#rating: nc 17

[m-p-a-a]

Approval has been rescinded. We no longer approve of this preview.

This preview has been rated [NC-17]

[winterknights]

FIC: The Planets bend between us

Title: The Planets bend between us Author: nuttersinc/Leandra Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur Prompt: None used Word Count: 45,390 words Rating: NC-17 Contains (Highlight to view): *no triggers I'm aware of* Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended Notes: Thank you to my friends Raven, who betaed this beautifully, and my cheerleader teachinghimpoetry. You are the best!

Summary: When Arthur drops out of university, his mother sends him to work at Aunt Alice's bakery in Northern Ireland in the busy weeks leading up to Christmas. Helping out in the bakery is hard work, but Arthur doesn't mind so much, not when the deal is sweetened by one of Alice's bakers. Merlin is beautiful and kind, and he has sacrificed his long-term relationship in order to follow dreams that lead him out of the village he's spent all his life in. Arthur has always thought himsef to not get attached easily to other people romantically, but when Merlin, against all odds, shows interest in him, things get even more complicated....

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52469251

[siriusblackfest]

Sirius Black Fest: Hatred in my Heart

Title: Hatred in my Heart Author/Artist: SiriuslySapphic / @siriusly-sapphic Pairing(s)/Character(s): Sirius Black/Narcissa Black Malfoy Rating: Explcit Word Count or Art Medium: 5000 Prompt #: 123 Summary: Those born with a soulmate chosen for them by their magic don't feel any pain until the day they meet that fated soulmate. Sirius and Narcissa Black, born only a few months apart, have never lived a pain free life. The conclusion is a simple one: as heirs of the Black family, it's only right they should not be weakened by such magic as that of soulmates. You never realise how wrong you are until it's too late.

(Hatred in my Heart)

[bunnypansy]

Little Death

Rated NC-17, read at your own RISK!

This is a dark fic, read ALL of the warnings before you consume. If anything mentioned in the warnings makes you uncomfortable, TURN AWAY. As a creator, I do not condone the things I write about, though that should be obvious enough.

With warnings out of the way, this is the first episode in our 16 part Kinktober season; Drugging and Pseudo-Necrophilia. The Undertaker likes you quite a lot, but he likes you much better when you aren't moving as much. A little drink should do the trick, shouldn't it?

Featuring: The Undertaker, and You, dear reader

Beware! This film contains: Ftm! reader, nonconsensual drugging, noncon/dubious consent, implied/pseudo necrophilia (there is no corpse fucking, but the Undertaker is pretending you are a corpse), fingering, light sadism

You had your suspicions drinking tea from an Erlenmeyer flask, fearing there may be trace amounts of whatever foul chemicals it last contained, but the Undertaker was quite insistent that the funeral parlor had no other vessels with which to drink tea. You should've trusted your instincts.

It had tasted just fine. Not unlike any other cup of Darjeeling you've drunk, but only a few sips in, and his rasping, pitchy voice bleeds into the generalized hum of the air surrounding you. The entire parlor is murmuring and Undertaker has joined the chorus, his voice almost inseparable from the buzzing background. He's telling a story- something about one of the Jack the Ripper victims, you think.

You had no involvement, only knowing of the case from the paper- which you had stopped reading after a particularly gruesome description -but there he goes, describing in lurid detail exactly how the poor woman had been carved up like cattle. He's practically waxing poetic on the fun he had stitching her waxy white skin back together, shoving her remaining organs back into place, and tucking filler into the empty cavities the Ripper had left behind, as though stuffing a sagging stuffed animal until the vacant body was plump and full once more.

The pictures he paints in your mind are ones you can never erase, but you can barely form a clear image anyway. Under any other circumstances, you would be sick to your stomach, moving to leave the funeral parlor and never return, but under the mist of whatever was in your tea, you can't find it in you to move. You can't even find the strength to speak.

Your lips stay parted, jaw hanging open and tongue limp in your mouth. In turn, you watch the Undertaker's lips instead, pale and dry as they move with each word, trying to parse whatever he was saying from the movement of his mouth. You can't hear the Undertaker's voice over your own breaths, slow and labored, and your heartbeat pulsing in your ears. With every second, the world gets fuzzier and fuzzier. The already dark funeral parlor became a sightless void, with the Undertaker becoming a star in the center of your dark universe, his silvery hair almost glowing in the dim candlelight.

With nothing else to reach for, you're leaning towards the Undertaker, a moth drawn to a flame. He's kind enough to catch you, a hand on either shoulder to steady you. Though his skin is no warmer than marble, you feel deeply comforted in his embrace.

"Oh my..." You don't know what he says after that. You only know that it feels so nice when he eases you into a more comfortable position, slumped against a coffin behind you, speaking in a low, soft voice. The sounds don't make sense, but they thrum sweetly against your brain as they enter your ears.

A moment later, the muscles in your neck give way, unable to hold your head upright. Instead, you entrust this task to the Undertaker and he gladly accepts, cupping your face in his spare hand. Your cheek rests perfectly in his palm, those long black nails scratching lightly against your skin; he's cold, but your skin is beginning to feel so hot that you can't bring yourself to care.

A feverish delirium has begun to swallow you whole, with no sign of releasing you any time soon. The energy sweats out of your body with every second, leaving you as still and limp as a mannequin, but warmer than a summer day.

Your brain is boiling within your skull, and it shows on your face. A thin strand of spit oozes from your lips and down your cheek, onto the Undertaker's fingers. Your hand twitches, but you don't have nearly enough strength to lift your arm and clean yourself up. How kind the Undertaker must be to lean close to you- close enough you can feel his frosty breath -and drag his tongue over your skin, tenderly tidying you up.

He traces the trail of saliva back up your cheek, finishing the intimate gesture by flicking his tongue across your lips. You're somewhat grateful he went to the effort, but it hardly matters when he makes a mess of you all over again, only moments later.

The hand on your cheek readjusts to your chin, gripping just tightly enough that the Undertaker can tilt your head this way and that to get the desired angle as he slides his tongue into your mouth and halfway down your throat. The taste of antiseptic and salt coats your mouth, but there's little you can do other than summon forth a quiet whimper. The movements are awkward and messy; the Undertaker eagerly runs his tongue over every crevice and tooth in your mouth, as if attempting to form a perfect map within his memory, while you lay unresponsive to his affections.

Whatever you and the Undertaker are doing together can hardly be called a kiss, but he probably prefers you this way. Still, weak, easy to manipulate; as perfect as a doll, as human as a body.

He pulls away and you're breathless, lips glossy with a sheen of his spit. "Look at you now, so still... What a good boy."

The praise barely penetrates the thick fog filling your skull, but when it does, you make a pitiful attempt at a smile back, barely able to even twitch your lips. You're rewarded with the Undertaker's abrasive laughter, startling a groan from you. "Und...er..."

"Shhh, shh..." His lips keep moving, but you don't pick up on a single word, whatever the Undertaker is saying must be nice, right? You feel so calm, entirely weightless as if you're floating.

Then the sensation stops, and instead, you're being pressed in upon at every side by something soft, a fabric... maybe velvet? The experience rides the line between claustrophobic and comforting, as if you're bound in a straitjacket made of velvet; warm and tight. So warm. Too warm. You want- no you need out, if you stay as you are, you'll surely cook to death. The heat is torturous when you can't even make a move to relieve it, forced to moan out to the Undertaker for help.

Hands dart across your body as he mutters something sugary into your ear, deftly undoing buttons and clasps on his way down. At long last, your skin meets the open air of the funeral parlor, bringing a sigh to your lips at the refreshing feeling. So caught up in your relief, you hardly even notice the cold fingerprints littering your body; poking and prodding here and there, adjusting your posture to his liking.

Legs straightened ahead of you, back flat against the surface beneath you, arms folded neatly. Great care is taken to interlace your fingers with each other, before he places your hands just below your navel, giving you a small pat on the tummy before his hands drift lower.

It's in this moment that it occurs to you where you must be laid and how you must look; in a funeral parlor, there's no place to rest but a coffin, and in a coffin, there's no way to look but dead.

The Undertaker plays with your lax body like a doll, rubbing his fingers across your lips for a few moments before he pauses and holds his thumb up against your lips, reveling in your shallow breaths for a few heartbeats. Although your ears feel stuffed with cotton, you can easily pick out the pleased groan the Undertaker makes.

Further down your body, a shiver crawls up from where the Undertaker's hand is tucked between your thighs. Whether the goosebumps pimpling your skin are from pleasure or temperature you can't tell. Something your mind tries to claw from the darkness, warn you how wrong this all is, but you can't hear it over the slick noise of the Undertaker dragging a finger through your slit.

You should be scared, you should struggle away or cry for help, but the adrenaline never comes; the fighting spirit you need is eagerly leaking away from between your legs and wetting the funeral director's hand. The silence that once fell between the two of you is replaced with a constant squelching of the Undertaker's fingers working over your clit; drawing slow, firm circles around the nub and simply enjoying the feeling of your breath against his hand as if it were an equal pleasure.

That calloused finger keeps rubbing at your clit, the rough skin pulling meager grunts from your lips with greater frequency the faster he moves. There's a twist in your stomach, something that makes you desperate to thrash in place, burning with frustration at your own limp body.

"Uh-" The hand on your lips quickly slaps entirely over your nose and mouth, clamping tight enough to cut off anything you planned to say. Those knife-like nails dig into your soft skin, threatening to cut.

"Hush. Don't speak." There are a few more words after that, still in a harsh whisper, that are inaudible to you.

Quiet panting, soft groans, slick fingers; the sounds and sensations are all too much, sending a vibrant buzzing through your veins, so strong it threatens to burst from your skin. Faster, rougher, harder; more, more, more-

The Undertaker mercilessly grinds the sharp end of his fingernail against your clit, and your body gives way to him completely. With just that simple demonstration of pain, the Undertaker rips an orgasm from your body as easily as a heart from a chest.

Acid pours through your veins, burning every vessel within you and filling your eyes with white-hot stars. Your eyelids twitch and your steamy breaths heave between the Undertaker's fingers as you lose any former semblance of control. The sleeve of the Undertaker's robe is soaked with your release. You'd be embarrassed with yourself if you could form coherent thoughts, but you can't even form a proper moan, just a pitiful gasp that seeps from your throat like a dying breath.

When the Undertaker finally pulls his hand away from your face, his hands are trembling just as much as your thighs. Briefly, you wonder if he enjoyed this as much as you did- or more.

That is all for tonight's episode of the 2024 Kinktober season, thank you all for viewing and have a lovely night.

I originally wrote a draft of this a couple months ago and was going to post it earlier... but it works so well for the spooky month that I just put it off teehee. i'm very excited about Kinktober, I've never participated before now so... we'll see if I can do it all!

[stormyoceans]

LISTEN. realistically speaking i know they're not about to give me phum riding peem. even if they show more than this GMMTV is still too attached to stereotypical top/bottom dynamics (especially for branded pairs) to go there. BUT ALSO I LOVE TO CLOWN AND BE DELUSIONAL SO WHAT IF

[thestalwartheart]

“And, you know, [Ben Whishaw]’s a great fucker. He has a great pelvis and it’s wonderful to show it.”

Okay Franz Rogowski. Okay.

Source.

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

SUMMARY: Renfield, the tortured aide to his narcissistic boss, Dracula, is forced to procure his master's prey and do his every bidding. However, after centuries of servitude, he's ready to see if there's a life outside the shadow of the Prince of Darkness.

Mod Z when this first came out to theatres: Yeah, I wanna go see this. Looks like a fun mild horror movie to watch after all the doom and gloom of what i’ve been watching lately :) *doesn’t end up watching it*

Mod Z now, seeing it on netflix: r18+?! wtf is in this movie?!

[transhuman-priestess]

I feel like there’s a lot to say with the rise of purity culture and the way that MPAA ratings now correspond to “stupid baby” (g), “normal baby” (PG), “mass entertainment” (PG-13), and “grownup profanity/violence/sex fest” (R)

[final-girl96]

My Boyfriend's Back Chapter Twenty-Six

YN

"I'm not going to that party," I said. Randy and I were walking across campus to the cafeteria for dinner. "Oh, come on. Why not?" He asked. "So you forget what happened at the last party we were at?" He rolled his eyes, "you mean the last party you were at. I've been to other parties. And the murders at the theater have nothing to do with us." I scoffed at his denial. "You are in such denial! Randy, two people were killed at a movie based on our lives!"

He stopped in front of me and put his hands on my shoulders. "Look, I know you're worried about Stu coming back. But come on, don't you think he would have already if he was going to?" If only he knew the truth. The truth that Stu was back and I've been giving in to him. "You're going to that party with me. Plus, Dewey is here. He's not going to let anything happen to any of us."

I stood around, a drink in my hand out in the backyard at the Sorority party. Randy had showed up at my dorm with Mickey of all people. "See, this isn't too bad." I looked over at Randy and gave him a deadpanned look. "Oh, yeah, so fun!" I said sarcastically. "Nothing is going to happen, just relax and have a good time. I'll be back with more drinks!" He walked back into the house and I stood there awkwardly.

"Yn? I didn't know you were coming." I turned around to see Sid and Hallie coming up to me. "Randy forced me to come." Just then Randy came to stand beside me handing Hallie and Sidney a drink. "Took you long enough," Sid said to him. "You need to get out of that damn room of yours and stop being a hermit crab."

Mickey came over saying something about a movie sequel to Randy and they both walked off, Hallie went off another way and Sidney went to sit down with Derek. A flash of blond hair caught my eyes and I snapped my head to the right to see Stu talking to some girl. What caught me off guard was he was wearing glasses. There has only been a handful of times that I've seen him wear his glasses.

I watched him talk to the girl, well more like she was talking to him but he was paying more attention to me. I flinched when someone came up beside me and tapped me on the shoulder. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." I looked up to see a guy, dark hair and green eyes smiling at me. I raised my eyebrow at him and he let out a nervous laugh. "Sorry, I'm Luke, I'm in one of your glasses with you."

"Oh, okay? Did you need something?" I asked. He looked down and shook his head, a blush tinting his cheeks. "This is stupid. I–um…I just want to tell you that you're beautiful and an amazing singer. I've heard you in the studio a couple times. I wasn't like…stalking you or anything though!" I gave him a small smile and chuckled. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

I looked back over to where Stu was but he was no longer there. "So, you major in music or…" he shook his head. "No, I'm a film major." I nodded my head, "oh. So you know Randy then?" He nodded his head, "yeah. Can I ask you something?" He asked. "Uh…yeah," I said, nodding. He looked around and let you a breathy laugh. "Has he always been so…how do I phrase this…"

"Overly dramatic? Obnoxious? Loud? Yes. Yes, he has been. He's very passionate about movies. He actually brought the film club back to our high school his freshman year. Convinced the principal to give him a week to get at least ten students to join." We both laughed. "You went to Woodsboro, right?" He asked, with a smile still on his face. I took a deep breath before nodding. "I did. Yeah."

"I'm sorry for what happened. I don't think I'd ever leave my room again if something like that happened in my hometown. Hell, my mom probably wouldn't let me out of the house." I didn't say anything and his smile dropped. "Shit, I'm sorry. I'll admit I know who you are but that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I do find you beautiful. I was actually hoping maybe…maybe if you'd like to get coffee or something."

"Something happening across the street! The police are over there, come on!" Everyone started to rush back into the house and Sidney came over to me. "Come on." I gave Luke an apologetic look and followed Sidney. As we were getting ready to leave I stopped. "Shit, I forgot my jacket. I'll be–" a hand clamped over my mouth. "Do you not listen to anything I say?!"

I pushed Randy away from me. "No! I do not listen to anything you say. Now, I'm going to go get my jacket!" I turned and walked back into the house. I walked into the living room and over to the couch where I left it but it wasn't there. A hand landed on my shoulder and I yelped. "Sorry! You were just taking a long time." I turned around, putting my hand on my chest. "Jesus, Sid! I'll be out in a second."

"Where's your jacket? Do you need help finding it?" She asked. "I thought I left it on the couch but it's not here. I'm going to look upstairs and I'll be out I promise." She shook her head, "I'm helping you." I sighed and nodded before heading for the stairs. Just as I got there the phone rang. I looked back at Sidney and she shook her head. I went to head upstairs when she called out. "I found it!" She came over and handed it to me and we walked towards the door.

I paused when the phone rang again. "You girls ready?" Derek asked. "Yeah, in a second." I walked over and answered the phone. "Hello?" There was silence on the other end for a few seconds before the modulated voice spoke. "Hello, yn." My whole body froze. "What do you want?" I asked. "What's your favorite scary movie?"

I rolled my eyes. "Real original. If you're going to kill me just don't already you fucking coward!" I yelled. A deep chuck sounded from the other side of the line. "My pleasure." My head snapped to my left when the voice didn't come from the phone. Ghostface stood near the door, knife in hand and tiled his head. "Sidney!" I screamed and he charged at me.

[girlinthebrightbluejeans]

Just finished S1 of Versailles. That was depressing.

[winterknights]

FIC: I wish I had a river I could skate away on…

Title: I wish I had a river I could skate away on... Author/Artist: Emma or ItsAWonderfulLife on AO3 Pairing(s): Merthur, background Gwencelot Prompt: Prompt 38 Word Count: 11,940 words Rating: Mature Contains: Coma, temporary medical conditions, temporary injury, homelessness, closeted character, internalised homophobia. Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Notes: Beta was Laurie on the Merlin Library discord, laurieonalark on AO3. General notes: Merry Christmas!

Summary: Loosely based on Prompt 38 of the Winterknights prompt sheet: “Merlin/Arthur. Arthur, a bit of a Scrooge who hates Xmas and refuses to celebrate, slips on ice and knocks himself unconscious.

He wakes up to find himself wearing a pair of gaudy Xmas pyjamas and moments later his PA Merlin walks into his bedroom wearing a matching set and tells him to ‘hurry up because Mum will be here soon!” – the day gets stranger and stranger as he discovers he and Merlin are apparently a couple, even though Arthur has never actually admitted to liking blokes, and further more the gift he got Merlin looks very like and engagement ring, and they have all these friends who Arthur recognises from work but doesn’t really know, and Arthur’s sister even comes over! Confusingly he actually appears to be happy, when he would never have said he was unhappy before.

Up to author if this is reality or if he wakes up and tries to make it so. ”

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51967351

[izzyspussy]

i did... think there was more sex. didn't. wasn't somebody supposed to fuck a wound. is there an uncut version or something. i know it's not just in the book, i read something about it when i was looking into maturity ratings.

[bunnypansy]

Unbalanced Diet

Rated NC-17, read at your own RISK!

This is a dark fic, read ALL of the warnings before you consume. If anything mentioned in the warnings makes you uncomfortable, TURN AWAY. As a creator, I do not condone the things I write about, though that should be obvious enough.

That being said, welcome dear viewers, to our special Halloween showing! You and Rook are celebrating your one year anniversary together with a delicious dinner and a bit of intimacy afterward. Though this film contains romantic elements, make no mistake, this is a horror movie, intended to disturb and discomfort the audience. Featuring: Rook Hunt, and you, dear viewer, with minor cameos from from guest stars Vil Shoenheit and Neige Leblanche Beware! This film contains: Dead dove do not eat, non-con/dubious consent, non-consensual touching, kidnapping, unwilling cannibalism, sexual reactions to cannibalism, drinking blood, blood/injury, implied murder/torture, implied ptsd/flashbacks, controlling/toxic relationship, starvation as manipulation, physical/mental abuse, dissociation, Rook being generally fucking terrifying, implied existence of ghosts??? sexual biting, nipple play, light infantilization, sadism, blood kink, dacryphilia, blood as lube, teasing, oral (reader receiving), cis!male!reader, the french language, dog/master metaphors

“I love you.” You know. It sits on your tongue like a stone in your mouth.

He says it everyday, his devotion total, complete, unwavering; it should be admirable. At first, you tried to count how many times he said it, tally marks carved in the grooves on your brain- you lost track four days in. 

Warm hands creep under the hem of your silken robe, roughed palms smoothing over your cold shoulders, a honeyed voice whispering in your ear. “I love you more than anything, mon amour.”

The silence of anticipation is loud, but you stay quiet, even as Rook’s warm hands wander their way down your chest and the white silk falls away, feeling more like a wildfire on your skin. Bare legs and arms are laid open the frigid air of the dining room and you sink back against the fine oaken dinner chair, as if trying to steal Rook’s heat through the seat back.

His hot fingers pause over your stiffened nipples, still tender and aching. “It’s our anniversary today, darling.”

“It-” There’s a little flick over the swollen nub as you try to answer, Rook just wants to hear you stumble for him, watch you squirm. “It is?”

“Oui, c'est le cas.” Idly, thumbs brush back and forth over your sensitive nipples, slow and patient. “Every moment of this year with you has been utter bliss, mon amour, beyond ecstasy.”

“For this momentous occasion,” Rook’s lips press against your temple, the crest of your ear, your jaw, “I believe a special meal is an order, non?” Then finally land on the column of your throat. 

The points of his teeth nip at your thin skin, a soft pinch, soothed with the flick of his tongue. A kiss from any other man would be so sweet. You shiver under his touch, from the crisp air or the terror you can’t decide. When you swallow back a distressed noise Rook can feel your throat bob under his tongue, teeth scraping against your Adam's apple, eager for a bite. You wonder how exactly he wants you.

All at once the heat of his breath disappeared from your skin and Rook’s weathered hands returned to your shoulders, pulling up your silken robe to once more cover your skin. “I’ll get started on dinner then, don’t go anywhere mon chéri!” He laughs, and it’s not funny.

You listen, listless, as heavy work boots stalk away from you; the steps are slow and deliberate, as if he wants you to hear exactly where he's going. Five long strides behind you, then three more to the left and… he's passed the kitchen. There’s a sort of rhythmic pounding in your skull, it might be your pulse, but your brain had it confused for the beat of Rook’s boots against the hardwood as he stalks down the hall. The footsteps fade but the throbbing in your head stays, freshly renewed as a weighty metallic click meets your ears, and paired with a profound tightness in your chest when you realize Rook has opened the door to the basement. Beyond that, he’s left the door open, which he’s done before- how many times you’re not sure.

All at once you’re pulled to the mouth of the basement again. Now is your chance, maybe your only chance, since Rook wasn’t home. Your sheer silken socks did little to protect the soft soles of your feet from the splintered wood on the first step. How odd, the rest of the house is in mint condition, but this corridor is left in disrepair. As you felt along the wall for a light switch, you came to the realization that perhaps the basement hall had never been in repair; your groping did not reveal a lightswitch, rather that the walls were unfinished. Fingers grazed the flesh and bones of the house, a wooden skeleton filled with soft insulation in its gaps. The foundation groaned, perhaps a reaction to touching the open cavity in the wall, perhaps a warning to turn away. You felt around a moment longer but there was no light switch to be found. You’d continue in the dark.

At your back, the creaking of the steps and rattle of chains followed close on your heels, you were terribly aware that if you needed to run, you’d be doomed. The length of chain was too short for a full stride. It rubbed, cold and insistent over your ankles, a reminder. In front of you, only blackness, a warning.

The entire world seemed to disappear behind you as you delved deeper into the intestines of the house, and the farther you went, the more alive it felt- and God did you go far. The basement stairwell seemed to stretch on into the abyss ad infinitum, it gave you plenty of time to reconsider your choice, especially when the air began to change around you. Where the house above retained a cold, sterile feeling, the narrow passage of the stairwell grew warm and humid the further you pushed on. Soon enough it took on a putrid stench, growing in strength with every step; by the time you reached the foot of the stairs it was so potent you had to suppress the urge to gag. Rancid eggs or animal feces or something of the like: you could name a thousand things as olid and never once touch the intensity with which the basement reeked that night. While you couldn’t logically place the smell, a deep instinctual part of your brain put a name to the stench as easily as you took a breath. Something had died here.

A wave of nausea rocked over you so violently that you blindly grabbed for the wall to steady yourself, surprised when you found a thin metal chain in your grasp. Before you could properly debate with yourself, something cool brushed across the back of your neck; too light to be a sigh, yet too undefined to be a gust of wind- how would the bowels of the house even get fresh air? It felt more like someone letting go of something they had held onto for a long time, a final exhale. Or maybe it was nothing, you’re not sure you want to know.

“...Hello?” Your voice sounded miniscule in the face of the unending blackness. 

Anxiously, you waited for a reply- rather a lack thereof. Your ears caught the sound of buzzing insects, you became aware of the flitting gnats and flies as they zipped past your face, the lack of ventilation, the-

“Turn on the light.” Rook was not home.

You kept taking in breaths to scream, but the noise remained stuck in your throat, only making awkward, fish-like gasps that left you lightheaded. The dark, the bugs, the smell, it was messing with you. There was nothing down there. There was no one down there. There couldn’t be. To die in that basement, surrounded by the rancid air, losing count of the days- could there be a more horrible fate? Would it be worse to live here, or die here; you’re no longer sure. 

Thin, cold hands slithered over your shoulders- Rook wasn’t supposed to be home -slid over the expanse of your collarbone, traveled further up your throat and tilted your head back. Stretching, straining, the tendons in your neck began to ache, but you leaned as far as he made you, until you were eye-to-eye. 

“Why don’t we go upstairs?”

You wake up in cold sweat, tell tale heart hammering against the bars of your ribcage, traitorous to the calm you’d sworn yourself to keep. The gleam of the dining room table, the stiffness of your chair, the incessant pain in your tendons- it all comes bleeding back in. Time is slippery, you could’ve been dozing for an hour or a week and you wouldn’t know the difference. The tantalizing scent of steak grounds you, the sizzling of the pan in the kitchen, Rook humming a tune you’ve grown familiar with. That memory was weeks ago- or days, perhaps. 

It’s a sliver of comfort, your lighthouse on the wild waters of your relationship, these small domestic moments. As time goes on, the fragrance grows stronger, creating a mouthwatering aroma that reminds you of the emptiness in your stomach. You suck in a deep breath, eager to somehow satiate your hunger; the scent of steak hits your palate, followed by the hypnotic perfume of rosemary mingling with red wine and butter. It's thick, intoxicating, the delirium is enough to make you forget your nausea. By the time Rook deposits a plate in front of you, the basement is as far from your mind as it could be. 

His plates are simple milk porcelain with a gold lined rim, because that's how Rook likes things; simple, expensive, delicate. The meat in the middle appears like an open wound on the pristine plate; a ruddy gash in the porcelain, delicately seared and glistening with a bloody sauce. Beyond that, the food smells divine, every ounce as decadent as it looks. Instinctually, your forefinger attempts to uncurl and reach for the golden silverware on either side of the plate, only to stop short with an agonized whine.

"Oh ma chéri," a chiding sigh brushes across your cheek, you just can't help but flinch away. Rook has taken a seat beside you, despite the opposite side of the table being perfectly clear. He's close enough that your shoulders brush. "You simply must quit irritating those, or they'll never heal."

As if it wasn't him who severed your tendons. His thin fingers grab for your wrist, turning it over to inspect the gauze, now freshly dampened with your blood. A sick flush overcomes Rook's face at the sight, stark crimson on clean white- you can tell he's suppressing a smile. Your stomach turns. 

"Oh, la vache…" the gentle caress of his thumb against your knuckles brings forth the urge to rip your hand away, you force yourself to deny it. "How dreadful. I suppose I'll have to patch you up after dinner, ce n’est pas la mer à boire."

You asked him what that meant once; ‘it’s not the sea to drink’, or something like it. A bland encouragement to stay collected, despite the torture he’s made you endure, but it works. Maybe the phrase is effective, or maybe you have no choice but to make it so; Rook stands at the lip of a cavern, the lightest brush either way and he’ll send you both careening into the dark. It’s become your career to stand so perfectly still, even as he waltzes on the knife’s edge, desperate to make you follow in his depraved steps like his lovers before. 

The screech of wooden chair legs against the floor makes you flinch away, though you’re well aware Rook has become your master and you, his dog. You will only ever walk as far as he allows- recently, he’s decided to keep you kenneled. Your achilles tendon aches as he lifts you from the dining chair like a bride, a belonging, then takes your place in the seat- you find your place on his lap. 

For a few heartbeats, you’re lost in the romance of Rook taking the serrated knife to your portion of steak; his arms warm around your shoulders, deft hands cutting away a bite-sized chunk for you to eat. You feel honored that he cares enough to feed you.

“Say, ‘ah’.” There’s a sort of genuine delight in his voice that still feels belittling when he raises the fork to your lips, but your stomach comes before your dignity, and you let Rook put the bite of steak in your mouth.

The flavor melts on your tongue, savory, acidic, rich, everything you’d hoped for- but you’re a few chews deep when you realize something amiss. This does not taste like steak. In every aspect it appears as such; the darkened, almost leathery brown of the exterior, the scent, but its flavor more closely resembles pork. You chew a few more times and swallow, and make the terrible mistake of turning to look at Rook.

“What is-” The words shrivel up and die on your tongue, silenced completely by the bloodcurdling expression on Rook’s face. 

There’s a wild, thrilled look in his arsenic-green eyes, something bright and excited that makes your heart still. His smooth, pale skin has been set aflame and the ivory points of his teeth threaten to pierce his bottom lip. 

Your mind conjures images of the cream cotton bags, once white but stained with overuse and blotted in red, the fabric stretching at irregular angles to contain whatever Rook had stuffed inside. Buck, or doe, or veal- whatever he would promise with glimmering eyes. You imagine silky blond hair and soft brown eyes, perfect skin and straight teeth. You imagine the basement, the voices you might’ve heard, Rook’s past lovers.

There’s a violent turn in your stomach, so strong your eyes water and you instinctively lift your hands to clasp over your mouth, only drawing more blood from your open wounds- but Rook doesn’t scold you this time. No, he only watches in cruel silence as you dry heave in his lap, running his hands up and down your sides as you scream hard enough to make your parched throat sting. 

It’s an arduous ten minutes and sobbing and retching before you reach some sort of calm, reduced to miserable hiccups, lamely attempting to dry your eyes. Somehow, you feel immature for being sickened at the prospect of eating human meat.

“How is it?” The question nearly makes you devolve into sobs all over again, because it’s good- perhaps the most heavenly thing you’ve ever eaten.

“It’s…” You can’t make yourself say it. That you crave more, like an addict.

“That good? Mon amour, I’m flattered beyond words.” Strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you back against Rook’s chest, you fight your every instinct and do not pull away, even when something twitches against your ass. “Here.”

Cold dread sinks into your stomach when he cuts you another piece, holding a slice of human to your lips. You tremble in place for a few breaths, refusing to open your mouth, but your body betrays you, as always, growling like a rabid dog for another taste. He taps the fork against your lips once more, and you concede. Rook cuts you bite after bite, you swallow each and every one, the meat is further salted by your unending tears.

By the time you work your way through the entire plate, Rook’s erection presses hot and heavy against your backside, somehow he’s restrained enough not to hump you like an animal; you realize now what you’ve been starving for. Your stomach aches, heavy and bubbling with turmoil; guilt, disgust, betrayal, but it’s soon overshadowed by a chilling numbness. 

When Rook brushes a thumb across your split bottom lip, you scarcely stir, your tongue flicking out to wet your dried skin. The crisp rim of a wine glass clanks lightly against your incisors and your thirst flickers to life. Your gaze slides down to the contents of the bowl, a dark burgundy wine so pitch it nearly reaches a shade of black. Fingertips smooth over your jawline, gently tipping your head back to follow the pitch of the wine glass, letting the maroon liquid slide over your lips. It’s thick, coolly oozing down your throat and leaving the taste of pennies heady on your tongue, though you lack the clarity to care. He forces more and more down your throat, and you willingly guzzle away, content to slake your thirst with blood, no matter whose, as long as the pain of dehydration disappears. Scarlet blood pools at the corners of your mouth carves a path across your skin, first pooling on your chin before drawing a trail over your throat. 

When the glass finally empties, you lick your lips and Rook can no longer repress a moan, the nails of his spare hand digging into the softness of your waist so tightly it hurts, sure to leave crescent shaped cuts behind. A trail of open mouthed kisses dances from your shoulder to your cerise stained throat, where Rook takes the liberty of licking what remains of his lost lover from your skin, all the while groaning incoherently- you barely pick up the word ‘obéissant’ amongst his mutterings. A man possessed with his own lust, Rook hastily shoves aside his fine dishware in place of laying you down against the cold wooden dining table- splayed out across the tabletop, haloed by silverware and white plates, now you are the meal. 

Your body becomes a canvas, the victim of an artist with red stained hands as he borrows paint from the font in your radial artery, burrowing his smoothed nails into the thin webbing of gauze until your blood squishes around his knuckles and seeps beneath his fingernails. His hips fit perfectly between your legs, the defined points of his bone sliding like blades against the softness of your thighs, sharp and unyielding as you gingerly tuck your legs around him- better to give the wolf a taste now than deny his growling stomach. By God does he savor that ‘taste’. Moans pour from Rook’s lips like life from your veins, oozing around your skin warm, wet and vulnerable, punctuated by his grotesque slurping at your throat. Rook sucks hickies into your neck with such harsh desperation you think he might be trying to draw the blood from your arteries with his lips alone, overlaying plum and claret blotches with the yellowing remains of your last endeavors.

The pale lace and silk Rook has taken the effort to swaddle you in is marred with ruby droplets, round and glittering rhinestones for a moment, before they melded with the smooth fibers of your robe. It would be no effort on Rook’s part to dress you in vibrant shades, something that would hide the rusty stains, but that wouldn’t be half as cathartic. Perhaps more sensual, perhaps more tantalizing; but not nearly as visceral and intimate as peeling open a flower bud, digging his fingers beyond the milky satin petals and revealing the blushing center. 

“Oh, mon chéri,” He’s breathless as he gazes down at you, his lips rosy and glistening with a slick mix of blood and spit. “You are beguiling in every element, a blessing upon my unworthy eyes.”

You clench your jaw and avert your gaze. 

“I beg of you, s'il te plait mon amour, give me the honor of showing you my passion?” It’s not really a question, Rook’s very presence is so oppressive you’re suffocating in the open air. You feel small beneath him, size notwithstanding. 

Truthfully, he does not need your permission either way- it’s a petty ploy to force a word up your throat -his hands would’ve snaked their way beneath your bloomers nonetheless. You’re bare beneath your sleep shorts, as Rook preferred, and with the brush of a warm palm against your soft cock, you’re just as excited as he’d please too.

Experienced fingers gently enclose the head of your cock, rolling your foreskin back to the base, all while Rook keeps his eyes trained on yours, the smallest expression of delight on his face. Though coarse, Rook’s hand felt heavenly wrapped around your dick, the grip delicate and pace agonizing as he began to work you up. It didn’t take long for you grow hard- Rook knew exactly how to make you twitch and squirm -pulling his hand along your shaft before pausing just below the tip, only for his thumb to press harshly against the your slit, drawing a long squeal from your throat. 

At long last, Rook drags your shorts from your hips and over your legs, leaving streaks of blood like rivers on your thighs. The chilled air finally meets your warm cock, bringing forth a shudder of discomfort. Rook will choose to interpret this as a show of anticipation. Again, Rook closes his fist around the base of dick, now choosing to stroke you with more fervor, the squelch of precum of blood growing louder and louder with every pump. It’s enough to make your face hot, swapping frantically between rapid panting and holding your breath, if only to deny yourself the shameful satisfaction of letting loose a moan.

“Tell me how this feels, mon amour.” Rook’s eyebrows pinch in a way that almost seems genuine, even as he stills his movements and squeezes the base of your cock tightly; watching a tremor pass through your body, your muscles tightening, eyes fluttering open and shut in quick succession, determined not to grant him a single noise. “Is it good?”

Precum drools from the tip of your cock in a slow, sticky stream, mingling with the tacky blood coating Rook’s hand and coating your length in a thick, marbled mixture of the fluids. It’s sickening, disgusting, and makes your stomach turn slow and dreadful- yet, somehow, the sight makes another bead of precum gather at your tip.

“Or do you need something more, hm?” Rook’s free hand smooths over your inner thigh, knuckles brushing lightly over your balls, his thumb smoothing flat over your taint, before his middle finger finally teases against your rim. “Do you need me in here, ma bichette? Dis juste oui.”

The tip of his finger presses in lightly and you inhale sharply, bringing a small chuckle from Rook’s chest. Your struggles amuse him. Rather than wait for any kind of response, Rook instead encircles your cock with only his forefinger and thumb, pinching it tight enough to make you writhe as he scoops the slurry of blood and precum from your shaft. 

For a second, Rook spreads his hand open and watches the sticky webs spread from finger to finger, before he bends down and lets a small exhale hit your dick, suppressing a laugh when your hips jerk in response. 

“Ah, si mignon.” The tone is almost dreamy, it would be cute in any other situation, with any other lover. As though to reward your endearing behavior, Rook leans forward and places a kiss on the tip of your cock, forcing a cry of sensitivity from your throat. “Tellement mignon, mon chéri.”

A tiny strand of precum stays stuck on Rook’s bottom lip as he pulls away, only broken when his tongue darts out to lick up what remains- your cock throbs at the sight, so fiercely that you can’t help yourself any longer, a sound somewhere between a wail and a moan makes its way from you before you can even think to stop it. When you calm enough to refocus your attention on Rook, a smile spreads across his face like the plague.

One of his broad hands digs into the fat of your thigh and drags you to the end of the dining table with ease, perfectly aligning your hips with the edge. You’re still reeling from the movement when Rook abruptly pushes two fingers beyond your rim and immediately curls them up into your prostate with cruel force; at the same time, he laves his tongue over the slit of your cock, eagerly swallowing every drop of pre you leak. Your whole body spasms in response to the pleasure, your back arching and legs flailing wildly, a litany of whorish moans falling from your lips- control has not just slipped away from you, the leash has been ripped free of your clenched fists and instead given to Rook. Thick fingers pummel mercilessly against the sensitive bundle of nerves in your ass, punching air from your lungs with every thrust and simultaneously shoving your nearer and nearer to the brink of orgasm- but before you ever reach it, Rook pulls away. His mouth leaves your cock, your hole is left empty once more, and you are left desperate. In a moment of weakness, you almost sit up to beg Rook for more, whine for him to let you cum, before your shame roars back to life.

Though you’re laid bare for all to see, Rook is finally rabidly throwing off his clothes, as though any moment without your touch was one of pure agony. In mere seconds, he’s completely nude and readjusting your body as he pleases, tucking a hand under either thigh before guiding them to wrap around his hips. Your eyes are immediately drawn between his legs, where his cock rests against your own, heavy and twitching, the flushed tip glistening with wetness. Lazily- unfairly -Rook squishes the soft head of his dick against your slickened rim, just shy of fulfilling your desires. 

“Oh my, regardez ça…” His hips push forward ever so slightly and you let out a puppyish whine, distraught when he retreats again just to watch your hole clench in an effort to pull him back. “You’re just so terribly cute, my dear, so cute.” 

The torture feels endless, though he only teases you for a few seconds longer, tapping his cock against your ass one more time before he asks the question that makes your heart go still. “Tell me what you want, mon cheri.”

Your throat closes. You can’t admit that you want- no, need -Rook to fuck you, you need his warmth, the pleasure, the comfort; the same way you need food and water. Still, you can’t say it, not anymore, because Rook will come unraveling like a linen with the lightest tug on his heartstrings. A couple months ago you would’ve happily cried and screamed for Rook to finally shove his dick into you. Now you feared he’d finally break.

You spread your legs wider, arch your back further, whimpering like a stupid animal as you give the weak attempt to rock your hips back into Rook’s cock with teary eyes. 

“Ah-ah.” He takes a pace back, moving just barely out of your reach. “Do you want me?”

There’s a quiet thump as you let your head fall back against the tabletop, squeezing your knees around his waist in need. 

“Just nod for me, d'accord? That’s all I need, ma bichette.” His hand smooths over your waist, trying to soothe you, but it does nothing to stop the rapid thrumming of your heart. 

You heave, too humiliated to meet his eyes, instead throwing your arms over your face and giving the subtlest dip of your head. There’s hardly a second after your approval before Rook’s hands grip your hips so firmly your bones creak under his strength, dragging you back to meet his thrust and sheathe his cock inside you in a single smooth movement. You receive no mercy, no time to adjust, as Rook fucks into you like a feral animal, his movements unrestrained and frenzied, unyielding as you squeal and scream beneath him, legs locked around his hips for a single scrap of stability. 

You think- if you can think -that he’s begun muttering something between open-mouthed pants, gasps of how much he loves you, how beautiful you look, how he’d like a taste of you. You let your thoughts scramble with every thrust of his hips, you let go of the fear for a few minutes. It not hard when Rook actively makes an effort to take your breath away, clumsily smashing your lips together in something that could barely be called a kiss; it’s all teeth and tongue, Rook sloppily stuffing his tongue into your mouth with an animalistic grunt- he feels more monster than man to you. Everything about him is suffocating, you can’t breathe around his love, head spinning, vision darkening- at the same time, Rook tilts his hips just right and jams the head of his cock against your prostate, and you’re ready to die for this orgasm. Pain is irrelevant, your weakened hands tangling in Rook’s hair and pulling despite the violent ache in your tendons. The euphoria is incomparable, so sudden and violent you spray cum over both of your chests, your whole body trembling and tightening within Rook’s grasp, milking his cock for all you could with a series of strangled moans Rook is happy to swallow.

Lucidity quickly sets in and you begin to panic, beating your bloodied fists against Rook’s shoulders in a useless attempt to push him away; if Rook wanted you dead, you would die. Your lungs have been set alight with Rook’s passion, parched for the cool touch of oxygen you’re worried may never come. Only once you’re entirely convinced you’re about to die does Rook finally break away and let you breathe, both gasping like you’ve drowned, and still Rook pumps his hips back and forth, chasing his release. 

“Tell me- putain -tell me, mon amour,” his words are gasped out against your throat, muffled by your skin. “Tell me you love me, ah, dis moi que tu m'aimes”

It’s not a request, it’s a demand, his teeth lock around the thin skin of your esophagus, canines pressing sharply against you. Any answer could end in a crushed windpipe, and you’ve never been good at gambling; but you are his dog, and he is your master. No matter how many times the hand beats, you will return. 

“I love you, Rook.” Quick as a flash, Rook readjusts and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, iron filling his mouth in a flood he’s happy to swallow. Rook manages only one more thrust before stilling inside you, shuddering from head to toe with a guttural groan as he fills you with his cum. You’re utterly revolted.

Your wounds have left you in agony. You’re still afraid Rook might rip a chunk from you. You’re sick to your stomach. You might cum all over again. A few stray tears roll over your cheeks, but you suppose this can’t be so bad; your stomach is full and Rook is warm. So warm. You are Rook’s dog, and he is your master. You loosely wrap your arms around his neck. A dog always loves his master.

That's all for our Halloween special folks! I hope you enjoyed, and as always, thank you for viewing. I. Am sorry for writing this ngl. During the uh. hard-on people steak scene, I just stared at my computer screen wondering what the fuck I was doing with my life. I hope you find it spooky though, i definitely do... (also I think I'm very funny for the Vil/Neige cameo hehe)

[matamorose]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Twin Peaks (TV 1990) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dale Cooper/Albert Rosenfield Characters: Dale Cooper (Twin Peaks), Albert Rosenfield, Laura Palmer (mentioned), Diane Evans (mentioned), Oblique references to others but none make an appearance Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Canon, Vague mentions of canon-typical atrocities, Fluff and Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mild Sexual Content, Gift Fic, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Not even a metaphor really he admits to it, Buddhism, The fraught tenderness of being your lover's keeper after he lost a fight to the Cosmic Unjust, Slice of Life Summary:

Living somewhere green with Albert, almost a year after the vents of the series, Dale wakes from a nightmare, and decides that the best way forward is to trigger himself as punishment. Whether he knows that's what he's doing isn't necessarily the point: the important part is that this time someone is there to pull him back from the edge of the volcano, as it were.

Written for Redrobbinssinging and his AU.

For @olipeaksforever 

BACK IN THE PUBLISHING SADDLE AYYYY

[ionlycareaboutyou]

you know you're reading some top tier livejournal import fanfiction when they refer to/tag it as NC-17

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

anyway i had a good dream. there was a horse (that listened to me despite me being disabled and not in my full capacity) and lesbian sex (despite me being disabled and my weird self) and a class struggle (despite being a servant to these rich assholes i didnt feel small at all). no tension except for good tension it was awesome