#no way to clean themselves of the blood and fluids

[ananapanini]

Free Palestine 🇵🇸

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART IV

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by 'Prima', was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

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warnings: arranged marriage, foul language, mentions of blood, bodily fluids, Ancient Rome as a warning in itself, bloodletting, p n v penetration, orgy-ish situation, animal sacrifice.

notes: literally posting this from a McDonalds parking lot on the way to a Christmas party. A quick thanks to my brotha @trashmouth-richie and @londonfog-chan for all the help. I owe you guys what’s left of my soul. Please like and share if you enjoy this series! Over 7000 words in this chapter alone.

IV

The delicate aroma of fresh bread and honey wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of blossoming flowers from the courtyard outside. Fine earthenware plates held an assortment of breakfast delicacies scattered across an oval table in the middle of the room: warm, crusty loaves of panis glistened with honey, bowls of ripe figs and olives, and delicate cheeses. A pitcher of cool, refreshing water sat alongside a flask of rich, dark wine—though it was early, you had indulged yourself. The gentle clinking of utensils and the soft rustle of linen filled the dining room as guests served themselves, enjoying the simple pleasures of the morning. A musician played softly in the corner, the gentle strumming of a lyre adding a serene layer to the room. You sighed happily as you sat alone at a table in the corner of the great room with the perfect view of the courtyard. For all the drama of the previous day, you revelled in being alone, relishing the magnificent frescoed walls that depicted scenes of mythological feasts and playful Bacchanalian revelries. The sunlight shone in delicately, warming the marble flooring in which you drug your barefoot across under the table.

“You must have said something to set him off. I could still smell your perfume when I walked into his chambers—he was that quick to summon me,” Caracalla said, plopping down in the chair across from you with an exaggerated huff. You sighed, placing your cutlery down, knowing fair well that any peace you had maintained over the course of the morning was over. His new golden incisor caught the light as he spoke. You had stepped out onto the balcony for just a moment when the physician had come to fix the cracked tooth the night before, a souvenir from Septimius’s fist meeting Caracalla’s lip.

“Just because you think we share a common enemy does not mean we are allies,” you shot back. Making it clear that your act of cleaning him up and reaching an agreement the previous night did not give him the right to intrude on your peaceful breakfast.

“He never even made it to Baiae,” he retorted, glancing at you dismissively. “He only got as far as Ostia. This was just a test to see how well I could manage on my own.”

His face was swollen, bruises bloomed in deep shades of purple and green around his nose and mouth, the latter catching dramatically on the light as he spoke.

“A test you failed spectacularly,” you replied, arching an eyebrow as you bit into a particularly sour grape.

“Did you let him turn you into a quivering mass of need?” he asked, a mocking giggle escaping his lips, “Did he entertain you with tales of his wild sons and his deceased wife?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head, “He did not reduce me to anything but confusion.” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I find that I am still confused.”

“If he truly cared for Rome,” he said, his tone dripping with jealousy and hurt as he turned to meet your gaze, “If he truly cared for me as his son, he would step down and stop fostering Geta’s hope that one day this empire may be ours together.”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, bitterness lacing his voice.

“Surely you see that I am just your wife—no consul, no philosopher, just a woman.” you replied, feigning innocence as you took a sip of your wine, challenging him with your gaze.

“Ah, that’s a rare admission from you, wife.” he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think it was him?”

You flicked your gaze toward Senator Blandus, a quick movement that Caracalla caught. Senator Blandus stood with a slight stoop, his height diminished, yet his presence was still imposing. His once broad shoulders sagged under the weight of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics. The edges of his toga were slightly tattered, its white wool dulled with age, carelessly draped over his shoulder. The deep purple stripe that signified his senatorial rank had faded, hinting at a man who had seen better days. His gaunt face and sunken cheeks accentuated his unkempt style, with thin, wispy hair and a matching gray beard that was scraggly and untrimmed. His murky brown eyes held a suspicious gleam as they scanned the surrounding people, narrowing even more when they landed on you and Caracalla.

He set his wine cup down with a sigh, glancing around the room before looking back at you.

“I have already had him investigated. He spent the night at his mistress’s villa.”

“That leaves us with only a few suspects.” you countered, leaning in closer, rolling a plump grape between your fingers.

“Indeed,” he replied, shifting in his seat, “But my wager is on Macrinus.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms, challenging his assertion. “Do you honestly think he’s that ambitious? Surely it is some sort of breach of conduct to obtain my correspondence and report to your father regarding your every whim.”

“He has been whispering in Geta’s ear since the unfortunate passing of Plautianus.” He snickered, finishing off his wine and fixed his gaze on you, “Ambition spreads like a plague within these walls.”

He set down his wine cup again, looking around as courtiers, senators, and servants bustled about the lavish dining hall surrounding you both.

“Is this what you have been doing all morning?” he asked, a hint of accusation in his voice, “Leading your own investigation?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” you replied sarcastically, “I am merely enjoying breakfast, unlike some people.”

“Like I said,” he said, standing and looking down at you with a challenging glare, “there is always a motive here.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anxiety snaked tightly around you as you made your way to your quarters in search of solace. The night spent in Caracalla’s chambers had offered no restful sleep; instead, you found yourself waking unceremoniously on the chaise by his balcony, time and again, while he lay sprawled across his bed, a thin sheet barely covering his bare ass, snoring and mumbling like a drunken soldier. It had felt strange to seek refuge in his quarters, united by the turmoil brought about by his father’s hand.

It was easy to crawl in your bed and get lost amongst the silky sheets. Having not slept properly the night before, you allowed yourself to be pulled under, letting sleep claim you without a fight.

You woke suddenly, a weight pressing you down, your breath caught in surprise as your body refused to move. Above you, a pair of pale eyes—hazy and unrelenting, like the sky before a storm—fixed themselves on you. Their intensity felt heavier than the body that held them. It took a moment for your senses to settle, for your vision to clear, and when it did, you realized Caracalla’s body was tangled with yours—his legs draped over your left thigh, his hands planted on either side of your head as though framing you.

There was no telling how long he had been there, silently watching, and it was clear he had no intention of stopping then, even though you had caught him. You let your eyes roam over his face, taking in the rough texture of his pale skin, like polished, blighted marble under the soft glow of a torch. His pupils shifted, dark and wide, as they moved over you, drinking in every detail, the quiet between you charged with something unspoken.

“Will you have me?” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you gazed up at him. You knew all too well how Caracalla’s moods shifted like the tides—unpredictable and dangerous. The effort to stay steady, not to be swept away by his waves, weighed heavily on you.

He nodded, silent but certain, and tugged his tunic over his head, baring his silken chest to the flickering lamplight. You remained still, letting him take the lead, scared that even the slightest misstep might stir his infamous temper or send him retreating into the shadows. His hands moved with surprising care as he slipped your toga down your slender form, letting it fall away to the ground to reveal your body beneath.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You simply stared, locked in a gaze that spoke more than any words could, as the last barrier between your bodies was cast aside. The air between you was heavy, charged, and waiting.

You felt the heaviness of his cock against the soft skin of your thigh as he worked himself rhythmically, his closeness stirring a deep ache within you, a tension that spread like fire beneath your skin. The intimacy of the moment caught you unguarded, raw, and unspoken. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his breath mingling with your own. Unable to resist, you caught his lower lip between your teeth, biting softly before his mouth overtook yours. He sighed into you, his resolve melting as he met your kiss. Your tongues tangled, slow at first, then urgent, as though the space between you had collapsed entirely.

You opened your legs for him, this time by your own will. Yet, as he moved to settle himself between them, his breath, warm and uneven against your neck, suddenly stilled. His movements ceased, and a heavy sigh escaped him, brushing against your skin.

“It is not—” he began, his voice taut with frustration, “I cannot—”

He propped himself up, looking down at you with a furrowed brow, his expression a storm of shame and anger. Unsure of what to say or do, you felt the heat of embarrassment creep up your cheeks as your gaze drifted downward to his softened cock.

“Is it me?” you asked quietly, half-ashamed.

He let out another sigh, his eyes closing as though in pain. “It is not for lack of desire, I swear it.”

“Is there something I can do?” you asked, sitting up, clutching the sheet to your chest, suddenly feeling the weight of self-consciousness.

“No.” His reply was short, and he rose abruptly, pulling his tunic over his head forcefully. He avoided your gaze as he reached for the wine on the bedside table, pouring himself a cup with trembling hands.

The crash startled you. He had flung the cup against the wall, the red wine streaking down like blood spilled from a gaping wound, pooling darkly on the marble floor.

“Get out,” he growled, his voice low but heavy with restrained fury.

“These are my chambers,” you reminded him, pulling the sheet tighter around you, trying to steady your voice.

“Get out, Prima.” His tone was colder now, his warning unmistakable.

Swallowing your pride, you hurriedly adjusted your toga, your hands fumbling to secure it in place. You retrieved your veil, crumpled between the pillows, and made your exit with hastened steps.

Outside, as you slipped your sandals back on, the crash of objects breaking echoed through the wooden door, followed by a muffled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. You clenched your fists, your breath steadying. Though you had lost this battle, somewhere deep within, hope remained—for the war was not yet over.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you stepped inside the temple of Juno, you were immediately enveloped by a sense of tranquility. There had always been something about Juno that stirred you, but now, with your own marriage in turmoil, you felt a deeper connection to her. Her struggles with Jupiter mirrored your own in ways you had not fully grasped before. As the patron goddess of the empire, it felt right to ask for help as Augusta yourself. A child granted by Juno’s favor would surely be blessed, a gift of divine intervention. Marital help could wait, you told yourself. For now, you had one prayer, and it was for a child.

The air was cool and inviting, a welcome contrast to the warm sunlight outside. Delicate frescoes depicted scenes from Juno's mythology—her fierce protectiveness over women, her role in the great tales of heroism, and the beauty of marriage. Each brushstroke told a story, and you would have allowed yourself to be swept up by every tale if you had not been on a mission.

The temple was supported by regal, marble columns, their surfaces gleaming, reflecting the light from the stained glass windows onto their polished surfaces. The soaring ceiling was painted in rich hues of blue and gold, much like the sky at dawn, and you found yourself looking towards the heavens at its beauty.

As you moved deeper into the temple, you came upon the central altar, an imposing structure made of polished stone, carved with symbols of Juno—a peacock, representing beauty and pride, and a scepter, symbolizing power. The altar was adorned with offerings left by devoted worshippers: fresh flowers in vibrant colors, fruits from the harvest, and fragrant incense that filled the air with a sweet, calming aroma.

Juno’s statue stood front and center on the altar, surrounded by statues of different sizes, each capturing her essence in their own way. Some portrayed her as a regal figure in flowing robes, while others depicted her in a more maternal light, holding a child or surrounded by symbols of family.

“Your Excellency,” a priest approached, bowing his head in reverence, “it is an honor to stand in your divine presence.”

Upon his head sat a laurel crown, its fresh green leaves glistened with dew, a symbol of both honor and divine favor of the goddess herself. You remembered him from your wedding day- specifically how the laurel matched his deepset, green eyes.

Cassia presented to you a basket brimming with fragrant lilies, glistening white candles, a flask of the finest vintage wine, and a jar of the sweetest honey ever tasted. With a wave of your hand, you dismissed her to take her place outside the temple, accompanied by your assigned praetorians. You felt assured, having sent word ahead to the temple of your arrival, requesting both discretion and a sacred space in which to invoke the goddess.

“I trust that my offering has been prepared,” you remarked.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Follow me.”

You trailed behind him to the rear of the temple, descending a flight of marble stairs into an atrium of sorts. The soft glow of white candles illuminated the room, their flickering flames dancing upon the golden statues that adorned the shelves embedded in the walls. At the center of the chamber lay a medium-sized tiled bathing pool, set into the floor.

As you approached, the distant bleating of a lamb reached your ears.

"We shall begin when you are prepared," the priest stated with a respectful nod. With a sense of dignity, you removed your robes, standing tall before the gaze of the goddess.

At that moment, another priest entered the chamber, leading a lamb, adorned in a flowing white robe accented with a rich purple trim at the hem, wearing the same radiant laurel crown you had seen earlier.

Both priests raised the lamb above your head, their voices intertwining as they recited ancient prayers to the goddess, carefully steadying the creature before making the first cut. You closed your eyes, centering your thoughts on the heavens. As the warm blood began to cascade over your face and down your neck and shoulders, you raised your voice proudly to the goddess, proclaiming your devotion and intent:

“We adore thee Goddess, we invoke you, Juno, for it is written that you will bless those who call upon you and sacrifice to you. I pray to you, Goddess Juno, and offer these gifts so that you may favor my house and household.”

As you stood there, your thoughts continued to drift back to Caracalla—the way he had faltered just hours before, leaving you feeling a mix of frustration and concern. It was hard not to dwell on the sacrifices you had made and would continue to make, all in the hopes of giving him an heir.

The weight of your marriage pressed down upon you, and you only felt relief when you stepped into the bathing pool, submerging yourself as the thick blood mingled with the warm water.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you knelt before the grand statue in the main hall, redressed and feeling lighter, you pressed a gentle kiss to the goddess’s feet. The lilies were arranged just right, symbols of your devotion, a reflection of what you desired and prayed the goddess could help you with.

You dipped the candle ends into the honey, feeling the sticky sweetness as you prepared to light them. The oil lamp glowed warmly as you ignited the first candle. One by one, the other candles caught fire, illuminating the space around you as you set them in the designated holder.

You poured the wine, its rich color glistening in the candlelight, and set the bottle down with care. As you whispered the prayer again, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. Closing your eyes, you let the words sink deep, hoping that the goddess would hear your heart.

Suddenly, your moment of peace in the temple was broken by another presence. Before you could even open your eyes to see who it was, he spoke, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

“I cannot believe there is still a lamb left to sacrifice after your wedding. They must have sacrificed so many that the whole flock is nearly extinct.” Geta knelt beside you, a smirk on his face.

You quipped with a serious face, “Shall I offer you as the next sacrifice? Surely, one of your esteemed stature would grant me favor with the goddess.”

Geta laughed, the sound sharp and out of place in the quiet of the room. “Ironic, is it not? Not even a full cycle of Luna has passed, and you are already making offerings to save your fragile union.”

He seized your hand, running the edge of his nail beneath your own with deliberate care. A thin line of blood appeared, evidence of the sacrifice, vivid against your skin. He drew it to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he tasted it, a sly smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think your husband knows how devout his wife truly is? So unwavering in her dedication?” Geta’s tone dripped with mockery, each word drawn out as though savoring the chance to provoke.

“Why are you here, Geta?” you asked, weariness lacing your words. His constant mockery was like salting an open wound, relentless and cruel.

He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over your face with the precision of a blade. “Tell me,” he said, his voice like silky steel, “do you know what your husband does while you linger here in the temple, like a devout little dove?”

You sighed, your gaze fixed on the statue before you. “What, pray tell, is he doing now?”

You rose to your feet, giving him a silent nod to lead the way. The journey back to Palatine Hill drew curious glances as Geta’s guards merged with your own, their strides echoing in the narrow streets. You walked side by side, close enough to appear united yet distant enough that the silence between the two of you felt natural, you would offer him no word or glance to break the tension.

Rome pulsed with life around you. The aroma of fresh-baked bread mingled with the earthy scent of clay and smoke, a reminder of the city's crowded living spaces, where families lived stacked upon one another. Cassia, ever dutiful at your side, stole glances when she thought you would not notice. Her unease was palpable, and you made a mental note to instruct her in masking her emotions—though you could hardly claim to be a master yourself. Your jaw clenched tighter with every step, the pressure so fierce your teeth threatened to shatter.

As you approached the grand imperial palace, the atmosphere remained unchanged. You waved dismissively to Cassia while Geta signaled his soldiers to depart. Your own guard bowed in respect, and you returned the gesture with a simple wave of your hand.

Leaving the atrium, you trailed a few steps behind Geta as he strode down a lengthy corridor, ascending a flight of gilded steps that led to the private chambers of the palace. Upon reaching the threshold of his quarters, he paused and beckoned you inside with a wave from the doorway.

“This is a bad idea, and you are well aware of it,” you replied, shaking your head in disapproval, “You know Caracalla has requested that I do not converse with you under any circumstances.”

“You can either come with me or stand there like a fool,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Your choice.”

With a reluctant sigh, you stepped into his quarters, moving just enough for him to close the door behind you.

“What happens next?” you asked, trying to mask the unease in your voice.

He led you across the room to another door, swinging it open to reveal his impressive study—similar in grandeur to Caracalla’s. Just as you suspected, he slid aside a panel next to a bookcase, revealing a hidden passageway, the same one he had guided you through on your wedding night when Caracalla had been passed out. You navigated the narrow corridor, following Geta, a knot of anxiety tightening in your throat.

“I have had enough of these secret passages, of hidden motives and lies,” you admitted with a heavy sigh. “And I am emotionally drained from dealing with the fragile egos of you and your brother. I am sick from whiplash due to both of your ever changing moods. Have we not moved on from those childish days in Sicilia?”

Geta paused for a moment, the flickering torch light illuminating his features. “You speak as though we have tormented you day in and day out for years. I assure you, it was and will never be personal.”

“What is life if it is not personal, Geta?” you inquired sincerely.

“It is merely a game, Prima. We play the cards we are dealt.” He turned, his gaze thoughtfully assessing your expression. “Do not feign ignorance. You are indeed playing your hand, I have observed it myself.”

“Make sure you cover yourself up properly,” he said, glancing at the veil you wore, adjusting it to better hide your profile. “And take off that necklace.”

Feeling confused, you did as he asked, surprised when he took the necklace from you and placed it gently over the bridge of your nose, fastening it at the back of your head.

“To hide your face,” he explained.

“Hide my face from what?” you asked, but before he could reply, he slid the door open.

He stepped into the chamber, his silhouette suddenly illuminated by the flickering candlelight, a hazy cloud of incense swirling around him like a mist. With a graceful gesture, he extended his hand toward you, and before you could second-guess your instincts, you accepted it, allowing him to guide you from the dim corridor.

Before you, a scene of unabashed hedonism played out, where pleasure took precedence. Bodies entwined on every available surface; no lectus was spared from the terror of lovers lost in ecstasy. The air was thick with a chorus of moans and sighs, punctuated by the occasional sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh.

The chamber itself seemed to have once served as a sleeping quarters, now transformed into a sanctuary of indulgence. An elevated bed rested against the wall, draped in sheer curtains that obscured its occupants, their movements a hazy blur. In the area where you and Geta had entered, a grand table stood opposite, filled with exotic fruits and succulent roasted meats, inviting guests to partake in the feast while they watched the show. They swayed gently to the sultry melodies played by skilled musicians on lyres and flutes, the atmosphere alive and electric.

Geta guided you further into the chamber, his presence momentarily undetected as he settled into a high-backed chair that afforded him a prime view of the bed’s occupants. You lingered before him, your senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, when he suddenly drew you down to sit on his lap.

“Geta—” you protested, a hint of disapproval in your voice, “this is highly inappropriate.”

“Amidst all around us, you single this out as inappropriate?” he quipped, a playful smirk on his lips. “Sit still and enjoy the moment.”

His words hung in the air, a blend of mischief and allure, as the curtains on the bed began to sway, promising a view of its occupants lost in their own worlds.

There, amidst a tangle of hands and mouths, Caracalla lay sprawled in the center of the bed. His eyes were tightly shut, back arched away from the mattress as a woman stroked his cock with a dizzying rhythm—first lazily from root to tip, then with a fervor that blurred her hand around his delicate member. His toes curled, and his eyes rolled back as his seed spilled onto the woman’s fist, lost in the throes of ecstasy.

You tensed in Geta’s lap, torn between horror and fascination as the scene unfolded before you. Caracalla’s cock, spent yet firm against his thigh, filled you with a wave of shame as you recalled how flaccid he had been hovering over your own bare form earlier in the day.

Surrounded by three women, you watched as they descended upon him like vultures. The petite one mounted him, her cunt swallowing his spent cock in a single fluid motion. She rode him without pause, her gaze fixed on the other two girls who writhed at the head of the bed, their moans rising and falling in a symphony of pleasure as Caracalla’s fingers danced in and around their cunts, his ministrations causing them to lose all sense of reason as evident by their sounds.

You squeezed your thighs together, trying to block out the pulsing sensation. Sensing your turmoil, Geta placed his hands on your hips, guiding you to press down and grind your damp cunt into the firm flesh of his thigh.

“No,” you breathed, inhaling shakily as you pushed his hands away.

A stunning woman approached the two of you, and you stood, excusing yourself from the scene. You watched as she led Geta away, his head turning back towards you, a fleeting look of longing crossing his features as you slipped away toward the panel, revealing the hidden corridor. It was only once you reached the solitude of your quarters that you finally allowed your mask to fall, the weight of the day finally sinking in.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took exactly a week to ready Cassia, building her confidence for the task ahead. Though you had been anxious at first, desperation had a way of gnawing straight to the bone. Once you accepted the reality of your situation, you knew it was time to act—to wound Caracalla as deeply as he had wounded you.

It was common knowledge that Septimius had generously gifted you part of his late wife’s collection: a set of ruby rings, the golden diadem he had placed upon your head on your wedding day, and a striking emerald necklace. Of all these treasures, the rubies had become your favorite, their deep crimson a perfect match for your heirloom wrist cuffs, which you chose for your daily attire.

Cassia took pride in her role, carefully preparing each piece as you dressed daily, her timing impeccable as she laid them out. She beamed whenever she knew she had chosen well, her satisfaction a quiet victory. Though she was still reserved, Cassia had begun to open up, sharing bits of her life before becoming a servant of the palace. She spoke of her family, her village, and, to your surprise, revealed that the two of you shared a name day.

“Perhaps this is the gods’ way of blessing our budding friendship,” you said with a smile, resting your hand gently on her forearm.

“Perhaps, your excellency,” she replied, her cheeks flushing with color.

“I must admit, I detest such formality,” you said, tilting your head with a playful grin. “You may call me Prima.”

“I could never,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor. “It would be dishonorable.”

“I believe it falls to me to decide what is and is not a dishonor,” you reassured her, your tone soft but firm.

Over the next few days, you spoke candidly with Cassia, sharing glimpses of your life before becoming Augusta. You told stories of fleeting childhood encounters with the Imperator and his sons with personal anecdotes, revealing just enough to make her feel at ease.

As the seeds of friendship began to take root, you started to stitch together the threads of your larger scheme.

“Cassia,” you asked one morning as she fastened the clasps on your tunic, “have you ever been to the villa that houses the concubines?”

“I… have not,” she admitted, her hands pausing briefly before returning to their task. “Though I am close with one of the regular servants stationed there.”

You nodded, your expression neutral as you combed your hair before the looking glass, watching her reflection as she carefully selected a veil to complement your attire.

Two days later, as you strolled through the rose garden, Cassia presented a petite blonde girl to you.

“Your excellency, may I introduce Metella,” she said, her tone light yet tinged with nerves.

The girl, no older than Cassia, bowed low. You tilted your head, studying her with quiet curiosity.

“She works at the villa, your excellency,” Cassia added, offering context, doing your bidding without you having to ask her to.

“Yes, of course,” you replied with a measured nod. “A pleasure to meet you, Metella.”

“The pleasure is mine, your excellency,” Metella said softly, her faint smile barely reaching her eyes.

You spent a good portion of the afternoon in their company, walking the garden paths. Cassia and Metella trailed close behind, pausing whenever you stopped to smell a set of roses. At your direction, they clipped the blossoms you favored. As they worked, Metella spoke in hushed tones about the villa.

“Behind the palace,” she began, her voice just above a whisper as she clipped another rose, “up the gravel road that leads away from the stables, there is a villa. Three ladies live there now.”

You nodded, already certain of whom she spoke, but said nothing as the pieces of your plan continued to fall into place.

You stopped abruptly, spinning on your heel to face them. The speed of your movement caught Cassia and Metella off guard, and they nearly stumbled into you.

“If I asked a favor of you both, would you consider it?” you asked, your tone calm but carrying a weight that left no room for dismissal.

The girls exchanged a glance, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Cassia was the first to respond, her face lighting up with a genuine smile.

“Anything for you, your excellency,” she said, bowing low. You couldn’t help but smile softly at her devotion. Metella quickly followed suit, her bow a little less confident. It was in that moment you knew—the plan would succeed.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took two days to carefully craft every detail. You scrutinized the scheme in your mind, playing out every scenario until you felt confident enough for the plan to officially be carried out.

Late one night, under the cover of darkness, you met Cassia and Metella in the stables. The air was thick with tension as the girls paced nervously, their movements quick and uncertain. You had already arranged for the stable hands to be elsewhere, ensuring complete privacy.

“There will be panic,” you began, your voice low and deliberate, “and the servants’ quarters will be turned upside down in the search for these jewels. But if you listen carefully and follow my instructions exactly, no blame will fall on either of you.”

Both girls nodded, their wide eyes fixed on you as you reached beneath your cloak and produced a small satin bag.

“In the morning, Metella, place a piece of jewelry into each of their jewelry boxes after you have dressed them and they have left the villa,” you instructed. “Metella, once it is done, come straight to my quarters.”

Metella nodded, her trembling hands reaching for the bag. She tucked it into her satchel, her knuckles pale from holding the satchel so tightly.

“If, at any point, you feel frightened or unable to carry out the task, return the jewels to me immediately,” you said, your tone softening slightly. But then your expression hardened, and the faint moonlight caught the sharp edge of your gaze.

“And know this—if either of you breathes a word of this plan to another soul, I will see you crucified. Your entrails will hang from the city walls, and your families will be exiled to the furthest, most desolate rock beneath the sun.”

The chilling threat lingered in the air. Cassia and Metella glanced at each other nervously.

They turned back to you and nodded, their expressions solemn.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning of, you could not stop pacing your chambers, every detail of the plan playing on a loop in your mind. You woke early, bathing slowly, letting the warm water and scented oils calm your nerves. By the time you dressed and added the finishing touches, you felt more prepared—or at least looked the part.

Cassia appeared in your doorway, her hair slightly out of place and worry etched on her face.

“Your excellency, am I late?” she asked, her voice small.

“I am merely early,” you said, smoothing the folds of your tunic as you checked yourself in the looking glass. You barely had a moment to exhale before the door slammed open, and Metella rushed in.

“It is done,” she said, breathless and quiet.

You nodded, keeping your expression neutral even as your pulse quickened. “Good. Now, listen carefully. I need both of you to prepare an offering to Juno in my name. Once you have gathered what is needed, go to her temple and spend the day praying—ask her to grant me an heir. Do not return to the palace until dusk.”

They exchanged a glance but nodded quickly, bowing their heads.

“I will give you enough time to get ready before I speak with the Imperator,” you said firmly. “You are dismissed.”

The door shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening. You leaned against your dressing table, gripping its edge to steady yourself. For a moment, you let the mask drop, your fear bubbling to the surface. Taking a shaky breath, you whispered a prayer—not just to Juno, but for the strength to face what was coming. You could only hope the Imperator would not see right through you.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Prima, what a delightful surprise,” Septimius exclaimed as you approached the table on his sunlit terrace. He nodded, dismissing the praetorian who had guided you inside, returning him to his post.

“I hope I am not intruding,” you said, glancing down at the imperator’s feet, which rested in a basin filled with amber liquid.

“Ah, the trials of age, nothing more,” he reassured you, gesturing for you to take a seat across from him. He poured a cup of rich wine and offered it to you. You nodded in gratitude as his gaze searched your face.

“What troubles you?” he inquired, tilting his head slightly.

“What do you mean?” you replied, taking a sip from your cup, feigning innocence.

“There is a shadow of worry behind those lovely eyes,” he noted, crossing his hands on the table.

You sighed and set your cup down. “I am embarrassed, Imperator,” you began, watching as his brows knitted together, “something has occurred.”

“What has happened, Prima?” he asked, leaning in closer, his concern evident.

“The rubies you gifted me, the ones that belonged to your late wife—I fear they have gone missing.” You covered your face in shame as he reached out to grasp your wrist gently.

“When did this happen?” he pressed, his delicate grip urging you to speak.

“I noticed this morning,” you murmured, “I sent my two servants to the temple of Juno at dawn, instructing them to make offerings in my honor and not to return until dusk.” You paused, gathering your thoughts. “I dressed myself to meet with my father, to catch up on family matters, but when I went to retrieve the rubies from their resting place, they were gone.”

Septimius sighed, leaning back in his chair, stroking the gray stubble on his chin. “Have you confided in Caracalla?” he asked, and you shook your head.

“He is not pleased that I wear his mother’s jewelry,” you admitted. “He has threatened to take them from me and give them to his courtesans if I continue to wear them. He thinks me unworthy.”

Septimius’s eyes narrowed. “He still indulges with his courtesans?”

“Please, your excellency, do not say it was I who revealed this,” you implored, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, asking for his discretion.

“I have heard whispers that the three he favors have taken residence in the villa behind the stables.” You spoke softly, shame flooding your cheeks.

Septimius straightened, his jaw tightening as he regarded you. “Spend the day with your father, and allow me to address this matter,” he instructed, and you nodded solemnly. “Exercise the utmost discretion and speak of this to no one else.”

“Of course.” You rose, but he caught your hand before you could express your gratitude and leave his quarters.

“Everything shall be well in due time,” he promised, kissing your knuckles as he met your gaze.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Word spread like wildfire through the bustling halls of the palace, as the praetorians stormed the servants’ quarters, tearing through each room, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. It wasn’t long before you learned the news: the jewelry had been found in the possession of Antonia, Tullia, and Marcella, the ladies residing in the villa behind the stables.

As soon as the jewelry was found tucked away in each lady’s respective jewelry box, the villa was locked down tight, with guards stationed to ensure no one could slip in or out, all by the direct order of the Imperator. The three women were swiftly banished from the palace and exiled to the farthest reaches of the empire, their families shamed by their actions, forced to join them in their sentencing. It was truly a stroke of luck that they still had their heads on their shoulders, for the Imperator could have dealt them a harsher fate.

Your plan had worked like a charm, unfolding just as you had hoped. The pieces fell into place perfectly, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how it all turned out.

As night descended and you faced the weight of your choices, you let your emotions wrap around you like a heavy blanket—neither ashamed nor particularly proud, but feeling as though you had sunk lower than expected. Shaking off such thoughts, you turned to the polished bronze mirror on your dressing table, brushing aside the strands of hair that clung to your neck and wiping away the remnants of kohl from your eyes.

It was then that the echoes of an angry voice grew louder, approaching your quarters. You sprang to your feet, frozen in place, the sheer fabric of your gown pooling around your feet as your gaze fixed on the door.

When Caracalla burst in, you remained still.

“You!” he spat through clenched teeth, flinging a handful of precious ruby rings in your direction. “You deceitful, rancid wench!” He advanced, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“You have made a fool of me!” He seized your shoulders, shaking you with fury.

“You’ve done that to yourself!” You pulled away, but he was quick to grasp you again, forcing you backward until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“I was merely reclaiming what is rightfully mine,” you declared, holding your head high, “what was taken from me.”

“What was taken from you,” he sneered, his arms pinning you in place as his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. “Nothing here belongs to you.”

You struggled against his grip, but he pressed you closer to the wall with his own body.

“If we are to claim our rights, then I shall take what is mine.”

With a sudden motion, he hoisted you by the back of your thighs, slamming your back against the wall once more. You protested, pushing against his shoulders and striking at his solid flesh, but he merely laughed, relishing the moment as he held you against the wall, lifting your gown to expose your bare form.

“Deceitful wench,” he hissed through gritted teeth, yanking down the collar of your gown to reveal your neck and collarbones. You cried out as a sharp sting pierced the skin between your neck and shoulder, his incisors biting into your flesh. He pressed harder, a trickle of blood staining the sheer fabric of your gown.

You felt paralyzed, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as he pulled back, wrestling with his toga, his hands trembling with rage.

He held you so tightly that it started to hurt, burying himself deep inside you, lifting you off the wall with every thrust. He devoured the tender flesh of your neck and chest, biting, kissing, and sucking, his teeth grazing your soft skin.

All you could do was hang on to him, clinging to him so fiercely that it was hard to tell where he ended and you began.

With a loud grunt, he spilled himself within you, letting his head drop between your shoulder and neck as he gasped for breath. When he pulled back to look at you, he searched your face just as you searched his. Both of you were left wondering what had just happened and why it stirred feelings in you that you had never felt before.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Tag list:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[bones4thecats]

➸ Frontline; RoR! Thor × Goddess! S/O

Characters: Thor A/N: This was so cute to write. It turned out slightly different than intended, but I like it regardless. Anyways, enjoy! ➥ Summary: When sent out to deal with a newly developed Jötunn invasion, Thor runs into a new Goddess. Could this be the start of a beautiful relationship? Or possibly the start of a tear in the Norse Pantheon?

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Thor ═════════════════════════════════╝

🌩️ While the Gods discussed in the room, a large-figure walked down the halls. There was no sign of a smile on his face, complete darkness covering his eyes as everything evolved

🌩️ It was a mere few days ago that the Norse Pantheon received news that the Jötunn had invaded once again. The Gods was fearful that they could possibly overpower the not-nearly experienced fighters around and possibly destroy everything in their paths

🌩️ The God of Thunder and his father on the other hand, declared that it would be pointless to just sit by in fear and leave any room open for the large-monsters to come in through. Odin had told his son to ready himself for battle in the next few days

🌩️ Thor just nodded and stood, grabbing his hammer, and walking out of the room towards the exit. He knew what his father meant. Hunt those bastards down and end them as fast as you can. And disobeying his father and missing such a fight is something Thor just couldn't do

🌩️ As he walked through the forests surrounding Asgard, Thor heard something from afar. Looking upwards from the ground, his hood slightly moved from the wind. Above the treeline was a decent amount of large, disfigured heads. It appears the Jötunns were closer to Asgard than he initially figured they'd be

🌩️ Gripping his hammer tighter, Thor jumped in the air. Every swing resulted in bursting one of the monster's heads, causing blood to splash everywhere, even on the God, as he swung

🌩️ Thor had managed to take down many Jötunns, but there were even more than predicted as well. Around maybe tens of hundreds. Honestly, it was impressive how they managed to jumble together with enough brains to not try killing each other for walking the wrong way

🌩️ The God of Thunder narrowed his eyes and threw his weapon at the giants. It had gone through nearly six of their bodies before it was knocked away by one of the Jötunns. Thor's eyes widened in surprise and caught the flying-hammer quick enough so it wouldn't fly off

🌩️ He looked at Mjolnir and furrowed his eyebrows, glaring down at the monsters with growing fury. They had never, ever, been this hard to deal with. They must have been evolving from the many years of the Gods taking their kind out for trying to take them out themselves

🌩️ All of a sudden, one of the Jötunns dashed to make it above Asgard's walls, but, before Thor could get there, its head exploded. But, instead of there being Odin, there floated a woman

"You need some help there, dear?" The female said.

🌩️ Oh great. And she was arrogant.

🌩️ Thor huffed slightly and threw Mjolnir at another giant's head, making it smash and blow blood everywhere. The woman just smiled and jumped out of the way easily, though she did manipulate the branches of a nearby tree to come up and block the blood with its leaves, successfully saving Asgard from cleaning their streets and buildings of the red-bodily fluid

"Not a talker. Understood." She joked.

"You dare oppose the Jötunns, Goddess? We will have your carcass for such a grievous insult!" A Jötunn yelled.

🌩️ The woman with a ponytail smirked and laughed, her hand covering his eyes as she leaned backwards

"I'd like to see you try laying one of your mold-growing hands on me."

"Why you-"

🌩️ Thor blinked in surprise again as you cut the beast's hand off with your sword, making it wail in pain as you smirked larger and began to cut its face apart happily. You were just as, if not more, sadistic when fighting like Thor was

🌩️ When you finally stopped harming the Jötunn, you looked up at the rest, who just gulped and ran off in fear. You had made them flea with just knocking down one of them without any mercy. He'd have to take some notes there

"Anyways, now that this is over," you began, looking up at the God above you. "Aren't you gonna introduce yourself to the little-lady?"

🌩️ Nodding, Thor held out his right hand, transferring Mjolnir to his opposite, left, hand out of habit.

"I'm Thor, God of Thunder of the Norse Pantheon and son of Pantheon-Leader, Odin." You smiled and shook his hand happily, slightly bouncing as he watched.

"Well, Thor, God of Thunder of the Norse Pantheon and son of Pantheon-Leader, Odin. My name is Y/N, Goddess of Nature and the Feminine Warriors of the Norse Pantheon. Pleasure meeting you!"

[heartfullofleeches]

Candy human reader!

[Suggestive, Mdni] (mentions of mutilation, but brief and reader regenerates/doesn't feel pain)

Born from the dying dreams of a failing confectioner and a human's body weight in sugar comes a sweet baker with their creator's passion for making treats and hopes for companionship. Unlike your parent, you succeed greatly in your goals due to the simple fact of being made out of the very sweets people adored. Taffy skin, sugar syrup running through your very veins. A swift swing of your blade and you had the ingredients for your next batch of delights. A sip of sugar water and a quick nap made you good as new the next time you popped open your eyes. The line was out the door opening week. Most had their interest peaked in who took over the location after what tragedy became of the original owner, but it was the samples you left out that kept them crawling back. They were obsessed - in more ways than one.

It wasn't just the sugar bringing customers in. If anything, your smile, and the hour long conversations you'd have were far sweeter. Your knowledge of the human world was sparse, but you had a strong enough grasp to get you far and you never lost that - wonder so many people lost when faced with life's challenges. Perfectly imperfect, the love some of your customers knew extended past a hunger for those cakes in your displays. They loved you, they wanted you. And they'd do whatever it took to have you.

When they break in, the fear of being kidnapped doesn't cross you, rather the shock of them bursting into your kitchen to the scene of you holding your arm over a batch of those truffles they adored so. Their fingers plunge into the mix and before they realize those digits are in their mouth, not that they would've stopped if conscious. It's syrup. Your blood is syrup. You frantically try to explain the situation, but they're too busy licking a wound that's already healed. There were too many questions on their mind. What were you? Did you hurt yourself by doing this? Is this why your treats were so irresistible?

You explain to them that you while feel pain, it doesn't exactly hurt when you dismember yourself and as much of your anatomy as you have figured out while you're at it. Bless your sweet heart. Giving so much to an ungrateful world when you don't know much about yourself. There must be another way to extract your fluids even if it causes you no harm. Your loyal customers offer you an alternative that may even benefit fit you more in the long run. You happily agree, sitting back as they undo your apron.

Their tongue makes your body feel sticky and slick, but the heat pooling between your legs as their head dives between your thighs is a new sensation entirely. They leave not an inch of skin unscathed and playfully nip at your hip or meat of your thigh when you find yourself adjusted to the methodical press of their fingers and muscle within you. You react so well, but they can't give you everything when it's only your first night of forever together. It's crazy to think that a small bite sends more electricity to your core than lobbing off your own hand, but this world was full of surprises your lover would come to show you the more you grew comfortable with each others bodies.

Your first release they keep to themselves. As your new helper they should always get first taste and just like everything you make your fluids are addicting. They tongue fuck you to an orgasm twice over before finally retrieving the bottle you feverishly begged them to grab. Always thinking of the customers first. They'll fix that for you soon enough. They clean everything up while you fall asleep in their car and keep you out of the shop that weekend to rejuvenate and perfect your new secret ingredient. Your admirer keeps a copy of your heart when you're away so they don't get lonely, before ultimately deciding to join the staff in case you run out while on the clock. Your customers love the new recipe blissfully unaware of what goes on behind closed doors.... Until one of them gets a little too jealous seeing you leave everything with that arm around your waist.

[buriedpentacles]

Alternatives to Blood for Magic

Tw: discussion of blood (obvs)

Part of my devotion to Mother Nature does involve blood offerings and as I did give some blood in a ritual today I thought I'd share some alternatives to blood for those that want them!

First, why use blood at all?

Blood is used in a number of rituals and offerings for a number of reasons. It is commonly used as a binding ingredient that connects the caster (or whoever's blood it is) to the spell whether that be as a target or as a reviecer.

Blood can represent many things from life and power, to femininity and intuition (mostly menstrual blood for that). It is a very powerful symbol.

As an offering, it can be a sign of deep devotion as it is your life force (though that does not make it a "better" offering than anything else).

Note: I believe(?) that in many forms of Hellenism, blood is not considered an appropriate (and by some, even an offensive) offering to the gods. It is up to you to research and decide whether it is appropriate for you and your practice.

Alternatives to Blood

I often use these alternatives and only use my own blood for "special" rituals. I do not encourage people to harm themselves for their practice. If you are someone who is not comfortable drawing your own blood for magical reasons (and that is perfectly okay) then here are some ways to substitute it:

Fake blood - the obvious one here, not much to say about it haha!

Pomegranate juice - Pomegranate juice looks pretty similiar to blood, it's safe to consume and pour into the environment and pomegranates have similiar associations to blood!

Blackberries - These fruits are currently ripening in my area and when crushed they make an excellent blood alternative. In fact, I recently used them in a small devotional act to Mother Nature (picture below).

Water, dyed red - simple and budget friendly! Safe to consume and usually perfectly fine for the environment (check the dye first though!)

Red ribbon - this is great if you want something to symbolise blood that is more lasting and permenant!

Animal blood - some butchers will sell animal blood (usually pig because of black pudding) and you can even get it dried! Make sure to do your research on legality, ethics and please don't go out and collect your own.

Other bodily fluids - If the purpose of the blood in a spell is to bind the spell to someone then you can use any other piece of DNA; spit, sweat, etc. Even hair can be used, and it is much less invasive!

Menstrual blood - if you have a menstrual cycle, you may choose to use this blood in a ritual if the timing is right! Please, please, please be sensible. When using blood you MUST remember that it is a biohazard, even if its your own. Be sensible. Be clean.

[macgyvermedical]

Caring for Someone Who Can't Move

Requested by @control-whump

So here's the thing. Humans are meant to move. Even when we look like we're sitting still or asleep, we are moving. Constantly.

So if there's a reason someone physically cannot move, such as paralysis, unconsciousness, or a problem with sensation or drive to move, there are things we have to do to prevent injury to that person.

Why do we move?

There are a few reasons. The first is that we have blood vessels and nerves throughout the body. Any time we are still, there is pressure being placed on some part of the body- the bottom of the feet, the butt, the back, etc... That pressure on blood vessels means there is less blood getting to that area. Pressure on nerves changes how signals are sent between that part of the body and the brain. When we don't move at all, damage begins to occur to the tissue due to lack of blood flow. Too much pressure for long enough can also damage the nerves (you have experienced a mild version of this when your limb "falls asleep" and gets tingly when you try to move it after a long time of laying on it.)

Veins- while the heart pumps blood out to arteries, veins use a series of valves to push blood back to the heart. This system relies on the muscles around the veins contracting. If they didn't contract, fluid would pool in the lowest part of the body, usually the feet, which would cause swelling. This is also a problem because the lack of blood movement increases the risk of blood clots that can lead to heart attacks or strokes.

Maintenance of muscle tone- If you sat on a couch and "didn't move" for a week you would lose muscle tone. But not as much muscle tone as you would lose if you actually didn't move for a week due to paralysis. Plus, over long periods of disuse, tendons shorten, causing something called a contracture, which can sometimes only be treated with surgery.

If someone is able to move, we usually encourage that first. If you've ever had surgery you know that getting you up and moving is the #1 thing you will be doing as soon as you are conscious enough to do so. This prevents blood clots and speeds healing. The sooner a person can return to normal activities, even assisted, the better off they will be in the long run.

But what if the person can't move- How do we prevent problems related to immobility?

Well, a lot of times we artificially "provide" movement for the immobile person. For example, we turn people every 2 hours (basically leaning them one way for 2 hours and then the other, trying to redistribute pressure and give the nerves and blood vessels a break) to prevent skin breakdown and we do range of motion exercises for the person several times per day to prevent contractures and loss of tone.

Range of motion exercises mean moving each joint in all the directions that joint moves multiple times per session. Here is an example of assisted ROM:

There are also other things we do to support the person overall, like making sure they have adequate nutrition (makes the skin better at tolerating sub-optimal blood flow), cleaning them up promptly when they urinate or defecate (if urine or feces sits on the skin it irritates it and causes wounds), and making sure there are no wrinkles in the sheets or clothing that presses on particular parts of the body.

What other things do we need to consider if someone doesn't move?

They're probably not able to take care of themselves in other ways, like cleaning themself or brushing their teeth. They are also probably not able to feed themself or clean themselves when they urinate or defecate, or be able to take medication for themself. So all of these things have to be done for the person.

[answersfromzestual]

what does a tdick like... actually look like? or how they behave post-testoterone and pre-surgery? I haven't really been able to find like anything educational about how they work- what the look like, how they differ from other genitalia during sex and/or arousal, any of that stuff. I'd really appreciate it if you could explain it?

Bottom Growth or T-Dick Info:

For educational purposes only

I will be calling a "T-dick" a "T-phallus" in this answer.

I highly suggest all read through my second source, it is very informative about growth, sensations, and also has some good general knowledge as well.

Clitoral hypertrophy: the clitoris growing in length and width while taking testosterone.

So a t-phallus very much looks like the head of a penis, the shape, the contours, it just doesn't have a hole for urination like a penis or a shaft especially when you are aroused. A t-phallus gets erect when you are aroused just like a penis. It is considered the pleasure organ.

During arousal (turned on), it actually swells up and fills with blood, becoming erect and more stiff (hard)

While your t-phallus gets bigger on testosterone many people describe their changes in their orgasms and pleasurable feeling. For example you may like a different kind of touch now because that feels more pleasurable. "Some people describe feeling a more erection-like sensation when aroused." - source 2

Typical bottom growth on testosterone therapy is typically 1 to 4 cm, sometimes even more, this growth varies. One small study¹ about bottom surgery reported the average length of bottom growth measured from 2.5 cm to 4 cm in the study participants who eventually underwent surgery. Another study² found that at the one year mark, the average growth was 4.6 cm.

During sexual intercourse with someone with female genitalia: will require you to use a dental dam as protection (dental dam information), this is just basically a sheet of latex or another kind of plastic (like male condoms), to prevent direct contact. You don't not just need to use one during oral sex but if you are rubbing your genitals together it may be a good idea. If you are sharing toys make sure to clean them thoroughly between using it on the opposite person. (Making sure sex toys are clean is always a good idea).

If you are having sexual intercourse with cis males/ male genitalia: you should be requiring that person to wear a condom, even if they are trans themselves, any bodily fluid contact can spread a STI. Or you can use female condoms.

Here are some articles on sexual health.

Sexual health article 1

Sexual health article 2

Below are example images of a t-phallus and growth:

Source²

Source²

- a more realistic view.

You can see that there is a tip that gets slightly thinner with the connective tissues. So you have a head of a penis to put it very generally and your 'shaft' is almost buried in the connective tissue/ hood (which I used to call my 'foreskin', it made me feel more comfortable.

Sources, Images, and Studies

Source 1

Source 2

Medical Study¹ -PDF

Medical Study²

Fun facts: We all are actually considered to have female genitalia in the womb until about the second trimester of pregnancy, then your body gets a flood of either estrogen (X) or testosterone (Y), which is what tells your body to form the genitals. This is actually interesting because it shows that the clitoris is actually a tiny penis in a way, since it actually does become a penis as a fetus develops. - I learned this in my child development class.

[rinsvg]

Put your mouth to good use

warnings —written with black female reader in mind but anyone can read, unestablished relationship(you just putting him in his place), eating out, fingering, usage of bodily fluids, reader is sorta demanding.

⋆｡°✩ You hate men who think themselves inferior to women; you absolutely loathe it, so it’s only natural that that hate basically gravitates toward Naoya and his stupid masculine energy. Always walking around campus, spitting out the vilest words that could ever come out of his mouth against women. So it was only natural that you, as a woman, had him under you, putting his mouth to good use for the first time.

As his head dips between your thighs, you can only see the contour of his massive shoulders. He takes his time at first, smelling the scent of your sex and dragging his tongue through your longing folds—just feeling you, tasting you, and taking his sweet time. You grab the base of his scalp and pull him towards you. "Eat," the demand came so easily to you; you were, of course, used to dealing with men like Naoya.

You gently rubbed your hips into Naoya as he followed your instructions and started to suck your pussy. He started by circling your clit with his tongue, which made your entire body tremble. Given his way with ladies, he was remarkably skilled at dining with women.

You couldn't help but clench your teeth as his face continued to become wetter and wetter by the second. You watched Naoya suck your juices from his face as they began to drip. “Holy shit, that was hot”. You thought as he then stuck his tongue into you and tried to wring every last drop of you out. For the third time that day, you started to feel heated.

His nose nudges your clit, and you grind against his face again, dragging your pussy against his lips. He groans in contempt—a low sound that sends vibrations straight to your core.

"That’s it," he murmurs, "use me." He's so into it that he doesn't even realize what he's saying. It's fine; you'll just remain him the next time he annoys you.

"Oh fuck, naoya," you pant, your body trembling as your release begins to simmer in your veins.

He starts eating you in earnest, flicking his tongue over the swelling bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex and laving the flat of his tongue over your folds. Your grip on his scalp is tight, holding him in place so he can suck his lips to your cunt. Your keening cries reverberate in the dorm room like music in his ears.

"Use your fingers," You demanded.

He whines in agreement, releasing one of your thighs so he can lower his hand and press two fingers into the slippery, warm canal of your cunt. He coils them, pressing into that sweet place behind your pubic bone. You clench your fists around his slim fingers as he sucks your clit between his teeth.

A blast of heat sends you over the brink, your pussy tightening and spasming as white-hot ecstasy sears your blood. He yanks his fingers away and replaces them with his tongue, digging deep to savour every ounce of your sweet release.

As your body calms to the serene aftermath of the release, he keeps his mouth on you, gently running his tongue from your entrance up to circle your clit in a continuous motion. Until your chest finally stopped heaving and you pulled him away.

"You know, we should do this again someday." Naoya grinned while cleaning his face, until you began laughing in his face.

"No, but you can leave my room." You laughed all the way to the restroom as Naoya swore at you while grabbing his belongings. You yelled out to him just as he was about to close the door.

"Hey Naoya"

"yeah"

"Make sure to lock my door on your way out." You smirked at him while closing the bathroom door and turning on the water. The last thing you heard was a low murmur of "bitch" and a door slamming shut.

[evolutionsvoid]

What leads to someone overdosing? Why would anyone choose to drown themselves in a humor, til their humanity is washed away? To folks leading happy, healthy lives, the fall into addiction seems baffling. They see it as a long term thing, as if those caught in its thralls care only about the end result. Surely these folk want to wind up like this, to have their bodies warped and humors altered. But to others with less than ideal lives, such imbibing isn't about the then but the now. Relief and comfort during hard times, ways to feel good when the whole world feels wrong. True, there are those who get lost in their addiction, falling ever downward. But there are those who don't see a reason to fight it, because they know there isn't anything to come back to.

Black Bile seems like an odd humor to lose yourself in, as it doesn't provide the high or comfort that Blood or Phlegm would. Yet, one forgets that this fluid stores not only information, but memory as well. All around us, people carry shards of the stuff to hold onto precious memories, and pleasant thoughts we wish to relive. With these fragments and some fluid, one can enjoy these moments once more, if only briefly. It is a practice that many see as harmless, just a pleasant reminder. But what happens when those secured memories are the only things one has left? When love is lost or family is gone, the shards may be the only thing we have of them. Those desperate and depressed may cling to these moments, caring only for the past since the present is so rotten. Some memories we hold in longing, but others may be kept as reminders. A reminder of who was lost, or perhaps who was responsible for that pain. These thoughts, good or bad, are kept and held close, imbibed again and again so that it is not forgotten. Those who drown themselves in Black Bile do so because they think there is nothing left for them in this present world. It was the past that made them happy, it was the past they wish to avenge.

Wraiths are what become from a Black Bile overdose, when ancient memories consume those lost in the past. The transformation is a sudden, and horrific, one. The skin and flesh darken and melt, sloughing away into wet clumps of Black Bile. Organs and muscle are lost, til only clean white bone remain. The mass of fluid that comes from the liquefied body congeals into a new shape, a ghostly wet form that will now haunt the land. Hardened fragments of Black Bile shall erupt from various places, creating claws, horns and nasty blades. Congealed tendrils slip out from the dripping mass, used for draining more bile or spewing it for defense and movement. What emerges from this transformation is a dripping, drifting specter whose mind cares only for more Black Bile and unfinished business.

While some overdoses hold onto their humanity and others go more feral, the wraith is an entity that is more like a bone-bile construct. A mind remains, yet it is only focused on one thing: their final purpose. Those who lose themselves in Black Bile hold on dearly to a memory, be it one of past joy or old grudges. Whatever thought they clung to in their final moments will shape what they become. The resulting wraith will be driven by this final desire, seeking one last thing before going back to the great cycle. This has led to two unofficial categories of wraiths: vengeful wraiths and watchful wraiths.

A vengeful wraith is one born from desires for revenge, made of those who clung to hate and anger in their final days. These are people who felt they have been wronged or cheated, and could never forgive this action. So their resulting wraith will obsessed with hunting down the person they believe ruined their lives. Perhaps a bandit who robbed them, or soldier who burned their loved ones. Some wraiths may be right in their ire, and target the exact person responsible for these crimes. Others, however, may simply be targeting the person they honestly believe was the source of their woe. Remember, these beings are born from memory, and memory is a biased thing. No matter if it is deserved or not, those hunted by a vengeful wraith will be besieged by a dark ghost that seeks only to punish and kill. They are cunning, ruthless things, seeking to inflict as much pain and misery as possible before getting their final revenge. Vengeful wraiths will not rest until either they or their target is dead. Once their foe is cut down, if a vengeful wraith does not have anything left to hold onto, it shall simple melt away and finally let death take it.

While vengeful wraiths are vicious beings, the watchful wraiths show a more caring side. These entities are born from thoughts of loved ones and people they wish to protect. Perhaps family they have been separated from, or a lover called to the front lines. Their final moments are ones of yearning, wishing to find and protect these lost souls at all cost. Thus, the watchful wraith that is born from these feelings is one that seeks to save. They will spend their new lives searching for this lost loved one, determined to know what became of them. They want closure, and they want a purpose. If the one they seek has died, they will fade away once they finally get their answer and have nothing else worth living for. But if their target is still alive, then this wraith will devote themselves to helping and protecting them. They shall be a hidden guardian, aiding from the shadows. All they want is for their target to survive, even if it means sacrificing themselves. Those cared for by a watchful wraith may not know it until the day this dark phantom throws itself upon a blade meant for them. And even if they die protecting their love, they shall melt away with a pleased gurgle, knowing they perished for a worthy cause.

Of the overdoses possible, the wraiths used to be a rarer occurrence. It takes a lot of Black Bile and hopelessness to generate such a thing, and that used to be scarce. But now that war has gripped the land, and misery is abundant, wraiths have become much more common. So many innocent lives lost to the flames, so many left behind to mourn and weep. The present day is a horrific one, a shadow of the good times that were once here. There are plenty of folk who are broken by this cruelty and loss, and they cling to what little memories remain. And from this, vengeful wraiths are born, haunting the land and hunting those who left their homes in ruin. These specters of hate and anger perfectly show the state of the world, and the torment many go through. Yet, if one looks closely enough, they shall find plenty of watchful wraiths as well. Though they may hide in the shadows, there may actually be more of them than their furious counterparts. Perhaps this is a sign that not all is lost. There are still people who care and hope. Even if cruelty seems commonplace and the world has gone mad, there are still plenty of souls out there who feel that there is still something here worth protecting.

[prowl-mun]

Hellhound's fury. a Helluva Boss AU

The blade had hit; it was over. Blitzø's lifeless body lies on the chopping block where his execution had just been carried out. His head rests at an unnatural angle on the floor, eyes open but unseeing. The silence is deafening, save for the faint dripping of blood onto the stone.

Loona stands frozen, her chains rattling softly as her breathing grows more ragged. Her hollow, wide eyes remained locked on Blitzø's head. She couldn't hear Millie and Moxxie's sobs or Satan announcing the court was adjourned. Suddenly, a guttural snarl erupts from Loona. Her entire body tenses, her claws digging into the restraints holding her back. Her eyes flick to Andrealphus, standing smugly at his icey podium. Loona's snarl crescendos into a roar. She had burst free from her chains. The muzzle over her face splinters as she leaps toward the white Goetia.

"Loona! stop!" Millie yells, but she doesn't hear her. Loona crashes into Andrealphus, sending him sprawling. His usual icy composure is gone as he scrambles backward onto the ground. Andrealphus begged the hooded guards to help him as she clawed and bit him.

"PLEASE! IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO GO THIS WAY!! MERCY!! " Andrealphus yelled. Moxxie and Millie, still chained nearby, screamed at her to stop.

"Loona, this isn't what Blitzo would want!" Moxxie pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please, don't do this!" But his words fell on deaf ears. Loona was too far gone, her pain eclipsing any logic or restraint. In one fluid motion, Loona grabbed Andrealphus' arm with her mouth and yanked it clean from his shoulder. Blood spurted across the room, staining her fur black.

Andrealphus was now screeching in agony, and the other higher-ranking demons in the jury screamed and scattered. The 6 Sins themselves looked on with varying expressions of shock and disgust. Even Satan's fiery eyes widened in surprise.

Loona's gaze locks on him, pure hatred blazing in her eyes. "You took everything from me," she says in a low, venomous voice. She raises her claws for the final blow, but a streak of blue magic suddenly flashes between them. Stolas appears, his aura glowing faintly. "Loona! Stop this! "Stolas's voice is shaky but firm. " This won't bring him back. " Loona freezes, her chest heaving, claws trembling. She looks to face Stolas, her eyes brimming with fury and grief.

"This is YOUR fault. All of this was your fault! You could've stopped this," Loona said, her voice breaking. "Loona, please, I..." Before Stolas could finish, she tackled him with all the force of a wild beast. He barely managed to summon a protective barrier, but the impact sent him stumbling down onto the ground. Loona lunges, but before she can reach him, the hooded guards, finally regaining their composure, swarmed Loona, subduing her with chains, a new muzzle, and a straitjacket adorned with infernal sigils, designed to suppress her overwhelming strength.

"Enough!" Satan's voice boomed across the courtroom, reverberating off the walls like a thunderclap. His imposing figure loomed above the chaos, eyes blazing with unholy fury. "You dare turn my courtroom into a slaughterhouse?" His gaze fell on Loona, now surrounded by the hooded guards. "Rabid mutt!" he spat, his words dripping with disdain. Before Satan could decree her fate, Yogirt, his little anger management coach, placed a calming hand on his colossal arm. "Sir," Yogirt began in a soothing voice, "perhaps there's a better way to handle this. She is not in her right mind. Punishment won't restore what's been lost."

Satan's rage simmered, and after a long pause, he relented. "Very well. She will not be executed...For now. but she is still dangerous to herself and others, so I order her to be confined to the Sloth Ring Kennelsylum for Rabid Hellhounds until further notice."

"No!" Millie's scream broke through the din, but it was futile. Moxxie held her back, his face streaked with tears, as Loona was dragged away by the hooded guards. Still snarling and snapping, Moxxie and Millie could only watch in despair. Stolas stood silently, his heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. He knew he had failed, not just Blitzo but Loona as well.

"I am sorry Blitzy."

So, what do you guys think?

[oliciouz]

More sneak peeks from my fanfic. This is from the second book. Cerian and Levi reunite. Some things might change but ugh so cute

💙💙💙💙

The silence between them was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came from familiarity, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled with words. Levi lingered near the heavy wooden table, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his posture stiff as though he were trying to remember how to be still. Cerian was tidying up the scattered papers left behind by the council, her movements fluid and deliberate. She didn’t need to clean up—it wasn’t her job—but Levi wasn’t surprised. She had always been like that. Always doing the work no one else wanted to do, always carrying burdens no one else could bear.

She hadn’t changed much. Not really. She still carried herself with that quiet grace that made people believe in her. She still had that polished composure that could silence a room full of squabbling officials. But Levi’s sharp eyes, honed from years of reading people and situations like a battlefield, caught the little things—the faint lines around her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged just slightly when she thought no one was looking. And when her gaze finally flicked up to meet his, he saw it there too: the weight.

It was a weight he understood all too well.

Cerian had always been good at wearing masks. Levi had watched her build them piece by piece, watched her slip into them as easily as slipping on a coat. Back then, he had been one of the few who could see past them, who could catch the glimpses of the ruthless, determined woman beneath the warmth and charm. And now, standing here after all these years, he realized that hadn’t changed either. She was still wearing her masks, still carrying the world on her shoulders with a smile that seemed effortless to everyone but him.

Five years…

He didn’t say anything. Levi never had been good with words, especially with her, and besides, what could he say? That he understood? That he saw the toll it was taking on her? That he still—?

No. Some things were better left unsaid.

Cerian broke the silence first. “I’ve heard about you,” she said softly, her voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. She didn’t look up, her attention still on the papers she was stacking neatly, but there was a warmth in her tone that made the tension in Levi’s shoulders ease, if only slightly. “People talk about you like you’re a myth, you know.”

Levi huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could almost be called a smirk. “Tch. A myth, huh? Guess that makes me some kind of monster.”

Cerian’s hands stilled for a moment, her head tilting slightly as she finally looked up at him. Her blue eyes, still bright despite the exhaustion etched into her features, studied him carefully. “Not a monster,” she said after a pause, her voice soft but firm. “A legend, maybe. The kind people tell stories about to give themselves hope.”

Levi’s smirk faded, his expression hardening as he looked away, his gaze falling to the floor. Hope. That word felt foreign to him now, almost meaningless. He thought about the lives he carried on his shoulders, the faces of his squad, the blood on his hands. If he was a legend, it wasn’t the kind that inspired hope. It was the kind that served as a harbinger for death.

“You’re still the same,” Cerian said suddenly, her tone lighter now as she returned to her task. “Stoic, brooding, impossible to read. Though, I think you’ve gotten even better at it. The walls are impressive, Levi. I’ll give you that.”

Her words made him glance at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to gauge whether she was teasing him or not. But her expression was genuine, her lips curved into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a smile he recognized—a mask.

“I’ve heard about you too,” Levi said quietly, his voice rough but steady. “Doctor Zackly. The miraculous healer. The kind, brilliant woman who saves lives and makes politicians look like fools without even trying.”

Cerian laughed softly at that, shaking her head as she finished straightening the papers and set them aside. “I don’t know about miraculous,” she said, her tone modest but tinged with humor. “But I do what I can. The people in Trost… they’ve been through hell. My staff has been drowning, trying to keep up. The breach, the dead, the wounded—it’s been… a lot.”

Levi didn’t respond right away. He was watching her again, his sharp eyes catching the way her shoulders tensed ever so slightly as she spoke, the way her fingers brushed against her temple as though trying to ease a headache. She carried it well—the weight of it all. But it was still a weight. He could see it in the tired lines beneath her eyes, in the faint slump of her posture when she thought no one was looking.

“You’re carrying too much,” he said finally, his voice low and blunt but laced with a care he didn’t recognize, but she did.

Cerian blinked, startled by the unexpected comment. She turned to face him fully, her expression softening as she studied him. “And you’re not?” she countered gently, her tone free of accusation.

Levi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping to the floor. She wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

For a moment, they just stood there, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. And then, to Levi’s surprise, Cerian stepped closer. She hesitated for just a moment, as though giving him the chance to pull away, but when he didn’t move, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him.

The hug was tight, warm, and completely unexpected. Levi stiffened at first, his body going rigid as though he didn’t know how to respond to a tender touch anymore. But then, slowly, he let himself relax, his arms coming up to hold her in return. His grip was firm but careful, as though he were afraid that if he held on too tightly, she might disappear.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Cerian whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder, still in his arms.

Levi didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Instead, he closed his eyes, letting himself linger in the moment just a little longer than he probably should have. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to feel something other than the crushing weight of duty.

When she finally pulled back, her hands lingered on his arms for just a moment before she stepped away, her smile soft and genuine. “You should come by the hospital sometime,” she said lightly, though there was a warmth in her tone that made the invitation feel far more personal. “I could use someone to help keep the staff in line. You’re good at making people listen, after all.”

Levi snorted quietly, shaking his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips.

As Cerian turned to leave, Levi watched her go, his gaze lingering on her retreating figure. The weight of his responsibilities, the walls he had built around himself—they were still there, as unyielding as ever. But as he stood there in the empty room, he couldn’t shake the fact that she would always be a constant.

Even if it didn’t have a place in his life anymore, he would always love Cerian Zackly. And that, he decided, was enough.

[honeysucklethornsandalligtrhorns]

Lex's List: Truths, Advice, Quotes, Mantras, & Words to Live By:

Fuck it, we ball.

Take it easy, but take it.

Life is not measured in a series of wins and losses; some things just are.

Don't approach a horse from the rear, a cow from its side, or a fool from any direction.

Perform random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.

Be gentle with yourself. You are still learning.

Be gentle with your past self. They were still learning.

Treat yourself as you would treat your daughter.

We all die, you either kill yourself or get killed.

Fuck around and find out.

To accept queerness, disability, neurodivergence, mental illness, differing religions, differing cultures, and a differing world, is to accept 'weirdness' and learn how to properly educate yourself on new (sometimes only to you) ideas, subjects, concepts, ways of life, etc..

One essential way to properly educate yourself on new ideas, subjects, concepts, ways of life, etc., is by listening to the stories and experiences of people who are of that specific group, from them themselves.

"Because I'm sexy! And chubby, man." "Why aren't you on a diet?" "Because I like to eat, is that such a crime?"

There are two types of anger-- explosive and implosive.

Intrusive thoughts are not from you, your brain is a wrinkly hunk of fat with lightning in it and it doesn't always know what it's doing. Just let them pass on and don't dwell on them.

Maybe they're just new at it.

You need to love yourself before you try to love others.

Saying sorry doesn't guarantee forgiveness. It's an offering, not a fix-all.

Trust, like respect, is earned.

In that sense, respect & trust can be given and taken away. They are privileges. You have to uphold them.

Phases are a natural part of life. Embrace them.

Everybody talks.

Whatever you do, there is a child out there doing it better than you.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

Everything is a social construct because we live in a society.

Family is not just blood or genetics.

It's okay to need help, but clean up your own messes.

If you leave towels crumpled up instead of spreading them properly, they won't dry correctly.

If you leave issues untouched instead of addressing them and communicating, they won't dry correctly. They will fester.

Water damage is real. Clean up your spills.

This is your only body. Take care of it.

At the end of the day, it's only meat, fluids, electricity, and bone.

You have free will for a reason.

Homosexuality is present in over 1,500 species. Homophobia is present in one.

Never make assumptions.

Fact check everything.

Do not get involved in drama that isn't yours.

It's just fabric, get over yourself (in regards to judgment of others' clothing).

It's just fat, get over yourself (in regards to judgment of other people).

It's just skin, get over yourself (in regards to judgment of other people).

Admitting you were wrong takes more balls than arguing over who's right.

Ask first.

Mean what you say and say what you mean.

Use deodorant.

Vaccinate your kids.

If you can afford it, go to therapy.

Don't expect rewards for basic human decency.

Healthy, safe, and well-informed sex education is vital and should be taught in schools.

Don't purposefully walk into a strip club and then act shocked and offended to find strippers.

The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.

Your ancestors looked like you, and they all managed to get laid. There's hope.

Spite is the world's greatest motivator.

Do it bored.

If we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.

You are the light. It's not on you, it's in you. Don't you ever in your motherfucking life dim your life for nobody. Don't you ever stop being who you are and dimming your light for none of these motherfuckers out here.

Art should calm the disturbed and disturb the calm.

Thousands of years ago, ancient peoples got bored.

There's a likelihood that you are not the first in your family line to be queer.

Nine days before the Wright brothers' flight, it was predicted that man would not achieve flight for another million years.

To love and be loved-- that alone is what makes this lifetime bearable.

Those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.

Language is fucking weird and accents are natural.

To laugh is to feel such joy you cannot contain it.

90-year-olds still go on dates. You will find someone.

Don't put metal in the microwave.

Taking 'unnecessary' precautions is favorable to getting unnecessarily hurt.

You can switch religions whenever you want.

And the universe said I love you/ And the universe said you have played the game well/ And the universe said everything you need is within you/ And the universe said you are stronger than you know/ And the universe said you are the daylight/ And the universe said you are the night/ And the universe said the darkness you fight is within you/ And the universe said the light you seek is within you/ And the universe said you are not alone/ And the universe said you are not separate from every other thing/ And the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code/ And the universe said I love you because you are love.

To be willfully ignorant is to welcome death.

The Nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools.

Coercion is not consent.

Make sure you have a safe word set in place.

Grief does not disappear. You simply grow around it. You live with it.

Your conscience is a triangle. It pokes you when you do something wrong. If you ignore it enough, it'll smoothen out and become a circle. You won't feel the pokes anymore.

To live is not to survive.

Change your perspective, even if you think you're seeing clearly.

Don't be a dick to kids.

Money may not buy happiness, but it buys comfort.

First, you have to forgive yourself.

Don't panic. Panic drowns thought.

Carelessness is to die.

Your art hot like potato chip.

Remember to take your meds + drink water + eat a snack + unclench your jaw.

If you wouldn't take their advice, don't take their criticism.

'Bad' art that's made with passion is better than 'good' art that has no soul.

Hate is a learned trait. No one is born intolerant.

Love was the law and religion was taught.

Arrive early.

Just because someone looks like you does not make them a friend; just because someone does not look like you, or is unfamiliar, does not make them an enemy.

There are different temperatures and steeping times needed for different types of teas. If you get it wrong, your tea will turn out flavorless or bitter.

Don't store raw meat next to vegetables.

You can't 'just cut the mold' off of soft cheeses, fruits/veggies, or most dairy products.

Boiled water is not the same thing as boiling water.

Bake flour to remove the bacteria. Boil water to remove the bacteria. Put toxic things (such as tarantulas) in boiling water and boil for at least an hour to remove the toxins.

If you don't take yourself seriously, neither will others.

Defeatism is to die.

We are made of stardust.

Never make generalizing statements.

If small things bring you joy, fill your home with small things.

To be cringe is to be free.

Punch 'em in the throat.

[awriterlivinginaconstantdream]

IV A New World

Chapter 1: Lost Bird Sneak Peek

Warnings : plane crash, blood, cuts, scars, bodily fluids, death, slight gore.

I’m so excited to show you guys the rest of it 💕💕💕💕💕💕

Any feedback is welcome 🤗

The heat from the sun baked the dirt into a hard layer, and the breeze lifted small clouds of sand into the air. The flames from the smoldering engines of the plane didn’t cool things down either. No matter where you went, it burned you. Blood painted throughout the plane creating its hellish home of pain and misfortune. A faint rustling was heard from inside the remains; it sounded like it came from something small. Maybe a small animal decided to seek shelter, but even an animal wouldn’t stay somewhere like this. An intricate web of wires trapped anything that remained to be devoured by a slow death while claws of metal scraped painfully if it tried to move. The rustling grew louder as something wiggled to get out. A bloodied hand reached out into the flaming air as it tried to grab something to help in its endeavour. Landing on a broken arm rest, the hand slowly pulled a body out of the pile, it looked weak and fragile. It held onto the arm rest as it tried to stand, shaking as it held itself up only to buckle and land to its knees. Looking closer at themselves, there were several cuts and gashes on their hands, their arms, their face. There wasn’t a sliver of skin that wasn’t covered in sticky blood and dirt. They coughed and hacked as they tried to breathe, everything was painful. BOOM! The second engine of the plane fell off and filled whatever clean air was available with thick, dark smoke. It spread through as if a curtain of death fell over the crashed plane, as if it were trying to drop any survivors. The body did its best to crawl its way out of the curtain. The pain and fear were catching up to them as the smoke began to wrap a dark hand over everything, choking it. Its grip tightening the more the body tried to move. The body tried to wrangle away from it, but its grip became deathly as the smoke thickened with every breath they took. The smoke began to fill their lungs as the body inched closer to the exit. Moving closer and closer with every laboured breath. Wires crackled and sparked as the body brushed against them. Hissing in pain, they pushed forward, keeping their survival at the forefront of their mind.

[sherbet-shivers]

A Minor Malfunction Part 2/3

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! Formatting tips are always welcome <3**

Blurb: Co/nnor is still suffering a little virus (Part 1 here and Part 3 here)

Characters: Co/nnor R/K800 (-centric because he’s babygirl) and H/ank A/nderson

Length: 5k+ words

TW: cursing, human and robot injuries and homicide, fake drugs, some coughing; lightest of spoilers

Since investigations were never quick, Connor really should’ve expected this case to be no exception.

It took roughly half an hour just to reach the crime scene alone, and now that they’d arrived, minutes were accruing like Deviants themselves. The scene wasn’t too unique compared to other similar incidents, but that didn’t mean it was absent surprises either.

For starters, there were multiple human victims — two adult men aged somewhere between thirty and forty years. They were dealers allegedly draining their own androids for their Thirium in order to produce more red ice for local distribution. The Androids were both inactive and found just outside the immediate area given they’d lost a critical amount of blue blood. It was likely they’d shut down since there was no way their bio components could sustain their systems on such minimal fluid. This was the first case in which Connor and Hank had investigated people using their own androids to bolster their personal RI supply, and for some reason, Connor doubted it’d be the last.

The men had been assaulted by the Androids in their kitchen based on the amount of blood smattering the countertops and the overall state of disarray. Chairs were knocked over, the fridge was left open, the stovetops were on when police arrived, and there were broken dishes, toppled pots, and loose silverware scattered everywhere. The men had done a good job remaining inconspicuous in their affairs; even their next door neighbors reported no suspicions of their notorious trade, nor the abuse of their Androids. Connor purported that the tiny apartment was designated for the sole purpose of their operations — not particularly lived in or used for shelter. His theory was based on the fact there was no food in the house, and every single cabinet, cupboard, or similar compartment had been repurposed for RI storage. Not to mention the home was completely battered, obviously lacking much needed maintenance and cleaning. Even the naked human eye could catch the layers of dust and grime coating every flat surface in sight. Hank was the first to say as much after he entered the living quarters and immediately tripped over a bag of old Chinese food containers and syringes.

“Fucking shit!” He had hissed, glaring down at the trash bag like it had personally assaulted him. “I swear if this place is crawling with rats like that damn pigeon house I will shoot those filthy bastards on site!”

Miraculously none of the officers had encountered a single rodent; however less fortunately, Connor’s nose was starting to grow unbearably itchy given all the dust and cobwebs decorating the dry air. Not to mention it was freezing inside — the other investigating officers bundled under several layers and still chattering against the cold. Connor suspected the leaks in the roof and broken windows were to blame for the influx of frigid air, which was starting to really stiffen the cogs in his chest and extremities.

Connor slowly gravitates to Hank’s side, peeking over his shoulder as the senior observes one of the victims.

“More red ice,” he grumbles as he plucks a PVC packet off one of the men’s person. The crystallized drug sparkles like false ruby under the scope of Hank’s flashlight. “Given the toxicology report, it’s a wonder how this guy didn’t overdose before he was murdered.”

Hank passes the packet to Connor, the latter fumbling the substance between his fingers while he examines it more closely.

“The composition isn’t exact to other red ice compounds we’ve seen in the past,” Connor observes. “Perhaps they were developing a hybrid; something inexpensive with a similar effect and appearance.”

Hank scoffs, shaking his head. He pats down the rest of the victim’s body. “A living eye could never catch all that, but I guess that’s why you’re here, right Connor?”

“Correct,” Connor confirms.

“Well,” Hank says, rising from the floor and clapping his hands together to rid them of the dirt caked in the grooves of his skin, “I have my theories, but uh, why don’t you go first while I wash this shit off?”

“Of course,” Connor nods as he watches Hank step over the victim’s body and head for the kitchen sink. He wastes no time pulling up the list of evidence saved to his specs.

“Based on what I’ve gathered and the analysis of my digital reconstruction, Victim A was likely assaulted by Android B first. Victim B was preoccupied with the stovetop while Victim A busied himself with collecting the Androids’ Thirium.”

Hank hums, encouraging Connor to continue while he tries to unstick the sink’s rusty left handle. “Go on.”

“To access the blue blood, the victims would often drain a specific wound afflicting the android’s torso; the area just beneath where a human’s right rib cage would end. The puncture wound was scarcely healed between draining instances, and therefore the most reasonable source of continued drainage. I believe Victim A was attempting to reach Android B’s puncture when the bot suddenly refused his inspection. Thus-“

“SHIT!”

Connor jerks in surprise as Hank yanks his hands from the sink basin to avoid the gush of suspiciously gross water pouring out the faucet.

“Ah that’s just fucking great! Ice cold, filthy fucking water! Matches the house itself, I guess,” Hank curses as he extends his hands away from his body. Even a few of the surrounding officers take steps away from his reach.

“Hang onto that thought. I’m gonna go wash this off in a puddle or something.”

With that, Hank and the remaining officers head outside the home, leaving Connor alone with the still running water. The Android heads over to the sink and promptly halts the flow, which has collected in the basin turning it a muddy, sewage brown. For sanitary reasons, he should really drain the fluid, but something about the discoloration even has him grimacing.

While inspecting the mess, Connor is completely unaware of the steady pool of rainwater collecting just overhead, seeping through the cracks of the ceiling; and just as he’s about to return to his former position, the roof panels give way and unleash their tide. With his reaction time hindered, Connor barely side-steps the planks crashing to his sides. It’s a lucky dodge, but still not quite good enough to avoid the wave of water that crashes him dead on. Within the blink of an eye, he’s become drenched in icy fluid.

He’s thankful he was the brunt of the accident and not Hank or the other human officers, but if he wasn’t already shivering before, he sure was now. That pummeling had put a dent in his defensive barrier, and the large influx of water was starting to sink into his circuits faster than it could be flushed out.

A similar alert blares through his system, only this time it glows red and reads as a warning.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Highly Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-44BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Water Intake: Level 4. Risk Of Shut-Down: Moderate. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 53 Hours, 21 Minutes, And 17 Sec-

“IHT’TDSHY’yiiEW!”

Connor sneezes freely towards the ground, his hands pathetically hugging his shoulders and shaking against his sodden sleeves. Water had definitely infiltrated his cavities, only congesting him further. Get a grip, he mentally commands. Don’t-!

“Hh’PTSHH’huh! ssh’hHIEW!”

Come on! Get a-!

“Connor!”

The Android lifts his head, spotting Hank who's just re-entered the house and is already barreling his way.

“Connor! What happened?!” He asks, examining the android’s body then glancing between the fallen debri and the hole in the ceiling.

“N-Nothing, L-Lieutenant,” Connor stammers, his voice as uneven as autotune. “Th-the ceiling…it must’ve fallen under the p-pressure of the s-storm.”

His voice has taken on a robotic vibration, frying it with digital gravel.

“Jesus…,” Hank murmurs absentmindedly, his gaze returning to Connor himself. “Did it fucking fall on you? Why are you soaked?!”

“I-I’m okay,” Connor reassures, though the constant shivering and sniffling probably doesn’t make him any more convincing. Two other, entering officers are starting to look at him. He didn’t need this extra speculation, so he opts for changing the subject, and fast.

He glances at Hank’s hands.

“D-Did you manage t-to w-wash your hands off?”

Hank stares at Connor like he’s asked him to perform the electric slide. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the smoothest transition out of the spotlight. But even so, he didn’t say something wrong again, did he? Connor smiles through chattering teeth, when suddenly, Hank catches his cheeks in his palms and sternly peers into the Android’s eyes.

“Christ Connor you’re freezing,” he murmurs, an unusual hint of worry seeping through his tone. Connor wasn’t supposed to evoke that tone, so he does his best to console his partner.

“I-I’m okay, Lieutenant,” Connor repeats. “I-I’m just glad n-no one was injured,” he adds, blatantly ignoring the 59% efficiency report blinking in the corner of his sight. “The temperatures m-may slow m-me down, but I assure you I a-am s-still capable of completing my job.”

Hank doesn’t look convinced, far from it actually, but he ultimately chooses to free Connor of his hold, perhaps motivated by the approach of the remaining officers. He clears his throat and nods, averting his eyes to the remainder of the scene. He’d have to clean up the fallen shit, but honestly that was the least of his current concerns. One victim was piled beneath rooftop shambles, and if he knew anything, it was that Fowler would blame him for the tampered scene — whether it was his fault or not.

“Alright,” he grumbles. “But-,” he exclaims, pointing a finger in Connor’s face, “-you’d better tell me if you start bugging out! The last thing we need is you breaking down or glitching or something.”

Connor’s gears tighten. “Of course, Lieutenant. That won’t happen,” he assures.

“Good, ‘cause I’m not filing a broken equipment report after we’re done here,” he mutters, returning to the crime scene. As he does, he huffs under his breath, shaking his head and hiding his expression behind a curtain of loose bangs.

“Fuck, almost actually had me worried there, Con!” He admits. “I seriously almost asked if you wanted a break, or were hurt or feeling okay, but I forgot you don’t really want or feel, well, anything, do you?”

Connor’s hands grip tighter against his arms, leaving scratches across his synthetic skin that are slow to regenerate.

“Correct, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, his LED flashing yellow.

Hank accepts his answer, already having shuffled over to the fallen planks to scoop them out of the way. Connor tries to help him, but Hank intercepts his reach.

“Uh-uh! You keep telling me what you found, then go ahead and re-investigate the bodies, yeah? Or at least, y’know,” he glimpses down at the victim half-buried beneath the rubble, “the ones you can still see.”

…

By the time they’ve managed to clean up the majority of the roof and granted Connor enough leeway to re-inspect the final victim, more than an hour has passed. His metal was freezing cold to the touch, barely above 35 degrees, and his malfunctions were getting worse by the second — only functioning at an even split of 50%.

Still, it looked like their investigation was nearly over. The other cops had long left the area (probably in order to avoid clean-up duty), and Hank was equally ready to go with just the final victim remaining to be studied. For a man who hated his job, he’d rushed to get another look at the body. He was already down on his knees, hovering over Victim A and scouring his wounds with his flashlight.

“So, you’re saying this one attacked the Androids first?”

Connor nods. “Y-Yes. It’s m-most p-probable.”

His stutter was getting worse. So far Hank had been ignoring it, but there was no way he hadn't noticed.

“So run the last part by me again? Y’know, about how the second Android got involved?”

…No response.

That was unusual.

“Connor?” Hank calls.

No response. Again.

What the Hell?

“Connor? Connor??” He repeats, this time glancing back at the Android in question. To his unease, Connor is looking somewhere unseen, as if in a trance. Making a face, Hank claps his hands together, startling the Android out of his daze.

“Goddammit! Connor!!”

Connor blinks twice and immediately looks to his partner.

“Apologies. D-Did you need me?” Connor asks.

“Well I’ve been calling your name four damn times, so yeah,” Hank answers sarcastically. “I thought you said you were fine. The Hell is up with you?”

“N-Nothing, Lieutenant. I’m sorry,” Connor apologizes again. This time though, Hank isn’t letting him slide so easily.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. What’s going on, huh? You’re even loopier than yesterday,” he scoffs. “Y’know I was joking earlier but now I’m not so sure. What is it, huh? You actually malfunctioning or some shit?”

“N-No!” Connor exclaims a bit too hastily, based on the way Hank raises an eyebrow his way. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice so high. It was an impulse he rarely leaned into, but it was difficult given the constant red warning swimming through his ocular piece. “N-No…my operations are functional.”

“Functional?” Hank repeats, placing a hand on his knee. “What happened to optimal?”

For a middle-aged drunkard, Hank was remarkably astute — a quality Connor often admired, just not in this moment.

“I am fine,” Connor breathes, trying to keep his voice as still as possible. “I’ve already ran internal diagnostics. It s-seems that I’ve contracted a small virus that is affecting the r-regulation of my bio-components.”

“What?” Hank exclaims, suddenly up on his feet and fully facing his Android. “Affecting how? For how long??” He asks, bordering concern and curiosity.

“My temperature regulation is h-hindered, resulting in fluctuating internal temps ranging from r-roughly 30 to 120 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“30?!” He knew Connor was cold, just not that cold.

“My ocular c-components are s-similarly impaired, occasionally resulting in low visibility and an inability t-to scan c-certain d-data in the environment. I s-suspect I will not be able to immediately diagnose b-blue blood, as taste receptors are partially numbed.”

Hank honestly didn’t see that as a negative per se, but he wasn’t about to say that aloud.

“And I am experiencing m-mild g-glitching affecting airway c-cavities, though this is, again, a m-mild inconvenience.”

Hank looks Connor up and down, expression unreadable. For the first time, Connor swears he’s sensing something. Something internal outside his usual program, and aside from the errors he’s affected by. This was something new, something strange and unpleasant. Something like…

Anxiety?

He waits for Hank to say something — anything — even if it’s at his own expense, and yet all the detective does is stare at him. Finally, after a few more bated moments, Hank does something unexpected: he laughs. And when he does speak, it’s in the flattest tone Connor’s ever heard out of him — a tone befit an Android.

“So you have a cold.”

Blue rises to Connor’s cheeks. Anxiety was giving way to another unwanted emotion: humiliation.

“…Yes, Lieutenant. The common cold would likely be an equivalent to my condition.”

Hanks laughs again, placing his hands on his hips as he shakes his head in amusement. “Learn something stupid everyday,” he muses. Then, more seriously, he continues: “So what exactly uh, happens when you’re-,” he waves his hands around Connor’s person, gesturing to his entirety,” -like this. Hm? I’m assuming bots don’t get sick leave.”

He was genuinely curious (maybe even a smidge compassionate), and as always, Connor has an answer.

“CyberLife has been notified of my dysfunction, and their report denotes that as a m-model RK800, I am c-capable of both s-self-diagnostics and administering minor self-repairs. A-As such, this inconvenience is nothing I c-cannot h-handle myself. Given approximately-,” his LED hums and glows a faint blue, “-51 hours, 32 minutes and 11 seconds, my s-systems should be rebooted, and myself returned t-to optimal f-functionality. In the meantime, I apologize for any hindrances this may c-cause our investigation, Lieutenant; however, CyberLife has assured that these errors are m-more likely to c-cause self-contained discomfort, and are therefore highly n-negligible to outside company.”

He wiggles in place. “That is why I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m s-sorry for the disturbance, and urge you to ignore my incongruity lest it endanger or c-concern you or others directly.”

“Right…,” Hank nods, still eyeing Connor with skepticism. “But you know it does kind of concern me when you’re all dopey, ignoring my questions and shit.”

“It won’t happen again.”

Hank snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take your word for it, but forgive me if I think you’re full of shit when you say so,” he says, returning to the victim. “So, anything else I should be aware of? Any other surprises?” He chuckles.

Hank awaits an answer, even if it’s meant as a joke, but once again he’s met with silence. He sighs and mutters something unintelligible to himself; something along the lines of “I swear to God kid if you aren’t listening”; but just as he’s about to call Connor again and wake him from whatever tizzy he’s fallen back into, the Android makes a sound he doesn’t recognize.

“H’ih-!”

“Huh?”

Hank waits, but there’s no response again. Was Connor trying to say something and he’d missed it? “Hey! Connor! What did you sa-?”

“Hidt’TZSH’ieEW!”

Hank startles, jerking enough to lose his grip on his flashlight, which tumbles from his hand and rolls across the wood flooring. He swings around fast enough to give someone his age whiplash, still not entirely believing such a human sound was produced by his partner. That is, until he watches him make it again. The android’s shoulders bounce twice, chest inflates with a faux breath, and then-

“Ih’TSHH’Uui! E-Excu’h-! Hhh’idTSHh’iew!”

He somehow catches the final sneeze in an artificial web of fingers. Why he even bothers Hank doesn’t know; after all, it’s not like he could infect anyone. Then again, it was probably just another habit to make him appear more human; though to be honest, Hank almost found it creepy.

When Connor catches his partner staring, he looks utterly embarrassed; the sky-blue blush rushing to his face and discoloring his ski-sloped nose. To regain his composure, he’s quick to readjust his trademark tie and fidget with the cuffs of his sleeve.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Connor offers sheepishly.

“…did you just fucking sneeze?” Hank asks, only the way he says it makes it sound more like an accusation than an inquiry.

Connor nods and rubs his nose. “Forgive me. It’s another side effect of my-,” he pauses, refusing to say malfunction aloud. “-condition. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

“It’s not that I just, didn’t know you things uh, did that,” Hank replies un-eloquently. “Not that I even knew you got sick for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s not common,” Connor answers, his eyes averting shyly. “It’s to vent out my systems. Usually androids don’t need to resort to these processes since they clean themselves manually, but with my bio-components partially corrupted-“

Connor sniffs and pinches his nose, unaware how he seems to be bewildering Hank further.

“-my systems are relying on automatic reflexes. CyberLife did add that they m-may be on high alert for outside disturbances. S’h-?! So given how duh’hsty this area i’hiH-! is…”

Connor glimpses around the abandoned kitchen, wiggling his nose and sniffing in succession, again.

“-I suppose I’m-…I-hH‘m…-?!”

He’s intent on continuing, he really is, but he just can’t. Therefore, he swivels around out of Hank’s sight, and sneezes as quietly as possible into the bed of his palms.

“pP’SHHIi’Eew! ihH’SCH’yuU! ‘chyiieEW!”

Or not quietly at all, really. It was just so hard; especially when his nose was so relentlessly ticklish! Staving off the fit for hours probably didn’t help, but in his defense, he still wasn’t 100% sure fighting it off actually made it worse. Just…99% sure.

“ahH’Ah-! H’ahH-…! HH’ATSCH’hyieEW!”

The water soaked into his systems must be more  agitating than he thought. He sniffles damply and rubs his nose on his sleeve before clearing his throat of the congestion that’s settled there. When he faces Hank again, he isn’t even aware of just how blue he’s turned, or the little curls of hair that've been freed by the exertion of his fit. He coughs into his fist.

“Excuse me. Sorry. I was saying that I’ve become highly sensitive to the changes in the environment. Like the rain and-“, he sniffs, hesitant to even utter the word, “-dust.”

The initial shock of disbelief wearing off, Hank’s expression dissolves into a smirk that teases more at one corner of his mouth than the other. “So first you catch colds and now you get allergies, too?”

Connor swallows.

“Not necessarily,” he defends.

Hank nods, still looking cheeky. “But you are sneezy.”

“A bit…yes,” Connor confirms, scrubbing at his face again. Static is still tickling his nose, and spreading an itch to the rest of his face. Is this how humans felt when they were overreacting?

“I’ll stop it next time. I’m sorry.”

He fears he may have given the wrong answer the way Hank stays silent, but ultimately, his partner must appreciate his courtesy, because his expression softens and he rises to rub Connor’s shoulder in earnest.

“Twenty more minutes and then we get you out of here. I’m starting to freeze my balls off, anyway.”

…

Twenty minutes don’t come fast enough. Thankfully they’ve managed to piece together exactly how the crime went down — from the names of the victims and their Androids, to the means of assault, the murder weapons, and the motives. The cost however was Connor’s comfort, which if not indicated by his breathy sneezing and constant shaking, was evidenced by the 44% efficiency he was operating at. He needed a charge, and maybe just a little time to shut his eyes, which were being swarmed by constant alerts. The walls of text and meaningless numbers were starting to pile up in the corners of his eyes and really impair his sight. He had attempted to blink them away as quickly as they popped up, but at some point he’d given up altogether — doing so was expending crucial battery life he couldn’t afford to spare.

And now even his balance was beginning to suffer, causing him to lean and rock whenever he inched in any direction. To keep himself steady and warm, his hands were permanently grounded to his arms, keeping him enveloped in a hug of his own making.

As he watches Hank wrap up, Connor suddenly remembers that his night was far from over. He still needed to file his case report to CyberLife, and the idea of walking all the way back to the station was no more appealing. As an Android he wasn’t afforded the luxury of catching himself a taxi since it was illegal to spend currency on himself alone. Usually Connor didn’t pay this inequality any real attention, but in his current state, he finds himself fixated on the rule. If he thought on it further, perhaps he would’ve inspired some kind of opinion; ultimately though, he knows there’s nothing he could do but accept it. Thus he turns his attention back to his current priority: Hank, who he needed to return home safely before reporting their findings to CyberLife. He’d made a promise to Sumo, after all.

He may be exhausted, but he still wasn’t ready to deem his performance a total failure just yet.

“Alright, I think we’re just about done here,” Hank sighs, looking and sounding just as relieved as Connor was. “Don’t tell the Chief but uh, based on what we found here-“

Hank peeks at Connor who meets his glance.

“-fuckers probably deserved what they got.”

Connor glimpses at the Android bodies, then that of the human victims. He shrugs, albeit reluctantly. “That is n-not a j-judgment I can m-make,” he answers.

“Sure it isn’t,” Hank sighs. “Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here. Come on.”

Hank leads the way towards the exit, and as usual, Connor is quick to trail him like a puppy chasing its owner. He’s so close to being done and escaping this fortress of death and dust, but of course, fate can’t let him off so easily. The whole day had been work, and apparently his shift wasn’t quite over yet.

He feels it before he fully realizes what’s happening. That prickling burn in his face had returned with a vengeance, syncing with another alert that blinds his view completely.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 54 Hours, 26 Minutes, And 03 Seconds.

Wait, did the time remaining increase?

Connor is too preoccupied with completing his objectives to heed his system’s warnings, and thus dismisses the alarm pounding in his head. With a mighty effort he attempts to trudge forward in Hank’s wake, every step heavy and audibly creaking. His bio components slosh with rainwater, sending chills through every circuit and rendering every movement sluggish and dizzying. The pixels in his view were collecting like a storm and creating clouds of noir fuzz that eat away at his peripheral sight.

And that damn vibration in his chest and nose! It was so fucking distracting! He doesn’t need to alert Hank to his current state any more than he already has, and he definitely doesn’t need to get whisked up in another pathetic fit…but the tactics he’d used so far to abate his reflexes just weren’t providing him any hints of reprieve.

Desperate, he resorts to a new plan of action, quick to secure his nose between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. He’s seen Hank do it before, so maybe if he just…! Connor clamps down hard on the sensitive tip to try and curb the itch that’s nested there, eager to quell the phantom sensation by massaging and kneading strategically. Rain water squeaks against his grip, and the stubborn tickle has him coughing breathily against his control. Please let this work! He can stop this one! He just needs to concentrate. He just needs to try harder! He just…ne’hH’eds…t-t’hHU…!

Abandoning his cause, Connor blindly frees his hand and reaches for Hank’s shoulder. He ends up at his sleeve instead, but honestly that’s close enough given the urgency of his position. He gives the detective’s jacket a little tug, signaling for his attention.

“LieuyY’hH-!…Lieutenant-?!”

Hank peeks at Connor over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“S-Sir-! I-I’hh am…,” Connor trails off, and catching the Android’s desperate gaze, Hank pays him his full attention. The Android shuffles, blinks side to side, then flusteredly exclaims, “g-going to do ih’hIHT-!…a’hh’gain-!”

Hank blinks, and when he finally catches on, he blinks again.

“Connor,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes and gripping the Android’s hand. “You’re a damn-near indestructible supercomputer worth double my yearly salary. Are you seriously telling me you’re about to sneeze again? Like a preschooler?”

“Y-Yes-!” Connor answers seriously between hitching breaths. Hank isn’t surprised he didn’t catch his attempts at teasing, but he’s also unaware of just how mortified Connor is — how he’s feeling. “I understand I — huh-! — f-frightened-“

“I wasn’t scared.”

“-you la’aast time s’so I th’hah-! I thought I’d try to w-warn you’that’I-!”

“Fuck’s sake just shut up and get it over with!” Hank hisses.

Permission granted. To spare his commanding officer the unsightly scene, Connor twists his body and races to cover his mouth with steepled hands. He hiccups two “breaths” (a pattern Hank was beginning to pick up on) against his palms before succumbing to his nightmare.

“Hh’IPTtsSH’IEW! Aah’-! eH’SCH’hh! Iy’hh-! hah-! H’hiHH-! hHYi’DSHH’uU!”

He coughs so hard afterwards, his chest rattles and mouth leaks stale rainwater. It’s the trigger that melts Hank’s bemused expression into one of utter fear, his eyes wide and unblinking. Up until now he’d found this whole thing funny, maybe a bit quirky and unusual, but now? Now this felt serious. Dangerous, even.

“Connor!”

Hank scrambles to Connor’s side. Without seeking permission, he grabs both Connor’s wrists in his hands and forces them away from his face, revealing a tortured expression he should’ve noticed earlier. Connor looked outright uncomfortable. He looked distressed. He looked…

Really sick.

Guilt anchors Hank’s heart to the bottom of his gut, and out of some sort of paternal instinct, he holds the Android steady by pulling him into a hug.

“Connor!” He calls, but the Android is prisoner to a loop of gasping and sputtering. Pressed close together, Hank can hear the faint whistling emitting from the Android’s chest. Paired with the aggressive huffing and whimpers of sound, Connor didn’t sound too much unlike an asthmatic. Hank’s hands are becoming numb the longer they remain locked around the man’s body, and with every violent shiver, his body shakes in chorus.

Connor clutches greedy fistfuls of Hank’s jacket, relying on him entirely for support to stay upright. It’s like he’s clinging for life support, and the impression makes Hank’s own blood turn to ice.

“Connor?! Connor, son!! Are you okay?!”

To his horror, Connor blindly shakes his head. It’s the last hint to compel Hank to action. Desperate to comfort the Android further, Hank cradles a hand to the back of Connor’s head and pillows his face against his chest. The Android wiggles weakly against his grip, but Hank adamantly refuses to budge.

“Relax, kid. I used to be a dad, remember?”

He closes his eyes and traces soothing circles between Connor’s shoulder blades.

“Getting sneezed and coughed on is part of the job; maybe for detectives too. So quit your fighting and just get it over with — I’m here for you now.”

Either his words resonate convincingly enough, or Connor can’t hold out any further. Either way, the result is the same.

“HAH’DZSCHh’hiuUH! h’DTZSH’HUH! ih’KSCHH!”

Connor groans faintly from the bed of Hank’s breast pocket, barely catching another breath before he’s snapping forth again. First coughing, then flung into another sneezing fit.

“EH’DSHH’CHhui! ‘CHiiEeW! ‘SCHH’yyiuh! hHi’tshiiew!”

The last one is barely a sneeze, more like an exhale of empty, fizzled out air. Hank noticed how Connor, even in all his desperation, had refused to sneeze on him; instead letting loose at the last possible moment by pressing his forehead to his chest and aiming each burst towards the floor. Even while at the end of his rope the damn man was too polite — a wholesome and unreasonable characteristic Hank acted like he abhorred, but silently envied.

Relieved to be finished but feeling infinitely worse, Connor lifts his head slowly, already pulling out of Hank’s touch to crush the back of his wrist against his nose. He wasn’t about to look Hank in the eyes, not that he could see clearly to begin with. Errors were swarming his senses like gnats, declaring him critically defective and dangerously malfunctioning — as if he needed a reminder of the obvious.

Rocking on his heels he clutches his head in his hand and surrenders to the glitches tearing up his bio components.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. WARNING!!! Malfunction. Malfunction.

Malfunction.

Malfunction.

“I-…I’m not…”

Malfunction. Shut-Down Sequence Initiated.

N-No. He wasn’t going to shut down. It was a status he couldn’t afford, especially given his type of work, his mission, his expectations, and his model. A malfunction this spiraling…was unbefitting a rumba, let alone an RX800 Android like himself. If he couldn’t pull it together and send back a satisfying report to his creators, then…what could he expect? He’d be forced apart and aptly replaced by a new Connor model. He would be broken down; he’d be expendable once again. He’d lose his purpose. He’d lose his job! He’d lose Hank!! He didn’t want that!!!

“Connor! CONNOR!!!”

He…he didn’t…

“Hank-…I-I…don’t…f-feel…”

DING!Shut-Down Sequence Complete.

[fangsandsoftgrass]

Day 3 Embrace./Blood.

A cleaned up version of a piece I wrote covering Fennorians rescue from the Host. This one is a bit long so sorry in advance 🥲

In her haste to find his kidnappers Cirwedh never finds his flask at the boarding house, and Fenn has to stem his hunger another way. This has some gore!!

"so you're the hero he's been babbling about?" Tzinghalis' words lit a fire beneath her skin as Cirwedh tore into the stone chamber, chest heaving as she came to a stop. "He was so insistent that you'd come you see. Before the screaming, of course."

She looked to where Fennorian hung suspended by the wrists, caught in some cruel contraption screaming like she'd never heard before. Rage burned in her throat like a hot coal when she saw the Exarch smile, and when Lyris' voice rang out behind her she jumped. Splinters flew as she caught the weight of his sword with an arrow, parrying the blade as he swung for the neck. She can hear Lyris, muted by rushing blood, and though she calls for help all Cirwedh can do is lash out at the Nord in front of her. There's a moment—the Exarch paused to taunt her, instead leaving himself exposed—and in one fluid motion Cirwedh nocks, draws, and looses an arrow. She watches as it pierced the Exarch's chest, sending him stumbling into the shelves behind him. He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by a piercing howl. Bones break and rearrange themselves as her skin stretches and grows fur, nails elongate into claws that score the ground as she stalks forward. Where once there was an elf now stood a vine-covered beast, red-eyed and slavering at the maw as it snarled and snapped. The words that come from her lips are mangled and raw, formed by a tongue not meant to speak.

"you've said enough."

She lunges, and as her teeth close around the vampire's neck she feels his screams reverberate in her throat. Bones snap and muscle tears as she rends limb from limb, sinking her claws and teeth into the body until it's nothing more than a bloody mess beneath her. The corners of her vision begin fading until her name breaks through the bloodlust, and when her head snaps to the side and she sees Fennorian still held within the device, tossing and begging Lyris to stop and follow the now-escaped Al-Saran. The sight shakes her from her fury, and as she crosses the room her form melts back into that of an elf. They have to fight with the blighted contraption before the lever finally gives, and the field of sharp red magic holding Fennorian dissipates. She rushed towards him as he fell, catching him in her arms and sinking to her knees.

"He's gone," his voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper, raw and broken, "you should have gone after him. Left me here."

"I'll have none of that! That skeever will get what's coming but right now you need help." She almost cradled him when a shiver ran through his body, and just the sight of what the Exarch had done boils her blood once more. "Al-Saran is gone by now, I'm sure. What matters is making sure you can walk out of here. Can you stand?"

She watched as he looked between her and Lyris, swallowing thickly before pushing himself to sit slouched against the contraption.

"The Exarch did a lot of... things." Another shiver, stronger this time, "I need blood. I won't feed from an unwilling subject, but right now I don't trust my restraint even with such a subject. I lost my flask back at the lodge, when they grabbed me. Did you find it?"

Cirwedh's stomach drops. She had seen the flask before on his person, but in her panic to find his captors she hadn't even thought to search for it. She was thankful when Lyris was the one to speak up.

"No, Fenn. She saw the mess you left behind and hauled hide out of there faster than anything I've seen. We didn't have time to dig around, hell I barely kept pace with her."

She knelt beside him and flinched when he recoiled from her touch. Making up her mind then and there she began removing the layers of fur wrapped around her shoulders.

"I'll do it."

"Are you mad?" Lyris still stood, axe in hand and looking at Cirwedh like she'd said some blasphemy before them.

"Unless you want to run back to Dusktown and look for his flask, this is the only way. It's you or me, and you aren't gonna do it." She looked to Fennorian then, and ignored the way her heart seemed to beat faster.

"Cirwedh, I can't guarantee control at the moment. It's too dangerous." His eyes pleaded with her, his hands trembling though she now held them steady, "I can find another way."

"You can't. Fenn the only others around are vampires, you can't feed off each other like that and you know it. Let me help, or by the Green I'll bleed myself here and now and you'll have no other choice." She brought a clawed finger to her neck and looked into his eyes, knowing he'd have to give. Lyris stood back and heaved her axe onto her shoulder with a groan, simply nodding to Cirwedh to continue. They both understood the consequences should this go wrong, but at the moment it was their best chance at getting back to Solitude.

A cold hand on her now-exposed shoulder sent chills down her spine as Fennorian pulled her close, eyes searching hers for any sign of regret, only seeing fierce determination instead. She steadied herself and pulled down the neck of her coat further, drawing attention to the vein in her neck. They shared another look before his head dipped down and he whispered against the skin.

"It shall only hurt a moment. I will be gentle."

There was a moment of silence, and then her blood turned to ice as his fangs sank deep. She had heard of vampire bites as uncomfortable, painful even, but nothing could prepare her for the rush as his lips closed around the bite and he began properly drinking from her. She clutches his arms at first, tensing beneath him as his arms wrapped around to pull her closer. She could feel everything from the way his hands clawed for purchase to the warm lapping of his tongue as she bled freely, letting her head roll back and giving him room to feast. Cirwedh couldn't speak couldn't open her eyes, couldn't move as she gave herself over to his hunger, feeling a tingling numbness begin to spread from the wound in her neck to her arms and further down. She meant to cry, to call out that it was enough, but only a lecherous moan escaped as his hands dug into her. Fennorian was like nothing she'd seen before, almost ravenous in his thirst as he buried his face into the crook of her neck and drank deeply; growling like some animal possessive over a fresh kill. She was beginning to feel light-headed—weakly slapping her hands against his chest in an attempt to get his attention—leaves bursting from the seams of her armor as her magic reacted to the overstimulation.

"Fenn-" she gasped as his fangs sank deeper,"Fennorian!"

Struggling now as he only held tighter, Cirwedh cries out as Lyris' axe blade sinks into the stone beside them, landing dangerously close to Fennorian.

"FENN!" her voice echoes throughout the lab, "ENOUGH!"

Like snapping out of a trance, Fennorian lifted his head, crimson staining his lips and dribbling down his chin as his eyes cleared and he came to. When he saw the way Cirwedh shook in his arms a startled cry escaped his lips, spattering droplets of blood across the rags he wore.

"Cirwedh! Cirwedh are you alright?" His voice was thick with panic as she struggled to open her eyes. "I thought I could contain my hunger, keep it controlled. Damnit! Cirwedh please say something."

She waits a moment to catch her breath before raising a hand to the wound on her neck and realizing she's still bleeding. A moment passes and before she can say something Lyris is grabbing Fennorian by the collar and hauling him off of her. His nails tear leather as he's pulled away, and Lyris is kneeling beside Cirwedh with a bottle of swirling liquid held to her lips. As soon as the drink passes her tongue a glow encases her and the wound on her neck stitches closed—had the wound healed naturally there might have been scarring—feeling nothing but smooth skin as she brushed shaking fingers over where his fangs previously were. Fennorian scrambled to reach her before Lyris put herself between them again, her eyes darting to Fennorian with a burning intensity, before reaching a hand out to help Cirwedh to her feet. When she finally stands the room spins, and for a moment she thinks she might collapse again, only to be held upright by the half-giant as she hefted the babbling Fennorian to his feet as well.

"let's go." Lyris' voice is stern and leaves no room for complaint as she begins to make for an exit. "We can talk about this later, but for now we need to get back to the castle. Who knows when these leeches will pick up the scent and realize their master is dead."

She had a point, Cirwedh couldn't deny it, but pity weighed her down like a stone and before Lyris could argue she was falling behind and pulling Fennorian into her arms. There was a soft gasp and then he hesitantly pulled her closer. He buried his face in her hair and spewed apologies like a sieve until he ran out of breath, and then he simply held her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other cradling her head to his chest as he shook his own.

"words alone will never be enough, Cirwedh, I am so sorry. You trusted me and I almost lost it. Lost you." He stops, and pulls back. Keeping her at arm's length he looks into her eyes and she sees nothing but regret. Ignoring the feeling his final words evoked, she swallows the lump in her throat and pushes past the fear to look up and smile. When they were safe again, she'd cry. She'd scream into Gladriels fur and beat her fists into the earth like a fitful child, but she has to be strong now. Her fear wasn't even of him, but of how willing she'd been to let him simply drain her dry despite the struggle. Sooner or later she'd have to confront Fennorian, but not while her blood still stained his lips.

Growing impatient, Lyris clears her throat, tapping the blade of her axe against the floor before motioning towards the exit; eyes lingering on Fennorian before turning back to lead the way out. Cirwedh gathers herself once more, and halfheartedly sprints to catch up as she pulls open the door to the great lift. She turns to Fennorian one last time, offering a shaky smile as they ascend towards open sky and fresh air.

"It will be okay."

[razrogue]

The smell was always the worst part. Not the fluids themselves staining her hands or the amount of cleaning that would need to be done, it was always the smells of everything that escaped throughout. When the contract called for torture or the worst pain imaginable, she always rolled her eyes. She already used some of the deadliest poisons and coatings. Their last moments would undoubtedly be the worst of the short remainder of their lives. But some clients paid extra for off menu items so who was she to question. Usually she'd charge extra on top of that, knowing everything from the event would likely be incinerated too.

The elven man was suspended on the wall, his shoulders supporting all of his weight. His torso was covered in stab wounds and star shaped burns. His right eye has long been swollen shut. His left was black and bloodshot. Blood, sweat, and piss soaked his smalls. The cuts on his thighs had been some of the most effective though. The wailing as she slowly pushed thin metal rods deep into the flesh were some of the most exquisite sounds. The elf had lost consciousness a few times but Gan always jolted him back awake with a zap from a lightning rod. There would be no rest for either of them until he was finally allowed to rest for good.

There was a certain symphony that arose from the wells of torture. Screaming, wailing, crying, whimpering, they'd all mix together in a cacophony of sounds that would eventually weave their way into a vicious melody after so long. Gan hadn't heard the song in at least a decade so she was almost eager to take this one on.

"Make it last, make him wish he'd never materialized on this plane."

She didn't know what the older elf had done to have such a hefty contract taken out and didn't care. The target was named, the gold exchanged, and Gan set out to research and execute. She was being paid to make the last moments as excruciating as possible before ending their pitiful existence.

He'd screamed for help, begged for them to release him on the condition he'd never tell anyone what happened, even attempted bargaining for his life with some pittance of gold that wasn't nearly enough to buy his survival. He'd even mistakenly tried to relate to her, lamenting that his family wouldn't see him again, as if that mattered. 

Gan had long forgotten the concept of family. It was as foreign to her as if she'd been raised an orphan. She had walked away from them over 30 years ago by this point and hadn't looked back. In this life, they were attachments and those could be deadly to have as an assassin. Attachments could cloud your judgment and make you sloppy and soft. Attachments gave enemies something to lord over you. Gan didn't like having attachments so she cut them loose. She'd written each of them a letter before she filled a satchel and left in the middle of the night. Sohon was a damn good hunter who taught her everything she knew so she had to hide her tracks well. If she hadn't, he would have found her before she could clear the forest edge. Once she was clear of the trees, she pulled her hood down further and walked away, never looking back at the loving parents and siblings who were now attachments she couldn't afford to have.

Back in that dingy basement with the elf clinging to the last shreds of his life, Gan sat on a stool across from him pondering where she'd go next. What else could she pull from her bag of tricks to fulfill this contract. She grabbed the bottle of water from the table, popping the cork before dousing the elf in half its contents. He whined pitifully as it ran down his body, washing away some stuff and simply shifting around others. She grabbed the icy rod from her sack on the floor, deciding to go cold now that she'd used the water. She watched as the ice began crusting over the foot and up his calf, removing it just before it reached his hip. Foggily from his barely open eye, he watched her grab a chisel and with the little energy he could muster tried in vain to move away despite having nowhere to go. Gan nestled the thin chisel against the joint of his big toe and with one solid crack, the frozen appendage dropped unceremoniously to the filthy brick floor beneath him. The scream that erupted from him was the loudest by far today. Gan smiled wickedly beneath the mask covering her mouth. She noted this action as a successful one to use in the future if another contract called for such measures. She chiseled the remaining toes off and plopped them all into a jar and sealed it with a ward. The client wanted a "trinket" from the work. Usually she would have plucked an eye out for it but with the overenthusiastic way she'd treated his face, it was going to be too much work to get one now. His head hung low, the last of his energy fizzled out, as Gan pondered if there was anything else she wanted to do. It'd been long enough she decided; three days in that dank basement in an abandoned shack had been long enough. She hopped off the stool, dagger in hand, and raised the elf's head for the last time. He looked into her eyes, well the eyes of the human man she was disguised as, and begged for mercy for the last time. Without a single word, the dagger was quickly drawn across his throat.

Gan felt the tiniest bit of sadness. Not sadness for the hanging body with blood oozing down its chest. Not sadness for the family and friends that would never see him again and would be left wondering where he disappeared to. Her sadness was not so deep and profound, not anymore. Today's sadness was for the work she'd have to do to remove all traces of their stay in this basement, for the amount of cleaning that would need to take place. Sadness over attachments and over actions, those were long gone from her.

The only sadness that existed now was relegated to gold pouches getting light, messes having to be cleaned up, tankards going empty, and favorites at brothels not being available to keep her company.