#rot in a cell you rat

[itsjustmyunpopularopinion]

Manifesting the longest possible prison sentence for Johnny Somali

[randamhajile]

Sometimes I think about the rich tableaus of experiences my parents and my spouse's parents had growing up in NYC and the rural mountain west respectively and I feel this deep sad pit of nothingness having grown up in a sterile surveillance state their generation helped build and enforce

[xyzcan]

This shit is based off of this, like so heavily based off i'd say it's the same but... Nahh I just like the idea so creds to this guy ig: @saikowatermelons

yandere x reader

- warnings: cannibalism, noncon, blowjob, yandere, degradation too, tied up, imprisoned reader, unhealthy power dynamic (prince n slave), honestly I get too horny writing smut scenes that I lose the supposed 'emotional' shit I'm supposed to add lmao... But HEJSKSKSKSK @tnsophiaayaonly would you notice this if I add scara in the tags? :3 pretty pls.

- And I keep on writing as if I was in Google docs because my doc's automatically turns asterisks into these italics or bold thingies... BRO the asterisks won't stop!!

And my grammar sucks, sorri English just ain't my first language </3

--- xyzcan writes.

He was born adored.

From the moment he first cried in the cradle, the kingdom wept with joy. The stars were said to shimmer brighter the night he was born. Poets wrote about the gleam in his eyes like it was a divine prophecy. His smile? That became the religion of fools and worshippers.

He was their prince.

And fuck, they loved him for it.

His every word was echoed with cheers. His footsteps blessed roads. His existence—untouchable, godlike, holy.

But they never knew him.

Behind that charming grin and bright laughter was nothing but a hollow pit of disinterest. All that devotion? Boring. All that praise? Noise. Meaningless, pathetic noise.

He played the part. Of course he did. Wore the crown like it was forged for him alone, smiled like he gave a shit, patted peasants’ heads and waved from balconies like he cared.

But it was all fucking empty.

The only thing that stirred him was the idea of power. Not just rule. Not just control. But something deeper—domination of the soul. He wanted to crack someone open. Strip them bare. And not because they bowed to him. Because they resisted him.

He waited for something real.

And then you showed up.

You were a smudge. A stain. A girl born from the ashes of a family of thieves—lowborn scum, the kind the court only mentioned to make examples out of. Your parents were enslaved, publicly punished, humiliated for crimes they did commit. And you...

You were the one that slipped away.

You didn’t scream for help. You didn’t beg for mercy. You ran like an animal. You stole scraps to survive. You learned to hide in shadows, to trust no one, to look at royalty with rage in your eyes instead of reverence.

You were filth.

You were perfect.

The moment he heard your name from a guard’s lips—dirty, snarled, covered in blood and accused of murder—he didn’t give a damn. Just another rat to execute. He signed the parchment for your death without even looking at it.

And yet…

He didn’t send the order through.

Why? He didn’t fucking know. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that single glimpse he caught of you—cuffed, dragged through the halls, blood drying on your temple, snarling like a goddamn beast—and something inside him shifted.

He let you rot.

One month. Two. Six. A year.

The dungeon devoured you.

And still, you didn’t scream.

You glared.

And that’s when he knew.

He couldn't kill you. Not yet.

Because you were the first thing that made him feel anything in years.

The air in the dungeon is thick. Wet. Rank with mold, blood, and rotting bodies that no one bothered to bury. It clings to your skin like oil. Every breath is a curse.

You’ve been down here for so long you’ve forgotten what sunlight feels like. Your bones feel like glass, your skin like paper. Every chain clamped around your wrist and ankle itches like fire. But it’s the silence that eats you alive.

Until he shows up.

The prince.

Cloaked in white and gold, untouched by filth. His boots click softly against the stones, clean even in this pit. He stands in front of your cell like he’s gazing at a painting, not a person.

You lift your head slowly.

He sees the bruise on your jaw. The cuts on your lips. The way your collarbones poke out like blades. And still, somehow, your glare burns hotter than the torches behind him.

You’re not broken yet.

And that makes his pulse quicken.

“Ah,” he says, smiling with that same radiant grin he shows the masses. “Still alive. Still angry. That’s good.”

You narrow your eyes. Your throat is too dry to speak, but if you could, you’d scream every curse you know.

He kneels. Close enough to touch. “You haven’t asked why I’m here,” he murmurs, studying your face.

You say nothing. He likes the silence too much.

“Would you believe me if I said I missed you?” he teases, tilting his head. “That I’ve thought of you every night for a year?”

You shudder. The chains clink with your twitch.

“...Fuck you,” you rasp, barely audible.

His grin widens.

There it is.

“I’ve kept you down here for so long,” he says, voice like silk and acid. “Because I wanted to see what you’d become. I thought you’d break. Thought you’d beg. But no… you’re still you.”

His hand reaches into his coat. He pulls something out. Wrapped in soft, royal cloth.

You stiffen.

He unfolds it slowly.

And your stomach drops.

It’s a hand.

Small. Pale. Fingers curled in a permanent twitch of agony. Dried blood coats the wrist.

You gag, bile rising instantly. The smell hits you next—rotten, metallic, thick enough to make your eyes sting.

“Hungry?” he asks softly.

You look up at him like he’s the fucking devil.

He chuckles. “Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that. You’ve been starving for days. I know. I hear your stomach. I see the way you tremble.”

You shake your head.

“No?” he says, blinking innocently. “But you said you were hungry…”

Then—too fast—he lunges.

Grabs your face.

Fingers crush your jaw open with brute force. You fight, kick, scream hoarsely, but he doesn’t care. He presses the bloody hand against your mouth. Flesh touches your lips.

You sob, wrenching away, but the chains bite into your skin and hold you in place.

“You don’t get to choose,” he snarls suddenly, voice cracking with something savage. “You don’t get to say no. You belong to me now.”

Tears streak down your face as he smears blood across your lips, forcing the taste into your mouth. You choke, body lurching with nausea.

You vomit.

He watches.

He smiles.

“I knew it’d be fun,” he whispers. “I knew you’d fight. Scream. Cry. I knew you’d make me feel.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple as you sob uncontrollably.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he breathes. “Not like the others. Not like those pathetic worms out there who beg for my attention. You are different. And I’m going to ruin you piece by piece until you scream my name like a prayer.”

And somehow… that’s the most terrifying part.

Because he means it.

He’s not here to kill you.

He’s here to keep you.

To twist you into something broken and beautiful, just for him.

And the worst part?

He’s already started.

“I’m hungry,” you croak, voice shredded and trembling—but your eyes don’t waver. “But not for that… you sick fuck.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

His smile twitches—just for a second. Not the polished grin he offers the crowd. No. This one’s twitchy. Unstable. Wrong. Something flickers behind his eyes, like a fuse catching flame.

Oh?

Even now—after all the rot, all the starvation, all the fucking hell—you still dare to look at him like that? You still dare to bare your teeth at a prince like you’re some rabid animal? His cheeks burn. His breath shudders out of him.

And he laughs.

It’s a soft, breathy thing at first, almost confused. Then it grows—full-bodied and unhinged, echoing off the stone walls like mockery.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, leaning in. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Filthy. Shaking. Barely breathing. And still, you throw insults like you’ve got power here. Like you matter.”

You glare harder, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “You don’t fucking scare me.”

That’s not entirely true. But you’ll be damned if you give him the pleasure of knowing just how much.

His gaze drops for a second—just a heartbeat. But it’s enough.

You follow it.

And your blood runs cold.

There, beneath the soft fall of his pristine white coat, straining against velvet trousers, is the undeniable outline of his arousal.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

In fact, his smile grows sharper. His voice drops into something darker, lower

“…See? You noticed,” he says softly, almost sweet. “I was wondering when you’d see what you do to me.”

Your stomach twists, bile threatening again. You want to scream. To disappear. To rip your skin off just to feel clean again. But all you can do is stare at the living nightmare in front of you.

This isn’t a prince.

This isn’t a savior.

This is a monster in silk and gold, who people kneel for with tears in their eyes, who children dream of meeting, who the entire fucking kingdom worships.

But here, in the damp belly of the palace, you know the truth.

He’s just a sick fuck.

He steps closer, slowly—like you’re prey.

He watches your reaction like it’s a performance crafted just for him—each flinch, every twitch of your lip or narrowing of your eyes only fans the flames licking hungrily beneath his skin. His smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with something predatory. He lives for this—the way you still bite back, even now, even after everything. It’s like watching a candle trying to burn in a storm, defiant and stupidly beautiful.

He pulls his hand away from your mouth, slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Blood streaks your lips, trailing down your chin in thin, red rivers. You cough, gagging as the taste of iron clings to the back of your throat. His eyes follow the path of that blood like it’s art.

Then he pressed it.

That disgusting, throbbing bulge in his pants.

And he notices you cringing.

His smirk twists. Grows darker. Hungrier.

He steps closer, the heat of him suffocating, invading your space like a fog you can’t escape. His voice drops into a gravelly whisper, thick with amusement and filth.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I am a monster."

Before you can spit another insult, his hand shoots forward and fists in your hair.

You cry out, your scalp screaming as he yanks your head back with brutal force. The cold wall behind you offers no mercy as you’re pinned in place by his hold. Pain lances down your neck, tears springing unbidden in your eyes—but still, you glare.

He leans in, and you can see it—really see it. That perfect princely mask is gone. His expression is feral now. Lust, yes—but something else too. Something ancient and terrifying. Something that sees you not as a person, but as a possession. A toy. A fucking plaything to break and remake as he pleases.

“You’re so full of fire,” he whispers, breath hot against your cheek. “So fucking brave. It’s adorable.”

His grip tightens in your hair, drawing a hiss from your throat.

“I wonder how long it’ll take to turn that fire into begging."

You don’t answer.

So he grabs your jaw, fingers digging into the bone until it aches, until your mouth is forced open like some grotesque puppet.

“Look at you,” he breathes, almost in awe. “Fucking gorgeous, even now.”

You try to twist away, but his grip only gets tighter. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. The sting mixes with exhaustion, fear, rage—and yet your eyes burn with hatred.

“Do it,” you rasp. “Whatever you want. I won’t break for you.”

He pauses—just a heartbeat—and then lets out a low, shaky laugh.

“Oh, you will,” he says. “That’s the best part.”

He unbuckles his belt with a metallic clink, his movements deliberate and cruel, as if prolonging that humiliating tension. He pulls out his length—already hard and veined—holding it in front of your face.

"Open that smart mouth of yours," he commands softly, his voice dripping with mocking kindness.

You hesitate, your eyes filled with hatred and disgust. This was so fucking humiliating. He chuckles raspily, the sound sending a shivers down your spine.

He wraps his hand around his length, giving it a slow stroke. "Or should I just shove it down your throat?" He threatens, his thumb brushing against his tip.

Without warning, he slaps his cock against your lips, forcing them open. "Suck," he orders raspily. He grips your hair tighter, using it to guide your head down onto his shaft.

You gag as he forces himself into your mouth, filling it completely, you feel his tip burning in your mouth.

He starts fucking your mouth roughly, letting strings of groans and moans escapes his lips, groaning like it's some divine prayer. Your lips stretch wide around his thick girth as he pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat. It burns, but the humiliation burns even further.

You try to breathe through your nose, but he doesn't give you time to adjust, when has he ever?

His hips move in a brutal pace, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with wet, slurping sounds. He watches his cock disappear into your mouth over and over again, his pleasure building rapidly.

He never expects to feel this good with a criminal of all people.

He pulls your head forward harder each time he thrusts in, making you gag and drool around him. Your saliva coats his length, adding wetness to each stroke.

"Look at you," he rasps, watching as your lips stretch obscenely around him, "Such a pretty mouth for such nasty things." His cock glides smoothly now, thanks to your saliva. He pushes deep enough to make you gag again, holding your head there for a moment.

"Take it."

His pace becomes even more brutal, using your mouth like a prostitute, like the fucking slut of a criminal you are. He can feel his release approaching and he wants to use you for it.

He reaches down and grabs your hair harder, pulling your head back to look at him as he starts fucking your mouth even harder. "I'm gonna cum,"

"And you're gonna swallow every fucking drop." He growls with feral intensity, pushing his entire length down your throat. Your eyes water and your nose runs as you gag loudly around his thick base, fuck. He starts fucking your throat, forcing his dick down your throat over and over again, he could feel your teeth scraping against the base of his shaft, as if threatening to bite him.

He honestly just gets off to it more.

He grunts deeply, his hips moving faster and more erratically as he nears climax. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth become obscene and loud in the quiet dungeon. Saliva drips down onto both cheeks making them glisten obscenely under harsh light.

"You're so disgusting taking my whole fucking dick down your throat," he groans, his voice filled with disgust and arousal, he considered slapping you, treat you like the criminal you are.

Would that make you beg and submit?

"You look like a fucking mess, all choked and slobbery." He pulls out for a moment, just to slap his wet, throbbing dick against your face.

"Open up, you stupid whore," he hisses, grabbing your jaw and forcing your mouth open. "Look at this fucking mess," he says, showing you the wet, saliva-covered length of his dick. "You're gonna swallow it all, you dirty slut."

"Gods, you're like a cheap whore," He mutters, pushing back inside your mouth, making you feel every vein with your tongue. "Do all criminals suck off cock this good, or is just you? Do you even have dignity? Do whores like you have pride?" He laughs darkly, hitting the back of your throat again.

"I'm gonna cum soon, baby. I'm gonna cum down your fucking throat and you're gonna swallow every fucking drop like a good little slut." He starts fucking your mouth faster and harder, his balls slapping against your chin. "Swallow it all..."

You feel tears go down your face. This was not only humiliating, but you were just forced to feed on fucking human flesh. And still—even now? You're still getting said human flesh down your throat, it's just a different kind.

"Right there," he moans loudly, gripping your hair tighter, throwing his head back, he can feel his release coming like some high-drugged up guy. "Right fucking there!" He holds your head still as he thrusts deep into your throat one last time and explodes. His cock pulses violently inside your mouth filling it with ropes of his cum.

Your knees ache against the cold stone floor, and your throat feels raw, violated. Your body is still trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the aftershocks of him.

And then… he touches your cheek. So softly. So fucking softly.

“Good girl,” he coos, as if his voice hadn’t just torn through your soul minutes ago.

You flinch, and that only makes his smile widen—like he finds it endearing. His thumb brushes a tear from your cheek like some twisted parody of affection.

“Gods, you took that like such a good little toy,” he murmurs, his tone warm now. Worshipful, almost. Sickeningly proud.

You stare up at him, blankly at first. Numb. Dissociated. But then the heat rises—behind your eyes, in your throat, in your chest. Shame, rage, horror. Your stomach twists, like it might turn itself inside out.

“Such a pretty little whore,” he adds, stroking your face with a lover’s touch.

You can’t breathe.

It’s not just what he did.

It’s that he thinks you should be grateful for it. That he's comforting you—as if he cared. That he expects you to smile, to nod, to collapse into his arms like some ruined little doll who finally accepts her place.

And the worst part?

Your body doesn't scream. Your body doesn’t fight. It just sits there—tired, used, broken in silence.

You feel your sense of self crumbling, piece by piece. Your thoughts are screaming, but they’re trapped beneath a glass surface. He doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t want to hear them. He’s already rewritten your story in his head—and in his version, you're his.

His to use. His to break. His to “praise."

Your vision swims. You want to throw up. You want to claw your skin off. You want to scream that you are not this, you are not his, you are not some thing—

But your voice is gone. Swallowed by everything he took.

And he kneels down beside you, whispering, “See? That wasn’t so bad… You’re mine now, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice is gentle. His hand is warm.

And all you can do… is sit there, soaked in grief and fury, tasting the rot of helplessness on your tongue.

Although the hopelessness you felt, that feeling of violation itching on your skin, that salty taste of his release remains on your mouth... Even after all of that, he can still see— feel. Feel that you're still you. Human. Fiery and so so you.

And it makes him grin.

“I thought you were different,” he murmurs, the edges of his voice soft as silk—a lie wrapped in luxury—as he drags a gloved finger down the rusted chains keeping you bound.

It felt like a lie to you, but to him? It's the utmost truth. He can still see it. The thing that made you so fucking special.

Each metallic scrape feels like it’s splitting your nerves open, like it’s scoring his presence deeper into your already-battered psyche.

“And look at that…” he breathes, tilting his head with childlike awe. “I was right. You’re delicious when you’re angry. I want to bottle that rage. Smear it on my skin. Drink it. Bathe in it. Let it soak into my fucking bones.”

You recoil instinctively, your chains clinking with pathetic defiance.

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, you finally found your voice and it cuts through the hopelessness you felt, the words tearing out of you, raw and ragged. “You’re not human.”

That stops him. Not like a wound—but like a revelation. He blinks once. Slowly.

Then he kneels again. Just like before.

But this time… he’s closer.

Close enough to smell the iron on your breath. Close enough that his warmth seeps into your cold skin like poison. His gloved fingers trail up to the shackles around your wrists, curling around the chains—not to release you, of course, but just to feel them. To remind you they’re still there.

His breath ghosts against your lips, too intimate for words like “prisoner” to make any fucking sense anymore.

“No,” he murmurs, so quiet it could be mistaken for reverence. “I’m not.”

His eyes gleam—not like jewels, but like something wet and feral crawling out of a pit.

“And neither are you. Not anymore.”

You freeze. Not from fear. Not from pain.

From the truth in his voice.

“Do you think the world up there will ever take you back after this?” he whispers, his tone almost tender. “Do you think they’ll see anything but filth when they look at you? You’ve been marked, sweetheart. Tainted. Owned.”

Your heart is hammering now. Not from the threats. But from the quiet realization that—deep, deep down—you believe him. Some cracked little voice inside you is already grieving the life you’ll never get back.

You shake your head, biting down hard on the sob rising in your throat.

“I’d rather fucking die.”

He smiles.

But not with mockery. Not with sadism. It’s softer. Like you just confessed your love instead of your refusal. His hand brushes your face like you’re precious porcelain he intends to shatter slowly.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he says, voice low and warm, like a lullaby sung in hell.

“You will. But only when I say so."

That’s when you realize the real horror.

It’s not the pain. It’s not even the loss.

It’s the waiting. The knowing. The cruel, slow corrosion of being kept alive not for salvation—but for his entertainment. For his need. For him.

And there is no escape. Only the illusion of time.

Only him…

...and the unbearable, suffocating fact that no one is coming for you.

[marchwardenofmordor]

Since people liked my post about the new Nosferatu film, I’m gonna go a little more in depth about some of the things that REALLY stood out to me

- The sound design of his voice and the blood drinking: a fucking genius choice. Each horrific rattling inhale before he speaks and the way he trails off at the end of his sentences because he’s manually breathing for the EXPRESS PURPOSE OF SPEAKING. That monotone is fucking perfect because he sound like the air is being squeezed out of him with each word. The monstrous gulping and slurping as he drinks blood is great because it sounds equal parts disgusting and sexual.

- I think, as a personification of shame, that he is SUPPOSED to make you want to crawl out of your own skin. The moaning, the nudity, the squelchy sounds… if you went to the cinema to see it, I think the idea was to make you blush and perhaps have a bit of a bodily reaction that would have you glancing around at other people in embarrassment. Not everybody is going to want him, but he will tap into the shame of witnessing something sexual in public. If we take the particular time period the film is set in, too, I think he’s supposed to have us clutching our pearls, making us collectively hearken back to the victorian attitudes towards sex and shame.

- You know what else is great about putting us in that mindset as an audience? It makes us remember that talking about sex and death are still considered shameful and taboo - the Victorian period really wasn’t that long ago, and some aspects of that history still casts its shadow of shame over us. But as ashamed as we are, we’re also curious creatures.

- Sex and death are very closely linked. Again, a little death being a term for an orgasm, the fact that indole is a chemical that both repels and attracts us (the scent is commonly used in perfumery, and in small amounts, smells alluring and seductive, like white florals, or the literal smell of sex, but in large concentrations smells fucking rancid, like rotting bodies). When we die, our brains release a rush of endorphins, etc. Dead bodies have a ‘sweet’ smell before they begin rotting - again, that’s probably indole, and would explain some of the subconscious urges of a necrophiliac.

- He is also called ‘death’ multiple times, and we know that a little fraction of his power is bringing ‘la petit mort’ (a little death / orgasm) to his victims.

- Even rats are symbolic here of sex, death and disease: we know terms like ‘multiplying like rats’ obviously, and how rats are symbolic of the plague (even though it was the fleas that caused it). The presence of the rats and the cries of townsfolk about ‘disease’ and ‘plague’ are less like the actual literal plague, and - considering that Orlok is ‘shame’ - more like a metaphorical miasma sweeping through victorian society, reinforcing ideas of shame and purity and what is or is not proper.

- Bodily fluids!! There are tears, there’s cum, considering the rats (again) there’s excrement (also on the walls of the cell in the asylum??), and with the Renfield-type character there’s also saliva. This isn’t just for shock/horror - the main fluid shown is blood, and in the mindset of a victorian christian (historically, blood transfusions could only really be shared between a man and a woman who were married because blood was a life-giving bodily fluid likened to the life-sowing fluid of semen), the idea of a blood-drinking monster was fucking horrific and blasphemous, sinful beyond measure.

- Orlok’s appearance and the treatment of the G*psies in the town (once more - “bringing shame to this inn!” Likening them to the vampire) is indicative of the xenophobia and prejudice towards Romani Jewish people of the time period, where white victorian christians feared Romani people as being ‘child-stealing’, ‘blood-drinking’ (again, look up Blood Libel) barbarians prone to SA (stereotypes which sadly persist today), but also fetishised them as mystics. (I did my university dissertation on ‘boho’ tattoos, cultural appropriation and the origins of the ‘boho’ aesthetic and why it is just ✨not it✨ but I won’t go into that in depth because my analysis was literally over 5000 words)

- I love that the message at the end was basically ‘the only way to kill your shame is to lay with it, to accept it and love it’ - which is honestly true. If you learn to accept uncomfortable aspects of yourself and face them, they no longer have any sort of power over you.

- The female protagonist is dressed all in white, indicative of her purity and chastity, and it’s interesting to see how her wardrobe gradually darkens throughout the film, showing her becoming quite monstrous herself in one particular scene where she rips open the top of her dress and demands Thomas to ‘take her’, up until the final scene, where she is stark naked and covered in blood. Honestly wicked. I love a good corruption. Her character is so symbolic of the struggle of someone who is deeply repressed and chastised for her desires. Desires which started innocently and then - through suppression in an oppressive society and household (her father discovering her naked and screaming at her for being sinful)- were twisted and given form as something monstrous that literally eats away at her and those around her, because she brings her shame wherever she goes, and in the end, even though she faces it and sets an example, it ultimately kills her to do so.

- Also notice how NOBODY fucking listens to her. And every time nobody listens to her, Orlok grows stronger as she grows angrier and more frustrated. They’re feeding him by ignoring her. It’s sad that they look at her in the end, and deem her ‘sacrifice’ as noble, only really paying attention to her once she is dead, with her shame laying on top of her, crushing her. This is the torment of the Victorian Woman, told that she must deal with her problems alone by the male characters.

Edit: Also because the film is German in origin, I’d recommend looking up the ‘Nachzehrer’ creature - a ghoulish vampire-esque creature that would rise from the grave to drag its victims into death with it through various means, known to devour its own funeral shroud, rendering it naked. Fun fact: it was said that if a corpse was clutching its left thumb in its right hand with the left eye open (I think? It’s been a while since I researched it), it would rise as a Nachzehrer. They are also thought to be able to drain their victim’s life force remotely. The threat was said to be particularly great if the living gave the Nachzehrer a personal affectation - in the case of Orlok, it would be Thomas giving him the locket containing Ellen’s hair.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x READER ) [ Final Part ]

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon Targaryen x Little Sis! Reader prompt: Aegon would do anything, if it meant killing every ratcatcher or gold cloak in the city, he'd so. word count: 1, 000+ words

You wept and wept. Aegon feared that you would never be able to stop. Helaena was no better, locking herself up and shutting down. The two of you spiraled into madness and tears. It only made him drink and rage more. He hated to see you cry. You were supposed to be the happy one out of all of your siblings.

Aegon was the drunken mess, needing to be put in line. Helaena was the odd one, in a dream-like state. You were the perfect little angel, his perfect little angel. Aemond was the brooding one, face pulled into a stupid brooding look. Daeron was the forgotten one.

Now you were the broken one. Rhaenyra has stolen your smile. Rhaenyra had stolen his perfect little angel from him. She took the good from you, leaving him with a broken mess. A mess he wasn't sure of how to repair. So, he was going to do what he did best. He was going to get even.

If Rhaenyra wanted to take the one good thing he had in his life from him. He was going to burn everything she cared about to ash. Even if it made him a monster in the eyes of his own Court. Because you were worth burning the world down.

Blood and Cheese. Blood was one of his men, or now a former man of the City Watch. Cheese was a rat-catcher. That's how they knew how to get into the Red Keep. They were paid to kill Aegon's son. The worst part of all it had to be the fact that your son was "just in the way". They had no reason to kill him. He wasn't the one they had been paid to kill. They just killed him because he was in the way of things.

Blinking back the tears in his eyes, Aegon stares at the club in his hand, the metal rusted and jagged. Blood's words confession ringing in his ears. They killed his son for a debt, but yours because they thought of him in the way. Collateral damage. That was your son was, fucking collateral damage. Nodding his head for a moment, he thought of not killing the man, just leaving him to rot. But, another part of him truly wanted to see him bleed.

"You killed my son. You killed my sister's whole world." Aegon states, his voice cold. "My sister's loved their son's. And you just killed them."

"The Seven will never forgive you for this." Blood blubber's out, "To kill me.."

"Ah, yes, but the Seven aren't here, now are they?" Aegon mocks, adjusting his grip on the club.

Motioning around the Black Cell's, there was nothing but the rats and darkness there. No one to hear Blood's screams. No one there to help. It was just Blood and Aegon. Alone. Looking at the jagged end of the club, Aegon brushes his thumb over it, seeing it was sharp enough to cut. Though it would not be smooth or painless.

"You can fuck with me all you want. You can beat me. You can mock me." Aegon states, "Do as you please to me and I can endure it."

Blood sobs, the chains around his arms and legs clanging and jiggling loudly. Mercy was below, Aegon now. Mercy was not shown to his son or yours. Why the fuck should he show it to Blood?

"See, my friend. The thing is, you made my sister's cry." Aegon's face goes deadly cold, "I don't like bastard's that make my sister's cry."

Bringing the metal club down onto the man's head, he doesn't stop, unable to stop thinking of you. The way you wept, sobs full of heartache. The way you clung onto him, the blood on your nightgown seeping into his own clothes. The way the bastard made you cry. The way the bastard made you feel so unsafe in your own home.

The way the bastard made you doubt him. The way the bastard made you think he was a liar. Feeling a hand grab onto his forearm, he's pulled out of his daze, now realizing the man was now dead. His head caved in a bloody mess. Dropping the club, he takes a step back, licking his lips. He can taste blood on it, though it was not his own.

A son for a son. A son for a son. A son for a son. They got there son. Now a debt was now owed, on behalf of your son. The cycle repeating over and over again. Lucerys died, Jaehaerys died in payment. Your son died, now Rhaenyra would die in payment.

"Your grace?" A kingsguard asks, "What shall we do with the body?"

"Feed him to the pig's. I have no desire for time or a hole to be wasted upon him." Aegon spits at the corpse for good measure.

Hearing the door to the chambers open, you couldn’t find the strength to get up from bed, clinging onto the blanket. You could still smell your son on it. He smelt of lemon cakes and mud. He always loved to steal the frosting off the lemon cakes, just like Aegon did. He was just a boy. He was innocent. Why him? Why? Feeling tears bubbling up, you did not wish to ponder on your son’s death. It forced you to think of the sounds of a head being sawed off.

Feeling the bed dip for a moment, you look over to see Aegon there, his doublet and breeches soaked in blood. Blood’s blood. Sniffling softly, Aegon leans over to you, tucking back a strand of hair from your face. It was comforting to be touched and tended to like this, like you were still a child and not a woman grown with responsibilities and duties. Like everything was still okay.

"It is done." He whispers, nodding his head.

You don’t say anything, not being able to find the right words. Even if you could, what would you say? “Oh, that is so amazing to hear from you, dear brother.” or some other bullshit. 

"You have my word, I swear it upon my life. I will burn everything down that Rhaenyra loves." Aegon pledges, "From her favorite tailor to her favorite child. I will avenge your son, sister."

"Aegon.." You croak out, trying to find your voice. 

"I will kill her myself. I’ll fucking feed her to my dragon.” He vows, “No one will remember the name Rhaenyra Targaryen, when I am done.”

“Aegon..” You try again, voice barely above a whisper. 

"She'd be a fucking myth. She'll be a fucking ghost of the Red Keep. No, no, not even that. I won't even let her haunt the Red Keep."

He doesn’t hear you, clearly swept up in his plots and plans for revenge on your behalf. His words left not a drop of comfort.

“I will do anything that you ask of me. Just tell me what it is that you wish and I shall do it. I’ll kill whoever you wish⎯" He rambles on and on. 

"Egg." You whisper, tears bubbling up.

The childhood nickname falling out of your lips naturally. You did not wish for grand words, for grand promises, or grand actions to be done in your name or favor. That was meaningless. Mayhaps when the grief dimmed, you would wish for revenge for your son. But, for now, at this moment. You just wanted your big brother to hug you. You wanted things to be back as they once were. Here you were just Y/n and he was just Aegon, your big brother. Not the King.

Feeling the tears bubble up more and more, you sniffle, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand. You watch through teary eyes as he goes deadly still. You did not regret saying his old nickname. You just wanted to feel as safe and happy as you used to be in your childhood. You wanted to escape from the crushing reality that your son was dead and war was invincible now. Mayhaps it was childish. But, you wanted to be okay once more.

"Y/n.." He whispers, his face crumbling.

"Just hold me like you used to do." You whimper out, “Please.”

---

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@nightvers

@zaldritzosrose

@lexi-anastasia-astra-luna 

[trashmouth-richie]

ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum to heaven or hell, i am with you

the final part [4.6k] geta x reader summary: death, smut, GORE

🥀dulcis ut rosa 🥀dulex 🥀vitiosis + deliciosus 🥀frangere me

s/o to my beta @rxqueenotd , and anyone else i’ve screamed at with over this fic 🤎

Blue skies could never compare to the icy hatred that filled Caracalla’s eyes as he stood above you, flanked by soldiers on either shoulder. “Perhaps the dungeon will help you remember which Emperor you are to be serving? Hm?” 

Blood trickled down your hairline, collecting in a slow drop from your chin onto the dirty floor. The cell was barely wide enough to lay down in. A piss pot stood full in one corner, its odor still more pleasant than the sickly aroma of Caracalla’s breath when he found you waiting for Geta. 

You had been startled seeing him instead of the man you had spent the last many nights crying for. Trying to run you were hit hard and the rest was gone until you woke up here. 

A swift kick to your legs and chest, had you doubling over, the pain boiling hot in your veins. 

“How incompetent do you think I am?” Caracalla spit. “My brother doesn’t move throughout these walls without me knowing. Months! He’s been fucking your mouth raw, spilling his seed down your throat after nights spent in luxury with me!” A giggle bullies out from his lungs, “did you think I hadn’t a clue? An inkling as to why his chamber stood empty at the same moment that you left mine?” 

You haven’t said a word and you refused to, he didn’t deserve an explanation. 

A tear slips down his rouge painted face, “I confided in you, we were soulmates you and I. Geta is nothing! He feels nothing!” 

You shook your head, unable to accept his words. “How did you do it, magae. How did you bewitch my brother to fall for your wickedness?” 

Raising your chin in spiteful defiance, you glared into his disgusting putrid eyes, “You pathetic, sniveling swine— I am no such witch, but I can not wait to witness the carnage Geta will bestow upon you.” 

Caracalla giggles in a high pitched tone, “oh my dear, he will be long dead before that shall ever happen,” he looks around at the moldy holed dungeon, “maybe you can charm the rats while you’re rotting away waiting for your precious Geta.” 

—

Wind and insects scratched at his face as he pushed his horse faster, hooves kicking up sand and rocks in a storm as they raced for Palace Hill. Geta screamed with rage when Acacius told him of your demise, knowing exactly who was behind it. What a fool he was for leaving you unattended. Caracalla must have found out, and maybe he himself was too blind by Cupid’s lust to notice the changes within his own kingdom. 

Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he imagined the perils of danger you were now in— because of him.

His reins slapped sharply against the muscled backside of his horse as he pumped every ounce of strength from the mare to get home- to get back to you.

Whatever Caracalla had done, heads would fucking roll once he got back. That was a promise. 

—

How many days had it been? Four? A week? The dark had made you lose count. 

At times you weren’t sure if your eyes were open or closed, the pitch black was endless, curling around you like smoke and suffocating any happiness you had tried to muster. 

The dungeon was crawling with vermin, caked with disease and body fluids from decades before you had been tossed in here like a rabies riddled dog. Food had stopped coming, water was scarce except for the trickle of fresh springs that siddled down the stone wall. At least you told yourself it was a fresh spring that you were consuming, but more than likely it was tainted water that kept you alive. 

You prayed to the Gods that Geta would come for you. That he wasn’t head first into a war that he agreed to when you pushed him away. You were so stupid for doing so, but you couldn’t help the racking sobs when you pictured how hurt he was… and crying harder yet when realizing, that was the last time. 

Days had passed and you could feel your mind slipping from you. Exhaustion, dehydration settling in had you hallucinating images of the Emperor. It was almost comforting the way your mind was protecting itself, throwing you into an alternate reality of laying in his lavish bed instead of the hard shit-soaked stones. 

You could feel his blunt nails tickling your sides, but in truth it was beetles gnawing on your bare skin. Geta kept you warm and safe in your head, even though it was apparent from the lack of food, proper sunlight, and clean water—that you were falling ill. 

—

It hadn’t been that long since Geta had left, but approaching the Hill had his skin crawling. Dismounting his mare, everything seemed odd. 

It was unusually quiet. The air felt sharp against his skin. Smelled of pungent rot, souring his nose. The wind seemed to howl a song he hadn’t recognized— the sickly tune of a kingdom at war with itself. 

His father had trained them both on how to rule with force, how to command an army, to hold rank and battle to the blood flowing end—their enemies head on a stake. 

Caracalla by himself was juvenile when it came to war tactics, knowing the basics of stationing men on watch, high in the walls on the terraces. Two men for each direction, pointing their noses North, East, South and West. A handful of guards on the entrance. 

If this was a war with any other enemy— Geta would have spent a full sun tracking their movements meticulously. But never had his enemies captured something so dear to him. 

Acacius landed from his own horse beside Geta’s kneeled form, knowing his thoughts before he could even act on them. 

“It’s unwise, my lord…” he said carefully, placing a weathered hand on Geta’s shoulder, “we cannot risk the element of surprise when our emotions are clouding our judgment.”  

Geta’s eyes twitched as he stared ahead at the palace, his mind traveling to where you were being kept, knowing in his heart it was in the deepest part of the palace, the south dungeon.

He breathed raggedly through his nose before he spoke between gritted teeth, “I will paint all of Rome with their innards for what they’ve done, and I will not stop until their bodies are drained of all their blood.” 

Acacius shook is head in worry, clearing his throat, “you’re mind is unclear, you should rest before—”

Adrenaline raced through Geta’s veins as he mounted his mare, “I’m going, with or without your help. What good am I to her waiting for calculated time?” 

Acacius threaded a hand through his salty peppered hair, eyeing his emperor— his friend. His voice was riddled with pain when he spoke, “what good are you to her if you’re dead?” 

Geta pondered this, but his reply was simple, and he said the most truthful thing that has ever passed his lips, “I’ll be the man she makes me want to be.” 

—

“Up! Get up!” 

Caracalla had figured once Geta found out that his precious whore was locked away and starved that he  would be on his way to come and rescue you. He waited day and night for his brother’s return. And finally— there was a spec in the distance. His brother returning in all his glory. 

He skipped down to the dungeon— literally skipping and hopping on one foot in glee as he came down to the depths of the palace to retrieve you for the final act.

A hand clasped harshly in your hair, yanking you from a deep sleep, followed by a taunting giggle.

You had grown weak in your time secluded from light and clean air. Unable to stand on your own properly, Caracalla brought you to your feet like you were a doll, the flame he held showed just how manic and possessed he had become. 

He was like a poisoned animal practically foaming from the mouth with insanity. Biting his lip constantly, chewing and gnawing, infesting it with sores. He wore his best robes, bangles jingling as he brought you closer to his face. 

Jumping back, he lets your body slump against the bars, a hand to his chest, “Yuck— you smell like horeshit! Maybe we should have fed you more, bathed you… I’ve never been very good with keeping pets…” 

Caracalla rubs his chin for a moment, then as if he is brought back from a different time, he claps twice,  “oh well, time to go, your precious Geta is here and it’s time to play!”

You try to fight back feebly, trying to shove his face away from you, your filthy fingernails clutching at his doughy powder coated flesh.

“C’mon!” he pleads like a child, pushing your hands down and bringing a blade to your neck, “you’re going to be the star of the production and you simply can’t miss the show!” 

When sunlight hit your skin it was like you were being burned alive. Your feet scuffed against the stone steps, and you were winded from the climb. Everything was so bright as if you were looking directly into the suns beams. 

Caracalla hissed into your ear, the pungent smell of fruit and fish combining into a stomach twisting aroma as he whispered, “you’ve been such a delight to us here, I will be so upset to see you dead… I’ve been practicing my tears and cries of mourning for when you’re laid to rest with my brother.”

“You won’t be triumphant against him,” you croaked trying to wiggle free from his hold. 

Caracalla giggled before winding back and slapping your cheek, “why do you have to speak such lies? You will die by his hand— squashed like the gnat you’ve become.” 

—

The palace walls roared. 

Thundered like a storm of bees defending their hive. Clashes of swords and weapons gleamed like lightning against a dark sky. Amongst the clouds of dust from the lack of harvest rain, blood splattered the stones like oil paint to a canvas. 

Geta’s revengeful carnage had begun. 

Carnage was colored with maroon and deep sets of rubies in a hilt. Specs of pinkish brain membrane laid out like flower petals at a wedding. 

Carnage was the sound of teeth chipping at the root being ripped away from the gum line, the sheath of a knife embedded into a lung, an abdomen, the muscular thigh of one of Caracalla’s more prominent men. 

Carnage reeked of shit and death. The humble hands of Pluto himself, stretching his claws to welcome home another victim. 

Carnage was Geta, annihilating anyone who stood in his way to get to you. A force built with bared teeth and rippling muscles, sweat dripping from his honey hair. Eyes as black as coal— soulless in every sense of the word. 

The men falling dead by his hands trembled in cowardice when they saw him coming, forgetting how powerful he was with a sword. 

Swords drew silent, the only sound being the pooling fountains now tainted with blood from the dead. Everyone in the palace was either lying deceased or were in hiding, waiting for this hell to end. But Geta had only just begun. 

“Brother!” he shouted, his voice echoing against the marble stone, deep and ragged with exertion. He was standing at his throne then, bodies laying at a heap by his feet, his body covered in their blood, “I know you’re around, Caracalla—answer me!” 

Beyond the pillars behind the tapestries, Caracalla stood with a knife pressed into the meat of your neck, his breath hot against your cheek— a giggle forming in his throat like a child tucked away during a game of hide n seek.

“It’s a shame, Geta,” he announced, his voice ricocheting off the walls, “a fucking shame that you are so soft for this common whore when you’ve had so many, father would be disappointed.” 

Geta’s eyes narrowed, listening for any bit of noise underneath Caracalla’s feet to give him away. He moved on nimble feet, each move more quiet than the next as he waited with trained ears for Caracalla to speak again. 

“What is between you and I, has nothing to do with her— she is merely caught in the middle of our feud— let, her go.” 

Caracalla’s laugh pierced your ear, ringing loudly like a hyena as spit flew from his manic mouth. “She is much more than a simple bystander dear Geta… otherwise you wouldn’t care so proudly.” 

Geta strode towards the direction of his brother’s voice, waiting in the shadows. “You have always been less, why do you think mother and father had me? I was to make up for your shortcomings, so that Septimius Severus would have a decent heir. One who could actually keep the family name in Rome.”

“Enough!” Caracalla screamed, shoving you forward into the clearing, his blade still pressed into your neck, a line of crimson dripping from it, his frantic panicked laugh bubbling behind a shriek, “there will be no heirs for you, brother! I was going to offer her life in place of your crown, let you both be on your merry little way but you just don’t get it do you? I will rule on my own, and you will both be left to rot in the dungeons. Poetic isn’t it?! Two lovers dead by my hand.” 

With the way your head was arched toward the ceiling, you couldn’t see Geta. You could only hear a hitch in his throat at the sight of you. The sodden robes you wore, the filth caked to your skin. 

Geta didn’t move, knowing that Caracalla would be more likely to accidentally cut you deep enough to kill you if he tried to do anything drastic. But the look of you made his stomach curdle like cows milk left in the summer heat.  

The once plump and luscious curves you had were gone. The robes you wore were next to rags. You had been locked away far longer than he had imagined. Possibly weeks before he had even got word of it. If you truly had been with child, there was no tell of it now. Tears stung behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them drop.

“Mother should have drowned you in the river like a litter of pups,” he nearly whispered, eyes trained on his brother, “release her or I will slaughter more of your men leaving their poor wives to be widowed.” 

“Now why would I do such a thing? I’m having the time of my life orchestrating this production.” They both moved then circling like the gladiators would in the coliseum, baiting one another to strike first.

Geta’s eyebrows furrowed at Caracalla’s choice of words… production? 

“Must you be so dense? So surface leveled?” Caracalla answered, “Jessaphina, that wart—terrible actress but she did the job, made this concubine believe every word.” Caracalla grinned like a opossum eating a pile of shit, dragging you with him, your hair wrapped tight in his clutch.

Geta’s eyes never leave Caracalla, his movements smooth and languid as he counts his steps, seconds. 

“Pliteus, the guard who told her to meet you at ‘your spot’ another spy, made actor by yours truly, for the Theatre, of course. And all that leaves is you, Geta. You will be the widower, the brute left in tears of sorrow pleading for a whore’s life. Gods!— I shall be famous when this is through!” 

“You’re demented,” you managed against the sharp blade, cutting yourself in the process, “sickenly so.” 

Caracalla wretched his hand twisting your head back with a snap, causing you to yelp, ”I’m an artist you rancid cow! Can’t you see that?! This was all a form of expression— your uneducated brain would never be able to appreciate such a thing— it’s why I put this all into motion!” 

“So what?” Geta spit,  “you were bored? Needed an activity to keep your cogs oiled enough for you to not slit your wrists in the baleneum, again? You’re a child!” 

Caracalla giggled wickedly mad, “People will write about me for the end of time and how I bested Publius Septimius Geta! You will be nothing more than a myth—erased from memory entirely!” 

Geta stopped, his sword pointing toward his brother. The wind didn’t howl, silence fell between them.

“It will be a true honor to breed my empress in a bed of your blood while she wears her crown.” 

With a jerk of his head, Acacius moves, causing the distraction they had planned. The arrow missing Caracalla’s foot purposefully, causing him to lose his balance and hold on your body. You fell to the ground taking advantage of his blundered state, crawling on all fours away from him. 

Just as the swing of Geta’s blade was centimeters from the skin of Caracalla’s neck, it was stopped with his knife, a crude smile licked onto his lips. “I know your moves dearest brother, you forget it was you and I as children playing these games.” 

Caracalla pushes the sword from him and jabs the tip of the knife into Geta’s bicep. Tearing through tendons and muscles with each twist of his hand. 

“War is not a game,“ Geta gritted, tripping Caracalla with a swipe of his foot until he was on his knees before him, “…and it’s time you realize that.” 

A toss of Acacius sword into Geta’s open hand, and he pressed two blades crossed beneath Caracalla’s chin. 

Caracalla’s throat bobbed against the sharp steel, accepting his defeat, “make it swift precious brother, I intend to see father before the sun sleeps.” 

The blades sung as they severed his head from his spine. Blood sprayed and pooled from the limp teetering body of Caracalla, swords clattered to the ground as Geta stumbled to your side, holding you to him in a bone crushing grasp. 

“You’re safe now.” A tear fell onto your head as he cradled your body into his. 

Your body was still weak as you clung to him practically lifeless as he lifted you from the ground. He instructed Acacius on what to do with the mess. Geta carried you to his private bath, stripped you gingerly of your clothes and bathed you with exceptional care. His lips kissing tenderly to every scrape, every bruise. 

He tutted through his teeth and hissed when your tears fell as he gently wiped the dirt and infection from your cuts. His own tears flowing down his cheeks, mumbling how sorry he is how stupid he was for ever leaving. 

When you tried to speak he shushed you quietly, “not now my dulcis rosa,” he soothed as he scrubbed soap into your hair, you lifted a hand to caress his cheek, coaxing a small smile from him.

Geta called to his servants— that weren’t killed—to gather fresh robes and to fix you something warm and easy to eat. 

He dried your skin once you were cleansed. Rubbing oils and ointments into each ache and pain, dressing the wounds in such expertise you wondered if he had done this often, probably to his own scars. 

Up those winding stairs he carried you to his quarters, never wavering, never once adjusting you in his strong arms.

The room was thrown into its usual cozy dark ambience. His bed was made with enormous feathered pillows, a tray next to the bed with a plate of porridge dressed with honey and figs. 

Once Geta had set you gently onto the pillows propping you up so you could eat, he shook his head when you reached for the spoon. 

“Let me,” he commanded quietly, his eyes large and wet. 

More tears slipped past your lashes as he sniffed largely, blowing gently on the bite of food. “When was your last meal?” 

“I’m not sure of what day we are in,” you answered quietly, “or how long I was there… I lost track.” 

Geta bit back a sob as he brought the spoon to your lips, “It shouldn’t have happened, I shouldn’t have left you so vulnerable.” 

“Please,” you practically begged, swallowing the warm sweetened wheat.  He looked broken, his under eyes dark and his eyelid twitching uncontrollably. Weeks the two of you had been separated and you couldn’t bear the thought of him spiraling for what had happened.

“We are together again,” you whispered, “I do not want to live in past mistakes. Caracalla is gone now, we must move forward, no dwelling.” 

“Forgiveness of thyself has never come easily for me,” Geta admitted wiping a dreadful sigh from his face, “but I can only hope you now know that there has never been another for me—I am so deeply in love with you, gnat.” 

You reached for him pulling him into you until the weight of his body melted with yours. Feverish lips tasted the sweat from his neck as you desperately ached for more of it, pressing your own devotions into his skin, your own words of cupid's love.

Geta’s strong arms wrapped around your back, holding you tenderly as if you were glass. pressing a single searing kiss to your collarbone before leaning back, his eyes staring into yours, “In this lifetime and the one that follows, I will forever be yours— ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum.”

“Ad caelum vel ad inferos.” 

—

Caracalla’s room was sealed off. His belongings burned in the coliseum along with his body, as if he were a monster that could only be considered dead by smoldering licks of flame. 

Geta left the fate of the others up to you. He had wanted them dead the next day, hung from a rope by their necks as they swung with the breeze, paraded around behind his team of horses until they’re skin was pulled from their bones. But you… had other plans. 

Animals from other territories were brought in by the shipload, each more vile and vicious as the next. They were hungry, trained to attack at the smell of garments worn by a certain woman with a healing broken nose. 

It was maybe a bit too grotesque, maybe a bit unhinged the way you had Acacius’s best men tie Jessaphina up from her ankles and wrists one to each post in the center of the coliseum.

And maybe it was a bit over-the-top when you personally rubbed greasy fat and cow entrails all over her body to taunt the beasts on even further. 

But Geta only smirked at your own impressive drive for bloodlust when you stood before your throne hollering for the men to open the gates, releasing the hungry scavengers one by one letting them sniff out their meal. 

Geta watched in admiration as your eyes turned dark, black pools taking over your pretty gaze as Jesspahina’s screams rang through the air

You couldn’t get your hands off of him when her body lay ripped to shreds, her bones being tossed around between snarling teeth and sharp black claws. The sand colored in her crimsoned blood. You pulled him from his own throne by the front of his shirt, yanking him into a small private room covered by a drapery for a door.

“My little demonic empress,” Geta growled as he pushed himself further into you, groaning when you whimpered out, your lip bit between your teeth, robes rucked up to your chest, “you just might be more evil than I am, have my ways rubbed off on you?” 

The passion between you two had never dulled. Each day it seemed to grow with fervorous desire. Some days Geta fucked into you until you were too sore to walk. Your bodies were both painted with stains from sucking mouths and marks from gnashing teeth. Each time better than the last. 

You were soaked when Geta knelt before you, his nose pressed into your sex as you circled your hips onto it. He stood and shoved his clothing out of the way, yours already stuffed beneath your chin. and when he slammed his fat cock into you the darkness returned. Two demons fucking at the loss of life and smell of blood in the air. 

“Practically getting off to a hideous murder in front of my mother and the others, my my…” he hissed, wrapping a hand around your throat squeezing until your breath rattled beneath his palm, “you truly were sent to me from the Gods weren’t you?” 

You nodded, moaning when he attached his lips to your neck, pinching your nipple until it purpled. “Nothing makes me happier than seeing the deserved slaughtered.” 

Geta groaned as your clenching pussy gripped him as you came undone, his own release following closely behind, yelling out your name. 

“I have a surprise for you,” he breathed raggedly into your neck, adjusting your robes back into place, sweat pouring from his brow.

Your smile squeaked against his ear, “it is not even my birth date, Geta, you are spoiling me.” 

Leaving the room Geta kisses your palm, “no,” he agrees, “it is not, but am I not allowed to gift my wife with divine luxuries?” 

“You are, but you don’t need to give me anything…” you say, holding your belly with which the healer confirmed that you were indeed with child all along. Something Geta never let you forget that he knew you better than you knew yourself. 

His lips pressed to your cheek, his hand laying delicately on your stomach as you whispered, “you’ve given me enough as it is.” 

He smiled wickedly pulling back to lace your fingers with his own, “come,” he commanded, pulling you back towards the palace. 

—

The great stone table stood bare except for a golden cloth. Acacius proudly stood guard next to it, bowing upon the sight of you. 

“My lady,” he greeted, smiling at the sight of your radiant face, then facing Geta with the same warm smile, “Emperor.” 

“Thank you,” Geta said, rubbing his hands together excitedly, “hope you didn’t have any trouble getting it?” 

Acacius smirked and adjusted his sword on his belt, “not at all, they were quite thrilled to be rid of it.” 

Geta rippled out a laugh from his throat as he stood behind the table, his large hands pressed into it, “I can only imagine… Gnat, my love, are you ready?” 

“As I will ever be,” you said cautiously, stepping up to the table. 

Acacius stood back as Geta pinched a piece of the cloth between his fingers, “presented to you, my undying devotion,” he said sweetly before pulling the cloth revealing your present. 

Anyone else would have ran and screamed, damning him to hell. But you were unlike everyone else, and you saw the beauty in his gift and the meaning behind it. 

Blood had been drained, the smell minimal, and judging by the way the darkness that filled Geta to the brim and now poured into yourself was clouding your eyes, the mad tick of your lips as they perked up in greed: you were pleased. 

“It is exquisite, amor meus,” you smiled wider, getting closer to your present. 

Geta looked at you proudly, his eyes inky and shining. His gnat, his dulcis, his wife, his empress— his tainted heart content for the first time in his life, and it was all thanks to you. “Where shall we put it, the mantle?” 

You picked it up, holding it high to the sky for the Gods to see, “a gift more precious than gold deserves to be seen, for all—don’t you think?” 

Sat on a pedestal, his name engraved on a piece of wood, a large red rose sewn between his lips, was the severed head of Caracalla. 

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@rxqueenotd

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

First, love the dark Lucifer Vampire story! And I love how treats Adam like a pet. So, here's what I have you:

Prince! Adam x Warlord! Lucifer (yes he would be dark and treat Adam like a glorified pet. Adam would grow to like it but at first, he's embarrassed as hell. He's given to Lucifer as his prisoner to stop him from attacking the kingdom of Heaven. Adam tries to fight it but he's forced into it by his mother, Sera, against his will. Lilith will be dead in this, died during childbirth, and Charlotte is just as ruthless as her father. Lucifer sees Adam as his pet for the most part but later on, decides he'd make a good bride. He's submissive and does what he's told. Perfect. Adam slowly falls in love with him and Lucifer will follow slowly after. Adam's personality would basically be shy but easily moved to tears due to his low self-esteem. Sera treats him like a waste of space and much prefers her daughter, Emily.)

XxX

Prince Adam couldn't believe what he was hearing from his own mother. He had been dragged from his room by guards, no yelling would get them to stop, and he was brought before his mother, Queen Sera of the kingdom of Heaven. She looked down at him with a glare like she normally would.

"Adam. The invaders have come to a decision." Adam had a bad feeling about this. Emily refused to look at him but she did look bored to be here. She was always bored, even when their mother was hurting Adam. But, this whole situation leaves Adam with a bad taste in his mouth and the guards forcing him to kneel didn't help either.

"Adam, you will go with them as...collateral to keep them away from our borders. They've requested a prisoner and me and Emily certainly couldn't leave Heaven to its own devices. That leaves you."

No. No! This couldn't be happening! Adam was to be a prisoner?! To some tyrant, they call The Devil?! He felt tears fall onto the floor as he begged, "Please! There has to be—"

Sera simply scoffed. "Cease you're crying. Honestly, a man shouldn't be crying this much but I guess you never met the criteria of a man, did you?" Adam flinched, hurt once more by her words. Emily let out a chuckle but she didn't say much of anything. She never did. She saw Adam like one would a fly. Annoying but completely forgotten when out of the room.

He was bound in chains and gagged before being put in the dungeons to wait until after the kingdom celebrated getting out of war. They would throw a feast for the tyrant and his daughter, they would take their prisoner and leave. The war over and Adam gone. Two birds with one stone.

Queen Sera prepared the most magnificent feast they could and just in time. The Warlord and his daughter were here. He walked in like owned the place, his regal cape flooding behind him. His daughter, taller than him by a head, walked beside him, her cold eyes gazing at everything in disgust. Their palace was much better.

"Ah, if isn't the Queen." The Warlord said, smirking at her. There was a reason they called him The Devil. The birth name given to him was Lucifer. His daughter, Charlotte Morningstar, looked just smug, her red eyes dancing with mirth at the fact everyone seemed afraid of them.

She was known to keep a plethora of women at her side that she used as her pleasure. She took care of them in her opinion and they all loved being her pets, but it was amusing to see all of them, especially the women, terrified that she would seduce them and use them like a pet.

They weren't worthy of that.

"Shall we eat?"

I love all of this so much!! @beef-brisket @fanofstuff01 @kittenfangirl20 I need of rp of this yesterday lmao

-

Adam sat down in the cell, his eyes wet as he couldn't stop silently crying as he could hear the celebration going on upstairs. They were celebrating him being given to a ruthless Warlord as a pet, a slave in every sense of the word.

He was supposed to be a Prince, yet he was treated no better than the dead rat in the corner that was rotting away. Soon that would be him, The Devil will likely torture him for the rest of his days and use him any way possible.

Adam felt another tear fall from his eyes, he was a virgin so the thought of the only time he'd be having sex........ It broke his heart that he would never be loved by anyone.

His father loved him before he passed away from being sick. Adam wished he was still alive, surely he wouldn't let his mother do this.

His mother didn't love him, Adams not sure she ever did. His sister seemed indifferent towards him. He didn't know what he did to make them not want or love him.

No one loved him, no one ever would. Adam was never going to be happy ever again.

His eyes stayed locked down on his bound hands. Was this what awaited him down South in the car country of Hell? To be thrown in the dungeon, bound and gagged, only to be fed enough to live. To know only pain and suffering from this day on. Maybe the Warlord will take pity and make Adams death quick and painless.

And maybe Adam will grow wings and fly away.

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Parthenos ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Five)

Masterlist

A/N: I got really frustrated that I didn't seem to write to flow of sentences that well and experimented with Grammerly (as english is not my first language) and it ended up amazing and just how I see it in my head, so yes it is still written and made up by me but without mistakes and with better wording. Enjoy!

Pairing: Emperor Geta & Caracalla x Noble!Reader

Warnings: Angst, angst and some angst, Acacius and Lucilla get reader into big trouble, Macrinus is just a fucking rat one again, hopefully more historically accurate?

Summary: The insurrection has been revealed...

Word count: 3.3k

The silk fabric of your garment was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the night before. For a moment, you lingered in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, but as your senses sharpened, reality settled in. The space beside you was empty. The warmth of their bodies, their presence- gone. 

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, casting golden streaks across the now more familiar chamber of your fathers estate. Had it been a dream? No. The ache in your limbs, the faint traces of their scent on your skin- it had been real. Finally they had taken you and you knew there was no going back, neither for them as for you.

Lazing around in bed all day would not help your state of mind, so you decided to rise from your bed and leave your chambers. After having searched for your servant, she helped you prepare for the day. Even though you did not know what the sunny day would bring, you hoped it would involve the Emperors. Your heart was already aching for their touch. 

Later, you found yourself in the solar, still no invitation from the Emperors. The fine thread slid between your fingers as the spindle hummed softly while you worked. This fine art required focus but yet you could not put your mind to it. Weaving was also supposed to calm the mind but it was not able to put yours to rest. 

All you could think about was them, anxiety ever growing as the day went by far too quickly. Why had they not invited you? Did something happen? Had Macrinus somehow gotten to them- A sharp snap pulled you from your thoughts. The thread had broken, once again. The attendant hesitated before speaking, sensing your tension. “Shall I fetch new thread? My lady?” She asked. 

“Yes.” You exhaled, it would be a long wait. 

The damp air of the Colosseum’s underground cells clung to General Acacius like a second skin, thick with the stench of sweat, decay, and something more rancid he dared not name. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that made the passage feel like it was breathing- watching.

His boots pressed against the uneven ground, the squelch of filth punctuating each step. Water dripped from above, forming small puddles that rippled as he and his men passed through. He refused to consider what mixed with the water beneath his feet. The dungeons of the Colosseum were a place of suffering- forgotten men left to rot, their fates determined by the will of the crowd and the cruelty of the arena.

A sickly cough echoed from one of the cells, followed by a weak groan. A pair of beady eyes stared at him from the darkness- a rat, large and bloated, scurrying over the outstretched hand of a prisoner too weak to swat it away. Acacius barely spared the man a glance.

Lucilla had told him Lucius would be in a newer cell, all the way at the back. That meant he had much ground to cover before reaching his goal. Yet, as he treaded deeper into the halls of suffering, an unease swirled in his gut. There were no guards. Why did it seem so easy?

The absence of Praetorians gnawed at him, setting his instincts on edge. This place should have been swarming with them- watching, waiting. Instead, there was nothing but the soft footsteps of his men, their presence barely disturbing the silence. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the rough leather grounding him.

As he turned corner upon corner, the walls seemed to narrow, the shadows growing denser, as though the Colosseum itself wanted to swallow him whole. He could feel it now- his goal was close. The weight of his mission pressed against his ribs, the danger of what he was about to do tightening around his throat.

If the Emperors discovered him before he secured the gladiator, all would be lost- his wife, his future, his life. And worse, so would his daughter. Everything he did was for her. Every betrayal, every secret, every risk. And she didn’t even realize it.

It was when the General turned the last corner, followed closely by his men, that his life went up in flames. A sudden sharp whistle sliced the air, followed by the familiar thud of an arrow hitting its target. He had no time to react as his loyal soldiers crumbled to the ground, his heart rose to his throat. The weight of his failure almost made him sink to the floor himself.

He recognised the man that stepped out of the shadows, Praetorians surrounding him as they demanded his surrender. The commander pointed the tip of his sword at Acacius, daring him to act now, but the General couldn’t. He then felt how the cold metal swiftly graced his forehead, before his face was revealed, and his hood had fallen from his head.

Acacius knew, all was lost. 

Night had long since fallen over the estate, the halls silent and dead. Still, no invitation had come. The flickering torches in the corridors had burned low, their golden glow reduced to embers. Even Lucilla had surrendered to the late hour, retreating to her chambers with a soft goodnight. Alone, you sat by the window, eyes fixed on the stars in the black sky, waiting. Hoping.

But hope had stretched thin. It was time to give up. With a quiet sigh, you rose and slouched towards your bed. But sleep did not come easily. You tossed, turned, thoughts circling like a vicious cycle in the dark. Had you misread the signs? Had they simply forgotten you? Or worse- had they already grown bored of you? At last, exhaustion weighed down your limbs, and you drifted into uneasy slumber.

The pounding at your chamber door shattered the stillness.

You jolted upright, heart thumping against your ribs as the sound echoed through the room. Disoriented, you turned toward the window. The moon was still high, shining over the estate grounds.  How long had you slept? Minutes? Hours?

Then came a voice- sharp, authoritative, and unmistakably male.

"My lady, open the door! By order of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla!"

The words sent a shiver down your spine. Your pulse quickened as you climbed out of bed, bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. Confusion and dread tangled in your chest as you reached for the door, fingers hesitating on the handle. What could they possibly want at this hour?

With a slow breath, you pulled it open.

A wave of torchlight flooded in, momentarily blinding you. When your vision adjusted, you were met with the gleaming helmets and rough faces of at least twenty Praetorian guards, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The man at the front stood rigid, eyes cold and unforgiving. But it wasn’t the soldiers that made your blood run cold.

It was Lucilla. She stood among them, shackled, her wrists bound in iron, her usually neat hair disheveled. Her eyes tired, red-rimmed, locked onto yours, pleading.

Then the soldier before you spoke.

"My lady, you are under arrest for conspiracy as well as treachery against the Empire and the Emperor's themselves. Go with us willingly, and we won’t have to hurt you."

The words struck like a blow. Lucilla stirred among the almost statue like Praetorians, her voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “My daughter is no part of this, I beg of you, leave her here. She did not know about this, she is innocent.” Lucillas words widened your tired eyes. 

But the soldier made it abundantly clear that he did not believe her. He grabbed your arms and pulled you with him, another man joined your wrists together by binding them with shackles, pulling a gasp from you. It was a grim scene, as both you and Lucilla left the estate as prisoners. 

They had seized you from the estate like a common criminal.

There had been no time to fetch shoes, no chance to wrap yourself in proper attire. The Praetorians had no mercy for a lady once cherished, now condemned. Your protests had fallen on deaf ears, your dignitas reduced to nothing beneath their grip. Even Lucilla, had been torn from your side, the two of you put into separate carriages as if mere slaves.

Tears traced down your cheeks, vanishing into the thin fabric of your night toga. What had you done to deserve this? The journey was long, the carriage rattling over the uneven roads as you stared into the endless void of the night, lost in the uncertainty of what awaited you.  

When at last the carriage reached Palatine Hill, another arrived as well- though from a different direction. You barely had a moment to register its presence before rough hands yanked you forward.

Gone was the courtesy once reserved for a lady of noble blood. Gone was the deference meant for a woman who had once held the favor of emperors. You hit the ground with a wince, your bare feet meeting the coarse, cold sand outside the palace steps. The night air blew over your exposed skin, you shivered, but not from the cold.

A flicker of movement caught your eye- your father. His gaze met yours across the courtyard, his lips parting as if to speak, to offer some explanation, some reassurance. But no words came. None were allowed.

Before you could reach for him, he was dragged up the steps, his towering form no match for the forceful hands of the Praetorians. Neither you nor Lucilla escaped justice, your shackles rattling as you were urged forward.

Your head throbbed from the night’s torment, your eyes raw from endless tears. You longed for answers, for assurance, for someone to tell you this was all a mistake. But the palace offered no such comfort.

Only the muffled shuffle of footsteps and the soft sniffles escaping your trembling lips disturbed the silence of the grand halls. The familiar path you walked sent a fresh wave of dread washing over you.

The throne room.

You had walked this path before, though never like this. Never with chains biting into your wrists, never with your very existence reduced to something so... insignificant. With every step, the weight of betrayal pressed deeper into your chest. A betrayal you did not commit. A crime you did not even understand.

And yet, here you were. Helpless. Small. Forgotten by those who once claimed to care. The golden doors loomed ahead, the flickering torchlight painting shadows against their towering frame. Beyond them lay judgment, mercy, or death. You could only hope the Emperors would believe you, but believe what exactly?

The towering golden doors groaned open, their weight echoing through the throne room. Cold hands shoved you forward, forcing you to step further onto the icy marble floor. Lucilla moved beside you, her chains rattling softly with each step as you both shuffled inside.

The room was eerily silent.

The Emperors had not yet arrived, and that only made the dread coil tighter in your stomach. Your own heartbeat pounded in your ears as your eyes flickered over the grand chamber- the towering columns, the burning braziers. The high ceiling that made you feel even smaller.

Then your gaze landed on him.

Macrinus.

A sickening wave of nausea clawed its way up your throat as you found him lounging on one of the lectus’, draped in smug satisfaction. His gaze met yours briefly before shifting away, as if you were beneath his notice. But it wasn’t just him. Next to him sat the man from that night. 

You tore your eyes away, fixing them to the ground, swallowing hard against the bile rising in your throat. And then- footsteps. Distant at first, but growing louder. Your breath hitched as dark forms moved between the marble pillars, shifting in and out of the flickering torchlight. You knew who it was before you could fully see them. Their presence was unmistakable.

The emperors.

When they finally stepped into view, a sharp gasp escaped Geta’s lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet their eyes. You stared at the cold floor beneath your bare feet, your heart hammering as silence stretched between you all.

Geta opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his breath uneven. The silence was unbearable, you forced yourself to look up. Geta stood before you in a deep crimson robe embroidered with gold, his curls wild, his expression heartbroken. His eyes- red-rimmed, glassy- searched your face as though he could pull the truth from your form.

And then there was Caracalla.

His white toga mirrored your own, the contrast stark against the heavy shadows in his face. His chest rose and fell with uneven, heavy breaths, his eyes brimming with fury and betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Thraex and Macrinus, your insurrection,” Geta’s voice cracked, “has been revealed. The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you, all of it you have forfeited by your treachery-”

“Your Majesty, please,” a voice interrupted.

Acacius.

Your father’s voice was strained, raw with desperation. “My daughter has nothing to do with this. She is innocent. She had no knowledge of tonight’s events- I am uncertain if she even knows now what has taken place.”

Your red-rimmed eyes locked with Geta’s teary ones, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You wanted to scream, to demand answers, to plead for your innocence. But before you could find the words, Geta spoke again.

“Macrinus told me something entirely different.” Geta’s voice hardened, his sorrow giving way to suspicion. He turned his gaze to Acacius, his fingers curling into fists. “He told me that you saw an opportunity to throw your daughter at us- to- to what? Distract us? So we wouldn’t find out about your little plot?” His voice twisted with disdain, the weight of betrayal thick in his tone.

The air in the room grew suffocating, the weight of their fury pressing down on you. This was not how you wanted to see them again.

“Caesar, I swear I had no knowledge of this plan,” you cried, your voice breaking with each word. “Nor do I even know the full extent of it now. Truly- I don’t even know why we are here.” Your voice was desperate, trembling with the fear that if they did not believe you now, there would be no hope left.

Caracalla stepped forward, his face burning with rage, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Why should we believe you?” he shouted, his voice shaking. “You are the daughter of a traitor!” His words burned through you, the hurt in his eyes far more painful than his accusations.

“No- no, please!” You stumbled forward, your chains clinking together as you dropped to your knees. “I will do anything! I’ll do anything to prove to you that I am loyal! I would never betray you- or the Empire!” Your sobs shook your frame, your voice barely above a whisper by the end.

Geta stared at you, something in his expression shifting. Doubt flickered in his eyes. He wanted to believe you. He needed to believe you. But justice conflicted with love. His gaze snapped to Macrinus, his jaw tightening.

“You were the one to bring this news to me,” Geta said, his voice unsteady. “What do you say, Macrinus?”

Macrinus barely glanced at you before stepping forward, leaning into Geta’s ear. His lips moved in a slow murmur, his voice just soft enough to remain unheard. Even Caracalla strained to listen, his fists clenching at his sides.

When Macrinus stepped back, Geta hesitated for only a heartbeat before straightening. His expression was unreadable.

Then-

“Take the General and Lady Lucilla to the cells.”

The words fell like a blade. Lucilla tensed behind you. Acacius’ ragged breathing filled the room, his entire body coiled in resistance as the Praetorians closed in. The guards hesitated. For a brief moment, there was uncertainty in their movements.

But Geta’s command was law. Hands seized Acacius and Lucilla, dragging them away as their protests died against the cold walls. Still on your knees, you were at their mercy as tears escaped you once again. “Get out.” Caracalla snapped, his eyes focusing on Macrinus. The man simply bowed and was followed by Threax as he left the dark room.

Your knees ache against the hard marble, the cold seeping into your skin. Your body trembled- not just from the chill that clung to your half bare skin, but from the uncertainty that clawed at your chest.

Then came warmth. A touch, too sudden, too intimate. You flinched as Geta’s fingers brushed against your arm, his hand reaching for you with something that felt like desperation. You jerked away instinctively, your breath catching in your throat.

“Stand.”

His voice was quiet, almost gentle. But there was no room for defiance.

Your legs felt stiff as you pushed yourself up, your bare feet settling against the polished marble once more. You tried to ground yourself on the ground beneath you, but it did nothing to still the quiver in your limbs.

A shift in the room- Caracalla’s gaze.

You could feel his eyes roaming over you, the tension in his stance tightening as he took in your disheveled state. His expression darkened when he noticed your lack of sandals, your vulnerable, exposed form before them.

“Swear to me,” Geta’s voice came suddenly. His hand found the back of your neck, his fingers curling there- not forceful, but firm enough to make you feel the weight of what he was asking. He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your temple.

“Swear to me that you didn’t betray us. Swear it.” Geta commanded. Tears clung to your lashes as you looked up at him, the fear in his eyes mirroring your own. Your lips trembled as you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “I swear it, Caesar, I do.”

For a moment, nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then Caracalla exhaled sharply, stepping away from the heavy silence that wrapped around you all. His movements were restless, his frustration bleeding into the way he paced the chamber. His fingers flexed at his sides, his teeth clenched as if trying to hold back the fury simmering beneath his skin.

“You know we cannot let you go,” Caracalla murmured, his voice low, “And we can’t let your father go.” Geta straightened, his grip on you loosening, but the weight of his presence did not. “His fate will be decided in the Colosseum.” Geta then added. Was that what Macrinus had whispered to him?

Your breath caught. You had known—somewhere, deep down, you had known. But hearing it spoken aloud made you feel like you were suffocating. “And you…” Geta continued, his voice tired. “You will remain in a chamber close to ours so we can- keep an eye on you.”

There was something unspoken in those words, something that lingered between them like an unfinished sentence. Your throat felt tight, but you nodded, your body surrendering to exhaustion. You would have to prove your loyalty.

And you had no idea how.

Taglist: @boywivlove

[drdemonprince]

I don't think I have it in me to be an abolitionist because I read that horrible story about the trans teen murdered in South Carolina and my knee jerk reaction is, those people should rot in jail, ideally forever, or worse. No matter how I look at it I can't make myself okay with the idea that you should be allowed to steal someone's life in such a horrible way and then just go back to enjoying your life. Some stuff is just too over the top evil.

You can have whatever emotions you want about that person's murderous actions, but the reality is that the carceral justice system is one of the largest sources of physical, emotional, and sexual torment for transgender people on this planet.

Transgender people are ten times more likely to be assaulted by a fellow inmate and five times more likely to be assaulted by a corrections officer, according to a National Center for Transgender Equality Report.

Within the prison system, transgender people are frequently denied gender-affirming medical care, and housed in populations that do not match their identity, which increases their odds of being beaten and sexually assaulted.

The alternative to being incorrectly housed with the wrong gendered population is that transgender people are also frequently held in solitary confinement instead, often for far longer periods on average than their non-transgender peers, contributing to them experiencing suicide ideation, self harm, acute physiological distress, a shrunk hippocampus, muscculoskeletal pain, chronic condition flare-ups, heart disease, reduced muscle tone, and numerous other proven effects of solitary confinement.

The prison system is also one of the largest sites of completely unmitigated COVID spread, among other illnesses, with over 640,000 cases being directly linked to prison exposure, according to the COVID prison project.

We know that number is rampantly under-estimated because prisoners, especially trans ones, are frequently denied medical care. And even basic, essential physical care. Just last year a 27-year-old Black man named Lason Butler was found dead in his cell, having perished of dehydration. He had been kept in a cell without running water for two weeks, where he rapidly lost 40 pounds before perishing. His body was covered in rat bites.

This kind of treatment is unacceptable for anyone, no matter who they are and what they have done, and I shouldn't have to explicitly connect the dots for you, but I will. One in six transgender people has been to prison, according to Lambda Legal. One in every TWO Black transgender people has been to prison. One in five Black men go to prison in America.

THIS is the fate you are consigning all these people to when you say that prisons must exist because there are really really bad people out in the world. We should all know by not that this is not how the carceral justice system works. Hate crime laws are under-utilized, according to Pro Publica, and result in few convictions. The people who commit transphobic acts of violence tend to be given softer sentences than the prisoners who resemble their victims.

We must always remember that the violent tools of the prison system will be used not against the people that we personally consider to be the most "deserving" of punishment, but rather against whomever the state considers to be its enemy or to be a disposable person.

You are not in control of the prison system and you cannot ensure it will be benevolent. You are not the police, the judge, the jury, or the corrections officers. By and large, the people who are in these roles are racist, transphobic, ableist, and victim-blaming, and they will use the power and violence of the system to terrorize people in poverty, Black people, trans people, "mad" people, intellectually disabled people, women, and everyone else that you might wish to protect from harm with a system of "punishment." Nevermind that incaraceration doesn't prevent future harm anyway.

You can't argue for incarceration as the tool of your revenge fantasies, you have to argue for it as the tool that it actually is. The purpose of a system is what it does. And the prison system's purpose has never been to protect or avenge vulnerable trans people. It has always been to beat them, sexually assault them, forcibly detransition them, render them unemployable, disconnect them from all community, neglect them, and unperson them.

[merakiui]

somehow thinking of skully always results in the most deranged of thoughts, which is why tenth prompt immediately brought him to mind. he just seems like the kind of guy to engage easily and with little remorse in the most taboo things. feeding you a part of himself to ensure you are trapped in his timeline? well, that's simply what you do when you love somebody very much. no, he isn't getting off to this.

which is to say that, if it's not too much bother, i'd love to request some disgusting dead dove skully for prompt 10 (though 4 is also sorta similar?)

>:) disgusting dead dove Skully...... my favorite flavor!!!!! I changed the prompt sentence just slightly,,, ;;;

(cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, female reader, captivity, dead dove, reader is treated like a rag doll in skully's pursuit of having a jack x sally esque romance, delusion, obsession, gore, non-con dissection, drugging, mutilation, skully's freak levels are criminal and absolutely deranged)

(monstrously yandere prompts)

"Good morning, my darling!"

Beaming from ear to ear, your cheerful kidnapper wheels a metal cart into the brick cell he's calling a bedroom. Your roommates are rats and spiders and whatever other monsters dwell in the darkness down here. This is where he lives, too, apparently. This strange boy who hides away in a mad scientist's stone cellar... It's patently absurd, a horrific tale fit for the shelves, and yet it's your reality.

He claims he's saved you from the cruel and callous Dr. Ashengrotto and his terrible, terrible needles. You'd be nothing but a lab rat kept awake on a cocktail of fatal flora, and your death would be by the doctor's design. It's all miserable business anyhow, or so Skully says with a casual wave of his hand. You're in better hands down here. Because this is Skully's domain, and he has you all to himself.

Dr. Ashengrotto will never step foot down here because it is here where all of his abandoned creations lurk, and many of them cannot wait to sink their serrated maws into the throat of the man who left them to rot.

That's why Skully, this odd boy who feasts on rats and allows spiders to spin their webs between the valley of his fingers, is more than happy to have you here with him. He swiped you right from Dr. Ashengrotto's operating table, and he's quite proud of it. Deadly nightshade is a glorious poison, or so he'll boast. He's so pleased he learned the distinctions to better knock out the doctor. It's not his intention to kill Dr. Ashengrotto—although he very well could.

Rather, he just wants his specimen. That's why he's done well to keep you safe down here.

But is it truly any better?

"Did you know," he continues, disregarding your silence and the way you squish yourself into the corner to get away from him, "the brain prevents you from biting off the tip of your tongue? A very curious example of animalistic instincts. We are wired for self-inflicted violence, and yet our brain refuses to allow the body to entertain that."

You eye him warily. Something glints on the tray. A blade... A big blade, actually. Dread pools in the pits of your stomach. Bile is already scraping at your throat. You want to run, but he snipped the tendons in your legs and so now you're no better than a baby bird. You could crawl, but he'd easily catch up.

"If I'm to call myself yours, much like Lord Jack did with his dear Sally, it's only fair we look the part, no?" Spidery digits fall away from the cart, and he bends down to peer at you. Those peculiar spiral eyes blink one at a time. You wonder if he's ever gone outside. He's less human and more...creature. Does he even know how to be human? "So where shall we begin? If you try hard enough and perish every self-preservation instinct, your teeth could snip off the tip of your tongue. I can do the same with mine and we can swap them!" But he's quick to fluster, and his hands fly up to hide his glowing cheeks. "A-Ah... But perhaps that's too forward of me. Forgive me. It was wildly uncouth to suggest such blatant intimacy so early into our courtship."

You've never known kidnapping to be courtship. You're beginning to think Dr. Ashengrotto and his terrible, terrible needles would be better than this madness.

"We can do this instead." He lifts a cleaver from the cart and runs his finger along the blade. A bead of blood pools at his fingertip. "This shall do nicely." Turning to you with a smile, he rests his arm on the stone tablet positioned just beside the tray of surgical equipment. "It's only proper if I go first. A gentleman must always escort and reassure his lady. Oh, but I must hurry. Dr. Ashengrotto will wake soon, and I will know quite the tongue lashing if his tools are missing." He squeezes his eyes shut and winces at the memory, as if Dr. Ashengrotto is somehow more terrifying than the blade he's poised above his wrist.

Skully lifts his arm and then—

"Oh!"

He sets the blade down. You breathe a relieved sigh that soon sticks in your throat. "I almost forgot." He lifts a murky beaker from the table. "Please drink this. It will take all the shivers away. I promise. Don't be scared." He leans in close and brings the glass to your mouth, but that only serves to make you struggle with more force. Skully sighs, pouting in disappointment, and grabs hold of your chin to force the foul-tasting potion down your throat. You cough and grab at your neck. There's nothing you can do. You drank it.

"W-What was..."

"Fret not, my dear. This will melt away your nerves. You won't even know the concept of fear soon."

With that, he picks the cleaver up.

You watch, eyes wide and mouth gaping, as he raises his arm high. You see the dotted lines he's drawn on his wrist. And before you can scream he's brought the cleaver down to cleanly sever his hand from his arm.

It must be painful. It has to be!

So then how is he humming? Why isn't he crying and screaming, holding his now handless arm in agony? How can he casually fashion a tourniquet for his weeping wound, the blood so thick and sticky it spills onto the cart and drips on the floor in little puddles?!

"Soon, our bodies shall be wed. Isn't this exciting? We'll be husband and wife!" He swipes his finger through the blood pooling on the surface of the cart, doodling a crooked heart.

You feel sick, but nothing will come up. Your stomach churns. Something is scratching at your eyes. You feel heavy, as if the weight of the world is pressing down on your shoulders. There's so. much. blood.

You shut your eyes for a moment, but when you wake it's to the foul stench of gore and the prick of pain as the needle works through your flesh.

Skully sews his hand onto the stump where yours once was and, in return, yours replaces the empty space on his arm.

He cradles your cheek with his—your—bloodied hand. It's cold. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, his thumb rubbing just beneath your eyes, cherishing your cheekbones. "I've never known such agonizing happiness. Aah, it's like Cupid is stirring my heart into soup, stabbing it over and over with his arrows. You're lovely, an absolute scream."

You can hardly move, but your eyes manage to slide down the length of your limp arm to find the hand that's now surgically attached. His hand. The hand that has never belonged to you.

You give a choked sob. Skully smiles and leans in to lick your tears away.

- - -

He wants to open you up and rifle around in your insides. "If only I could give you my heart," he laments. "I don't deserve this organ. Not when I have such beastly thoughts!"

You think, if it were possible, he'd wrap your intestines around his neck like they're a feather boa, a grotesque treasure. But he doesn't want to kill you, even though sometimes he tells you you'd be such a pretty corpse, so he never allows his knife to touch your stomach.

That's why he's decided to give you the next best thing.

The needle is so close to your eye. You can't move. He's given you something, so all you can do is lie rigidly still like the dead. Again, Skully hums a haunting melody.

"Please..." you beg. "Please don't do this."

He blinks down at you with one eye. The other is sitting preserved in a glass jar, from when he plucked it out himself and cut away the pesky optic nerves, all while rambling about how fantastic this is. You wonder if he's immune to pain. Is he even alive? There's a bandage wrapped around his head, concealing his empty eye socket. Soon, you won't be able to move your mouth to voice any pleas. Silent tears crawl down your cheeks instead.

When you look at him, scrawny boy with his strange, toothy grin and his bedraggled hair, you wonder if he's one of Dr. Ashengrotto's long-forgotten experiments.

"I'll be gentle," he promises.

You spend those next few hours in indescribable torment.

You pass out just before you lose the sight in your left eye.

When you wake, Skully is holding you in his arms, brushing a hand through your hair to soothe you. He hums a sweet lullaby, his sharp, curled nails sticking at every knot in your hair. He yanks through them, undeterred.

"Are you awake?" He peers down at you. "Oh, what a relief! It's been days since you shut your eyes. I was beginning to worry I'd hurt you..."

His frown quickly quirks up into a bright smile. "But not to worry! You're still alive. I'm so pleased!"

He feels around in the dimly lit space for something. When you open your eyes, you see yourself. The vision in your left eye is blurred. Skully props you up so you can get a better look at yourself in the fractured glass.

You're looking back with an orange eye.

And yours is nestled snugly in his socket. A perfect fit.

"Isn't it wonderful?" he says, ignoring your wheezing, hyperventilating cries and the blood that trickles from your ruined socket. "My most important parts are inside you—my hand and my eye and patches of my flesh—and yours are here within me. I shall be a temple that cherishes your pieces. With this, you'll be mine forevermore."

He gathers you in his lanky arms and squeezes you in a hug that robs you of your air.

"And when you perish, I shall take your heart and sew it in next to mine. Then we'll never be apart."

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

Love is Blind

note: Love is blind dating show, but make it medieval. And accidental.

warnings: angst/fluff. mention of getting locked in a dungeon, death, and battle, happy ending tho!

pairing: Sihtric x fem!reader (no mention of Y/N)

summary: You fell in love with a man's voice when everything seemed lost.

word count: 3,6k

Masterlist

Reblogs & comments are immensely appreciated.

The dungeon you were held prisoner in was dark and cold at night. During the days the temperature in the gloomy fortress basement was a little more bearable, as the sun warmed the grounds above you while you were hidden from its comforting rays, always living in darkness. Your now dirty dress, which was ripped to shreds at the arms during your arrest, was the only piece of cloth keeping you warm, albeit barely. You were locked away violently several days ago, after you had spoken up against your King and his way of ruling. Your future was uncertain and you were to be imprisoned until a decision had been made on what your punishment would be. You feared death, but even worse you feared to become a pleasure slave to the King or to be kept locked up to rot away slowly. So death was unfortunately the favourable option out of those.

You hadn't seen much of the dungeon when you were shoved in there as it was completely deprived of any natural light at all times, but you had caught a glimpse thanks to the flickering flames of torches held by the guards, and you knew there was at least one other cell next to you. The first day you were convinced that someone was imprisoned next to you, as you heard rustling nearby every now and then, but whenever you called out you received no answer. Even when your eyes had adjusted to the darkness surrounding you it was hard to tell if you were alone, as the rustling continued daily, but huge wooden crates were stacked on top of each other in between the makeshift prison cells, making it impossible to even try and look for the vague figure of a person in the cell next to you.

However, you soon found out you were a lonely prisoner, with your only occasional visitors being a few rats and a couple of mice who would rustle nearby as they came to feast on the few crumbs of old bread you left behind every afternoon, after you were brought some food. Well, brought was not even the right word to describe it, as it would simply be thrown towards you through the thick and rusty bars of steel that made for your enclosure. The guards would always try to hit you, wanting to embarrass you as much as possible, but the place was so dark that they often missed as you hid in the far corner of your cell.

You were treated worse than a dog and you had no idea how you would be able to live through this suffering. The quietness was too loud and the dungeon was too dark. You prayed for a miracle every waking hour. You prayed to have someone there with you, someone to talk to and someone to remind you that you were still human. No matter how horrible it was to wish someone else to be captured and imprisoned too, just knowing you weren't going to die alone in that forsaken place would be a tragic comfort, so you kept praying for some human company.

And surprisingly enough your prayers would soon be answered.

You were rudely awoken by some commotion that sounded from the long and dark corridor that led to the dungeon you were locked in. Male voices, which seemed to argue loudly, came closer rapidly and suddenly you saw the lit torches which were held by guards. There were more guards than usual, you managed to notice in the dim light of the burning flames, and you jumped up. You were terrified yet relieved that your fate had probably been decided, that being the reason why there were so many men present, but you quickly realised it wasn't anything like that. Because instead of hearing your door open, you heard the door of your neighbouring cage slam shut, followed by the sound of someone spitting at the guards and then kicking at the door, rattling the heavy chains that kept it shut.

'Spit on me again, you Dane scum,' the familiar voice of a guard barked, 'and I will kill you.'

'Not if I will kill you first,' a new male voice sounded threateningly, yet calm and confident as he spoke.

You held your breath as the guards left, your eyes were wide in the darkness while you listened to the breathing of the prisoner next to you as it became harder and heavier. You recognised it all too well, for you too had been in a state of panic after you were left on your own once you were locked up in this pit of blackness. You swallowed hard, your slightly parted lips were chapped and dry as you breathed in and out through them as calmly as possible, finding the courage to speak as whoever had just joined you remained silent.

'H-hello?' you carefully said.

Your voice sounded weaker than expected and different than you had remembered. It's strange how fast one can forget their own voice and lose the strength of it, you thought for a split second. But the man next to you stopped breathing abruptly upon hearing your voice, and the dungeon became momentarily as quiet as it had been since you arrived, which pulled you away from your thoughts. For a brief moment you thought you had imagined it all and that there was no one there, so when you finally got a response you nearly jumped out of your skin.

'Who's there?' the man who shared your fate asked.

You managed to stammer your name and told him how long you had been there and why, giving him a brief summary of your most recent life.

'My name is Sihtric,' the man replied calmly, 'I am sorry we seem to share the same destiny, lady. I was caught spying here today,' he sighed, 'it seems I will also be kept here until they decide what to do with me.'

'I am sorry,' you barely whispered.

You fought your tears as you felt overwhelmed with emotions. A part of you felt horrible that this man next to you would face death probably sooner than later, but you were also relieved and somewhat happy that you weren't alone anymore, however selfish that may be.

'Who are you spying for?' you asked, curious to the man who gave you a spark of hope again.

'Lord Uhtred,' Sihtric responded.

You listened carefully while it sounded as if he was making himself comfortable on the cold, straw and sand covered floor.

'Of Bebbanburg?' you then asked.

'Of Bebbanburg,' Sihtric confirmed, his voice sounding a little closer suddenly, 'the lands have been at peace for a while but Uhtred doesn't trust your so-called King. Uhtred is afraid he will not rule by the newly made laws and start another war soon.'

'I have said almost the same thing,' you scoffed, 'and that landed me here.'

'So it is true?' Sihtric asked, his voice hopeful and even somewhat excited, 'he wants to spill blood?'

'I don't know,' you said with a sigh and sat down yourself, leaning against the cold steel bars as you faced the crates that hid your new companion, 'but it is clear that he does not agree with one united country. But what do I care,' you shrugged, 'I don't have much longer anyway. I will soon be dead and forgotten.'

Sihtric was quiet for a moment, and you carefully listened to any sounds that may tell you what he was doing, but it remained completely silent until he spoke again after a few long seconds.

'Your punishment is death, lady?'

'I hope so,' you half laughed, 'I'd rather die than become a slave or just rot away here.'

'I understand that,' the man's warm voice replied, 'that is an honourable way to go. If anything you would die standing for your opinion.'

You softly smiled in the darkened prison, as Sihtric's voice warmed and soothed you in ways which had been simply unthinkable only moments earlier. There was a calmness whenever he spoke which brought you comfort, and hearing the sound of his breathing nearby was enough to make you feel safe, however strange that may be as you had no idea who exactly he was. You then realised you had no idea what he looked like either, and your curiosity began to take over. Because what did this mystery man look like? What hardships and joys had he experienced? You figured Sihtric was the last person you'd ever get to know and talk to, so you wanted to know all about him before it was too late, and you had nothing to lose anyway.

'Are you married?' you blurted out, breaking the long yet comfortable silence.

'Married?' Sihtric asked with a light scoff, then laughed, 'I am not, lady. Why? Do you seek a husband?'

'I might,' you chuckled, suddenly forgetting your doomed reality, 'not many men come by here, so I must try my chances.'

You heard Sihtric laugh softly, and you could tell he moved closer to the wall of crates that kept you hidden from each other. Your heart fluttered when his soft voice sounded closer and clearer than before, as if it embraced you tightly and held you close, that's how it made you feel. His voice was the most beautiful sound you ever had the pleasure of hearing.

'Very well,' Sihtric said, clearly amused as he knew there was nothing else he could do other than play along, 'what makes you think I am a suitable husband?'

'I don't,' you smiled and felt yourself blush, 'that's what I'm trying to figure out. I want to know all about you.'

While the sun began to set and the dungeon started to cool off again, you learned a lot about the man who resided next to you for the time being. Sihtric told you what he looked like, after you asked him, and you tried to paint the picture in your head of a tall and strong man, with dark loose hair and a face with some old battle scars. You tried to imagine the colour of his eyes, which he told you were not both of the same colour. You were desperate to see his smile and to see the tattoos he has that he told you about, but you could only create a version of Sihtric in your head, not knowing if it was even close to what he really looked liked. But it was comforting nevertheless and it brought you joy, as you imagined him as a man you could easily fall in love with.

He also told you about his past and his present, that he is the Lord of Dunholm but still serves Uhtred whenever he can, which is how he ended up next to you. And in return to all he told you, you also opened up to him about your life before you were captured. And you then described the way you looked, and Sihtric was clearly captivated by you as he'd often pleasantly hum while you spoke about yourself.

'I'm wearing a white dress,' you said, 'well, it is not white anymore I'm afraid. And it has been ripped, my arms are bare and my skirt has ripped in places too.'

'Are you not cold?' Sihtric asked, concerned.

'I am okay,' you lied, 'what are you wearing?'

'I, eh, have a cloak,' Sihtric said, feeling guilty for realising he was rather comfortable and warm compared to you, 'and underneath that I am wearing leather and wool tunic.'

'That sounds nice,' you smiled.

You tried to hide the fact you were freezing in your prison after the sun had set hours ago, but your clattering teeth betrayed you. You heard Sihtric move around and he told you to go up to the door of your cell, and you did as he asked while shivering. At first you didn't understand what he was doing, but you then realised he tried to throw and shove something your way. There wasn't much distance between the two prisons, but the darkness made it hard to aim right and a struggle for your hands to find whatever he wanted to give you on the ground once it got within reach.

'What is this?' you asked when you finally got a hold of some heavy cloth and dragged it in through the bars.

'My cloak,' Sihtric answered, 'use it, it will keep you warm.'

His heavy cloak was made of thick and soft fur, and it was still warm when you threw it around your shoulders. Your attempt to fight your tears was futile, as Sihtric reminded you that there were still good men out there, and you needed a moment as you sniffled quietly.

'Thank you,' your voice trembled, 'thank you so much, but will you not be cold?'

'Do not worry about me, lady,' Sihtric said, 'I will be fine.'

You buried yourself underneath his cloak, as it was big enough to wrap all around you and it brought you some much needed warmth. The cloak smelled earthy and a bit like ale and horses, but it was pleasant and you felt all tingly inside as you buried your face in it to inhale Sihtric's lingering scent deeper.

It didn't take long before you dozed off, and only when Sihtric heard you were peacefully asleep did he allow himself to get some rest too.

Surprisingly enough you and Sihtric were left unbothered for several days in a row, with only a guard appearing to provide you both with some food and water to somewhat survive. You couldn't tell day apart from night, but awaiting your verdict was much more bearable with the pleasant company of the man next to you as the hours passed by. You had long fallen in love with his voice already, you thought his jokes were not that great but funny nonetheless, and you couldn't contain your smile whenever you heard him laugh at his own words. Despite the fact that you still didn't know what he really looked like, you felt attracted to him regardless, and it turned out that Sihtric felt the exact same way.

'I wish I could hold you,' he confessed in the darkness, after who knows how many days had passed.

'I wish that too,' you said and smiled sadly as you were wrapped in his cloak again, 'I wish I could see you.'

'I wish I could see you too,' Sihtric whispered, 'I want to hold you in my arms and kiss you. I…,' he hesitated, 'I know it makes no sense, but I think I'm in love with you.'

You swallowed hard after hearing those words, overwhelmed with both happiness and surprise to find out he felt just the same as you did.

'I think I'm in love with you too, Sihtric.'

You could tell he smiled, by the way he hummed softly and breathed out in relief, you had already learned to tell apart some of his manners by ear.

'I promise I will get you out of here,' he suddenly said, 'I know Uhtred has men looking for me since I never returned, it's just not easy to get in here and get out again at the same time. It will take time, but I promise I will get you out of here.'

'I have time,' you chuckled, but then felt your heart drop, 'until the guards will come and get me.'

'No,' Sihtric said, 'I won't let that happen. I won't let them take you from me.'

You smiled sadly, knowing Sihtric meant every word while also knowing he couldn't possibly protect you if the guards decided to come for you.

'You are too kind,' you whispered, 'I hope I am fortunate enough to see you before my end.'

'You will see me,' his tone determined, 'you will see me and we will get married. I will marry you if you allow me to.'

'Marry me?' you laughed softly, 'I would love that, but you have no idea what I look like.'

'I don't care,' Sihtric scoffed, 'I love you for you, and I am sure you are just as beautiful as I imagine you to be, if not more.'

'Oh, Sihtric,' you sniffled, 'I could only ever dream of finding a man like you. A man who makes me feel safe even in the worst of times. And how horrible it is that I have found you, and yet I have no way of being with you eventhough you are so close,' you said as you reached out for him in the dark.

'You will be with me,' Sihtric said and his voice broke, 'we will be together, you hear me? We will-'

Sihtric was cut off when a horde of guards with torches suddenly stormed down the corridor and into the dungeon. What followed was a mixture of men shouting in the faintly lit room, chains rattling and a lock turning, followed by the sound of a heavy steel door opening and rapid footsteps. You were suddenly yanked up by your arms and you yelped, causing Sihtric to shout at the top of his lungs while kicking and slamming against the locked door of his own cell. Your heart broke as he shouted your name, promising he would come for you somehow, but you only fully broke after hearing him shout after you how much he loved you. And that was the last thing you heard before you were dragged onto a wooden platform in the middle of your town's square. You were blinded by the sun and couldn't open your eyes for how bright and painful it was, but you knew you were about to be beheaded when your feet were kicked out underneath you, your neck pressed down onto a wooden frame and your wrists tied behind you back with some rope.

You kept your eyes closed as you awaited eternal darkness, and for a moment you weren't sure what was louder; the sound of your beating heart before it was about to stop, or the sudden stampede all around you as people began to scream in panic and hooves stomped through the town. You looked through your squinted eyelids, your lashes blurring most of your view but showing you enough to realise your town was under attack by none other than Uhtred of Bebbanburg and his men. A blonde monk, who you later would learn was named Osferth, released your wrists from the painful rope you were tied with and he grabbed your shoulders once you started to mumble.

'S-Sihtric,' you stammered.

'Sihtric?' the monk asked, 'where is he? Do you know where he is?'

You lifted your heavy arm to point a trembling finger towards the castle, 'Dungeon,' you said, 'I… I have to go back for him.'

The monk refused to take you with him down the dark corridor, and so you sheltered yourself underneath Sihtric's cloak as you waited just outside the castle, at a safe distance from the brutal battle that went on around you. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the natural light again and you began to see more of the horrors that had unfolded just before you were to be killed, but you also noticed that most people slaughtered where guards of the King, and you then found your King at sword point of the Lord Uhtred, who gave him two options; death, or rule by the laws of King Aethelstan. You didn't know which option your King would choose, and you didn't care much either, because you knew that once you would be reunited with Sihtric you would leave town with him, to Dunholm, and you would marry him and become the Lady of Dunholm, as he had promised. But you still had no idea what exactly Sihtric looked like, all you knew was that you were destined to be together.

You waited anxiously when suddenly the monk appeared again as he stepped out of the castle's corridor, alone, and your heart sank.

'Sihtric?' you asked as you jumped up, his cloak still wrapped around you to cover your torn and dirty dress, 'where… where is my Sihtric?'

'Here,' Sihtric's voice sounded from the darkened hallway and he then appeared.

It was as if the world underneath you disappeared and you floated around like a feather upon seeing him. Sure, quite a few long days and nights locked away in a dungeon made everyone look rough, but nowhere did it hide the fact that Sihtric was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. And Sihtric felt the same about you, finally seeing you after his eyes had adjusted to the daylight and not believing the beauty he was witnessing as you stood before him.

You were both breathless and nailed to the ground, until you finally leaped into his strong arms and crashed into the kiss you had both yearned for ever since you started talking. You felt warm and safe in his embrace, even when the cloak fell off your shoulders as you kissed him and brought your hands up to rake through his long and messy hair. Sihtric made sure to keep you warm and your torn dress from falling further apart as he held you tightly against his chest, kissing you until his lungs burned for air and Uhtred commanded his men to leave the town, after an agreement was made with the King. And as Sihtric was too busy kissing you and roaming his hands all over you while being completely smitten, Finan had already found and brought him his horse back so you could both get on it and leave.

And you were to start a whole new life together, in which you were getting married and would live happily ever after, and neither of you would ever be able to tear your eyes off each other.

@mrsarnasdelicious @neonhairspray @sihtricsafin @errruvande @penumbrie @lexeirikrleif @diiickbrainn @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @bubblyabs @dixie-elocin @alexagirlie @stupiddarkkside @urmomsgirlfriend1 @gemini-mama @foxyanon @man-i-be-that-pretty-motherfuckr @thenameswinter99 @m-a-s-h-k-a @superblyzanynight @hernakedmuse @ewanmitchellfanatic @lady-targaryens-world

[luciacaminoz]

for the kiss prompt. trail or shoulder pretty, please, if you haven't gotten one of them yet

Cicatrix (2.2k, nsfw)

March 2021

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

The hacienda crouches like a gutshot animal, bones aching, in northern Nuevo León’s Great Plains.

Cracked adobe walls are bleached silver under the new moon, terracotta roof tiles shattered by cartel gunfire, the courtyard trashed and overgrown. A tiny outbuilding is in the process of caving in on itself, periodically huffs rust-colored stucco dust up into the blue night air. Two fountains dry-choke on bougainvillea and sun-baked snakeskin across the way; meters more from that, Elena finishes securing a tarp over the Camaro and Datsun, lit Marlboro dangling between her lips.

Inside the villa smells of moldering drapes, rat piss, bat shit, the cloying rot of marigolds left too long in a crypt, and Kindred barbecue.

There’d been a cell of SI keeping eyes on the US side of the Laredo borderplex, DAAE heavy all up and down on the Mexican—a dragonsbreath round had kissed the meat high on Julian’s left shoulder, shredding tacky guayabera into ashen lace, holy fire cooking flesh to sinew within seconds.

Vitae crusts the gape now, hours later, like molten obsidian. It’s a cratered mess of blackened tissue, bone shards, winking buckshot. Blood bubbles where blisters have peeled back at the edges, muscle fibers knitting and unknitting grotesquely in real time.

Faith’s a bitch when it’s seared into your spine.

Nadia’s voice crackles over the comm:

“Perimeter’s clear, for now. No drones. SI’s still chasing ghosts in Laredo.”

Julian strains to keep his voice steady.

“And the DAAE fuckers? They had to be waiting for someone with a line-up like that. Ping the Denver hub. Tell them we need satellite thermal of—“

“Already done,” she says. “I’m watching the feed. Elena’s going to rig motion sensors at the entrance too. Then—” A pause; mumbling in the background. “Oh. She said you owe her tacos.”

“Put it—fuck, Sol, gentle! Look, if we get to Monterrey in one piece I’ll buy you and Elena a fucking buffet every night we’re there, Nads—each. Just keep me posted if you see anything. Closing comms.”

Sol’s nails—precise, claw-sharp, but not yet fully distended—pluck another phosphorus fragment free. Smoke mixes with the scent of scorched-copper sweat. She works methodically, scraping holy rot from muscle, tendon, the jagged gap where his scapula should be. Julian’s knuckles bleach. Her left hand’s poised infinite with a pair of surgical tweezers, ready once the bulk of the larger debris is finally dislodged.

“Fuck,” Julian hisses. His face presses rigid against the moth-eaten chaise. He’s sweat-slick and shirtless and sickly, lying flat on his stomach, Sol sitting solid on his back. Her thighs bracket his sides, keeping him mostly still as she leans over the wound, penlight between her teeth, but he trembles like a kitten beneath her.

Looming behind are two portraits of a dead hacendado’s family, faces scratched out, one riddled with bullet holes. This room is mostly bare otherwise, apart from a termite-split side table, scattered shell casings, smashed liquor bottles, and the chaise.

A small effigy of Christ crucified, plucked from the chapel, leans crooked at the far wall, thorn rusted to scabs on his brow, plaster ribs cracked open. Chicken wire cradles a fat black kingsnake in His chest. Some fuck sprayed ¡Viva la Muerte! across the talavera wallpaper.

“One more,” she says. It’s mumbled around the plastic in her mouth. It’s also a lie—there’s at least three that she can see, cruel and glittering.

She pries out a dense shard of silver-coated fletchette engraved with Psalm 91; tosses it onto the floor with a plink. Julian’s fingers dig into the guts of the upholstery, tearing at rancid stuffing, fangs punching through his bottom lip to stay quiet.

His skin sizzles like bacon grease.

She winces.

“…Two more.”

“Oh my god, fuck you, Sol.” He’s half-laughing, half-crying, eyes rimmed red.

His muscles twitch and spasm wherever she touches—shock or hunger, probably both. Part of the shoulder continues to blister and knit, blister and knit, over and over, curse fighting consecration. The skin on his back’s fever-hot, thrumming with the effort of Blood-forced regeneration.

Her claws retract with a snickt. She flexes her fingers, then the tweezers, then removes the penlight.

“You’re lucky they couldn’t aim. A few more inches and this would’ve severed your neck. Shit. Can’t grow back a head—especially not one as big as yours.”

He mimics her voice, pitch-perfect:

“Oh Julian, who’ll fuck me through server racks now—”

She flicks his ear.

Next shard’s lodged deep in the posterior deltoid. Sol worms it loose with the tweezers, trying to ignore how his groans hitch. Her free hand braces his hip, thumb brushing the jut of bone.

“Almost.” She says it softer than she intended.

Another short tug and the shard pops free. Julian sags, panting and babbling.

“Fuck the SI,” he rasps. “Fuck their… fucking mall ninja… holy hand grenade bullshit—fuck, Sol, I’m not even Christian—”

“Shh.” She keeps drawing circles on his hip, soothing him a moment between torture.

The snake uncoils, sinuous, tongue flicking when she drops sanctified shrapnel to the saltillo tiles. Sol watches it, then Julian’s wound.

His back gleams moon-pale under the gore—taut, silk-smooth, untouched by time or sun. The rest of him is all soft, milky skin; lean frame, corded muscle, a slight dusting of babyfat that stayed into his mid-twenties. He’s perfectly unscarred, she knows, except for an old dog bite on his right thigh when he was a ten year old in ‘79.

Sol traces the wound’s ridged edges.

Julian turns his head, cheek pressed to grubby velvet.

“You’re shaking. Want me to hold the tweezers?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Cállate,” she snaps.

Julian grins, all teeth, clumsy fangs.

“Say that again.”

“Cállate la boca.”

He closes his eyes and faux-moans theatrically.

“Now say it dirty.”

She doesn’t. Instead, her mouth finds his cheek, his jaw, the strip of neck just under his ear, her nose brushing piercings—trailing featherlight kisses that make him still.

“Last one,” she murmurs.

The final fragment glints near his spine—jagged, thumb-sized. She braces one hand on his lower back.

"Do your worst."

"Bite down, princeso."

"On wha—”

She rips it out.

Julian's snarl shakes dust from the rafters, the chaise, Sol on top of him. His veins stand ropey—the tendons in his hands could cut fucking glass. Then he chokes a gasp, body falling limp, sweat beading at the corners of his jaw.

The kingsnake tenses where it’s begun curling around Christ's neck.

"Fuck. That one was deep.” His voice shakes.

Sol inspects her handiwork, chest flat against his back—up this close, the wound pulses heat like a second mouth. His insides aren’t actively cooking anymore, at least.

Her tongue flicks a swollen vein on impulse. Julian's hips jerk, a wet sound punching out of him.

Sol hesitates—then gouges into her tongue.

Her own vitae oozes syrupy thick onto the crater and she spreads it along, lapping around bitter, burnt edges.

“Sol—” Julian arches, spine bowing.

It isn’t healing, not really, but it clots the worst of what she’s torn out, sealing capillaries, cleaning tissue, puckering skin—a small stop-gap for Blood and Curse stitching meat and flesh stop-motion later, once Julian has properly fed.

Fuck, it tastes like ash and battery acid. Sol gags twice, but she’s spent a decade controlling the compulsion to purge. She spits a wad of black viscera onto the floor. Charred fibers squirm like maggots.

Again, her tongue drags vitae up the seared canyon of his shoulder, tender. Julian's good arm reaches back until he grips her thigh. His hips are grinding into the chaise, cock trapped against velvet, a low whine building in his chest.

"Solona—"

She continues wordlessly; her lips brush a half-healed tendon, but her hand slips beneath his weight, slides under his waistband, snakes between his legs. She palms him in time with her mouth mapping ruin.

Julian’s head drops forward. The noise he makes is obscene, rattling loose in his throat. She tightens her thighs around him.

The kingsnake watches, unblinking.

At the deepest fissure, Sol sucks—gently—until his own blood runs sleek; just vitae, just him; ozone-sharp, monsoon-rush; charged-manic-overclocked.

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

A whimper escapes him when she grasps tighter, strokes faster. His hips stutter, fucking up into her fist with a broken rhythm.

Sol’s mouth doesn’t leave his wound—she laps like something starved.

The kingsnake coils tighter around Christ’s throat, eyes reflecting the glow of the penlight where it’s rolled to the floor. Its tongue flicks, tasting the air.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck—Solona, please—” Julian’s voice cracks, high and desperate. His fingers dig into her thigh. “I can’t—I can’t fucking think—”

Aila’s gone, but the memory of tearing into her—the Elder’s vitae cold, clumped, thick as tar, bitter as bile; the hint of sumac and soaring—

Sol pulls herself back from drinking—barely.

Her fangs are suddenly uncomfortably large. She feels dazed; hand on autopilot as she unlatches and stares down at his shoulder. It’s still a fucking mess—spiderwebbing black—but the edges are angry, glistening, pink—no longer smoking and sloughing away.

Her thumb swipes over the head of his cock, smearing vitae-slick down the shaft. She presses her stained lips to the shell of his ear.

“All this big talk about collapsing the Masquerade, and you’re gonna come in your pants like a fucking teenager?”

Julian’s laugh is half-choked.

“Fuck—you’re evil—”

She twists her wrist, nails scraping lightly along his balls, and his hips slam into the chaise hard enough to splinter the frame.

She can feel his orgasm building—the way his cock jumps, the way his thighs tremble, the strangled whines he’s biting into rotten velvet.

The kingsnake—Chisme, Sol has idly named it—drops from the effigy with a soft thud.

“Sol, wait—wait—”

Her teeth close on his earlobe, sharp but not breaking skin. She sucks—hard.

Julian comes undone hot in her hand with a punched-out moan. She pumps him slow through it, thumb caressing his tip.

The hacienda breathes for them—rotted wood creaking, Chisme’s scales rasping over split saltillo.

When she finally releases him his hips jerk once, sensitive. Sol sits back and licks her fingers.

Julian lies boneless under her weight, face buried in the chaise.

She can’t help herself:

“You’re welcome.”

He huffs, stirring dust motes.

“Oh, for the half-dead hand job? Yeah, gracias mamacita.”

Sol actually laughs, bright and real and unguarded, as she shifts off of him.

Julian rolls onto his good side, sitting up with a wince, then drags a hand down his face. He’s grey-limned, pupils blown black and glassy with pain and hunger, but he’s smiling.

“Worst time and place to do it, too. Fucking… Splinter Cell level.”

“Someone needs to keep you humble these nights.” She holds a lukewarm O-neg against his lips. “Drink.”

He does, greedily, throat bobbing, wild eyes never leaving hers as she stands between his thighs. Her pinky brushes a thin trail of blood at his chin; Julian suppresses a shiver.

Once he drains it, she tosses it aside.

Chisme strikes towards the wrinkled plastic—and Sol immediately changes her mind.

“No,” she snaps, bolting to flick the snake’s snout. It recoils, hissing, and she bares her own fangs until it retreats.

Julian’s grinning while he watches her snatch up the empty bag and shove it back into the kit for decidedly later disposal. He chews his lip, fangs still sharp; looks like he’s about to say something… but then he shakes his head, black hair falling over his eyes.

His hair’s a disaster, by the way.

Sol pulls baby wipes, a change of clothes from the duffel—throws them at him. She takes the gauze and begins wrapping his shoulder in the meantime. Lupine country isn’t the place to heal agg.

His skin’s cooler now. She ignores the relief that brings.

“The safehouse is about an hour away—just inside Monterrey,” he says, more to fill the silence. “Small underground server farm we can run ops from for weeks. Cold storage. Even a jacuzzi.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Nope. Rented an apartment in the city for scouting, too.”

She snorts. Ties off the bandage.

“Monterrey’s got a night market. We could hit it after the bunker. Get churros. Sneak into a lucha libre match.”

“We’re not tourists, Julian.”

“We could pretend.”

Sol pauses.

He catches her wrist, thumb circling the scorpion tattoo.

Elena stomps in.

Julian doesn’t let go.

“Hey, we need—” Elena looks at Julian. “Jesus, put a shirt on, Zuckerberg.” Back to Sol. “We need to get moving—two DAAE SUVs headed this way, ETA forty minutes.”

“Shit. Give us five.”

“I’ll prep the cars. Again. Hurry, fuckers.”

Julian laughs a little, stirring Sol’s baby hairs.

She moves away to start gathering whatever she can find back into the kit—gauze, tweezers, penlight, the most intact piece of shrapnel in a ziploc bag. Julian’s already on the comms ordering Nadia to reroute signals. Sol grabs a baby wipe from his pack and scrubs her face.

Once they’re packed and Julian’s dressed, he shrugs on his go-bag, hissing when the strap bites his wound. Sol steps close, adjusting the weight slightly.

“Thanks,” he says softly. He presses their foreheads together. “And thank you. For… earlier. For being here.”

It hangs between them, frail and awkward. Julian never thanks. Not even after all the bullshit in Tucson. Julian asks: what do you want, kid?—transactional; gratitude deployed like a phishing scam.

She doesn’t respond.

She fists his new shirt, pulling him into a hug—too desperate, grasping. He stiffens, then arms circle her waist. He dips slightly, turns his face against her cheek; lips graze her scar, trailing it mouth to ear. Her nose brushes his ruined shoulder.

She kisses him there, once.

That already says too much.

[ previous prompts ]

[oceanlipgloss]

COPYCAT

BELPHEGOR.

+ female MC.

+ warnings: dark themes [somnophilia, non-con/dub-con with a twist], erotic hues, strong language.

Many things decompose in garbage sites. The locations may be a contaminated treasure island of sorts: cloaked in flies, rats, and plastic bags, akin to dead bodies. And what are living beings, if not animated corpses? There is food, there are clothes, there are drugs.

Cats follow their whims just as they follow their eraser-pink noses: pinpoint a rotting fish in the trash, follow the stench, get lunch. They take food from anywhere, be it apartment kitchen or restaurant dumpster. She, too, chases pleasure after pleasure. She accepts gratification from wherever it may come. 

Desire is its own brand of dark. It paints the mind white anyway. Sweet blackness, numbing saccharine, wine spiked in a paper cup. Poisoned, sweetened black coffee. Addicted. All drugged up. The flesh may be vulgar. She is, like many others of her kin, God’s failed experiment, a manufacturer’s defected toy, some little girl’s dirty doll. She is obscene, yet a saint revered.

These hopeless lab rats of God, some deem them his greatest creations. Just like her. She’s a darling, gluttonous anomaly. She’s never been her own person, but a copycat—copying the corrupt, blank versions of herself like malignant cells multiplying, a societal tumour growing.

The men that hung over her changed between day and night, like day and night. The kisses that savoured her taste alternated. The tongues that smeared her skin overlapped. A feline in heat, switching mates because it is unbound to consequences, has no compass.

One night, she slept in the bed of a man who did not ask for her agreement. Too lazy and lust-drunk to care about that. He let his darkness encroach on her. It made her empty mind slow and slimy. Her brain had been crawling with lewd dreams, but suddenly everything felt too real.

She was awake. There was nothing to see. Ensnared in afterglow’s exhaustion, she had been asleep. Innocence marked her features. Almost a deceiver. Her bareness exposed her. Even a moron could’ve seen that she had been messing around in the sheets.

Supposedly, everyone meets their match at one point. Winner, loser. He had slumbered. The weight of fuzzy cat was warm on his chest. He had woken up. And then, right then and there, he had decided that he would have her.

So what if she were unaware? She would want it even in sleep, the pretty lil’ whore. She’s sordid and perfect. A bombshell. Doing the undesired, following the calls of desire, leaving nothing to be desired. Goin’ out of her way to promise him a good time. Seducin’ him while out cold. There was something hot about the arc of her back. It seemed to be calling out to him, every vertebrae of that spine pleading for a lick. Nice curvature n’ a great ass.

The nothingness stole her sight, but it played his mind. Mind games, mind games. Couldn’t think straight. Didn’t have the energy to.

Her unseeing eyes captured nothing: a camera lens and high exposure. Except everything was black. Swallowed by the dark. Nothing to see, but much to feel. The sensations were everywhere. That tingling dance below her waist had her losing her mind, an object lost in the trash. This gave ‘dancing in the dark’ a new, updated meaning. Who knew it would be this fun for him to use that vicious ability on her?

An invisible blindfold. From the darkness came smokey whispers, as enchanting as honeyed curses: ‘Cute sleepin’ face you got there, sugar.’

They would’ve told her it’s monstruosity. She would’ve disagreed. She thought it’s erotica. It’s art. Because she’s sick like that. As long as pleasure is involved, there’s no need for consent.

The blindness heightened her senses. She could taste her own blood and hear her own heartbeat. Fuck, she loved that. Every movement he made could’ve been a mere inch, but in his darkness it felt like a mile.

Pleasure is a craft of God. It’s one of his masterpieces. Rebuked by him, taboo in Heaven, banned in Eden. And yet, it must be spread: a creamy cake cut up into slices and passed around at a birthday party, a wedding, or a strip club.

She is a firm believer in ends justifying means. It matters not if the chaste and unwilling do not seek satisfaction. They must learn it. It matters not if they do not give their permission. They must accept it. Their naïve bodies must be sold to the senses. So, to please, she’s ready to defile even a celibate angel.

And she has, to a certain extent.

But her dream that night had a short shelf life. It ended too soon, at the really good part. Darn. Next to her, the man lay. A smear of black, peach, and gray. The inky satin of his power had stayed away. He had walled it in. Skin pores let his tattoo glimmer under the lamps. Light rolled around on his silver earrings. Hamster on a wheel.

Sleep, that’s just how it is: so close yet so far away, mind very far away. Maybe he could turn her drowsy fantasy into crazy reality one day.

+notes: basically a mixture of facts/conclusions gleaned from multiple sources, then whipped up into a fic: [1] Beleth’s event + official posts (for Belphegor), and [2] angels’ Christmas event + main story (for MC). The idea formed in my mind a while ago, but I had no clue how to approach it or how to so much as begin writing. I handwrote 5 excerpts (aside from that of this piece), and was still just as unsure of how to go about it because nothing felt right or satisfying to me :/ BUT. After rereading the cat-focused WIP the next day, I eventually began to get a feel for the concept and direction I’d like to take: trash and cats, unusual as it sounds. Then I remembered that Belphegor is canonically friends with the talking cat Beleth introduced him to, and the whole thing just solidified itself further to me. I had to write it. I made sure to mention Belphegor’s idiosyncrasy kink, too.  And, well. The title itself is really inspired by the fact that MC is a lovable braniac (’tis but a big lie) mindless descendant who keeps putting the same shitshow on over and over again.

+fun fact: this is the very first fic I wrote by hand and the very first one I typed and simultaneously quickly edited in an email because I had no access to Notes (or Word for formatting). Writing in a notebook is so much more fun and satisfying than using any digital document. It feels freeing. I could scratch things out and be as messy as I want, watch the pen glide across the paper to put together letters and words, jot write down my sentences and ideas speedy and unhindered—it all makes for such a nice feeling. I want to do this more often, whenever I get the inspiration and chance.

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[your-friendly-sociopath]

Alastor's Child

I'm back with another platonic yandere Alastor cus I'm still obsessed 👍

Also tw: blood, slight gore (nothing in detail though), possessive behavior, yandere ish

You weren't Alastor's biological child, but that didn't change how much he loved you like his own

He raised you since you were a smol bean (around 4 or 5 ig)

Never once did he tell you about his murderous tendencies though, he'd seen you faint at the sight of your own blood, he knew you wouldn't be able to handle it

So he never told you

Now despite being raised by a psychopath, your childhood was pretty normal

You had one friend all throughout grade school, a young redhead by the name of Anne (southern Ik, don't bother me abt it)

You two were practically inseparable, y'all did everything together

Now when you reached high school, problems started to arise

A dickhead guy in your class was always fucking with you, bullying y'all two

And when alastor found out he was NOT happy

One day the kid just disappeared

You were concerned of course, not for his well-being

But more of the fact that someone had kidnapped a child

The dude was missing for a few weeks, and eventually the buzz over his disappearence died down to a mournful silence

One day you were home alone, with the music from the radio blasted while you were dancing around

Then suddenly your foot fell through a rotted floor board by the hall closet

Curious, you lifted the plank, and saw the beginnings of a trap door underneath

So you get a tool of some kind and remove the rest of the planks, until the door is exposed completely

(you didn't pay any mind to how surprisingly easy it was to remove them, or how they were already pretty loose)

You opened the door and climbed down the latter

You found a dirty hall way, with two doors opposite of each other on each wall

One was covered in blood, with the door frame chipped away... Like many hand had held on at one point for dear life

Feeling lightheaded, you elected not to go through that door first, only now realizing how suspicious this all was

You went to the door opposite of the bloody, damaged one

Inside you found a small yet comfortable bed with red comforters and pillows, with a few stuffed toys of your favorite animal

Across the room from the bed was a wardrobe and small window by the ceiling that only a rat could fit through

Though the little light provided by the window you could tell that the sun was setting

Your father would be home soon

Suddenly you felt a sudden, deep desire to get the hell outta there

As you quickly went back to the hall, you felt like you were being watched

You turned to go back up through the trap door, but stopped

You turned slowly to the bloody door, curiosity overtaking you as you walked forward slowly towards it

You opened the door to find a torture chamber, full of hanging human organs strewn across random hooks and what not dangling from the ceiling

Along the walls were shelves full of sharp, dangerous tools that you didn't even want to imagine were used for

In the back of the room you could just make out a small, cramped cell

And to your horror, something inside of it moaned in both pain and terror

You raised a hand to your mouth as you realized that inside, was your bully

All to quickly you connected the dots, and realized that YOUR father, Alastor, was the dreaded killer of New Orleans

You bit back a scream as you stumbled backwards into a broad, lean chest

You turned slowly, and saw the grinning face of your father staring back at you

Quickly, his hand flew up and gripped your shoulders tight, pulling you to him

You struggled for a moment before feeling a rag to your mouth a nose

Your eyes widened in panic as you breathed in the chemical smell, and slumped in your father's arms

As you vision went dark, the last thing you saw was your father, smiling softly down at you

-------

When you woke, you were in the room you recognized as the one across from the torture chamber

What you hadn't noticed before, was a cushioned arm chair in the corner, opposite of the window

A figured was sitting in the chair, hidden by the shadows

However, a glint from the moonlight cascading into the room provided you with just a enough light to make out who it was

Sitting in the chair across from you, was your murderous father, Alastor

With a Cheshire grin implanted in his face

"I truly wish you didn't have to see all that, my dear, but I'm afraid that you can't leave me now. You're my fawn.."

Ok I finished

Also the friend I mentioned will have a part to play in a later fic, I didn't make her for nothing

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Be my escape

Written for the @steddiemicrofic challenge, January 2024 edition

Prompt: hole, 404 words

Rated: M

Tags: Fantasy AU, Magic AU, Guard!Steve, Thief!Eddie, Imprisonment, Claustrophobia, Eddie Munson whump, Referenced sex

Notes: Set in the same universe as this one.

People call it the Hole.

That's not its actual name, of course. Steve thinks it fits, though.

He still remembers his last visit. He was just a boy, but his father - newly appointed Captain of the Royal Guard - insisted he come.

The journey was long and tedious, giant waves battering at their boat. When they reached the steel platform far off the coast, he was freezing and nauseous. And then came the descent.

He recalls the warden's boasts as the cage slid into the depths. The magic crystals keeping the structure deep under the ocean from caving in on itself. The intricate enchantments sealing away the inmates’ magic.

What he recalls even better is the moisture and the despair hanging in the stale air. The mounting pressure inside his skull the further down they went.

Today, he's Captain of the Guard himself, but the dread crawling up his spine as he glides downwards is still the same.

The name fits perfectly. This place is a hole. A hole under the sea where families like the Harringtons and the Carvers throw their enemies to rot.

Enemies like Eddie Munson.

As he stalks down the corridors, he wonders what he's doing. He should be glad Eddie got caught. The man is a criminal. A thief. The insufferable bane of his existence.

Didn't find him so insufferable the other night, a voice at the back of his mind gloats. Nor the way his body fit against yours, or the way his mouth felt on your-

He tells it to shut up. He doesn’t have time for this.

The inside of the cell is dark. A figure stirs upright on the metal cot against the wall.

“Finally,” croaks a voice. “Are you the manager of this fine establishment? I have a complaint. The room service sucks and I think there's rats in-"

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Steve sets down his lantern and drops to his knees. “Shut up, will you?”

Silence.

Then …

“Stevie?”

A whisper, a plea.

“Told you not to call me that,” he huffs, already unlocking the shackles around too-skinny wrists. The second they fall away, there's hands in his hair, tracing the shape of his face.

“Shit,” Eddie breathes. “Why- Are you a dream?”

Steve snorts, pulls them both to their feet.

“Sure hope not. Imagine that'd make it difficult to bust you outta here. C'mon, we have no time to lose.”

⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️⚔️✨️

Part 3

So I texted @house-of-the-moving-image if I should write more Phantom Thief for this prompt, and they were like "funny you should ask, I just had this idea about a magic high-security prison called The Hole". 🤣

We've got the next bit all figured out already, but this was all I could fit into 404 words.

[mental69er]

could you maybe write something about zombie!victoria x female reader, i dont have a specific scenario but you can let your thoughts run free 😭

She found her by scent alone. A scent that called to Victoria across several abandoned blocks.

Victoria had no choice but to get up from the ripped up armchair that was parked outside the run down building, next to the bags of trash left rotting in the sun.

Victoria's stomach growled. It had been days since a human had last passed through here, and Victoria was growing tired of eating whatever rats she could find. They kept the hunger at bay, but they were a far cry from the once 5 star restaurant dishes she had used to indulge in before the world went to shit.

Vought had attempted to engineer a virus to kill supes by making them sick. It had worked at first, before the V in their blood had mutated the illness into something else. Something closer to resembling a zombie infection. One that could be spread to humans by bite.

While the virus could be managed by supes, as it affected them differently based on their powers, humans all fell victim to a mindless hunger and within months the world had fallen.

There had been attempts made to reverse engineer the virus but they all fell laughably short. There were a few bastions of society left, but Victoria stayed away from them. She wasn't cruel enough to feast on people if she could avoid it, and she did her part in taking out any zombies she did see, scoping them from far and near with her head popping powers.

However, if a human happened to stumble onto the few block long radius she had claimed as her territory in her slightly shambled state, well, then she was obligated to check them out.

Especially since they smelled so enticing. Victoria's mouth watered and she could feel the virus surging in her body, making her eyes turn black, her muscles spasm uncontrollably.

She sucked in a deep breath and used her powers to crush the virus cells in her body, minimizing the effect of them. Calmer now, she decided to find the human, possibly guide them to safety. Direct them to a city not far from here where humans were housed.

Definitely not eat them.

No, she told herself even as her stomach still rumbled.

She picked her way through the rubble in her sneakers, never once ever assuming she would wear such clothing. She'd donned sweatpants and a hoodie. She longed for her suits and dresses, but there was no use for such things when she could have to fight off a horde of zombies that insisted on foolishly making her a snack.

On silent feet she moved towards the human, spotting them fairly quickly. They were an idiot for being out here when they smelled this good. They were fiddeling with something in their bookbag, dressed in camo pants and a black tank top that showed off their muscular but scarred arms. A black baseball cap sat over their head, hair tucked into a ponytail.

Victoria suddenly wasn't sure how to approach this situation. Did she shout out to her? Did she not say anything and hope the human noticed her?

The human happened to have a hunting rifle strapped to her back and Victoria had a feeling she knew how to use it well.

As if sensing Victoria's presence at the end of the block, the human's head jerked up. She froze and stared at Victoria, like a deer in headlights.

For a long moment, nothing was said.

"Are you lost?" Victoria asked and she saw the way the human's muscles relaxed. Her heart rate was calm, Victoria noticed. That meant she wasn't afraid.

The human zipped up the bag and tossed it over her shoulder. "I'm not." She slipped the gun into her hands. "Are you?"

Victoria had to tread the line here. She didn't want to reveal she was a supe. Supes were widely despised for being the ones who caused the zombie problem despite humans being the ones to engineer the issue in the first place.

But it was also suspicious for a human to not be in the safety of one of those cities.

Victoria's stomach growled and her mouth watered as more of the human's scent floated up to her nose, brought on by the light breeze. She steadied herself, smiling tightly.

"I'm not. I live here. I help those who need to get safely to the city a few miles from here."

"I don't need your services."

"I wasn't offering."

The human's grip tightened on her gun. Behind her something tumbled to the ground. A zombie emerged from around the corner, shambling towards her. "Shit."

Her enticing scent had brought unwanted guests. She had been in one spot for two long.

Behind the zombie too more shambled. The human was debating the odds of wasting bullets on them, or trying to outrun them by running past Victoria, an unidentified threat.

Victoria made the decision for her. Though it wasn't a rational one, but one born of a hunger inside her. This human was her's and no one elses. Narrowed in on the zombies, her eyes went white and the three heads popped one after the other.

The human turned around and gaped at her, searching quickly for a weapon on Victoria's hands. There was none, her white eyes turning darker as the virus' hunger surged in her, awakened by the threat of the other zombies.

The human put two and two together quickly. But not quick enough. Victoria took off running towards the human. Her weapon was good at distances, and with the speed Victoria was using to barrel down at her, by the time she set up the shot, Victoria would already be on her.

The human ran, searching for high up ground, for a place to barricade herself in. She only got down a block before Victoria had tackled her, pinning her front to the ground.

The human huffed and tried to free herself but Victoria was too strong for her. Gently, she lowered her face, rubbed her nose against the pounding pulse in the human's neck.

"You smell so good," she purred, mouth thick with saliva. "I swore I wouldn't eat humans, but I can't let anyone else have you..."

...

Ending is up to intepretation as to whether or not Victoria indulges in her zombie side...