#not graphic non-con

[tadalyme]

whumptober, day 2

There are many things Finnick Odair is good at. He's good at swimming, good at fighting, good at making knots. Good at baking decently tasty bread. He's also very good at pretending.

It's a skill he's honed throughout his whole life, ever since he was a little child. Pretending that he likes his mother's vegetable casserole. Pretending that he's completely fine when his father leads him to Mags’s house, his hand held in a forceful, painful grip, and proclaims in his booming voice that it would be the greatest honour for his son to train for the Games, right, boy? Pretending that he isn't scared to die and to kill.

Pretending that all the things that are done to his body on a regular basis aren't happening to him.

It’s somewhere past three at night and Finnick is sore and extremely dizzy and in the backseat of a car, coming back from his client. He’s in a car, because despite being just a District whore, he's an expensive one. President Snow doesn’t want anyone else to harm his investments. At least, not anyone not paying.

He’s just glad that it was the only appointment for today, because the guy, a flamboyant man in his thirties, a grandson or a nephew or a step-son of one of the influential Gamemakers, wanted to spice things up a bit in his sex life and made him swallow some colourful tablets before the act itself.

Well, it certainly spiced things up for Finnick, though probably not in a way the man intended to. He spent the whole time hearing the colours, and tasting the sounds, and seeing the images from his past and present all mixed up together.

The man was pounding into him and moaning and exclaiming something animated and probably over-the-top sexual in his shrill voice, but all Finnick could think about were the glistening in the sun tridents and spears and knives, and faces of the dead children, and his late father and ill mother and disappointed sister, and, for some reason, the Capitol's latest obnoxious vogue of inserting precious gemstones into their skin.

He desperately wanted to cry, so he laughed frantically, and he wanted to push the man away from him, too overstimulated, so he willed his muscles to relax.

The lights of the never-sleeping party area of Capitol fly by dizzyingly behind the window and Finnick has to lean onto it in an attempt not to puke. It's got a bit better in the past half hour, but the thoughts are still floating around his brain like dozens of little brightly-coloured butterflies. It’s hard to properly grasp any of them in a sticky daze of disorientation, though.

The car stops near the entrance to the Tribute Centre and he staggers out, swaying on his feet and almost ending up on the pavement. His limbs finally rearrange themselves in the correct order after a few moments and he musters a lazy salute with only some of his usual flourish to the back of the driving away car.

Still performing, even now. Gods, what a mess.

He doesn't know how exactly he reaches the elevator, but he does and the numbers swirl a bit in his eyes before settling down properly on the buttons.

He remembers well the first time he was here.

The thing is, he wasn’t even supposed to participate in the Hunger Games that year. That questionable honour was supposed to go to Jacob Maren, not yet eighteen, but the oldest among the trainees.

Instead, Dorothea, their escort, gracefully put her powdered hand with baby-blue nails, that matched her enormous wig, and pulled out his, Finnick's, name. There was a bit of a standstill after that - Jacob locking eyes with him across their separate pens. Should he volunteer, should he not. Finnick was too young yet but still a Career. In the end, Jacob stayed silent.

Just as well, thought Finnick, pushing through the crowds to the stage and already putting on a brilliant wide smile, I've trained for this, I can win, it'll be easy.

He knows now what his dumb, arrogant younger self didn’t understand back then - that even if you manage to become a victor, the only one who ever wins the Games is the Capitol.

Jacob did go the following year and died to a back-stabbing One girl. And Finnick has spent three years cursing that day and all that led to it.

Gods above, it has only been three years, hasn’t it? It feels much longer than that, so far away, so long ago. Almost like ancient history.

He did kind of make history with that one, didn’t he? The youngest Victor ever. A fat lot of good that did for him.

Fourth floor. He practically falls out of the elevator, only managing to catch onto the wall at the last moment.

Mags, curled up on the couch, perks up at the sound of sliding doors. In the dim lighting of the lounge her silver hair looks like a halo above her head. Ironic.

It makes him burst out in a fit of hysterical high-pitched laughter. One would have to completely lose their marbles to call the woman an angel. An angel of death, at best. Some forget it, but she also killed in her Games, the same as all of them. And she's led enough kids to their deaths in the following years. He loves Mags with his whole heart, but she's no saint.

Mags always waits for him on appointment nights. He wishes she didn't see him like this, wishes no-one saw him like this and often snaps at her, but she only tuts in disapproval and keeps doing it. Despite his temper tantrums, he's glad she does.

Mags looks him over and frowns and he's sent down the rabbit hole of memories again.

They approach him the next day after he turns sixteen. The two of them look grim and apologetic and he doesn't know what to make of it.

‘I’m sorry, Finnick, I’m so sorry about what's probably going to happen,’ Mags says and lets out a sigh, sorrowful and tired and world-weary, and he, in a rare moment, is reminded of how old Mags really is, ‘Just… Remember that you can always talk to me, no matter what.' She inclines her head a bit, gesturing at her companion, ‘Or to Delia, if you need someone who truly gets it.'

Delia, who is wringing her hands half a step behind Mags, and looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, glances at him and gives him a bleak, perfunctory nod. He doesn’t know why he would need to or want to talk to her, but anyway it’s quite unlikely that he will take her up on this offer.

Finnick knows Delia, of course he does. Delia, a constantly nervous, twitchy Victor in her forties, teaches knife-throwing, and knife-stabbing, and other knife-related skills to the trainees and has never seemed to be a particular fan of long conversations. She's communicated with them mostly with sharp nods and half-aborted, jittery gestures, always looking on edge and shaky.

Her hands have never ever shaken with a blade in them, though.

Then, he gets the summons to the annual post-Victory tour party and President Snow asks to speak with him in his office after. He's told in detail what he's expected to do, now that he's finally sixteen, and what will happen if he doesn't.

Oh.

Oh.

That's what that meant.

His first appointment with a client is the next day and it's the beginning of the end.

His sister screams at him a few months later, when he returns from one of his trips to the Capitol, ‘They don’t care about you, you stupid boy! Why won’t you understand that! Why the Hell do you keep going there?’

But it’s her who doesn’t understand, who could never understand. He can’t tell Carolyn, he can’t, not just because he doesn’t want her to know what he does, but because he’s not allowed to.

President Snow was quite straightforward about what would happen to his ill mother and his sister with her husband and their baby twins, if he were to tell anyone, even them, anything. So he keeps quiet and let them think the worst of him. The same thing that everyone else does.

(Other than his fellow victors, who are all aware of the work he and the ones like him are made to do, the only person who doesn’t look at him with badly concealed disgust, or jealousy, or fake friendliness, or lust in Four is Annie Cresta. Her eyes (also sea-green, though a few tones lighter than his own) only ever look at him with sympathy and pity these days. He would have absolutely hated being looked at like that not long ago, but now it’s just so goddamn refreshing. He used to find her annoying with her righteousness and softness when they trained to be careers together, thought her weak and kind of cowardly, but maybe there is actually nothing wrong with gentleness and timidity, he ponders.

Of course, it’s hopeless, getting used to even such a small thing. Annie Cresta is a Career. She will go into the Games soon. In a couple of years she will likely be dead.)

Mags approaches him slowly, telegraphing all her movements clearly, trying not to spook him. He must look bad, because she checks his temperature with a hand on his forehead. From her pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows he gathers that it’s not very good.

'What, doctor, am i dying yet?' he ironizes.

'Well, you certainly don't look too lively, boy,' she snaps back,'Sit down, I'll be right back.'

She lets him settle on the couch and leaves to fetch her first-aid kit. They’re not allowed to bring any pills to the Tribute centre, so as to not let tributes get anywhere near them, but she has some other basic supplies. Luckily, today they are no flesh wounds to patch up.

She comes back with a thermometer in her hand. And that’s what sends him over the edge and into hysterical tears, the goddamn thermometer. It’s an old-fashioned but trusty mercury thermometer, very common back in Four, but considered obsolete by Capitol standards.

Finnick, having been many times in the local medical over the past year and a half to get patched up after rough encounters with clients, is intimately familiar by now with Capitol’s high-tech, reliably produced in Three.

She waits a bit before his sobs and shaking subside, finally takes his temperature and asks,'You're burning up. What on earth happened to you?'

'He gave me something, I don't know what,' Finnick replies reluctantly and watches her face twist and her arms cross on her chest. She's staring at him pointedly.

'Do we really have to?' he groans,'I'm almost fine by now. You're only wobbling a bit in my eyes.'

'Come on, up you go,' she pulls him up, surprisingly strong for a seventy-year-old, and leads him to his room, to the bathroom. She walks out again and returns with a glass and a closed water bottle.

She fills the glass with tap water and makes him drink it again and again and then throw up, repeating and repeating it until there's nothing left in his stomach at all.

Then she hands him the water bottle, lightly shoves him in the direction of the needlessly overcomplicated shower and exits.

When he finally emerges into his room he's almost feeling like himself again. Mags is still there, leaning on the frame of his bed. He finds some clothes to sleep in and drops next to her. She hums softly and smooths his hair out, running her fingers through his wet curly locks.

She's been much gentler with him since his Games, but she's taken a fancy to him a long time ago.

He was a bit of a troublemaker as a child, like little boys so often are, always sneaking away to the creek to play on the wet rocky shores, or trying to catch fry with his bare hands, or diving from the pier to see how long he could hold his breath, generally making his mother exasperated. He showed up at home in the late afternoon tired but joyful after a day of exploring with a wide toothless grin, seaweed in his hair and damp dirty patches on his knees.

His father didn’t like that much. So at a ripe old age of seven he’s dumped on Mags’s doorstep, who looks at his father weirdly over Finnick’s head and then takes a look at him, slowly lowers down to his eye-level and grasps his tiny hand with her veiny, old-woman one.

‘Well, well, well, what are we going to do with you, little one?’

She's never been cruel to any of the trainees, definitely not, but she wasn't particularly warm-hearted either. She was kind, but also stern and strict, like a proper trainer. He knows that it's because, despite all the preparations, most of them would die in their Games. She didn't really believe that he would win his Games either.

But he survived and she became more willing to show her affection for him after that. And to him, she, the person who practically raised him, instead of his distant mother and constantly angry father, has always felt the most like a real family, even when she acted all grumpy.

He drifts to sleep, relaxing under the silent watch of the only person in the world he fully trusts.

[acourtofladydeath]

SJM Villain Week '24 Day 4: Behind Closed Doors

When Adriana agreed to marry the youngest Vanserra brother, she had no idea what she was getting herself into... How will she and Beron survive the initiation when his family wants to break them?

In this fourth installment of "To Become A Vanserra," we see a glimpse of where it all began. How was Beron changed behind the closed doors of his own ritual? It's time to find out for @sjmvillainweek day 4.

Thank you to @secret-third-thing, @jules-writes-stories, and @climbthemountain2020 for being my hype women. Thank you to @pippsmcgee for being my beta!

This fic involves rape/non-con, coerced sexual acts, and descriptions of graphic violence. Read a snippet below, or the full fic on AO3!

Twisting her hands in the folds of her simple dress, Adriana stared down at the intricate gown laid before her, golden vines embroidered across the deep maroon velvet. The colors were gorgeous, if not slightly off-putting. Adriana hated wearing red of any shade. A trail of blood careened through her memories, never too far from her mind. She was often able to remove the murder of her father from her mind, but only if she could avoid the color red. This marriage was her chance to support her family, to take some of the load off her grieving mother and sisters. Pushing the memory aside, Adriana ran her hand across the smooth fabric, her fingers along the raised thread as it trailed delicately along the lines that most accentuated her body. She stopped at the high collar, feeling the cuff that would surround her throat like a restraint. “This seems a bit formal for lunch, does it not?” Adriana’s words were directed at no one in particular. There were so many servants in the room Mrs. Vanserra had directed her toward that she figured one would know the answer.  “Tis what the High Lord picked for you, m’lady,” the youngest girl said, her voice soft and slightly hesitant. But Adriana noticed a pair of older servants by the vanity share a look, one that sent apprehension shuddering down her spine.  One of the older servants, a stern woman with her apron tied tightly and an even tighter bun gestured for Adriana to come over. “Sit, girl, we haven’t got all day, and your hair just won’t do.”  Adriana’s hands tentatively touched her hair, the flowing curls she’d tirelessly done herself the night before still soft and voluminous. “What’s wrong with my hair?”  “The better question is what’s not wrong, dearie. No matter, you’ll learn the expectations in time,” the other servant by the vanity added, her hair braided and piled at the base of her neck. “Come sit so we can fix you.” 

Finish the fic on AO3.

Please let me know if you'd like on or off the taglist! @pippsmcgee, @born-to-riot, @chunkypossum, @bubybubsters, @queercontrarian, @yanny-77, @fieldofdaisiies, @iftheshoef1tz, @secret-third-thing, @jules-writes-stories, @the-darkestminds, @climbthemountain2020, @amalhe-kofee, @molcat07, @nocasdatsgay

[samanddean76]

A Fistful Of Sammy's

An ancient grimoire has been searching for the man that is destined to wield it for the good of all.  With the power that was imbued upon it, Lux gained sentience and hid herself away, appearing as nothing more than a smoothly polished rock.  Now she waits.  The problem?  The Stanford-Era Sam Winchester that the grimoire meets is not the only Sam searching for it.  And thanks to a little time travel the list of those seeking her is growing longer by the minute.  Once Soulless Sam and Demon Dean are added into the mix?  Things start to go sideways.  But then a couple of Hollywood actors trapped in Canada, who happen to look just like them and know everything about them, turn out to be crucial to Sam and Dean being able to save the day. 

Will an Apocalypse World Bobby (no, not that one) and a battle ravaged Castiel help or hinder?  Will the all-too helpful Gabriel guide Sam to the truth, or lead him astray?  And will Sam ever get the happy ending he so desperately deserves? 

Come along on a wild ride, with Metallica as the soundtrack, and an ending that hinges on one impossible choice.

Fandoms: Supernatural and Supernatural RPF

Rated: Explicit | Word Count: 44,276

This is what happens when you have four Sam's, four Dean's, two Castiel's, two Jared and Jensen's, one Gabriel, one John, and one Jack in the same story.

Pairings: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Demon Dean/Soulless Sam, Sam Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, John Winchester/Sam Winchester

Major Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Additional Tags: AU, Time Travel, Will Reference Events From All Seasons Plus Prior To Series, Jared & Jensen from Season 6 - The French Mistake, Stanford Era Sam, Dean, & John, Soulless Sam, Demon Dean, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Dubious Consent, Non-Graphic Violence, Unorthodox Demon Healing, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sam & Dean Being The Best Of Brothers, Castiel Gets A Power Up, Sam Gets A Power Up, An OC For The Ages, Literally

Chapter One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight on AO3

Hey! How about we turn it into The Samstraveganza Verse? Mmmm, okay, I'm sold.

Tell Me Something I Don't Know - Soulless Sam/Demon Dean one-shot on AO3

Art Post on Tumblr | Art Post on AO3

@xpurdyglambertx @wipbigbang

Excerpt from Chapter Six under the break....

Sam could see himself through Dean’s eyes.  From the moment he was the baby lying in the maternity ward.  Later when he played in his crib in the nursery of his only real home.  How scared Dean felt as he raced out the front door with his little Sammy held tight.  Through more dingy motel rooms and abandoned houses than either of them ever wanted to think about.  On the first day of middle school, when Sam had been so scared, Dean had looked down at him with pride, assuring his kid brother that he was going to be better than any of his classmates.  Helping Sam to get ready for his first dance, pinning on the boutonniere that he had stolen from the flower shop.  Wishing how it would have been him to escort his Sammy. 

“I would have danced with you, at least once.  Spun my big brother around the floor.”  The words echoed across his mind, and when Dean tried to deepen the kiss that they were sharing, Sam knew that he’d heard it, and shared the sentiment.  He thrust harder into the willing flesh before him, finding untold joy as each thrust was matched by Dean pushing back with his own hips.  Trying to help Sam sink in even deeper. 

[willedeservesbetter]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Young Royals (TV 2021) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Simon Eriksson/Wilhelm Additional Tags: Inspired by Interview With the Vampire, but it does not take place in the world of IWTV, please read the archive warnings, they all apply, Vampires, Dark fic, i am repeating myself: this is a dark fic, Major character death - Freeform, but not really, this is the beginning of a twisted love story Series: Part 1 of They Own the Night (The Young Royals Vampire Chronicles ) Summary:

The boy before him is close to death, Wilhelm begrudgingly notices. The pulse slowed down quite a while ago, the heart is beating weakly, and the skin is white despite the usually darker complexion.

Well, being drained of your blood for hours and hours and hours certainly leaves a mark, Wilhelm thinks smugly, and it is all because of him. What a shame it is the boy must die soon and cannot be kept around like a picnic basket, always ready and full and promising the best flavors of his blood.

This will be a night he will remember for a long time.

- or -

Wilhelm is a very powerful and old vampire who is having a great night with his newest victim. Simon disagrees. Kind of.

[excelsiorfics]

Vengeance Drives For Uber

Date: April 20, 2019 Author: rokhal Rating: Mature Word Count/Status: 115,292, complete Dynamic: Robbie Reyes & Eli Morrow, Robbie Reyes & Gabe Reyes Characters: Robbie Reyes, Gabe Reyes, Eli Morrow Tags: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Emotional manipulation, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Angst, Family feels

Summary:

Last year, eighteen-year-old legal guardian Robbie Reyes made a deal with the ghost of the serial killer possessing his body: together they will unleash their rage on those who endanger Los Angeles, and when they find someone truly evil, truly deserving, they will kill them. Since he made the deal, they've maimed plenty, but killed no one, and the ghost is getting impatient. Robbie gets a side-job driving his Ghost Rider car for Uber. This goes about as well as one could hope: he doesn't attack any passengers, but he does stumble upon a murder victim. Robbie wants the killer to pay, for reasons he does not understand. Eli wants Robbie to finally fulfill his end of the deal and kill somebody, anybody. To avenge the innocent dead, Robbie is finally willing to cooperate. They work together to identify and hunt the killer. Meanwhile, Lisa takes Robbie to meet her parents, Robbie plans for his future, Ramón Cordova pays it forward, Guero Valdez adapts, the woman who got slipped a pink pill puts her apartment back together, a cop from New York comes out west hunting Ghost Riders, and Gabe understands more than Robbie knows.

[reve-de-sang]

for @vamptember, Sept. 13: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat (posting a day early bc i'll be away)

(x) A Pygmalion AU. Vampires Armand and Magnus weigh human Lestat’s potential outside a kill room. Armand has doubts. Magnus loves chaos.

--

“You’ve found another one.”

“It’s uncanny how you always know.”

“It’s your pallor,” Armand said. “They dial it back down. Tonight you look very nearly pink-cheeked. He must be a healthy one.”

Magnus’s lips flinched with a suppressed smile. “Well. I don’t mind saying,” he rasped, rearranging himself in the leather club chair, tapping his cigar in the ashtray. “I have outdone myself this time.”

“Really.”

“Honestly I can’t imagine finding better.”

“Oh, not this again.”

“No! I’m quite serious. Every box checked of course. Fit. Blond. Blue-eyed. That sort of…regal handsomeness…”

Armand sighed meaningfully and swirled his snifter of blood, warm in the palm of his hand.

“But also a combination of beauty, fight, and health that I had given up on finding. Most of all the fight. They’ll generally do anything by day two, but I’ve had this one almost a week and he hasn’t given up.”

“Pride,” Armand sighed.

Magnus frowned. “Drive.”

“Mentally unstable.”

“Well. By now.” Magnus chuckled, and Armand joined him conspiratorially.

“No,” Magnus protested. “It’s just drive, honestly. He’s so stubborn. So angry. Not in the swoon—hard to imagine anyone fighting that in the end—but every other moment. Determined to live, or go out fighting.”

Armand hummed. “I’m almost envious. Sounds fun.”

“You know you prefer yours broken.”

“Fair.” Armand lifted the crystal decanter of blood from its sleek electric warmer. “Top you off?”

Magnus offered his snifter and Armand filled it higher with fresh blood. Magnus sipped and smiled, his narrow tongue licking at his upper lip. “I’ve noticed your particular brand of kill imbues a kind of melancholy to your libations. Would it be fair to say the despondent are your favorite flavor?”

“���You are what you eat.’ The despair pleases me somehow. And you, always seeking out those cookie cutter men, hoping they’ll fight back. Is it the sadism of crushing these hardy specimens that attracts you to this pattern? Or some twisted hope one will succeed in the fight against you, though I can’t imagine how?”

An unsettling smile stretched across Magnus’s face, revealing his toothless gums save his two fangs. “I want a champion. And Armand? This one is easily the best, no contest. I mean to turn him.”

Armand went as still as if time has stopped. “Magnus.”

“I’ve never had a companion in all these centuries. Not even the companionship of a maker, as you know.” Armand nodded. “I’ve been looking for the perfect one, and I’ve found him.”

Armand stared at him; the long silence between them would have been preternatural to any human observer.

“Magnus,” Armand began. “…You say you have finally found one you can’t break. And this is the one you will make into a companion. Against his will. Yet what you describe sounds more like…a pet. That you must lock up when unsupervised, lest he kill you. Are you looking for him to kill you?”

Magnus’s laughter rattled in his thin chest. “Although I do love the idea of danger again after all these years, no. This is about perfection: I could not have sculpted him better myself were I an artist, and were I a god to give him life.

“And who knows what he will become? The dark gift itself may win him over. It has its own alchemy. I love a challenge, and I have nothing but time.”

“Do you? The centennial is approaching. Akasha and Enkil would expect him in attendance. Do you really think they won’t send your boytoy up like a torch within seconds of meeting him? And you with him, for the insult of his making?”

“Please. Once he’s in the blood I can bring him to heel. I will present him at court and he will be a jewel that all will envy.”

Armand drummed his nail tips against the crystal of his glass, then set it aside on the table adjacent his armrest. He leaned forward slightly. “We barely care for each other, but I have grown used to you, friend. This is your reality check: I know you have a very exacting standard, and this one in particular has,” Armand waved a hand, “qualities.”

“You have no idea.”

Armand rolled his eyes. “Despite that? This is a passing fancy. Take another week, enjoy it. Then put it down and add it to your trophy pile. Otherwise after all these years you’ll be like the befuddled dog that finally caught the car; I don’t think your search is one that was meant to have an end. This will not satisfy, and you may well die for it, by his hand or the queen’s.”

Magnus set his own drink down sharply. “God but life has become boring, Armand! Do you not feel it! I think I would welcome the risk of death. To feel alive for a change.” Magnus slipped his hand into his inner coat pocket for his phone, and thumbed through his photos. “Let me show you what I mean.” An odd, soft smile bent his wizened mouth as he paused on one picture. He offered the phone to Armand. “To go out with style—that’s the dream.”

Armand slipped the phone from Magnus’s hand. Considered the photo.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

Armand seemed infinitesimally pinker in the face than before, but it might have been a trick of the fire in the establishment’s hearth. Armand shrugged one shoulder slightly. “…Oh.”

“Yes, that was my feeling on the matter.” Magnus sucked on his cigar.

“May I?” Armand asked, thumb hovering over the screen to flip through Magnus’s gallery.

“Please do.”

He was silent for a moment as he browsed—there really were quite an array of photographs—swiping slowly, pausing occasionally. “…You really are quite perverse, Magnus.”

“I know.”

Armand pinched his fingers to zoom in, out. “Such a risk, banking on him coming to heel.”

“Well not entirely to heel, I hope.”

Armand ran a thumb over his lower lip, grazed one fang. He swiped leisurely through a few more pictures with his other hand. “…Would you like to bet on it? His passing at court?”

Magnus began to smile once more—the evening was possibly a record for smiles within the past century. “A wager. Life gets more exciting by the moment.”

“You have only three weeks until the centennial gathering. He has his charms, yes, but he will be completely green, will likely be an unruly child, and probably offensive and derisive about our culture. What is his provenance, by the way?”

If anything, Magnus’s smile increased. Unsettling. “Poor. Rural. Family was rich a generation ago, so they have pretensions to grandeur, but lost everything back in the crash like everyone else. So by our standards, and certainly Akasha’s: quite uncultured. He’s currently an actor.”

“Jesus, and you know how emphatically I say this, Christ.”

“Isn’t it delightful?”

Armand’s look was withering. He slid through a few more photos. “The terms of the bet will be—oh my.” Armand stilled on a picture. Casually crossed his legs.

Magnus glanced at the phone. “Oh you’ll like that series.”

Armand slanted his eyes to Magnus. “Are there videos?”

“Private folder. Possibly another time.”

“Hm.”

“Actually had to give him a transfusion after that. He cries so beautifully; I’d gotten a little excited. Took forever to hose the room down.”

“You’re so elaborate,” Armand sighed, actually raising his eyebrows at the next few pictures. “I don’t know where you find the energy.”

“Give that back,” Magnus smirked, holding out his hand for the phone, and Armand relinquished it.

“The terms of the bet,” Armand restated. “Now: obviously you are going to die on November 1, and will thereafter be unavailable to make good on the wager.” Magnus laughed. “So we’ll need to bet on something just before that. Ah.” Armand smiled. “The ball, of course. October 31. Akasha and Enkil won’t be in attendance, so you won’t die immediately, but you will still be a laughingstock.”

“And by what metric would we judge that?”

“True, you’ve never been popular,” Armand mused. Magnus was unoffended—he took pride in his black sheep status.

“So…Marius and Pandora. If they take a shine to him, you’ve won the bet,” Armand’s mouth twisted, sour.

“Oh, Armand.”

“Shut up. He is an insufferable gatekeeper when it comes to Akasha. This is perfect. We’ll leave it to Marius: if Marius chastises you—or worse—then you’ve lost. If he simply shuns you or is ambivalent, then you’ve lost. Your fledgling is to be a “jewel,” remember? To win it must be nothing less than endorsement.”

“Stakes?”

“Hmmm. If you lose, I think I’d like to spend the rest of that evening and that following day in the private company of your fledgling. He does have…qualities.”

“But it would’ve been our final hours together,” Magnus said with dry sarcasm. “How sad.”

“Better make the preceding days count.”

Magnus chuckled. “Fine.”

“And if you win?”

“Well, obviously I would live,” Magnus said. “And I would have the best companion of our kind. And the triumph of showing up all the pompous vampires who have unanimously looked down on me since my creation. Present company excepted, of course.” Armand gave a nod. “So I don’t know that I could want for anything more. Winning would simply be its own satisfaction.”

“How boring for me.”

“Perhaps I will call in a favor at some later date?”

Armand drummed his fingers on the tight leather of his club chair. “Nothing extravagant. But yes. If you win.”

—-

Just as the sun was rising, Armand received a text from Magnus; no words, only a photo. Magnus’s fledgling lay dazed on a bloodsoaked bed far more richly appointed than the white-tiled kill room featured in many of Magnus’s photos.

The pure blue of his fledgling’s eyes had iridesced in the vampiric change to take on an additional slight pale violet quality. He seemed to have been washed and groomed before his turning, though he had previously been beautiful even disheveled and abused. Armand knew better than to think Magnus had applied a filter; of course his fledgling’s complexion had now become luminous.

“Congratulations,” Armand texted, and lay down to sleep.

[scottyfreaks]

He'll learn one day.. 🏳️‍🌈

Full image (he sucks penis)

[lifblogs]

Fandom: The Bad Batch Rating: Explicit Pairings: Royce Hemlock/Tech (Non-Consensual Pairing), Tech/Phee, Tech & Crosshair & Wrecker & Hunter & Omega & Echo Word Count: 3632 Summary: Tech is facing his first mission since Tantiss with trepidation. A word said to him in comfort is enough to bring repressed and forgotten memories to the surface, and he feels like he's being torn apart inside. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, PTSD, Flashbacks, Attempted Self-Harm, Near-Attempted Murder-Suicide, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Author's Note: I'm so sorry.

[greenapplespider]

Happy STS from the Creators Club. I hope you're haing a wonderful day. What drew you to your chosen genre?

Having an okay day ;p- hope you’re having a good one too <3 and thank you for the ask.

For this we’ll talk about my story ‘Second Class Citizen’- which is a BL dark erotica and thriller. (Hopefully be publishing it by July of next year)

What drew me to writing it- being far too.. invested (horny) in the presenters of my favorite news/current events podcast- one thing led to another, I was possessed by the devil, and I started writing an RPF- but then I met the dude I was writing the RPF about and felt kinda weird (we get on well and are in a couple discords together- he likes my memes and art).

So I decided to make it into its own thing cause I was reaching advanced levels of parascoial and it wasn’t healthy.

[vera-king-hrfl]

Absolute!Zevlor

CW: Violence, Non-con.

Avoid if it's going to make you uncomfortable. I felt a little icky writing it, but it's just one of those things you have to get out of your system. There will probably be 3 parts, but I have other stuff going, so I can't estimate a timeline.

[samanddean76]

Be Good (HozierNatural 2024)

Hozier Song: It Will Come Back

Author: SamandDean76

Beta: jdl71

Artist: i-already-know-im-going-2-hell

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12,210

Pairing/s: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Rory Gilmore

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Dean Forester, Rory Gilmore, Bobby Singer, John Winchester, Barbara Forester, Lorelai Gilmore, Original Characters

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Additional Tags: Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Is Not Okay, Minor Character Death, First Time

Summary: John leaves Sam and Dean at a motel to go on a hunt. After spending a week alone, the owner calls CPS and the boys are taken into custody. The last thing Dean tells 8-year-old Sam is to ‘be good’, and once separated Sam does his best to do just that. But once Sam realizes that he won’t be going back to either John or Dean ever again, his stubborn streak kicks in and he will only answer to the name Dean. Sam gets adopted by the Foresters, who move to Chicago and then Stars Hollow. Where he meets Rory Gilmore.

Dean is left to rot in the system, after being deemed too violent, and eventually ages out. He tries to find Sam but fails as Sam Winchester no longer exists. Dean seeks out Bobby, and ends up moving in with the hunter, working as a mechanic in between searching for Sam.

A lucky break results in Dean finding a small-town newspaper that features the MVP of the Stars Hollow High School hockey team, who bears a striking resemblance to Sam. Dean heads out to Connecticut and finds Sam, safe and sound, but thoroughly humiliated by his crush. Before they leave, they seek the revenge that soothes Sam’s soul. And leaves Dean wondering what the hell happened to the innocent little boy he used to know.

Link to Fic | Link to Art

I would like to give a great big thank you to @i-already-know-im-going-2-hell for creating such amazing art for the story! It was a real treat to be able to work with them! And thanks to jdl71 for being an awesome beta! I also want to thank the mods who ran the @hoziernaturalevents bang this year! They kept everything in order and made a warm and welcoming atmosphere for everyone to enjoy!

[mara-xx217]

Ending H (Fear & Hunger) Ch. 4- Hidden in Plain Sight

It looked like a monster yet it put up an act innocence. Monsters come in all forms in this gods forsaken place and they were close to you from the very beginning...

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Rape/Noncon, Broken Bones, Fisting, Monster, Monster Biology, Blood, Death, Necrophilia

You stood in utter shock at the monstrosity before you. What the fuck was it?! What even was this place?! There was an entire other country below the dungeon, as far as you could tell, and with this new country there were brand new monstrosities that defied all logic and understanding. This place shouldn’t exist. That thing shouldn’t exist! But they did, and while you were standing in the midst of a stinking, rotting, impossible city standing before you waited yet another creature that would surely mangle and maim you in much the same way that your less fortunate comrades have been murdered before your eyes. Only one of your shield brothers remained and he incessantly pulled on your arm in an attempt to wake you from your stupor.

“What the fuck are you doing?! We’ve gotta move! NOW-!” His harsh tone was quickly choked back as the gangly creature began to walk it’s too long, one too many limbs in a disjoined and very unsettling pattern right down the narrow alleyway they stood it. 

You both were frozen in fear. The closer it got, the more you could make out the nearly human features of its face. Nearly… but not quite. It was grotesque in every sense of the word, almost… effeminate but also distinctly masculine. Androgynous but it was somehow at both extremes of either gender and somewhere between them both, a concept that was alien to you and left you feeling deeply unnerved. Yet you couldn’t take your eyes off of it. Your eyes flicked down its bare body and you immediately regretted it.

“W-Wha- t-the fuck…?” He saw it too. Your companion, Frederick muttered under his breath. He saw it too, that… thing between its legs. Not a penis, certainly not a vagina, it was a… sagging sack of- Oh God you think you’re about to be sick. 

The creature’s lips seemed to have an ever present smile ghosting its full lips. Its eyes were slightly sunken into its head, giving it the illusion of having dark coloured eye makeup around its sockets. An almost healthy dusting of flush covered its cheek, and from its face alone you could have mistaken them for an odd human being, but the spikes about its head and… everything else made it so there was no mistaking it for anything other than a monster of a time long forgotten. It fluttered its eyelashes at you (if the thing even had any-) and blinked at the two of you. Slowly. Regarding you two as it began to hum softly to itself. 

Frederick tugged on your arm again, though it was significantly weaker than from before. Your sword was loosely gripped in your hand, loose enough that its tip landed on the ground with a near deafening thud as the noise ricocheted off the empty streets of the dead city. It startled you enough that you and Frederick both regained your composers but it was already too late. This thing was already a mere few feet from where you both stood and now there was only one of two things the two of you could do:

Run or fight.

You raised your sword with a trembling hand and weakly called out “S-Stay where you are! D-Don’t come any closer!” Frederick backed you up with his own sword, his more steady but still had the same trembling quality that yours did. The creature didn’t move any closer but it didn’t move away, either. It softly giggled to itself, something gentle, like a bell, and nearly childlike though there was something terribly sinister hidden underneath its tone. 

“Didn’t you hear them?! They said ‘FUCK OFF!’ We’ll kill you where you stand, monster!” His voice is loud enough to echo throughout the city and your gut suddenly twists in fear. What if something else heard him?! The gangly thing seemed to pout a little, its shoulders slumping and its limbs going limp. A soft whine escaped its throat and for the briefest of moments… you actually felt sorry for the unfortunate being. 

It picked in between the crumbling mortar that was wedged between the paved tiles of the alleyway. One of its three feet began to tap against the ground, a rhythm that was totally unfamiliar to you. It looked up at you and smiled again.

“Teeheehehee~” A long, multi joined arm reached for you. Frederick pulled your arm again, much harder than he did in the first moments this creature appeared before you two. He managed to force you a step back but you yanked your arm free of his grasp. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” He hissed under his breath. He took two steps back and you remained in place. You blinked as you stared down at the three legged creature that sat with its legs splayed in every which direction.

“I… I don’t-” It reached for you again and Frederick took another step back.

“You… You have lost your mind!” It wasn’t said like a question but rather like a factual statement. 

It touched your leg. Gently, as though you were made of glass. Something stirred inside your chest once more. What if… as monstrous as it was… What if it wasn’t a monster? It tugged on your shin guard curiously, not hard enough to pull you off balance, not hard enough for you to even feel it. You only knew it was touching you because you were watching it with your own eyes. You could hear Frederick shuffling away more, muttering quietly under his breath.

“-fucked up. This is fucked up- We’re gonna- They’re gonna-” The creature giggled softly once more as its long fingers shifted away from your shin and towards the back of your calf. A part of you could almost smile. Maybe it wasn’t so bad… You were about to lean down so you could get a better look at its inquisitive eyes when suddenly.

SNAP!  

It took you an entire second to realize what just happened. Your face twisted in agonized horror as you watched your leg bone snap in half. A deafening scream pierced the stagnant air of the lost city, accompanied by the sound of rushed footsteps retreating in the opposite direction. Before you fell flat on your back from standing on painful and unbalanced legs, your other limbs were snatched and you were pinned flat against one of the alleyway’s walls. 

Hysterical sobs were pulled from your chest as your broken leg was still held in a bone crushing grip. The way it pressed against your armour-! Your eyes darted around, wide and bloodshot from tears and stress, desperately looking for someone, fucking anyone to hurry up and save you…!

“F-F-FREDER- AAAAHHHH!!!” A strangled scream left your throat as your arm was twisted until the bone was wrung in half. It shouldn’t- It couldn’t fucking move like that! The raw strength of this creature was otherworldly and was impossible for its size! In between screams and dry heaves, you looked for Frederick, expecting him to already be behind the creature and preparing to strike it down-!

But he wasn’t there. You didn’t know him that well- you didn’t even know his family name- but here in the dungeon of Fear & Hunger, normal social boundaries and understanding was shattered into a thousand pieces. There were so many times that he could have left you for dead but chose to protect you and you did the exact same for him. So why… Why…? Why?! Why why why why WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY-?!  

CRUNCH!  

The only sound that leaves your throat is a gargled groan. The tips of your other foot now faced the wrong direction. Your head hung low as you stared at your broken and mangled body. From the corner of the street, someone peeks out into the alleyway where you were being brutally assaulted. 

You barely felt your fourth and final limb snapping in two. Bile, saliva and tears dribbled down your chin and ran down onto your armoured chest. Breathing was becoming more and more difficult the more pain and trauma you were subjected to. One of your legs was released but it provided no relief to the agonizing pain that you were in. Even the simple pull of your legs hanging limply caused enough pain to make you believe that you would die at any moment. You wish you were already dead. You wished it now, even though the worst was yet to come….

The blinding pain in your mangled limbs masked the feeling of pressure building between your legs. The cold air against your nether regions was barely a whisper in your mind when compared to the white hot numbness that shot through your body. Even the feeling of something cool and hard pressing between your legs didn’t elicit a reaction from you. It was only when the creature all but punched into your body cavity did another tortuous, ear piercing scream rise from the depths of your soul. 

It only took one, forceful motion for it to sink all the way up to its first elbow. Blood gushed from the wound, coating both your trousers, the creature’s arm and the ground below you. It began to pull away and your screams followed it, rising in pitch before it was choked away as you began to vomit uncontrollably. 

Your flesh was being pushed away- Your organs were being fisted deeper and deeper up into your chest cavity. Blood rushed up your throat and streamed down your chin as your body began to shake. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You were dying…  

The creature- The Harvestman- gingerly removed his arm from the new hole he has made for himself. A rush of warm, scarlet blood followed in its wake and painted both the ground and his legs in its beautiful pigment. He released your legs and gently moved to lower you to the ground, careful to not jostle your bent limbs or your loose, churning insides before he had the opportunity to have his fun. 

Your breaths came out in short, gasping breaths. Your face was pale and your eyes were unfocused, staring at the dark blankness of Ma’habre’s sky. The Harvestman giggled to himself as it leaned over your broken body, the sack of skin that contained his genitals unfurling and doubling in both length and girth until it bobbed and swayed with the Harvestman’s slightest movements. 

The bulbous, weeping head of his cock easily pushed its way into the slick, soft tissue in between your legs. It was nearly twice as thick as his fist and arm, so the Harvestman had to put genuine effort into the thrusting of his hips as he raped your batter body. You weren’t quite a corpse yet but you were hardly alive, either. You made no sound as your insides were defiled, not so much as a wheeze or a whimper of pain. You were fading fast but you still had the remnants of your fleeting consciousness and you were at least partially aware of your finality and the manner in which you would die. 

Your perspective constantly shifted as though you were on a boat in rocky waters. Wetness soaked your legs and your back, an ever growing pool of your life force that was only leaking more and more with each passing second and with each new violation the monster that forced itself upon you administered upon your ruined body. Somewhere in the haze of pain and blood loss, you had a moment of recognition. 

At the end of the alleyway, peering in from the corner, a familiar set of eyes watched your brutal end. You already looked dead, with your limbs twisted at impossible angles and your ash grey skin and the lake of blood that encompassed your body that grew every time that thing raped your battered form. It was sickening… But Frederick couldn’t look away. 

The Harvestman stroked your blood and sweat soaked hair, an eerily sweet and loving gesture in the face of the evilness that it was currently inflicting onto you. Frederick watched as the skin of your abdomen shifted and moved in unnatural fashions, following the slow and nearly gentle rhythm the creature had set for itself. The sellsword shifted in place, feeling as though he was on the verge of vomiting yet… 

His cock was rock hard. Every small movement on his behalf was heavenly against the painful throbbing of his manhood. The longer he watched your rape, the harder he became. Frederick’s eyes met your glossy and seemingly dead ones, a shiver running down his spine as he considered was the creature was experiencing as it fucked your bodily cavity. Was it still warm? It had to be soft, right…? His palm found his erection and he made no attempt to hide the depraved act he was partaking in as he watched his comrade’s slow and torturous death. 

Ever since he entered the dungeon, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. The moments where you were in need, that you were nearly assaulted and those monsters nearly forced themself upon you, the times you would rest your eyes for a brief moment as he kept watch… Every single time he considered what it would be like to simply take what he’s wanted from the very beginning. And now he doesn’t have to pretend that he has ever cared to keep his morals and actions in check…  

Through your blurred vision, you saw the rushed, jerking movements of Frederick’s arm about his pelvis. A few stray tears streamed from the corners of your eyes. You were damned from the start… Your comrades- they all met their ends when they would scout ahead with Frederick. It was so easy to believe that it was rotten luck- they met a terrible fate while he barely escaped to live to tell the tale. It was all bullshit. You were the one that he wanted from the very beginning, and when the opportunity arose where he could save you for the very last time-

-he didn’t.

He watched as this thing broke you to pieces and violated the sanctity of your being. And he liked it. You cursed him with your final gasps for air. You moved one of your mangled arms, unable to control it, it simply stretched out at an awkward angle in his direction. You couldn’t move your mouth, you couldn’t even speak from the pain and the blood that drowned you from the inside out, but you cursed him and cursed him with every fiber of your being with the remaining life you had left. You would fade, knowing that you were betrayed in the worst way possible and knowing that you would never be able to exact your revenge onto him in this life. But you could hope he would face his end in a fitting manner, and you would hope, until you croaked your last breath and the light left your eyes long before the Harvestman would finish with your limp and mutilated corpse.

The Harvestman played with your dead body until it grew cold. With one last stroke of your hair and your frozen face, he left you, laying in a pool of your own blood and bodily waste and covered in the gore and cum that he pulled from your corpse. He shuffled away, whistling to himself a jolly tune, as though the horrifying act he just parktook in never happened at all. Frederick watched the creature lumber away and waited until it turned the corner and its whistling had faded into silence before he slunk back into the blood and gore soaked alleyway.

If he wasn’t so much of a coward, he could have had you when you were alive. His boots splashed in your blood as he approached your still body. Even dead and drained of blood, you were exactly what he wanted. His belt was still unbuckled and his hand was still in his trousers, idly pumping and stroking his shaft as he crouched between your legs.

You wouldn’t mind anymore, right? You’re dead, anyway…  

There was a single, gaping hole where your genitals once were. Again, a wave of nausea washed over him but the thought of finally sticking it in you and doing as he pleased overpowered the human part of him that revolted against the beast inside of him. Frederick pulled his trousers down around his thighs and leaned over your corpse. He stroked himself a few more times before he lined himself up with your new hole.

Your insides were cool and wet and sticky and so soft… Frederick didn’t know exactly where his dick was going or what he was thrusting into but he didn’t really care. Any apprehension that he had immediately vanished as he sunk up to the hilt into you. You were almost too cool for his liking but the thought of fucking you- alive or dead- pretty much midigated whatever unpleasantness that he felt in the moment. 

“Haaa… F-Fuck-” Frederick moaned your name as he straddled your broken legs. Your body rocked and bounced limply every time he thrusted his hips. He grabbed your side with one hand and wrapped his other hand around your throat. Cold, dead- It didn’t matter. He had fantasized about how you would cry and scream and beg him to stop as he forced himself upon you… or how you would submit to him and allow him to do as he wished, sobbing and moaning you took him over and over again…

When he pulled away from you, his cock and trousers were caked in blood. Frederick didn’t bother to clean himself off, instead he simply tucked himself away and re-buckled his belt. He was still panting, the aftershocks of his final orgasm still resonating from his core to the tip of his dick. His seed spilled out from your body and he stroked your ice cold face with the tips of his fingers. 

Ah, well…  

Frederick took a lock of your hair and cut it off. It wasn’t much but it was you, and that was all he wanted. He placed it in his pocket and readjusted himself once more, his cock still feeling painfully hard. He left you where you lay, corpse defiled and already showing signs of decay in the dead city hidden underneath the dungeon of Fear & Hunger. There wasn’t much left for him here, so he decided to leave as quickly as he could. No one would know what transpired here… He could go back to his old life and he can leave this all behind him. 

He fingered the hair in his pocket, his fantasies still playing in his head interlaid with the moments he spent with your dead body. Frederick could almost laugh a little, his mouth salivating and his cock throbbing with enough intensity that it nearly crippled him. He rubbed at his clothed cock. The sharpness he felt didn’t seem out of place to him, for whatever reason. The need to fuck- to defile as he just did to you- grew more and more prominent in his mind, until it was nearly all consuming and took control of his being. Somewhere in the midst of the memory of watching and jerking off to your torture and rape and engaging in relations with your corpse, your voice rung out in the hollow streets of Ma’habre, clear and biting.

“Was it worth it…?”  

Ending H- Hidden in Plain Sight  

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @slutwithadegree, @dead-bxxxtch-walking, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine

[cordycepspog]

Tbh I think there are entire scholarly essays to be written about the concept of the zombie and consent, and one of the things that’s pivotal to that whole lens is the fact that what makes zombies scary, on top of the concept of the undead and cannibalism of course, is that there is no consent. Like. Zombies are going to bite, whether you like it or not. They are going to put their mouth on their victim and take a chunk out. They’re going to eat their victims. You’ve never seen a zombie attack someone, stop, and ask, “hey, mind if I munch on your arm? Only if you’re into it, of course.” (I would love to see that actually, so if anyone knows if something like that out there actually exists please send it my way lol).

The other glaringly obvious thing that makes zombies scary is the undead aspect. It’s what made the walking dead so popular because the makeup was horrifying, and watching a literal rotting corpse sit up with the animalistic desire to eat you is scary as fuck. On top of all that, you can’t tell a walking corpse that wants to eat you “no.” And that, at least for me, makes it waaay scarier because it unlocks the hindbrain fear that tells you “you should get the fuck away from that right now.” I’m sure there’s a lot more psychology involved, but I hope you get what I’m trying to say.

And then there are the infected from the last of us. The concept for these zombies comes from a real life parasitic fungus called Ophiocordyceps that effects insects, and the story takes that terrifying concept and asks, “what if that happened to people?” In my opinion, the concept of the parasite makes this version of the zombie even more terrifying, because it’s a living thing that’s gets inside and then uses the victim’s body for it’s own purposes. There’s absolutely no consent involved in that. That’s like, the benchmark for a violation of consent.

But the infected in tlou aren’t dead, at least not like a typical zombie. There’s a process that the infected undergo as the cordyceps takes root. It’s what makes freshly infected runners sound so terrible, particularly in the beginning of the game when you’re not used to it, because they sound like people in pain. And it’s a wonderful tool for a horror story, because it begs the question: when do the infected stop being people, and start being monsters? But then, conversely, other questions arise, like, is the cordyceps fungus monstrous at all? Or is it just another living thing that’s adapted to survive?

I’d add more thoughts but I haven’t eaten dinner yet. If you have any thoughts you’d like to add on feel free! Just be nice, please.

[nickelkeep]

Conversion

Story by @bleuzombie, Art by @nickelkeep.

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 12,000

Tags/Warnings: Graphic Depiction of Violence, Non-Con, Medical Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Sexual Assault, Conversion Therapy, Psychological Horror, Trans Dean, Gay Castiel, Waterboarding, Religious Trauma and Abuse, Strip Search, Misgendering, Homophobia, Transphobia, Medical Neglect, Medical Neglect resulting in death, First Kiss, Abused Dean Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Exorcism, Drowning, Reality-based Horror, Man-Made Horror, Modern Setting, No Supernatural

Summary:

In order to avoid a jail sentence trans man Dean agrees to attend religious-based residential treatment for 90 days. Dean fights to maintain his sense of self as he is attacked mentally, and physically, and fights to protect his new friends Charlie and Castiel. Soon the treatment turns to torture. 

Jail would have been preferable.

Snippet:

The back of his chair falls out from behind him, bringing a startled yelp from his Dean. A cloth sack is shoved over his head and before he has time to react he feels a cold wetness fill the bag and his mouth. He can't stop himself from screaming for help as the water fills his surroundings, choking him, plastering the sack to his face. Distantly he hears voices as the water continues. They are waterboarding him. Dean struggles against his restraints as the water fills his lungs. He sputters, struggling to free his hands to pull himself free of the sack. Dean can’t see much in the wet darkness of his prison but still his vision starts to darken. This is it. He’s going to die in some bullshit psych ward with a bunch of religious zealots praising a god that isn’t there. And then Charlie will be next. 

Dean can’t let that happen. He does his best to stop struggling breathing out until he’s out of air. His lungs burn and he feels like he’s going to pass out when blinding light fills his vision. That first full breath burns. Dean pants as he pulls in air too fast, making him lightheaded. 

“God…” Dean pants as he tries to speak; the room is still too bright, and Dean feels high from all the oxygen now flooding his system. “... is.”

“Yes, Sister Deanna!” Metatron cries, hands raised in exaltation. “Praise our Lord and Savior as you see the light!” 

Dean’s chest heaves. He rolls his head back and smiles at Metatron. “Dead.” Dean starts to laugh, now that he can fully breathe. His laughter fills the room as he stares at the horrified faces of the orderlies. “Is that the best you got, you ugly bitch?” 

“Oh, I think you’ll find we are just getting started, sweetheart,” Metatron slaps Dean’s face lightly before nodding. Dean sucks in a breath and holds it as the sack is put over his head again and water poured over him. He tries to turn his head to the side but strong hands hold him in place. He feels fingers searching from the outside of the bag to pry his mouth open. Dean shakes his head as much as he is able but a finger splits the seal of his lips, wet, rough material scraping his lips. Dean reluctantly releases the breath he was holding, water filling his mouth as he bites down as hard as he can. He feels warmth spread around the finger and he bites harder, trying to thrash his head to the side.

Coming to @deancashorrorfest this October!

[lifblogs]

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Hemlock/Tech | CT-9902 | CX-2 Word Count: 1936 Summary: Hemlock is aggravated by the slow pace of his projects, and he masturbates to thoughts of CX-2 to try and relieve some of his feelings. WARNINGS: Surgery, Brain Surgery, Human Experimentation, Medical Experimentation, Blood and Gore, Gore, Blood, Major Injuries, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

[rexsokaficquotes]

"I can't make that shot from here!" she hissed. She rose from cover to Force-push a pile of crates over to block the hole, then ducked out of the way of fire from a third squad arriving.

"Then what did we waste all that time on the roof of the barracks for?" Rex yelled and ducked behind the crate as more blaster fire rained overhead. "I'm the one who taught you sharpshooting, Commander, I know you can do it. Echo can't fly in here until those shields are down."

— lamaenthel, from Jackness