"A round of shots for the room, daddy!" he screams gleefully, planting a wicked slap on my bare ass.

The sting on my cheeks makes me angry at first, but after glancing into his eyes I realize I overreacted. I always like it when a customer smacks my ass anyway. Honestly, that and them randomly groping me is the only thing that turns me on anymore.

"Coming right up, boy."

"Good bar daddy," he praises.

I don't know when it happened, but the entire place is redecorated. Gone is the wood panelling and tasteful art, replaced by neon lights and a loud music. All my regular customers have seemed to embrace it, twerking half naked on the dance floor.

A crowd of more gays bursts into the bar, wildly running up to order their drinks. It's the most business I've ever had!

The rest of the night is going to be a whirlwind! A dozen wandering hands immediately find my body among the crowd, tickling my sensitive areas, groping my big muscles, and fondling the package beneath my apron. These boys certainly feel close to their daddy!

The only way I can get them to calm down is by grabbing their shoulders to force my tongue down their throat in a sloppy kiss. I barely have the time to keep up with tending the bar.

I don't mind it though. The constant stimulation is intoxicating, fueling my passion to make my boys happy. Every single one of these men are going to leave my bar happy, drunk, and satisfied! I am their Bar Daddy after all.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Kitty Elliot AU #6

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: mention of animal death, non con

The box was dark. 

So dark, his eyes could not see through it. The first time, there was light from the keyhole, but then Master fixed it and the light was gone.

It was a strong box too. So strong he could not claw through it. And the punishment after hurt too much to try again. 

It was small, and cramped, and often Pet would sweat and have to breathe through the pressure on his bruises and neck and feet and everything. The box hurt.

But it was not the worst part of the box.

The worst part, in his opinion (which he had lots of time to think about), was that the box could be moved.

He could be taken anywhere while inside. He could be tossed into a fire, or left by the side of a busy road. Or his worst fear, thrown in the river to drown, as if he were a sack of unwanted kittens.

Master loved the box as much as Pet hated it. Convenient, he called it. 

The only thing Master liked more (and which Pet hated more) was the muzzle.

Gods, the muzzle.

It was a horror of a device, leather straps and metal face panels and it hurt hurt hurt.

Tears dripped down his face as Pet sat still, staring at the bundle of steel in his hands. Master loosened the straps, unbuckling them slowly as if to taunt. 

“You’re going to be a good boy, right?”

Pet nodded. He’d been good for years. He didn’t need the muzzle anymore, but Master never played fair.

He whined through gritted teeth as Master fit the metal over his nose and under his jaw.

“Shh,” Master said. “Or I’ll get the bit too. Do you want the bit?” 

The bit was a steel rod that went between his teeth and over his tongue, forcing his mouth open. It made the tight muzzle even tighter, and together they were the most awful thing in the world.

Pet froze and made no sound, which was the correct answer. “I thought so,” said Master.

Master adjusted the leather, the metal cutting into his face and squeezing his jaw shut. Pet screwed his eyes closed, trying not to let anymore tears fall.

If he began to bleed again, the salt would sting, and he didn’t want anymore pain.

“Good boy,” Master said, patting his cheek. Pet leaned into his palm, already miserable.

He could only breathe through his nose now, and it was a struggle not to claw at the thing on his face. The steel noseband cut into the bridge of it, and his scar reopened as it always did. The skin there was already sore.

Blood slowly pooled and dripped down his nose. He whimpered, but it was a mistake.

Master grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking it back. “Quiet,” he hissed. “Not a sound. Understand?”

Pet silenced himself, pain radiating down his spine. Tears welled up in his eyes against his will, Master becoming blurry.

“Stupid animal,” Master said, and he was so angry. Fear buzzed in Pet’s ears, and he hoped Master would be merciful.

“Get up,” he ordered, and hope vanished as quickly as it had come. He stood, Master’s hand still buried in his hair.

Master dragged him upstairs, and shoved him over the bed. Pet gripped the sheets, fur raised in terror.

Master kicked his legs apart, yanking down his underwear, the only clothing he was allowed besides the collar.

Pet heard the tell-tale sound of Master’s belt slipping through the loops, and he shuddered. He could barely breathe, and his heart was rabbit fast.

Master cupped his ass, smoothing his tail up and out of the way. He was always gentle before a punishment, and Pet savored the fleeting kindness.

He pushed a thumb down on an old bruise, and Pet choked on his tears to keep quiet.

“Don’t get any blood on my sheets,” warned Master, and it was an impossible order.

He jolted at the first blow, the sudden sting surprising him. He focused on breathing, but each new strike knocked it out of him.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Soon his tears began to mix with blood, the salt getting into his cut.

His ass burned but Master didn’t stop. Pet buried his face into the bed, screaming closed-mouth into the sheets and praying he wouldn’t be heard.

His legs shook and his fists clenched the blankets so hard he distantly thought they might tear.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Pet cried and cried, until Master finally, finally stopped. His hand stoked over the welts, and Pet couldn’t help but flinch away.

“So cute,” cooed Master. “I like you best when your butt is all red and sore.” 

Pet sniffled, and the metal dug deeper into his skin. 

But it was not over. 

He heard the sound of a zipper, and Pet forced himself to blink away the tears. He tried to relax his muscles, but he was paralyzed with dread.

Master began to stroke himself, and Pet could hear the skin on skin. Master sighed, content, and Pet felt the heavy heat of his cock rest on his ass. 

Pet took in a sharp breath as Master forced himself inside. It burned burned burned, and stung and tore and Pet gritted his teeth and tried not to scream.

It didn’t work.

___________________

“We’re going on a trip,” Master said, packing a trunk with clothes. “Go fetch your box.”

Pet obeyed, dragging it upstairs. He didn’t want to, but there was no choice. Pets didn’t get choices.

“Good boy,” Master said, patting his hair. “Are you going to need your muzzle?”

Pet shook his head. “Let’s keep it that way, hm?” He gently pushed Pet down into the box, and Pet curled up the best he could, heart pounding. It was already hard to keep calm, and the lid wasn’t even shut yet.

Even worse, the inside was dusty and dirty from lack of use. It would take effort not to sneeze.

Pet closed his eyes, and pretended he was just going to take a nap.

He heard the hinges close, the lock snap shut, and he was sealed in.

He gasped for air, and slapped a palm over his mouth. Not a sound, not a sound, not a sound-

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[jockifyme]

Graham presses his hand into the panel at the front of the water fountain, bringing his head down as he begins to slurp up the ice cold water. He looks down the hallway as he continues to drink, the building empty save for the theatre students running through the play for the third time that day. He faintly hears his cast mates half-heartedly reciting their lines as he wipes his mouth with his forearm, beginning his walk back to the theatre.

“Hey!” A gruff but familiar voice echos from behind him. Graham turns around and sees Travis, one of his classmates and probably the most popular guy at the school. Even though they were both sophomores, Travis more accurately resembles a roided up third year senior. He’s got a high faded buzzcut and a square jawed face, the quintessential meathead jock look. But from his interactions with him, Graham considers Travis a nice guy. he’s wearing their university’s wrestling uniform: a charcoal gray singlet with yellow and red stitching and the letters of the university’s city, San Ventura, plastered across the front. Underneath the letters, two humanoid shapes grapple each other.

“Uhh, what’s up, Travis?” Travis starts walking toward Graham, his wrestling shoes squeaking against the tiled floor. As he gets closer, Graham notices the beads of sweat glistening across his skin, the singlet doing very little to hide the movement of his muscles with each footfall. Graham takes a couple steps back, not looking away from Travis.

“Why are you acting so weird, dude?” Graham asks as he takes a few more back steps. Travis flashes a smile as he picks up his pace, transitioning to a jog as he continues moves closer to Graham.

Utterly freaked out, Graham turns and runs, looking over his shoulder to see that Travis has also begun to run. His heavy foot steps sounding closer to Graham with each passing second as Graham races toward the theatre.

“Dude, stop! What the hell?!” With the door to the theatre in sight, Graham pushes his body, trying to get his legs to move faster, but as he begins to reach out his arm, two sweaty, burly arms grab his around the waist and swing him backwards, away from the door.

“Let me go! This isn’t fucking funny!” Graham tries to writhe himself free, but he’s no match for Travis’s hold on him. The jock drags him to a door down the hall from the theatre’s door, labeled, “Men’s Locker Room.” He kicks the door a couple times, maintaining his grip on Graham, entering the locker room as it’s opened by two of his teammates. The other two jocks watch as Travis drags the puny theatre nerd into the dark room, pinning him against a row of lockers.

“Get the gear,” Travis says calmly to one of the jocks. Graham renews his struggle as he sees one of the jocks, one he doesn’t recognize, reach into a gym bag and pull out a set of yellow wrestling headgear. The third jock that had been standing there joins Travis in holding Graham in place as Travis slowly releases his grip on him.

“Please stop,” Graham says exasperated, tired from his near constant struggling since Travis first grabbed him. Travis takes the headgear in his hands as the jock that fetched it now joins in on the “pin Graham to the lockers” game. Their muscles glisten in the low-light locker room, both of them dressed in the same singlet as Travis, with short-cut hairstyles that Graham guesses is so no one can grab it while wrestling. Travis pulls a few straps on the headgear, loosening it up while inspecting Graham’s puny frame. The small theatre nerd looks like a stick figure next to his two teammates. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the university’s drama club’s logo on the front, and his blue jeans hang off his skinny legs. A pair of dirty vans cover his feet, recently scuffed from trying to escape Travis’s grasp not too long ago. He’s got long brown hair, curly and unkempt—not good for wrestling.

With the headgear straps loosened up, Travis takes the foam headgear and positions it over Graham’s head.

“Dude, what are you doing?!” Weirded out and without a response, Graham decides to let this play out so he can get out.

Travis methodically fastens the straps around Graham’s head. Graham feels as Travis’s hands reach around and tighten two straps running across the back of his head, one across the crown, and one running across the top of his forehead. The straps press against his skin, and with the tightness, his sense of hearing is muffled. He looks up as Travis nods at the two jocks on either side of him. They release him, letting him stand on his own.

He takes a breath as he plans to make a break for it, and he goes for it. But, his body does not follow. Instead, he walks over to the open gym bag that the jock grabbed the headgear from in the first place. He reaches inside, and against his will, he pulls out a singlet. He tosses it on the metal bench in front of the lockers as he begins to undress. Blushing furiously, he lifts his t-shirt over his head and lets it drop to the floor. Next, he steps out of his shorts, revealing his baggy boxers underneath. He sits on the bench and bends over to plop off his socks and shoes. Almost fully undressed, he finds himself breathing shallower. He looks down to see his body is covered in sweat. Travis smirks at him as Graham’s body turns to grab the singlet. With it in hand, he pulls down his boxers and steps out of them. Utterly mortified, Graham body shakes the singlet out. Holding by the straps, he steps into it and shimmies it up his body, the sweat from his body being absorbed into the fabric as it makes its way up his body. The singlet had definitely seen the mat many times before, with the pungent odor of sweat and must quickly filling his nostrils, making him dizzy. He mindlessly readjusts his enlarged dick in the tight fabric as he turns back to the bag. He sits back down again and pulls out a pair of black socks and black adidas wrestling shoes. As he’s putting on the socks, his breathing changes. He begins to instinctively take deeper breaths, pushing against the almost constrictive spandex, with each breath feeling like his lungs are getting bigger, taking in more oxygen.

Travis and the two jocks watch as Graham begins to grow before their eyes. As he pulls the socks over his feet, they lengthen, pushing further and further into the sock. His legs do the same, growing in the length and definition—his calves pop out as his thighs begin to show some shred. Underneath the singlet, the three can see Graham’s pecs billow, straining against the fabric of the singlet. His arms are next, growing similar to the arms that grabbed him only a few minutes ago. His biceps and deltoids pack on muscle, crucial for taking down opponents on the mat. His hands thicken as he begins to tie his shoes, losing their delicacy and growing to grapple.

Graham feels like crying, but his body won’t let him. He watches in terror as his hands shake and change before his eyes as he goes to tie his new wrestling shoes. His fingers shorten and thicken, and as he ties his last shoe, he feels a tickling feeling from his head. He starts to stand, and he sees a pile of hair on the bench and floor below where he had been sitting. Travis opens one of the lockers, revealing a small mirror that had been attached to the back. Graham gasps as he sees himself: Underneath the headgear, his long hair had been reduced to a fade to match the three jocks standing in front of him. The fade is tight against his scalp on the sides, with length only on top. A tuft of hair billows out over his forehead, the only thing separating him from Travis’s military-grade buzz. He feels sick as he continues standing, and though trembling, his body reaches up and takes the last strap of the headgear, the chinstrap, in his hand. He reaches his other burly hand up and confidently tightens the strap under his chin, tightens it, and clicks it into place. With this resounding click, Graham’s vision zeroes in on his reflection in the mirror.

Travis and the other two jocks watch as Graham stares at himself in the reflection, his body twitching ever so slightly as his old personality, memories, and life are wiped. He’s gonna be one of them now: A C-student that’s riding a wrestling scholarship, spending his free time at the gym or at parties. A complete and utter-

“Bro!” Travis is snapped out of his soliloquy as Graham goes to dap him up.

“Bro!” Travis reciprocates the dap and pats his new teammate Graham on the back. “Dude we’ve gotta get outta here. The janitor’s gonna wonder why we’re still here so late after practice.”

“Fuck, dude, you’re right. Let’s get out of here.” Graham grabs his gym bag and stuffs his headgear into it. He grabs a pair of gray sweatpants from within and quickly changes into them. Following his teammates into the night and his new life as a jock.

Graham after his first (?) wrestling match, two weeks since incident.

-

Also, thank y’all so much for 1,400 followers! That’s insane. Thanks for the support of my sporadic uploads

[anony-man]

My hand slipped

(Warning for implied cnc and degradation)

“I bet you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

A soft, keening whine followed the second intruding finger that slid past First Aid’s slick entrance, and though he couldn’t manage a proper response, the tightening fingers around his throat were enough incentive for him to give a frantic, eager nod. Sharp, clawed ends of slender fingers scraped at the thin walls of his valve, dragging out the shuddering sensations of pleasure and pain along with a low, throaty moan.

He shouldn’t be lying here, allowing such a dangerous, filthy mech to violate him like this, but oh, First Aid would’ve been lying if he said he wasn’t loving every second.

“Quiet,” his captor warned, fingers reasserting their grip around his throat, briefly cutting off the airflow with a squeeze. “You’ll get us caught by making all that noise. Unless… that’s what you want?”

As the mech’s two fingers curled into the sensitive nodes on the inside of First Aid’s valve, he reached up with his thumb to gently stroke the pulsing node at the top of the slick, pulsing array. The excessive stimulation from both inside and out was almost too much to bear, and First Aid couldn’t help but arch into the touch, a guttural groan slipping past the servo around his throat as he trembled against the berth.

“I bet you’re into that, huh?” The mech teased, forgoing the outer stimulation to continue fucking First Aid’s valve with his fingers alone. His other servo loosened around First Aid’s neck, allowing him to pant and moan his name openly. “I bet you want us to get caught in the act, don’t you? You wanna be caught with your legs spread and my servo up your valve. You want to get caught getting fragged like the pathetic slut you are, is that it?”

“Please,” First Aid whined, jerking his hips up into the mech’s touch. He pulled at the restraints that bound his servos to the bed, but to no avail. “Vortex, please…”

“What?” Vortex said, his mouth splitting into a grin behind the mask he still wore. He’d forced Aid’s mask off long before they’d gotten to this point, having wanted to see the medic fall apart at the seams with every little touch. “Don’t tell me you want to stop. I’ve only just got started!”

It was impossible to see much in the dark room, but the sound of Vortex spike pressurizing was unmistakable. First Aid’s frame trembled with a pitiful sob as Vortex’s fingers slipped free of his valve, but when he straddled First Aid’s lap and prepared himself to slide his spike into the abandoned entrance, First Aid wriggled beneath him with eager anticipation.

“There’s a good slut,” Vortex hissed, thrusting his hips flush against First Aid’s frame and pushing himself in all at once. As expected, there was little to no difficulty, and rather than be met with resistance, Vortex found he slid in rather easily.

Well. That was what the foreplay had been for, after all.

“Primus, you’re tight,” Vortex grunted, giving his hips an experimental roll against First Aid’s exposed panels to test his limits.

Despite their similar sizes and excessive preparation, he still found it difficult to work without much difficulty. However, after some time spent hovering over First Aid’s frame and gently sliding the length of his spike in and out, Vortex managed to work himself up to a good, steady pace. He bent himself low over First Aid’s front, grinding his hips down against First Aid’s frame until he was rutting deep inside the medic. Breathy grunts and sharp gasps met each thrust, and Vortex couldn’t help but tease the Autobot for the pitiful sounds.

“Bet you weren’t expecting this, huh?” He huffed, his words spoken softly against the side of First Aid’s helm. “Bet you didn’t you think I’d come by tonight, did you? Did you think I wouldn’t find you in here, sitting all alone in your room with a false spike shoved halfway up your port? What’s a pretty little thing like you doing trying to pleasure yourself alone, anyway? You should’ve called me, Aid.”

The steady pace they’d begun meant Vortex had more room to work, and as he slowed his movements until he was gently grinding against First Aid’s frame, his spike remaining deep inside the other, he braced himself against the berth and slid his free servo down to fondle the seams of First Aid’s still-closed panels. Within seconds of being touched, they had popped free, and Vortex’s efforts were rewarded with the medic’s erect spike sliding into curled fingers.

“That’s more like it,” Vortex said, his smile audible from his voice alone, and despite his best efforts, First Aid couldn’t help but groan aloud.

Between the sensations of Vortex deep in his valve and the practiced fingers sliding up and down his spike, First Aid was quick to unravel. The binds around his servos kept him from moving much, but a drawn out, agonized breath in followed by the wail of Vortex’s name were enough to signify the intensity of his overload without leaving fresh marks in Vortex’s paint.

Satisfied with his work, Vortex wiped his transfluid-soaked servo off on the front of his plating before reaching up to untie First Aid’s bonds, already expecting the clingy aftercare routine First Aid was often fond of. Careful not to slip out just yet, as he and First Aid were both rather fond of post-coital bliss spent as close to the other as possible, Vortex moved ever closer to the medic, his arms coming over to wrap around First Aid’s front and his chin resting against the top of First Aid’s helm. Only several minutes spent in relative silence (and in a near-suffocating embrace), Vortex decided to speak.

“Good day?” He said, keeping his tone light. “Wasn’t planning on coming by, but something told me I should.”

“Hm,” First Aid hummed against his chest, the sound echoing against the warm metal. “Glad you did. Missed you.”

“Oh yeah?” Vortex chuckled. In a rare show of affection (which, in reality, was likely just his own display of possession), Vortex let his mask click open and planted a gentle kiss on the top of First Aid’s helm. “By missing me, d’you mean you missed me or you missed my—“

“You, Vortex,” First Aid said with a sigh. “I missed you.”

Vortex huffed out a laugh in response and leaned in for a longer, gentler kiss. “Mm… yeah,” he said, keeping his voice low as he felt First Aid began to drift off against him. “I’m sure you did.”

[wishcamper]

Nessian Week Day 3 - Symphony

For the third day of @nessianweek, here's a sweet lil snip of post-canon domestic Nessian.

Photo is of Old Town in Dubrovnik, Croatia, which is how I always picture Velaris.

Read here or on ao3!

Five More Minutes

Post-ACOSF slice of life of Nesta enjoying the sounds of the morning (and avoiding getting up).

’T is you that are the music, not your song. The song is but a door which, opening wide, Lets forth the pent-up melody inside, Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong Sing but of you. 

- 'Listening', Amy Lowell

—-

Dawn breaks, cresting the mountains, light spilling over the world. Velaris comes alive in fits and starts, and the harbor bell clangs as sailors bring in their first catch of the day, gulls crying out their envy overhead. The world is waking around her, but Nesta keeps her eyes closed beneath the heavy coverlet. Her stubbornness refuses to entertain the day, not yet.

Cassian seems to agree, though he’ll never admit it. A groan rumbles somewhere behind her, incoherent mumblings of her mate rousing, emerging from the depths of sleep into the day. Nesta hears the slide of sheets, a rustle of wings, then a muffling as he drapes one over her, cocooned for a moment while he presses closer and noises of lazy contentment fill her ear.

He’s warm, always, a furnace in their bed. They both remember the cold too well to sleep any way but right up next to each other, especially on mornings like this, when the air inside carries the chill of late autumn.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, his deep voice thick and fuzzy.

She pretends to be asleep, partly because she wishes she still was, but mostly to draw this out as long as possible. To hear the sweet murmurings Cassian pours over her when he believes her most unguarded, when he tries to reach her dreams.

A broad hand strokes up her side, coming to rest across her stomach. Careful, so as not to wake her. “Fuck, you smell good. And you're so soft. I’m so lucky to wake up next to you.”

Words she’d roll her eyes at in the day, especially if someone else were to overhear, pretty declarations easy enough to toss like flower petals. But in seclusion they manage to travel the distance between his lips and her ear without losing their potency, and Nesta feels them sink in, loosening a muscle in her shoulder.

“Beautiful Nes. You’re so precious to me.”

Cassian holds her for a bit longer, and she listens to the steady tide of his breath so slow and even. It’s punctuated every now and then by his sighs of pleasure, evidence of the way she softens him too in this quiet, liminal place that’s only theirs. 

After a time he rises, the bed’s creaking followed by a thump of the House producing his training leathers. Water runs in the bathing chamber, a splash in the sink, then the scrape of a comb through unruly hair before the endless series of clasps and buckles. Nesta can picture in her mind where each one sits, the high ping of the clip at his shoulder, hard snaps at his sides where the back panel secures to accommodate his wings. Cassian hums under his breath as he dresses, some tune she can’t place, though it might’ve drifted from her symphonia sometime the evening before. The well-worn sofa groans when he sits to don his boots.

The sequence is the same most mornings, but memories still haunt Nesta in these moments of ease, phantoms skulking about in her periphery. It’s hard to forget how she used to wake all at once, like an arrow shot through the morning air, to the cacophony of her mother screeching at a house servant. Or else the horrible quiet that followed, the dense void of her absence.

She woke mustily in the summer in the hovel they called home, the drone of insects and the rank, still air, Elain’s trowel piercing the earth under the windowsill. In colder months there was nothing but the roar of the wind, whistles through the chinks, the grind of her own teeth from trying not to shiver.

All of it was better than waking in the dead of night to Feyre’s pleading, heavy thuds of the clubs and bone crunching, their father’s wretched silence. Then years later the door splintering, the growling of a great beast.

At the funeral for her old life she woke to the rip of curtains around her bed, shouts and taunts as they yanked her drowsy and disoriented from the sheets, from the manor, from her body. Then the fatal press of water in her ears, poison boiling, her own choked snarls of rage.

After that came a long series of mornings that were not actually mornings at all, afternoons when she rose sticky with sweat, a pounding headache like war drums rattling her skull. Days she prayed to stop hearing the snap of her father’s neck in the fire, the ghosts of the past wailing for retribution. Nights when solace lived only in the shuffle of cards, the glug of wine into a waiting glass. The moans of another faceless male.

Yet even in the darkness there was music. Ever since she was a girl, a tune plays at the edge of her dreams that she can’t quite catch, can never quite remember. Always the same, always soft and close, as if someone lays beside her, filling her with safety and peace.

Now the world is quiet, within and without. Nesta barely notices she’s drifted back into sleep, so she’s surprised when heavy footsteps approach her side of the bed. There’s a clink when the House places a cup and saucer on the bedside table, tea she knows will stay perfectly warm until she’s ready to rise herself. Her legs shift, whispering against the sheets as they search for the heated spot Cassian always leaves behind.

“You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, brushing stray hairs from her forehead. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

She hears the smile in his voice, the tenderness he saves just for her. The kisses he drops on her face are like the patter of spring rain, his rumbling laugh the answering thunder when she presses her cheek against his lips so she can really feel them.

Her fae ears pick up conversation in the hallway, Azriel and Gwyn either coming or going, though it’s impossible to tell which. Cassian’s leathers creak as he sits up but she feels him linger there, the rasp of a calloused hand stroking up and down her back. 

“I hope you have a good day. I love you.”

He traces the point of her ear, tugging lightly at the lobe before he stands and his footsteps retreat. Then the snick of the door, their friends greeting him on the landing, Emerie’s voice now joining the chorus.

She doesn’t ever want to stop listening to this, Nesta thinks, these sounds of home. Dawn chases away the phantoms and no one screeches or pleads or drowns in silence. All is in harmony, now the music of her life feels worth waking to hear.

In the moment before her eyes open, a tune floats by from the edge of her dreams, the same one Cassian was humming. It sounds as if someone is beside her in bed, soft, and close.