#not enough ceaseless hunger

[comatosebunny09]

— cw: kidnapping, torture, sedatives, abuse, mentions of r*pists, p*dos, & murder, angst, helplessness, heavy subject matter all around, language, mdni

— notes: a continuation of this blurb. something a little darker than what i usually write. please be mindful that there's some heavy stuff ahead. if i forgot to tag anything, please let me know in the comments. thank you for reading!

— now playing: dusty room - evgeny grinko

An insistent dripping draws you from the inky embrace of unconsciousness. 

It always does. It’s been your alarm clock for the past…three days? Four? Week? You’re not sure anymore. Time moves differently when you’re in captivity, and your mind is constantly invaded and warped.

At first, you could glean the passage of time by the moon or sunlight seeping through the small window in the corner—your captors had shoved you into a spacious room of rotting metal walls and only one entry point. It reeked of mildew and sweat, and you’d nothing but the creak of metal and that ceaseless dripping sound to keep you company.

But your senses are no longer reliable. They’ve poked around your mind so much that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to gauge the difference between reality and fiction. 

Only a few things remain constant during your stay here: the henchman of the day comes in to administer you a dose of something potent with a syringe. Something to ease the ache of your limbs, to curb the hunger gnarling in your gut. But it’s also to keep your Evol tucked in the furthest reaches of your mind. To keep you at their mercy. 

Next, two more men trickle in, sinisterly laughing as they deprive you of food and warmth and keep you lucid. And one of them constantly probes your mind, manipulating it to see and experience things that aren’t always real. Dredging up memories you had compartmentalized after taking up this new life, furthering your torment. 

You would be impressed—their ability is almost on par with yours and would certainly make a man clad in red and black whistle with appreciation—if you weren’t already clinging to your sanity by a thread. 

Your captors have been surprisingly generous, only hitting you a few times when you get mouthy. You’d once heard them say to each other they had to keep you alive long enough to lure your boss from the shadows. Still, you’re sometimes their human punching bag, suspended from the ceiling by chains rubbing your wrists and ankles raw.

They learned their lesson when they first brought you to this prison. When you’d called them pussies and, with what little strength you could muster, took three of them down before they subdued you with stun batons and a heavier dosage of whatever cocktail they’d been pumping you with.

Each time they enter, they ask you more questions. Interrogate you about Sylus and the inner workings of Onychinus. Splash you with frigid water to wake you, inject more serum, and sink their claws into your psyche when you display an inkling of resistance. All in an attempt to bring you to the brink of insanity. To break you. 

You’re a little worse for wear. Bruised and battered. It hurts to breathe when the medicine wears off. You’re constantly shivering, constantly blacking out. You’re sure they’ve shattered a rib or two. And you haven’t much strength left, stripped of nourishment and proper blood circulation for God knows how long. 

You have one good eye, the other swollen shut from their previous assault. Your lips keep splitting, so goddamn dry. They could’ve done much worse. Could’ve violated you in unspeakable ways. So you’re grateful the illusions are seemingly their most potent form of torture. 

No matter how many levels of hell your captors subject you to, you don’t cave. You’re still as haughty as ever. Piss them off whenever you can, fighting back with your tongue in a way that your body can’t. Anything to distract you from the unyielding torment and pain. From your thoughts creeping in, from your mortality looming over your shoulders. 

“He won’t come for me,” you bitterly laugh each time your captors taunt you. “He doesn’t care about me. You’ve got the wrong person.” To which they heckle like hyenas, looking at you as if you’ve said the most absurd thing. 

They tell you you are the right person. That it’s only a matter of time before your ‘boyfriend’ comes sniffing you out. You’re more valuable than any treasure, any amount of money. But you always push those words to the back burner. Those empty attempts to give you a flicker of hope.  

He’s subjected you to danger numerous times before. Thrown you to the wolves on several occasions. What makes this time any different?

One thought reigns supreme in your mind each time they torture you. Each time they fill your head with trickery, visions of him, and memories of past misdeeds. 

If he wanted to save you, he would’ve already come. 

The truth hurts, but it’s somehow comforting. Sylus will never find you like this. Never see how far you’ve fallen from grace, breaking apart at the seams, slowly succumbing to the cold and delirium. He’s got more important things to worry about—more important people to occupy his mind. 

You’re disposable. You’ve known this from the start. 

The notion only rooted itself deeper the moment a certain Hunter disturbed the monotony of your lives.

It was merely a matter of time before one of Onychinus’ most revered assassins was wiped out. 

In a way, your captors are doing Sylus a favor, ridding him of your presence so he doesn’t have to lift a finger to do it himself. You’ve always worried he would no longer find a use for you. Knew you couldn’t always be at his side. And now that he has someone else to play his bait, to bat their lashes at him and tug at those little heartstrings, you know you don’t stand a chance. 

Savagely, you laugh, your face turned up at the silvery moonbeams sinking in through the window. And it hurts, your throat dry like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper. Unbidden tears scorch down the sides of your face. Whether they’re heralded in from agony or hysteria, you don’t know. 

Your solitude in this room is as much of a reprieve as it is a cage. Sure, you’re free to collect what little coherent thoughts you have left before your captors are back at it, shocking you to hell and tearing your mind at the seams. But you’re also left with nothing to do but stew in thoughts of your inevitable demise. 

Maybe this is your punishment. All the lives you’ve taken. All the innocents you displaced when you were a fiery-eyed killer fueled by rage and fear. Murdering coldly, killing because you were told—forced—to. 

No matter how far you ran, the past always snuck up on you. But shielded beneath Sylus’ wings, you were able to delay its descent onto your shoulders.  

Sylus had taken you away from it all. Redirected your ire, your revenge, onto the scourge of humanity. No longer were you a gun for hire, taking out high-profile figures because your very life depended on it. No. Instead, you wiped the most vile men from the face of the planet. Pedophiles, rapists, murderers. And you supposed that served as enough repentance for your life before.

Still, no amount of justification will support what you’ve done. What you continue to do. And all for the love of a man who will never see you as more than a rook. A chess piece, lazily dragging across the board for use at his disposal.

The single door to your prison groans open, dispelling the nebula of your thoughts as a blinding stream of light pours in. You wince against its brilliance, your bruised lips canting up in a sardonic smile. 

Once the new presence clears the entryway, a shock of white greets you. And it’s followed by a wash of scarlet, moving through the bleariness. You huff a painful laugh as the figure nears you, agony swelling in your chest. This trick again. Weren’t they getting bored of using it?

Finding your voice, you grit out, “You’ve tried this one already. It’s getting old. Gonna have to do better than that.”

But your tormenter doesn’t err in their steps. Instead, they hasten their approach until the warmth they carry wades over your skin. And through the dank scent of your entrapment, you make out familiar notes of amber and sandalwood. As convincing as the illusions have been lately, they’ve never smelled this vivid before.

Searing hands curve around your cheeks. Angle your head back until your vision fills with red. Red eyes nestled beneath brows knotted with anguish. Pink lips parted with the effort of breathing. As you fully take in your tormenter’s harrowed features, you slowly realize that maybe you’re not hallucinating this time. And a thick film of tears washes over your good eye, the world blurring and bending.

“You’re getting better at this,” you sob-slash-laugh, still disbelieving. There’s no way he could be the real thing. There’s just—

—no way. Could he? Could it…

Suddenly, the metal chains of your shackles rattle and loosen. And you’re freefalling, loose-limbed and weightless, heading for the ground along with your restraints. But a pair of virile arms spread like wings beneath you, cradling you against a rigid chest, and a ferocious heart beats a war cadence beneath your cheek as you press further into it. 

Weakened by your time in captivity, you feel something prodding around inside your head. Something warm and feather-light creeps through the folds of your mind, chasing away the darkness. It’s a voice—an inherently masculine voice reverberating in your head, working like a soothing balm over your psyche.

I’ve got you, it soothes, dulling the ache in your bones, the maelstrom in your head. And its familiarity is enough to bring a smile to your lips. More tears pour in rivulets down your cheeks, and you cling to the silk of his shirt, unconsciousness pulling you under. He came for you. He really—he actually—

—came.

And as you succumb to fatigue, hypothermia, and hunger, two sentences pierce through the darkness like a lighthouse beaconing through the storm.

“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.”

[pretzel-box]

MDNI | TW: Body Horror, Detailed Graphic Description of Gore. Mention of Needles

Tags: Established Relationship, Devotion, Obsession, TW Tags above

Words: 2,2k

Sebastian Solace could hear your faint breathing in the silence, another form of melody that graced his ears. It was calming and invited him to pause from the burden of the daily life and dream instead. He was sure, your presence alone is like a bright shimmer at the edge of his void world, not blinding but so unbelievable radiant, a glow that pulls him towards your existence like the moon that beckons the tides.

His gaze lingers a bit longer than intended and yet not long enough to satisfy that hunger in his soul. He traced the curve of your form, with a fleeting glance, as you sit at the desk, lost in the pages that stretched out before you. Each turn of the paper is a soft whisper, a delicate flutter that harmonizes with the quiet rhythm of your breath. You are unaware, absorbed in the world between the lines, stories and memories, yet your every movement feels choreographed by the stars themselves—effortless, graceful, like a long lost dream.

Sebastian watches, mesmerized by the way your fingers brush the edges of the book, gentle as if you hold something precious. The faint light spills across your skin, casting a soft halo that wraps around you, an ethereal glow that seems to exist for his eyes alone. In the stillness, you are his celestial body, his guiding star, unknowingly illuminating the vast, shadowed corners of his heart.

Even the way you tilt your head, lost in thought, feels like the subtle pull of gravity, drawing him closer, though he remains in the quiet distance. He wonders if you can feel the way the air shifts around him, how it hums with the silent longing he tries to contain deep inside him. You are his solace, his steady beacon in a sea of darkness, and though you are unaware of his gaze, every part of you seems to call to him, softly and irresistibly.

The way your voice wrapped around his name sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation as delicate as the brush of sunlight after a long storm. "Oh, Sebastian," you had said, and it was as if the very air he breathed had shifted, softened, warmed. There was a tenderness in your words, a gentleness that seemed to cradle him, filling the empty spaces inside his chest.

Your voice, like the wind, swept through the quiet room, curling around him in invisible tendrils, soothing, comforting, and undeniably real. If sound could embrace, then surely this was the closest he'd ever come to feeling human warmth drenched in love. It enveloped him, like the gentle embrace of arms he longed to know. Each syllable lingered in the air, thick with sweetness, as though the very essence of your being flowed through the sound, leaving a trail of honey in its wake.

"Dreaming as always," you teased, your words lilting in a way that felt like a dance. "You surely got your head in the clouds." And oh, how right you were. He was far beyond the realm of mortals, his thoughts soaring high, lost among the stars you unknowingly filled his world with. His heart, caught in the sheer comfort of your presence, was suspended somewhere between the heavens and earth, weightless, adrift. You were not just the pull that grounded him, but the entire sky he yearned to float within, a cosmic force that kept him both dreaming and awake at the very same time.

He smiled faintly, helpless under your spell, for every word you spoke was like stardust falling gently into his soul, filling the dark spaces with light. You had no idea of the gravity you held over him, how your voice alone shaped his universe, a melody that kept him tethered to you, even as his mind wandered through galaxies made entirely of you.

Time passed, yet not a single day saw Sebastian’s love fade or waver. It flowed endlessly, like the ceaseless currents of the ocean, drenching you with his quiet, unwavering devotion. His love became a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his being, shaping every thought and action. He was ready to forsake even the simplest of pleasures, content to immerse himself entirely in the depths of your existence. Every movement, every breath, every word he spoke seemed to carry your name, a silent vow of his love that coursed through him like water through the veins of the sea.

"Hold still," he mumbled softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, soothing and gentle. There was no command in it, just a quiet reminder as he held the sharp silver needle between his large, grey fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the light of his glowing lure, casting soft reflections across the water. He carefully threaded a piece of red string through the needle’s eye, makeshift and fragile, yet it was all he had. The first aid kits he’d scavenged from the Blacksite over time had long run dry, leaving him with no choice but to use whatever he could find.

Your arm lay before him, a deep gash marring the skin, crimson blood flowing down in slow rivulets, like rain sliding down a windowpane. It pooled on the floor below, dark and heavy in the water. Sebastian’s chest tightened as he worked with quiet precision, his fingers moving deftly, though the sight of your blood filled him with a deep ache.

He wished for better tools, for a world where you would never be hurt, where his hands wouldn't have to stitch your wounds with makeshift threads. But this was the Blacksite, where even tenderness had to survive in the cold, unforgiving depths.

His focus was entirely on you, though he remained silent. He didn’t want you to feel the weight of his worry, the way his heart clenched with every drop of blood that spilled. His touch was steady, careful, as if you were more precious than anything else in this forsaken place. And to him, you were.

Painter’s digital face flickered on the nearby navipath screen, his expression shifting to something indescribable—an emotion too complex for mere pixels to convey, especially on this tiny screen next to the door. He observed Sebastian with a silent intensity, studying the careful way his grey fingers moved as he worked on you. His glowing eyes flickered, tracing the delicate thread being pulled through decaying skin, before his gaze settled on you—on what was left of you.

Sebastian had become a creature of instinct, driven by something darker, something primal. He had torn through the dark halls of the Blacksite with a violence so raw, so brutal, that it left no room for mercy. Mere Limbs were shredded, layers of soft flesh ripped apart as if it were nothing more than paper beneath his hands. Deep crimson blood had flowed like rivers, drenching the cold metallic floors in a sea of red. The stench of rotting bodies clung to the air, thick and suffocating. He had bathed the Blacksite in death, and yet it was never enough.

He needed more.

Your body, once divine, had begun to rot so long ago. The soft skin of your face, once untouched by time, had long since withered away. Maggots crawled through what remained, eating away at your remaining existing flesh that had shriveled up and lost its radiant color, but Sebastian couldn't see it. Or perhaps he refused to. His eyes, dark and hollow in that shade of blue, only saw the memory of you—the beauty you once held, the light you once gave him. He couldn't bear to lose it.

So, he had followed in Urbanshade’s footsteps. He had learned, in the most twisted way, to preserve you. Piece by piece, he replaced what decayed, ripping parts from the bodies he’d slaughtered, stitching them together with thread, with force, with desperation so solid that it became the foundation of his delusion. He practiced, over and over, perfecting the art of sewing until murder became a ritual, a divine act of art in his mind in the name of creation.

Sebastian Solace had turned the Blacksite into his own cathedral of carnage, a place where death and love were inseparable. He had twisted his devotion into something monstrous, into a grotesque form of art where your body, patched and stitched together from the remains of his victims, was his only masterpiece. His love for you had become a relentless hunger, one that consumed him as completely as it had consumed the bodies he tore apart to keep you whole.

And still, he sat by your side, gently stitching, as if he were mending something sacred.

„Sebastian. They are gone.“

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you, taking in your once delicate features, trying to grasp at the fading remnants of what you had been. But the longer he bathed in your presence, the more your appearance twisted and warped, a grotesque distortion of the memory he clung to. The rosy tint that had once colored your cheeks was gone, replaced by the sickly pallor of decaying flesh. Your skin, that soft, precious surface he had adored, was now peeling, hanging in ragged strips from your bones, exposing raw, festering meat underneath.

His heart quickened, the rhythm erratic as his mind scrambled for answers that weren't there. Where was the gentle glow in your eyes, the light that had once held him captive? Instead, hollow, sunken sockets stared back at him, their emptiness filled only with the dull sheen of rot. The stench of death clung to you, thick and nauseating, wrapping itself around him, filling his lungs with each breath until the taste of it settled heavy on his tongue.

The skin he had so tenderly sewn was slipping, the stitches frayed and torn, unable to hold together the decomposing mass that had once been you. His hands twitched, instinctively reaching for the needle and thread, desperate to fix it, to make you whole again. But no matter how many times he stitched, how many bodies he tore apart to replace the rotting parts, it was never enough. Your flesh, his precious masterpiece, was slipping away from him.

He could see the maggots now, squirming and writhing beneath the layers of your skin, feasting on what remained. The sight turned his stomach, but he couldn’t look away. He needed to save you—needed to preserve what little of you was left. Yet, the more he tried, the more your body melted into something unrecognizable, a grotesque nightmare that mocked his every attempt at salvation.

He broke like glass and died inside from a pain that couldn't be described with words. In the endless blue eyes were a deep reflection of total confusion as all traces of emotional warmth has left his body. Seconds passed, then minutes and somehow he wasn't sure if life really continued in that moment.

“I tried to eat them,” Sebastian whispered, his voice hollow, as if the confession carried no weight anymore, just a haunting echo in the stagnant air. He hovered above the floor, eyes tracing the dark puddle of blood mixed with filthy water beneath him. His reflection stared back, twisted and ghostly in a liquid that wasn’t even yours.

“After they died... I tried to eat their flesh to preserve them,” he continued, almost as if speaking to himself, his words barely audible. His gaze remained fixed on the pool as if searching for something—an answer, perhaps, or absolution. “I started with their neck... I remember, they loved it when I kissed their neck.”

His hand drifted to his mouth, his voice trembling, though his face remained eerily calm. “I sunk my teeth into the cold flesh... tasted the first drop of blood. I pulled at it, gently tearing away the skin, chewing it like it was some delicate meal. But all I tasted was metal—cold, bitter metal.”

His fingers twitched, reaching out to stroke the grotesque, rotting leg of the decaying mass that sat slumped in the chair, a body that barely resembled what it once had been. Painter, from his place on the screen, watched in silent horror as Sebastian caressed the flesh with disturbing tenderness, as if even now he could find traces of the beauty he once loved.

“It wasn’t like them," he muttered, his voice growing softer, more distant. "It wasn’t what they were. All I could taste was death. Cold, tasteless, soulless death.”

His hand trembled as it slid down the decayed limb, his eyes glazed over, lost in the memory. “But I kept eating... trying to find them in the flesh, in the blood. I devoured piece after piece, convinced that somewhere in the rot, they still existed. And then I woke up.”

His voice cracked, the weight of his confession finally settling in. “And I realized, I had tainted their beauty.”

He paused, staring at the ruin before him, his body still, his mind racing. “I wanted them back. So I began sewing. Stitching them together piece by piece. Everything I ate, I replaced. Everything I destroyed, I repaired. I cut away what was lost, what had withered. And everything that was them... everything that had been theirs... I loved.”

His fingers traced the jagged edges of the sewn flesh, a twisted mockery of the love he once held for you. In his mind, he had preserved you, kept you alive, bound to him through his grotesque ritual. But in the quiet shadows of the Blacksite, all that remained was a macabre testament to his obsession—a reflection of the madness that had consumed him.

And Painter realized, Sebastian is still utterly in love with you.

[choerypetal]

Little Bird / Coriolanus Snow

summary: Being the Capitol's favorites subject has consequences. Consequences that subject to be paired with the most influential man in Panem entirely.

notes **reader is an idol/singer in Capitol's first attempt into making a group for each annual Hunger Games. but with snow's obsession into making you entirely his and with his job as mentoring lucy gray, he tries his very best, but fails miserably.

ps ; english isn't my first language so i apologize in advance for some minor errors and please do not copy my work without credit thank you!

Your connection with Snow encompassed diverse facets. At times, he exuded an irresistible charm, drawing you in effortlessly. Yet, in the next moment, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours with audacious intent, as if daring anyone to approach and touch even the slightest expanse of your skin – a challenge few would ever contemplate. 

Being the Capitol's favorite came with its own set of challenges. Compliments on your skills or charisma were either sincere or fueled by envy, making it doubly difficult for those striving to surpass their yearly earnings. This aspect of Panem's functioning was something Coriolanus exploited way too much. The artificiality of the stage, adorned with makeup to project an illusion of wealth, highlighted what he found enduring. The ease with which one could become the favorite by merely speaking or moving to the latest musical rhythm was something Coriolanus himself could not keep his eyes away from. And that person was you. 

He despised witnessing other men vying for your attention, their eyes lighting up as soon as you entered the Capitol's theater. There was no denying that you were the favorite member among your group. However, during your debut, the spotlight only found you officially when it was announced that the Capitol's new favorite group would be welcoming a new member. Given your position at the Academy, your choices were limited – either mentoring a tribute and risk bringing shame to your family if they lost. Or become part of Panem's newest favored diversion. It wasn’t until the very next day, that many became obsessed with you. And as much as Coriolanus tried to oblige on that single though, he was afraid to admit that he too became a little too obsessed over you. 

To compound Coriolanus's discomfort, he had to endure the ceaseless styling rituals accompanying each new album or song released to the public. This entailed donning short skirts and crops, transforming your body into a specific attire as a statue to be admired for hours on end. For the hapless Coriolanus, sitting there was challenging enough, watching you perform with a self-assured smirk, reveling in every bit of skin. How the skirt would flare up and brush against your skin, how he wanted to feel such fantasy. From each moments of your act, while beads of sweat glistened across every inch of your body. He couldn't help but fantasize scenarios from scenarios that you would be his, envisioning the two most influential figures of the Capitol as the perfect pair. And that was only during the ceremony of the 10th Hunger Games. 

Post the 10th Hunger Games, a significant shift occurred. Lucy Gray's presence lingered in Coriolanus's thoughts, causing him to perceive you in a completely new light. You were constantly in his mind. Although you though, with hearing the constant rumors of a possible relationship between him and his tribute. While you continued to excel in your performances, earning the success both you and your group rightfully deserved, you were aware of Coriolanus's altered fate.

Once he had been sent back to District 12 after his victor, Lucy Gray, who was also a performer. He remembered occasionally, after the victory ceremony, how you had the opportunity to chat with Lucy Gray. Discovering that your old classmate may have developed feelings for her. As Coriolanus Snow’s proud smirk upon seeing the people he seemingly cared for interacting with each other. Only to be so blind by the fact that you had expressed prior feelings for him, but instead confidently expressed his plan to join forces and visit her in her District wasn’t what you had intended to hear. 

While you refrained from expressing any objections, your suspicions regarding the burgeoning emotions between the two of them proved well-founded. Little did you know, Coriolanus engaged in those actions merely to divert his thoughts from you, acknowledging he wouldn't have a chance with you. Lucy Gray became his chosen distraction. Simultaneously, he caught wind of a potential rumor suggesting you were seen intimately with another man. The revelation that this man wasn't him intensified his already pronounced obsession with you. However, this time, Lucy Gray played a role in assisting him.

The revelation of his truth dawned on him only upon his return to Panem. The snake bite's impact intensified, with only your silhouette haunting his thoughts. In this return, he presented a wholly transformed appearance – his hair slightly longer, adorned in his father's old crimson jacket, albeit somewhat intoxicated, attempting to erase all memory of you. What Snow remained oblivious to was your patient anticipation during his absence in District 12. It was Tigris who knocked on your door that very evening, sparing you from the surprise of his return. 

However, Snow chose to make his entrance at the stroke of midnight, reminiscent of the times when both of you would clandestinely navigate the Academy. In those intimate moments, he patiently bided his time for the Capitol streets to empty, stealthily entering through your bedroom window. Hours were spent in each other's arms, reveling in discussions about new projects, with his assurances that everything would be alright.

This time, however, an inebriated Snow had a different agenda beyond comforting cuddles for sleepless nights. His primary goal was to solidify your relationship officially. "If you don’t tell her, I will." Echoed Tigris’s voice in his mind upon seeing her cousin return from duty as a Peacekeeper. She was among the few who truly knew about the budding romantic connection between Coriolanus and you. She pleaded with her cousin to go ahead, noting. "She hasn't touched a man since the last time you spoke, you know." That last statement served as a testament to your unwavering fidelity towards him. It was only a matter of time before he knocked on your door that very night.

On the contrary, you took it upon yourself to tidy up the entire apartment. Anticipating Coriolanus's return, you were determined not to leave a single mess, mindful of both his and your own peace of mind. Despite the fact that chaos often defined your shared living space, when in each other's arms, you both found solace in tidiness and tranquility. However, as dinner passed and bedtime approached, you couldn't help but notice Coriolanus's absence. Was he running late, or was he entangled in some trouble that you would only learn about the next morning? Various questions raced through your mind as you attempted to drift off helplessly on the living room couch, with the TV's echo serving as a backdrop.

Coriolanus stood there silently, observing from a distance outside your apartment window. Anyone observing from afar would catch a glimpse of you nibbling at your cuticles – a habit he had learned you indulged in when he wasn't around, a realization that would later make him feel remorseful upon witnessing the marks it left on your fingers. In response, he would tenderly peck each bruise, a silent acknowledgment of your thoughts mirroring his own. However, this time, he chose to forgo surprising you with the cliché bouquet of flowers or any conventional gesture. After indulging in the contents of a second wine bottle before making his way to you, he had no plans of raiding the florist shop either. Knocking on your door with determination, he felt an unusual hesitation, a departure from his past boldness of entering and showering you with kisses. Contemplating the prospect of declaring you entirely as his, especially in his inebriated state, he wasn't entirely certain if you would fully trust his words. 

Luckily, you had left the door ajar for him, a gesture he expected. Upon entering, he was met with the familiar background echo of the TV, confirming his assumption that you were already asleep. Nostalgia washed over him as he recalled the mornings spent lounging in bed with you or embarking on early runs for coffee. Despite his aspirations to bring about change in Panem and restore his family's reputation by aspiring to become President, he understood that true fulfillment wouldn't come until he had you by his side entirely. Limping slightly due to the effects of his drunkenness, he made his way into the living room and began to softly whisper your name, until his gaze met your sleeping figure. "Y/N... My sweet bird."

His breath carried warmth that gently brushed against your cold skin. Despite the lingering scent of alcohol, indicating Snow had been drinking before his arrival, your eyes responded to the touch of his finger delicately tracing your cheek. "Coryo…" you murmured his name with a loving tone, reveling in the vulnerability of calling out to him. "Shh… I am here," he reassured you, prompting a soft smile to grace your lips at the sound of his comforting voice. A voice you had missed dearly, compelling you to slowly rise from the much-needed slumber after a demanding day. However, lately, without Snow's presence in your arms, the nights became sleepless and challenging to endure alone. Despite acknowledging this truth, there was a conflicting sensation, a twinge of discomfort knowing that Coriolanus relished the fact that without him, you felt incomplete. It was this dynamic that rendered the two of you an unforgettable pair, seemingly inseparable. 

“How I missed you so much.” He continued to say, with seeing your face arousing from your slumber, how he had missed kissing your soft lips each night before going to sleep. If it wasn’t for being a Peacekeeper back in District 12, he’d say he was damn for letting himself kiss Lucy Gray while thinking of you the entire time. “I missed you more, Coryo. Everytime, during performances and even in my relentless dreams.” 

A subtle smile played on his features as his fingers traced down your body, an unspoken desire evident in his every touch. His lips yearned to kiss every inch, a longing to finally claim you as his own. He envisioned proudly holding your hand in public, marking you as his and sending a clear message to other men about your ownership. "You want to know something?" The amusement in his voice prompted a soft giggle from you, appreciating his seemingly all-knowing manner of sharing information, despite the evident effects of his earlier drinking. "What, drunk boy?" You playfully teased, noting the light pink hue that adorned his cheeks—a clear sign of his inebriation. 

He vehemently denied it with a pout, his lips subtly mimicking a desire for a kiss. Coryo was just touch starved. "You know, I haven't been properly fed with love lately. Coryo has been away from his bird for far too long..." His voice deepened, the intensity of his gaze barely allowing for a blink, making it abundantly clear who he desired: you. An intensifying blush crept on your features this time. Of course you knew your history with him, a caring gentleman who made sure to take care of the one he loved most. But this Coriolanus, objected something in you that you enjoyed seeing probably a little more. To be completely under his control. To bow to his command. 

"And as much as I hate to admit..." Your voice took on a gentle tone, a stark contrast to the confidence you exuded in the public eye. Sensing his fingers trailing down your body, from your hips to your lips, he couldn't help but notice their softness, prepared to be pampered at his command. However, he had to restrain his temptations for a moment, feeling his teeth sink into the bottom of his lip. You continued. "I might have been a naughty bird, moaning your name during sleepless nights, hoping you'd come save me from my little cage. You have no idea how eagerly I waited for you to come back." 

Honestly, Coriolanus found himself just as taken aback by your confession, despite the obvious history between the two of you. The mere thought of you in bed, adorned in barely anything, accentuating your beautiful form, fingers exploring sensually. The vivid image of you pleasuring yourself, uttering his name amidst a chorus of enticing sounds, drove him to instant madness. Tonight, he was determined to lavish you with everything he could muster—to claim you as his own, leaving marks on your body that not even the most skilled makeup artist could conceal come morning. Without explicitly professing love in the conventional sense, it was evident that Coriolanus and you were destined to be together. In times of need or distraction, both of you instinctively knew where to find solace in each other's presence. 

"I want you, Coryo..." you pleaded, your fingers clutching his shirt, the skirt from today's performance riding up slightly. Upon arriving from work, you had removed your underwear just for him—his eyes alone to witness, taste, and appreciate. His hands gripped firmly on your arse, and it was his turn to shift positions, settling onto the couch with you atop him. Your blouse, with a revealing cleavage, owed its allure to Tigris, your stylist. You couldn't help but wonder if the same effect would have been achieved without her touch. Extricating yourself from his grasp, you observed his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. It was a smirk that served as a reminder, and in that instant, you knew that tonight, you were unequivocally his—his and his alone, his cherished little bird.

"I can't wait to finally show my little bird what I can do."

Coriolanus spoke those words with genuine anticipation. It was undeniably the most memorable night, and he intended to recreate it repeatedly. After all, you were his little bird—his to cherish, tourmate, and play with as he pleased.

[naffeclipse]

Argentate Bullet

Cryptid Hunter!Reader x Cryptid!Eclipse

Commission Info

I'm so excited to share this wonderful fic commissioned by @rosescarletful involving the cryptid hunter, cryptid Eclipse, and a night under the full moon. A monster lurks somewhere close! This is teeming with angst but such things make the hurt/comfort all the sweeter, I promise <3

Content Warning for angst, blood, body horror, and death.

———

In the dense woods outside of a small, rural town, you and your dear friend begin a hunt. A howl echoes and twigs crack. The silver light of the full moon mottles the forest floor as you follow Moon. His pale eyes flash red—he senses another human. The moment you step foot into a sparse clearing of half-dead meadow grass, your heart sinks.

A young man lies groaning in the darkness, curled up and cradling his chewed arm. Blood drips freely from mangled flesh and bitten sinew.

You should have been here sooner. The cryptid sighting suggested the violent nature of the monster as insatiable, senseless. A ceaseless need for bloodshed only spells ruin and grief for anyone caught in its path. You’ve handled werewolves before. They are perfect killers under the lustrous light of night. But they fall to silver.

Together, you and Moon help the young man to his feet. He babbles about a beast with fangs and yellow eyes. A horrible hunger growled within it. The monster snatched him from the road while he was peddling his bike at the late hour, and dragged him into the woods. Before it could finish him with a snap of its maw, it fled. He doesn’t know why. A sob escapes the young man.

You have no doubt the werewolf sensed the demonic cryptid using the animatronic as a vessel. Your dear friend has scared worse monsters.

You’re lucky you two arrived when you did, but you reassure him that he’s safe now. You set your gun loaded with an argentate bullet into the map pocket of your truck door. Leaning him against the driver’s seat, you quickly rummage for a basic first-aid kit—you curse yourself for not bringing more, but rarely do you find victims of cryptids alive after an encounter and you always endure long enough to reach your airstream.

“It’s going to be okay,” you promise. You hold yourself steady, hiding your fear at the blood seeping from the young man’s arm. He cradles it close to himself. “Can you tell me your name?”

Moon looms beside you, his eyes pale and flashing. He twitches. The end of his nightcap jerks slightly with the spasm of his faceplate.

“W-warren.” The young man swallows. His eyes shine wetly. The blood coating his ravaged arm gleams dark under the moonlight. “My wallet. I lost it by my bike. Please, I have pictures of my mom and dad in it. I need it.”

“Okay,” you soothe as you finally rip open a plastic red container. Bandages immediately roll to one side in your anxious search. “I’ll get it for you after we take you to the hospital. You’re bleeding badly.”

“Please, I need it now,” he gives a ragged gasp. He looks at you, desperation filling his shining gaze as his hands tremble, slick with blood.

Your heart squeezes within you at the familiarity of needing comfort in the height of terror. 

“Moon,” you say.

“It’s still out there,” Moon warns, his hand falling to your shoulder. His long silver and blue digits press into your collarbone. “It’s not safe.”

“I know, sweetie,” you face him. Though he stands much taller, you hold his wide, glowing gaze. “His bike can’t be far. Please, will you get it?”

He stares at you. A cool breeze blows before he releases your shoulder. 

“Be careful,” he warns, then slips around the truck and back onto the faded blacktop, disappearing around a bend following the forest’s edge.

You’ll thank him when he returns. Breathing a stabilizing sigh, you face Warren and ask for his arm. His eyes don’t meet yours for a moment. His attention follows the animatronic slipping into the darkness.

“It’s alright,” you say in a low, gentle voice. “Let me get you bandaged, and as soon as Moon returns, we’ll take you to get help.”

“W-who is that,” Warren asks shakily. His fingers writhe as you support his arm. 

“My friend,” you answer softly. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of the scary thing. It won’t hurt you again.”

“Something isn’t right,” he whispers, terrified.

You lift your head. You fear he might pass out from the blood loss but you find his face turned towards the night sky. The moon hangs clearly in the black cosmos, big and looming like an omen.

“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.” You hurry to tie up the bandage already soaking in crimson.

“No. It hurts.” Warren pushes you away and doubles over, clutching his face and shouting, “It hurts! Stop!”

You step back, hands up, stunned. What did you do? Why is he—

A sickening crack of bone echoes within Warren. You start, horrified, then your mind races.

No, it’s pop culture to believe a werewolf bite transforms another. There has been nothing legitimate within your research to conclude that a bite would be infectious, nor that it would trigger a transformation on the very same night. A human can’t become a cryptid.

He can’t.

Warren groans until his agonized sound slips into a high keen. A vicious growl overtakes him and rattles through your chest despite the distance. Your eyes dart to the Winchester gun stowed away in the map pocket of your truck door.

“Warren,” you say, holding out a hand and stepping closer, “It’s going to be okay—”

“Get away!” he snarls inhumanly. He swipes at you with his hand, now elongated. It bursts with a coat of fur and bears long, wicked claws. You leap out of his reach but stand weaponless.

No. It can’t be.

Warren crumples to the dirt ground. On his hands and knees, his cries of agony lift into a feral howl while the rest of his body bends and breaks. You watch, rooted in horror, as his clothes rip under the bulking strain of his new form while black fur overruns his flesh. Thick, rugged sinew cords his body. His face snaps as his jaw elongates into a muzzle. A flash of yellow eyes pierces you through the darkness. 

“Warren,” you utter. You start slowly stepping towards the bed of your truck, seeking cover—anything to put between you and the newborn werewolf. Your hands are held out. You glance again at your gun but the young man stops howling. 

He slowly lifts his head, sharp ears pinned back against his skull. Lips pull over fangs. A horrid growl stops your heart.

The werewolf hunches low and slowly pads forward. A glinting maw spills saliva. You stare at the poor young man, your pulse racing in your ears. He straightens, towering upon you with hunger glowing within inhuman eyes upon hound-like legs. The moonlight covers him in pale gray.

He lunges. You dive, throwing yourself behind your truck only to catch a wicked snap of teeth inches from your feet. A sharp inhale. Your veins burn with adrenaline. You twist back to find the werewolf rounding back, widening his jaw. He reaches a long limb forward and hooks his claws on the bummer of your truck. Vicious talons rip down the edge of it. You scramble, kicking your legs and crawling backward in your shock.

Swift footsteps cut through the darkness. The werewolf’s ears swivel before he turns a second too late. A flash of limbs, metallic and dripping black and red, knocks into the creature, sending it careening back towards the road until he rolls to a stop in a heap of furry limbs. 

You gasp in a flood of relief. Moon straightens. A wallet drops into the dirt. From out of his slim animatronic chassis, two arms, inky and clawed, spread out defensively over you.

“Moon,” you push yourself off the ground and onto your feet, “It’s Warren.”

“Get your gun.” Moon spares you a glance of bright red optics. “We shouldn’t have left you.”

There’s nothing you can say now. You breathlessly slip back behind your friend, rushing down the length of your truck. Moon’s many limbs writhe as he stares down the monster rising back to his paws with vicious growls.

Passing the claw marks carved into your bumper, you dart for your weapon. Behind you, a snarl rips across the road’s edge. Your heart leaps into your throat. You crash against the door and frantically pry out the Winchester from the map pocket.

The barrel gleams darkly in the moonlight. The smooth, carved handle holds intricate designs in the wood. You check with hands threatening to tremble that it’s still loaded. Hidden within is a shiny silver bullet.

You turn back to face the cryptid. In a powerful leap off his hind legs, the werewolf attacks. Moon lifts his four arms to catch the monster and hold it off, staggering back under the force. The snap of teeth nearly snags Moon’s nightcap and vicious claws swipe nearly slice through his chassis. You straighten, standing solid on your feet, and aim your gun. Your dear friend and the young man now cursed thrash together in a blend of demonic and lycanthropy. 

The werewolf towers over Moon who remains in his vessel, unable to spare a moment to escape the confines of it while fending off the vicious cryptid. You cry out a warning. 

In a heartbeat, the cryptid unbalances Moon, dropping him to the ground with a powerful blow of his large paw. The sharp clank of metal on the dirt freezes your blood. Red-dipped cryptid arms rake over the werewolf. Tufts of fur and flesh tear away but the monster gives no thought to the slashes as Moon unleashes an unearthly growl.

Your hands clench around the gun, pulse racing. The werewolf rears back under the moonlight, teeth exposed, jaws wide, and strikes for Moon’s spindly neck.

You squeeze the trigger. The echoing blast cuts through the night air, and a small hole within the werewolf bubbles blood, spilling down his chest. The werewolf slumps with a gurgle, then silence.

Moon grunts once before four limbs push the carcass off of him. With a meaty thump, the cryptid lies on the dirt, dead. 

You stare. Slowly lowering the gun, you stare unblinkingly. Tears brim your eyes. A haze of silver light and blood pooling underneath the furred cryptid overtakes you.

“Moon,” you say, your voice sounds strange, strained. “He wasn’t a cryptid. He was just bitten. He didn’t—He’s not—”

How can you shoot this monster when he’s just a person caught in very awful circumstances? All your other hunts were simple. They were only cryptids, not victims. 

You didn’t protect him.

You lower your hands. A hollowed coldness seeps into your chest cavity. The animatronic lies still as black ooze slips from crevices and cracks, accumulating into a lithe, towering figure with four limbs. Eclipse straightens slowly, watching you closely with red eyes glowing in the dark.

“Heart,” a deep rumble touches you, familiar and safe, but you shake. “You protected us.”

The demonic cryptid slips closer. His many hands reach for you, one trailing down your wrist before slipping the gun from your quaking grasp.

“He didn’t ask to become this,” your voice cracks.

“You didn’t know.” Two large, cool hands cup your face. Tilting your head up to meet their wide eyes, Eclipse softly growls, “It’s not your fault. If you didn’t stop him, he would have caused more harm. He would have joined the other monster in hurting people.”

Tears spill down your cheeks. You grasp his wrists, fingernails sinking into their dark red and deep blue being.

“I needed to—I should’ve—” you gasp a ragged sound, fighting a sob. “He didn’t deserve to die.”

“You did what was right, heart,” Eclipse’s wide jaw with razor-thin fangs lower to you. A crown of frills and horns tilt softly as they lightly flick a long, oily tongue to your cheek in comfort. “Please, don’t blame yourself. We shouldn’t have left your side. If we had stayed, we could have subdued him before he attacked.”

You cling tighter to their anchoring hold. A soft sound echoes as they set the gun on the truck seat before returning their lower arms to rest on your waist, gathering you close to cradle you against them. 

They bow over you. Four limbs, clawed and full of strength, keep you from falling. You press your cheek against their cool, slick chest. Weeping, you cave into their comfort while a young man lies dead in a form he never could have wanted for himself.

[pursuitseternal]

“Unmask Me:” 🎭 NSFW Masquerade update for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x f!Reader |E| 4.7K of revealing smut

🎨by @glorious-void 🌹

Summary: Music and masks, dancing and deception. It’s so easy to hide your identity beneath a mask, but for you, as Regent Consort while Lord Astarion is away on his travels, everyone knows you. Everyone wants to be with you, particularly your love and Lord. Once he returns and is unmasked, of course.

CW: Mistaken identities, jealous/aroused Astarion, Dom!Astarion, outdoor sex, playful punishment, spanking, oral sex female receiving, rough fucking and regal engagements afterwards.

Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭

Regent Consort. That is your title, at least until your love’s return. You flounce your ebony skirts, that sultry hint of burgundy beneath a little nod to your beloved vampirism. You adjust the many layers of petticoat that fill out your gown. Alone in the ballroom, you pace by the window. Weeks of Astarion away, and he is due to return any hour now.

You know he will be hungry, he will desire you more than anything. He will be feral, wild. Untameable until he’s drunk his fill of your blood and fucked you enough. If he isn’t exhausted from his travels to the far East… alliances and silks from Cormyr and gems and… it was enough of a burden for him to shoulder. You have been left with enough to handle here in the City, his Right Hand to rule in his place, his Regent Consort on his throne. Your tasks have been ceaseless since he left so many tendays ago: Council meetings and trade deals to twist towards your benefit, not to mention cajoling Duke Wyll Ravengaurd enough—enough for him to remain oblivious to the fact that you and your love had far surpassed any authority he thought he held.

You smirk, gazing out into the night’s sparkling darkness. Of course you decided the best course of action was to stroke your old friend’s ego—and nothing touts a symbol of friendship and your own wealth and power like a good masquerade ball.

Of course, it just happened to fall on the same evening as Lord Astarion’s long-expected return. But your heart leaps in your chest, if it could beat faster, that is. Every detail has been carefully laid, and all with his secret knowledge. He approves of this wholeheartedly, those little flashes of his affection quaking down your bond as Master and Bride keeping him informed. You feel his love, his approval and his hunger. Your bond of heart, mind, and blood is enough only to coax his hasty return just a little faster.

His presence had long disappeared from your mind, leaving you without word, his journeys consuming enough of his power to claim his concentration. And so you wait, on baited breath, for his return. Soon, he had said. Tonight.

At long last, your guests arrive in your wide and sprawling drive, carriage after carriage emptying with elegantly clothed couples and painted faces. A parade of colors and paper and decadence. A night in honor of the Duke, a demonstration of the Vampire Ascendant’s immense affluence. The grandest host on the Sword Coast. The most powerful, handsome being in this whole realm.

Yes, you smile, releasing your folded arms to adjust your own demi-mask, Astarion will revel in the extravagance.

Once he finally fucking arrives, of course.

But you force a smile on your face as your guests parade into your presence, all fanfare and pomp and circumstance as befitting a ball for the Duke… as befitting a party hosted by the Vampire Ascendant and his Consort. Couples sweep into the grandeur, each pair, each guest more sumptuously dressed than the one before. You make your way to the head of the dais, your black Demi-mask in place, but you are certain your own scarlet eyes and your fang-toothed smile will surely make certain not a hand is laid on you.

No mistaken identity as to who you are tonight. You are Regent Consort, the Ascendant’s Lady. You are his.

And if your vampiric qualities aren’t enough to drive away would-be admirers, the decadent, gold and bejeweled crown on your head certainly will. A quaint little symbol of the power you tend in his absence. Your eyes scan mask after mask, even as you stand before his throne. Nodding greetings, formally and cordially welcoming guest after guest.

You scrutinize the most gallant looking, the most ostentatious of males. If he were to disguise himself, to play one of his little games with you… surely he would spare no expense on his costume. Even arriving from his travels… it dawns on you now, looking at this primped and preening man. You know why he has gone as silent as his empty grave on his end of your bond.

He’s planning something. A surprise, a seduction. Something that will surely set your slow, undead heart racing and make your folds drench down your thighs.

Once you unmask him of course. There would be… some clue. He wasn’t that clever, never one for details. He prefers to lure you in with honey-sweet words and a grind of his bulge somewhere on your body. Sensual, sweet thing that he is.

Your gaze has grown distant, your pleasant smile fixed on your painted lips. It’s only once the musicians strike up the music that you slowly return to your surroundings.

And it’s only once the drums begin pounding so loudly it shakes in your rib cage that you notice one male lingering at your feet. Richly brocaded damask, deeper crimson than what runs in one’s veins, his costume is breathtaking. Cut so perfectly around his waist and hips, drawing the eye towards that gusset between his thighs.

You quickly raise your gaze, realizing you are licking your lips as you scan this male’s body.

And you’re met with eyes that are so deep set in his golden Bautta mask, you can’t see the color. But you drink in that intensity. That gilded cover hides every sharp, pale feature, even covering his sly and sultry mouth. But all he needs are his eyes boring into you, already undressing you. It’s… delicious.

He would come in regal colors and damask, in a mask that’s inlaid and filigreed with real gold. That feathered cap on his head is a nice touch to hide his telltale silver tousles, as well. Slowly, this man turns towards you, and you can feel it, the way he is drawn to your power, eager to be your thrall.

He wants you, and you know it must be his plan, a master of stirring your body for him alone even in disguise. Feet treading up a stair or two in your direction, he gives an elegant bow, a swish of his scarlet, silken cape as he extends his gloved hand for yours.

Your feet follow him into the mass of people, the center of the dancing as couples begin to form in patterns and forms. Ready to dance.

He doesn’t need to say a word, only giving a deep, muffled laugh beneath that pointed mask as you sweep with your supernatural grace in his hold. A merry dance, one that weaves you around other couples at a clip, one that makes your own silken, gloved hand pass into the palm of every male on that dance floor. Spin after spin, pass after pass, and your flesh practically ignites with each time you cross with your golden-faced lover.

Your mouth salivates, and you wonder why he hasn’t whisked you away to your chambers.

As the music begins to slow, you feel a pinprick at the back of your neck, even as he… the man with the golden mask… your lover pulls you in one last spin. You see nothing in the crowd, but you feel… something. Something hot and sharp, eyes on you from somewhere in the masses.

Then again, all eyes are on you. You and your Lord do tend to turn every head in the room. And you do so as you pull him through the double glass doors and onto the open aired terrace.

Lit by only the moon and stars, you keep your hands on his arm and his waist, leading him as far as possible from the crowds. You don’t even know if the Duke has arrived, nor do you care. You need sating, need to indulge the tension that has flared between you two in that ancient way you always have.

He stops once you both reach the shadows, arms wrapped around your elegant dark dress, its gauze and crinolines dusky burgundy and black as you practically bleed into the shadows yourself. “My lady,” that voice whispers from behind the mask, muted and strange. A trick of his disguise.

“My lord,” you lilt back, taking a single finger to stroke the bare flesh of his neck where it peeks above the bright collar of his jacket. “I need something from you, ever so badly.”

“Then take it, my lady,” he tilts his head, baring more of his pale skin. Your eyes are wide, ravenous. You haven’t fed from living blood since his departure. For his was the only vintage you drank, the only kind that would fill you. Craning your head, standing on the balls of your toes, you lick your lips, barely restrained enough to take a little bit of time.

Your fangs finally bite, and warm, coppery essence fills your mouth… but only after a few swallows does it hit you.

Smack in the face.

Blood strange on the tongue.

And then you feel someone drawing closer behind you, soft footfalls that make your stomach flutter, your bond snapping taught. He’s here at last.

And this man beneath your mouth isn’t him…

“Darling, I’m hurt,” you hear Astarion’s voice, perfectly clear, breath brushing down your shoulders and back, “I thought we had something special…”

You round so quickly, spitting out the stranger's blood from your mouth in utter disgust.

He’s there.

Astarion.

You curse yourself. You should have known… how did you not? He was perfect in his disguise, he was…. Your rogue. Just as he was on those nights in the camp… simple and elegant and mouthwatering. A familiar frilled shirt, ruffles of embroidered silk framing his pale and perfect chest… tightly cinched breeches that hug his every sinew and line of his thighs and bulge. A mask, black as night, gilded with embellishments shaped like the rays of the sun—a little nod to his Ascendant power.

His greatest disguise as the Vampire Ascendant— the Rogue he once was.

But it’s his lips pressed in a hardened smile, his eyes practically glowing with power, swirling with the concoction of jealousy and arousal that makes you tremble before him. Both emotions strike you in your belly, launched at you, a blade from his mind thrust into yours.

You let out a whimper, your mouth fluttering at the sight of him, your elegant rogue, your vampire lover and lord and husband and master. “Astarion,” you gasp, feeling the man’s mortal blood seeping down your lower lip. Gaping in horror at what you have done.

“Tch,” he sucks his teeth, keeping his distance, totally giving no heed to the man who staggers a bit behind you. “Well, darling, it seems you have found your entertainment for the evening already. A pity I wasn’t more forward… more aggressive to catch your… hungering attentions.”

You feel it… knowing he feels it too. Your belly aches to begin feeding once more. “No, no…” you protest, drawing a step closer, wiping your bloodied chin on the back of your sable silken glove.

“Really, my Consort, who am I to deny you your hunger?” he’s hissing. Defensive. Eyes heavily lidded, jaw tweaking as he watches you unravel before him.

“Hungry? Yes,” you pant, a feral need unlocking inside you to be so close to your love, your maker, and yet kept at arm's length. “For you, my love. I thought he was you, Astarion.”

He sniffs, derision seething in that one breath. Disdain turns playfully at his lips and darkens his crimson eyes. “I forget sometimes how new to your vampirism you are, darling,” he chides, none too gently. “You have no idea the pull you have on others… the natural way your charms will command the weakest minds to bend their necks for your teeth. No matter what ignorant fools they are, trying to take what’s mine.”

And with that, he snaps. Uncontrolled aggression embodied, a growl in his throat, Astarion flies at the poor male. His bare hand locks around the other’s bleeding neck. “Get out of my sight, out of my palace… out of my city, if you wish to survive this night, you fool.” His voice is death itself, bone chilling and sharp. And the man waits not one second more before fleeing into the night, back through the crowds.

Turning back to face you ever so slowly, he pulls off his mask, fingers tugging swiftly at the black silken ribbon behind his head. You see it in his face, the darkening of jealousy… but also the arousal in the way his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate so wide. “Well, my treasure, I’ll admit… power never looked so good on another… on anyone that wasn’t me.”

You force yourself to inhale, lungs shaking as you try to breathe. “You’re not… mad?”

“Darling, I am furious,” he hisses, closing in on you swiftly, clenching his grip hard around your throat. “You’ve done remarkably well in my absence in most ways, such a lavish soirée, even I am impressed. But,” he thrust his smirking, snarling face into yours until your noses brush, “you clearly need a swift reminding, darling, of just what you’ve been missing… of what parts of me you’ve missed.”

Grabbing at your hand, he thrusts your palm against his cock, so hard and hot through the well-oiled, skin-tight leather.

“Just like old times,” you rasp under his clutches.

“Tut, tut,” he chides you, all honey in his venom. “Nostalgia for your vampire rogue isn’t going to work on me…”

“Well,” you smirk, rubbing your hand up and down against his twitching erection, “something has…”

His lips crush yours, certainly ruining what was left of your lip paints, licking off the remnant of that poor fool’s blood from your chin, your fangs. And most assuredly, making your lips swell and bruise as he works ravenously in his kiss. He keeps your palm pressed hard on that aching rise between his legs, slow little rolls of his hips against the pressure.

“Watching you touch another… dancing with another… watching your eyes batting at him…” He breaks from his words to dart his tongue inside your mouth, licking again and again until he’s replaced all traces of that offender’s blood with only the flavor of him. “Watching you beckon him into the privacy of your presence… your lips on his skin…” His body seizes, that blend of jealousy and arousal crashing into you again four-fold. “I’ve never wanted to kill and fuck more than I do right now…”

You watch his pale chest heaving, watching every one of his veins beat with his ascendant heart, perfectly perched under his beautiful skin. Head cocking, he grips the ruffled collar of his silken shirt, tugging it wide.

Licking your lips, you feel his command: If you’re starving, daring, then feed.

You don’t need him to offer again, don’t need any other influence on your mind. Your stomach assumes control. Crown tilting askew from the pile of curls atop your head, you bite his warm and tender flesh.

And you bite hard.

Lewd, loud, trembling as if you just came… you moan right under his ear. Your mouthful of his rich, powerful blood almost spills over your lips, but you don’t dare let a drop be wasted. His hand presses harshly against the back of your neck, your curls and pins tugging at your scalp with the force. But you don’t care. Not as one hand grips into his arm to hold him steady, your other bracing on the other side of his neck to feel that raging pulse under your touch. There is nothing now that matters more than his ascendant blood on your tongue and his warm flesh beneath your lips.

“Careful, darling…” he speaks, vibrations from his silken voice shaking your lips. “I can’t be too bloodless to finish satisfying our hunger. Bad form to have the Ascendant unconscious at his own gala.”

One last, long drink and you pull off the wounds from your fangs with a pop. “Yes, my lord, how else do you think I hunger?”

Oh, he catches you by your neck once more, more playfully this time, long fingers wrapping up around your jaw. “What a stupid question for one as clever as you, my pet. You’re going to take my cock so nicely, another nice warm welcome that I know you’re craving too, darling. But first, you’ll pay nicely for your charming little transgression.” He pulls you further from the chaos and din inside your palace, deeper into the shadows. You can smell the gardens below you, the heady scent of blossoms in the air, lilacs and roses and lilies, just over the waist high wall.

And it’s over that wall you feel him spin you, laying you out carefully over its wide edge.

“Bad girl, my consort,” he leans over, his body crushing you from behind slightly to rasp right behind your ear. “Though, it was rather… intoxicating… to watch those lips redden with another’s blood… to scent your arousal so potently at the mere thought of my return. I shall be lenient, my love.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?” you jeer sweetly, a little roll of your ass against where he presses you down into the stone. “Of course, I only indulged thinking it was you playing some cheeky little game…”

He sinks his fangs into your neck, making a sharp cry pierce your words and stutter your voice.

“… should have known your games are much more fun,” you manage to add as he sucks from your veins. One hand grips behind where your crown perches, yanking at the roots of your hair and tugging your neck to a wider angle. And then he drinks quickly and deeply.

“What am I if not fun, hmm?” he purrs beneath your ear, one hand clasped around your wrist, the other begins to lift the pile of your skirts, tulle and silks and crinoline piling high on your back until you feel the night air on the back of your thighs.

Until you feel the breeze on your ass as he slips your undergarments to your knees.

“Feel free to scream, my pet. There is no one out here but us creatures of the night now….”

Smack.

His palm lands sharply on your bare cheek. A gentle rub follows the pain, fingers angling their dexterous touch slightly between your pressed thighs.

Smack.

Harder this time, fully on the other side, he spanks you. And while you grunt, muffled into your bent arms beneath your head, Astarion groans.

Loudly. Full throated.

His hand massages that freshly reddening ass this time. You feel his body bracing along your side, spank after spank making you shake with pain, only to be brush away quickly with his tender touch.

It’s maddening, making your core heat even more than before. Your hips wiggle under his fingers, hoping he might accidentally slip one or two between your folds.

But nothing Astarion does with his skilled hands is accidental or blunt— refined, precise. Perfect. “Feeling sufficiently contrite?” he purrs, moving behind you. One single hand splays on your lower back, the leather of his breeches presses behind you, almost like skin against your bare flesh.

“Yes, sorry,” you mumble into the gauzy sleeve of your dress as you bury your face.

His touch slips just a little between your cheek, your arousal running down your thigh as he spreads you just a little. “What was that, darling? You have been awfully quiet in your penance, you know…”

A single finger, nail first, creeps to where you clit lies. “Yes…. S- sorry,” you groan, lifting your head, turning just enough to see where he crouches behind you. He looks delicious in the moonlight, if you didn’t feel your bond, know your body teemed with undead power, he would look as he did all those nights on the road. That same devious smirk, same glinting, feral gaze that wants to eat you right up….

Say no more… he purrs into your mind, a delicate brush of his power making you shake. Reading your thoughts as you gaze at him.

He slaps your thighs apart, burying his face between them to do just that.

Eat you right up.

That thick tongue of his sweeps from your clit to the end of your seam.

“Scream for me,” he bids you. Your back arches, your head lifting, like a wolf in heat, you howl. Your voice ricochets off the garden wall, followed by another whimpering sound as he keeps that mouth of his sucking on your clit. Fingers spread you wider, thrusting your body back and forth as his tongue slides into your channel, his breath hot each time he breaks to swallow you down. That bliss begins to swell, relief from longing for his body for so long finally within your reach.

Until he stops. And you pant and growl in frustration as that precious wave of orgasm washes out of your reach.

One last, long sweep of his tongue, and he moves out from under you. His hands squeeze hard into your ass, marking your pale, cold flesh with his nails, just a bit. Just enough for him to know you’ll sit with hidden discomfort for the rest of the night.

“You’ve earned my forgiveness, my lovely consort,” he raps, leaning over you, crushing you to kiss against that sensitive spot behind your ear. “And I’ve been wanting to this since the moment I left your bed, my pet…”

Recognition spikes up your spine, you know that warm, blunted head that slowly begins to enter you. Contented. Happy. You sigh and arch to look back, unable to see anything below his chest beyond that ridiculous pile of your skirts over your back. His gaze is fixed on your thighs, watching your folds swallow him up, the little tip of his tongue licking the corner of his mouth.

Sweat gathers under your mask, and you know your tints and kohl and paints are wrecked by now. But you don’t care. No one would notice under your demi-mask. And it was so worth it, to feel him buried deep inside you again.

That paradox of pressure and relief. To be so full and so happy again. A belly sated by his blood, a cunt brimming with his cock. Your delicate fingers grip into the edge of the balustrade, bracing yourself to ride his thrusts. The soft whines of music a merry tempo, one he almost seems to match as he fucks you. You groan, knowing it’s just a taste of the rest of your night, knowing that once your guests have basked in your presence for long enough, you’ll steal away, spending the rest of the night in each other’s arms.

For now he ruts into you, no holding back, no mercy or tenderness now. Just that blind drive to finally join with you after so long apart. If you close your eyes, you might as well be in some clearing near the Emerald Grove, addicted to giving one another your bodies. His sweet words in your ear, little grunts as he fucks with each snap of his hips.

Same cock… same arrogance… same moonlight-bathed faces twisted in pleasure as he takes you from behind. Even the scent of blossoms in your nose… truly just like when you knew nothing more than his charm and his vampirism. And didn’t you come to love all he was… all he became… the same and yet now so much more to you.

“I missed you…” you whisper into his mind, feeling how his body has wound tight through your bond, sensing his cock’s throb, his sensation of how good it feels inside you flooding your own body.

“I know,” he replies, a growl inside your ear, a caress of fangs in your mind. He chuckles into your thoughts, until his laughter turns into real breathless pants as that tension in his body claims its release. He slams into you, once… twice… until all you feel is the twitching head of his cock emptying inside. Leaning over your once more, Astarion places a kiss into your neck one more time. “I missed you too, my love…” he whispers for your ear alone. “Never again, my treasure. It was too long… too many horridly boring, ugly people. Why waste my time with riff raff when I could have just brought you with me.”

“At least you know better now,” you simper, moaning as he pulls from inside you, those skirts brushing over the raw, tender skin of your ass. You hiss, straightening.

“As do you, my naughty consort….” He’s already slipped himself back in his breeches. Bringing you in for a devouring kiss by grabbing your reddened and punished ass. Yelping, you kiss him back, feeling his wicked smirk against your lips. Pain shoots up your spine as he crushes the hard fabrics of your skits against your flesh… nevermind that your undergarments are abandoned on the ground now…You shrug, let them be.

You have no need for them, now that he’s returned.

He pulls you by your hand back towards the gala, retrieving his mask from the terrace, quickly replacing it on his handsome face.

You smile, shaking your head at his antics, his games… his rakish, seductive smirk. Licking your thumb, you clean the lingering streaks of your blood and cum from his chin. “There now, you look presentable, my Lord,” you speak in dulcet tones, regal and refined. “The Vampire Ascendant ready for his festivities, no longer unmasked like some feral, rutting monster.” You wink, a sly smile at him.

Hand braced at the back of your neck, he crushes you once more to his mouth, one more kiss, one more cleaning lick of his own tongue on your lips and chin. “And you, a radiant Regent Consort,” he grins, hands quickly, assuredly straightening your mask and crown. As you turn to enter, he whispers against your temple one more time. “Let’s turn some heads, shall we?” He offers you his arm, a gentlemanly bow at the waist, as if he hadn’t just been ramming into you on the terrace moments ago.

You flash him a smile, head held up high, as you enter the crowd and din and lights. They part like water before you, heads bowing… even the stony-gazed face of Wyll, new Duke Ravenguard, tips slightly in deference. He knows your power, cautious to upend the delicate balance you and he have established.

But Astarion… Lord Astarion… he carries you right past the Duke’s contingent, right up the dais stairs until he’s stopped before your thrones. He stops short, says nothing but a wave to the music to continue the festivities.

They promptly obey, and he sits in his throne… and before you can sidle over to yours, he wraps an arm about your waist and settles you on his lap.

You hiss, the bone of his thigh pressing hard on his bruises and bite marks that riddle your rear.

“Something the matter, my lady?” Wyll’s formal tone hasn’t changed a bit since your days on the road.

You glance up, smiling and demure. He’s grinning politely back, concern in his stone eye. Always that suspicion underlying his gaze, that mistrust of your new… vampirism. You widen your grin and give a little bubbly laugh. Assuaging the monster hunter. “Just so pleased to have Astarion back from his travels. I’ve felt so… empty… without him.” You hide the double entendre with a regal simper and a pat on his chest.

“Not too exhausted to enjoy your evening, I hope,” Wyll asks, pausing a bit too long until he adds, “my Lord?”

“Nothing I can’t manage to savor in spite of it, Wyll,” he jerked his head with a smile, shifting you higher up on his lap, dragging those raw marks to center over his still softening cock. “Now, enjoy your festivities, old friend….” He drags his fangs over the shell of your ear sucking it between his lips, a display of his desire for all to see. “We know we will.”

🌹 thank you to @glorious-void for the fanart, and to my consort coven: @marimosalad and @brabblesblog

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Famine! inspired Reader x Nanami Kento (MDNI) (Part 1 of 2)

The empty, downtrodden drudgery of your life as a salarywoman is brought to an abrupt halt when you meet your new co-worker. The enigmatic Namami Kento ignites a hunger in you that you never dreamed possible ...

Written for the Spookinky Event hosted by the lovely @tsukimefuku !!

CW: Graphic sexual content and imagery, food play, simultaneous masturbation, body worship, oral sex (female and male receiving), unprotected sex, canon-typical violence, psychological deterioration.

Rating: M

When did your life become a series of ceaseless, hackneyed phrases, each piling on top of the next, burying you under their weight?

Your mother informs you, over your weekly supper, that a good partner won't be waiting in the wings for when you find it convenient. You'll have to go out there and 'get him'. Oddly aggressive phrasing, but you've heard it many times before. Your colleagues have stopped asking you to join them for drinks. They've all spied the growing 'to do' list pinned to the board above your desk, and they won't intervene. They recognise a lost cause when they see one.

There's no specific time frame you can pinpoint, no precise moment in the dreary, steady march of time that stands out as a clear beginning to the veil of grey that has been cast over every aspect of your life. You'd never flatter yourself enough to think that you deserved that much more.

You look average. Your career has been stuck in limbo for some time. Your fractional increase per year has gone largely unnoticed with the rate of inflation. You always go to the same grocery store after work. You cook a regular menu, one that's simple and requires little effort. Your knees have begun to hurt in the evenings and you've been finding a few more silver strands every time you give your hair a cursory brush in the smudged bathroom mirror.

The broken gutter above your balcony allows water to get into your apartment after heavy rains. You haven't called the landlord to get someone to fix it, even though it happened six months ago. You'll get round to it, one of these days.

It isn't that you don't want something better for yourself. You do. You really do. But you're just so tired all the time and the energy required to 'get things done' never seems to materialize. It's so much easier to vegetate in front of a newly released comedy show than touch up your CV, or go to the salon, or dust your shelves or go to that new home store and buy new bedsheets.

A thousand deferred dreams, and they never get any closer. Until you meet him, that is.

When he is first introduced to the team at the office, the cursory welcome sticker placed on his desk alongside some generic coffee mug gift, you don't take much notice of him. He is tall, blonde, his steady brown eyes seemingly staring past everyone he meets, a certain immovable melancholy present there.

He blends into the never-ending array of salarymen you meet daily, in the course of your job, almost as if intentionally. You see him in passing a few times, and you've actually forgotten his name a few weeks after he's become a regular fixture at the office. Such is the nature of things.

And then he is assigned to work on a project with you, and you have to sneak a glance at the name at the top of his profile sheet to save yourself the embarrassment of asking again.

Nanami Kento.

A name that suits a decisive man. You're not sure if it suits him. He seems ... lost. He is confident and earnest in his demeanor, but there is always something distant about him, as if his body and mind function on one plane, and his emotions in another. His voice is beautiful, though.

Deep, mellow, arresting and quiet, Nanami speaks and people listen. The monotonous inflection is imbued with something more, a potential for variation that you've never heard from him. He never raises his voice. He never speaks out of turn. He never uses that captivating richness of tone to draw attention to himself.

He is a man entirely self-contained. Your interest in him grows a little, after that brief time spent working together.

You've always experienced dreams of a vivid nature. When you were little, you'd woken with wet cheeks and a hoarse voice, your mother's arms around you, warm, warm, cradling you like the ocean. Even worse, you remembered your dreams, unlike many of the other children at school. All of them dreamed, and all of them forgot those dreams as soon as they'd woken up. You'd asked, and none of them recalled things quite like you did.

For a while now, the dreams had been dormant. Something in your recent life, however, had brought them back to the surface.

The first inkling you had of it was the dream of a feast. You are seated at a long table, laid with the most sumptuous food that wouldn't look out of place at a five star eatery. The table cloth is barely visible beneath the platters of stir-fried vegetables and meat, large crockpots of hearty stews, thinly sliced fish, raw and smoked, tiered rows of sandwiches, freshly fried croquettes, beautifully crafted dim sum, slices of succulent, finely marbled wagyu sizzling on stone plates.

You approach with trepidation, wondering who on earth this food had been laid out for. Surely not you? Where was the catch? Experimentally, you pick up a small croquette and nibble at it, eyes widening at the unexpected perfection of flavour and texture. This was good. Better than good, it was delectable.

You waited (only for a minute) before taking another croquette. This one went into the small bowl of dipping sauce before you took a larger bite. Still, nothing happened. Was this all ... really here for you? Just so you could ... enjoy yourself and indulge?

When you turn, a chair is placed conveniently beside you. You hadn't noticed it before. There was just a single chair, so this confirmed that it would just be you. Fingers slightly slick with oily remnants from the fried, golden morsels, you drag the chair closer and sit, still looking around warily. You still haven't found those consequences.

You eat, slowly at first. Strange. The thing that puzzled you was how you became hungrier the more you partook of. The sandwiches were soft and light, so it was no wonder you managed to finish quite a few of those. The tea was warm and superbly steeped, so you didn't find its soothing effect unusual. It was when you realized that you'd emptied out an entire pot of cream stew, wiped up the remnants with bread, and then went on to demolish five stacked baskets of steamed pork dumplings and a whole platter of mapo tofu, that you knew that there was a problem.

It was too delicious. You couldn't stop. You'd never stop. You'd continue feasting on these perfectly prepared dishes until -

The bedroom is still dark when you sit upright abruptly, your nightshirt damp with sweat, hair in disarray. Flinging aside the covers, you barely process the fact that this is the first vivid dream you've had in ten years before you shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. Your bleary eyed self stares back from the mirror, and maybe it's that morning film over the eyes that makes your reflection seem like that of a stranger.

Shortly after this, you are assigned to work on another project with Nanami. There is something different, this time, about working alongside him. You suddenly find yourself more aware of him than others around you, of the subtle way he would shuffle his papers every fifteen minutes or so, of the sound of the small cough he gave when he'd been sitting for too long directly under the air conditioning, of the set of his mouth when he saw something he didn't approve of, of the precise manner with which he set his chair before sitting down. 

Naturally, you pay more attention to his appearance too. He was obviously a man who took good care of himself, but in a mechanical, rather soulless fashion. His hair was always clean and perfectly arranged, his shoes polished to high shine, suits impeccably laundered and pressed. He was always clean shaven, not a nick or cut in sight, testament to the extreme steadiness and strength of his hand.

Speaking of strength, Nanami was obviously no slouch in the fitness department. Although somewhat disguised under the square-cut, dull nature of his suits, he was broad-shouldered, the curve and dip of powerful, sinewed arms visible through his shirt in warmer weather, the natural grace of his stride a testament to his confidence in his own physicality.

But something was lacking; a certain fundamental warmth that you'd seen in others, something that placed them firmly in the world of the living. Nanami was like a ghost vessel, attention always trained on the horizon, slicing his way through the waters of daily life with unerring certainty towards a goal nobody could fathom.

(Did he?)

On the third day of working together, you ask him if he wants to try the new cafe that opened up a few blocks away from your building. He puts his pen down with that precise little motion you've come to find familiar and turns to you, giving you his full attention. He considers for a moment, before nodding and collecting his coat.

You both head out of the building into the chilly spring air, the bite of it fresh and stinging. Emerging from the office was often a surreal experience. You wonder if this is how fish feel when removed from the tank, the comfort of their sluggish, waterlogged existence snatched away to the foreigness of what lies outside, and they flounder, suffocated.

Taking a bracing breath, you glance across at Namami. He hasn't said much at all since you've both left the office.

"Do you even like sandwiches?" you query.

He nods slightly.

"Yes. I'm actually quite fond of them."

"Oh. I didn't want you to agree to come along just to be polite."

"I wouldn't have agreed for such a reason. I also felt the need to get out of the office for a bit."

You noted how that was phrased. You'd never mentioned to him that you'd felt for some fresh air.

Within ten minutes, you've arrived at the small cafe, the cosy interior lit with vintage-style lamps and the dark wood tables set with pristine white tablecloths, heavy chairs with cushioned red leather seats pulled back for you by the wait-staff.

You pause suddenly, one hand bracing on the back of the chair. A dizzying sense of  déjà vu asserts itself, and you take a moment to find your bearings, your heart rate accelerating slightly.

This was all ... familiar. The table, the type of chair you'd placed your hand upon, the lamps casting their gentle glow from above. This was very similar to what you'd seen in your dream the other night, the dream of the feast.

You look up, mouth opening to formulate some excuse for your hesitation, when you see how Nanami is looking at you. Gone is the distant, detached expression, the hazy attention that passes across and then beyond you. Those eyes of his are now laser focused, the bronze and green of his irises lit from within with a sudden clarity and sharpness that momentarily takes your breath away.

He reaches slowly for your arm and a small line appears between his brows.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Just a little dizzy spell. Recently I've ... not been sleeping well."

He nods and turns that gaze away from you, and you let out a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding. Your legs feel a little shaky, but now there is something else, something you can't quite put a finger on.

And when your food arrives, you're struck by that same sensation, and you wonder how you'd never noticed how hungry you were at the office. Shouldn't you have taken your lunch break earlier if you were this ravenous?

In spite of the sudden development of your appetite, you eat slowly and appreciatively, taking note of how your current companion relishes his own food. He is enjoying the brie and prosciutto combination, and you catch the vague scent of some kind of pickle, a vinaigrette and some garlic spread on the bread. You don't think your senses have ever been so attuned to food before.

You take the opportunity to watch him discreetly as you both eat in silence. The gleam of his wristwatch is now visible, the cold metal juxtaposed against the faint cloud of blonde hair on his wrist, a halo across his skin as the sunlight coming through the window catches it. He has firm, pale lips that soften at the corners when he savours his food and strong, blunt edged, elegant fingers, long and mobile.

You realise that your plate is now empty. He looks up at you, pausing in chewing momentarily, and you wonder if he can see the rapidly concealed hunger in your glance.

You are no idiot when it comes to matters of the heart. Or loins, as the case may be here. Nanami's demeanor screams of a man who is emotionally unavailable, and so naturally, you feel a burgeoning attraction to him. You can't place your finger on why you have fixated on him. He does his best to blend in with others, but somehow fails miserably to do so in your eyes.

He is very handsome, there is no doubt about that, but this isn't it. Not entirely. There is something about him, a certain hidden vitality that lies just beneath the surface, some secret current that runs through his veins that draws you along like a hapless fish to a lure.

When sitting beside him in the office, you are hyper aware of every move he makes, the rustle of his sleeve against the tabletop, the shift of his shirt across the firm planes of his broad chest, the slight upward nudge his long legs make under the table when he has been seated for extended periods. Sometimes, when he has been moving around a lot, he tucks his tie into his shirt pocket and rolls up his sleeves, the top of his pen tucked into the corner of his mouth when his hands are occupied. You have to remind yourself not to stare.

It is then only a matter of time before Nanami finds his way into your dreams. As vivid as they had been, none of your previous ventures into the subconscious quite compare to this one.

The table has been laid out for you once more, but with one staple addition. Nanami Kento is seated at the other end. He is attired in his pinstripe suit, a white shirt and dark tie beneath, hands folded primly on the tabletop. He appears as usual, except for the eyes. There is something there, in those gleaming depths, flecked with amber in the dim, intimate light, that ignites a terrible, terrible call in your gut.

You have never seen Nanami look at you like this before. The plethora of steaming, succulent dishes forms a bridge of earthly delights, each pearl of glistening condensation a pathway to the answering hunger in his countenance. That lambent gaze rakes over you, even as he adopts a posture of disciplined dignity, lingering on your eyes, your mouth, the base of your throat, the plunge of your neckline, the dip of your hips, all along their outer curve, until he focuses on the shifting shadows between your thighs. Something at the corners of his eyes tightens, his regard snapping up to you once more, gauging your response.

Your breathing has accelerated, your palms damp with sweat. You take a few steps forward, approaching the table. In the hazy dreamscape, there is no need for speech. It is as if your consciousness is connected to his through some form of commonality of desire.

You drag the chair out from where it stands, stepping in front of it, but you do not sit down. You reach up, now transfixed by the man across from you, like the hapless prey of a swaying cobra, and pull down the straps of your chemise, letting it fall to the gathering point of your waist. Your breasts, nipples pebbled and at attention, stand proud as you face him, watching his eyes drop down to them, something uncoiling in their depths.

He remains motionless, the picture of restraint as your fingers gather at the fine material bunched around you and slowly draw it down your hips, thighs, knees, ankles. Once it lies puddled on the floor, you step out of it and send it flying away from you with a sharp motion of your foot. All that is left is your underwear, and this receives similar treatment, tugged with gentle deliberation down to your feet and shuffled away.

You stand before him, fully nude, and note that he has not partaken of any of the food laid out in front of him. He is completely, utterly, fixated on you, knuckles now as white as the tablecloth, Adam's apple bobbing, a shimmer of moisture visible on his brow.

You smile and place one hand delicately on the table, reaching across for a tray of the richest looking sliced mangoes you've ever seen. One bite releases a flood of the sweetest juice imaginable, and you quickly reach for more, licking the fingers of your hand and your palm clean as Nanami, out of the corner of your eye, shifts around in his seat. You catch the hand that drifts upwards to loosen his tie, and you imagine the silky material sliding down, away from the firm lines of his throat and jaw.

Choosing to eat with only one hand, you pause, scanning the table. Your appetite is increasing, as always, but this time, you're more selective. There is a platter of grapes and cheese closer to your end,  and you pluck a handful of the ripe, large, heavy-hanging fruit from the bunch, each the colour of a newly-formed bruise.

You place some in your mouth, slowly backing towards the chair, seating yourself in it. Raisimg your knees, you place your heels on the soft, red leather, spreading outwards until Nanami has a clear view across the table, of a different kind of feast laid out for him.

Something in his demeanor snaps, then. He utters a low, smoky groan that you can hear from where you sit, and stands abruptly, taking you in. The desire he has been subtly showing is now on full display, in the narrowing of those earnest eyes, the deepening of the shadows around them, the way his chest rises and falls beneath the thin white shirt, the jacket long discarded.

As you reach down with your free hand, sliding down, between your breasts, across the softness of your abdomen, down between your thighs, you whimper at the increasing sensitivity of your own body. Your folds, once your fingers reach them, are a slick mess, and you moan loudly, eyelids fluttering as your hips press upwards from the plushness of the leather. 

Nanami utters a small grunt, and you glance over at him again from beneath your lashes. Now there is, by far, the most delicious sight at this table. His tie has been thrown across his shoulder, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, giving a tantalizing view of a firm expanse of tawny skin, the darker stands of hair forming an upward divergence between his clearly defined pectorals. Sleeves rolled up, the flex and shift of planes of muscle and tendon in his powerful forearms are visible as he slowly undoes the button and zipper of his trousers, hand sliding within to free his straining length. Soft sounds of effort escape his throat as his palm finds purchase, gripping the base of his cock, unmoving as he waits in anticipation for your next move.

The greatest delicacy, of course, was the expression he wore. Nanami was a reserved man, some unspoken barrier between himself and the rest of the world. The Nanami of your dream, however, opened himself to you, a tremor in his frame of barely reigned control , soft, panting breaths escaping slightly parted lips, the soft blonde hair in damp disarray on his brow. The severe lines of his cheek and jaw had mellowed from sheer, wanton bliss, the fierceness of his desire tracing paths of heat across your body where his gaze fell.

Holding the grapes like pearls between your teeth, you began to move your fingers, tightly controlled motions rocking you slightly back and forth as you gasp and throw back your head.

In some other place and time, you would never act this bold, this unrestrained, but this dream is yours, and you will be whoever and whatever you want to be here. Nanami's deep groans and pants, the slick sound of your fingers as they circle, stroke and tease you to each tiny peak of pleasure, combine to form a symphony that fills and stretches you breaking point.

Some shining point of equilibrium has been reached, some fine, quivering, golden thread that winds amongst the steaming feast between you both, binding your pleasure completely to his. Your hunger is being beaten back, the glorious taste of power under your tongue, dissolving like a thousand crystalline points of exquisite heat that flood your bloodstream all at once.

The heady influx of pure, undiluted beauty fills your eyes until they overflow, an outpouring of all the emptiness and desolation you've ever felt, every space left by dead dreams filled to the brim by him, him, him, and ...

A choked cry escapes you, feet giving way under the powerful spasms that jerk your body convulsively, and you force your eyes open. You have to see this, have to take it all in if you want the hunger to go away. Nanami is gripping the table, legs spread, feet planted firmly as his fist works with deliberate, measured strokes along his weeping, flushed cock. The tendons of his neck stand out, sweat trickling down his temple, the firm line of his mouth now open, harsh breaths breaking past his teeth.

Your climax strikes like an electric storm, teeth finally clamping down fully on the sweet fruit between them, their juice running dark down your chin. A muffled keening escapes your slightly open lips, one that sounds almost alien in its complete abandon. Your legs give way, feet striking the floor as your back arches right off the chair, a perfect hyperbola suspended, quivering, for a few moments.

Your cries die down to soft gasps, throat relaxing as you shakily swallow the crushed remnants of the grapes, and Nanami lets out an explosive groan, glistening, pearly fluid splattering over the tablecloth before him; an offering on the altar of your satiation.

You sit up, body taut and still tender. You want to reach for him, to trace the softened edges of those harsh lines, to possess what you know isn't yours and he -

dissipates to the sight of your bedroom ceiling, the shift of light across it from a vehicle moving past on the street outside. Your body is an inferno of heat and sweat beneath the soaked sheets, the slickness between your thighs a testament to sexual release that had been as real to you as the hunger that had now completely vanished.

You thought that you might feel shame, that your spirit would retreat into itself as it always did, once you faced him in the office again. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror wouldn't allow any of that, though. You frowned as you brushed across the healthy flush in your cheeks, the new, bright dewiness of your eyes, the vitality that seemed to infect your expressions, the mobile readiness of your mouth to curve into a rare smile.

Who was this person? What was happening to you?

It wasn't a question asked in fear. You could appreciate this new you, this appetite for more. Surely it was time? Maybe your body was simply metamorphosizing, ready to break into the mold of the new, a physical rebellion against the oppressive regime of work, home, work, sleep, work, eat that had emptied you out like a water tank in a drought.

Maybe Nanami had been the trigger. It was highly possible. You knew that your current preoccupation with him was sexual, and in a very strong sense, stronger than any you'd felt before. It had begun to startle you sometimes, when you visited the bathroom after having been seated next to him, finding that your arousal had dampened your underwear to the extent that you need to freshen up before heading back to the office.

You'd never had this kind of physical response to anyone before, and even your burgeoning sexuality as a teenager and young woman could never match the intensity of what you felt at present. And now, there was this dream to contend with.

It was as if there was a bottomless pit, extending all the way from your throat down to your loins, a single track of fathomless darkness, filled with unknown stars, that reached from the gateway of your teeth down, down, into the icy heat of infinity.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[s0fter-sin]

remember my vampire au where they can only drink the same blood type they were before they were turned? and how i kind of glossed over how ghost escaped roba’s starvation pit?

(cw gore)

he uses his anger and desire for vengeance to distract from the bloodthirst; holds the wretched heat of them close to keep his will strong enough to withstand the urge to feed from the toxic humans roba torments him with, dotted around his bar-less prison like a mocking, poisoned banquet before the destitute

the venom in his fangs turns on him, eating away at his gums and working into his calcified veins; desperately searching for safe blood, for an end to this slow death. it drips from his slack mouth, burning away his lips after melting the sinew in his jaw to the point that he can’t close his mouth anymore; his flat, human teeth loose and falling out by the day with nothing to hold them to his porous jaw

even then, ghost doesn’t waver

until finally, enough time passes that roba's underlings deem him weakened to the point of harmlessness

they get sloppy when they dump the carcasses into the pit; getting closer and closer to the edge and paying less and less attention to the starved, melting vampire left amongst the decomposition

they don't see the body ghost sequestered away; one of the first, festered and putrid, hidden under the ever growing pile and left to be forgotten

they don't see the calculating edge in his eye as he watches its flesh rot and soften; waving it off as longing, as hunger as he looks into eyes melting from their sockets

they don't see ghost sink his fingers into the rotting caverns, giving him the perfect grip to rock the head back and forth as he stares at the hand-dug dirt walls of his prison. ceaseless, repetitive movements, bone grinding on bone, muscle tearing from flesh as he slowly rips the skull free from its spine

they don't see ghost rear back and, using all the hatred and loathing he's let build in the long weeks of his hollow imprisonment, throw it at the vampire about to drop another caustic human on him; striking him in the head and tipping him off balance so he falls...

directly into ghost's waiting arms and starved fangs

[rotworld]

26: Swan Song

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

the sorcerer-king of the fallows is neither alive nor dead. he's the only one who can help you now. you just hope he isn't holding a grudge from the last time you saw each other.

->original work. contains graphic descriptions of gore and decay, forced/political marriage, mass murder, memory loss.

.

.

.

No one would believe you if you told them that the Fallows were once the gem of Tiralossa. They would question if this twisted, sickly swampland is really known by such a pastoral name.

But it was, and it is. The trees were not always jagged, malformed things, pale like bone. The grasses were green and gold and swayed gently in the wind, unlike this sparse gray prickliness jutting from the mud. Where there is now turbid water and soggy peat, there was once a small kingdom in its budding springtime youth. The boughs of orchard trees grew heavy with succulent fruit and petals danced in the Meadowlands on sweet-smelling breezes. 

There are few who remember it and many who are eager to forget. A curse lingers here. You can feel it the moment your shoes sink into the damp, clinging muck and the chilly fog curls around your skin. The wind carries the sound of distant screams and the scent of blood. No birds sing and no beasts graze. The Fallows hunger for anything that dares to live with a lover’s eagerness. Bodies claimed by the mire remain where they fell years after, preserved in grim, gaunt-faced stillness by the murky waters of the bog. 

It wants you, too. The land fights you for every step. The mud suckles at your shoes and sloshes around the ends of your cloak, trying to drag you into the embrace of the swamp. The trees sway towards you with their twisted, grasping limbs. You trudge through fog that sticks like cobwebs. The wind is cold breath on the back of your neck and a ceaseless, seductive whisper.

“Rest your head, lovely one,” it purrs purrs. “Come back into my arms.” Several times, your feet are caught in a snare of tangled, waterlogged grasses that feel like hands wrapped around your ankles. But you move slowly and calmly, trudging onward through the gloom. The Fallows coos and sighs your name. It will not try to trap you in earnest yet, not while you walk deeper into its forever decaying heart.

You walk until you find the ruins. Only the strongest stonework has survived the ravages of time, crumbling pillars and lone, lichen-speckled arches half-sunken in the mud. There is a circular patch of rough, weatherbeaten flooring that was once fine terrazzo marble, the colorful speckles dulled and covered in moss. The air feels different here. You stand in the center and you think you can hear the clink of crystal goblets and the distant laughter. With a deep breath and great reluctance, you lift your hand and cast the sigils of beckoning. 

“I seek an audience with Erazem, Sorcerer-King of the Fallows,” you declare. Your magic is a weak, strangled trickle, barely enough to conjure a sprout to bloom, but it doesn’t matter. Your call doesn’t have to reach the far side of the Veil. 

The air shifts when you speak the words. You hear music and clattering footsteps, the sounds of a ballroom. Stone scrapes stone and walls rebuild. The old palace does not appear in its former glory but as a decrepit phantom. Torches burn with eerie blue flame and climbing vines snake through the spaces in the walls and floor. 

You see silhouettes, the layered gowns and puffed doublets of courtiers slipping past the corner of your vision. They slink just beyond the grasp of shadows but you glimpse them in those fleeting moments when they dance close. Glassy eyes and blue lips. Ragged silks and water-stained cloaks. Desiccation and decay. Their steps are squelching, leaving muddy footprints behind. Some are missing hands, or eyes, or lower jaws. Are they ghosts or restless corpses? They watch you and whisper. 

“Do my eyes deceive me?” 

The darkness churns. A shadow slips free, inky tendrils falling away to reveal a tall figure in a trailing robe of black and indigo. It was a beautiful garment once, each draping layer glimmering softly as if woven from the night sky, but its luster has faded. The long sleeves hang limp and tattered. The cinching sash at the waist is gone and it hangs open, revealing not flesh but the pale line of a sternum and the delicate curl of a ribcage. Behind bars of bone, a still heart emanates a sickly green glow.

The Sorcerer-King steps forward gracefully, the ragged black train of his robe crusted and dragging with moss and filth. Glowing emerald eyes peer at you from behind a curtain of long, unkempt hair, black as ink and flat with dampness as if he just crawled out of a watery grave. He draws closer, stopping on the other side of a circular tile in the center of the floor with the floral crest of his fallen kingdom adorning the stone. Close enough to reach out and touch. You watch each other carefully.

“Erazem,” you greet him.

He nods. “Consort.” His lips don’t move when he speaks and his voice is an echo, a sound that fills your head.

“I’m not your consort.” 

“You would have been,” he says wistfully. “You nearly were. And here, where time does not truly pass, you nearly are forevermore. The anticipation grows unbearable at times.” He glances down and presses a hand to his ribs, the ghostly light of his frozen heart glimmering between his slender fingers. 

“I need your help,” you admit. 

Erazem’s gaze meets yours.  His lips, dry, cracked and bloodlessly pale, stretch into a smile. “My help?” he echoes, savoring the word. “How curious. Do tell. Would you like to sit?” 

He gestures to an armchair that wasn’t there before, shiny red velvet on a wooden frame. It’s situated beside a tall arched window. Beyond the glass, a raging inferno runs wild across the Fallows. It’s not a natural fire but a magical one, vivid green and moving with predatory intent. It races across the hills and tears through the orchards, snatching birds from the air and slithering up the walls of half-timbered houses to crawl through the windows. 

It does not burn what it catches. It rots them. Skin turns loose and sloughing, spotted with mold and festering necrosis. Joints soften, hands falling apart one finger at a time. Eyes dribble liquid from drooping sockets and hair falls out in scalp-sticky clumps. And they won’t die. The fire won’t let them. They will rot, they will fall apart, they will writhe in the mud and scream until their lungs are shriveled, but they will not die. 

One cannot risk a killing curse against a conjurer, for every conjurer is capable of retaliating with a curse of their own at the moment of their death. And so the fire binds but does not burn, rots but does not kill, and the Fallows becomes both alive and dead, kingdom and prison, for all of time.

Your stomach churns and you turn away from the window. The haunting glow of the curse-fire flickers against Erazem’s face. 

“We are a fickle people, are we not?” he muses. “One day, I am the true king and chosen one. The next, I am a tyrant deserving of an execution that never ends.” 

“You’re missing several steps in the middle,” you tell him.

His shoulders shake with soft laughter. “There is that blistering honesty I have missed so terribly. Tell me, what became of the one who destroyed my fledgling kingdom?” 

You swallow hard. “He was pardoned.” 

“Perhaps I should be flattered,” Erazem says. “To be hated so terribly that the Conclave could excuse the undeath of everyone unfortunate to live under my rule—”

“He wants to marry me.” 

Erazem says nothing for a moment. Eerie, unnatural silence fills the air. His court is motionless and speechless, even the softest scandalized whisper suddenly gone, the dark droplets hanging from the tips of their hair refusing to fall. The air is frigid. The oppressive damp stench of the swamp fills your lungs. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek no more firmly than spider’s silk. Curtains peel back and a new window opens on your other side, the light pouring through it almost blindingly bright. You don’t look because you don’t have to. You know what he sees. 

That’s the rosy glow of a castle dining hall you know all too well. You’ve served there for several years now, a royal conjurer in the court of its king. You owe him. You have ever since you fled the Fallows years ago, stealing away in the night to escape a king who grew ever more covetous and an engagement you did not want. Most would not have accepted you upon hearing where you’d come from. Most would have turned you away, not willing to risk the ire of the Sorcerer-King. But there was great need for a conjurer and you would do anything asked of you. Anything at all.

Anything but this. 

“A political marriage.” Erazem’s gaze as he looked through the window frightens you. He could be warm and kind and endlessly charming, but he could also be unfathomably cold and cruel. He liked to hold you when he returned from the dungeons, still drenched in the blood and viscera of those who displeased him. “Ironic. What drove you to him now drives you back to me. And your groom-to-be, skilled cursewielder that he is…” He pauses, turning his cold gaze upon you. Before you can shrink away, he rips at your cloak and the robes underneath. He clicks his tongue when you fight and struggle against him and flicks his fingers, his magic sapping away your strength. 

He is your opposite, as always. Your magic is beckoning and growth, the swell of life. 

His is banishment and withering, the void of death. 

You sag in his arms and he wraps an arm around you as though to dip you in a waltz. He leans in, his hair falling in a black curtain that blocks out everything but the curse-fire green of his eyes. His other hand tugs at the neckline of your clothes until he finds what he was looking for—a mark of binding, raised and discolored like a scar, seared into your chest. “I wondered why your call to me was such a faint whisper. Your magic is trapped.” He traces the mark with his thumb, smiling bitterly. “Why did I never think of that?”

You fight not to shiver when his eyes flick up to your face. You knew the risks when you came here. If you had any other choice, you would’ve taken it. But the binding is unbreakable, as absolute and endless as the fire that claimed the Fallows. You would rather lose your magic entirely than have to coax it from the whims of a mercurial, kingdom-annihilating husband. 

Erazem chuckles. “I jest,” he says. He covers the mark and lets you go, watching with faint amusement as you stagger and fight to stay on your feet. “Such a thing is beneath me. I would have had your heart in time.” He paces, his hands clasped behind his back, circling you slowly. “You were right to come to me. No other can aid you. Even in life, I may have lacked the power to fully remove such a curse. But now…” He shuts the window to your loathsome past with the flick of his rest. Green light sizzles around his fingers and his skin grows translucent. 

You watch him warily, clutching your torn clothes together to shield your skin from the chilly air. “And in return?” you ask.

He chuckles and the sound echoes in your head. “What do you think I might ask for in return, my consort?” 

“Isn’t there anything else I can give you? Anything else you want?” 

He turns towards the other window, watching the Fallows die and live and die again. “I have my kingdom. I have my courtiers and my subjects. I have power unlike anything I could even imagine before. I have life everlasting, such as it is. There is only one thing I yearn for.” He looks back at you and your heart skips a beat.

There he is, just as you remember him. That’s the kind face that greeted you when you first arrived, trembling and afraid in the back of a carriage. Those are the lips that kissed the back of your hand and spoke an oath that you would be free here, unbound by any obligation. He was a conjurer, too. He understood what hardship you had faced, how you had been used and traded and sent into battle. It would not happen again.

“We are fallow,” said the Sorcerer-King, your husband to be, as he tucked a flower plucked from the Meadowlands behind your ear. “We have been pruned and prodded and beaten down to give them what they desire. This is our season of rest, my treasure. You will bloom when you are ready, not before.”

Tears sting your eyes. You love him almost as much as you fear him. “Will it hurt?” you ask hoarsely.

Erazem smiles softly. “It will sting for a moment. A prick to the skin, over the mark. You will not feel the rest.” He holds out his hand, flames swirling around his fingers and dancing in his palm. “I will be gentle. I always am, with you.” 

Your hand is shaking. The air above his palm is frigid and frost kisses your skin. When you touch him, he closes his fingers gently around yours and pulls you into his arms. You squeeze your eyes shut but the pain never comes. For a time, he just holds you. He buries his face against your neck, breathing in your scent. One of his hands drifts down to your back and he starts to move slowly, his other hand still clasping yours. He encourages you to move with him. To come forward when he steps back. To follow his gentle swaying. 

He’s dancing, you realize. Leading you in the smooth, romantic steps he taught you years ago, a waltz unique to the Fallows. His smile brightens when you meet his gaze almost shyly, self-conscious just like you were the first time he brought you to the ballroom for a private lesson. You press close together, chest to chest. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.

You smell flowers. 

Startled, you open your eyes to the silvery glint of starlight. Erazem spins you and your steps click smoothly over a smooth, polished stone floor. You’re surrounded by the revelry and excitement of a grand ball, colorful tapestries hanging on the walls. A star-conjurer has lit the tall, muraled ceiling with constellations and a false moon and everything is deep, midnight blue. Through the stone-framed rounded windows, you see the Fallows—rolling hills and lush, verdant trees, sparkling lakes and thatch-roof houses. 

“Love?” 

You look up into soft hazel eyes. He’s wearing his finest robes, the starry ones that fold across his body with elegant, billowing sleeves and a sash at his waist with silver embroidery, but his hair is unruly as always. It’s coming loose from the single long braid he tied it in earlier, unraveling on his shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Your face feels unbearably hot and your eyes are stinging like you’re about to cry. You look around the ballroom, trying to get your bearings. When did you get here? “I don’t know,” you say, your throat constricted and your voice thin. “I…I feel like I just woke up. Like I was having a nightmare.” 

His expression softens. “Would you like to sit down?” 

“No.” You hold onto him tightly. “Please. Just hold onto me.” 

“Of course.” He sways gently, keeping you close. “Is there something on your mind?” he asks, his voice quiet and gentle. Your heart is racing and your palms are slick with sweat. “You can tell me. I will listen, I promise. I would do anything to put your mind at ease.”

“Would you wait?” you whisper.

Erazem tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait?” 

“Would you…” You look around nervously. At the tapestries with the royal crest, and the false moonlight, and the courtiers gathered with smiles and congratulations on their lips. “Would you postpone the wedding?” Erazem doesn’t answer and your fear builds to shivering panic. “I always knew this would happen to me,” you admit, the words coming quick and quivering with fresh tears. “I’m a conjurer. Of course I knew. This is what happens to us, we get traded around and married off and whatever else we have to do. And this is the best thing I could ever hope for, marrying a king who’s like me. But I’m still sad, and I’m still afraid. You scare me sometimes. I don’t think you mean to, but you do. And I just, I don’t—”

“Love.” Erazem cradles your face in his hands, his thumb swiping away a tear just as it starts to fall. His eyes are shining like he’s about to cry, too. “Of course I can wait.” 

You inhale shakily. Your heart feels lighter. Why were you so sure he would refuse? You had the strangest feeling of deja vu until just a moment ago. “Really?” you ask sheepishly. 

“Yes,” he says. He really is crying. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him do that before. His tears keep coming, sliding down his cheeks and gathering on his chin. “Darling, I will wait as long as you want me to. We…” He stops, swallows, and wipes his face with his hand. “We have all the time in the world.”

No one would have believed you if you told them that the Fallows was once the gem of Tiralossa before, but for just one night, they would. Tonight, for just a moment, they say the fog cleared and the gloom lifted. The thin, crooked trees were great giants with fruit so plentiful it weighed down their leafy branches. The grass was golden and green and pillow-soft, and the green hills seemed to stretch on forever. They say the Meadowlands bloomed beneath the full moon in such joyous splendor that it smelled like spring for miles.

[voraciousvore]

The Tiny (Chapter 2)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Content Warning: Vore themes

Word Count: 1956

------ Chapter 2: The Beginning ------

I’m lonely. 

It’s a bitter pill to swallow. I should be happy, after all. I should be grateful for what I have, and pleased with my humble, peaceful little life. I’m blessed with a career with a good balance, that both pays reasonably well and allows me to pursue my passion. I don’t have to live a hateful existence in the crowded, grimy, bustling city. I’m lucky enough to inhabit a pleasant, rustic little cottage out in the woods. I’m surrounded by acres of fresh air, scenic hills, wildflowers, grass, trees—and solitude. A solitude that at one time I found blissful, but now cuts to my core like a knife. 

I have friends and family, of course. I was never much of a social person, though, and I allowed all my relationships to lapse and languish. And my father—well. The gulf between us may never recover. I can’t forgive him for mistreating me, and he can’t forgive me for being a disappointment. He’s mellowed out a bit since I was a boy, but the frigid, condescending gaze that he always gives me, boring into me with that cyclopean eye of his, wounds deeper than any beatings he bestowed upon me in the past. 

So now I lay here as I do every evening, in my lonely abode, struggling to hold back the tide of despair. Some days, I feel like giving up. I don’t know what I want, really. I suppose, just like everyone else, I want to be loved. I want to be valued, to be someone’s whole world, rather than being a worthless nobody, crumbling under expectations that I can never hope to fulfill. I want this terrible abyss inside me, this ceaseless hunger, to dissolve away. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I sigh as I stare out at the blackened sky, listening to the steady tapping of rain hitting the roof. 

Just as my eyelids begin to droop with resigned fatigue, in the deepest hour of the night, a bolt of blinding blue streaks across the window. I jolt up in bed, as if electrified, while the ominous crash of thunder rolls overhead. That was no ordinary lightning. In a flash as sudden as the light, my need for sleep vanishes, and my hunting drive is awakened. The magical lightning is rare, but it invariably brings bounty. My skin prickles with excitement as I throw on some clothes and boots. I don’t care if it’s raining. I hastily slide into my raincoat as I head out into the storm. 

I journey towards the general direction of where the lightning struck. It must’ve been close, judging by the timing of the thunder. I sniff the air, but all I can smell is water, mud, and vegetation. I huff with annoyance as I prowl through the trees. I didn’t bring a flashlight, for I wouldn’t want to scare off my timid and unwary prey, but I can see well enough through the misty haze. I’m a natural predator, after all. 

My stomach growls with anticipation as I patiently search. I haven’t eaten any fresh human meat in a very long time, since humans are so rare to find in the Land of Giants. They only come with the lightning, transported from their world unaware and unprepared, so they don’t last long with so many hungry giants around. It’s been years since I’ve eaten one, but I’ll never forget their special flavors, unique to each individual. I lick my lips at the reminder and swallow with longing. No other food sates like a live human in your belly. 

I’ve been walking for a long while now. Just as the sour tinge of disappointment begins to settle over me, I spot a faint light, hovering near the ground. I stop in my tracks and observe, not moving a muscle. My blood pulses faster as I recognize the familiar gait of a diminutive bipedal creature. A human. Oblivious to my presence, it walks towards me, the beam of light sweeping side to side. The human is lost and confused, as they always are upon entering our foreign lands. I take advantage of the cover of darkness and lie in wait, observing hungrily. My prey won’t escape my grasp. 

The small figure stops, directing the light down to stare at an oversized leaf beneath its feet. After an extended pause, the flashlight makes another round, illuminating pebbles and sticks that must look like trees to such a tiny being. The beam is too weak to reach me through the sheets of rain, but the human appears to notice my silhouette against the backdrop of the night as its head, smaller than a pea, rotates up. I remain as motionless as a statue, heart beating harder. I watch with fascination as the human approaches closer and closer, failing to show any sign of fear. It doesn’t understand what it’s viewing; it doesn’t know I’m here. 

I resist the compulsion to reach down, snatch up the miniscule being, and stuff it into my voracious maw. The minutest seed of doubt sprouts in my brain, dampening my enthusiasm. As much as I yearn to devour, to rip and tear and drink the blood of my victim and digest its flesh, I am myself torn. I recall the exquisite pleasure, the relief of finally scratching a ceaseless itch, but I know all too well that the satisfaction is fleeting. Such a luxurious and cruel indulgence leaves an aftertaste bitter with sorrow and regret. My father labored to eradicate those doubts from my mind, to raise me to be a proper man-eating giant as I should be, but my pesky conscience never departed. I was always too soft for him: soft and weak, yet not pliable enough to bend to his whims. 

My eyes focus like a laser as the smaller person reaches my feet, its head not even reaching the height of my toe. I’m turbulent with indecision as I watch with fascination. The fearless little explorer holds out a hand and brushes microscopic fingers along the leather of my boot. I can’t feel the delicate touch, but my neurons fire with excited sparks nonetheless. 

The human stiffens as understanding dawns like a sudden spotlight. The flashlight jerks upward, the narrow beam still failing to penetrate the darkness, obscured with drizzly mist, between us. A momentary flash of lightning, and the human bolts. My predatory instincts spring to life and I surge into action, dropping to my knees. The flashlight disappears into the mud while the human is swiftly mired in a murky puddle, with legs entangled in a web of fine roots. I scoop the person up into my hand and bring it up to my face to sate my curiosity. 

It's a young woman: a tiny, helpless woman, drenched in water, trembling violently, and wriggling against the superior might of my fingers. She’s so small; her entire hand is dwarfed by my fingernail as she slides it along the slick surface. I can’t stop a drip of sympathy from dribbling into my center as I behold just how microscopic and helpless she is, less than the height of my pinky. As much as my stomach clamors to be filled, I freeze up.  

I know I shouldn’t hesitate. My father taught me to be ruthless, to consume, to enjoy the hunt and the catch and the rare satiation of my bottomless appetite. I should eat and be fulfilled, and forgot my nagging, troubling qualms. I’m a giant; she’s a human, fit for a meal and nothing more, to be ingested, dissolved, and forgotten. I run my tongue along the inner curve of my teeth, imagining how she would feel inside my mouth, the delights of her flavor. Yet, I am paralyzed. I can’t do it, when I see her fighting for her life in my hand, tears streaming down her face to mix with the rain. 

I decide to keep her. I’ll eat her later. Perhaps I’ll prepare her for my breakfast in the morning. I’ll fry up some bacon and roll her into an omelet with cheese. My salivary glands approve of the suggestion, and I find I’m able to move again as I tuck her under the lapel of my jacket, against the dry warmth of my chest. I wrap my hand firmly around her soggy, shivering form, careful not to squash her into jelly. Like a fruit, I wouldn’t want to bruise her succulent flesh. 

I feel calmer, now that I’ve made my choice. I lumber back through the trees to my cottage, taking my time. The tiny woman squirms against my chest, but settles down as she seems to realize she has no chance of escape. I don’t allow the guilt to worm into my heart and rot it from the inside. No. None of that. She is mine to do with what I please, no longer her own person, merely a piece of meat that still draws breath. For now. 

The trek takes some time, but I finally make it home. The human hasn’t moved beneath my hand for a while, and I begin to worry. Did I hurt her without realizing? Snap her flimsy spine with a momentary pinch, or crush her skull under my thumb? My throat tightens. After I step through the threshold and close the door, I reach underneath my wet coat and cautiously wrap my fingers around her delicate form. She feels warm, yet fragile and small. 

I open my hand so that she’s laying supine in my palm. I hold her close to my face to examine her. I exhale in relief once I perceive the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. I didn’t kill her. The revelation floods over me with an unexpected warmth. She appears to be unconscious—whether from exhaustion, fear, smothering, or a combination of the aforementioned, I cannot be certain. Either way, she is alive, albeit worse for wear: disheveled clothes, tangled hair, pale skin, and muddy shoes. 

I attempt to quash any sympathy I have. I can’t allow myself to feel that way towards my food; my father would be disgusted with me for my weakness of character. A gnawing hunger grows in my core, like a black void. I’m torn apart by potent, conflicting feelings. I’ll sort it out in the morning, with clarity of mind, once I’m better rested. I shed my raincoat and gently wrap the human in a dry washcloth to sop up the excess moisture and mud. I undress, removing my boots and throwing on a light shirt and shorts to sleep in, before laying down in bed. I set the sleeping human down beside me, a safe distance away so I don’t roll over her in my sleep. 

Before I close my eyes, I can’t help but stare at her, mesmerized. All I can see of her is her little head with her damp hair poking out of the cloth. Her fine features are untroubled, smoothed over in slumber. I wonder how she’ll react when she wakes up. Even if she runs away, or hides, she won’t be able to escape me. I imbibe her scent, subdued from the rain yet still potent enough to drive me wild. I will find her if she flees. 

That last thought troubles me slightly. I don’t want her to run. I don’t want her to fear me, to gaze upon me like I’m some sort of monster, even though I’m an obvious danger, and I plan to eat her. It’s an irrational sentiment, perhaps rooted in my deep loneliness, but for some reason I want her to like me.  

How absurd of me, to wish for something so impossible. 

Chapter 3

[vertejay]

A DOG THAT WEEPS . . .

synopsis ﹐ the introspection of rin and sae’s relationship after sae’s return.

contains ﹐ angst, estranged brothers, frequent comparisons and metaphorical references, mostly centered around rin but 3rd person, insecurity, self doubt, swearing.

wc ﹐ .8k (897)

INCLUDES ﹐ Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi

art credit ﹐ nameta6_kp on x

authors note ﹐ happy Valentine’s day my loves 🫶

. . . MY GUILT WILL NOT PURIFY ME

As the full quote follows, "a dog that weeps after it kills is no better than a dog who doesn’t. my guilt will not purify me."

Who on god's green earth knew what happened to Sae in Spain. Any question about it was returned with a silent stare that encouraged not to push further—a warning, rather.

“Then quit,” “Don’t use me as your excuse to play soccer.” Sae had this new found hatred towards his little brother, who insisted they continue their dream they had. The dream they promised each other.

The air thick enough to snap with any push or pull, Rin choked on his tears on the ground whilst his older counterpart towered above him like a monarch. The quiet hum of the stadium lights bringing life to the field could be heard, though after their exchange of words, it felt like there truly was no more life worth lighting. Not even so much as a soul.

The snow swallows them thick, nearly as thick as Rin swallowing. The slow rise and fall of his adam’s apple trying to fetch the words caught in his throat, trying to reason with his brother.

Biting back the bitter taste of betrayal that rolled down his throat, to that like blood. Thick, and hard to swallow, a nasty taste forever burned into the back of Rin’s brain. Staining the once happy memories of his beloved sport and brother alike.

Maybe in the next universe, Rin could’ve been better. So it could’ve been him instead of Sae, hell, being enough to be alongside him would do. Maybe Sae wouldn’t have hushed his experience out like a cigarette, harsh and resolute. Or maybe he threw it away without a second thought after seeing the cruel reality that left no question for a new dream, one that meant abandoning his naive little brother. But why couldn’t have it been this one?

Maybe it was Sae’s pathetic attempt to save face on behalf of his brother. Showing him the kindness that the world refused to show him, though this reality that Sae thought he was presenting on a silver platter to Rin would ruin him much worse than the lack of kindness Spain showed Sae. In fact, this deteriorated ugly metal that resembled nothing like silver, and a cracked platter, was just plain ruthless and sadistic.

There was no warmth to Sae’s overlooked protection, just those cold, calculating eyes. One which stared at his counterpart on the floor, a sense of alienation and apathy brewing in the depths of his stomach. It felt like he was staring into a mirror of his past self.

Rin, the dog who cries. Sae, who does not. Guilt purifies none. If Sae would be so human to feel guilt for the pain he’s inflicted, but that’s too human for him, far too human. He feels no guilt, he’s done no wrong. Beyond his scope, to him, this was just a hassle. Another day, even. He chopped it up to little brother antics, never thinking anything of it passed that.

With the authority of that like a shark. Swift. Calculating. Always moving because he has no other option, craving almost ceaseless action. Enabling him to avoid acknowledging the abhorrent things he does. He is the biggest threat to himself. Losing is very well equal to death to Rin.

Everything up until this point, all of the suffocating anger boiling in his brain and finger tips, the most tiresome routine eating away at his well being. He was rotten to his core long ago, there was no satiating his never ending hunger. At some point between his nimble cries and now, surpassing his brother was just another day.

So when the day came, his flow state like a parasite. A brain eating amoeba. Unsightly. Messy. Manic. Deranged. Everything Rin was not. For one goal, literally (and figuratively).

“If only you’d stayed quiet at home, you could’ve died a quiet death,” That was the last thing that Rin had registered from Sae. Just for an instant, Rin was finally one step ahead. That one step made the whole game. Rin surpassed Sae, after all these years.

So what now?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

World Cup? Surely not, that’s far too easy for Rin Itoshi.

Keep going.

What?

Rin Itoshi just has to keep going. There’s no stopping him now.

Rin Itoshi surpassed that lukewarm, half-baked, shit-vomit, poor excuse of a big brother.

Recuperating on the side of the field, mind hazy. He’s himself again, not unsightly. Not messy, nor manic. And certainly not deranged.

Sae approached Rin, who was on the ground. This seems achingly familiar. It’s fucking disgusting, Rin thinks. This resurfaces feelings he didn’t even know he had. Maybe good things were coming out of this altercation this time?

Rin couldn’t have been more mistaken.

In fact, coming out of it, Rin hated Sae and Isagi more than walking onto the field. Who knew that was possible. To Sae? That’s just his little brother, he’s ignorant to anything less than important. To him, it was just another day. Still no guilt to be had, still no purity. To Rin, Sae was dirty. A nobody.

Through turbulence, hidden patterns and desires, he has rebirthed himself. Like a jelly fish, following suit of transformation and embracing impermanence in himself.

Rin, no longer a crying dog; so far beyond feeling guilt.

taglist ﹐ @chlosology , @reocidal

[ananxiousgenz]

TPP HADESTOWN AU PART 8: song for a caged lovebird

IT'S PART 8 WHAAAT this is absolutely insane, i'm having so much fun rn <3

this is a lil shorter but it's very interesting, so as usual, enjoy

EDIT THAT I FORGOR: this is now gonna be titled "song for a caged lovebird" from here on out, thanks for the idea jay <3

all my tpp homies in the house!!! if you are in my walls, please leave (jk i love you i'll bring you snacks)!!!! @smidgen-of-hotboy @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @one-joe-spoopy @urjover @waters-and-the-wilde @demonic-panini

His eyes fluttered open at the sound of the door. It was dark.

He wasn’t quite sure of the time or his location. He was laying on something soft, he knew that much. A bed, maybe? He had been sleeping, or so he thought. He felt groggy, disoriented, still tethered to the world of dreams by a song that he couldn’t quite seem to shake out of his mind. Was it his own voice singing it, or someone else's? He almost thought he heard a train whistle in the distance, but knew the train line hadn’t run in months, not since the rails had frozen over with ice so thick it couldn’t be melted.

The world felt so strange. There was a heavy knot lying in the pit of his stomach, like something horrible had happened, but he couldn’t quite tell what. Was it his own doing? Someone else’s? He felt almost completely certain it had to do with someone going missing, but no more details sprang to mind.

The person who had entered the room was talking. He didn’t process what they said. 

He tried to sit up to face them. He knew whatever was being said was important. He had to pay attention. But a wave of dizziness overtook him, and he fell back down. They asked a question, and when he didn’t respond, they turned and left.

He let them go. He didn’t have the energy to stop them or ask them to repeat themselves. Sleep was already tugging his eyelids closed again. He let it come, and gently slipped back into a world of dreams.

—------------------------------

Far below the ground, there was a factory town.

This town was old, old enough that no one could really remember when it began. All anyone really knew was that it was hell on Earth. Giant metal works spun rusty gears through all hours of the day and night, and blast furnaces and refineries threw their dragon-fire heat out into the town. Housing was small and cramped and never used, stacked like smashed crates in the rare cooler corner of town, right next to the assembly lines for cars and TV screens. Mines worked overtime to produce rare gemstones and pure gold, and on the outskirts of town, there was a wall. And that was where most of the people worked.

There were a lot of people. Maybe millions, if one really took the time to count. Backs bent to their work, eyes milky white with focus, pickaxe or shovel or wheelbarrow in hand. Different ages and races and genders, but they all had two things in common: they kept their heads down, and they belonged to the king of this land.

Some had signed their souls away in an attempt to avoid their own death. Some had done it in the name of a loved one. Some had even done it in the hopes of getting paid. But that didn’t matter now. None of them could remember anything about their lives before Hadestown anyway. They did what they were told, and they had been told to forget and to work.

So they did.

At the center of town, in a grand office in a high tower, staring out a window at his beautiful city, was the king.

He had always been a crafter, an inventor of sorts. But this was on a far greater scale than anything he had ever imagined when he was a child. He was proud of his beauty, his greatest creation. But it had always been missing something to him. As grand as his factories were, and as many souls as he and his executives had gained to carry out the work, something was just never quite right. He had always hungered after something else, something from his past he hadn’t been able to take with him into the underworld.

Now, though. Now he had finally acquired the missing piece, and everything would finally be perfect.

One of the executives appeared in the doorway behind him. “The target you requested is nearly here, my associate.”

He nodded, not turning away from the window. “Very good. Bring him up to the office as soon as he gets here. I need to speak with him.”

“As you wish, my associate.”

He grinned a bit to himself. It had been years, but he was certain the man he was bringing here would be happy to see him again. They had been so close when they were younger, and he had never forgotten the time they spent together. He hoped that, even for old times sake, the man would want to stay with him a while. He hoped he would be impressed by everything he had created in his absence. It was all for him, after all.

The door creaked open behind him. “You have a visitor, my associate.”

He finally turned away from the window to face the door and watched as the man stumbled through into the office.

The years had certainly changed him. He was tall now, not short as he had been, but still as thin as ever, hair dark and messy and heavy circles beneath his eyes. One lens of his glasses was shattered, his clothes were ragged and torn, and there was a large dark stain cascading down the front of his shirt, coming from a mostly closed wound on his neck. Gods, even looking as terrible as he did, he was still as handsome as he had been when they were kids. He looked tired and frightened and horribly angry, but as soon as he saw him, he went completely pale in disbelief, jaw working furiously as he struggled to find something to say.

The man by the window grinned. “Hello, Petya. It’s been a while.”

[pentuppen]

"In a thousand years, when I've all but forgotten how to love yet again, you'll flit back into my heart, and I'll weep wondering what happened to my mad love."

So I had a brain worm, and writers block so i fixed the one, and hope like hell that fixes the other.

This line from Astarion broke me, and while I never went through with a full evil Durge run, I did catch the end scene of the prologue. This particular scene had been rolling around in my head for months but i never wanted to do a full Durge fic.

Anyway today I thought fuck it and this miserable bit of angst finally got written up so now it can bugger off!

Was I ever here?

You have been walking for days, feet bared and blistered, your limbs shuddering and cracking with each corpse-like step you take. Every move is an agony you embrace, while your blood pounds like a sickened war drum in your ears, red churning with black, pulsing with violence behind eyes of rolling madness. You are no longer you, the dark whispers wear you like a ragged cloak now, his voice, ceaseless, commanding…hungry, they dig their gnawing teeth into the blighted meat of your brain, seductive and burning with bloody lust.

You are starved, desperate to satiate the squirming vile need that tightens your loins and churns bile in your throat as you look out at the feast before you. Unseen but seeing everything. You were not invited, already forgotten and left to crawl away into the depths of their memory like a bad dog. So many precious lives, cracked and riddled with the filth of uncertainty in the beginning, now they gleam like so many jewels scattered across the clearing that was your first temporary home.

You watch them live. Smiling, laughing, drinking and existing. Teeth softly clamp down on the ends of your fingers, trapping a whimpering whine that evolves into a low growl. Were you ever real? Or did you find a dream buried deep in the rot of your soul, a dream in which you were a person, and not a weapon?

You see him finally, that creature of pale, timeless beauty and sweet, murderous eyes. You watch him throw his head back and laugh, teeth bearing down on your own fingers until the flesh parts and you taste your own bitter copper. He promised he would weep, and yet he laughs, still beautiful, and happy. Not fair, not right. He has forgotten enough to laugh, and the sound rakes canyons in the scant, flickering light of your soul.

Your pain does not sate you, instead it hollows you all the more, until you are retching with the hunger to fill it, to pack the weight of their suffering against this new wound like a poultice. But you wait, their joy filling you like sour poison, hate pulsing and growing in you like a malevolent child as they continue their forgetting, drowning it wine and good tidings. 

You watch him most of all, and it’s like holding your hand in the middle of a campfire, every second an agony. Why him, why not you? Why not both? He slayed his monsters, both inside and out, and they remembered him, yet you do not hear your name on their lips or in their hearts. Again you ask yourself. Were you ever here?

They eventually  rest in easy stupor, even him. Does he dream of you? Or were the memories of you discarded with the other nightmares that chased him for so long? Did he vanquish you as he vanquished his Master? You could make him remember. You could paint your desire in shades of drying red. Your blade, his heart, they were made for each other. Just as you should have been.

The idea catches you like a fever as you worm your way through the grass, belly slick with dew as you crawl like a broken snake through the grass, silent and seething with purpose. You would make him remember, crawling to the mouth of his tent, your blade poised high. He promised he would weep, but his beautiful face is at peace, and now it was time to cut

. Your blade is quick, parting and peeling flesh, your hands gloved red, reaching and grasping into the gore filled cavity. He doesn’t even move as your fingers squirm through wet flesh, finding that frantic creature beating creature, palming it, squeezing it. Those black voices scream in delirious ecstacy, for what could sate that hunger better than the sensation of a fragile heart in murderous hands? 

You’re lips open in a silent snarl as you grasp that heaving, pulsing betrayer, he would remember now….

He wakes to a nightmare. It kneels before his tent with its head bowed, a gruesome sentry that has him sitting up quickly. The blood is everywhere, seeping into the ground, the walls of his tent and the blankets beneath him. He knows that gore streaked shape, even as his mind tries to rebel, logic scruffs its neck and makes him see.

She kneels like some gruesome idol, her hands cupped in her lap, her chest a mass of blood and exposed, cracked bone. He captures the ugly sound of grief and disgust behind a pale hand, eyes fixed to the lump of meat held in stilled hands. She had once told him that her heart was his, but in the end he couldn’t bear to take it. Not with what she had become.

She’d never stood a chance, her fate paved even before the very idea of her was conceived. He’d tangled her in all those pretty strings of deceit, and she had still loved him in her own bloody way. But he hadn’t been able to do the same, hadn’t been able to follow where her path took her.

Hadn’t been able to save her.

Even now his eyes remain dry as he moves hair clumped with thickening blood from a face that was finally at peace. He feels the burn, the urge, and the lump even forms in the back of his throat.

But no tears fell. In the last six months, he had wept in both agony and anger, creating floods with longing and grief, drowning himself in the regret of the decision while living in the agony of knowing it was the right one.

There were no more tears left to give for his mad love.

[philotease]

"Your body's a temple baby–" He waited a beat, smile turning into a smirk. "–and I'm here to desecrate it."

Temple she was - body hardened with muscle and experience worshipped beneath his wanting mouth as it traced from her jawline to her neck. Her back against the wall, her legs locked tight around his waist, her fist entangled in his hair at the nape of his neck. The world outside of his body heat has dissolved to a blur, a distant hum. For once, the ceaseless drone of her own thoughts was far, far away.

His voice was hot against her skin, inspiring a whine from somewhere deep in her throat, involuntary enough to make her face burn. How raw and vulnerable she felt in this moment, stripped down to her underwear for him. His smirk shouldn't fluster her so badly. She was a grown woman, a soldier who'd seen far too much, and yet, here she was, melting into putty in his hands.

❝ Fuck, Dija- ❞ Phoenix panted. Dirty talk always got the better of her in the past, but it was even prettier coming from his mouth.

Hips rolled up to greet his, foreheads and gazes meeting. Her dark eyes shone with a certain hunger, a blossoming intensity making desperation even more apparent.

❝ Ruin me. ❞ Phoenix breathed without thought, mind and mouth running only on a fervor and impulse.

❝ Leave your mark on me, ❞ The clearest request: sink your teeth into me, grip me too hard, leave me covered in reminders of you, mark me so everyone knows. ❝ I'm all yours. ❞

[rise-my-angel]

I saw a Targ fan say that asoiaf is about "How the system hurts newcomers (Targaryens) and leaders that refuse to bend (Starks)" I have never wanted to punch someone more in my entire life. I just wanted to read some meta analysis, man, what did I do to deserve this

I thought it was fairly obvious that once said 'newcomers' take over the entire continent, being newcomers stopped being a valid excuse, but apparently not.

Also, you need to be high in order to be able to call the Starks 'people who refuse to change or bend' - Did they skip over the part where Torrhen literally bent? Or the times when they gave the Manderlys a new home, allied up with Boltons, allied up with the Marsh Kings, and with Joramun.

Also also, what fucking 'system' is this person talking about, dude? Targs conquered almost the entire continent, they are the rulers now, they are the system

It's true that House Targaryen, as rulers and enforcers of the system, cannibalised itself quite frequently - But that's not 'poor little newcomers being victimised by the evil system' it's the system, as in the Targs, in its greed and unending hunger for power, hurting itself through ceaseless infighting. I can't stress enough how different those are.

They are addicted to seeing the literal ruling power with flying weapons of mass destruction, as the poor oppressed minority. When they came from a society of blood supremacy and a vicious slave culture that painted anyone not Valyrian as nothing to them as the slaves they took.

And they came to Westeros, the land that served as refuge for two seperate ethnic cultures that THEY drove out of their homes in fear. And after generations decided to use their dragons to conquer the land that had ruled as independent Kingdoms for thousands of years, and then in only 300 years were such ineffective rulers that they set themselves up for their own extinction.

The Targaryeans are the ruling monarchs. In a story that these people understand is vehemently anti absolutist monarchy, but are so obsessed with their favourites making them morally superior that they pretend that absolutist monarchy is okay as long as the family with the most oppressive tools of control and oppressive regimes in Westeros history, are actually the only good ones.

They can't admit that the Targaryeans don't deserve the crown they forced everyone to give them, because it means they no longer get to feel morally superior.

I think the Iron Throne, which was created by the Targaryeans, is the problem. Their all power rule is the problem. The Targaryeans created the very problem that the story is partially about.

The Targaryeans are not the victims, they are the villains.

[humansarefake]

“Anorexia: my experience and thoughts”

Living with anorexia is akin to being ensnared in a relentless tempest, a storm that shrouds the mind and distorts one's perception of reality. It begins with subtlety, often masquerading as a mere desire for health or control, but swiftly spirals into an all-consuming obsession with food, weight, and the reflection that greets you in the mirror.

Each meal becomes a battlefield, fraught with anxiety and guilt. The mirror, once a benign object of casual glance, transforms into a cruel judge, casting a distorted image that never aligns with the reality perceived by others. Despite the relentless shedding of weight, the insidious feeling of being 'not enough' persists, gnawing incessantly at the core of self-worth and identity.

Anorexia isolates, drawing an invisible yet unyielding line between oneself and those who offer love and concern. Social gatherings, once sources of joy and companionship, become laden with dread. The fear of judgment and the compulsion to conceal one's struggles erect barriers, rendering it increasingly difficult for others to reach out and provide solace.

The physical toll is immense. Energy levels plummet, and tasks that once seemed trivial become exhausting endeavors. Hair thins, skin pales, and a persistent coldness invades the bones, irrespective of the weather. The body, in its silent plea for nourishment, begins to falter, prioritizing vital functions over the everyday activities that once brought pleasure and fulfillment.

Emotionally, the struggle is equally profound. Anorexia whispers deceitful lies, convincing the sufferer that their worth is inexorably tied to their ability to suppress hunger. It thrives on perfectionism and fear, leaving scant room for joy or spontaneity. The rigid rules and rituals surrounding food create a false sense of safety, even as they erode both health and happiness.

The path to recovery from anorexia is a journey that demands immense courage and unwavering support. It involves challenging deeply ingrained beliefs, confronting fears, and gradually rebuilding a healthy relationship with food and one's body. It requires learning to trust the body's signals, rediscovering the simple pleasures of eating, and finding new ways to cope with life's myriad challenges.

Most importantly, recovery is about reclaiming one's life from the tenacious grip of a disorder that thrives on silence and secrecy. It is about reconnecting with oneself and others, finding strength in vulnerability, and embracing the possibility of a future where food is seen as nourishment, not an enemy, and where one's worth is recognized beyond the numbers on a scale.

——————————————————————————

Living with anorexia has been a most arduous journey, fraught with the ceaseless turmoil of mind and body. It began innocently enough, a mere desire to sculpt a healthier version of myself. Yet, what commenced as a simple endeavor to improve swiftly morphed into an all-consuming obsession, a pernicious fixation upon food, weight, and the visage that stared back from the looking glass.

In the early days, I found solace in the perceived control over my diet, a semblance of order in an otherwise chaotic existence. But soon, each repast became a harrowing ordeal, each morsel a battle against the relentless voice within that whispered of inadequacy and unworthiness. The mirror, once a tool of self-reflection, transformed into a merciless arbiter, casting a distorted image that no measure of deprivation seemed to ameliorate.

As the weeks turned to months, my loved ones grew increasingly alarmed, their concern palpable in their furrowed brows and whispered conversations. Social gatherings, once a source of joy, became laden with dread, and I withdrew into the solitude that anorexia demanded. Isolation became my companion, feeding the insidious belief that I was in control even as my body withered and my spirit dimmed.

The day of reckoning arrived abruptly, as such days often do. My body, taxed beyond endurance, succumbed to the strain. I collapsed, and the world around me blurred into a cacophony of alarms and urgent voices. The hospital's sterile walls and the grave expressions of the medical practitioners laid bare the perilous state of my existence. My organs, they said, were failing; I was teetering on the precipice of oblivion.

During my convalescence, I was compelled to confront the stark reality of my affliction. The dedicated efforts of physicians, nurses, my family, and compassionate therapists brought me to a sobering epiphany. I had been ensnared by a malady that threatened not only my physical being but my very soul. It was a revelation both terrifying and liberating.

The path to recovery has been strewn with obstacles, each day a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. The struggle to reframe my relationship with sustenance, to see food as a source of nourishment rather than an adversary, is a labor of Herculean proportions. Therapy has been my steadfast ally, guiding me through the labyrinth of my psyche, helping me unearth the roots of my disorder and cultivate healthier means of coping.

Yet, despite the progress marked, the specter of anorexia is ever-present, a shadow that lingers at the edges of my consciousness. Stress and upheaval can rekindle the old fears, the pernicious thoughts that once held me captive. But I am bolstered by the unwavering support of those who love me and the strategies gleaned through relentless introspection. I am resolved to persevere, to continue my voyage towards health and self-acceptance, even amidst the tempest.

Living with anorexia has been a harrowing odyssey, a trial that has tested the very fabric of my being. But it has also imparted invaluable lessons in self-compassion and fortitude. Though I still wrestle with the remnants of this affliction, I do so with the knowledge that I am not alone. Each step forward, however tentative, is a triumph of the spirit, a declaration of my intent to reclaim my life from the clutches of this insidious disorder.

[ftm2bbw]

I'd almost want to put the VR headset on you before you wake up; that way, you could seamlessly transition from your dream state to a world that's completely under my control, and your mind along with it.

It'd be so much fun manipulating your mind with images flashing across the screen. And endless parade of food would appear before your eyes, making your normally ceaseless hunger even sharper. The headphones, complete with a comforting voice telling you how empty your tummy feels, make it hard to hear the needy gurgling of your stomach, but you can certainly feel it. It doesn't take long before it starts to ache, begging to be filled, your mouth instinctively dropping open to allow me to feed you, the relief immediate from the very first spoonful.

Even though the headset would block your eyes, I'd still be able to see the dysphoria on your face and in your body language as I start showing you pictures of women, each one just a tiny bit bustier than the last. From picture to picture, the change is rather small, but over a few minutes, it's clear that the women are now much, much bustier. The voice whispers into your ear about how happy they look, how you're a woman like them, and how amazing it would be to have gigantic, fat, milky tits. The voice even instructs you to stop thinking of them as "breasts" or "tits." Now that you're above a certain size, the name "udders" is inevitable. With enough practice, you might even start referring to them that way yourself.

The grand finale would be an onslaught of breeding clips. Women with their eyes rolled back as their wombs are flooded with cum, listening to women talk about how wonderfully arousing risky breeding sex can be. A montage of women rolls through showing their bodies change and morph through their pregnancies. Their tits become swollen with milk. Their hips widen as they prepare to push a child through it. And, of course, their tummy just keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger. Dysphoria be damned, you need to be bred.

God...What's bad is that it wouldn't be much different than what I already do to myself...

I already so often stuff my face and edge at the same time. On top of that, I'm almost always listening to hypno, or browsing for kink content, or watching videos meant to encourage my gluttony. Sometimes all at the same time.

And more and more, I've been combining that with my more...feminizing kinks as well. Staring at big, beautiful, huge-titted women as I edge. Reading stories about hormonal fuckery and fertility as I eat. Listening to feminizing audio files while I chug gainer shake. Living on this blog more and more and more...

I've already been conditioning myself far, far more than I should admit. Giving into the VR conditioning would just be the natural next step, as conflicted as I always feel about it...